Chapter Text
The bell over the door jingles as Detective Tom Kazansky pushes it open with his shoulder. Rain droplets slide in rivulets down his face and neck to wet his already soaked through shirt collar. He spears his fingers through his blond hair with a huff of frustration. His day—or should that be night seeing as he was on the night shift?—was already one pile of crap on top of another; a John Doe found in the wall of a building due to be knocked down would ruin anyone’s day, but then Police Commissioner Cain was doing his usual ghoulish routine haunting the precinct which is enough to curdle anyone’s stomach, and to top it off, he’d left his umbrella in his apartment because the forecast hadn’t mentioned rain (and no Ron, I’m not admitting you have the gift of predicting the weather just like Nana Bonnie used to, I’d rather get drenched that admit you were right), so now he’s currently soaked to the bone, running on empty not having eaten since the previous lunchtime and he still has three hours of his shift to go.
Three hours which are going to be filled with paperwork, paperwork, and oh, what’s that? More fucking paperwork. Yippee.
Tom wipes his hand on his pant leg (not that it does much good) and looks around. He’d been tempted by the promise of coffee and shelter from the rain, and while the name on top of the door and painted on the glass window is pretty ironic considering the state of the weather, the Sunshine Bakery had lulled him in with the absolutely delicious scent of freshly baked bread that had managed to find its way to his nose even through the rain and draw him inside, like he was one of those cartoon characters floating through the air, nostrils wide and greedily inhaling.
Despite it being half six in the morning, and the middle of the fall season, it was warm inside the Sunshine Bakery. The windows are starting to steam up; rain pelting on the outside in a repetitive, rhythmic thud. Plants that sit in vases in the shape of a human female’s bare torso sit on the window sill; leaves lush and green, the plants obviously well cared for, not a brown spot on them. Tom steps closer and leans down to look at the vases; they’re handmade. Look like they’re made of clay. Whoever made them had talent. Ron would love one—not because he’s a fan of art, but because he love boobs, and the artist whose hands had moulded these particular breasts were obviously ones that knew what they were doing and respected their chosen subject.
There were tables and chairs dotted around for people to sit and enjoy a drink or something to eat; though they were all mismatch—no two chair the same. Tom can tell all the furniture is reused; overstuffed armchairs with small, frayed patches in the velvet fabric, wicker-backed wooden chairs with cushioned-seats lined with metal studs, and tables that were cleaned and polished but with scratch marks carved into the wooden tops from years of wear and tear. He runs his fingers over the surface of the table closest to him and the corner of his mouth quirks as he traces the outline of a heart etched into the wood.
The display cabinet is filled with various cakes, patisserie and baked goods; cinnamon buns, lemon and poppyseed muffins, and savoury pasties of some kind. His blue eyes rove over everything displayed neatly behind fingerprint-smudge free glass. He’s too tired to try and name them all, but they make his mouth water just looking at them, let alone smelling them.
“Who dat, Mav?”
Tom twirls around at the sound of a child’s voice; eyes widening because he must be more tired than he thought, because it looks like there’s a toddler working the counter. A toddler with blond curls and wearing footsie pyjamas with penguins on. The young boy is sucking on his thumb and looking at Tom with big, brown eyes.
He looks around but there’s no one else in here. It’s early in the morning, and no one sane would risk this weather earlier than they had to (unless you were a grumpy homicide Detective running on fumes like Tom is), so there were no other customers in the bakery. But he could’ve sworn the child wasn’t there a moment ago.
Tom rubs his eyes just to make sure he’s not hallucinating, and startles when a head pops up from behind the counter. Dark hair sticking up in haphazard tufts, tanned skin, and the brightest green eyes Tom has ever seen; now staring back at him.
If Tom is hallucinating from hunger-induced insanity, then he’s picturing the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen.
“That’s a customer, Baby Bird,” the man whispers loudly; bussing a kiss to the toddler’s cheek and tickling his tummy as he stands. At full height he’s about 5ft 7; all compact muscle, chubby hamster cheeks and an impish air about him. He’s wearing a tight white t-shirt (and lord does he wear it well), and a pair of jeans; an apron wrapped around his waist. A smudge of flour streaks his cheek and Tom’s fingers itch with the urge to brush it away.
“Hello, Mr Customer,” the young boy mumbles around his thumb.
Tom clears his throat; always feeling awkward with children. His sister had no plans to have kids, and Ron makes a point of never sleeping with anyone without a condom—or as his dumbass of a Sergeant likes to say, ‘no love, no glove, Icey-baby!’. So he doesn’t exactly have much experience with kids.
The guy behind the counter seems to be a natural though. Hoisting the young boy onto his hip; holding him tight to his chest and booping him on the nose.
He quirks a brow as Tom just stares at him and he flushes; realising he hasn’t said anything, just stood there like an idiot. “Oh, uh, hi there…?” Tom looks at the boy in query for his name, and the boy just blushes and hides his face in the crook of the man’s neck.
“Sorry, Bradley’s a little shy,” he strokes a hand down the kid’s back; rubbing soothing circles as he noses at his downy soft curls. “Aren’t you, Sweetheart?” The kid—Bradley—shakes his head, and Tom just about makes out the words, “M’not.”
He bites back a smile; what seems like the first of the day. Cute kid.
“What can we get for you, hmm? You look like you could do with something to warm you up.”
“Yeah, it’s raining cats and dogs out there.”
There’s a small gasp and Bradley’s face appears again as he cranes his neck to look out the window. “Cats and dogs?!”
“No, baby,” the man chuckles and Tom winces; mouthing sorry at him. He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Just an expression. There’s no cats or dogs out there…well, there might be some strays, but they’re not falling from the clouds anyway. At least I hope not anyway.”
“Oh.” Bradley pouts and starts sucking his thumb again.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Kiddo. Now, can I get you a coffee? Tea?”
Tom nods. “Large black coffee please.” He peruses the menu on the high wall behind the man; written in all capital letters, neatly in white chalk. “And a Reuben sandwich if it’s not too much trouble?”
The man blinks in shock, but nods. “Not the usual request for breakfast, but sure, won’t be long.” He sets Bradley back on the counter; and starts making Tom’s coffee. The bakery is filled with the whirring and gurgles of the coffee machine, but to Tom, it still feels like he should fill the quiet.
“It’s not breakfast!” he blurts out; internally wincing, because normally he’s much more put together than this. The precinct calls him Iceman for a reason; cold and calculated, with the highest conviction rate in the state. And yet, he’s here in front of a kid that is staring at him like he’s something fascinating, and the hottest guy he’s ever fucking seen sort of looking at him the same way as he cocks his hip against the counter while the coffee pours into clean shot glasses. And he’s fucking blushing!
Thank fuck Ron isn’t here. He’d be laughing his ass off.
“What’s that?”
Tom swallows and pulls on the cuff of his shirt. “I’m working a double shift—have been since yesterday afternoon, so the sandwich—it’s not breakfast.”
“Ah. That makes sense then. You a cop?” he jerks his chin at Tom’s waist, and he looks down; his badge clipped to his belt.
“Detective.” The man hums; never takes his eyes off Bradley. He wants to ask if the kid is his, but he doesn’t even know this guy. He shouldn’t care. Finds himself sort of asking anyway. “He’s a bit young to be your co-worker, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” the man grins. “But this little menace couldn’t sleep,” he sets Tom’s coffee down on the counter and ruffles Bradley’s curls making him giggle, before pulling on gloves and grabbing the ingredients to start making his sandwich. “And as I was on the early shift, I figured I’d save his parents having to get up as well. We’re pretty quiet this time of the morning, so it’s pretty easy to keep an eye on him while dealing with anyone that happens to come in.”
“Right, yeah, that’s good of you.”
He finishes layering corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut and thousand island dressing in between two slices of rye bread and places it on a sandwich grill; pulling the lid down and setting the timer.
“His parents are like my family, and I love this munchkin, so it’s not exactly a chore.”
Tom gulps, because he’s heard women talk about the flutter in their bellies when they saw men acting all sweet with kids, and he’d never understood before. Not until right in that moment. He clearly needs his coffee more than he thought.
“Can I see your badge, Mr Customer?”
“What do you say, Bradley?” The man (and he really should get his name) admonishes gently.
“Pweeeese!” He pulls it off his belt and hands it to Bradley; tiny hands grab it reverently. “Thankooooo!” Holds the badge up to the light, watching the way the gold shines.
The timer for the grill goes off then and his sandwich is wrapped in white, greaseproof paper and then put in a paper bag. He places it on the counter with a smile. “Here you go, Detective.”
“Tom.”
“Detective Tom?”
Fuck, Tom wants to wipe that cheeky smirk off his pretty face something fierce. Wipe it off with his mouth. God, he needs to get it together; he’s too busy with work to even think about getting romantically involved with anyone.
“No,” he glares weakly and the man laughs. “Detective Kazansky. You gotta name?”
“Mmhmm. Sure do.” He winks. Holds out his hand. “That’ll be six bucks, please.”
Tom sighs and fishes out his wallet; hands over a ten dollar bill. Grabs his coffee and knocks back two large gulps. Burns his tongue slightly, but it’s worth it. It’s good coffee. “Keep the change—treat your cute assistant to something sweet.”
The man bites his lip and then smiles at him slowly. “That’s very kind of you, Detective.”
“Eh, I’m that sort of guy.” He’s really not. Ron’s often bemoaning how he never shares any food with him (completely ignoring the fact that Ron seems to have a bottomless pit for a stomach), and it’s not like he shares his life with anyone. The fact that he’s handing over money to buy a treat for a kid who is literally sitting in a bakery—
Maybe he should take that vacation time Sarah keeps harping on at him to take.
“Well, thank you. I’ll make sure he has something sweet a little later on.” He leans in and whispers conspiratorially behind his palm. “No one wants to deal with this one on sugar this early in the morning. Trust me.”
Tom chuffs out a laugh and nods. “Right. Well… thanks for the coffee and the sandwich.” He grabs the hot sandwich and starts to walk towards the door; the rain having finally stopped.
“Detective!”
He turns at the call. “Yeah?”
Closes his eyes with a sigh as he sees Bradley still holding his police badge. Fuck. Walks back over to the counter and carefully takes his badge back as Bradley hands it over to him; grinning around his thumb. “Thank you, Bradley.”
“S’okay.”
He turns and heads for the door again. Tucks his sandwich under the lapel of his suit jacket. Just as his hand curls around the handle of the door, the man calls out again.
“Oh, and Detective?”
He sniffs, but doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t open the door either.
“My name’s Mav.”
Tom groans and thunks his head against the front door, because some detective he was. Mav (and yeah, it suits him) cackles; Bradley’s high-pitched giggles joining in a second later. He yanks open the door, the bell jingling again, and leaves; making his way back to the precinct; the sight of Mav’s pretty face haunting his thoughts with every step.