Work Text:
Akthar’s half asleep at the register when Scripps gets to work, a hand in his hair and staring blankly into the open textbook in front of him.
“Busy morning then, I take it,” Scripps whistles as he heads behind the counter and picks up an apron, tying it around his waist.
“Maybe five people in all day,” Akthar hums, closing his book. “One of which was my grandma, and she spent half an hour telling me I should be revising and not serving coffee to rich white people.”
Scripps laughs and gives the place a once over, examining the sorry state of the bakery counter before turning back towards the kitchens.
“Will you be alright out front if I go start in the kitchens? It’ll be the lunch rush soon and there’s sod all out,” Scripps has already started rummaging for bowls and supplies, and Akthar leans around the door to talk to him over the noise.
“Yeah, course,” he smiles warmly, straightening himself out. “I mean, I’m hardly beating off customers with a broom here, am I?”
Scripps just laughs at him, fishing out the recipe books from the cupboard above the sink and setting to work. Akthar leaves him be and goes back to the register as an elderly couple come in, complaining about the sun.
Lockwood rocks up just as the first dregs of office workers are arriving, and unceremoniously sets four bottles of milk on the counter.
“You can have the milk if you give us one of Scripps’s cakes and a coffee,” Lockwood smirks, and Scripps appears from the kitchen with another tray of cakes and scones to finish filling the displays. “It’s a fair bargain.”
Scripps rolls his eyes but slides a cupcake over the counter anyway, and sets about making Lockwood’s ridiculously complicated coffee order.
“Posner been in yet?” Lockwood asks, peeling back the case and stuffing half the cake into his mouth. “I went past the shop earlier and he said he was gonna pop round.”
“If he has, he missed us,” Scripps says, fiddling with the milk frother and topping off Lockwood’s coffee. “He knows when we’re on, though, so he might be round later.”
Lockwood hums his reply through a mouthful of cake, and Scripps just stares at him in despair, but passes his coffee over anyway.
“Said he had a couple of books you were after, is all,” Lockwood clicks his tongue, finishes his cake and flicks the wrapper at Scripps’s chest. “Anyway, I’d best be off. I’ve half a float of milk left to unload on some poor bastards. See you Monday, lads.”
He gives a half-hearted wave as he sees himself out, and Scripps finds himself inundated by particularly exhausted office staff for the next half hour, so doesn’t have chance to think any more on it.
It’s almost two in the afternoon by the time it quietens down, and Akthar takes his leave and heads home, leaving Scripps to deal with the last few hours and closing up.
He’s sitting with his head in a copy of Ulysses, having just dealt with a pair of giggling schoolgirls trying uselessly to flirt with him, when through the window he spots Posner rolling to a stop on his bike. He closes his book and sets about preparing Posner’s usual order of milky, over-sugared coffee.
“Hiya,” Posner greets him breathlessly, having clearly just barrelled his way through the city centre to get here. “Don’t suppose you could–”
“Done,” Scripps interrupts, sliding a full mug over the counter to him. Posner grins at him and takes a long drink, before he sets the mug down and digs in his bag.
“While I think on, I’ve these for you. Fresh off the shelves this morning,” he produces a stack of three books and shifts them in his grasp to close his bag again. “I remember you said you needed a copy of An Inspector Calls for something but couldn’t find one, and there’s a copy of Middlemarch so you don’t have to keep nicking mine whenever you want it, and I know you like Heaney so I managed to grab this copy of Field Work before we shelved it.”
Scripps gapes at him, floundering for words for a moment, rather taken by the way Posner’s blushing up to his ears.
“Anyway, are we off home together?” Posner picks up his coffee again, shifting awkwardly when Scripps still stays quiet.
“Yeah, course,” Scripps shakes his head and comes back to himself. “Cheers for the books. If you want to nick one of the corner tables while you’re waiting you best take it now before it gets busy again.”
Posner smiles again, weakly, and takes his coffee and settles in one of the booths tucked back in the corner. Scripps busies himself clearing up, dusting down the countertops and wiping at the coffee machines, but finds himself stealing glances at Posner all the same. The other boy has curled up into a corner, knees up near his chest, with a copy of what looks to be Little Women. Scripps smiles fondly, and doesn’t notice the schoolgirls from before standing at the counter until one of them clears their throat.
“Sorry. About earlier,” she says awkwardly, but cheerily enough. “If I’d’ve known you had a boyfriend I wouldn’t’ve tried it on with you.”
Scripps lifts his head and frowns at her, but doesn’t say anything. Her friend laughs.
“Anyway, sorry about that, won’t do it again,” she laughs good-naturedly, and Scripps still can’t find the words to reply. “Wouldn’t want him to get jealous, would we?”
She nods her head at Posner in the corner, who hasn’t even lifted his head up from the book he’s reading.
“Well, I’ll be seeing you. Thanks for the coffee,” the girl smiles brightly at him one last time, and follows her friend out of the shop. Scripps gapes after her for a long moment, dumbfounded, and is still standing there by the time the next customer comes in.
Business picks up a bit after that, and Scripps finds he doesn’t have much time to dwell on the fact that people apparently think him and Posner are going out.
It occurs to him, though, when there’s a brief lull in the crowds and he takes Posner one of his favourite cakes fresh out of the oven and is thanked with a dazzling, lopsided smile that does odd things to his chest, that maybe there’s some stock in it.
It’s long past five when the place finally empties out and Scripps can flip the sign on the door to closed for the day. He leaves Posner where he is, absorbed in his book, and starts wiping around the tables and sweeping the floor until he’s managed to return the café to some sort of order.
“Oi,” he says to Posner when he reaches his corner, idly cleaning around him. Posner looks up from his book with a quiet noise. “I’ve to knock up a few batches of stuff for tomorrow morning, if you don’t mind hanging about.”
“Do you need a hand?” Posner closes his book and tucks it back into his bag, getting to his feet. “You do have a remarkable knack for making a mess of things in the kitchen.”
“Hey, I’m better than Dakin,” Scripps huffs, but he doesn’t protest even as Posner follows him behind the counter and into the kitchen. “I’ve not set anything on fire yet.”
“Yet,” Posner replies sternly, but he’s smiling. He reaches up for the wireless on the shelf beside the door and flicks it on, turning the volume down so it’s nothing more than a quiet mumble in the background. “What’re you making?”
“Few trays of cakes, that’s all,” Scripps says, fishing around for the recipes and leaning the books up against the wall where they’re visible. “Akthar’s opening up tomorrow and he can make everything except a cake.”
Posner laughs again, soft, and starts weighing out butter and sugar.
They work in a companionable quiet, and soon enough they’ve got two trays of cupcakes baking in the oven. Posner has set about the washing up, and is elbow deep in the sink with bubbles everywhere.
“You know those girls, who were in earlier?” He asks, more to the wall in front of him than to Scripps. Scripps stops in his attack on the third and final bowl of cake mix, flour smeared up his arms and across the apron he’s wearing.
“What about them?”
“They were laughing about something, weren’t they?” Scripps turns to look at Posner, and his shoulders are hunched tight, insecure. “It wasn’t me, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Scripps replies immediately, and he watches as Posner’s shoulders relax a little. “It’s –well, it was a bit daft, really. Only one of them tried her luck with me, when they first came in, and she was –she was saying sorry because she didn’t realise I had a boyfriend or she wouldn’t’ve bothered.”
Posner wheels around to stare at him, his face utterly confused.
“But –but you don’t have a boyfriend.”
“I think she meant you,” Scripps admits, running a hand through his hair and accidentally spreading flour even further.
Posner’s expression changes imperceptibly, to something sad and fond all at once.
“And you didn’t correct her? You’re alright with her thinking that?”
“I –I didn’t really think of that,” Scripps replies, and Posner’s expression pinches. “I mean, it doesn’t –it doesn’t bother me, not really. Does it bother you?”
“Does it bother me that people apparently think you’re my boyfriend?” Posner turns back to the sink, fishing around and gripping at a bowl entirely too forcefully. “No, Scripps, it doesn’t. At least, not in the way you’re thinking of.”
“So it does, then,” Scripps turns back to his cake mix and carries on folding in the flour, more aggressively than he means to. “Look, I’m sorry, if she comes in again I’ll explain, but–”
“Scripps, I’m not –I’m not upset that people think we’re going out,” Posner sighs, but still doesn’t turn to look at him. “I’m –the opposite of that, really.”
Scripps freezes, his grip on the wooden spoon in his hand suddenly tightening.
“So you’re happy about it?” Scripps asks the wall, barely daring to blink.
“I think I quite like it, yes,” Posner admits, and Scripps drops the spoon against the bowl with a quiet clatter.
“But I thought –Dakin?” Scripps asks, and he hears Posner huff out a laugh behind him.
“Dakin is Dakin,” Posner says, like that answers anything. “You’re different.”
“Am I?”
“You are,” Posner drops the bowl he’d been making a vague attempt at cleaning back into the sink. He turns to look at Scripps, who’s still staring at the cake batter like it has answers for him. “You’re completely different.”
Scripps frowns for a moment before he finally chances a look sideways at Posner. The other boy is smiling at him, soft and fond, and Scripps lets his mouth begin to quirk up into a smile.
“So you don’t want me to put her right if she comes in again, then?” Scripps turns to him, feeling suddenly bold and reaching out to hook a finger in one of Posner’s belt loops to pull him in close. Posner shakes his head jerkily, a blush rising high up his cheeks, and Scripps bites his lip to stop himself grinning.
He’s entirely not sure who kisses who, only that they are, and that his hands are digging into Posner’s waist, the small of his back and the swell of his arse, and Posner has his hands in his hair and the counter is pressing against the base of his spine and it should probably bother him, that his first real kiss is in the work kitchen, but he can’t bring himself to care.
They kiss until they lose track of time, too taken in by the press of lips and the slide of fingers against skin, until the oven timer starts blaring at the both of them and pulls them out of their reverie.
“I should get that,” Scripps pulls away for a moment, and finds himself altogether reluctant at the thought of moving his hands from where they’re ghosting over the lines of Posner’s ribs.
“You should,” Posner says sagely, but leans in to kiss him again anyway. Scripps lets him, for just a moment, until he pulls away again.
“The sooner we get these done, the sooner we can leave and go watch that Streisand film you like,” Scripps reasons, pressing a quick peck against his cheek before finally moving away properly. “Now be a dear and finish those pots.”
Posner rolls his eyes at him, not without affection, and Scripps turns to busy himself with the oven and the cakes that’re just starting to brown that bit too much when he hears an indignant noise from behind him.
“Have you got flour on my arse?”
Scripps turns around, oven mitts on and a hot baking tray in his hands. Posner’s frowning at him, his expression petulant, and sure enough, there are streaks of white flour up his sides and across his trousers.
Scripps bites back a laugh and sets the cakes down, and Posner is fixing him with what he hopes is a stern glare.
“I think I might’ve, yeah,” Scripps smirks, wiping absently at one of the marks around Posner’s waist.
“You’re terrible,” Posner huffs, dusting himself down as best as he can and blushing a fantastic shade of red.
“But you love me,” Scripps says without thinking, and Posner’s head jerks up. Scripps worries for a moment that he’s said too much, scared him off or laid his own emotions bare too early, but Posner’s looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world worth looking at, and he’s smiling, so Scripps smiles back at him.
Posner dips a hand in the bag of flour beside him, scoops up some up into his palm, and presses his hand against Scripps’s side as he pulls him in for a kiss.
(Later, he’ll say it was payback, and not just a ploy to get him out of those messy clothes.)