"I cannot break that," Spock says.

Across the register, the man continues to hold out the hundred dollar bill he has already attempted to hand Spock twice.

"It's all I have," he says as if this changes anything - Spock's mind most especially, but moreover the fact of what his cash drawer contains.

"We accept credit cards," Spock says and again is offered the bill. "It is six fourteen in the morning and I cannot break a hundred."

"Can I speak with your manager?"

"I am the manager."

"It's, like, a two dollar drink."

"Which is why paying with a smaller denomination is necessary," Spock says. There is a dull throb behind his eyes. Insufficient sleep, though if Spock is honest - and he appreciates honesty even though honesty with himself can be, and often is, unnecessarily challenging - the scant hours he spent in his bed- spent in his bed asleep - are only one factor.

The others - other - Spock will not dwell on.

Nor does he look outside. Past the window, and the table set in front of it. It's empty. There is no need to continually turn his attention there.

"What about that? There's two dollars in there," the man says and when his chin points to the tip jar, Spock forces a slow breath in through his nose and out again.

This day is like so many others. Which is exactly and precisely the problem, a return to the normality of his life that he is sure he should be welcoming and instead is grinding at him already, when the morning rush has yet to even truly begin.

"That's not available to you," he says and then Nyota is there to gently elbow him to the side and offering "It's on me" to the man and returning his smile with one of her own that Spock knows is hardly genuine.

"You're having a day, aren't you," she says when she has deposited the medium coffee on the counter. She does not bother to make her words into a question and he does not bother to answer. She taps a roll of quarters against the side of the cash draw until it splits opens.

"I'm fine."

"Last night was something," she says. "Need a break?"

"No," Spock says. He is fine.

…

The cup handed to him is marked for a decaf sugar free non fat peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream.

The chocolate in the mocha and cream that is not whipped per se but forced through with nitrous oxide contain both sugar and fat, which is clearly stated on the menu and clearly… clear. Obvious.

So he does not point this out to the customer before him. Simply pours skim milk into a pitcher, pumps sugar-free peppermint syrup into a cup, and tamps decaf espresso into a portafilter with what is likely unnecessary force. He is tired. And therefore uncomfortable. He is not used to insufficient sleep and while the way to resolve such discomfort is by returning home at the end of his shift, that plan excepts the fact that he is certain the quiet of his apartment will only exacerbate the way the day drags at him.

He lets out a breath and turns on the steam wand. His shift is the same length as it always it. Soon, it will be over. He looks towards the window, and then focuses on the pitcher in front of him, the thermometer balanced against the rim only slowly registering a rise in temperature.

…

When the woman orders, Spock shakes his head. "No."

She smiles at him. Tips her head. "Please?"

"No."

"Last week, you did it."

Spock is certain - certain - it was not him who filled the order, and more over nearly entirely sure that nobody else in Jim's employment did either.

"Two shots of espresso on ice in a medium cup is not available," Spock says for he knows, and Jim knows, and the entirety of the rest of their staff knows, that it is a recipe for a long pour of milk from the jugs intended for cream in black coffee and thereby the completion of an iced latte, purchased for the price of a double espresso.

"In a small cup?" she asks and again Spock shakes his head.

Outside, sunshine is dappling the sidewalk, a shifting pattern as the breeze plays through tree branches.

…

"Um, so, do you guys do, like, lattes?" Jim asks and Spock, who has not been watching the door, does not smile. Behind him, McCoy rolls his eyes. Spock, who was not watching the door and now is not watching him, does not take in the slight shake to his head, nor how the collar of his shirt sits open at his throat, and certainly not the bag he sets on a chair.

Their eyes meet. Spock's cheeks threaten to heat and he knocks espresso grounds into the trash.

Jim braces his arms on the counter and leans forward and only then does Spock look up again.

"Can I get one at a hundred and thirty six degrees?" Jim asks. "With three sixteenths of an inch of foam, and one and a half shots of espresso, not two, not one?"

That, Spock can in fact do. "No," he says and Jim grins across the counter.

"Bones, one overly fancy drink? Yes?" Jim points over his shoulder. "Extra espresso for the good doctor - dear lord does he need it - and something delicious for yours truly." He holds up both hands, palms out. "And I've been informed that my head will be separated from my body and fed to me if I say anything, so you're safe."

Spock frowns and twists the cap off a gallon of milk. "That is not possible."

He makes Jim a dry cappuccino and adds three shots to McCoy's drink, not looking up to take in how he leans forward across the counter to see what Spock is doing. His morning stubble is gone and he smells like clean soap. Spock had washed his face in the bathroom sink and combed his fingers through his hair and avoided - assiduously - Nyota's attempts to tell him he looks nice having not shaved.

"Is that hard?" McCoy asks as Spock pours a perfect tulip.

"Download the app," Spock says and hands the mug over and he had kissed McCoy just there on his jaw only hours ago.

"Enough downloads and maybe you can upgrade your mattress," McCoy says, his voice low. Spock wonders if he napped. If he had the chance to do so, and if he did, in that bed in his hotel room. "How do you sleep on that every night?"

"Quite well, thank you," Spock says and Nyota hands him a new cup - macchiato with a splash of milk and extra foam - and he pretends he does not know that she is listening.

…

"Bones," Jim says and reaches without standing from his chair for the two drinks Spock places on the counter for them - numbers five and six and how anyone needs so much caffeine Spock does not and likely will never know. The motion causes Jim's shirt to rise from his waistband and across the cafe, he garners the attention of more than one patron, female and otherwise.

Nyota shakes her head over the bagel she is slicing.

"Bones," Jim says again and Spock eyes the traverse of the cups to Jim and McCoy's table. He does not especially enjoy mopping. "I have a track record of convincing people to move here."

"Jim…"

"You know you want to."

"I have a kid."

Jim takes a long sip of his cappuccino and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "We'll send you back on weekends and every other Wednesday."

McCoy rubs his face into his hand. Spock is not listening - he is working.

"Didn't even get that," McCoy says into his palm.

"I'm sorry," Jim says.

"Yeah." McCoy continues to speak into his hand, now digging his fingers into the bridge of his nose. "Me too."

Spock pulls a carton of soy milk out of the refrigerator and pours ten ounces into a pitcher. When he looks up again, a blonde woman has dropped a napkin on Jim and McCoy's table and with a smile, is making for the door.

"Thanks." Jim grins at her retreating back. Even from behind the counter, ten digits are visible.

"How do you know that's for you, Jim?" Nyota calls from the register.

Spock should not listen. Is not listening. And should not, but does, care. He raises a pitcher of soy milk to the steam wand and turns it on.

"Keep it," McCoy says and shoves the napkin towards Jim. "Good God, Jim, really?"

"We have a plenty of sick people here. And hospitals. Lots of them. I'm just saying, I give you a month, tops. You're not even- see?" Jim asks and waves his coffee towards McCoy in what is a very precarious motion considering the fullness and temperature of the liquid within. "You're not even arguing."

"Arguing with you is never worth it," McCoy says and Spock is not listening but he does very much agree.

"Cause you know and I know you'll be out here." Jim takes a sip. "We'll see how long it takes you to admit that."

Spock looks up from the pitcher of milk in his hand and finds McCoy watching him. McCoy quickly looks away. Spock is working. He does as well.

"Shut it, Jim," McCoy says.

…

Jim gives McCoy directions to the BART station and McCoy does not say that he already knows. Nyota leans over the counter and kisses his cheek and McCoy squeezes her shoulder. Sulu waves a hand towards him and McCoy holds his out to shake. Spock nods at him and pulls a double shot of espresso for exactly twenty five seconds. He is working and could he, he would step out the back for a moment - Jim is the manager and Spock in theory only assists but in all practicality does entirely more than that - but to do so is beyond him. Spock does little - nothing - with ease and the door jingles behind McCoy as Spock taps a pitcher of milk against the counter until the foam rises through it, bubbles bursting up into the air they meet.

They said goodbye. At the corner just that morning, just there where McCoy now crosses the street and then is gone from Spock's view of him through the windows.

He picks up a mug. In the stillness of few customers and the relative peace of Nyota counting out fives, Sulu wiping the counter, and Jim retreating to the back room, his phone in his hand, Spock stands over the pitcher of milk, the espresso in the bottom of the mug, and the next drinks lined up for him to make. He takes a breath and lets it out. The drinks are still there, Nyota is still counting, and Sulu wrings his rag over the sink. Again, Spock taps the pitcher against the counter and carefully pours yet one more latte, hardly the last he will do today.

…

After his shift and before yoga, Spock's habit on nights that he has not already sought out diversions in apartments and hotel rooms across the city - and this is very much not one of those nights - is to walk through one of San Francisco's many parks, his jacket zipped to his chin. To combat nature deficit syndrome, he had told Jim once to see if it would make him laugh, but in all practicality to walk in the city's green parks is in some small way similar to the grass lawn behind the home he grew up in and this he will not tell others. So it is his tendency to walk and as he does, he flicks through images of men he could spend his evening - part of his evening, as he has yoga at seven thirty - with. It is routine. Customary nearly, and odd to make his way through the park without such a practiced distraction.

He is used to this. It is, for what it is worth and Spock is not always sure what the summation of parts might amount to, his life, and a fine one at that, with the word's many and varied definitions. To return to this form of normalcy now should be simple at least, and at best natural. A form of pattern to his days and weeks that he has relied on for so long as to be second nature. He tugs the zipper pull higher and tucks his free hand into his pocket.

In his palm, his phone buzzes. The airport coffee is complete shit.

A block passes as he walks. A dog catches a frisbee and Spock's thumb hovers over the keypad.

It's a red eye, he finally types. You're supposed to sleep. He pauses. Considers. He should not do this. Continue this. I would recommend decaf, he adds.

I'm deleting this goddamn app if that's what I get.

Cold begins to course through Spock. A chill that has been kept at bay and now threatens to swamp him. Of course. He does not flirt. This… of course this is where an attempt, any attempt would lead.

That's a hint to give me your number, you mensa grade idiot, before its one more thing I have to get out of uhura.

It's, Spock types. A squirrel darts by.

That's real typical, isn't it, McCoy's message reads and Spock takes a breath and sends his number.

His mouth is dry. Call then, he writes.

On his screen, a number from Atlanta, Georgia. Calling from SFO in all actuality.

This is unknown to him. To persist onwards with someone. To even want to.

Spock does not let his phone ring more than once. He slides his thumb across the screen and answers.

…

The End