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It’s often slow at this time of night, especially with their sign still on the fritz and the new Tellarite place down the street. The redhead in a knockoff Starfleet uniform is the only one in the shop. She spent the entire time at the register flirting with Jim, but he promised his mother he’d stop picking up women older than her, and tonight he’s not in the mood for it. He pushes her blond Mrennenimus mocha across the counter, and she scoops it up with a wrinkled nose, like refusing to wink back at her has ruined her night. When she turns, she’s headed straight for the door, and Jim doesn’t bother to wait for her to make it out.
There’s an electronic bell on the door that lets him know when she’s gone, but he’s already turned around the metallic wall behind the counter, back into the kitchen. Tonight, it’s spotless, even with Jim on duty, because Spock cleans up all his messes. Somehow, even in this dead zone, Jim’s been waylaid through three customers, two of which were picky enough for three more each, so he’s had to put off doing this. Spock’s never been particularly jovial with customers, but he isn’t prone too hiding in the back either, and he’s been gone suspiciously long.
He’s sitting on a tall stool by the fire exit, his fluorescent blue apron still on and his grey toque pulled nearly to the neat line of his bangs, like it always is. The strange part is that his finger’s in his mouth. It’s the index one on his right hand, the left hand lying limply in his lap, the black turtleneck below his apron pulled nearly to his knuckles. His dark eyes dart up to Jim immediately.
Jim was about to complain—just because this is the slow hours doesn’t mean he can leave Jim alone on till all night—but that goes out the window when he realizes something’s wrong. He’s learned, over the five months they’ve worked together, that Spock’s emotions are subtle at best. He’s the only barista here that can read them. Even though Spock’s expression is blank, Jim asks, “What happened?”
Spock parts his bow lips to reply, and it forces his long finger to slip out, glistening with moisture on the end. Naturally, Jim glances at it, then back to Spock’s lips—Spock’s always been a distraction. “I cut my finger preparing sandwiches.” He says it stiffly, the sort of way that Bones would in defiance, daring Jim to question it. Jim doesn’t. He enjoys teasing Spock, relentlessly on some days, but he can tell that it’s not the right time, and he knows Spock must’ve had a very personal distraction to make such a mistake—he’s the most graceful, least-accident worker they have. When Jim doesn’t answer, Spock looks down at his hand, maybe just to avert Jim’s eye.
Jim takes one step back to glance around the wall, checking the front’s still empty, though the bell will tell him if it isn’t. He’s only got an hour or so before they close and Bones picks him up, anyway. And he’d meant to spend that hour with his favourite coworker. He’s learned more of Spock than anyone else, but there’s still so much to know, and Jim finds himself inexplicably drawn to Spock. He proves it now, crossing half the distance and muttering, “You’ve been back here for at least ten minutes...”
“I wanted to be sure there was no blood,” Spock answers simply. When Spock doesn’t immediately launch into a health and safety lecture, Jim knows something deeper is up
He comes the rest of the distance, until the toes of his shoes are touching the legs of the stool. Spock’s normally a little taller than him, but sitting down, Jim has that advantage. He reaches for Spock’s hand, fingers curling around Spock’s lithe wrist to turn it over. Then Jim’s palm cups the back of Spock’s hand, and Jim’s thumb brushes over the heel of it, coaxing him to extend his fingers wide for Jim to see.
There’s a tiny, pale sliver along the pad of Spock’s index finger. Jim concludes, “It’s just a paper cut,” and glances up to find a green tint swelling in Spock’s cheeks. It always does when Jim touches him. Jim’s a tactile sort of person, and he knows Spock isn’t, but Spock never pulls away from him and doesn’t now. He leaves his hand nestled warmly in Jim’s, forcing Jim to combat the blush on his own face. He mumbles, “We have sealant...”
“Those are meant for iron-based blood. I have checked, and since my hiring the company has evidently not seen fit to supply this branch with the proper copper-based product.”
A grin twitches at the edge of Jim’s mouth. That’s the Spock he knows and loves: way more answer than he needs. Bones will probably have something when he arrives—his paranoia leaves him with a medkit in his car. He always enjoys exercising his medical skills, even if he’ll scowl about it, especially at the ‘green-blooded hobgoblin’ that Jim never shuts up about and has effectively left him for, taking up every extra shift available when Spock’s scheduled.
In the meantime, Jim offers, “Just come out and greet the customers and keep me company. I’ll do all the actual orders.”
Spock shifts uncomfortably on his chair. He frowns, and somehow, Jim can discern the difference between that and the usual thin line Spock wears. The worst part is when Spock withdraws his hand, leaving Jim’s empty and strangely cold. Jim stands in place, waiting for an explanation, until Spock finally replies, “I would prefer if no one saw my blood.”
Confused, Jim asks, “Why not?”
Spock shifts again. Jim gets the distinct impression that if he were anyone else, Spock would either be refusing to talk or lying through his teeth, despite the Vulcan myth. For Jim, he admits, “Then they will know that I am Vulcan.”
Jim blinks and waits for more, but it doesn’t come. This explains, at least, why he always wears a toque to work. Somehow feeling both puzzled and like the guilty bearer of bad news, Jim says, “You’ve still got the cute, dorky haircut and the angled eyebrows: our regulars think you’re entirely Vulcan.”
Those dark brows draw together, and finally the Vulcan mask falls away, leaving Spock to look distinctly bothered. Why, Jim can’t imagine, not at first, but then his memories stir of conversations, private, hushed exchanges of their childhoods, when it’s just the two of them. It took Jim what felt like forever to earn that trust, though Spock’s admitted he’s never opened up to anyone so fast. Jim just hopes their five months continues on for a long, long time.
Because now he has insight, he understands, and he lays a hand on Spock’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. He says quietly, “This isn’t Vulcan. No one cares that you’re different. We have Andorian customers that’re blue, for goodness’ sakes.
“Approximately one in every two hundred and seventy-nine customers of this establishment is Andorian. Most are human. Very few are half-breeds. And less are dropouts of the Vulcan Science Academy.”
Jim just shrugs. “I’m a dropout of Starfleet Academy. Bones is on his second try at medical school. No one cares what opportunities we floundered; people just want coffee.”
Spock doesn’t look entirely convinced, but as usual, Jim’s chipped away at the displeasure behind his frown.
He’d say more, but the bell chimes before he can. It’s their signal to move, and he drops his hand down Spock’s arm to the left wrist, wrapping tightly around it. He squeezes Spock’s hand and leans forward to insist, “Look, there’s nothing wrong with your green blood, or being Vulcan, or being half Vulcan, or being a half Vulcan that rejected—don’t pull that dropout stuff on me, you already told me the truth last week—the Academy of Stuck-up Elitists. You’re ridiculously cute and incredibly handsome and everyone thinks so, and there’s nothing wrong with your pretty ears or eyebrows or haircut or copper-based biology. And anyway, you’re not even bleeding anymore. Now come out and keep me company before I die of loneliness.”
Spock’s face is thoroughly green again, but Jim tugs him off the stool before he can hide it. Then they head back to the front, where Jim’s favourite regular is waiting to laugh at them for being flushed and alone in the back together again, and Jim playfully tells Sulu to shut up and makes him his coffee.