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Of all the things to happen during this godforsaken stick up, Phillip's stomach had to growl loud enough for one of the ski-masked goons to turn his attention (and his gun) to his lane.
"You alright, bro?" the thief asked. The eye holes of his ski mask lifted as if in concern, and it felt strange that someone who'd charged in with three friends with pistols drawn would be concerned about the fact that he'd chosen to stop at the bank before going to his favorite diner during his lunch hour.
Phillip nodded, feeling a bit like a jack in the box left open too long. He was already pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to restrain the nervous titter that threatened to possibly get himself shot. That same nervousness made him want to explain: I was about to have my fucking lunch then you lot came in, only less bitter and without profanity.
Somewhere about two lines down, someone cleared their throat.
Phillip wanted to turn his head, to figure out who exactly was trying to give him a moment of reprieve or possibly get him murdered for the crime of not having gone to lunch right at 12:45 (no thanks to Mr. Louis St. James, who had insisted on showing Phillip blurry photos on his flip phone of his daughter's prize-winning Pomeranian). Going just from his peripheral view, he could see a man–blond, broad, and wearing a seersucker jacket–bashfully raising his hand.
"I think," said the man, in an accent thick enough to swim in, "that the gentleman might be feelin' peckish."
The thief's eyebrows rose once again under the cover of his ski mask. He had to be sweating bullets beneath that knit. "Huh?"
"He's hungry," Mr. Seersucker repeated.
"We're all hungry," grumbled Lucy. She was in the lane beside him, and her usual warm brown skin had gone ashen once the masked men had burst forward, even as one of them fumbled to pull his toboggan down over the rest of his face. That particular young man had an open parenthesis-type scar on his cheek, white against the starkness of his tan. He'd just nodded when the leader of their outfit (the one who'd overheard Phillip's stomach protesting) had demanded all the money.
Their leader once again glanced at Phillip. "You all have a vending machine or somethin' back there?"
This, of all things, was what broke him. Phillip's laugh came out high and shrill, and he knew that his coworkers and their few customers (including the Southerner in Seersucker) were probably convinced he had lost the plot. "We do," he said, and he gripped the counter a touch too tightly. "I–would it be all right if I went back…"
"Boss," called the scarred thief, "It is lunch time."
The thief sighed. "Alright. So, you…" He pointed at Seersucker, who pointed at himself in disbelief, "Can go with Benny Hill to go get somethin' somethin' for everyone out here."
Phillip blinked slowly.
"Oh!" said the thief, before thrusting a crisp stack of dollar bills from his bag to Seersucker, "Here ya go!"
Less than a minute later, Phillip and his nattily dressed accomplice were shoveling ones into the slot of the machine and pressing buttons. "This is hardly enough sustenance to last us 'til the authorities come," said Seersucker. He stared forlornly at a package of Lance peanut butter crackers.
"Hardly what I had in mind for lunch," Phillip muttered.
"What did you have in mind–what is your name, by the way, sir? I don't believe I've seen you at the front before. Just comin' outta an office."
The machine shuddered as two Snickers bars clattered into the tray below. "I'm one of the loan officers. Phillip Wagner."
"Phillip Wagner." His name sounded… magnificent in that voice. Mr. Seersucker held his hand out once Phillip stood and dropped the candy bars into the empty dollar bag that was currently housing their bounty. "It's nice to finally meet you, despite the circumstances. I'm Benoit Blanc."
A nervous laugh threatened to emerge again, this time due to Phillip being utterly charmed. "It's nice to meet you too, Blanc."
"What were you thinking of having for lunch?" Blanc asked. He leaned past Phillip to insert another dollar bill.
Phillip shrugged. One of the perks of living and working in Manhattan was access to unlimited varieties of food. But today…
"A diner omelette," he confessed. "Ham and cheddar, a little burnt 'round the edges. And French toast." It was both low-brow and indulgent, the opposite of the deli sandwiches that he usually ate for lunch. "The greasier, the better."
He and Blanc met eyes, and he felt a slight twinge in his chest. By God, the man's eyes were crystal blue; blue like the heart of an iceberg, but in a friendly way. Blanc clasped a firm, comforting hand to his shoulder and kept up the eye contact.
"When we get out of here," Blanc said, "I know the perfect diner where we could get that omelette."
"Are you–"
Phillip had intended to ask, Are you flirting with me? He was cut short by the sound of gunfire, a scream, and all the wind being knocked out of him when Blanc decided to tackle him to the greige carpet.
#
"We finally got to that diner two days later," Phillip said. "The impact left me with a sprained wrist."
Blanc sighed. "And you still looked handsome in that sling. Even if it still took two other dates to catch on to…"
Cassandra looked delighted. "Two more dates?"
Phillip groaned. "To be fair, I was still slightly traumatized from the break in."