Chapter Text
Greg sat down at his desk with two cups from the coffee shop, Tom’s latte and his own vanilla steamed milk. The steamed milk was a luxury, totally unnecessary, but he didn’t need caffeine at two in the afternoon and he’d put the drinks on Tom’s card anyway, so it didn’t matter that he’d paid five dollars for what basically amounted to a glass of hot sugar milk.
He needed the nutrients anyway—he didn’t know if he could get away with putting a whole meal on Tom’s card, but the steamed milk had so far slipped notice, and wasn’t milk what they told everybody to drink during, like, the Depression?
He’d been at Waystar for a few months now, as Tom’s assistant, and he felt like he was just starting to get his feet (now appropriately shod, thanks to Tom) under him. It had been awkward at first, getting used to Tom’s jokey ribbing that bordered on flirting; he was like a bitchy, insecure eleven-year-old with a crush. Except the crush was on someone else, probably, and he just took it out on Greg.
After spending those first few months pining after his handsome boss in abject he-likes-me-no-he-doesn’t confusion, Greg had decided he’d be better off assuming the his affections were unrequited. Tom was dating Greg’s cousin, after all, and it was probably against company policy to get involved with your direct superior.
Still, even though he knew perhaps intellectually that he should try to chill out about Tom, the rest of him hadn’t quite gotten the memo. Even when Tom was a prick, he had a particular brand of prickishness he saved especially for Greg. Sometimes it felt like abuse, to be, in Tom’s own words, Tom’s punching bag, but Greg craved that attention, craved the backward praise Tom sometimes surprised both of them with. Maybe Greg was fucked up for that, but maybe it was a symptom of his genetics—the Roy affinity for caustic relationships mixed with the Hirsch need for a kind of affection you weren’t sure you deserved.
“You’re family,” Tom had said to him when he handed him the folder of incriminating Cruises documents. It was higher affection, more respect than his own blood had ever shown him. Greg still wasn’t sure if Tom actually had the right to offer him that affirmation, but the acceptance felt nice all the same. And Tom had leaned in so close when he said it, close enough that Greg could have traced the scar above his lip, which filled out so pretty while he was waiting for an answer, his mouth slightly open.
The real kicker for Greg was that Tom often seemed so lonely, so afraid, as much as he tried to hide it under a veneer of smooth-dressed confidence. Greg saw his own ambition in Tom, saw someone who could help him live up to his potential. But in Tom it was coupled with an air of insecurity, almost anti-entitlement, like even if he kissed all the right asses in just the right way, he still wouldn’t quite fit.
But Greg had learned so much from Tom about how to act, how to dress, how to exist on this vicious, tottering corporate ladder. He thought Tom deserved to be there, even if Tom were a dick sometimes, even if weird shit seemed to spew out of his mouth before he’d given himself a moment to think it through. He just wished he could help his cousins see that; he wished he could help Tom see that.
Greg turned one of the cups on his desk, considering. Maybe it was time to let go of his crush. But he hadn’t even really tried to do anything with it, was the thing. He’d just been half hoping Tom would read his body language and figure out how he felt, and acknowledge it, and then either accept it or turn it down. He’d been hoping Tom would be the one to make it explicit. But that wasn’t looking likely.
Maybe Greg would have to make the move.
And that’s how he ended up writing his phone number on Tom’s coffee cup, sliding the paper sleeve back up over it, and setting the cup on the corner of Tom’s desk just the same as he did every afternoon.
Greg pretended not to see Tom approaching from his office, pretended to look up in surprise when Tom peeked into his cubicle, and said, “Hey, ah, Greg? Who was the barista at the coffeeshop today?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know, man.”
“Come on, Greg. You really don’t remember who took your order? Did you leave your brain in your desk or what?”
“No, it’s, like, like a different person every day. Why?”
“Get this, Greg.” Tom looked around, stooped down, and leaned in. “There’s a phone number on my cup.”
Greg panicked. He hadn’t thought Tom would bring it up like this. Like, directly? Did he know? Had he recognized Greg’s handwriting?
“Really?” Greg asked. No going back now. “What if, like—you don’t think it was for me, though?”
“Did they write a number on your cup, Gregory?”
“Well, no. But I was the one there. What if they didn’t know who each cup was for?”
“Greg, you go there, like, multiple times per day. I think they know your name and order by now.” They definitely did know. Greg didn’t even have to put in an official order anymore, unless he wanted something different, which he never did. He still said the order every time, just to be sure they got it right, but it was nice to see their knowing nods.
“Sure, but I always order the same two drinks, so how would they know which one is mine?”
“Shut up, Greg. They know. But the real question is, do I pursue? You know? I need to know which barista it was first, to make an informed decision here, you know? So, like, tomorrow, I need you to go back, and do a little barista lineup, and figure out who it was.”
“What about Shiv, though? I thought you were thinking about proposing to her, or whatever.”
“I am. Look, I’m not trying to hook up with some rando barista who wrote their number on my coffee cup, Greg. That kind of behavior, Greg? Just handing out your personal details indiscriminately? Highly suspect. I just want to know who it was. I’m dying of curiosity, alright?”
“Right. No, sure.”
Fuck.
Tom: Hi, howdy. This is Tom Wambsgans, head of the Waystar Royco Parks and Cruises Division? You left a note on my coffee cup earlier this week?
Unknown: hi
indeed, so i did
Tom: So you’re a barista there?
Unknown: i'll never tell ;)
Tom: Right. Well, I suppose we can safely assume so, since you had access to my cup? Ha ha.
Anyway. Was there something I could do for you? Advise you on amusement park management, perhaps? Ha.
Unknown: Haha, no thats ok. just seen you around and thought you were cute and thought i'd say hi :)
Tom: Oh. Well that’s very flattering. Thank you.
Unknown: That assistant of yours, hes pretty cute too eh?
Tom: Oh, him. Bit of a rube, but yes. I guess you might call it “cute.”
Unknown: Lucky you, getting to see him every day huh?
Tom: Ah. Perhaps you meant to put your number on his cup instead?
Unknown: No no. just making conversation :)
Tom: Sure.
Unknown: Anyways nice to meet u :) thank you for reaching out, as it were
Tom: Sure. Nice to meet you too.
“Please remember, Greg, that retrieving lattes is supposed to be your job.”
“I know? Like, I do it every day, man. I didn’t make you come with me.” Greg dodged a cluster of people loitering on the sidewalk and bumped Tom’s shoulder. Tom glared at him.
“You kind of did though, Greg. You really couldn’t figure out which barista it was? Want something done right, don’t assign it to Cousin Fucking Greg.”
“Dude, they’re all brunette. How am I supposed to know which of the three brunette girls it was? Did you want me to hire, like, a handwriting consultant?”
“Chill out, man. I’m already stressed enough right now, having to fetch my own coffee on a big meeting day. And don’t you think it’s a bit sexist that you can’t tell three different women apart?”
“It’s not sexist, dude. I just can’t remember. I’ve got, like, other big shit I’m supposed to keep track of.”
“Yeah, because you’re so important, Greg,” Tom said, breezing past him into the coffee shop.
“Somebody’s gotta keep track of your shit,” Greg muttered. Tom was already accosting the woman at the counter.
“A fine morning to you, fair ladies,” Tom said. “My assistant here will be placing my order, but I just wanted to put in a word of thanks for all your excellent service on the days I’m not able to come in myself.”
Greg ordered Tom’s latte, forgoing his own drink since there were already enough questionable decisions he might have to explain to Tom today. He paid with Tom’s card and went to stand by the pickup station at the end of the counter.
Tom lingered behind and with a big cheesy smile said to the cashier, “So is this place like the Hooters of coffeeshops or what? Do you all have to take, like, a hotness test to work here, or is it just coincidence?”
Tom straightened his tie, leaned onto one hand on the counter. If the barista responded to any of that, Greg couldn’t hear it. Tom went on, “Is there, ah—by any chance, might any of you know anything about, ah, your store policy on customer advances?”
Greg pulled out his phone to distract himself from the rest of that discussion, but the image of Tom leaning over the counter with frank interest and the barista leaning away uncomfortably stuck in his mind. He wasn’t jealous. He just felt a little guilty, knowing Tom would never get the answer he was looking for from the employees at the shop, because none of them had any idea what he was talking about.
It already felt too late to admit the number was his, when Tom had sent him on a reconnaissance mission to figure out which barista it was, when he'd already responded to the texts as if they didn't know each other. But then when would be the right time? Tom obviously wasn’t ready to let go of this.
Tom stepped up next to him, whispered, “They do all look rather similar, don’t they?”
Greg nodded, and Tom surveyed the baristas. “I don’t think it’s the cashier one. She looked at me like I’d showed up to a wine tasting with a vulva-shaped cheeseball. Vulveeta? Ha.” Tom considered, his head tilted. “Could be the quiet one in the plaid though. She seems nice, and she’s avoiding eye contact, so she’s probably shy of me, right?”
“Maybe she just hasn’t noticed you. She’s steaming a lot of milk. Maybe she’s afraid of burning herself. Those machines look pretty sketchy, safety-wise, if you ask me. Not a lot of, like, failsafes.”
“Well, they’d better watch out, with my assistant slash part-time OSHA inspector here coming in every day, huh? When are you allowed to start issuing citations, man?”
The barista called out Tom’s drink, and Greg picked up his cup from the counter and handed it to him, herding him toward the door. Maybe Tom would forget about the phone number thing, since he couldn’t tell the baristas apart either.
Tom: So did I see you in the shop today?
Unknown: who can say? its possible tho ;)
Tom: Come on, you can’t stay anonymous forever.
Unknown: can’t i?
Tom: I mean, I suppose you could. But why bother giving me your number then?
Unknown: maybe i like to stay enigmatic
Tom: Well you’re certainly that.
Unknown: why the press?
Tom: Just curious is all
Unknown: my lexical charm isnt enough for you?