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KHR Rarepair Week, June 16 - Restaurant/Bar AU
"Give me whatever will make up for this unbearable heat," says the mysteriously gendered individual grumping about at Reborn's bar, and who is almost certainly doing something illegal this fine summer day.
That's fine. Reborn wouldn't be in the business very long if he fussed over the occasional illegality. Who is he to judge, when he's currently running a little bit of necromancy behind the scenes? People don't care so long as the floors and tables stay clean behind the scenes, and the dead don't care so long as he allows them to watch The Great British Bake Off and all its reruns on their breaks.
Of course, that's only for behind the scenes things. For the actual cooking and serving of food, best to keep that to people who won't set off an OSHA violation. That means he's the one who dumps frozen cubes of watermelon, some gin, some tonic water, and a little bit of lemon juice into a blender. They go together so smoothly, it's like they were meant to be. "Never seen you around before," Reborn comments lightly, because people often expect a bit of light chatter with their meals and drink. He impales a watermelon wedge along the lip of the glass, once the drink has been poured in. "Here on business?"
And it's likely that it's business, quite frankly, because he'd seen them rather cleverly leave something for a completely different party outside at an outside table to one of his local competitors. It'd been very casual, an exchange of two identical cases that no one would have seen if they weren't paying particular attention.
A part of him wonders why his latest patron didn't stay over there to dine instead. Maybe it was the outdoor seating, which Reborn doesn't do... not on the first floor, anyway. There's just the faintest trace of sea salt air that filters in from the stairs leading upwards. Otherwise, it's nice and cool, which is the bonus of not having something set out right there in the sweltering heat. The other place doesn't even have any cover.
He gives the watermelon gin and tonic over to his customer, who takes it without much fuss. "Boring business that wasn't worth coming here for," they mutter, and their plush lips twist in a pout. They're a unique little individual, although not the strangest that Reborn has ever seen while living in this city. Just very small, with purple marks curving down their cheeks in the form of upside down triangles. They're also all dressed in black, which is a fashion choice that Reborn can respect with his own massive wardrobe full of suits. "If this drink can make up for it even the slightest, then I'll be relieved."
"It will," Reborn says, simply and full of confidence.
His customer pauses at that, and he can't see their eyes from underneath the hood they have pulled up. "It's just a drink," they say, the glass raised partially up to their mouth already. "Don't get full of yourself."
Not a lot of people would get annoyed at a display of confidence, but they certainly exist in the world. Reborn isn't concerned, just amused. "If you can drink it and say otherwise, then it's on the house." Which probably isn't going to help the impression they have of him. Unfortunately for everyone else in the world, Reborn has never cared about their opinions, and doesn't care now.
There's a small twitch in their cheek, or just above it, that gives away the fact they're rolling their eyes, and then they go back to their drink. There's a pause as they let it melt on their tongue, chill no doubt biting at their teeth in severe contrast to how hot it is outside.
Reborn doesn't get a chance to see their full reaction, because that's when another couple of customers come in, and he has to pay attention there as he takes orders and drinks alike. By the time he glances back, his mysterious little customer has disappeared completely, and not so much as even left a tip. Not that it's needed in this country, he supposes.
Besides, their completely drained glasses says it all, with even the rind of the watermelon left behind in its bottom.
The next time his mystery guest arrives, it is still summer, and Reborn has gotten the skeletons in the back on a pretty good rotation. One skeleton is on mixing duty for one kind of bowl, where it mixes together flour, baking soda, cream of tartar, and salt. Another skeleton has the electric stand mixer for granulated sugar and brown sugar, plus eventually egg and vanilla, and the other mixtures. A fourth is finally the one behind making the balls of dough, rolling them in cinnamon, and getting them into the oven after a short while of chilling.
As a result, his restaurant smells positively decadent, although his guest has to pause when they step in. "Are those snickerdoodles?" they ask incredulously at the small case along the counter, plus a variety of bags that are for easy grab-and-gos.
"They are," Reborn says mildly, and looks over them. It's been a month since they first showed up. "So I take it you liked the gin and tonic I prepared last time."
A furious little blush spreads across tattoo'd cheeks. "Since when does a bar serve snickerdoodles?" they ask instead of answering his question.
Well, an answer can be given in more than words, and Reborn feels quite smug in what he's picking up from them. "This is a restaurant as much as a bar," is what he says in return. "Besides, it's for a good cause."
"What's the good cause?"
"Making me money." That actually earns a small snort of laughter, something that doesn't fit such a petite frame, and his mystery patron hops onto a bar stool. Well, it looks like he's ensnared a captive audience now. "And it's giving my nephew a summer job." Because, sure, that's what he'll call Tsuna. There's absolutely no blood relation, but Reborn likes to think he does a lot more for the kid than the actual father does, even if it means occasionally working him to the bone.
Besides, werewolves need a reliable outlet for all that energy they have in them. That Tsuna used to be so lethargic was never a good sign, and he's more than glad to send him running all over the city selling whatever cookies Reborn can't shove into the display case or a bar counter basket.
His mystery customer reaches over to pluck one of the little baggies up with the very tips of their fingers, observing it. "Do cookies actually go with booze or is this just a ploy to get people's money the easy way, by talking about some nephew that may or may not be real?" they ask, which is quite the conman's thinking, he has to admit.
Without even looking, Reborn plucks a bottle from the bar display behind him and sets it on the counter. He can afford to do a little bit of chatter today. Dino may not be here to help him with the customers, but he has others. Those no one even realizes are dead, as a matter of fact, although he thinks that skeletons do a perfectly good job on their own and are perfectly hygienic, unlike zombies. Only ghosts could be better. "I recommend a bourbon," he says. "Spice with spice."
He wouldn't say he's eager, just doing business. Still, who is he to correct some random person's misconceptions about the world? He gets a Glencairn glass for the bourbon, because he's not a god damn animal here. "I never got your name the last time you dropped in," he says, exactly as he drops in some nice, solid chunks of ice into the glass.
There's a moment of silence where he suspects he's being judged through narrowed eyes. Or maybe evaluated, which is fine. It's not as though he doesn't wait for the long dead ghosts of bugs to buzz in every morning, informing him of what's going on in his city. "Mammon," they say at last.
Ah. So they're the kind of person who is courting some sort of curse or haunting, taking on the name of a demon like that. Or perhaps the demon in question would view it as a compliment, for someone to want something so much that they would take on the name of greed personified. "Call me Reborn," he say simply in returning while he stews over this interesting little fact about them. With that, he slides over the glass of bourbon. This time, he makes sure not to tear his eyes away from them as they snap a bit of snickerdoodle off and follow up the bite with a shot of bourbon.
His reward - which is really just for his own smug satisfaction and nothing else - is to listen to the deep and content sigh that filters out of them, before they stop and their mouth turns into that little pouty frown again. "...This is appealing to the hardcore grandma crowd, I see."
"I'm glad it is perfectly to your taste, then," Reborn comments mildly, and ducks away to the sound of their cursing. When he checks in again, they're gone once more, and so is the bag of cookies. There is still no tip.
Business gets a little bit slow after that, and a legion of ghostly fireflies, wings noiseless in their vibrations, inform him that it's because of the sudden success of some other restaurant all the way on the other side of town. That seems a little bit suspicious, and reeks of magic, quite honestly, but he can't find any evidence of it. There's no curse that seems to have its grip around his restaurant, and no object that he can find anywhere, even when he sends off little resurrected rodents to get into the tiniest of spaces.
Well, it's infuriating, but Reborn can't be done in by something like that so easily. Instead, he just continues on as usual, and perfects new recipes with all the new downtime he's gotten. He has plenty of money to keep him going by for now, and regulars who still come even despite whatever weirdness is happening. So with plenty of money, and some patience, he's certain he'll get to the bottom of it eventually.
Yet Mammon is certainly not a regular of his, so it's a little interesting they show up just as the summer heat is fading away with autumn's chill nipping at its ankles. They show up in a very Mammon-fashion, or at least what he's come to assume is their fashion, stomping inside during an otherwise empty night and fuming.
Reborn notices them, because of course he does, but he doesn't even look up from where he's chopping a variety of vegetables - carrots, yellow onions, red bell peppers, fresh ginger. "You look like shit," he comments, casually.
"Shut up and give me what you're eating," Mammon grouches.
What he's eating is actually going to be his dinner for the night, but that's fine. They'll pay him in the end anyway. "With that kind of attitude, wouldn't a better name for you be Beezlebub?" he asks, heating up the canola oil in his stovetop behind the counter.
A snort pops out of them, and he's pretty sure Mammon is rolling their eyes at him again. "All of the deadly sins can intermingle with each other, for starters," they say as Reborn places carrots, onions, garlic, and the ginger into the pan of hot oil. "It all goes down to 'self' and 'things', and whatever any religion has decided is in fact a terrible thing to indulge in without any consideration for what else is happening."
"Probably," Reborn says. "Fortunately for you, I'm not particularly religious either way." Or else he probably never would have served someone with a demon's name.
"You know a lot about demons for someone who isn't religious. Get into summoning then, did you?"
"No, I'm just Italian," Reborn quips, adding the broccoli and bell pepper to the pan next. Mammon lets out a sharp bark of laughter, not holding themself back so much this time. "At any rate, at least it looks like your mood is improving if you can start complaining about the philosophy of the seven deadly sins. Another business deal of yours go wrong?"
There's another twist of their lips, a scowl whose full effect is hidden by shadow. "Don't say it like that. I do plenty of work that goes perfectly, because I'm a professional." Of what, they don't explain. "But there are a lot of people in the world who never understand the true value of something or someone, and I have to deal with seeing that kind of nonsense. It's infuriating, you know. Especially when it impacts my pay. Who do these people think they are?"
"I've never met them, so I couldn't say," Reborn snorts as he sautes his - well, their food. "I don't know what you expect me to say here, exactly."
"Agree with me, mindlessly," they deadpan, and this time it's his turn to suddenly let loose a laugh at the simple and greedy honesty of it. It's kind of embarrassing, honestly. Normally, he doesn't let himself laugh so easily. It's not good for the image he wants people to have of him - intimidating and confusing and mysterious, but especially confusing. He catches himself quick enough, but it's too late. Mammon's lips are parted a little bit in surprise, only to quickly curve into a pleased smirk.
They don't say anything. They really don't need to. Reborn goes back to cooking, pushing all of the vegetables to one side so that he can crack an egg into the pan for a quick scramble. If he doesn't acknowledge it, it never happened.
Hopefully Mammon doesn't blackmail him with it. He'd kill them in the back rooms and use their skeleton as - well, they'd probably be too short to reach the counter, but he could find some sort of use. "So are you actually staying in this city, or just constantly passing through?" he asks, glancing over to make sure that the thermostat is still working and keeping the rest of the restaurant warm. It's a little hard for him to tell when he's right over a stove.
For the time being, Mammon goes along with the subject change. "Staying, for now," they say, watching as he pours in the next batch of ingredients - brown rice, peas, corn, soy sauce, and sesame oil. "It's where my current employer is located, and who am I to deny this kind of opportunity? He has quite a temper, and his secretary is going to blow everyone's ear drums out, but I just stay out of it, for the most part. They might be fucking, or they might be exes - I couldn't tell you."
What a nightmare. Not for the first time, Reborn is glad that he's his own boss, and only occasionally works alongside a bigger company. Even then, it's just because the current owner is the son of an old friend.
"Here's to not being screamed at," he says, pouring a batch of the fried rice down onto a plate for them. The rest, obviously, is for him. As the two of them settle down to eat, separated only by a counter, they each take a deep breath of the comforting smell. With how cold the outdoors are now, there is little else that is so comforting as a nice hot meal fresh from the stove.
Mammon does no prayer or ritual before eating, and neither does he. Instead, they both just pick up their forks and dig in.
It's good. Of course it is. Reborn's food is always good, even for something as simple as a little fried rice. It's something he takes satisfaction in, sitting there and letting the taste settle down into his tongue. Yet somehow, he feels especially pleased as he watches Mammon, who tucks their food inside their mouth and gives out that small breath of satisfaction. The breath that has to be made, a vocalization of just how good some hot and delicious the food is.
He's expecting them to do the same thing they've done each time their last two visits, which is refuse to give a compliment and then vanish the second he turns his head. They're very good at it. Instead, Mammon chews for a moment, and they seem to survey him from across the counter. "Your restaurant should do better," they say, and it does not seem like an observation. It certainly doesn't seem like advice. Instead, it almost seems... like an order.
"I'm running it, so it will," Reborn says, to put that matter to rest.
For once, his arrogance seems to satisfy rather than aggravate Mammon. They hum, and stuff another forkful of fried rice into their mouth. Not long after that, and a small bustle of just-intoxicated-enough young women stumble in through the front door, and greet him with loud enthusiasm. Reborn has them seated, and gets their drinks, and goes back behind the counter to cook.
By the time he's gotten there, Mammon is gone again. Still no tip.
What is there after Mammon goes is a sudden surge of customers again, like a dam that's been broken and left to overflow. It's such a rush that he drags Tsuna back in again for working mornings, and then recruits Dino for the night shifts. It might be a little much for just two people, but Reborn prides himself on being able to do anything... and anyway, Romario is there too, because he never really leaves Dino alone.
That's a good thing, because that gives Reborn time to think.
At the time, he had thought nothing of Mammon's annoyance at him, and the sudden way his business had slowed down. Why would he? Correlation does not imply causation. Sometimes, things just happen around each other, because that's the way life works, full of coincidences as it is. It's why "luck" is one of the most fickle and mysterious magics in the universe.
But once is coincidence. Twice, Reborn knows from experience, can be the beginning of a pattern.
Reborn adjusts his menu - makes it so that his skeletons are doing a bit more work in the back, has more zombies go off to get necessary supplies, doesn't do quite as much cooking although he still does a fair bit. He's not serving anything less than perfection at his restaurant, after all. It's just that he's also sending out ghosts to do a little bit of recon around the city.
What he said to Mammon was true: he mostly knows about demons because of his upbringing, where one couldn't breathe somewhere without being watched by the Virgin Mary or a saint or the good Lord himself. He amends that with the research he does, and the things he tells his spirits to watch out for.
It's nothing too deep; he has no interest in that sort of thing himself. As far as Reborn is concerned, he doesn't need demonic help. He's good enough on his own, along with some undead subordinates (and nephews to bully). But he is interested in those who do have an interest, and what exactly it is that they've been up to while Reborn has been focused on living a completely peaceful and totally normal life running a restaurant.
The answer he gets is, in the end, surprisingly not surprising. Still, he holds it close to his chest, up until one night during a busy run where Dino and Romario are being run ragged, and a certain small dark shape steps through the crowded little building. Reborn spots them the second they step through the door. Just for them, he pulls a stool out from behind the bar, and gives them a little corner space right at the very end. That has them pause, considering the action for just a moment, before they greedily take the free thing they're offered, just like Reborn knew they would.
Reborn doesn't wait for their order before he starts adding some things to a martini shaker - ice, a few raspberries, a lemon peel, vodka, and some good old St. Germain. His shaking is good and vigorous not only because that's what's necessary, but because it feels good to move before dropping his little bomb. "So, judging by how much more relaxed you are this nice winter night, I'm going to assume your work with the Varia has been going better," Reborn says casually, and quietly.
Still making themself comfortable on the bar stool, Mammon pauses. For the first time, they reach up and daintily hook a finger along their hood. They don't remove it. Of course they don't. But they finally tug it just enough for some light to reflect off the snake-like and brilliant silver of one eye.
They smile.
"Well, I always told you I was Mammon."
"So you did," Reborn agrees amicably enough, pouring the mix and topping it with some sparkling wine. Something pleasant to go with the frozen raspberry he adds in. "At any rate, you're free to keep coming all you like. I know how good my drinks and food are, after all."
"That sort of talk is why people's greed started taking them other places, you know."
"And yet here they are again."
Here they are again indeed.
That's fine. Reborn wouldn't be in the business very long if he fussed over the occasional illegality. Who is he to judge, when he's currently running a little bit of necromancy behind the scenes? People don't care so long as the floors and tables stay clean behind the scenes, and the dead don't care so long as he allows them to watch The Great British Bake Off and all its reruns on their breaks.
Of course, that's only for behind the scenes things. For the actual cooking and serving of food, best to keep that to people who won't set off an OSHA violation. That means he's the one who dumps frozen cubes of watermelon, some gin, some tonic water, and a little bit of lemon juice into a blender. They go together so smoothly, it's like they were meant to be. "Never seen you around before," Reborn comments lightly, because people often expect a bit of light chatter with their meals and drink. He impales a watermelon wedge along the lip of the glass, once the drink has been poured in. "Here on business?"
And it's likely that it's business, quite frankly, because he'd seen them rather cleverly leave something for a completely different party outside at an outside table to one of his local competitors. It'd been very casual, an exchange of two identical cases that no one would have seen if they weren't paying particular attention.
A part of him wonders why his latest patron didn't stay over there to dine instead. Maybe it was the outdoor seating, which Reborn doesn't do... not on the first floor, anyway. There's just the faintest trace of sea salt air that filters in from the stairs leading upwards. Otherwise, it's nice and cool, which is the bonus of not having something set out right there in the sweltering heat. The other place doesn't even have any cover.
He gives the watermelon gin and tonic over to his customer, who takes it without much fuss. "Boring business that wasn't worth coming here for," they mutter, and their plush lips twist in a pout. They're a unique little individual, although not the strangest that Reborn has ever seen while living in this city. Just very small, with purple marks curving down their cheeks in the form of upside down triangles. They're also all dressed in black, which is a fashion choice that Reborn can respect with his own massive wardrobe full of suits. "If this drink can make up for it even the slightest, then I'll be relieved."
"It will," Reborn says, simply and full of confidence.
His customer pauses at that, and he can't see their eyes from underneath the hood they have pulled up. "It's just a drink," they say, the glass raised partially up to their mouth already. "Don't get full of yourself."
Not a lot of people would get annoyed at a display of confidence, but they certainly exist in the world. Reborn isn't concerned, just amused. "If you can drink it and say otherwise, then it's on the house." Which probably isn't going to help the impression they have of him. Unfortunately for everyone else in the world, Reborn has never cared about their opinions, and doesn't care now.
There's a small twitch in their cheek, or just above it, that gives away the fact they're rolling their eyes, and then they go back to their drink. There's a pause as they let it melt on their tongue, chill no doubt biting at their teeth in severe contrast to how hot it is outside.
Reborn doesn't get a chance to see their full reaction, because that's when another couple of customers come in, and he has to pay attention there as he takes orders and drinks alike. By the time he glances back, his mysterious little customer has disappeared completely, and not so much as even left a tip. Not that it's needed in this country, he supposes.
Besides, their completely drained glasses says it all, with even the rind of the watermelon left behind in its bottom.
The next time his mystery guest arrives, it is still summer, and Reborn has gotten the skeletons in the back on a pretty good rotation. One skeleton is on mixing duty for one kind of bowl, where it mixes together flour, baking soda, cream of tartar, and salt. Another skeleton has the electric stand mixer for granulated sugar and brown sugar, plus eventually egg and vanilla, and the other mixtures. A fourth is finally the one behind making the balls of dough, rolling them in cinnamon, and getting them into the oven after a short while of chilling.
As a result, his restaurant smells positively decadent, although his guest has to pause when they step in. "Are those snickerdoodles?" they ask incredulously at the small case along the counter, plus a variety of bags that are for easy grab-and-gos.
"They are," Reborn says mildly, and looks over them. It's been a month since they first showed up. "So I take it you liked the gin and tonic I prepared last time."
A furious little blush spreads across tattoo'd cheeks. "Since when does a bar serve snickerdoodles?" they ask instead of answering his question.
Well, an answer can be given in more than words, and Reborn feels quite smug in what he's picking up from them. "This is a restaurant as much as a bar," is what he says in return. "Besides, it's for a good cause."
"What's the good cause?"
"Making me money." That actually earns a small snort of laughter, something that doesn't fit such a petite frame, and his mystery patron hops onto a bar stool. Well, it looks like he's ensnared a captive audience now. "And it's giving my nephew a summer job." Because, sure, that's what he'll call Tsuna. There's absolutely no blood relation, but Reborn likes to think he does a lot more for the kid than the actual father does, even if it means occasionally working him to the bone.
Besides, werewolves need a reliable outlet for all that energy they have in them. That Tsuna used to be so lethargic was never a good sign, and he's more than glad to send him running all over the city selling whatever cookies Reborn can't shove into the display case or a bar counter basket.
His mystery customer reaches over to pluck one of the little baggies up with the very tips of their fingers, observing it. "Do cookies actually go with booze or is this just a ploy to get people's money the easy way, by talking about some nephew that may or may not be real?" they ask, which is quite the conman's thinking, he has to admit.
Without even looking, Reborn plucks a bottle from the bar display behind him and sets it on the counter. He can afford to do a little bit of chatter today. Dino may not be here to help him with the customers, but he has others. Those no one even realizes are dead, as a matter of fact, although he thinks that skeletons do a perfectly good job on their own and are perfectly hygienic, unlike zombies. Only ghosts could be better. "I recommend a bourbon," he says. "Spice with spice."
He wouldn't say he's eager, just doing business. Still, who is he to correct some random person's misconceptions about the world? He gets a Glencairn glass for the bourbon, because he's not a god damn animal here. "I never got your name the last time you dropped in," he says, exactly as he drops in some nice, solid chunks of ice into the glass.
There's a moment of silence where he suspects he's being judged through narrowed eyes. Or maybe evaluated, which is fine. It's not as though he doesn't wait for the long dead ghosts of bugs to buzz in every morning, informing him of what's going on in his city. "Mammon," they say at last.
Ah. So they're the kind of person who is courting some sort of curse or haunting, taking on the name of a demon like that. Or perhaps the demon in question would view it as a compliment, for someone to want something so much that they would take on the name of greed personified. "Call me Reborn," he say simply in returning while he stews over this interesting little fact about them. With that, he slides over the glass of bourbon. This time, he makes sure not to tear his eyes away from them as they snap a bit of snickerdoodle off and follow up the bite with a shot of bourbon.
His reward - which is really just for his own smug satisfaction and nothing else - is to listen to the deep and content sigh that filters out of them, before they stop and their mouth turns into that little pouty frown again. "...This is appealing to the hardcore grandma crowd, I see."
"I'm glad it is perfectly to your taste, then," Reborn comments mildly, and ducks away to the sound of their cursing. When he checks in again, they're gone once more, and so is the bag of cookies. There is still no tip.
Business gets a little bit slow after that, and a legion of ghostly fireflies, wings noiseless in their vibrations, inform him that it's because of the sudden success of some other restaurant all the way on the other side of town. That seems a little bit suspicious, and reeks of magic, quite honestly, but he can't find any evidence of it. There's no curse that seems to have its grip around his restaurant, and no object that he can find anywhere, even when he sends off little resurrected rodents to get into the tiniest of spaces.
Well, it's infuriating, but Reborn can't be done in by something like that so easily. Instead, he just continues on as usual, and perfects new recipes with all the new downtime he's gotten. He has plenty of money to keep him going by for now, and regulars who still come even despite whatever weirdness is happening. So with plenty of money, and some patience, he's certain he'll get to the bottom of it eventually.
Yet Mammon is certainly not a regular of his, so it's a little interesting they show up just as the summer heat is fading away with autumn's chill nipping at its ankles. They show up in a very Mammon-fashion, or at least what he's come to assume is their fashion, stomping inside during an otherwise empty night and fuming.
Reborn notices them, because of course he does, but he doesn't even look up from where he's chopping a variety of vegetables - carrots, yellow onions, red bell peppers, fresh ginger. "You look like shit," he comments, casually.
"Shut up and give me what you're eating," Mammon grouches.
What he's eating is actually going to be his dinner for the night, but that's fine. They'll pay him in the end anyway. "With that kind of attitude, wouldn't a better name for you be Beezlebub?" he asks, heating up the canola oil in his stovetop behind the counter.
A snort pops out of them, and he's pretty sure Mammon is rolling their eyes at him again. "All of the deadly sins can intermingle with each other, for starters," they say as Reborn places carrots, onions, garlic, and the ginger into the pan of hot oil. "It all goes down to 'self' and 'things', and whatever any religion has decided is in fact a terrible thing to indulge in without any consideration for what else is happening."
"Probably," Reborn says. "Fortunately for you, I'm not particularly religious either way." Or else he probably never would have served someone with a demon's name.
"You know a lot about demons for someone who isn't religious. Get into summoning then, did you?"
"No, I'm just Italian," Reborn quips, adding the broccoli and bell pepper to the pan next. Mammon lets out a sharp bark of laughter, not holding themself back so much this time. "At any rate, at least it looks like your mood is improving if you can start complaining about the philosophy of the seven deadly sins. Another business deal of yours go wrong?"
There's another twist of their lips, a scowl whose full effect is hidden by shadow. "Don't say it like that. I do plenty of work that goes perfectly, because I'm a professional." Of what, they don't explain. "But there are a lot of people in the world who never understand the true value of something or someone, and I have to deal with seeing that kind of nonsense. It's infuriating, you know. Especially when it impacts my pay. Who do these people think they are?"
"I've never met them, so I couldn't say," Reborn snorts as he sautes his - well, their food. "I don't know what you expect me to say here, exactly."
"Agree with me, mindlessly," they deadpan, and this time it's his turn to suddenly let loose a laugh at the simple and greedy honesty of it. It's kind of embarrassing, honestly. Normally, he doesn't let himself laugh so easily. It's not good for the image he wants people to have of him - intimidating and confusing and mysterious, but especially confusing. He catches himself quick enough, but it's too late. Mammon's lips are parted a little bit in surprise, only to quickly curve into a pleased smirk.
They don't say anything. They really don't need to. Reborn goes back to cooking, pushing all of the vegetables to one side so that he can crack an egg into the pan for a quick scramble. If he doesn't acknowledge it, it never happened.
Hopefully Mammon doesn't blackmail him with it. He'd kill them in the back rooms and use their skeleton as - well, they'd probably be too short to reach the counter, but he could find some sort of use. "So are you actually staying in this city, or just constantly passing through?" he asks, glancing over to make sure that the thermostat is still working and keeping the rest of the restaurant warm. It's a little hard for him to tell when he's right over a stove.
For the time being, Mammon goes along with the subject change. "Staying, for now," they say, watching as he pours in the next batch of ingredients - brown rice, peas, corn, soy sauce, and sesame oil. "It's where my current employer is located, and who am I to deny this kind of opportunity? He has quite a temper, and his secretary is going to blow everyone's ear drums out, but I just stay out of it, for the most part. They might be fucking, or they might be exes - I couldn't tell you."
What a nightmare. Not for the first time, Reborn is glad that he's his own boss, and only occasionally works alongside a bigger company. Even then, it's just because the current owner is the son of an old friend.
"Here's to not being screamed at," he says, pouring a batch of the fried rice down onto a plate for them. The rest, obviously, is for him. As the two of them settle down to eat, separated only by a counter, they each take a deep breath of the comforting smell. With how cold the outdoors are now, there is little else that is so comforting as a nice hot meal fresh from the stove.
Mammon does no prayer or ritual before eating, and neither does he. Instead, they both just pick up their forks and dig in.
It's good. Of course it is. Reborn's food is always good, even for something as simple as a little fried rice. It's something he takes satisfaction in, sitting there and letting the taste settle down into his tongue. Yet somehow, he feels especially pleased as he watches Mammon, who tucks their food inside their mouth and gives out that small breath of satisfaction. The breath that has to be made, a vocalization of just how good some hot and delicious the food is.
He's expecting them to do the same thing they've done each time their last two visits, which is refuse to give a compliment and then vanish the second he turns his head. They're very good at it. Instead, Mammon chews for a moment, and they seem to survey him from across the counter. "Your restaurant should do better," they say, and it does not seem like an observation. It certainly doesn't seem like advice. Instead, it almost seems... like an order.
"I'm running it, so it will," Reborn says, to put that matter to rest.
For once, his arrogance seems to satisfy rather than aggravate Mammon. They hum, and stuff another forkful of fried rice into their mouth. Not long after that, and a small bustle of just-intoxicated-enough young women stumble in through the front door, and greet him with loud enthusiasm. Reborn has them seated, and gets their drinks, and goes back behind the counter to cook.
By the time he's gotten there, Mammon is gone again. Still no tip.
What is there after Mammon goes is a sudden surge of customers again, like a dam that's been broken and left to overflow. It's such a rush that he drags Tsuna back in again for working mornings, and then recruits Dino for the night shifts. It might be a little much for just two people, but Reborn prides himself on being able to do anything... and anyway, Romario is there too, because he never really leaves Dino alone.
That's a good thing, because that gives Reborn time to think.
At the time, he had thought nothing of Mammon's annoyance at him, and the sudden way his business had slowed down. Why would he? Correlation does not imply causation. Sometimes, things just happen around each other, because that's the way life works, full of coincidences as it is. It's why "luck" is one of the most fickle and mysterious magics in the universe.
But once is coincidence. Twice, Reborn knows from experience, can be the beginning of a pattern.
Reborn adjusts his menu - makes it so that his skeletons are doing a bit more work in the back, has more zombies go off to get necessary supplies, doesn't do quite as much cooking although he still does a fair bit. He's not serving anything less than perfection at his restaurant, after all. It's just that he's also sending out ghosts to do a little bit of recon around the city.
What he said to Mammon was true: he mostly knows about demons because of his upbringing, where one couldn't breathe somewhere without being watched by the Virgin Mary or a saint or the good Lord himself. He amends that with the research he does, and the things he tells his spirits to watch out for.
It's nothing too deep; he has no interest in that sort of thing himself. As far as Reborn is concerned, he doesn't need demonic help. He's good enough on his own, along with some undead subordinates (and nephews to bully). But he is interested in those who do have an interest, and what exactly it is that they've been up to while Reborn has been focused on living a completely peaceful and totally normal life running a restaurant.
The answer he gets is, in the end, surprisingly not surprising. Still, he holds it close to his chest, up until one night during a busy run where Dino and Romario are being run ragged, and a certain small dark shape steps through the crowded little building. Reborn spots them the second they step through the door. Just for them, he pulls a stool out from behind the bar, and gives them a little corner space right at the very end. That has them pause, considering the action for just a moment, before they greedily take the free thing they're offered, just like Reborn knew they would.
Reborn doesn't wait for their order before he starts adding some things to a martini shaker - ice, a few raspberries, a lemon peel, vodka, and some good old St. Germain. His shaking is good and vigorous not only because that's what's necessary, but because it feels good to move before dropping his little bomb. "So, judging by how much more relaxed you are this nice winter night, I'm going to assume your work with the Varia has been going better," Reborn says casually, and quietly.
Still making themself comfortable on the bar stool, Mammon pauses. For the first time, they reach up and daintily hook a finger along their hood. They don't remove it. Of course they don't. But they finally tug it just enough for some light to reflect off the snake-like and brilliant silver of one eye.
They smile.
"Well, I always told you I was Mammon."
"So you did," Reborn agrees amicably enough, pouring the mix and topping it with some sparkling wine. Something pleasant to go with the frozen raspberry he adds in. "At any rate, you're free to keep coming all you like. I know how good my drinks and food are, after all."
"That sort of talk is why people's greed started taking them other places, you know."
"And yet here they are again."
Here they are again indeed.