#dadkat

He tossed the pizza box on top of six others in the stack on the shiny metal counter, the last of which he’d spent several minutes on, rendering an angry lit up firefly that really looked more like a moldy potato sitting on top of a Walmart logo. Growing out of each side were a stack of bumps one typically associated with an injured cartoon character’s head, because he’d had the brilliant idea to improve his take on the school mascot with some impressively muscled arms, and had succeeded in basically adding lumpy cancerous mutations instead. His potato definitely had less than six months to live. He’d labeled it FIREFLY in hopes that someone would think it purposely shitty and ironic. Too bad Dave wasn’t on the team.

He positioned the stack to obscure as much of the glare from the heat lamp on the counter as possible and then went back to what he’d been doing prior to the order – which was placed by “Egbert” and requested “cheerful motivational messages to the swim team from the cute nubby troll with the active mouth ;)” followed by font specifications and pie bribery – daydreaming about Heir and smearing swear words into the shiny countertop with his finger every time his fantasies were interrupted by the repetitive BING of the pizza oven and his coworker’s sneakers scuffing hurriedly across the floor to get it before the buffet restock pizzas burned. It was currently dead slow as the dinner rush hadn’t started.

The door dinged, and the familiar gait on the floor had Karkat rolling his eyes without looking up. “It’s a good thing I’m working, so I don’t have to sit in the bleachers and pretend to cheer for your pizza-filled fat asses flubbing through the water to the finish line. You’ll obviously still win, and that will be a very sad and symbolically American victory, John.”

“That’s why the pizza’s for after the meet, so they have time to flub the fat off during practice before the next one,” answered a smooth, amused baritone, and Karkat nearly fell off his stool in shock. He looked up into the grin of John’s father, very near the same height and stance as his son, and cursed himself for assuming he could tell his best friend apart from the whole planet by something as inexact as hearing footfalls. He recovered as near as he was able, which wasn’t very well at all as the wording of the request message filtered back into his mind and attempted unsuccessfully to mesh with his impression of Charles Egbert’s impression of HIM.

Well, maybe he’d been trying to sound like his son? John had inherited the prankster gambit from somewhere, after all. Or John was already at the meet and had gotten his dad to pick the pizzas up, which made much more sense and was somehow offensive to Karkat, after all the work he’d had to personally put into the pizza boxes. His friend should have placed the order in a more timely fashion and fetched them himself, dammit.

“Seriously?” He finally managed. “After he went to all the trouble of bribing me, John sent you to pick up his fu…dging motivational pizzas, Mr. Egbert?”

Mr. Egbert said nothing for a minute, face settling into a smile and arched eyebrow, until Karkat made the sudden connection between the request for writing in all-caps, which John would have known he’d do anyway, and Mr. Egbert’s special pride-boasting brown bag lunches. It took him way longer than it should have.

“You thought John magicked up the money to buy the whole team pizzas, simply because pie was promised in return?” Mr. Egbert finally commented, a bit of tooth sliding into his smile. “I can assure you that my banana cream pies are superior on merit of heightened experience and practice, Karkat; you’re getting a better deal from my giving it to you.”

Had…he actually heard that pause before ‘banana’ and ‘giving’, or was he simply reflecting back on a list of terrible baking pickup lines he’d found on tumblr? He probably definitely was.

Karkat could swear there were slightly more teeth in that smile than was warranted by a casual conversation as Mr. Egbert continued.

“And anyway, can’t I come by myself? Is that kind of thing just for kids nowadays?”

Karkat stared at the sharp crook of Mr. Egbert’s smile, feeling his brain buzz slightly at the phrasing. Did he just…could adults actually even ask something that blatant in public anyway? And wasn’t that the kind of innuendo that usually went over the heads of the older generation? He broke his gaze, faintly flustered, and saw that Mr. Egbert was pointing at the pizza boxes he’d written on. Of course. The man was clearly referring to the utilization of Karkat’s shitty job’s Box Personalization Request feature, and not…dammit, this was what he got for fantasizing about Heir fucking him over the counter at work. His brain was wallowing in the gutter. …Not that it would stop him in the future. His job was boring, sue him.

Before he could think up an eloquent response, however, Mr. Egbert asked, “What time will you get off tonight, Karkat?” And again, there it was, the imaginary pause, creating an innuendo that was almost definitely probably not there. He glanced up again, into a patient smile and eyes that twinkled just like John’s when his best friend made a stupid joke he was waiting for Karkat to acknowledge or had set up a prank he was trying not to give away before the pitfall. He couldn’t read whether or not there was even any intention in Mr. Egbert’s words at all or if the man was just twinkling over fooling Karkat into believing he was John, which had apparently (probably?) been on purpose.

“Uh, seven,” he blurted as he thought back to his schedule with difficulty.

“Hmm, you’re right, too late for the swim meet, though not for the party afterward, if you wanted,” Mr. Egbert said thoughtfully. And then he added in a slightly lower pitch, “You know, you don’t have to come alone, Karkat. I’m a much better ride.”

Karkat nearly choked. “WHAT?” Mr. Egbert’s eyes were innocuous, but the grin was back, and the curl at the edge of his lips promised things that Karkat probably couldn’t even fantasize about correctly. Where the hell was this even coming from? Like, yeah, Mr. Egbert’s ass framed well in an apron and dress pants, and he was a healthy troll that looked at attractive people, but he’d never put this level of thought into the man and this was such a very sudden possible interest in one of his concupiscent quadrants—

“My car. Leather seats with seat warmers. It is winter, after all. I’m not sure how insulated your car is, Karkat. Does it get you hot enough?”

It shouldn’t be possible for some man to so rapidly make Karkat feel this confused and possibly responsive to possibly-not-there vies of sexual overture.

“Um, ye—I don’t know? I don’t have any experience with…others for comparison, Mr. Egbert,” he tried for a vague innuendo of his own, to gauge the effect. It wasn’t a great one, he thought. He could have done better. Where the hell was his self-professed mastery of the English language at a time like this? He suddenly noticed the credit card sitting on the countertop and snatched it like a lifeline, busying himself with the printing of receipts.

But Mr. Egbert’s grin notched a degree wider when and only when he glanced up. “Well, I know that a hard-working young man like you in a stressful job like this can’t always precisely time when he gets off, so here’s my number—” He bent to scrawl on the back of the guest copy of the receipt as Karkat fought to wrap his head around the casual, innocent version of that sentence. He watched numbers appear on the paper in a slanted, elegant hand, as classy as Mr. Egbert’s tie and as sharp as the probably completely imagined predatory slant to his gaze. He squeezed the pen and Karkat’s eyes travelled up the creases of suit fabric pulled taut over a well-defined bicep. “—I can definitely pick you right up.”

God help him, Heir could have him over the counter but he was definitely imagining John’s dad picking him up and bracing him against a wall now, large hands gripping his ass and elbows knocking against his knees to encourage them to wrap around a solid, trim waist. His thighs moved together in an unconscious move against the reflexive twitch and swelling of blood in his groin, and he gripped the countertop.

Mr. Egbert picked up the stack of pizzas and turned for the door. “I’d best get these pies over to the boys, the meet’s probably half over. I assume you’ll be wanting your cream pie later tonight?” He tossed over his shoulder casually. It was good that he was looking, since all Karkat could manage was a nod and some dry breathing. Mr. Egbert smiled broadly again. “And Karkat…I’ve told you before. It’s Charles. You should definitely say my name tonight when you want me to come.” He winked and headed out the door.

Karkat shifted away from the lamp glaring once again on the silver countertop, as though that were the sole source of his overheated dizziness, and lifted a hand to his mouth, muffling the “fuuuuuuuuck” he audibly breathed against his palm as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to calm his heart after…whatever the fuck that probably WASN’T.

“Mmm, that is an idea,” Mr. Egbert’s deep voice filtered in. Karkat’s eyes saucered and shot to the crack in the door that revealed the two fingers holding it open and a flash of teeth in one last sharp grin, before it disappeared behind the dark tint of the shutting door.