Work Text:
The kid had been over less lately, Mr. Delmar noted one late afternoon.
Usually he’d com get his number five at least once a day, but recently he’d only swing by once a week. And the last visit was two weeks ago. Not that he missed the little rascal, not really. And his business would do well even without the kid’s patronage. (It was only one sandwich while Mr. Davidson, for example, got ten whole club sandwiches every day for him and his co-workers. Construction sure is a tough business.)
But he can’t help that the kid’s grown onto him during the years. He used to come to his shop since he was no taller than a fire extinguisher, toddling after his Aunt and Uncle. He knows the Parkers well (he knows everyone in this neighborhood well), they’re good people, and he always enjoys the little banter he has with the kid. He’s sharp as a whip, and Mr. Delmar’s pretty sure that he’ll go places someday. But what Mr. Delmar likes best is that he’s not arrogant with it at all. Instead he’s one of the most genuine, polite kids he knows, despite the occasional smartass comment. But lately, with Ben and all, the kid's brightness has dimmed a little, the quips dwindled to nothing. Even then, the kid still tries, and that's something Mr. Delmar can respect.
Okay, okay, so what if he misses the little rascal. Sue him that the kid’s so likeable.
The shop’s doorbell clinks.
Mr. Delmar shakes himself out of his fugue, only to be greeted by the very same person he had been thinking about.
Peter is talking to someone behind him as he enters the shop. Mr. Delmar catches the tail end of his characteristic prattling and hides his smirk in his beard.
“…the best sandwiches in Queens!” the brat exclaims.
“Really? I can’t wait, then.” The speaker entering the shop after Peter has an indulging tone, like he doesn’t quite believe the kid, and Mr. Delmar’s eyes narrow. He knows the kid has a tendency to exaggerate things, but everyone in Queens knows that “Delmar’s” is the place to go for a proper sandwich.
Mr. Delmar runs a quick evaluation on him, nodding absently at Peter as he goes to greet Murph.
The newcomer is wearing a casual outfit of jeans and a T-shirt with a cat on it (which improves Mr. Delmar’s opinion a bit, but not much) and a pair of sunglasses. It’s clear that he’s trying to seem inconspicuous, but Mr. Delmar knows a businessman when he sees one. This one has tried hard to hide it, but Mr. Delmar can still see the tensed shoulders, the self-assured posture that speak of someone who’s often assaulted by paparazzi in public. And the sunglasses. Really.
Mr. Delmar harrumphs and calls out to the kid, “Number five, right? What about that capullo?”
The rich guy cuts in before Peter has the chance. “I’ll have the Italian BLT, if you don’t mind, amigo.” The last bit is said with the kind of sarcasm that implies that the guy understood him perfectly. Mr. Delmar snorts and concedes, starting to piece the sandwiches together. Figures the kid’s friend would be as talented as himself. He makes sure to put some extra fillings into the number five.
The rest of their brief visit passes with passing remarks from Peter and nonverbal grunts from the rich guy.
“Drop by more often, would you. Murph misses you,” he grumbles as he passes them their sandwiches. The guy pays while and as they leave, Peter tosses out a bright, sincere, “I will, Mr. Delmar! Bye!”
It seems that he worried for nothing. There’s a glimmer in Peter’s eyes Mr. Delmar hasn’t seen since the kid’s Uncle died. He doesn’t seem as rail-thin as before, either, so he figures that that guy and May have things well in hand. Even so, Mr. Delmar will continue to put some extra fillings into the kid's sandwich. Food is the best way to stave off grief, after all.
He’s not really surprised, when the rich guy comes back the next day by himself to get the same order, smiling at him sheepishly and confessing that the kid was right.
Mr. Delmar smiles smugly as he sets out to assemble the BLT.
Best sandwiches in Queens indeed.