Work Text:
Babe didn’t know he could get this angry over a pickle.
As in, a literal pickle. A perfect sour pickle, crunchy and heavenly in its vinegar distribution. The perfect balance to his takeout meal he had ordered, a rich smoked meat sandwich, filled to the brim with tender meats and dijon mustard.
The only bright part of his day, which, Babe thought, was depressingly telling of the state of his mental health.
Looking down sadly at his sandwich container, neatly placed by the delivery guy right by his mailbox, Babe couldn’t believe this was happening. His shoulder sagged, his eyes closed.
“What the hell took you so long?” said the ever-annoyed voice of Joe Leibgott right behind him.
“My pickle,” Babe whispered, his sadness slowly morphing into indignation.
Babe could physically feel Joe wrinkling his nose. “Hey, man, gross. Don’t talk about that stuff,” his friend answered, while bending down to get his own food order off the ground.
“No, it’s… The restaurant forgot my pickle,” frowned Babe. “They never do, usually. They even put it in a little separate box and everything.”
Joe looked inside Babe’s bag and looked up, his deadpan delivery mastered. “Why would you want pickles with Chinese food? Is that a new thing kids do these days?” he added, as if he weren’t only two years older than Babe.
Now fully confused, Babe looked down at his bag. “Chinese food? I ordered a smoked meat sandwich!”
Joe shrugged. “Looks like someone from another apartment took your order by mistake. I wouldn’t blame them, honestly.” Joe pointed at the multiple food delivery bags, all waiting in front of their respective mail box’s apartment numbers. “I mean, look at the mess here! We can barely walk, it’s like a minefield of cold hamburgers.”
“But… We have a system,” Babe complained, waving in the general direction of the lobby. “People can’t just… take whatever they want and not check their bags!”
Joe sighed, a clear sign for Babe that he was already done with this conversation. He looked at his nails as he offered his measly sympathy. “Maybe they were as tired as we are. Maybe they were evil and took yours just to spite you. Now, stop whining,” said Joe, as if he weren’t the biggest whining baby of all time, “just eat the stranger’s food. We have to finish the presentation before tomorrow or else Nixon’s gonna have our skins.”
Babe grumbled under his breath. They did have to work late, hence the delivery at his condo and he and Joe working until probably midnight and then some. Still, Babe could not shake the pettiness growing inside of him like a vine. The feeling was familiar. His friends called it Babe’s Petty Principles.
As soon as Joe left after a tiring evening of crunching numbers and deciphering numerous Excel documents, Babe, half manic with fatigue, took a sharpie pen, his trusty post-it notepad and wrote down a few lines, what he thought would send a clear message.
Taking the elevator down, he stepped into the empty lobby. Sticking the post-it note on the bulletin board for all to see, he smirked. Ah. That’ll show them.
To the pickle thief - how dare you!!!! I was looking forward to that pickle all day. Shame on you. That smoked meat sandwich was mine.
Contented, Babe then went to sleep, unaware of the ridiculous set of events he had just put into motion.
The next day saw him awake around seven. Sure enough, Babe went on with his routine, the thief almost out of his mind. With breakfast and coffee down the hatch, he dressed in his usual gray suit, white shirt and black tie, put on his winter coat and made his way down to catch his bus headed downtown.
As he opened the front door of his building, letting in a cold December wind that ruffled his amber hair, Babe stopped dead in his tracks. From the corner of his eye, he could spot a bright blue post-it on the bulletin board. As the pickle incident came thundering back into his mind, Babe remembered distinctively using a yellow post-it note. Which could only mean one thing.
The thief had answered.
Retreating back into the warmth of the lobby, Babe hurried to the board. Instead of his chicken scratch, there was a new note written in neat and elegant cursive. Babe could only gawk at the response.
To the weirdo who likes pickles: why.
I threw the pickle away. Also, the sandwich was okay, although there was too much salt for my liking.
Signed: the pickle thief
Babe audibly scoffed as he ripped the post-it from the bulletin board. How… dare the thief write that! The smoked meat sandwich was deliciously salty and the… The pickle! In the garbage? Unacceptable!
Babe saw red, his cheeks heating up as they usually do under stress.
“Oh yeah?” he muttered, crumpling the note in his fist. “We’ll see, then, pickle thief. We’ll see who will have the last laugh.”
As he ruminated on the bus, dark snow clouds literally hanging above his head, it dawned on Babe that he was taking this way too seriously. That it could happen to anyone, mixing up delivery bags.
Then, the image of his dear pickle in the trash came back to him in a flash. Babe sighed.
He knew himself pretty well, after almost thirty years of living in his own head. He knew that he didn't have a choice.
He'll take this way too far and win the post-it war. He had to.
As soon as came back home after a tiring day, Babe took the yellow note with the message he had carefully crafted during his lunch hour out of his pocket and pinned it right where the rude answer had been.
To the pickle thief,
Your crimes will be punished. How dare you throw away a poor innocent pickle. I should call 911 on you!!!! Poor small, innocent pickle! I will have revenge.
I am vengeance.
Now fully certain he had the last word, Babe was actually surprised to see a new post-it the next morning as he made his way through the lobby. Whoever was answering, they must be working nights, because Babe never saw a glimpse of anyone in the mornings, nor around five in the afternoon when he came back tired and hungry from the office.
This time was no different: a blue post-it note waiting, mocking him from afar. Babe hurried to the board, almost dropping his case in the process of tearing the offensive bit of paper from the wall.
Calm down, Batman. You seem a little obsessed over the pickle. Are you having pickle problems on your side?
Signed,
The pickle thief who recommends you get checked out.
Babe knew exactly what to answer. Without hesitation, he dug in his bag for his post-its and scribbled the answer leaning on the board itself, his tongue sticking out of his mouth for better focus.
Wow, that’s rich, coming from a guy (I guess?) who can’t even read the numbers of the apartments right! You can’t just take anything in front of you and call it Chinese food.
We. Have. A. SYSTEM. The world would crumble if we can’t get our orders straight!!!!
Triumphantly sticking the note to the board, Babe turned to the elevators, only to see his next door neighbor, Chuck, waiting in front of the reflective doors, his usual calm expression now puzzled. Babe waved as he walked closer.
“Hey, Chuck! How’s it going, man?” Babe asked, eyeing the already pushed button to call the elevator.
“It’s… I’m fine, thank you,” answered Chuck, still looking curiously over Babe’s shoulder at the board displaying his passive-aggressive note. “Uhm, Babe… What were you doing?”
Babe chuckled, his face heating up. “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” he answered, pushing the button a couple of times just in case it would help the elevator come down faster. “Just a pickle issue.”
Feeling Chuck’s stare on the side of his face, Babe kept his gaze carefully averted, scratching his head and scrunching his nose as he prayed for the doors to open.
“You’re having… pickle issues?” Chuck repeated. Judging by the tone of his voice, Babe was right to avoid his eye.
“No, no, not like that, jeez, why does everybody…” Babe trailed off with another nervous chuckle, scratching his nose. “I mean, someone took my delivery meal ‘by accident’”, he added, air quotes and all, “and now we’re having a friendly conversation over it.”
Silence.
“Through the bulletin board," Babe added, voice weak, "with post-it notes.”
It took a long few seconds for Chuck to process the information.
“Oh,” he eventually said, his deadpan delivery as Chuck as could be. “So it’s a Babe’s Petty Principle kind of thing. I see.”
The elevator finally dinged, the doors sliding open in front of them.
“You know what, I’ll take the next one,” said Babe, looking down. “I… forgot something in my car.”
Chuck nodded and entered the cabin. “I hope you win,” his neighbor said, “but don’t get that poor guy kicked out of the building for a pickle.”
“It was a very good pickle!” Babe shouted at the closing doors, as Chuck’s laugh echoed in the lobby.
In the reflection of the doors, Babe could see his cheeks were as red as his hair. He sighed, and pushed the button calling the elevator again.
I’m a new guy (confirmed) here. I didn’t know the “SYSTEM”. I do know how to read though, and you don’t need that many exclamation points when you write.
-Pickle thief
Babe grabbed the latest note absentmindedly that morning, reading it on the bus. Rolling his eyes and crumpling the paper in his coat pocket, Babe arrived at the office and headed straight for his post-it notes. Before he even opened his emails or removed his coat, Babe was furiously scribbling.
I’ll write as many as I want, new guy !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then, blindly grabbing another post-it note, he covered it in exclamation points. Finally satisfied, he rolled back his office chair, looking up and nearly tipping over when he realized Joe Liebgott was watching him from above, leaning on the dividing wall between their cubicles. Even though Joe didn’t physically roll his eyes, Babe knew he was doing it in spirit.
“Back at it again with the passive aggressive notes, I see,” Joe trailed off, smirking.
Babe shrugged, discarding his coat on the back of his chair and turning his work laptop on. “The guy keeps answering ,” he muttered, half amused and half annoyed that Joe could read him so well.
“Look like you found your match,” Joe pointed out, glancing down on his side of the wall to grab his coffee mug and slowly sipping the hot liquid. His friend wiggled his eyebrows, much to Babe’s dismay.
Babe groaned. Just as he began praying for something, anything to wipe the smug expression off his friend’s face, he glimpsed David Webster, accountant extraordinaire, strolling in behind Joe, his expression furious.
Thank you, Lord, Babe thought as he assessed Webster’s level of anger to be a solid seven out of ten.
“Looks like yours found you ,” he said, smirking as Joe’s eyes widened.
“Liebgott,” Webster snapped, right on cue, “how many times do I have to tell you to file your reports before the due date?”
Closing his eyes only for a moment, Joe turned to face his work nemesis, as Babe liked to call Webster, who, when not in presence of Liebgott, was actually a very decent guy, albeit sometimes a little arrogant.
“Webster, it’s eight in the fucking morning,” Joe snapped back, and Babe settled in his chair, thankful for a distraction this early in his work day.
Webster scoffed. “I can read the time, thank you very much. I was here at six this morning, because of you, fixing your mistake so that the company wouldn’t implode .”
Leigbott put down his coffee mug, raising his eyebrows to give Webster a snarky once-over. “Not my fault you have nothing else to do in the mornings. You probably sleep in a suit, waiting to go to work.”
“I don’t sleep in a suit, you know very well that I sleep in- '' Webster started, before shutting his mouth very fast, his cheeks reddening.
What? thought Babe, watching Joe’s eyes dart over to him and back to Webster.
“ Anyway , that’s not the point,” Webster continued, flustered. “I need you to make copies of this document and go give them to Nixon, because I’m not taking the fall for your incompetence.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Babe watched them leave, their steps angry, but their expressions… almost eager? Babe blinked, shutting down the thought. He hadn’t had his coffee this morning yet. He wasn’t ready for the truth. He decided to wait for his friend to come back, but not before shamelessly stealing Joe’s mug off his desk and taking a few sips.
If his hypothesis was true, Joe would owe him much more than one coffee.
For starters, therapy.
Alright, this is getting out of hand. Sorry for the pickle, won’t happen again.
Signed: pickle thief, over and out.
“Well, now I feel bad,” Babe told Joe after showing him the last post-it the next morning at work. “Maybe I pushed too far.”
Joe shrugged in his office chair, handing the post-it back. “Nah. It’s good, you won. You got it out of your system.”
Frowning, Babe leaned on the cubicle wall and gave Joe a sarcastic look. “Like you got Webster out of your system?”
Joe’s smile was all teeth. “Twice last night, I got him out of my system.”
Babe groaned. “Joe, come on! Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing him?”
Shrugging again, Joe leaned back In his chair. “Dunno. Didn’t think it would be a recurring thing until it was.”
“So are you… official?” asked Babe, folding the post-it in his pocket.
Liebgott smiled again, this time a little more genuine. “I guess, yeah.” Then he seemed to remember where he was, because he snickered. “I won’t tell him, though, and I'll complain that he forgot our anniversary in a month. That’ll drive him mad.”
Babe kicked him lightly in the shins. “Hey. Be nice. Webster’s a catch, actually. Don’t know how he fell for your ugly mug.”
Liebgott sighed. “Yeah, me neither.”
A pensive silence fell on the two friends. Wanting to lighten the mood, Babe nudged Joe’s shin again. “You know he actually went to Harvard?”
“Webster went to Harvard? No, really? He never mentioned it before,” Joe answered, completely deadpan, while Babe barked a laugh.
“You really should write to the pickle thief if it’s that important to you, you know," Joe eventually said after a few hours of serious work. "Maybe invite him somewhere to make peace, or whatever.”
“Yeah, maybe," Babe said, his mood immediately picking up "Thanks, Joe, that’s actually a great idea."
“I am smart most of the time, you know,” Joe muttered, sighing dramatically.
I’m sorry, man, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Let me make it up to you.
Sandwich shop, this saturday, seven o’clock. My treat. I’ll be wearing a blue sweater.
-E. Heffron
The bell jingled and Babe’s head shot up for the tenth time since he sat down at a quarter to seven. Thirty minutes later, no sign of his pickle thief. This time it was a family making their way to the counter, the children running around happily while the father gave their order.
i dont think he’s gonna show , Babe texted Joe, frowning.
Joe’s answer came swiftly. Just wait. Maybe he was busy stealing other pickles.
Babe decided that he would wait until eight, to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. He ordered another coffee and sighed, scrolling on his phone.
Around seven thirty, the door opened once more. This time, Babe almost didn’t look up, engrossed in an online quiz about which Hunger Games character he was. Glancing up, he saw a man scanning the restaurant, then zoning in on Babe, his fierce eyes as focused as a hawk. The man looked down at his blue sweater, then started to approach.
Babe gulped.
While the guy walked towards him, Babe had time to detail him. Green, almost hazel eyes, dark hair as jet black as the night sky in January, pointy nose with the tip reddened by the cold outside, and the most attractive set of features Babe had ever seen on a man completed the portrait.
His face was as sharp as it was delicate, his strong cheekbones making him look straight out of Babe’s favorite tv dramas. A light stubble covered his cheeks, and as he walked even closer, Babe cringed as he realized the man was frowning deeply. Something in Babe suggested that this was probably his neutral expression, but Babe couldn't count on wishful thinking.
The stranger took his last steps towards Babe, who started to really panic. His pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes suggested someone who probably rarely got out. Then again, Babe had the same matching set of dark circles, so perhaps the guy was working in a soul-sucking office too.
The man wore a long black coat made of wool, unbuttoned, and when he finally stopped right in front of the table, Babe could make out dark blue scrubs underneath. Ah. Not an office worker then, maybe more like a doctor, or a nurse.
Great. Babe antagonized someone who helped others on the daily. Nothing to calm his anxious conscience.
They stared at each other in tense silence for what seemed like an eternity. Babe maintained eye contact, trying to decide if it was normal to be slightly aroused by the intensity of the man in front of him, while being terrified of his scowling.
“Heffron?” the man asked after eyeing him as Babe did to him not a minute ago.
His voice was raspy and Babe was delighted to hear a Cajun accent, hidden beneath the layers of animosity the man seemed to radiate towards him.
“Y-Yes, that’s me. Uhm. Please, sit down,” said Babe, willing his voice not to waver.
The man seemed to think about it, then sat in the booth in front of Babe, stiff as a stick. They sat in silence, Babe’s face hotter by the minute. He felt so warm, from awkwardness and panic, the only image his brain conjured was the Wicked Witch melting at the end of W izard of Oz.
“So,” Babe said after clearing his throat. “Uhm. Pickle thief.”
“Eugene Roe, actually. Pickle thief was my father,” Eugene Roe said with an absolutely deadpan delivery that made something in Babe’s stomach flip.
“Right. The famous mister pickle,” Babe joked lamely.
Then, something incredible happened. Eugene's expression softened, like he thought Babe’s line was actually a little funny, but wouldn’t let it show. It gave Babe a little courage. Maybe this wouldn’t be so disastrous after all.
“Look,” Babe breathed out as Eugene kept looking at him, “I’m gonna say it right now: I’m sorry I was a jerk through post-it notes.”
Babe swallowed before continuing, keeping to the little speech he prepared and practiced to a supportive Chuck Grant last night. “I shouldn’t have snapped, it wasn’t fair to you. It was a Babe’s Petty Principle situation and it shouldn’t have escalated like that, so, uh… Yeah.”
Beyond embarrassed, Babe grabbed his empty coffee cup, nervously tapping the sides with his short nails. “Sorry,” he added again, wincing.
Eugene blinked, the first sign that he heard anything Babe had just said.
“Babe?” he asked, his frown deepening.
“Yeah?”
“No, I mean… Your name is Babe? Babe Heffron?” Eugene asked again, his puzzled expression doing unfortunate things to Babe’s stomach.
“No, uh… My name is Edward, but everybody calls me Babe,” he explained, feeling a familiar blush creep up to his ears. “I’m the youngest of my friend group.”
“Ah. I see,” Eugene said slowly. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “No way I’m calling you Babe.”
“But you just did,” Babe contered, smirking.
Eugene gave him a dark look. Oops. Why was it so attractive? Babe’s stomach felt like it was on a rollercoaster of contradicting feelings.
“So anyway, sorry. Again. I thought you wouldn’t show up,” Babe said, while Eugene flagged down the waiter.
“I just came out of a shift at the hospital, actually. I came straight here when I saw the board,” Eugene casually explained. “Hi,” he added when the waiter came over. “We’ll have two smoked meat sandwiches, pickles for both. Thank you.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared behind the counter. Babe watched as Eugene removed his coat, revealing a small, but strong frame.
“So… You’re a doctor?” asked Babe, desperate to hear Eugene’s drawl in any way possible.
“Surgeon,” Eugene clarified. “You?”
Babe sighed. “Marketing. I mostly do Excel spreadsheets that nobody looks at after. Exciting work.”
Eugene shrugged, his expression once again softening. “S’not bad. What else do you like to do, except antagonize perfect strangers in your building?”
Babe smiles sheepishly. “I only antagonize the doctors in my building, actually.”
The smallest smile undid the frown on Eugene’s face. “I see.”
“I'm actually a boring person,” continued Babe, eyeing the waiter as he got out of the kitchen balancing two plates on his arm.
“Someone who has a catchphrase for his… what was it again? Petty principles? That’s not boring to me,” shrugged Eugene, just as the waiter stopped by them and delivered their orders. They both nodded in thanks as he walked away.
“My friends coined it. I can be… I mean, principles are important,” Babe said, waving his hands around, intent on being the most humble he could be.
“Yeah, that’s why you’re going to give me your pickle again,” said Eugene, his eyes now twinkling with a light Babe was enchanted to see.
Oh, he wanted to play it like that, uh? Alright. Babe could play.
“No way,” he answered, placing a protective hand over his plate, “ you owe me a pickle, mister.”
Eugene frowned, but this time Babe could tell it was fake, which made his heart miss a beat.
“What about the emotional damage I had to endure? I demand reparation,” Eugene said, crossing his arms on his chest.
“But you don’t even like pickles. You threw the other one away!” countered Babe, now genuinely confused.
Eugene scratched at his cheek to hide his mouth. “I might have lied about that.”
Laughing, Babe threw his hands in the air. “I knew it! I knew nobody in their right mind could say no to a delicious pickle with a smoked meat sandwich.”
“So… Can I have yours?” Eugene said after Babe dropped his arms.
Babe dramatically sighed. “I see only one way of settling this. We’ll split the pickle. How ‘bout that?”
Eugene pretended to think about it. “Yes, that would be satisfactory.” He extended his arm so that Babe would shake his hand above their plates. “Shake on it? From now on, we’ll always split the pickle.”
Babe eagerly took Eugene’s hand. It was firm and dry, and Babe had to make his brain shut up about the other things Babe would like to see Eugene’s hands do.
“Agreed.”
They shared a smile, Eugene’s first real smile since he stepped in the restaurant. Babe was glad, a million pounds off his shoulders.
Reluctantly letting go of Eugene’s warm hand, Babe started eating his sandwich. Soon, Eugene joined him. They ate in companionable silence. Babe eyed Eugene every chance he got. The doctor ate with appetite, even licking his thumb when a splash of mustard dropped on his fingers.
“So,” Eugene eventually said. “This might be the weirdest meal I’ve ever shared."
“Not me,” Babe casually answered, cutting the pickle in half and placing it delicately on Eugene’s almost empty plate. “Last night I ate dinner with my friend and his soon-to-be boyfriend.”
“What was weird about the dinner?” Eugene asked, seemingly curious.
“They kind of love and hate each other so much, they ended up aggressively complimenting each other. It was tense,” Babe added.
Shuddering, he thought back on the ferocious intensity in Webster’s eyes as he declared that no, Joe was actually the most wonderful person he ever met as Joe practically growled in agony at Webster.
“Oh… You’re right, that’s a weirder meal than this one,” Eugene said, laughing.
“Wait until you hear this other one,” Babe added, galvanized by Eugene’s laugh, “the other day, my friend Bill-”
The night dwindled away as they both shared stories of their respective friend groups. Eugene ended up telling Babe a few gross hospital stories, while Babe spilled the crunchiest office drama. Hours went by without the two men ever checking their phones, or wanting to leave.
Babe could feel a certain warmth as Eugene relaxed and laughed more easily. He was still guarded, but that made his smiles all the more rewarding. Babe was quickly addicted and discreetly texted Joe when Eugene went to the bathroom.
Pickle guy okay. Might be on a date, now??????
WTF??? please call me after.
Babe could feel Eugene’s eyes on him more and more, and let his blush reign freely. There was no way he could hide the effect Eugene Roe had on him, even if he just met the guy. As the night went by, Babe could feel a certain tension come back, this time a much more pleasant tension. Babe knew it well, could feel it in bars when he eyed a good-looking stranger for a night of fun, could feel it when he (mostly tried) to flirt with the blind dates his friends would send him on.
What really emboldened Babe was that Eugene was giving this energy right back, was now making jokes and letting the silences linger, happy to be in the moment with Babe. Thrilled by this unforeseen turn of events, Babe, for once, let it happen and didn’t fight the lightness and giddiness he felt, letting himself be totally genuine.
All of that because of a pickle.
As the closing time approached and they had to put on their coats to brave the cold outside, Babe found himself wanting this evening to last forever.
“Well, this was… uhm… very fun,” Babe commented, stepping outside and holding the door for Eugene. “I’m glad I could say sorry in person. And I’m glad you didn’t think I was a total jackass,” he added sheepishly.
“I’m happy you reached out… and that you’re not a psycho killer,” Eugene added, flashing him a small smile as he went outside.
The clouds above hid the dark sky, rendering it more like a soft, gray color. Suddenly, Babe looked up. Heavy snowflakes, as if on cue, began to slowly fall down on their heads. Babe’s heart leapt in his chest as he looked back at Eugene to find out that he was already looking at Babe.
“You look like an angel,” Eugene whispered, almost to himself, pointing at the halo of a nearby streetlamp illuminating Babe’s hair, bright white snowflakes sticking to the copper strands.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Babe said, his voice strangled, after a few seconds gathering himself so he would not have to muffle a yell in his thick scarf.
Eugene looked down, smiling, and Babe couldn’t believe the sweetness of the moment. The snow falling felt more like powdered sugar at this point, with how sweet they were being.
Always the go-getter, Babe took a step forward, bringing him closer to Eugene. The other man did not move, turning his head so that he could look at Babe from the corner of his eye.
Being slightly taller than Eugene, Babe had to look down, inhaling through his nose to calm his nerves. He blinked a few times, drinking in the sight of Eugene, the tip of his nose already turning red, smelling the sharp, cold air around them alongside Eugene’s warm and rich scent.
Slowly, leaving plenty of room for Eugene to take a step back, Babe leaned down. Not only Eugene didn’t push him away, he leaned in , like he knew exactly what Babe would do. and pressed his parted lips to the corner of Eugene’s mouth in a chaste and sweet kiss. Electricity seemed to travel between the two, a sharp realization of wanting more, of seeing the other, almost like a recognition.
“Weirdest date I’ve ever been on,” Eugene chuckled warmly when they separated, his hand flying to his lips, like an afterthought.
Babe smiled wide, holding onto the sides of Eugene’s coat. He feels like if he let go, he would float away.
“Tell me about it,” he whispered, feeling himself blushing furiously as they walked back to their homes.
The next day, on the bulletin board, two post-it notes were pinned for everyone to see.
I’m very, very, very glad you stole my pickle :) How about same time, same place, next week?
I’ll be there
I think this time, it’s you that stole something of mine.