Work Text:
At around 3:37 PM, a bald man, dressed in a fairly conspicuous silver, cropped jacket, walks into a nearly-empty-at-this-hour, Western-style diner with large, wide windows, located on a street corner somewhere in Seasoning City. He is seated by a very nice waitress with plain, brown locks, and he orders a burger with a side of French fries. After she is done taking his order, she asks, “Will that be all?”, and with a very snide smile, Joseph folds his long, thin hands over the table and says,
“Actually, it’s my birthday today.”
With a bow and a “Congratulations!”, the waitress disappears into the kitchen, leaving Joseph to fiddle around with his jacket sleeve and tap his foot against the linoleum (very rude). Ten minutes later she’s back with his burger and fries, a small dessert, and the whole kitchen staff in tow. Clearly, it’s been a slow day, Joseph thinks, as he cranes his neck, trying to look for a familiar frown. Sure enough, Suzuki Touichirou, former terrorist, current line cook, and perennial DILF is there, dressed in a standard apron and a fry cook’s hat, and his frown only deepens when he catches sight of the government agent. Joseph grins cheekily and waves, which is not returned.
Then the singing begins.
“Happy birthday to youu~”
Ah, but Suzuki is not singing.
“Happy birthday to youu~”
Suzuki is just standing there at the back of the crowd, arms crossed firmly over his chest, giving Joseph a nasty stink eye.
“Happy birthday dear… gu-uy~”
Joseph thinks that if he were smiling any more, his cheeks would split open right there. Suzuki is having such a bad time right now, and he is so here for it.
“Happy birthday to you~!”
The staff bursts into applause and Joseph bows, thanking them profusely for the attention and the meal before they disperse to their usual stations again. He digs in, taking a single fry off the plate and dipping it in ketchup as Suzuki stalks up to him. Joseph motions for him and he sits down, icy blue eyes not leaving the agent for a second.
“Today is not your birthday, Joseph.”
“Hey, no ‘How are you’s?’ I thought the Japanese were supposed to be polite,” says Joseph, tossing a fry into his mouth. “And, you never know. I never actually told you.”
“I had access to your records under Claw. Joseph, I thought you agreed to leave me alone during business hours,” Suzuki hisses.
“Yeah, change of plans. We’ve got kind of an emergency on our hands. Came up ehh.. about forty-five minutes ago. Want to come?”
“I’m working. Reforming myself. Living the…” Suzuki pauses. “Regular life.”
“Dude, reforming yourself cannot mean giving customers the Signature Suzuki Touichirou Death Glare when you’re asked to sing Happy Birthday to them. Believe it or not, that tends to scare people and be very bad for business. You’re a very scary guy!” Suzuki raises one bushy eyebrow, and Joseph shrugs. “To the average person.”
Joseph takes another fry, while Suzuki just stares at him. Like some sort of fucked up hawk. Hm. What did he literally just talk about?
He clears his throat. “Suzuki, this isn’t an option.”
Suzuki frowns. For a split second, he actually seems to regard Joseph with some sort of resentment beyond what is considered ‘normal’ for the two of them. Then it passes, and he reaches up, takes his hat off, and folds it mechanically on the table between them. The apron, similarly, is folded with crisp lines, until it looks fresh off a conveyor belt, or on display at a clothing store before anyone has had the chance to ruin it with their perusal and refusal. Joseph watches his hands work.
When Suzuki’s done, Joseph nods, and hands him a sticky note with something scribbled on it, which goes on the hat, which goes on the apron. Suzuki doesn’t read it; he knows what it says. They get up, and the two walk out the front door.
All they leave behind is a barely-touched meal, cash to more than cover the cost, a cook’s uniform, and a hasty message - “NEVER TO RETURN.”