Work Text:
Style hears the telltale clattering from behind the counter, the slamming of dishes and the crashing of cutlery as it's tossed aside.
He smirks, the noises exactly what he was hoping to hear after the handsome stranger slid into the seat opposite him in the diner booth.
Avoiding looking over at the counter, feigning innocence, Style leans back in his seat, exposing the long line of his throat as he tips his head back on a laugh, chortling at something inane the man says, despite not hearing a word of it.
This man isn't the one he's trying to attract. The man he wants is taking out his possessive anger on crockery in the kitchen.
It doesn't take long, barely a few minutes. Style counts down the seconds, tapping his finger on the side of his glass, wet with condensation as the ice begins to melt into his coca-cola.
Then a shadow falls over the table, sending his drink from brown to black, and he's there, asserting his dominance, staking his claim.
Turning his head slowly, Style leisurely drags his eyes up the length of Fadel's body, cataloguing each taut muscle, before they meet his wild gaze.
The vexation seeps off of Fadel in waves, not the gentle ripple of the seaside in summer, but the crashing surge of an angry tropical storm.
Style breathes a laugh through his nose, the smirk already painted across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Hello, darling,” Style drawls, biting his lower lip as Fadel grips the notepad he's holding just that bit harder.
“Darling?” the stranger questions. “I'm sorry, I didn't know,” he stammers desperately, raising his hands in useless placation.
Fadel turns his menacing stare on him, “well, now you do,” he growls through gritted teeth.
The man jumps up from his seat, quickly leaving the restaurant before he can even get a taste of what it is they have to offer.
Style clicks his tongue a little, “now, now, you won't make any profit if you spend your time chasing off customers,” he scolds satirically.
“You're enjoying this, aren't you?” Fadel asks, exasperated indignation in his tone.
The smirk on Style's face turns to a grin, “just a little,” he replies, holding up his thumb and forefinger, keeping them ever so slightly parted. “Well, maybe a little more than that,” he adds, widening the gap along with his smile.