Of Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves, Part One
Title:Of Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves
Series: STXI, Post-Into Darkness. I know. Surprise, surprise.
Characters/Pairings: James T. Kirk/Spock, with a few sides of Nyota Uhura, Christopher Pike and our very own Gaila Vro.
Disclaimer: I don't own, if I did I wouldn't be broke and I wouldn't work at Subway.
Rating: Teen and up
Warnings: Extreme fluffiness, that's about it.
Summary: The progression of a relationship, through Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves.
Author's Note: Slowly making it through my self-appointed task of cross-posting to lj. Yay? Originally posted to Ao3 as a one-shot, now posted here in three parts.
Destiny.
An interesting, if not unfounded hypothesis. Some postulated that destiny was theory and those ‘some’ were wrong. Destiny was hardly a theory - evolution was a theory and gravity was a theory - destiny was merely wishful thinking. And this, this doctrine of wishful thinking, was one of the few things in life that could be certain and one of many things in life that Spock knew to be true. He knew that the ideal of interconnected fates was absurd and he recognized that a world of twining red strings was impractical. An infantile notion, at best.
He believed in what he could see, anything else was fantasy until proven otherwise. And if that meant that sometimes things happened for no other reason than simply just because, then so be it. To think anything otherwise would be illogical in and of itself; simply because Spock was ruled by rational thought did not necessarily mean the universe and the laws governing it were. Sometimes there was no explanation.
“Hey there handsome. Come here often?”
Sometimes events simply…happened.
Spock’s eyes flicked upwards, gaze cold and unimpressed as he took in a messy green apron with Enterprise Café embroidered on the front and a cheeky grin that seemed to hold no shame. Those two things spoke volumes to the half-Vulcan, combined with the manner in which the barista was lazily leaning against the counter. He did not even extend the courtesy of asking for Spock’s order, too wrapped up in letting his bright blue eyes roam his body first.
“I would like a medium Chai Tea with soy milk, please.”
A laugh rippled from the barista-a blond male with an unnaturally wide smile and who could not have been any more than twenty-five, “You didn’t even answer my question.”
“Seeing as how we have never encountered one another in the course of our respective, daily activities I should think the answer to your query would be fairly obvious,” Spock icily responded. His voice was just about as unimpressed as he felt.
“Well, well,” The blond strummed his fingers against the counter in rhythmic taps, still not having moved from his spot. Inefficiency at its finest. “I’ve never meet a sassy Vulcan before - or any Vulcan actually. That a species-wide thing, or just you?”
If it was at all possible, Spock’s posture tensed by a tenfold as an expression of brief irritation flashed over his features. It was an expression which, according to Nyota, had been dubbed his bitchface by Gaila and although Spock did not quite understand the social implications surrounding that particular colloquialism yet, he did understand that the proper reaction was to feel insulted. And he was. “Fascinating. My acquaintances did not mention an incompetent staff when they referred me to this establishment. Perhaps I will have to gather a greater number of recommendations the next time they suggest such a similar endeavor.”
Another laugh. Another so called bitchface.
“At least you don’t deny the sass,” The blond snickered with a flick of his wrist before pushing himself off the counter, “Anything I can get you, handsome? Which, by the way, you should be flattered; I don’t hand out compliments like dollar bills, y’know?” The blonde’s eyes were sparkling and that, combined with his disconcerting grin, spoke volumes more than any words could.
And it took everything within Spock not to mention that; that the barista’s gaze told an entirely different story than his words did. “As I previously said,” And when he spoke his voice was most certainly not bitter. Not even a little. Because that would have been unsightly and Vulcans were never unsightly. “I would like a medium Chai Tea Latte with soy milk and either a Blueberry or Orange-Cranberry muffin. I will defer to your…questionable opinion on which.”
“I personally like the double chocolate chip muffin,” He answered with a wink that left no room for misconception, causing the half-Vulcan to instantly bristle. His jaw twitched and his eyebrows wooshed upwards; Spock rather enjoyed the comforts of sobriety, if he were to say so himself.
“The Cranberry-Orange, then.”
“Aww, you’re no fun. For here or to go?”
“To go.”
Most certainly to go.
“A shame,” The barista murmured more to himself than anyone else as he pulled out a take-away cup and began writing on it in sharpie. “Let me guess, you’re a lawyer. You definitely have that lawyer vibe about you.”
“The implication that you have had enough exposure to lawyers to have gained the ability to discern between what constitutes as a ‘lawyer vibe’ and what does not in a person you have just meet is concerning. Not to mention it speaks loudly as to the state of your criminal records.”
The barista paused for a moment, with a milk carton in hand and a curious expression on his face. He shook his head and let out an airy chuckle, “You’re a riot, you know that?”
The half-Vulcan cocked his head to the side; how…odd. Often times when insulted, humans did not typically chuckle. Or smile, for that matter. Fascinating.
“No need to worry those pretty little ears of yours though. I get my exposure from customers, thank you very much. Cross my heart and hope to die on that one. Lawyers, businessmen, professors, traders; they like the family owned, small town, Indie Coffee Shop vibe. Very early 2000s, don’t ya’ think?”
“Perhaps.”
“Exactly. So…a lawyer?”
“Professor,” Spock was correcting before he could think to do otherwise. It was an unfortunate error on his part, caused by a brief lapse into what Admiral Pike called the ‘leaping before thinking’ mode of thought-Spock would have to ensure such instances did not become habit.
“See what I mean? You guys love the small shop feel.”
The half-Vulcan nodded his head in polite acknowledgment of the words, but gave no true response as he pulled a PADD from his messenger bag. The sound of an electric whisk whirred in the background, an almost soothing buzz against a forefront of ungraded assignments and yet-to-be-written exams. In a little less than a week mid-terms were to be proctored and although Spock had intended to finish writing his two days ago, the circumstances had not been in his favor. Naturally, he blamed Nyota. And Gaila. But mostly Nyota - even if it was for his own supposed good. A hypothesis which Spock vehemently denied, instead strongly believing that finishing his exam before he gave himself an ulcer would be far more advantageous to a movie night (or nights) with friends. But then again Spock also believed that arguing with Nyota was a moot point, even if her taste in movies was rather lackluster. Whoever decided that Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, and The World’s End were classics clearly preferred quantity over quality.
“One medium Chai Tea Latte with soy milk and a Cranberry-Orange muffin to go,” A paper bag was passed between them with a crinkle - the wink that came with it noticed but brushed to the side - and a throw-away, to-go cup extended to Spock. “That’ll be seven credits. Name’s Jim, Jim Kirk by the way, in case you’re wondering.”
“I was not, in case you were also wondering.” A chip was given to the barista - Jim - as Spock reached for the cup, only for the blond to quickly pull it away with a teasing ‘tsk’ and a sly smirk. His eyes were brightly twinkling, his lips moving with words that suggested he hadn’t even bothered to listen to Spock’s response:
“And what about you, handsome? They have first names on your world?”
A pause.
A pause before Spock reached forward and sharply snatched the cup from Jim’s lazy grip. “Thank you for your services, Mr. Kirk,” Brisk, short and curt - as Spock threw the words over his shoulder, one foot already out the door and the other so close to joining it.
And then he was gone.
A bit of a mistake, perhaps, he would later think - because if he hadn’t been in such a rush to leave, he might’ve noticed it sooner. And if he had noticed it sooner then he wouldn’t have had to endure Pike chuckling as he gave that cheeky grin, or endure Gaila falling over in fits of laughter and Nyota not-so-subtly snickering behind her hand, all of their eyes trained on the empty cup coffee cup sitting on his desk. The coffee cup with a cardboard sleeve, made distinct by the messy scrawl of black sharpie that clearly read For Tall, Dark, and Handsome.
-x-X-x-
A week later, he returned.
While he still held to his belief that the service had left much to be desired, the Chai Tea had been surprisingly…pleasant. The muffin had not been unsatisfactory either, and the shop’s atmosphere had been distinctively soothing. It seemed to be an excellent candidate for a venue to stimulate concentration.
In the end, it was only rational he return.
“Well, well, well, look who’s back. I almost thought I had scared you off.” Jim grinned as he leisurely hopped down from the counter. He ran his fingers through his hair with a bit of a sigh, but his clearly overjoyed expression did not falter.
“I assure you, it takes far more than unsatisfactory customer service to frighten me.”
“Still sassy as ever, I see.”
Naturally, Spock refused to comment on that. And naturally, his brown eyes pointedly avoided the cocky blond, gaze instead choosing to sweep over the décor of the small café. It was still as soothing as he remembered, the color scheme no doubt attributing to this. The walls were painted a light, soothing tan and were pleasantly complemented by accent colors of rich purples, deep reds, and homely browns that shone through in the colored borders and plush furniture and dark hardwood floors of the café. Works of art strategically littered the walls in clever patterns and aesthetically pleasing rows, all of it by local artists and all of it rather impressive. There was everything from dreary toned realism and brightly hued impressionism to abstract cubism and surreal modernism, and every single one of them was for sale - if Gaila was ever to be believed. Couches and chairs and tables were comfortably arranged around the lobby - the lobby that was more of a lounge than any lobby Spock was used to, that was - and were set up in relatively small groups that all centered around the small stage at the back of the room. According to Christopher there was live music on the weekends, independent songs played by largely unrecognized, local bands that left the small café packed with people nonetheless.
Of course that was hardly the case then, with only Spock himself and the blond employee present, but even still… It was not hard to imagine how the small café attracted so many regular patrons. “I would like a medium ch-”
“-Chai tea with soy milk and an orange-cranberry muffin?”
“I…yes…” Spock found himself almost absently saying, as if lost for words. Of course, it didn’t help that Jim pretty much looked like the epitome of cockiness, all crossed arms and arrogant grin and raised eyebrows.
“You sure? I mean, I make a real mean Vulcan Spice Tea if I do say so myself. If you want I could brew you up some.”
Spock inclined his head, unsure of how to respond to verbal stimuli for the second time in under two minutes. That had to be some kind of record. “That would be most…” But even as he spoke he still seemed to be debating the idea, before finally, “Satisfactory.”
“Great,” Jim clapped his hands together before ducking under the cabinets to dig through their messy depths. It was actually, for all intents and purposes, rather humorous and a little impressive, because apparently even when head deep into a cabinet, digging for Vulcan tea, Jim Kirk still had something to say. “I’ve never actually made it for a Vulcan before, so hopefully I don’t fuck up. Hopefully.”
A soft puff of breath came from the professor, an action that would have been a snort on anyone else. “And that is one sentiment I truly do believe we share, Mr. Kirk.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” He scratched the back of his neck as he kept searching, “So…last week you said you were a professor, right? What all do you teach?”
“Interspecies Ethics,” he paused, “And Phonology.”
Kirk whistled in what the Vulcan interpreted as admiration as he stood and brought forth several packaged canisters of various spices, “So you’re a linguist then?”
“Of sorts, I suppose.”
“Man,” He said while pouring hot water from a large thermos into a ceramic mug and placing the spices into a metal strainer. It had been far too long since Spock had had Vulcan tea that was not replicated, the ingredients often too rare to make from scratch. “I love linguists, the things you guys can do with your mouths,” he whistled, “And I doubt you’re no exception, am I right?”
And if that didn’t have Spock instantly stiffening and turning green, then nothing would. Not even Kirk’s expression, as licentious and suggestive and so very human as it was. Combined, that expression and those words left Spock with nothing to say. Speechless and unsure, but only for a moment. “Many say I am unparalleled in my field.”
A beat.
One where Kirk almost seemed too shocked for words - until a sharp bark of laughter was released, as if the pause had never even been there. “Color me surprised; even when you’re flustered you’re sassy. That’s kinda cute.”
“Vulcans are hardly cute.”
“Well then maybe it’s just you.”
“I am hardly cute.”
“I’m inclined to disagree, Mr…” He dropped off, waiting for Spock to fill in the blank as his grin only grew. Perhaps there was a correlation, Spock was beginning to think; the more exasperated and the more flustered he himself became, the wider Kirk’s grin grew in response. A noteworthy, if not entirely disconcerting hypothesis.
“My name should be of no importance.”
Blue eyes rolled. A common expression of human exasperation, as Spock understood it. “Small talk, Mr. Vulcan, small talk. But that’s fine, don’t tell me and I’ll just have you to call you pointy from now on.”
An eyebrow was raised at that, “That would not be an inaccurate description.”
“You’re no fun; I do hope you know that.”
“If I am no fun, then why do you insist on making conversation with me, Jim?”
The barista opened his mouth to respond before instantly snapping it shut a second later with a slightly wide-eyed look. “I…” He slowly began in a voice that suggested he had no earthly idea where he was going with that, “I should probably check the tea.” A convenient thing to say, Spock noted, as Jim turned his back and effectively killed that particular conversation. And before it even had a chance to start too. “It’s ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kirk,” The Vulcan inclined his head, “And if it is no trouble, a cranberry-orange muffin, please.”
A nod and a sliding pane of glass later and Spock had his cup of spiced tea and his cranberry-orange muffin. He also had a barista muttering something about the stupid new POS system, a scrunched up receipt he didn’t quite bother to read, and an account with six credits less than he had had yesterday to go along with it. Oddly enough, Spock was okay with all of that.
“Ah shit, sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
The blond glanced towards the mug sitting on the counter and the plate right next to it, before letting his eyes flick over to Spock and the usual raised eyebrows of doom, “Didn’t think to ask you for here or to go, because I assumed and we all know what assuming does. Well, correction, usually it makes an ass of you and me but this time it just makes me seem like a narcissistic stalker who just assumed you’d wanna eat here because you just enjoy my company that much or something? I don’t know. I mean, I can put the tea in a to-go cup and the muffin in a bag if you want, it’s not a problem. It really isn’t and you pro-”
“Mr. Kirk, I believe you are suffering from a human ailment often known as rambling. Perhaps you should consult your doctor.”
“Oh.” An airy chuckle was given as he scratched the back of his neck almost nervously. His shoulders seemed to slump forward, breathe whooshing from his lungs in one big breath and lips upturning into a smile that looked almost a little genuine, “Yeah, sorry. I do that. A lot.”
“So it seems.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” He replied, followed by a beat that almost wasn’t a beat. To someone who didn’t study Phonology, perhaps. “Shavt’ak.”
Pardon?
Spock’s limbs almost immediately froze as his eyes widened and his gaze wasted no time in flicking to the receipt in his hand; he should not have been surprised. He was, but he should not have been. Because scrawled across his receipt in black sharpie it was there, an Andorian endearment. Big and bold and…
“Hesitance does not suit you.” Spock’s eyes flicked up to glimmering supernovas, “As for your knack towards assumptions, no apologies are necessary. I do not believe I am too terribly against the ideal of eating here.”
-x-X-x-
The fourth time he came in, it was raining.
Dripping down in sheets that were not quite yet torrents but well beyond the point of drizzles, it was enough to force Spock to use his messenger bag as a shield. And definitely enough to soak said messenger bag through - not that should have been a surprise given that it was April and it was San Francisco and it was a Thursday.
Because apparently that was a rule; if Spock were ever to have a particularly troublesome day then that day would most certainly be a Thursday. No exceptions.
“Little too rainy for your tastes, sweetheart?”
Spock looked up, dropping his wet messenger bag onto a nearby table as he watched Jim walk in from the back. The blond was wiping his hands on a white towel and his lips curved upwards into a smile, something Spock pointedly ignored.
“I do not…” He forced himself not to grimace, especially when he noticed his hair was clinging to his face in wet clumps. Disheveled, the tip of his nose was flushed green from the cold and his forehead was riddled with dripping drops of water. Thankfully his sweater had managed to escape the altercation fairly dry. Or at least, dry enough. “Vulcans are not naturally inclined to enjoy the presence of water.”
A shiver ran down his spine that could not be stopped, the feeling of water dripping down his hands uncomfortably numbing against his touch telepathy. His surroundings felt so…vague and blurred and nondescript, as if he had lost one of his senses. In a way, he sort of had.
“No? That’s a shame. There’s nothing better than just going out and walking in the rain.”
“That does not-” But before Spock could even think about finishing, his body pitched forward with a short, abrupt sneeze. High pitched and unexpected, the sound was embarrassingly less like any sneeze he had ever heard and far more like a squeak. His ears flushed green and immediately Spock cleared his throat, his eyes cautiously drifting up to meet Jim’s.
“Oh my god, you totally sneeze like a kitten,” He snickered. The blonde’s fingers played across the register’s screen, lightly tapping here and there, but never in a way that kept him from beaming at Spock. “And you say you aren’t cute.”
Spock, who was currently bristling, spine straightening and eyes narrowing. I was an effect which would have been rather poignant if not for the blush on his cheeks. “Vulcans are not cute.”
“Mhhmm, whatever you say.” A flick of the wrist was given and a dismissive noise released, “Because that was definitely the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen and I’m, like, ninety-ninety percent sure your spirit animal is a kitten, by the way. If I rubbed your ears, would you purr for me?”
“…A spirit animal?”
“Yeah, it’s an animal that describes your inner personality or something. I'm not too sure, really, it’s just one of those things, y’know?”
Spock slowly inclined his head, “I do not, however…” He paused to consider Jim, “I do believe that if we are going to properly discuss this topic, then it must be noted that there is a sixteen-point-eight-six-out of-twenty-one probability that your spirit animal is a sloth.”
Jim gave a skeptical look, “You so made that up.”
“’Making up’ statistics would be illogical.”
“Fair enough, but…a sexy sloth, right?”
The half-Vulcan testily looked at Kirk from under a crinkled brow, “Jim…” he warned, his tone somewhere in between that of a mother whose child refused to stop eating glue and Lego pieces and that of really anyone who had ever felt the urge to throttle someone.
The barista chuckled, “Y'know, that reminds me that I still haven’t gotten a first name from you. That’s a problem, even if it's nothing but a slight oversight on your part, of course,” He finished with undue dramatics, smile widening when he saw the eyebrow that was steadily rising towards Spock’s bang.
“Hardly an accident, I can assure you.”
The immediate pang of laughter that was given was almost deafening to Spock in its volume and the smile that accompanied it almost blinding in its brightness. “Oh my, cute, sassy, and single-what more could a guy want?”
“I will ignore the fallacies in that statement in favor of reminding you-achoo!-in favor of reminding you that-achoo!-that despite your own loose ethics, not everyone feels so similarly, Mr. Kirk.” Spock finally finished after a long string of sneezes, a failed attempt to smooth his soaking hair down, and a brief cataloguing of the fact that the blackboard behind the counter most certainly did read what Spock thought it read.
Customers, today your barista is: 1) a flaming gay 2) single
“’A Flaming gay’?”
Jim froze a bit, eyes widening and mouth half frozen between a smirk and a frown. “Oh, that. Just,” He chuckled, “ignore it. One of the guys, Sulu, was dicking around. He does that.”
“I see.” Even though he really didn’t, since ‘flamingly gay’ and ‘dicking around’ meant nothing to Spock besides two additional terms he now had to add to the five page list of colloquialisms he did not, and possibly never would, understand. And yes, that was an actual thing - one of the few hardcopy items Spock actually owned, tacked to the wall behind his desk as it was. It went almost perfectly with his nine hundred page, hardback copy of A Guide Of Translations: From Spock to Standard in Only a Thousand Easy Steps, written by Nyota Uhura, co-authored by Gaila Vro, edited by Christopher Pike, and received by Spock as a Christmas gift.
Or so said writer, co-author and editor claimed. Three years later and Spock still questioned the validity of that; whether something that essentially made a mockery (“All in jest, Spock, I promise. All in jest.”) of himself could truly be considered a gift or not was highly debatable. Not that that would change anything anyways, since Gaila would still call it her proudest work of art and Spock would still reserve it as the only actually printed book he owned.
Fascinating, really.
A chuckle tore Spock from his thoughts and almost instantly had his eyes flicking up from the floor. Kirk’s eyes were shining as usual, however if this time the shine was just a tad hopeful, then Spock didn’t notice. “I mean, ignore it unless you wanna take advantage of my apparent flaming gayness and my definite singleness, in which case pay attention to that blackboard all you want.”
“I’ll have a large, sugar-free, decaf Ginger Snap Spice cappuccino.”
“You wound me. Truly, you do,” Jim playfully sighed, hand resting against his heart in mock hurt.
But, of course, that did nothing to impress Spock, who simply raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in a way that was noticeable enough to make a point, but not so much to accuse him of anything. Because if there was one thing Vulcans did not do, it was definitely purse their lips in reply.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, you know you love me.” There was no roam to reply, though, before Jim was back to talking. Not a bad thing, by Spock’s definition. “Just the decaf cappuccino?”
A glance was spared towards the window and the rain still cascading down its surface. “No. A Cranberry-achoo-Orange muffin as well,” Spock managed to say past the sneeze that still far too squeak-ish for his liking.
“Okay, so I have a Cranberry-Orange muffin and a large, sugar-free, decaf Ginger Spice cappuccino, that right?”
“No. A large, sugar free, decaf, no foam cappuccino.” Which was apparently not the right thing to say. At all. Not when Kirk’s head instantly snapped up, eyes scrutinizing and head cocked to the side and lips pursed-
“Gurl,” He sassily chided with a look that seemed to scream ‘idiot’; Spock imagined that it was somewhat reminiscent to his own, Gaila dubbed bitchface. Except when Spock did it, he didn’t cock his hips to the side or cross his arms over his chest, both of which actions that were often associated with young Terran women. Actually, the whole display in general - facial expressions and body language combined - seemed rather similar to that demographic. A mockery perhaps? Perhaps. “You did not just order a no foam cappuccino.”
Or just Jim…being Jim.
Spock raised a condescending eyebrow, hardly amused by the feminine display even as his own cheeks began to color green. Again. “It should be noted that I-achoo-am obviously not and obviously never have been of the female persuasion, thank you Mr. Kirk. And as for my order, I do believe that is-achoo-exactly-achoo-what I ordered.” Spock paused, only barely managing to hold back a grimace. Nothing could kill sarcasm quite like a fit of short, squeaky sneezes that were supposedly kitten-like in cuteness. “Or perhaps are your hearing facilities failing you, along with your ability to differentiate genders?”
“If anything is failing anyone, it’s your mental facilities failing you, pointy,” The blond emphatically shot back as he waved his sharpie in the air, even making a distinct point to jab it in Spock’s direction a few times. Just for good measure, “Y’know what a no foam cappuccino is, Mr. know-It-All? It’s a latte.”
Oh.
Well, so much for ever listening to a Gaila Vro patented suggestion again. (“Ooh, ooh, ooh! Order a no foam cappuccino, those are the best. Hey, don’t give me that look! I dated a barista a few years back, so I totally know these things, okay?”). Of course, that was also the third time in April alone that Spock had told himself that, never mind the fifty additional times since the beginning of the year and the god knows how many times (easily in the four-digit range) since they first meet. Conclusion: Gaila Vro was not to be trusted. Ever.
And Spock was not to listen to her. Also, ever.
The results were too consistent to be anything else; listening to Gaila led to unpleasant consequences and Spock highly doubted that she was exactly innocent in any of it. It was, perhaps, one of the many reasons why Spock questioned their odd, confusing friendship - a relationship that would've been dissolved long ago if not for one simple factor; Spock was not human. Because if he had been human, then surely he would've felt embarrassment - and not just then, but any time that Gaila embarked on one of her escapades (which was often, mind you). But Spock was not human, he was Vulcan and therefore the ideal of embarrassment was null. Because to Vulcans, embarassment simply did not exist. Not even a little. Not even when their cheeks were flushed green, the tip of their nose speckled emerald, and the tips of their ears blooming jade. Not even when they were shifting uncomfortably and leaning over with a fit of sneezing. Again.
“For someone so smart, sometimes you’re kinda stupid.” The words, however, were not as biting as they would usually be made to be. As Jim threw the towel hanging from his apron onto the back counter, there was this smug little look in his eyes - but there was also what one might call exasperated affection.
“I-”
“Nope.” A hand was held out, palm out - a universal sign for stop and a somewhat less universal sign for Stop and Shut the Fuck Up. Now - and a tsking noise given.
“Ji-”
“What, didn’t hear me the first time? No.”
“Bu-”
“I don’t care.”
“You can’t-”
“Yes I can and I will. Because you know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna go sit your ass down, shut the hell up and you’re gonna let me decide what you’re ordering because apparently you don’t know shit about coffee. Now, I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you’re sick and that’s screwing with your head-”
“Vulcans do not get sick-achoo!-Jim.”
“Well apparently half-Vulcans do,” The barista shot back with a voice just as sardonic as the one Spock had thrown his way. His hips were still cocked to the side and his arms still crossed over his chest in that way that clearly said do not argue with me, you will lose.
Which was a shame and a slight waste of effort too, since Spock had never been great at deciphering human idiosyncrasies anyways. “Considering my physiology is primarily Vulcan it is illogical-achoo-illogical to think that-achoo-that my-achoo-my-achooachooachoo-my…” A pause that was emphasized by a shiver rang between them, before Spock looked down. “Very well.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Spock ignored the comment. He released a heavier than normal breath and even if Jim might’ve been right - perhaps sitting was for the best, as his balance slightly swayed too far to the side and it took grasping at a nearby chair to correct the error - that did not mean Spock had to necessarily acknowledge it. Not as his eyes fell closed and his legs curled up so he could sit cross-legged in his chair; a meager attempt at productivity. Meditation - even if only on a rudimentary level of Tiltra - was better than simply sitting there.
The low hum of the rarely used replicator, the baritone grinding of the always-used coffee grinder, the popping of the espresso maker, the thrum of the fridge and ticking of the oven and clanking of dishes and shifting of a person- the gentle background noises that flitted in and out of focus. They were somewhat reminiscent of tides gently brushing up against a shore; moving back and forth, in and out, to and fro. They were there and then they weren’t. Washing away like grains of sand then returning like waves of water.
His hands rested on his folded knees. His breaths came out in slow, steady puffs.
In and out. Concentrate. Focus. Humming in the background. Tranquility. Serenity.
“Achoo!”
Spock’s meditative state snapped in a second, any and all tranquility that might’ve been gained instantly slipping away as his body lurched forward from the force of the sneeze. His nose was beginning to run, uncomfortably so, and a pressure was now present in his nasal cavities that had not been there before. And that was not even mentioning the scratchiness in his throat leftover from that morning - which, if living with a human mother for over seventeen years had taught him anything, that was not a satisfactory sign.
“You’re cute when you’re put out, y’know?” Came a teasing voice from behind the counter. Jim was smirking widely, even though his eyes were trained on the latte setting on the counter and the needlepoint pin he was running along its surface.
“You have been commenting on my apparent ‘cuteness’ with alarming frequency, I ask that you correct this.”
Not of course that Jim acted like he was listening to begin with, which meant it was a lost cause anyways. Which probably wasn’t unusual, since it seemed to Spock that a lot of things were lost causes when it came to James T. Kirk. “Your Latte’s ready.”
Like the fact that Jim was almost innocently smiling at him from the register, elbows propped up against the counter and his head resting between his two curled up knuckles, and Spock simply knew that whatever it was Jim had done was also a lost cause. Or at least preventing it was. At this point, the easiest course of action was to simply stand and take the offered drink - which was exactly what he did.
Easier said than done, though, when Spock actually saw the drink. He had heard of it before, this odd phenomenon of latte art that dated back several hundreds of years, but he had never expected to be on the receiving end of it. Then again there were lots of things that Spock had never expected before James T. Kirk happened - like receiving a latte with a heart made of white milk at its center and the words Mi Amore written meticulously across it in something that looked suspiciously like chocolate. At least now Spock had an answer as to why Jim’s cheeks were slightly flushed red.
“Thank you, Jim,” He said after a long pause, pointedly ignoring anything out of the ordinary ad he picked up the drink with an inclination of his head; it was rude to deny a gift, after all. Especially…well, especially when it actually tasted good.
Spock took another sip; his conclusion still stood. The taste was almost overbearing to his sensitive palate, but not unpleasantly so. It was a rich mix of spices and sweetness that had him taking several larger than appropriate sips in a row.
“Well?”
“Most satisfactory.”
Instantly Jim’s smile bloomed into an excited grin and every ounce of tension fell from his shoulders in a second. His eyes were bright as he tilted his head to the side, “Really?”
“I do not believe I stuttered,” Spock managed to murmur in between sips, even if his voice didn’t carry its usual subtle condescension.
“No, you didn’t.”
By the time Spock was three quarters through the Latte and back to sitting at his original table, he felt considerably…better. Which was vague and not very accurate at all, but oddly appropriate considering the circumstances. His throat wasn’t so scratchy anymore and the box of tissues Jim had thrown his way hadn’t been used for at least thirty minutes. His head was lightly buzzing rather than pounding - a far better alternative, as far as the half-Vulcan was concerned - and he could actually talk without being interrupted by poorly timed sneezes. Then again that also could’ve been the hypospray Jim had also thrown his way; who really knew.
“Jim, what flavor latte did you give me?” Spock finally asked before taking another sip (gulp), his usual meticulous grace slightly dulled by….something.
Something which probably had to do with the fact that Kirk was grinning mischievously, an attribute which Spock failed to notice. Another correlating, and possibly concerning, fact. “Why, plannin’ on getting it again next time?”
“Per-achoo-haps.”
“It’s chocolate.”
Silence.
Or Silence from Spock, since Kirk was too busy snickering to himself to be anything near quiet. And…
“Oh.”
Spock was almost not surprised.
“That…that would explain…” Spock’s cheeks flushed green and he cocked his head to the side in a curious manner. His eyes were trained on Jim’s, “Thank you.”
Almost. He was almost not surprised.
- Part Two -
Series: STXI, Post-Into Darkness. I know. Surprise, surprise.
Characters/Pairings: James T. Kirk/Spock, with a few sides of Nyota Uhura, Christopher Pike and our very own Gaila Vro.
Disclaimer: I don't own, if I did I wouldn't be broke and I wouldn't work at Subway.
Rating: Teen and up
Warnings: Extreme fluffiness, that's about it.
Summary: The progression of a relationship, through Coffee Beans and Green Tea Leaves.
Author's Note: Slowly making it through my self-appointed task of cross-posting to lj. Yay? Originally posted to Ao3 as a one-shot, now posted here in three parts.
Destiny.
An interesting, if not unfounded hypothesis. Some postulated that destiny was theory and those ‘some’ were wrong. Destiny was hardly a theory - evolution was a theory and gravity was a theory - destiny was merely wishful thinking. And this, this doctrine of wishful thinking, was one of the few things in life that could be certain and one of many things in life that Spock knew to be true. He knew that the ideal of interconnected fates was absurd and he recognized that a world of twining red strings was impractical. An infantile notion, at best.
He believed in what he could see, anything else was fantasy until proven otherwise. And if that meant that sometimes things happened for no other reason than simply just because, then so be it. To think anything otherwise would be illogical in and of itself; simply because Spock was ruled by rational thought did not necessarily mean the universe and the laws governing it were. Sometimes there was no explanation.
“Hey there handsome. Come here often?”
Sometimes events simply…happened.
Spock’s eyes flicked upwards, gaze cold and unimpressed as he took in a messy green apron with Enterprise Café embroidered on the front and a cheeky grin that seemed to hold no shame. Those two things spoke volumes to the half-Vulcan, combined with the manner in which the barista was lazily leaning against the counter. He did not even extend the courtesy of asking for Spock’s order, too wrapped up in letting his bright blue eyes roam his body first.
“I would like a medium Chai Tea with soy milk, please.”
A laugh rippled from the barista-a blond male with an unnaturally wide smile and who could not have been any more than twenty-five, “You didn’t even answer my question.”
“Seeing as how we have never encountered one another in the course of our respective, daily activities I should think the answer to your query would be fairly obvious,” Spock icily responded. His voice was just about as unimpressed as he felt.
“Well, well,” The blond strummed his fingers against the counter in rhythmic taps, still not having moved from his spot. Inefficiency at its finest. “I’ve never meet a sassy Vulcan before - or any Vulcan actually. That a species-wide thing, or just you?”
If it was at all possible, Spock’s posture tensed by a tenfold as an expression of brief irritation flashed over his features. It was an expression which, according to Nyota, had been dubbed his bitchface by Gaila and although Spock did not quite understand the social implications surrounding that particular colloquialism yet, he did understand that the proper reaction was to feel insulted. And he was. “Fascinating. My acquaintances did not mention an incompetent staff when they referred me to this establishment. Perhaps I will have to gather a greater number of recommendations the next time they suggest such a similar endeavor.”
Another laugh. Another so called bitchface.
“At least you don’t deny the sass,” The blond snickered with a flick of his wrist before pushing himself off the counter, “Anything I can get you, handsome? Which, by the way, you should be flattered; I don’t hand out compliments like dollar bills, y’know?” The blonde’s eyes were sparkling and that, combined with his disconcerting grin, spoke volumes more than any words could.
And it took everything within Spock not to mention that; that the barista’s gaze told an entirely different story than his words did. “As I previously said,” And when he spoke his voice was most certainly not bitter. Not even a little. Because that would have been unsightly and Vulcans were never unsightly. “I would like a medium Chai Tea Latte with soy milk and either a Blueberry or Orange-Cranberry muffin. I will defer to your…questionable opinion on which.”
“I personally like the double chocolate chip muffin,” He answered with a wink that left no room for misconception, causing the half-Vulcan to instantly bristle. His jaw twitched and his eyebrows wooshed upwards; Spock rather enjoyed the comforts of sobriety, if he were to say so himself.
“The Cranberry-Orange, then.”
“Aww, you’re no fun. For here or to go?”
“To go.”
Most certainly to go.
“A shame,” The barista murmured more to himself than anyone else as he pulled out a take-away cup and began writing on it in sharpie. “Let me guess, you’re a lawyer. You definitely have that lawyer vibe about you.”
“The implication that you have had enough exposure to lawyers to have gained the ability to discern between what constitutes as a ‘lawyer vibe’ and what does not in a person you have just meet is concerning. Not to mention it speaks loudly as to the state of your criminal records.”
The barista paused for a moment, with a milk carton in hand and a curious expression on his face. He shook his head and let out an airy chuckle, “You’re a riot, you know that?”
The half-Vulcan cocked his head to the side; how…odd. Often times when insulted, humans did not typically chuckle. Or smile, for that matter. Fascinating.
“No need to worry those pretty little ears of yours though. I get my exposure from customers, thank you very much. Cross my heart and hope to die on that one. Lawyers, businessmen, professors, traders; they like the family owned, small town, Indie Coffee Shop vibe. Very early 2000s, don’t ya’ think?”
“Perhaps.”
“Exactly. So…a lawyer?”
“Professor,” Spock was correcting before he could think to do otherwise. It was an unfortunate error on his part, caused by a brief lapse into what Admiral Pike called the ‘leaping before thinking’ mode of thought-Spock would have to ensure such instances did not become habit.
“See what I mean? You guys love the small shop feel.”
The half-Vulcan nodded his head in polite acknowledgment of the words, but gave no true response as he pulled a PADD from his messenger bag. The sound of an electric whisk whirred in the background, an almost soothing buzz against a forefront of ungraded assignments and yet-to-be-written exams. In a little less than a week mid-terms were to be proctored and although Spock had intended to finish writing his two days ago, the circumstances had not been in his favor. Naturally, he blamed Nyota. And Gaila. But mostly Nyota - even if it was for his own supposed good. A hypothesis which Spock vehemently denied, instead strongly believing that finishing his exam before he gave himself an ulcer would be far more advantageous to a movie night (or nights) with friends. But then again Spock also believed that arguing with Nyota was a moot point, even if her taste in movies was rather lackluster. Whoever decided that Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, and The World’s End were classics clearly preferred quantity over quality.
“One medium Chai Tea Latte with soy milk and a Cranberry-Orange muffin to go,” A paper bag was passed between them with a crinkle - the wink that came with it noticed but brushed to the side - and a throw-away, to-go cup extended to Spock. “That’ll be seven credits. Name’s Jim, Jim Kirk by the way, in case you’re wondering.”
“I was not, in case you were also wondering.” A chip was given to the barista - Jim - as Spock reached for the cup, only for the blond to quickly pull it away with a teasing ‘tsk’ and a sly smirk. His eyes were brightly twinkling, his lips moving with words that suggested he hadn’t even bothered to listen to Spock’s response:
“And what about you, handsome? They have first names on your world?”
A pause.
A pause before Spock reached forward and sharply snatched the cup from Jim’s lazy grip. “Thank you for your services, Mr. Kirk,” Brisk, short and curt - as Spock threw the words over his shoulder, one foot already out the door and the other so close to joining it.
And then he was gone.
A bit of a mistake, perhaps, he would later think - because if he hadn’t been in such a rush to leave, he might’ve noticed it sooner. And if he had noticed it sooner then he wouldn’t have had to endure Pike chuckling as he gave that cheeky grin, or endure Gaila falling over in fits of laughter and Nyota not-so-subtly snickering behind her hand, all of their eyes trained on the empty cup coffee cup sitting on his desk. The coffee cup with a cardboard sleeve, made distinct by the messy scrawl of black sharpie that clearly read For Tall, Dark, and Handsome.
-x-X-x-
A week later, he returned.
While he still held to his belief that the service had left much to be desired, the Chai Tea had been surprisingly…pleasant. The muffin had not been unsatisfactory either, and the shop’s atmosphere had been distinctively soothing. It seemed to be an excellent candidate for a venue to stimulate concentration.
In the end, it was only rational he return.
“Well, well, well, look who’s back. I almost thought I had scared you off.” Jim grinned as he leisurely hopped down from the counter. He ran his fingers through his hair with a bit of a sigh, but his clearly overjoyed expression did not falter.
“I assure you, it takes far more than unsatisfactory customer service to frighten me.”
“Still sassy as ever, I see.”
Naturally, Spock refused to comment on that. And naturally, his brown eyes pointedly avoided the cocky blond, gaze instead choosing to sweep over the décor of the small café. It was still as soothing as he remembered, the color scheme no doubt attributing to this. The walls were painted a light, soothing tan and were pleasantly complemented by accent colors of rich purples, deep reds, and homely browns that shone through in the colored borders and plush furniture and dark hardwood floors of the café. Works of art strategically littered the walls in clever patterns and aesthetically pleasing rows, all of it by local artists and all of it rather impressive. There was everything from dreary toned realism and brightly hued impressionism to abstract cubism and surreal modernism, and every single one of them was for sale - if Gaila was ever to be believed. Couches and chairs and tables were comfortably arranged around the lobby - the lobby that was more of a lounge than any lobby Spock was used to, that was - and were set up in relatively small groups that all centered around the small stage at the back of the room. According to Christopher there was live music on the weekends, independent songs played by largely unrecognized, local bands that left the small café packed with people nonetheless.
Of course that was hardly the case then, with only Spock himself and the blond employee present, but even still… It was not hard to imagine how the small café attracted so many regular patrons. “I would like a medium ch-”
“-Chai tea with soy milk and an orange-cranberry muffin?”
“I…yes…” Spock found himself almost absently saying, as if lost for words. Of course, it didn’t help that Jim pretty much looked like the epitome of cockiness, all crossed arms and arrogant grin and raised eyebrows.
“You sure? I mean, I make a real mean Vulcan Spice Tea if I do say so myself. If you want I could brew you up some.”
Spock inclined his head, unsure of how to respond to verbal stimuli for the second time in under two minutes. That had to be some kind of record. “That would be most…” But even as he spoke he still seemed to be debating the idea, before finally, “Satisfactory.”
“Great,” Jim clapped his hands together before ducking under the cabinets to dig through their messy depths. It was actually, for all intents and purposes, rather humorous and a little impressive, because apparently even when head deep into a cabinet, digging for Vulcan tea, Jim Kirk still had something to say. “I’ve never actually made it for a Vulcan before, so hopefully I don’t fuck up. Hopefully.”
A soft puff of breath came from the professor, an action that would have been a snort on anyone else. “And that is one sentiment I truly do believe we share, Mr. Kirk.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” He scratched the back of his neck as he kept searching, “So…last week you said you were a professor, right? What all do you teach?”
“Interspecies Ethics,” he paused, “And Phonology.”
Kirk whistled in what the Vulcan interpreted as admiration as he stood and brought forth several packaged canisters of various spices, “So you’re a linguist then?”
“Of sorts, I suppose.”
“Man,” He said while pouring hot water from a large thermos into a ceramic mug and placing the spices into a metal strainer. It had been far too long since Spock had had Vulcan tea that was not replicated, the ingredients often too rare to make from scratch. “I love linguists, the things you guys can do with your mouths,” he whistled, “And I doubt you’re no exception, am I right?”
And if that didn’t have Spock instantly stiffening and turning green, then nothing would. Not even Kirk’s expression, as licentious and suggestive and so very human as it was. Combined, that expression and those words left Spock with nothing to say. Speechless and unsure, but only for a moment. “Many say I am unparalleled in my field.”
A beat.
One where Kirk almost seemed too shocked for words - until a sharp bark of laughter was released, as if the pause had never even been there. “Color me surprised; even when you’re flustered you’re sassy. That’s kinda cute.”
“Vulcans are hardly cute.”
“Well then maybe it’s just you.”
“I am hardly cute.”
“I’m inclined to disagree, Mr…” He dropped off, waiting for Spock to fill in the blank as his grin only grew. Perhaps there was a correlation, Spock was beginning to think; the more exasperated and the more flustered he himself became, the wider Kirk’s grin grew in response. A noteworthy, if not entirely disconcerting hypothesis.
“My name should be of no importance.”
Blue eyes rolled. A common expression of human exasperation, as Spock understood it. “Small talk, Mr. Vulcan, small talk. But that’s fine, don’t tell me and I’ll just have you to call you pointy from now on.”
An eyebrow was raised at that, “That would not be an inaccurate description.”
“You’re no fun; I do hope you know that.”
“If I am no fun, then why do you insist on making conversation with me, Jim?”
The barista opened his mouth to respond before instantly snapping it shut a second later with a slightly wide-eyed look. “I…” He slowly began in a voice that suggested he had no earthly idea where he was going with that, “I should probably check the tea.” A convenient thing to say, Spock noted, as Jim turned his back and effectively killed that particular conversation. And before it even had a chance to start too. “It’s ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kirk,” The Vulcan inclined his head, “And if it is no trouble, a cranberry-orange muffin, please.”
A nod and a sliding pane of glass later and Spock had his cup of spiced tea and his cranberry-orange muffin. He also had a barista muttering something about the stupid new POS system, a scrunched up receipt he didn’t quite bother to read, and an account with six credits less than he had had yesterday to go along with it. Oddly enough, Spock was okay with all of that.
“Ah shit, sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
The blond glanced towards the mug sitting on the counter and the plate right next to it, before letting his eyes flick over to Spock and the usual raised eyebrows of doom, “Didn’t think to ask you for here or to go, because I assumed and we all know what assuming does. Well, correction, usually it makes an ass of you and me but this time it just makes me seem like a narcissistic stalker who just assumed you’d wanna eat here because you just enjoy my company that much or something? I don’t know. I mean, I can put the tea in a to-go cup and the muffin in a bag if you want, it’s not a problem. It really isn’t and you pro-”
“Mr. Kirk, I believe you are suffering from a human ailment often known as rambling. Perhaps you should consult your doctor.”
“Oh.” An airy chuckle was given as he scratched the back of his neck almost nervously. His shoulders seemed to slump forward, breathe whooshing from his lungs in one big breath and lips upturning into a smile that looked almost a little genuine, “Yeah, sorry. I do that. A lot.”
“So it seems.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” He replied, followed by a beat that almost wasn’t a beat. To someone who didn’t study Phonology, perhaps. “Shavt’ak.”
Pardon?
Spock’s limbs almost immediately froze as his eyes widened and his gaze wasted no time in flicking to the receipt in his hand; he should not have been surprised. He was, but he should not have been. Because scrawled across his receipt in black sharpie it was there, an Andorian endearment. Big and bold and…
“Hesitance does not suit you.” Spock’s eyes flicked up to glimmering supernovas, “As for your knack towards assumptions, no apologies are necessary. I do not believe I am too terribly against the ideal of eating here.”
-x-X-x-
The fourth time he came in, it was raining.
Dripping down in sheets that were not quite yet torrents but well beyond the point of drizzles, it was enough to force Spock to use his messenger bag as a shield. And definitely enough to soak said messenger bag through - not that should have been a surprise given that it was April and it was San Francisco and it was a Thursday.
Because apparently that was a rule; if Spock were ever to have a particularly troublesome day then that day would most certainly be a Thursday. No exceptions.
“Little too rainy for your tastes, sweetheart?”
Spock looked up, dropping his wet messenger bag onto a nearby table as he watched Jim walk in from the back. The blond was wiping his hands on a white towel and his lips curved upwards into a smile, something Spock pointedly ignored.
“I do not…” He forced himself not to grimace, especially when he noticed his hair was clinging to his face in wet clumps. Disheveled, the tip of his nose was flushed green from the cold and his forehead was riddled with dripping drops of water. Thankfully his sweater had managed to escape the altercation fairly dry. Or at least, dry enough. “Vulcans are not naturally inclined to enjoy the presence of water.”
A shiver ran down his spine that could not be stopped, the feeling of water dripping down his hands uncomfortably numbing against his touch telepathy. His surroundings felt so…vague and blurred and nondescript, as if he had lost one of his senses. In a way, he sort of had.
“No? That’s a shame. There’s nothing better than just going out and walking in the rain.”
“That does not-” But before Spock could even think about finishing, his body pitched forward with a short, abrupt sneeze. High pitched and unexpected, the sound was embarrassingly less like any sneeze he had ever heard and far more like a squeak. His ears flushed green and immediately Spock cleared his throat, his eyes cautiously drifting up to meet Jim’s.
“Oh my god, you totally sneeze like a kitten,” He snickered. The blonde’s fingers played across the register’s screen, lightly tapping here and there, but never in a way that kept him from beaming at Spock. “And you say you aren’t cute.”
Spock, who was currently bristling, spine straightening and eyes narrowing. I was an effect which would have been rather poignant if not for the blush on his cheeks. “Vulcans are not cute.”
“Mhhmm, whatever you say.” A flick of the wrist was given and a dismissive noise released, “Because that was definitely the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen and I’m, like, ninety-ninety percent sure your spirit animal is a kitten, by the way. If I rubbed your ears, would you purr for me?”
“…A spirit animal?”
“Yeah, it’s an animal that describes your inner personality or something. I'm not too sure, really, it’s just one of those things, y’know?”
Spock slowly inclined his head, “I do not, however…” He paused to consider Jim, “I do believe that if we are going to properly discuss this topic, then it must be noted that there is a sixteen-point-eight-six-out of-twenty-one probability that your spirit animal is a sloth.”
Jim gave a skeptical look, “You so made that up.”
“’Making up’ statistics would be illogical.”
“Fair enough, but…a sexy sloth, right?”
The half-Vulcan testily looked at Kirk from under a crinkled brow, “Jim…” he warned, his tone somewhere in between that of a mother whose child refused to stop eating glue and Lego pieces and that of really anyone who had ever felt the urge to throttle someone.
The barista chuckled, “Y'know, that reminds me that I still haven’t gotten a first name from you. That’s a problem, even if it's nothing but a slight oversight on your part, of course,” He finished with undue dramatics, smile widening when he saw the eyebrow that was steadily rising towards Spock’s bang.
“Hardly an accident, I can assure you.”
The immediate pang of laughter that was given was almost deafening to Spock in its volume and the smile that accompanied it almost blinding in its brightness. “Oh my, cute, sassy, and single-what more could a guy want?”
“I will ignore the fallacies in that statement in favor of reminding you-achoo!-in favor of reminding you that-achoo!-that despite your own loose ethics, not everyone feels so similarly, Mr. Kirk.” Spock finally finished after a long string of sneezes, a failed attempt to smooth his soaking hair down, and a brief cataloguing of the fact that the blackboard behind the counter most certainly did read what Spock thought it read.
Customers, today your barista is: 1) a flaming gay 2) single
“’A Flaming gay’?”
Jim froze a bit, eyes widening and mouth half frozen between a smirk and a frown. “Oh, that. Just,” He chuckled, “ignore it. One of the guys, Sulu, was dicking around. He does that.”
“I see.” Even though he really didn’t, since ‘flamingly gay’ and ‘dicking around’ meant nothing to Spock besides two additional terms he now had to add to the five page list of colloquialisms he did not, and possibly never would, understand. And yes, that was an actual thing - one of the few hardcopy items Spock actually owned, tacked to the wall behind his desk as it was. It went almost perfectly with his nine hundred page, hardback copy of A Guide Of Translations: From Spock to Standard in Only a Thousand Easy Steps, written by Nyota Uhura, co-authored by Gaila Vro, edited by Christopher Pike, and received by Spock as a Christmas gift.
Or so said writer, co-author and editor claimed. Three years later and Spock still questioned the validity of that; whether something that essentially made a mockery (“All in jest, Spock, I promise. All in jest.”) of himself could truly be considered a gift or not was highly debatable. Not that that would change anything anyways, since Gaila would still call it her proudest work of art and Spock would still reserve it as the only actually printed book he owned.
Fascinating, really.
A chuckle tore Spock from his thoughts and almost instantly had his eyes flicking up from the floor. Kirk’s eyes were shining as usual, however if this time the shine was just a tad hopeful, then Spock didn’t notice. “I mean, ignore it unless you wanna take advantage of my apparent flaming gayness and my definite singleness, in which case pay attention to that blackboard all you want.”
“I’ll have a large, sugar-free, decaf Ginger Snap Spice cappuccino.”
“You wound me. Truly, you do,” Jim playfully sighed, hand resting against his heart in mock hurt.
But, of course, that did nothing to impress Spock, who simply raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in a way that was noticeable enough to make a point, but not so much to accuse him of anything. Because if there was one thing Vulcans did not do, it was definitely purse their lips in reply.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, you know you love me.” There was no roam to reply, though, before Jim was back to talking. Not a bad thing, by Spock’s definition. “Just the decaf cappuccino?”
A glance was spared towards the window and the rain still cascading down its surface. “No. A Cranberry-achoo-Orange muffin as well,” Spock managed to say past the sneeze that still far too squeak-ish for his liking.
“Okay, so I have a Cranberry-Orange muffin and a large, sugar-free, decaf Ginger Spice cappuccino, that right?”
“No. A large, sugar free, decaf, no foam cappuccino.” Which was apparently not the right thing to say. At all. Not when Kirk’s head instantly snapped up, eyes scrutinizing and head cocked to the side and lips pursed-
“Gurl,” He sassily chided with a look that seemed to scream ‘idiot’; Spock imagined that it was somewhat reminiscent to his own, Gaila dubbed bitchface. Except when Spock did it, he didn’t cock his hips to the side or cross his arms over his chest, both of which actions that were often associated with young Terran women. Actually, the whole display in general - facial expressions and body language combined - seemed rather similar to that demographic. A mockery perhaps? Perhaps. “You did not just order a no foam cappuccino.”
Or just Jim…being Jim.
Spock raised a condescending eyebrow, hardly amused by the feminine display even as his own cheeks began to color green. Again. “It should be noted that I-achoo-am obviously not and obviously never have been of the female persuasion, thank you Mr. Kirk. And as for my order, I do believe that is-achoo-exactly-achoo-what I ordered.” Spock paused, only barely managing to hold back a grimace. Nothing could kill sarcasm quite like a fit of short, squeaky sneezes that were supposedly kitten-like in cuteness. “Or perhaps are your hearing facilities failing you, along with your ability to differentiate genders?”
“If anything is failing anyone, it’s your mental facilities failing you, pointy,” The blond emphatically shot back as he waved his sharpie in the air, even making a distinct point to jab it in Spock’s direction a few times. Just for good measure, “Y’know what a no foam cappuccino is, Mr. know-It-All? It’s a latte.”
Oh.
Well, so much for ever listening to a Gaila Vro patented suggestion again. (“Ooh, ooh, ooh! Order a no foam cappuccino, those are the best. Hey, don’t give me that look! I dated a barista a few years back, so I totally know these things, okay?”). Of course, that was also the third time in April alone that Spock had told himself that, never mind the fifty additional times since the beginning of the year and the god knows how many times (easily in the four-digit range) since they first meet. Conclusion: Gaila Vro was not to be trusted. Ever.
And Spock was not to listen to her. Also, ever.
The results were too consistent to be anything else; listening to Gaila led to unpleasant consequences and Spock highly doubted that she was exactly innocent in any of it. It was, perhaps, one of the many reasons why Spock questioned their odd, confusing friendship - a relationship that would've been dissolved long ago if not for one simple factor; Spock was not human. Because if he had been human, then surely he would've felt embarrassment - and not just then, but any time that Gaila embarked on one of her escapades (which was often, mind you). But Spock was not human, he was Vulcan and therefore the ideal of embarrassment was null. Because to Vulcans, embarassment simply did not exist. Not even a little. Not even when their cheeks were flushed green, the tip of their nose speckled emerald, and the tips of their ears blooming jade. Not even when they were shifting uncomfortably and leaning over with a fit of sneezing. Again.
“For someone so smart, sometimes you’re kinda stupid.” The words, however, were not as biting as they would usually be made to be. As Jim threw the towel hanging from his apron onto the back counter, there was this smug little look in his eyes - but there was also what one might call exasperated affection.
“I-”
“Nope.” A hand was held out, palm out - a universal sign for stop and a somewhat less universal sign for Stop and Shut the Fuck Up. Now - and a tsking noise given.
“Ji-”
“What, didn’t hear me the first time? No.”
“Bu-”
“I don’t care.”
“You can’t-”
“Yes I can and I will. Because you know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna go sit your ass down, shut the hell up and you’re gonna let me decide what you’re ordering because apparently you don’t know shit about coffee. Now, I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you’re sick and that’s screwing with your head-”
“Vulcans do not get sick-achoo!-Jim.”
“Well apparently half-Vulcans do,” The barista shot back with a voice just as sardonic as the one Spock had thrown his way. His hips were still cocked to the side and his arms still crossed over his chest in that way that clearly said do not argue with me, you will lose.
Which was a shame and a slight waste of effort too, since Spock had never been great at deciphering human idiosyncrasies anyways. “Considering my physiology is primarily Vulcan it is illogical-achoo-illogical to think that-achoo-that my-achoo-my-achooachooachoo-my…” A pause that was emphasized by a shiver rang between them, before Spock looked down. “Very well.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Spock ignored the comment. He released a heavier than normal breath and even if Jim might’ve been right - perhaps sitting was for the best, as his balance slightly swayed too far to the side and it took grasping at a nearby chair to correct the error - that did not mean Spock had to necessarily acknowledge it. Not as his eyes fell closed and his legs curled up so he could sit cross-legged in his chair; a meager attempt at productivity. Meditation - even if only on a rudimentary level of Tiltra - was better than simply sitting there.
The low hum of the rarely used replicator, the baritone grinding of the always-used coffee grinder, the popping of the espresso maker, the thrum of the fridge and ticking of the oven and clanking of dishes and shifting of a person- the gentle background noises that flitted in and out of focus. They were somewhat reminiscent of tides gently brushing up against a shore; moving back and forth, in and out, to and fro. They were there and then they weren’t. Washing away like grains of sand then returning like waves of water.
His hands rested on his folded knees. His breaths came out in slow, steady puffs.
In and out. Concentrate. Focus. Humming in the background. Tranquility. Serenity.
“Achoo!”
Spock’s meditative state snapped in a second, any and all tranquility that might’ve been gained instantly slipping away as his body lurched forward from the force of the sneeze. His nose was beginning to run, uncomfortably so, and a pressure was now present in his nasal cavities that had not been there before. And that was not even mentioning the scratchiness in his throat leftover from that morning - which, if living with a human mother for over seventeen years had taught him anything, that was not a satisfactory sign.
“You’re cute when you’re put out, y’know?” Came a teasing voice from behind the counter. Jim was smirking widely, even though his eyes were trained on the latte setting on the counter and the needlepoint pin he was running along its surface.
“You have been commenting on my apparent ‘cuteness’ with alarming frequency, I ask that you correct this.”
Not of course that Jim acted like he was listening to begin with, which meant it was a lost cause anyways. Which probably wasn’t unusual, since it seemed to Spock that a lot of things were lost causes when it came to James T. Kirk. “Your Latte’s ready.”
Like the fact that Jim was almost innocently smiling at him from the register, elbows propped up against the counter and his head resting between his two curled up knuckles, and Spock simply knew that whatever it was Jim had done was also a lost cause. Or at least preventing it was. At this point, the easiest course of action was to simply stand and take the offered drink - which was exactly what he did.
Easier said than done, though, when Spock actually saw the drink. He had heard of it before, this odd phenomenon of latte art that dated back several hundreds of years, but he had never expected to be on the receiving end of it. Then again there were lots of things that Spock had never expected before James T. Kirk happened - like receiving a latte with a heart made of white milk at its center and the words Mi Amore written meticulously across it in something that looked suspiciously like chocolate. At least now Spock had an answer as to why Jim’s cheeks were slightly flushed red.
“Thank you, Jim,” He said after a long pause, pointedly ignoring anything out of the ordinary ad he picked up the drink with an inclination of his head; it was rude to deny a gift, after all. Especially…well, especially when it actually tasted good.
Spock took another sip; his conclusion still stood. The taste was almost overbearing to his sensitive palate, but not unpleasantly so. It was a rich mix of spices and sweetness that had him taking several larger than appropriate sips in a row.
“Well?”
“Most satisfactory.”
Instantly Jim’s smile bloomed into an excited grin and every ounce of tension fell from his shoulders in a second. His eyes were bright as he tilted his head to the side, “Really?”
“I do not believe I stuttered,” Spock managed to murmur in between sips, even if his voice didn’t carry its usual subtle condescension.
“No, you didn’t.”
By the time Spock was three quarters through the Latte and back to sitting at his original table, he felt considerably…better. Which was vague and not very accurate at all, but oddly appropriate considering the circumstances. His throat wasn’t so scratchy anymore and the box of tissues Jim had thrown his way hadn’t been used for at least thirty minutes. His head was lightly buzzing rather than pounding - a far better alternative, as far as the half-Vulcan was concerned - and he could actually talk without being interrupted by poorly timed sneezes. Then again that also could’ve been the hypospray Jim had also thrown his way; who really knew.
“Jim, what flavor latte did you give me?” Spock finally asked before taking another sip (gulp), his usual meticulous grace slightly dulled by….something.
Something which probably had to do with the fact that Kirk was grinning mischievously, an attribute which Spock failed to notice. Another correlating, and possibly concerning, fact. “Why, plannin’ on getting it again next time?”
“Per-achoo-haps.”
“It’s chocolate.”
Silence.
Or Silence from Spock, since Kirk was too busy snickering to himself to be anything near quiet. And…
“Oh.”
Spock was almost not surprised.
“That…that would explain…” Spock’s cheeks flushed green and he cocked his head to the side in a curious manner. His eyes were trained on Jim’s, “Thank you.”
Almost. He was almost not surprised.
- Part Two -