Annoyance. Fascination. Exasperation. Spock knew that the emotions he was experiencing were a reflection of his human half, an echo of his lineage. But that didn’t make James Kirk any less than what he was, and what he was was a man who knew how to get under his skin.
"You sure you don’t want me to slip some hot chocolate in here?" the barista asked, winking at Spock. "Just a bit. To help loosen you up."
"Thank you, no," Spock replied with his usual neutral expression. "I’m on my way to work."
"Ditch," Jim responded as if it were painfully obvious. "You come here every day, and you always make sure I’m your barista. I refuse to believe that it’s coincidental, which means you’re looking for something." His grin widened and he winked. "Or someone."
Spock didn’t grace that with an emotional response. ”That is a ridiculous conclusion. Logic doesn’t - “
"We humans aren’t the most logical creatures, you may have noticed."
Spock let out a small huff of air. ”My usual, please, Mister Kirk.”
Jim rolled his eyes and chuckled. ”Sure, I’ll have Chekov bring it over as soon as it’s ready.”
Spock nodded and sat, waiting for his coffee and pastry and watching the people milling in and out. And also Jim at work. He tried to tell himself he was mostly people-watching, but in truth, he knew better than to lie to himself like that. Jim was intriguing. Something abut his confidence, his snarky surety, was strangely fascinating…even for a steadfast Vulcan with a respectable nine-to-five. He moved with a casual sort of effectiveness, working the machines and pouring everything as though it were second nature. Maybe it was; Spock didn’t know how long he’d had the job.
It wasn’t long before Chekov bustled over, bearing a to-go cup and bag, beaming like a curly-haired ray of Russian sunshine. He handed both articles over, looking almost sheepish as he glanced at the sides of each item that were facing him. ”Have a good morning, Mister Spock,” he said, his words thick with his homeland’s influence. Spock always liked that about Chekov; carrying the traces of one’s roots was nothing to be ashamed of. ”And, uh, feel free to ignore Mister Kirk’s…handiwork.”
"I beg your pardon?" Spock asked as he took them, but Chekov was already off to another customer, leaning over the table and laughing brightly as he delivered the man’s breakfast.
Spock turned the cup in his hand and saw what Chekov was referring to - there, in the bold black pen usually used to mark off the details of the coffee, was Jim’s contact info and a hastily scrawled ‘call me!’. Spock looked on the back of the pastry bag to find a list of date activities with the note ‘if interested in a date, please circle stuff you’d be interested in and return bag when convenient’. Spock raised an eyebrow. He was no stranger to romance, but flirty baristas weren’t exactly his field of expertise.
Spock made his way over to the counter, waited in line, then gave Jim the slightest quirk of an eyebrow when he came up to the softly glowing countertop. That sliver of emotion was enough to make Jim grin at him. ”Coffee too hot?” he asked innocently.
"None of these activities would interest me," Spock said plainly, handing back the bag after extracting his gespar scone. "I would, however, find great satisfaction in a trip to a museum of science or history."
Jim’s eyes lit up. ”I like science.”
"Good. Because I’m keeping the coffee cup."
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