Chapter Text
“Hello Harry,” Merlin said.
Harry did not say a word. Even though Merlin couldn’t see him over the phone, he was sure Merlin got the intent loud and clear.
“I’m sensing a hint of resentment in the air,” Merlin said, after a moment of stony silence. “Just a pinch, nothing major, but resentment all the same.”
“I apologize, the resentment should be completely obvious,” Harry said pleasantly. “Hello to you too, Merlin. What can I do for you?”
“Happy birthday,” Merlin said. “Any plans for the day?”
“Big ones.” Harry flipped through the file on his desk. “There is a mediation scheduled in the late afternoon, and I have to read up on the financial disclosure dossier for a new client to gauge her soon-to-be ex-husband’s assets-”
“But it’s your birthday,” Merlin said, cutting Harry off. “Last year all you did on your birthday was to call in sick and curl up under my couch like a giant foetus, crying manly tears of deep despair while I handed you tissues. You need to do something to actually celebrate this time.”
Harry took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper.
“Merlin, I’m a fifty-four year old family divorce lawyer. My own wife divorced me. I found out she had been cheating on me two years ago on this very day. She kicked me out of my house, moved her lover in, I’m still paying through the nose for the alimony, and she got my fucking dog,” Harry snarled. “The least thing I want to do is to celebrate.”
As usual, Merlin let Harry’s words fly over his head. “I’ll come over tonight. We can watch whatever shitty movie is on the telly and order pepperoni pizza and toast to Mr. Pickles. Look, I’ll even bring a six pack of birthday Guinness to sweeten the deal.”
“Goodbye, Merlin,” Harry said, and hung up.
Five minutes later, Harry’s phone emitted a loud, attention-seeking beep. Harry ignored it. He didn’t need to open his textbox to know that Merlin had already penciled himself in for the night. Harry smiled a little despite himself. Merlin was a good friend, a far better one than Harry deserved. Spending his birthday with his best friend actually sounded fantastic, not that he would ever admit it to Merlin’s face.
Harry took a sip of stone-cold coffee, suppressing a full-body shudder from the stale taste as he skimmed through the disclosure documents with an expert eye. There was so much to cover: the man’s estates, his offshore account, his hidden stocks and bonds. The guy even had a fucking yacht. Harry was going to take vindictive pleasure in stripping down the cheater’s assets for his client. He reminded Harry of his ex-wife.
Harry pored over the documents, reading page after page until the lines blurred together into a cobweb of nonsensical words. Leaning back in his chair, Harry scrubbed his knuckles over bone-dry eyes. Fuck, he really needed more coffee. Harry pushed himself away from the desk, picked up his coffee mug, and headed for the pantry.
He was immediately gripped by the most bizarre sight: young Tristan was standing in front of the Nespresso Zenius, banging the machine on the side as if it would spit up coffee if he hit it hard enough. He was surrounded by half a dozen disgruntled, well-dressed men and women with purple rings under bloodshot eyes, all holding out their empty cups à la Oliver Twist. They looked like an army of zombie lawyers.
“What happened?” Harry asked in deep trepidation, even though the answer was glaringly obvious.
“The coffee machine is broken,” Tristan said glumly, and the room let out a collective groan. Harry turned on his heel and hurried out of the pantry before a riot could break out.
Safe within the confines of his office, Harry considered his options.
Harry could buy another coffee machine, but it would take hours to deliver, he wasn’t so keen on sharing, and the company might not reimburse him.
It was entirely possible Harry could survive the day without coffee; cutting off both his thumbs with a blunt butter knife sounded far less painful.
Or Harry could nip down the street and go to that tiny, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop he passed by every day on his way to work, but had never once stepped foot in. It could be great. It could also be hideous.
Harry eyed the endless stacks of documents on his desk and bit back a grimace.
Option three it was.
++++++++
When the doors to the coffee shop swung open, Harry realized the shop was bigger than he had expected, with about a dozen tables and soft, jazzy music playing over the sound system.
There was a thin, pretty girl standing behind the counter. She looked to be in her late twenties, dressed in a crisp white blouse and modest black shorts that covered the top of her thighs. She was wiping down the countertop, long walnut-colored hair swept back in a high ponytail. When she looked up, her smile was wide and warm.
“Hi,” she said, brandishing the blue rag in her hand. “Sorry, doing some damage control on spilt coffee here. Give me a minute?”
“Okay,” Harry said, his eyes tracking her back, the shiny ponytail swinging like a pendulum as she disappeared into the back room. Business was slow at the time of the day, Harry noticed. He raked his eyes over the place absently and caught a movement in his peripheral vision.
A man was standing at the far corner of the coffee counter with his back to Harry, stacking jars of coffee beans on a high shelf. Unlike the impeccably dressed girl, he was wearing the ugliest bomber jacket Harry had ever had the misfortune to clap his eyes on. It was black and yellow, the kind of bright, migraine-inducing yellow that burned into retinas and left merry swirls dancing in its wake. If Harry ever got his hands on it, he would light a match and set it on fire. He would be doing the world a massive favor.
The man was so immersed in tidying he never threw Harry a look. Harry glanced at his wristwatch. He really needed to get back to work if he was going to do movie night with Merlin. So he cleared his throat and said to the black-and-yellow-clad back, “Hello, can I have a hazelnut latte please.”
Jerking to attention, the man whirled around, and Harry saw he was younger than Harry had initially thought. He had feathery brown hair and eyes the color of beer bottles, and a wide, mobile mouth. He took one look at Harry and did a double-take; Harry felt rather alarmed in return.
“Holy shit,” the kid blurted out. “You’re old.”
“And you’re a very rude child,” Harry replied, because he had not had his second coffee shot, and caffeine withdrawal did not encourage excellent manners.
The kid flashed a rueful grin. “I guess I walked right into that one,” he admitted, leaning on the counter and throwing out his hand, palm up. “Alright. Let’s do this again. Sup, I’m Eggsy.”
Harry eyed the proffered hand with deep suspicion, half-expecting the kid to pull back his hand at the last second and laugh his head off. When he didn’t, Harry shook it gingerly. His handshake was firm and dry and warm.
“Sorry ‘bout that. It’s just, most people who order hazelnut lattes are hipsters. College students, y’know, with black framed glasses and long emo hair and ULC hoodies,” Eggsy explained, his mouth quirking up in the corners. “And you have this uber posh, cultured voice. People with voices like yours tend to ask for chai. Extra hot, extra dirty.”
“I’m sorry?” Harry said, his eyes darting down to Eggsy’s lips involuntarily. He was almost certain he had not hallucinated the words hot and dirty coming out of Eggsy’s mouth.
“Chai,” Eggsy repeated, like Harry was hard of hearing. “You never had a chai latte before?”
“No,” Harry said hastily. Fortunately Eggsy didn’t seem to notice Harry had misinterpreted a completely innocent statement as a raging come-on.
Eggsy’s grin turned sharp as a hook. “That won’t do. Sit tight, bruv. I’ll make you one.”
“I just want my hazelnut latte,” Harry said plaintively.
“It’s just like latte,” Eggsy promised, playfully drawing an X over his chest with an index finger. “Cross my heart.”
Five minutes later, Harry found himself standing outside the coffee shop, tipping back his head to blink at the clear blue sky, not entirely sure what the hell had just happened. Eggsy had blatantly ignored his order, steamrolled him into the chai latte, insisted it was on the house as a sincere apology for being ageist, and shoved him out the door with both hands.
Dazedly, Harry made his way back to the office. It was only when he stepped into the lift did he remember he had not tried his piping hot chai latte. He pulled open the tab and took a small, careful sip.
“Fuck,” Harry said, stunned. It was the most amazing thing he had ever tasted. He took another savoring sip as he walked past the pantry, ignoring the loud, angry chatter inside, and headed for his room, smiling to himself.
One thing was certain. He was most definitely going back.