A/N: So, I always meant to write two coffee shop AUs - one with Dean as the barista, and one with Roman as the barista. This the Roman one. It's... I don't even know, honestly. Silly. I hope you enjoy it. Also, lots of science fiction references in here. So. Yeah. Enjoy.

A Cupful of Stars

If anyone had told Roman Reigns in high school that he'd spend his junior year in college working at Starbucks every weekday morning from five am to ten-thirty, he probably would have laughed.

He always figured if he did have to get a job in college, it would be something like putting furniture together at a warehouse or maybe unloading trucks at a department store - something physical that suited his size and strength.

Even after he lost the extra forty pounds he'd been carrying for football, he was still a big dude. The few times in his life he ever imagined trying to work in a narrow fast food kitchen or behind the crowded counter of a coffee shop, he always figured it'd be about like the times he had sat perched awkwardly in his little cousin's tiny chairs while they had tiny tea parties.

It was just something he didn't think he was built for.

Trouble was, the economy back home went sour, and Roman's dad's construction company got hit pretty hard. Mom quietly pulled Roman aside during the summer between sophomore and junior years, and told him they probably wouldn't be able to send him any extra money for food or "goofing around."

She'd sounded like she was about to cry when she said he might need to get a job to help out.

Roman assured her it was no big deal.

At twenty, he was a grown-ass man now, and as a grown-ass man, he'd find a way to handle college and a job.

It ended up being the coffee shop because nothing else Roman found a.) was very close to campus, b.) left his weekends free; c.) had openings for the shift that actually fit with his class schedule; d.) was hiring for immediate start.

So a green apron it was.

And, yeah, working in that cramped space behind the counter really was like having tea parties at his cousin's tiny table.

For the first two weeks, it felt like all he did was bump into his co-workers, knock things over with his bull-in-a-china-shop hands, and leave his damn feet out for people to drop things on and trip over. He felt ridiculous, like he was too big and in-the-way. Stupid, too, because no matter how many times his co-worker Seth told him, he couldn't remember if it was the Americano or the Macchiato that got the shot of foam.

Since this particular coffee shop was fairly close to campus and one of the few on the way to downtown that had a drive-thru, it stayed busy Roman's entire shift. It made the morning fly by, for sure, but it was also draining as hell - especially times when he saw the line of college kids and business people and elderly folk with nothing better to do snaking its way out the damn door.

(The place was nice in that kind of bland-wood-and-clean-chrome way all the stores in the chain were, but it was too small for the amount of traffic it saw.)

There were four of them working at any given time: one on the drive-thru (usually a nice little dude named Daniel), two on the counter (Roman and this real intense guy named Seth), and the bubbly assistant manager Bayley, who helped out wherever they were the most overrun.

To Roman's surprise, he didn't actually hate it.

Yeah, dealing with impatient, cranky assholes first thing in the morning got old real quick, and he wasn't real fond of the way the coffee smell clung to his clothes and his hair, but on the whole, nothing was really that bad. The coffee smell never really went away, but he guessed it was better than cigarettes. He got used to having little burns and cuts on his hands. And for every asshole customer, there were a dozen good ones. Once he started learning their names and how they liked their drinks, he noticed his tip jar filling up a lot faster.

The job didn't hurt his grades at all, and having his weekends free meant he had plenty of time for a life, so when Bayley asked him at the end of the semester if she could count on him to come back, he said sure.

While they all hated it when customers came up to the counter yapping on their damn cell phones, each of Roman's co-workers also had a particular pet peeve:

Bayley's was customers who stared at her while she made their drinks.

Seth hated it when customers took forever to decide what they wanted - especially when there were a dozen people in line behind them.

It bothered Daniel when people just barked their orders at him when he asked them how they were.

And for Roman, maybe it was a little petty, but he just found it annoying when customers didn't take their damn sunglasses off inside.

Really annoying.

What Roman remembered most clearly about that morning in particular was that the sky was so clouded-over outside that it barely felt like daytime.

It was the kind of day that had a lot of regulars shuffling into the shop moody and quiet, or grumbling about the ice storm they were supposed to be getting later.

What it was not was a day where sunglasses were necessary.

So when an unkempt dude in a battered leather jacket and mirrored wrap-around shades swaggered up to the counter, it set Roman's teeth on edge.

Dude smelled like mint gum and stale cigarettes, and sounded like he had a throat full of gravel when he ordered, "Just a plain coffee. Large or Venti or whatever. Nothin' in it."

Honestly, the guy didn't look like much: old wash-faded shirt and hoodie under the jacket, ripped jeans, a couple days' stubble, and brown hair that spilled over his forehead in uncombed, frizzy little curls.

And those douchey sunglasses, which were even sitting a little crooked.

Could've been any just-rolled-out-of-bed college kid.

Roman barely spared him a second look as he tapped the order into the register. "And the name on the cup?"

Dude snapped his gum obnoxiously, chewed it obnoxiously, said obnoxiously, "Luke Skywalker."

It was all Roman could do not to roll his eyes.

Never failed.

At least once a shift, somebody wanted a famous name on their cup. Mostly because they wanted to hear a barista call out, "Tall caramel macchiato for Justin Bieber!" or "Grande decaf soy latte for Harry Styles!"

Because it tended to cause a lot of rubbernecking, gawking, and people crowding the counter area, Roman wasn't a fan. The area behind the counter was cramped as it was, and that many people turning to stare on the infinitesimal chance the Harry Styles or Justin Bieber had wandered into this Starbucks just made it seem that much more claustrophobic.

And since this guy hadn't bothered to take his shades off, Roman didn't feel particularly motivated to play along. So after he took a crumpled five dollar bill and handed the change back, he grabbed a Venti cup and just scribbled Luke on it.

At least it was an easy order.

It took all him of ten seconds to fill the cup and snap a lid on. "Here, Luke."

'Luke' took the cup and spun it around. "Hey!" he protested straight away. "You didn't write the whole thing on there. I need - I need this to say 'Luke Skywalker,' man. C'mon." He dug a dollar bill out of his pocket, and held it and the cup back out. "It's important."

Important?

Roman had the most irrational urge to slap those damn sunglasses off the guy's face.

There were ten people in line now, and Roman could practically see the resentment daggers they were hurling at the douchebag in shades.

Who was just standing there like a stubborn jackass and who clearly didn't plan to move until he got his way.

Unfortunately.

So Roman grit his teeth, grabbed the cup, and scribbled the world's sloppiest Skywalker on there. It was basically an S followed by a squiggle. "There."

The guy grabbed the cup out of Roman's hand, turned, and walked out without another word.

Not even a 'thanks.'

Roman bit back the urge to yell, You're welcome, asshole! after him. Instead, he dropped the dollar into his tip jar, plastered on a smile, and turned to the next customer - a regular - with a quiet, "Good morning, Mr. Robinson. Your usual today?"

That was a Friday, and over the course of a weekend during which got shitfaced with his old roommate and a few friends, went to see Deadpool for the third time, blew off doing any of his reading for Monday, and managed to sprain his ankle stumbling over one of his shoes in the dark, he forgot all about the dude in shades.

Monday morning at work sucked.

Some days were like that.

While his ankle hollered away him, he managed to knock over one of Seth's orders, got two of his regulars' orders mixed up, and scalded the back of his hand

So when he looked up and caught sight of that sunglasses-wearing scruffball fidgeting in line, it was like the black cloud over his head opened up and started pouring.

Like Friday, it was cloudy outside. No sun. No need for shades.

Roman half-hoped things would work out so Seth got that guy today, but no such luck. Turned out all three customers ahead of the scruffball were together, and, of course, Seth got to them first.

Which left Roman to stand there gritting his teeth as the guy swaggered up to the counter. Off-kilter mirrored shades reflected the area behind Roman in a weirdly warped way. Same battered leather jacket. Hell, it might have even been the same wash-faded black shirt underneath, for all Roman knew.

Sure as hell hadn't shaved since the last time he'd been in here.

"Regular coffee," he said before Roman could force out a greeting. "Venti. Nothin' in it."

Roman's ankle throbbed. "Luke Skywalker on the cup?"

Guy shook his head, snapped his gum. He set two dollars and a quarter on the counter, and fed another dollar into Roman's tip jar. "James T. Kirk. The whole thing, okay? It's important."

Of course it was important.

Roman rolled his eyes, but ended up scribbling out something that vaguely resembled James T. Kirk, just because he could hear how frazzled Seth sounded, could see the line of customers snaking out the door. The faster he got this dude his damn coffee and out of here, the better.

"Here, Captain," he said brusquely, shoving steaming cup at the douchewad. Took every ounce of everything he possessed not to add, Now beam your ass outta here.

Maybe it showed on his face or something, because a corner of the guy's mouth quirked into an annoying little smirk, and he saluted Roman with the cup on his way out the door.

Still no 'thanks'.

Douchewad.

Roman shifted his weight off of his screaming ankle, and turned to the pair of businessmen waiting in line. "Good morning, fellas," he sighed. "What can I get you this morning?"

As a teenager, Roman fell in love with the idea of helping people.

On more than one occasion, he used his size to help scare bullies away from smaller kids.

It was a good feeling.

What really tipped the scales for him, though, was hearing his cousin Dwayne and his uncle Afa swapping stories about the lowlifes and assholes they dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Both were detectives - Dwayne with narcotics, and Afa with robbery - and the kind of people they described made Roman want to follow them into law enforcement just for the chance to do something about it.

If he could stop one lowlife, if he could help one person have a better life, then it'd be worth it.

Telling his parents that had ended up being a million times harder than telling them he was gay.

He knew it would be.

The other thing he had as a teenager, aside from the desire to help people, was a talent for football.

He practiced pretty much nonstop once he started playing Pop Warner football at eleven, and it paid off. In high school, he was the only sophomore to make the varsity team and the only sophomore to make the All State team. He seemed to just have a knack for being in the right place and the right time to shut down the other teams' offenses.

Roman's old man loved to brag that his junior-in-high-school son already had big-name colleges fighting over him.

It sucked.

In a lot of ways, Roman felt like he was being groomed to live out someone else's dreams.

Which would have been fine if he had the same all-consuming love for the game that his dad did, but the reality was Roman just didn't. He liked football, and had fun playing it, but he got burnt out on the endless hours of practice and drills and going over plays until he saw Xs and Os in his sleep.

The thought of another four years of playing - and more beyond - just made him tired.

When he finally worked up the nerve to talk to his parents about it, his old man called him a damn fool for wanting to walk away from the chance to be a football star. They fought like crazy, with Roman finally snapping that he didn't care about being rich or famous, that all he wanted was a to work a job where he could make a real difference to people.

His dad told him he was being naive, and stomped off.

For months afterward, going home felt like walking onto a damn battlefield.

Roman couldn't go a week without his dad jumping on him about the football thing, and it invariably turned into the same argument over and over again.

Yeah, okay, maybe he was being a little naive (Dwayne told him being a detective wasn't anywhere near as glamorous as the movies made it look, and that he'd better get "damn comfortable" doing paperwork), and yeah, maybe he would regret leaving football behind, but it was his damn life, and he was damned if he was going to follow a path someone else set out for him.

He found a less expensive state college that had a good criminal justice program, worked hard his senior year to boost his grades, and scraped together enough small academic scholarships and financial aid that he didn't need much from his parents beyond the extra food and "goof around" money.

Money which he was now working for.

Two and a half years later, things were still pretty strained between him and his old man, but Roman honestly couldn't say he regretted his decision.

College had been a hell of a lot of fun so far.

In between work and studying, he still found time to take Dwyane's advice and live a little. He wasn't a huge party guy, but he had fun hanging out drinking with his friends, had a chance to go out with a few guys, and really just got to do all the things he missed out on in high school.

And as tired as he got of feeling like a giant guy in a tiny clown car at the coffee shop, as tired as he got of dealing with rude assholes, the one thing he could say for the job was that it was teaching him how to be patient with people.

Most people.

Most people who didn't leave their damn shades on when they came up to his counter, at least.

Much to his irritation, the douchewad became a regular.

And much to his further irritation, somehow, he was always the one who ended up serving the guy.

Seth and Bayley never, ever got him.

He came in every morning between seven thirty and seven forty, always in that dusty-ass leather jacket, and some wash-faded tee shirt, hoodie, and old jeans that looked like they were about two broken threads away from disintegrating. Even on mornings when it was cold as hell out, that was all he ever wore. More days than not, he didn't bother to shave. And his hair looked like it had never met a comb in its life, the way it curled wherever it wanted to.

Always the damn sunglasses.

Always.

And he wouldn't ever stand still, either. It was so damn annoying for Roman to catch movement out of the corner of his eye, only to realize it was that damn guy swaying his shoulders or bobbing his head or bouncing on his toes. Didn't even seem to care if he was bothering the customers around him, either, which just figured.

Everything about the guy just seemed designed to be extra obnoxious.

From the way he snapped his gum to the way he could never put his stupid shades on straight, everything about him just made Roman want to punch him.

Got to the point after a couple weeks that Roman just grabbed a Venti cup and said, "What's the name today?" by way of greeting.

The guy would set his money on the counter, stuff a buck into Roman's tip jar, and say the name.

What he didn't say was 'please' when he told Roman the name, or 'thank you' when Roman handed the coffee over. He just took it and left.

On his way out, sometimes he'd salute Roman with the cup, but always with that obnoxious damn smirk.

It was never the same name twice.

And weirdly they always seemed to be related to science fiction.

Darth Vader.

Mr. Spock.

("Be sure it's Mr. Spock," Douchewad said. Snapping his gum. Just to spite him, Roman scribbled something completely illegible on the cup. It was probably fuck you.)

For a few days running, Roman didn't actually recognize the names:

Isaac Asimov.

(Douchewad had the audacity to huff when Roman asked him how to spell Asimov. But Roman shut that shit down with, "You'd bitch if I spelled it wrong - you know it." To which Doucewad replied, douchily, "Like I can really read your squiggles anyway. Your handwriting is worse than mine. But it's A-S-I-M-O-V."

It was the closest Roman had ever come to flipping a customer off.)

Rick Deckard.

Roy Batty.

Philip K. Dick.

Extra, dragging emphasis on the Dick, of course. Douchewad shrugged at the look Roman gave him, and then said, completely nonsensically, "'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep'?"

Roman blinked, hand frozen on the "K." "What?"

Douchewad inclined his head. Almost made his shades look like they were on straight. "Blade Runner? It's an 80s movie. Harrison Ford was Deckard. Rutger Hauer was Roy Battty. 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep' is the short story it's based on. Philip K. Dick was the writer."

"Oh," was about all Roman could say. He hurriedly finished filling scribbling the name, filled cup, and passed it over. "Never heard of it."

"Mm." Douchewad grabbed his coffee, and turned to leave. "'S a cool movie."

If Roman Googled Blade Runner that night, it was just because he was bored out of his mind. He'd finished all his homework early, had cleaned his dorm room, and it was too early to go to bed. And if he ended up downloading the movie off of iTunes and watching it, it was just because everything he read about it said it was pretty fantastic.

And it was.

Dammit.

Not that he ever mentioned that.

One of the many things Roman enjoyed about college was how it finally gave him the opportunity to be open about being gay.

His family knew, of course, and it'd surprised him just how cool they were about it.

All his dad ever said was, "You can't help who you like. Just be careful."

That was it.

Just be careful.

Even so, Roman never came out to anyone on his high school football team.

It wasn't that anyone on the team was really all that homophobic. Aside from one or two guys who liked to use the word "faggot" a lot, it wasn't something that came up much in the locker room. Most of the time, everybody talked about practice or whatever team they were playing next. Sometimes on the bus, guys would bullshit about their girlfriends or whatever chicks they were "banging," but nobody gave Roman a hard time when he kept to himself about that.

He figured it'd just make things weird for everybody if he told them, so he never bothered.

In college, though, there was no need to hide it.

Never really made a big deal about it, either.

Just kind of was.

In his two-and-a-half years of college so far, he'd hooked up with a few guys, actually gone out with a few more, and had his heart broken pretty bad by one last August.

He'd been dating Cody for seven months, and had fallen pretty hard when, out of the blue, Cody texted him and said it was over. Apparently Cody had gotten back together with his ex at some point - while he and Roman were still going out.

Having boiling hot coffee spilled all over on his leg hurt less than that.

Five months later, he was mostly over it, but still shied away from the idea of dating anyone. He really wanted to focus on his classes and his job - not to be distracted with a damn relationship.

Hook-ups were fine, though.

Not that he vain about it or anything, but Roman was aware that he was a pretty good-looking dude.

Every so often, he discovered phone numbers stuffed into his little tip jar.

Mostly from ladies.

Which, funnily enough, was how he'd come out to his coworkers:

About three weeks into his stint at Starbucks, a pretty, sweet girl he vaguely recognized from one of his classes stuck her change and a piece of paper into his tip jar.

Seth had seen it, and, in the lull at the end of their shift, had dug the paper out. "Sarah Kelly," he'd read, grinning. "Oh ho, look at this! Roman got his first phone number!"

Daniel and Bayley had looked up from their cleaning, and it was Bayley who said, "Oooh. Nice. You gonna call her, Roman?"

Roman, mopping some of the milk he'd spilled by his register, shook his head. "Don't think so. Not my type."

"What is your type?" Seth had asked.

"Guys," Roman had shrugged. He didn't look up. "Other than that, I don't really have one."

There'd been just a beat of awkward silence before Seth'd said, "Oh, okay. Cool. Hey, do you think she'd be weirded out if I called her instead? She was hot. That wouldn't be weird, wouldn't it?"

And other than Bayley asking if Roman had a boyfriend, that was it.

He liked his coworkers a whole lot.

Except when they felt the need to tease him about the phone numbers and when customers flirted with him.

Then they were just jerks.

January rolled on into February, and nothing much changed.

Every morning like clockwork, Douchewad bopped in for his coffee.

And every single time Roman got him.

It was like he was doing it on purpose.

He'd walk up to the counter, get out his money, and just say a name:

"Han Solo."

"Fox Mulder."

"ET."

"Captain Sisko."

"Ellen Ripley."

"Dana Scully."

"Scarecrow."

Every day a dollar in the tip jar, and never a please or thank you in sight.

Every damn day the same old leather jacket, the same sloppy style of dressing (although Roman did notice some newer shirts and jeans didn't look quite so ready to fall apart sneak into the rotation), same never-combed hair, same haphazard shaving schedule.

Every damn day the doucheglasses and the gum-snapping and the fidgeting, and no damn explanation why those particular names on his cups.

About drove Roman crazy.

To get some back, he started to try to think of ways to take digs at the guy based on whatever name happened to be on the cup that day:

On Han Solo day, it was, "Here's your coffee, ya scruffy-looking Nerf herder."

Douchewad smiled that obnoxious little smile. "Who's scruffy-looking?"

On Fox Mulder day: "Here, Spooky. Now buzz off and go chase some aliens."

Douchewad snorted, saluted Roman with the coffee cup. "Truth's out there, ya know."

On ET day: "Here. Phone yourself the hell on outta here."

Douchewad tipped his head a little to one side, and deadpanned, "Ouch."

Roman shot him a smug little grin of his own and turned away.

On Scarecrow day, it was, "Off to see the wizard there, Scarecrow? Gonna get you a brain?"

That day, Douchewad's smile wasn't as sharp as it usually was. There was actually a hint of dimples in it. "We both know you're the one who needs the brain. Besides which, I'm the Tin Man."

"Whatever, Tin Man." Roman passed over the coffee. "You just follow that yellow brick road on out the door."

Which pulled a quiet laugh out of Douchewad. More than a hint of dimples, too. Roman felt weirdly proud of himself for that.

Like he'd finally one-upped the bastard.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Seth laughing quietly.

Later, during the ten o'clock lull, they took a few minutes to police the table area. There were only a couple college kids hanging around, so Roman asked, "What were you laughing at earlier, anyway?"

Seth just shook his head. He grabbed a wadded mass of napkins somebody'd thrown under a table. "What is it you call that guy? Doucheface?"

"Douchewad. Why?"

"I thought you didn't like him."

"I don't," Roman said, scrubbing some dried coffee off the edge of a table. "He's a jackass. Who the hell asks for damn Han Solo or Fox Mulder on a coffee cup?"

"Somebody who likes science fiction?" Seth suggested. Like it was no big deal. He straightened a chair. "You ever try asking him? Seems like the thing to do if you really want to know."

"I don't want to know," Roman said immediately. "I don't care."

"Then why make a big deal about it?" Seth asked. "It's just a name, right? So what's with the 'Gonna go find your brain, Scarecrow?' stuff?"

Roman scowled at the table, swiped a piece of pastry off of it. "'Cuz he's a jackass," he said again. "It's rude not to take your shades off inside. And did you hear him insult my handwriting last week?"

There was a pause before Seth said, "I mean, no offense, Rome, but you do kinda have terrible handwriting. I have a hard time reading the stuff you write sometimes."

"Hey, he asks me to write those stupid names on the cup, and I do." Roman hunkered down to wipe off a chair, annoyed at himself for sounding defensive. "He's got no room to complain how I write them - not when he has no damn manners. And so what if I mess around with him a little? He deserves it. Guy's a douchebag."

"Uh-huh." Seth cleared his throat. "I've noticed he is a pretty good customer. Doesn't dick around in line. Easy order. Quick in and out. If he bothers you that much, why don't you let me take him tomorrow-"

"No!" The word exploded out of Roman's mouth so fast and so loud it was actually embarrassing. He knocked the the chair over when he stood up, and felt his face heat up as he bent to straighten it.

Seth busted out laughing like a jackass, and the few customers in the shop turned to look at him.

"Shut up, Waluigi," Roman grumbled. "It's not funny. And don't worry about it. I can handle that guy."

"You wanna keep flirting, you mean," Seth said between guffaws.

"Hey!" Roman spluttered, outraged. "Dammit, Seth, I'm not flirting with that guy. I don't even like him."

He didn't.

Did not.

Insulting him was just a tiny diversion to break up the monotony of the day - and that was all.

But Seth just laughed.

He was an asshole too, sometimes.

For no particular reason, Roman used episodes of the original Star Trek as background noise when he studied over the next couple weeks.

It just seemed like the thing to do.

He'd always kind of dug science fiction - not in a real hardcore kind of way, but more in a casual it's cool to think about the possibilities kind of way.

Like with Star Trek, it was kind of cool to imagine a future where humanity had gotten its shit together, and was more concerned with exploring the universe around it than it was with the kind of stupid, petty bullshit that, in reality, often threatened to tear it the hell apart.

Or Star Wars, where it was really cool to think about people making a stand and putting an end to an evil empire.

Or, hell, even something like The Matrix, which was just a giant, unsettling what if.

It wasn't something Roman ever really spent a lot of time on, but every now and again, it was really cool to sit down with something that made him think just a little more.

One weekend, he hooked up with a guy he'd slept with a couple times before.

Afterward, they started to watch one of the old Star Wars movies, but Roman shut it off after about after about ten minutes.

It didn't feel right.

He ended up watching all three of the original Star Wars movies by himself the next day.

Over the next few weeks, he put X-Files episodes on in the background while he worked, and then switched over to Star Trek: The Next Generation.

No real rhyme or reason to it. This was the first year he had a dorm room to himself, and while it was nice to be able to just spread out and do his own thing, it got pretty quiet up there sometimes. Having a show on in the background, that at least gave him something else to focus on.

One thing he absolutely, positively did not do was flirt with Douchewad at work.

He insulted Douchewad.

He definitely didn't notice the day douchewad walked in finally having gotten his shaggy-ass hair cut. Or that there seemed to be way more days than not lately where Douchewad shaved. Or that more often than not, it was the smile with dimples instead of the sharp one. Or that Douchewad actually played along with the insults.

All Roman noticed was that Douchewad was Douchewad.

No please or thank you. Gum snapping. Fidgety asshole. Stale leather jacket.

Total jackass.

Midterms rolled around way too soon, and sank their teeth into Roman's ass like a pack of rabid dogs.

He spent a solid week cramming so hard that by the end he felt like he had criminology terms, crime theory, legal definitions, and statistics oozing out of out every pore of him.

Whenever he wiped sweat off his face, it surprised him there weren't numbers or letters in it.

The worst part was that every professor - including his traitor-ass Statistics professor - promised there'd be essay questions on the exams.

Roman hated essay questions.

When he had time to write an essay, he did just fine. Give him the time and space to be himself, to figure out how to say exactly what he wanted to, and that was no problem.

Under an in-class test's time constraints, though, man, his brain turned to jelly. The words didn't flow, his writing sounded stiff and awkward to him, and he was pretty sure half of what he wrote didn't even make any sense anyway. Coming up with stuff on the fly just wasn't his strong suit.

He really wanted to keep his B average, but there were a couple classes that a bad grade would hurt.

It was stressful.

That, and it during midterm week, seemed like everybody and their dog felt the need to cram into Starbucks every morning.

Monday, he was too distracted to try to think of anything to say to Douchewad when the guy asked for Alf on his cup.

Tuesday, Roman frantically filled orders and dedicated every other spare brain cell to trying to remember the Criminal Theory concepts he'd be tested on later that afternoon. He barely looked up when Douchewad snapped his gum and asked for Mr. Sulu.

Roman didn't have time to feel bad that Douchewad seemed disappointed not to be insulted.

Twenty minutes later, an out-of-breath blue-eyed dude walked up to the counter, and said, "I needed Chekov today - not Mr. Sulu. I'm an idiot. Could I get another one?"

Roman stared at him, lost, until it finally clicked who this was. On autopilot, he grabbed a Venti cup and scribbled Chekov on it. It took a couple seconds longer than it should have, probably, because he kept peeking at Douchewad over the top.

"I got it mixed up," Douchewad said sheepishly, stuffing another dollar into the tip jar. "Some stupid reason, I thought Sulu was the navigator. But that was actually Chekov in the original. Sulu was the helmsman. The was also the swordsman. And of course I dropped the other cup, so…"

"It's fine," Roman said. If he hadn't been so caught on how he could actually see Douchewad's whole face, on the clear blue of the guy's eyes, he probably would have told the guy he didn't need to justify himself. Or at least maybe asked what the hell the deal was.

But Douchewad was looking at him pretty closely, too, all of a sudden, and that was distracting.

"Are those contacts?" Douchewad suddenly blurted, forehead furrowed.

"What?" Roman asked. He hissed softly when he accidentally touched the hot carafe instead of its handle.

"Your eyes," Douchewad clarified as Roman shook out his hand. "They're really, like, gray. I was just wondering if that was contacts, or…?"

"Yes." Roman found the coffee pot's handle this time, got the cup filled, and snapped a lid on it. "Why?"

"I dunno," Douchewad shrugged. "It's cool. Just never noticed before."

With that, he grabbed his coffee and swaggered off, leaving a flabbergasted Roman to call after him, "Try not wearing your shades all the time, then!" Under his breath, he added, "Jackass."

Seth laughing by the sink drew Roman's attention back to the cramped counter area and the crush of customers. "What's so funny, Rollins?"

"God, how oblivious are you, anyway?" Seth cackled. "Wow."

"Shut up." It was way too hot back here suddenly. He swerved around and smiled distractedly at the woman waiting at the register. "Good morning, AJ. Your usual?"

Seth kept laughing throughout the entire morning, but things never slowed down enough for Roman to ask.

It wasn't until later, after he slumped away from his bitch of a Criminal Theory midterm that Roman even remembered to kick himself for not agreeing when Douchewad called himself an idiot.

What kind of a jackass asked about somebody's eye color, anyway?

(Was kinda nice to see him without the shades, some very, very deep - traitor - part of him couldn't help admitting. He shut that down so damn fast it made his head spin.)

Try as he might, though, he couldn't seem to get that stupid conversation out of his head.

Roman resolved to just let the whole thing go the next morning.

Ignoring things that made him that damn uneasy had always worked as a strategy in the past. That, and he couldn't actually see himself just casually asking the guy, "Why the hell did you say that about my eyes?" in front of like ten or twelve customers without spontaneously combusting with embarrassment.

No, like what the hell 2001: A Space Odyssey was really all about, this was one of those things he was probably just gonna have to accept he'd never know.

He didn't need to know.

Douchewad was back in the crooked doucheglasses, anyway, when he swaggered up to the counter in that now-familiar wash of leather and mint and old cigarettes. He shook damp, uncombed hair off his forehead and offered Roman that damn dimpled smile. "Morning," he said. "Starbuck."

Roman's hand froze halfway to the cup. "Excuse me?"

"I swear I'm not trying to be a smart-ass," Douchewad said, chuckling. He slipped a dollar into the tip jar. "I need 'Starbuck' on the cup today. Battlestar Galactica? Kara Thrace. Well." He wrinkled his nose. "Moby Dick, actually. He was the first mate. But that's - uh, not important. 'Starbuck' is important."

"...okay," Roman said. God, this guy was weird. Also off-putting. Those damn shades. And maybe it because he was a little annoyed because they were back - dammit - that he added, a little sharply, "Tell me why."

"Huh?"

Roman scribbled Starbuck on the side of the cup. "Why is it important? Why do you need it? Why do you need any of these names on the cup? What's your deal?"

Why did you ask me about my eyes?

Douchewad actually seemed to deflate a little, shoulders pulling in. He cleared his throat and glanced around, fingers tapping the front edge of the counter. "It's nothing," he told them, just barely audible. "Just - it's an answer, that's all."

Roman reached for the coffee pot, but wound up recoiling, hissing quietly, after he missed the handle and accidentally touched the hot side of the carafe. He shook out his fingers, wincing. More at himself than the pain, though, because now he felt kind of like a jerk.

"An answer to what?" he asked more gently.

Douchewad tugged his shades off and started fidgeting with them. Finally, he shrugged. "Life, the universe, and everything."

This time, Roman managed to grab the pot's handle. "Isn't that 42?"

He said it without thinking, but man, it made Douchewad look up with the biggest, sunniest smile. Bright blue damn eyes. He'd shaved today so his damn dimples were even more pronounced than usual. "You know it."

Roman's stomach did a barrel roll.

It was so damn distracting that he accidentally overfilled the cup - by a lot.

And in the mad scramble for a towel to clean up the mess, he managed to just completely knock the cup onto the floor. Looked like a goddamn coffee bomb went off, the way it all sort of exploded everywhere.

Fortunately, he didn't get burned, but he took one look at the mess and groaned internally.

After he made sure Roman was okay, Seth busted out laughing. Douchewad stood at the counter clearly trying not to, his lip caught between his teeth.

"Buck off," Roman muttered to them both as he reached for another cup.

He felt warm all over in a way that he was pretty sure wasn't just because it was a billion degrees back here.

Weirdly, he found himself wishing Douchewad would put his shades back on.

That goddamn sparkle in the dude's eyes was just disconcerting.

Roman had never been so relieved to see a door close behind a customer in his life.

Seth, over by the espresso machine working on an order for an elderly couple, glanced around not even five seconds later. "You need any help over there, Romeo?"

"I'm got it, thanks," Roman said. He offered the businesswoman at the front of the line and apologetic smile. "Bear with me just a minute? I need to do something about this mess. We'll be right with you." As he bent down to grab a rag, he added to Seth, "Don't call me Romeo. I hate that."

"Fine, fine," Seth said. "You gonna ask him out, or what?"

"No," Roman said waspishly. He turned to swab up some of the mess by the coffee pot. "I don't like him."

"You really gonna tell me I just didn't watch you get all crazy flustered just now?" Seth said. He was ruthless. The bastard. "You know, if a girl smiled at me like that, I'd ask her out in a heartbeat."

"Like a girl would, ya creep." Roman wiped the counter by the coffee pot maybe a little harder than necessary. "I didn't get flustered. I just wasn't paying attention. I'm not interested."

Seth snickered, grabbed the two espressos. "Sure you're not. Well, hey, you might wanna start bringing a change of clothes with you to work, huh? Maybe ask him to look away when you're pouring coffee?"

Roman didn't bother to dignify that with an answer.

It was just ridiculous.

And wrong.

So, so wrong.

What the hell is your deal?

Funnily enough, the universe was about to give him the answer.

When he left work around eleven, he found himself craving a sub from this little mom and pop joint that was five or six up blocks from the coffee shop. He didn't go there often because it was the opposite direction from campus, and he usually had to hurry back to his dorm so he could wash the coffee smell out of his hair before class.

His Stats midterm wasn't until noon today, though, which meant that if he hurried, he'd have time to grab lunch and still make it to his dorm time to clean up.

Definitely be worth it: they were great sandwiches, and he hadn't had one all semester.

It was a walk that took him through a shabby, rundown neighborhood full of tired-looking brick apartment buildings and old rusted-out cars. The sidewalks were in pretty crappy shape, too, all cracked and uneven thanks to all the droopy, unkempt trees that lined both sides of the street.

It was a pretty decent day out, at least.

Not quite spring warm, but warm enough that the light jacket he'd thrown over his polo shirt felt like plenty.

The walk also took him past a little half-block stretch of grass that had the balls to call itself a park. It didn't even have a playground in it - just a single covered picnic table, and a couple of trees toward the back.

If he hadn't heard someone say, "Beam us up, Scotty!" as he passed that little park, he probably would never have noticed there was actually anyone there that day.

He tended to be a little single-minded where food was concerned.

But he did, in fact, hear a man say that, and it stopped him in his tracks.

Right near the covered picnic table, a bearded, curly-haired man in a red flannel shirt and sweats sat on a blanket. He had probably twenty empty Starbucks cups arranged in a horseshoe shape in front of him, and a big plastic starship - one of the Enterprises? - in his hands.

He was flying it around and making phaser-y shooting noises.

But it was really the other guy - the one sitting at the picnic table, watching - that drew Roman up short.

He'd recognize those shades anywhere.

That old black leather jacket, too.

Douchewad was lounging against the edge of the table, one arm hitched up beside him and a book in the other hand. The way the table was aimed, he couldn't see really Roman from where he sat. Didn't appear he was reading. He seemed to be watching the guy in the grass.

Who suddenly noticed Roman was there, set his ship down behind the coffee cup horseshoe, and pointed. "Intruder on deck, Cap'n Dean," he said tentatively. Slow and a little slurred. Like he had trouble making the words. "Red alert?"

Douchewad - Cap'n Dean? - glanced around, did a double-take. His mouth relaxed into a smile, and he gave Roman a lazy little wave. "Nah, Lieutenant, it's cool. That's Commander Roman. I've told you about him. He's the one I get your answers from. Hiya, Commander."

Roman stood there on the sidewalk just completely nonplussed. Commander Roman?

"Oh!' The guy in flannel looked over at Roman with keen, almost childlike interest. "C'mander Roman! My answers! What's the name Kara Thrace is known by?"

K...oh.

Roman slipped his hands into his pockets. Smiled. "Starbuck."

The guy picked up the Starbuck Starbucks cup and waved it. "My answer! That's right! She's on my crew now! Come over and see!"

"Hey, ya need to ask Commander Roman if he wants to see your crew, Lt. Mick," Cap'n Dean interjected. Roman had never realized such a gravelly voice could be that gentle. "'Cuz he might have an away mission he needs to go on right now, so…"

"Oh," Lt. Mick said. His smile somehow made it through all those layers of beard. "Do you please wanna see my crew, C'mander Roman?"

Roman glanced at his watch, and decided he could spare a few minutes.

This was too...weird and weirdly charming to just up and walk away from. Commander Roman. "I do have an away mission I have to get to, but I've got a minute if ya wanna beam me aboard. Midterm at noon," he added, in an undertone for Cap'n Dean, who'd set his book down and made his way over to the blanket. "Lt. Mick, huh?"

"Yup." Cap'n Dean sat down on Lt. Mick's right. "He's the, uh, ship's pilot."

Roman hunkered down in front of the blanket, and looked over at the Cap'n Dean. Guy seemed faintly embarrassed for some reason, so Roman offered him a genuine smile. "And you're Cap'n Dean, huh?"

"You can just call me Dean," was the hasty answer. More than a hint of embarrassment in it this time.

"Ya gotta address senior officers by rank, Cap'n Dean," Roman told him soberly. "I expect you to call me Commander."

"Yeah, Cap'n Dean!" Lt. Mick said in his slow, slightly slurry way. "You're an officer."

Cap'n Dean smiled down at the coffee cups. "All right, all right. Don't want the crew to mutiny on me."

"It's nice to meet you guys by the way," Roman said. "Good to know who's on the crew." He nodded down the rows of white cups, some of which were a little coffee-stained, but all of which were still in pretty good shape - his god-awful writing still perfectly visible on the sides of them. "So this is your crew, huh, Lieutenant?"

"Yup," Lt. Mick said. Up close, Roman could see a thick white line of a scar that started somewhere in the middle of his forehead and disappeared down around his temple. "All my answers are my crew now. Look!"

He picked up each one and said the name scrawled on there.

After he got done, he started babbling excitedly about phasers and photon torpedoes and Klingons. He grabbed his ship and bounced up off the blanket, nearly kicking over the only upright cup - the Starbuck Starbucks cup - in the process.

Seeing a grown man in a red flannel shirt and baggy gray sweats piloting the Enterprise around should have been ridiculous, but Lt. Mick looked so damn happy it was hard not to smile about it.

Just like a kid.

Roman picked up one of the coffee cups - Captain Kirk - and ran his thumb over the scribble. "What did he mean by his answers, Cap'n?"

"Uh." Cap'n Dean fished a battered black and white paperback out of his back pocket. It was Science Fiction Television and Film Trivia. "So, that's my uncle Mick, right? Kinda raised me. Didn't have any other family. Anyway, uh, he fell off a ladder last year. Brain damaged.. Not - it's not… He's not, like, totally gone. There's still parts of him there." He tapped the paperback on his knee. "'M tryna help him learn how to read again. So I have him read me a trivia question, and then I, uh, beam away to go get the answer for him. Kinda dumb I guess, but…"

"No, it's not," Roman said fiercely. He'd heard a lot dumb things in his life - most of the things that came out of his cousins' mouths, honestly - but this wasn't one of them. "I'm sorry about what happened to him, but no - that's not dumb at all, man. That's really cool. Finding a way to make it work."

Helping somebody.

And actually not a douchewad at all.

Cap'n Dean tucked the paperback away, and then looked around to where Lt. Mick was swooping his starship through the air. "Uh. Thanks."

"So other than being a starship captain, do you work?" Roman asked lightly. Mostly to keep things from getting awkward. "Or are you a student?"

"I work at that auto shop down the block from where you work. Today's my day off. Figured I'd take, uh, Lt. Mick out on an away mission, since the weather's good. You're a student, right?" he asked, inclining his head. "Oh, wait, yeah, you are. Never mind. Duh. You just said you have midterms. What are you studying?"

"Criminal Justice," Roman answered, glancing at his watch again. Still a little time.

"Oh? Gonna be a cop?"

"Yep. I really got a thing about doing something where I can help people. You know?"

Cap'n Dean nodded. "Nothin' wrong with that."

It was such an easy answer that it made Roman laugh. "You know, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but you wanna know what I've calling you in my head? Since I didn't know your name."

"What's that?"

"Douchewad."

"Douchewad?" Fortunately, Cap'n Dean smiled. "Why?"

Relieved, and feeling a little bolder, Roman said, "Because you gave off kind of a d-bag vibe the first time you walked into the shop. I don't know. I was judging a book by its cover. I shouldn't have done that because you're clearly not a douchewad."

"Oh, I am," Cap'n Dean said. "I totally am. Like, I know how much it irritates you when I'm up there snapping my gum and, like, messing with the napkin dispenser and shit. But I do it anyway."

"Why?" Roman asked, exasperated.

Cap'n Dean stole a look over. "'Cuz you're kinda hot when you're mad. Mean, you're kinda hot period, but it got ya to start flirtin' with me. Don't think I've had so much fun bein' insulted by someone."

Roman's stomach did that wild barrel roll again. It felt real hot all of a sudden. "Flirting?"

"Yeah, wasn't that what you were doin'?'

"...no? I was just…" having fun insulting you. And watching sci fi because of you. He covered his eyes with a hand. Seth was going to have a goddamn field day. "Okay, maybe I was. You're really, really obnoxious. For the record. So much I want to punch you sometimes."

Cap'n Dean threw back his head and cackled like an absolute jackass. "You're not the first person who's said that about me."

"I am completely shocked," Roman deadpanned back at him. "You're lucky you're cute. Although, unless you need 'em for a medical reason, would you please take off those stupid shades when you come up to my counter? That is so damn rude. I want to see you."

All at once, Cap'n Dean stopped laughing. He tugged his shades off and hung them on his tee shirt's collar. Eyes about the same color as the sky behind him regarded Roman carefully. "Would you, Commander? Wanna see me, I mean? Get a drink or something sometime? Or even just - I could, like, invite you onto my bridge. Or into my deck? I dunno. One of those things that means, you know, I'd like to see you outta that unif-"

"I get what it means!" Roman cut him off. Holy shit. It was a damn good thing that the street was empty and Lt. Mick was out of earshot. "Okay, if you promise me you'll never use 'into my deck' in that way again, then yeah, we can do something. I just have midterms this week, so…"

Cap'n Dean shrugged. "That's fine. I can't just drop everything and go, anyway. I got a neighbor that doesn't mind watching Uncle Mick for me, but I gotta ask in advance."

"It's Spring Break next week," Roman offered. "I'm in town for most of it. I'm just working in the mornings. But that's all I'm doing. We could pick a day and hang then."

"Yeah, hey, that'd be great." He smiled again, and Roman's stomach did that ridiculous flip. "I'll check with my neighbor tonight and let you know when."

Oh God, Roman was already in so much trouble. "Okay, cool," he said anyway. Reluctantly, he got to his feet. "Listen, I gotta get going, Captain. Midterm."

"Shit, right. Okay." Cap'n Dean bounced to his feet, and made his way around the blanket. "Well, in that case, I won't keep ya, Commander. Um. Good luck 'n all that shit. 'May the Force be with you'? 'Live long and prosper.' I dunno. Whatever means-"

On just the sheer need to shut this guy the hell up, Roman grabbed him by the front of his leather jacket hauled him in for a kiss.

It was pretty damn effective.

Also, a little crazy.

Also possibly the best decision Roman had made all morning.

Dean's lips were a little dry, but he tasted like sharp, clean mint and kissed back like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he knew what he wanted. His hands found their way to Roman's waist and settled there like that was where they were supposed to be.

It felt like a good start.

But eventually, he pulled away, licking his lips to chase the last of the mint taste. He lifted a hand to cup Cap'n Dean's smooth cheek, thumb rolling over his bottom lip. "By the way," he said, "Blade Runner was a really cool movie. Thanks for the suggestion. If there's anything else you want to suggest, I'm all ears. I dig this sci fi stuff."

"Okay, cool," Cap'n Dean said. He sounded a little dazed.

It was a really nice sound.

"So I guess I'll see ya tomorrow, Captain," Roman said, backing away. "Bye, Lt. Mick," he added, waving at Mick, who'd drifted over to the picnic table to watch them. "I gotta get to my away mission."

"Bye, C'mander! Good luck!"

"Thanks!"

Commander Roman tipped the pair a little salute and headed back to campus - without his sandwich.

He didn't think his feet touched the ground once.

Beam me up, Scotty.

Epilogue
Stardate 060716

The little Starbucks, Roman had to admit, looked pretty damn cool.

A bunch of little paper mache stars and planets hung from the ceiling on little strings. The tables were covered with little silver party decoration stars and planets, along with little cheap figurines and plastic star ships from various shows. Hell, they'd even covered up the regular posters on the walls with some old Star Trek and Star Wars posters that Dean had found.

On the middle table, there was a cake shaped like the Enterprise.

Standing right in front of it, wearing a star-covered party hat that was skewed a little to one side, was Lt. Mick.

The guest of honor.

At Roman's insistence, Dean started bringing him around, and Roman's complete lack of surprise, everybody'd really taken to him. Lt. Mick and his friendly smile and his love of coffee and of all things science fiction had sort of become an unofficial mascot.

Everyone became part of his crew.

So when Dean floated the idea of maybe having a little after-hours birthday party for his uncle here, Roman barely even had to say word to Bayley - to Admiral Bayley - before she took charge.

Now, half a dozen of Roman's coworkers, a few people from Mick's day center, Dean's neighbor, and Roman and Dean all stood around in silly party hats, all clapping as Lt. Mick blew out his candle.

While Bayley and Brie Bella kept Mick occupied with the cake-cutting, Roman took the opportunity to sidle up behind Cap'n Dean, to wrap arms around him.

No jacket or hoodie on Dean today.

He'd opted for a tee shirt with the Tin Man on it.

Which was fitting.

The Tin Man had a big heart all along; Dean did, too, for all that he tried to cover it up by being a total jackass.

But that was Cap'n Dean (or Cap'n Douchewad on his bad days), and Roman wouldn't change a thing.

It'd only been about three months, but already Roman having trouble remembering what his life had been before he'd had this scruffy jackass and his uncle in his life.

"Thanks for doin' this, Commander," Cap'n Dean said, relaxing back into Roman's chest.

"Anything for my Captain," he said, nuzzling a kiss just below the angle of Dean's jaw. "I really want to play with your phaser right now, though. You think anyone would notice if we slipped away for a while?"

"Probably." Dean huffed. "You said no more sci fi dick puns.'

"No," Roman murmured right into Dean's ear,"'I said you can't do anymore sci fi dick puns. You were getting ridiculous."

"Hey," Dean grumbled. "Who's the damn captain here? 'F I wanna talk about firin' up my lightsaber, I will. And I'll make the sound effects, too."

"As long as you don't do that Wookie thing again," Roman warned him. "You do that, and I ain't never handling your lightsaber ever again."

"Spoilsport," Dean muttered. "Stay over tonight?"

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," Roman said. "Commander Roman reporting for duty."

Still wrapped up together, they turned to watch Admiral Bayley and Lt. Mick grab handfuls of the little silver party stars and throw them at each other.

The light overhead winked and flashed off of some of them.

And for a while, it really was like watching shooting stars.

[The end]

A/N: This was my "get out of writer's block" piece that finally got the gears going again. It's silly, but that's okay. I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.