Notes: This is slightly late, but I'm so glad I got to finish this! Merry Christmas, everyone!

A note on formatting: FF doesn't support certain formatting styles, so I chose to use numbers in parentheses like this (1) to denote superscript.

Edited of 27 December 2017. Beta'd as of 30 December 2017 by wonderful human being The Pickle System—this shinier, more polished version is all thanks to his thorough work.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Flash.

The first thing Barry thinks of when he sees her is iced mocha with three shots of espresso and no whipped cream.

He tells Iris this.

Iris looks the new customer over with an expert eye and says, "I say Americano with three shots of espresso and one packet of Splenda."

"No way," he says. "And hey, that's Wally's order. She doesn't look like a Wally."

"Wally's an exception," Iris says dismissively. "C'mon, let's take a closer look at her." She sidles beside him, and together they take another peek at the woman standing outside, half-obscured by the large menu she's perusing. "Stern expression. Classy business casual. Stylish black kitten heels. Hair, lipstick, and make-up perfect, despite it being"—Iris glances at the clock—"six in the evening. I'm willing to bet that she has a laptop in that handbag, so she's coming here to work, not to wind down. Definitely a no-nonsense bossgirl who doesn't tolerate frills, whether she's drinking or working."

"I don't know," Barry says. "She's still an iced mocha to me. She looks icy on the outside—that's why it's an iced mocha, heh—but she's a complete softie on the inside. Mocha's strong because of the espresso, but also sweet because of the chocolate…"

He trails off, and they stare at her speculatively again.

"I can't believe you're still at this," Kendra pipes up from the handoff area. "You've never even guessed right."

"I have," Iris protests.

"Yeah, thrice, and you have a two-year head start against Barry."

"I'm right this time. I can feel it."

Kendra rolls her eyes affectionately and turns to attend to a customer.

"Great, she's coming in," Barry says. "Quick, pretend you're working."

"Excuse me, I am working," Iris gasps, but she picks up a rag and pretends to wipe the already spotless counter clean.

The second thing Barry thinks of when he sees her, now up close, is, she's pretty.

She's very pretty. In fact, she's probably his type.

She pauses to scan the glass display. There's a gray sweater draped on her arm, and when she moves her arm to her chest, he catches sight of the logo.

It's a S.T.A.R. Labs sweater.

Oh, he's a goner. She's definitely his type.

This, he does not tell Iris. Iris may be his best friend, but… well, on second thought, it's precisely because she's his best friend that he doesn't tell her this. She knows how badly he can trip on his words when speaking to someone he's even remotely attracted to, and he does not want an audience.

Alright, he can do this.

He clears his throat. "Hi!" he says. "What can I get you?"

She ambles over to the cash register in the way unsure new customers do, still looking at the menu overhead instead of looking him in the eye. "I'll have… hmm… I guess I could go with…" She casts him a sheepish look. "Sorry, it's my first time here. What's your bestselling frappe?"

Frappe? Iris stirs in surprise. He hides his well, though, and says, "First time, huh? So you're new to Central City?"

She shrugs and gestures to her sweater. "Yeah, just got a job here."

She's entertaining his small talk! He grins. It's going to be a great shift. "Welcome to Central City," he says. "And wow, you must be pretty excited to start."

"Thanks, I am," she says, giving him a smile that lights up her eyes. "Had my onboarding today, actually, and everyone says that Jitters has the best coffee in the tristate area, so I came to check out the hype."

"I see," he says. "Let me tell you, the hype is real."

She raises a brow. "But you're an employee here. You're bound to be completely biased."

"Well," he says, "I'm only a part-time employee, so… I'm just partly biased?"

She laughs. "Fine, fine. Care to give me your partly biased opinion on your bestselling frappes?"

"Right, uh…" He gestures to the menu behind him. Her laughter had caught him off-guard, and now he's having difficulty forming words. "Uh… If you're looking for coffee, you might be interested in trying our iced mocha with three shots of espresso"—Iris shoots him a murderous look—"and a slice of blueberry cheesecake."

He grins.

"Um," she says, pursing her lips. "I'd actually like a frappe…?"

"Oh," he says. "Oh, right. You asked for our bestselling frappes."

"I did."

"Ah. Right." What is wrong with him? He's been making this spiel a hundred times a day for the past three months, so why is his brain failing him now? "Uh, our bestseller for frappes is the Strawberry Mocha Frappe."

"Hmm. Alright, I think I'll have that," she says. "Can I have it with an extra dollop of whipped cream? And three pumps of strawberry syrup?"

He stares. "Three pumps? Are you sure? Our regular two pumps is already pretty sweet…"

"It's a celebratory drink," she explains. "I'm treating myself for my first day at work."

"Oh," he says. "Well, if you're looking for a non-celebratory frappe, you should definitely try our iced mocha. In, uh, my partly biased opinion, it's one of our best drinks."

"Alright"—she squints at his nametag—"Barry." She smiles when she says his name—or the last syllable of his name naturally makes her lips quirk up, but he's conveniently ignoring that anatomical fact—and a silly answering smile forms on his face. "I'll keep that in mind."

"That'd be four dollars and fifty cents," he says. "Name for the cup?"

"Caitlin," she says. She pulls out a five-dollar bill and hands it to him. "That's C-a-i-t-l-i-n."

"Caitlin," he repeats. It's a pretty name. It's a name that suits her. He likes it.

Below her name on the cup, he adds,

Enjoy your celebratory drink! :)

After a moment of hesitation, he also adds,

Good luck with S.T.A.R. Labs! :)

"Thanks, Caitlin." He places the cup on the counter behind him. "Have a nice evening."

His eyes follow her as she walks away from the counter. She takes a seat by the window with the view of S.T.A.R. Labs, and she gazes out with a smile—

Iris smacks him on the back, and he startles. "Ow! What the heck!"

"You cheated," she accuses.

"Chea—oh, that. No, I didn't." He smiles smugly. "I was just giving suggestions."

"Mmm-hmm." Now she gives him a sly look. "I don't remember you being so tongue-tied while giving suggestions."

"I—well, I was caught off-guard because we didn't expect her to be, you know, a frappe person—"

"I don't know what's creepier," Iris says airily, "the fact that you're stalking her with your eyes, or the fact that you were turned on by the S.T.A.R. Labs sweater."

"Turned on? I wasn't—"

"Oh, honey," Kendra says, smiling wickedly, "in my partly biased opinion, you were." She holds up the cup and gestures to the And good luck with S.T.A.R. Labs! :) message. "Case in point."

"Hey, that's not being turned on. That's being nice." He scans the message again, and he grabs the cup before she can set it on the handoff counter. "I put too many exclamation points and smileys, didn't I? Maybe I should erase one smiley… What do you think?"

Iris and Kendra exchange looks and grin. Oh, this is going to be fun.

. . .

The next day, Caitlin comes in at half past seven. Barry quickly fiddles with the register and pretends like he hasn't spent the past hour and a half waiting for her to come in.

"Hi!" he says. "What can I get you?"

She's distracted today. She's carrying a stack of folders under her arm, and while she's rooting around for her wallet and staring at the menu overhead, they're slowly slipping from her grasp. "Um… I'll have…"

He quickly puts a hand out to catch the folders before the papers fall out. "Here, let me help," he says. "You can put them on the counter first."

"Oh, thanks…" She glances up at him, and then at his nametag. "…Barry. The barista from yesterday, right? The part-time, partly biased barista?"

"Yup, the one and only," he says, grinning, pleased that she remembers. "It's not hard to remember my name. Just think that Barry is a Barry-sta. Get it?"

She bites her lip to hide her smile. "Or I could just read your nametag," she points out. "That'd be easier."

"Yeah, but the nametag doesn't make you smile," he says. And then he quickly adds, "Uh, because that's what we do—we, uh, want to leave smiles on our customers' faces. A smiling customer is a satisfied customer, as the owner always says."

Her eyes are bright with amusement. Or, at least, he hopes it's amusement. His people-reading meter isn't always accurate, and it's even less accurate when hormones are clouding his brain.

"I have to say," she says, "this is the first time I've encountered punning as part of good customer service."

"We, uh, always aim to go the extra mile," he says. "Or the extra smile, as I like to put it. Especially for pretty—uh, pretty… new customers. I mean, customers who're… pretty new. Like, first-timers. Or second-timers, in your case. So! Aaanyway!" he chirps, before he can further humiliate himself. "What'll you have today? Still your celebratory strawberry mocha frappe with three pumps of syrup and extra whipped cream?"

She looks surprised. "You memorize all your customers' orders too?"

"Yeah, well, that's going the extra smile," he says lamely. He wishes Iris would stop clearing her throat to call him out. He's just trying his best to flirt in peace here.

"I'm impressed," she says. "I don't think I'm having that today, though, or it won't be celebratory, you know?" She looks at the menu. "What's that drink again? The one you were recommending yesterday?"

"That'd be our iced mocha," he says. "We use Valrhona chocolate from France for our mocha. It's a little bitter, but it goes down sweet. Actually, we use the same mocha for our Strawberry Mocha, but you probably weren't able to taste it under the three pumps of syrup—not judging your drink choice or anything," he quickly adds, "just saying that three pumps is an obscene amount of sugar, so you were basically drinking sugar, not mocha…"

He trails off. He wishes the ground can swallow him whole.

"Well, Barry," she says, her dark red lips curling lazily upwards, "since you've so eloquently lectured me on my poor drink choice, I'll have that iced mocha you're recommending."

"It wasn't a lecture," he says weakly. "It was more like… a footnote? Like those footnotes in research papers no one actually reads? So you don't have to listen to me if you don't want to. Although we don't use even use footnotes in forensic, so, you know. That makes my recommendations sort of irrelevant—"

"In forensic?"

"Uh—yeah. In, uh, forensic science, we don't use bibliographic footnotes."

"I see," she says. "We don't use them in my field, either."

"Oh, nice," he says. "That's something our fields have in common, I guess. Aside from the fact that they're both sciences, obviously, and—" A movement by the door catches his eye, and he starts speaking more quickly. "You know, I'll just punch in your order now, because there's another customer and there might be a line so—right, one iced mocha coming up. That'd be four dollars and twenty-five cents, please. Thanks. Have a nice evening, Caitlin."

She pauses. "You remember my name."

"Oh… yeah," he says. "It's—protocol. Going the extra—"

"—the extra smile, right," she says. She's smiling. "For what it's worth, you're really good at it."

He's glad that her back is already turned to him, because he blushes to the roots of his hair.

After taking the next customer's order—and misspelling his name by dint of distraction—he writes on Caitlin's cup:

Enjoy your drink! (1) :)

(1) Excellent drink choice. You won't be disappointed. :)

—The Barrysta

"You are such a dork," Iris says. "Just ask her out already."

"…Nah."

Iris gives him a long stare, and then sighs. "Oh no."

"What?"

"That's the 'I want to ask her out but I think she's so amazing that she won't even give me the time of day' nah."

"That's… very specific. And also, very not true."

"Barry. I have been your best friend for over two decades. I know you better than you know yourself, especially when your sorry excuse for a self is in denial." She crosses her arms. "Look, she even put up with all your rambling. I think she might have liked it, God knows why, but that definitely counts for something."

Barry wants to believe that. Iris's people-reading meter is a lot more accurate than his, and it has the added advantage of not being clouded by hormones. But his sorry excuse for a self is in denial, so instead he says, "It's just a happy crush. It'll pass."

Iris is completely unconvinced.

. . .

Two hours later, Caitlin stops by the cash register on her way out.

"You're right," she says. "I wasn't disappointed. And for the record, I always read the footnotes."

He doesn't stop smiling for the rest of his shift.

. . .

Over the next month, Caitlin frequents Jitters every weekday night, and he finds himself looking forward to their conversations over the cash register. They don't always get to talk at length, what with the occasional line behind her, but they do talk enough for him to learn about her.

On the first week, for instance, he learns that she's a bioengineer at S.T.A.R. Labs working on the particle accelerator, and that she works with four other bioengineers in her functional team. On the second week, he learns from the form she fills out for the Jitters Card that her full name is Dr. Caitlin Tannhauser Snow, and that she lives only a block away from Jitters. (He's not a stalker or anything, he just so happened to glimpse her address while filing the forms away…) It's a place with weak mobile and broadband signal, so maybe that's why she always comes to Jitters instead. On the third week, he learns that she has not one, but two PhDs, both of which she paid off with her ridiculous salary from her previous job at Palmer Tech; and, on the fourth week, he finds out that while she loves her job—it's a lot more research-oriented than her previous one, she says—her colleagues now are an absolute pain to work with.

He witnesses this firsthand, too, because they occasionally meet at Jitters to discuss work. There's this particularly memorable Monday when he overhears them arguing about calculations for the particle accelerator, and when Caitlin corrects one of her colleague's figures, he explodes and hurls a barrage of insults at her. Before Barry's able to step in, Caitlin snaps, "Sit down, Henry. You're embarrassing yourself. And must I remind that I'm more than qualified to be on this team? I'm at least one PhD more qualified than you are, and two more than Nigel is."

He knows he has no right to, but he feels proud of her then. Still, she's a little scary when she's like that—she's so icy and unsmiling, unlike… well, unlike how she is with him.

The next day, he writes on her cup:

Enjoy (1) your drink! :)

(1) Sorry, men are a little lower than women are on the evolutionary scale. Don't let the Y chromosome get you down. :)

She smiles when she reads the note, and she comes up to him again before she leaves. "I read your footnote," she says. "You're right, but I can think of one exception to your species."

"Yeah?" he says, unable to say anything else.

"Yeah," she says. "Not that he's higher than women on the evolutionary scale—"

"Oh, he wouldn't dream of it—"

"—but he's one Y-chromosome wielder who doesn't get me down."

"Oh," he says.

"Quite the opposite, actually."

"Uh," he says. "That's… good to know. Maybe my species isn't so hopeless after all, if we can get you up—wait, that sounded weird—I mean, it's not like women can get it up, or that I could get you up, if that's, uh, even possible in the first place…" He trails off, feeling himself shrink with mortification. "You know what, never mind," he says hastily, "that's not something I need to know—"

She laughs. "I get it, Barry. No need to get so flustered."

"Sorry," he says, face flooded with heat. "I just—I'm glad I can cheer you up."

"Well, me too, of course," she says, fiddling with the strap of her bag. "Seeing as I benefit more from it."

"No, not really," he says. "Cheering someone up is a two-way street. Your extra smile is my extra smile and all that."

She raises a brow. "That something your owner came up with, too?"

"Ah—yeah. Sort of? I just tweaked it a bit."

She smiles again. "Well, good night, Barry."

"Good night, Caitlin. Take care."

If he isn't so busy hitting his head on the side of the coffee machine, he would've noticed the blush on her face as she's walking away.

. . .

He doesn't only learn about her through their cash-register conversations, though. He always keeps an eye on her when she's around (Iris calls it stalking; he calls it good customer service), and he learns a lot from just watching her, too.

He learns, for instance, that she doesn't listen to music while working, preferring the low hum of voices and the classical jazz they play in the café. She doesn't like noisy patrons, and makes sure to let them know it. She bites her lip when she's nervous or when she's working on something particularly difficult. She works too much, he thinks; he's not sure if she's ever not working while she's here. Once, she even fell asleep on her table, and he woke her up only when they were a few minutes to closing. She looked like she needed the nap.

And so the month passes.

His crush, however, doesn't. It grows in inverse proportion to his courage to ask her out. She's too busy, anyway, he thinks. She doesn't have time for dates. She's practically married to that job…

And so he contents himself with their snatches of conversation, with watching her from afar. Sometimes he fantasizes about the date they'll go on once he musters the courage to ask her out, but even then, his fantasies aren't very elaborate. He doesn't allow them get elaborate. He feels that even in his fantasies, she's completely out of his league.

. . .

"Oh my God, stop it," Iris says. "I can feel you pining from the other side of the room."

"Whatever," Barry says. He finishes up his message for her cup. "This cash register here is the designated pining zone. I'm within my pining rights."

"As the newbie," Kendra says, "you have no authority to designate pining zones."

"Well, as a forensic consultant for the CCPD, I can," he says. "I can close off all the zones I want."

Iris rolls her eyes. "Seriously, Bar, just ask her out already. You know I'd tell it to you straight if she didn't like you, but trust me, she likes you."

"She only comes in during your shift, you know," Kendra supplies. "She's not here on weekends."

"She's not?" he bleats. "I mean, that's probably because it's inconvenient for her—or it doesn't fit her schedule or—or something—"

Iris and Kendra exchange looks and sigh. "Fine, you dork," Iris says, ruffling his hair. "If you're not ready, just stay in your safe little pining zone."

"Let us know when you're ready to step out of it," Kendra says. "We'll be more than happy to give you tips."

. . .

When December rolls around, Caitlin switches her iced mocha for a steaming mug of hot mocha, and she starts bringing a friend along.

"Cisco?" Barry says incredulously.

When her companion turns to him, his entire face lights up. "The Barrysta! Long time no see!" he says. He reaches over the counter and clasps his hand. "How are you, man?" and then, in a lower voice, "Is Kendra here?"

"Nah, she's off on Mondays and Tuesdays this month," he says. "You guys are cool, right?"

"Yeah, totally. But it's still a little awkward, you know?" He turns to Caitlin and explains, "Dated one of the baristas here for awhile, but it didn't work out."

"Ah," she says. "And you and Barry know each other how…?"

"Oh, I was a Tech Consult for the CCPD a year ago, and we worked on the Killg%re case together. I even had a badge for awhile. It was sooo legit." Cisco pretends to flash the badge. "Everyone, step aside, please! Cisco Ramon, CCPD Tech Consult coming through! Ah, good times… oooh! Are you rolling out your Christmas drinks already?"

Barry and Caitlin exchange looks and share a smile. "Yeah, the usual Gingerbread Peppermint and Candy Cane Crush, and HR's new concoction, Dark Mocha Apricot."

"HR…?"

"The owner," Barry says. "He only comes by in the mornings, but you can't miss him. He looks exactly like Dr. Wells."

"Oh my God, you've never met HR?" Cisco says. "You've been coming here for a month and you've never met HR?"

"Well," she says, glancing at Barry, "I don't really come here in the mornings…"

"It'll give you the creeps," Cisco says. "They're twins, but he's like, a chipper Dr. Wells. Like a human espresso shot."

"A chipper Dr. Wells?" Caitlin repeats. "I find that hard to imagine."

"I don't blame you," Cisco says. "It's unimaginable until it hits you in the face. Speaking of, where's HR now?"

"Locked himself up to add a few more touches to the new drink," he says. "Wanna try it?"

Cisco peruses the picture suspiciously. "Dark Mocha Apricot? Seriously? As a Christmas drink? That is weird…"

While Cisco ambles off to peruse the desserts, Caitlin turns to Barry and says, "I didn't know you worked with the CCPD."

"Well," he says, "I did, and technically I still do? It's kinda complicated. I'm taking a year off to finish my Master's thesis, but they got me on a consultancy basis, so I'm there on Saturdays."

"And you work here because…?"

"HR pays well," he grins. "And the hours are decent."

Caitlin looks intrigued, but Cisco suddenly butts in and says, "I've got it! I know how to calibrate the intensity of the beams! I need to write this down, can you hold on a sec—"

He grabs a napkin, bounds off for the nearest table, and starts scribbling furiously while muttering under his breath.

"So…" Barry says. "Any chance either of you are ordering?"

She laughs. "Yeah. Sorry about that. It's been really stressful at work lately."

"No problem. You're having your usual, then?"

"Yeah, I'll have my usual," she says, and smiles.

. . .

Three days later, HR himself drops by during his shift in order to do "market research." All the employees and the long-time patrons know it's him the moment he enters Jitters—his infectious energy just diffuses all over the place. A human espresso shot, as Cisco calls him.

"Sumptuous evening, everyone! How's it going there, B.A.?" he says, drumming his sticks on the counter. "Has anyone ordered my magnum opus yet? No? Ah, well, perhaps it's an acquired taste…"

"I've been drinking it every day for the past three days and I still haven't acquired it," Kendra tells him dryly. "It's the apricot, HR. Doesn't go well with the mocha."

"Perhaps it just takes a lot longer to acquire…"

"Hate to break it to you, but the bestseller's still the Gingerbread Peppermint," Barry says. "I'd say three out of five customers who buy Christmas drinks get it."

"But that's because you recommend it as your personal favorite," Kendra points out. "When I'm behind the register, I'd say most people go for Candy Cane Crush."

"Same," Iris says. "For our shift it's definitely Candy Cane Crush."

"What? No way."

HR looks troubled. "But no takers for the Dark Mocha Apricot?"

"Well…" Kendra says. "There is someone who just ordered it. There, that blonde woman sitting near the restroom."

"Ah, excellent!" HR twirls his sticks with a flourish and tucks them in his back pocket. "An unfamiliar face—is she a new regular?"

"She's mostly here on weekends," Kendra says. "I think her name's Tracy. As in, 'That's T-r-a-c-y Tracy, please, no E, yes, just like the basketball player Tracy McGrady Tracy.'"

"Your memory is superb, Kendra," HR says. "Remind me to give you a raise. Now, excuse me while I do some market research. Oh, remember, your apron is your shield! Don't let the angry customers get to you!"

"Sometimes I'm not sure if I should take him up on that raise," Kendra mutters, as HR zips towards customer.

"You should," Iris says. "He's a little kooky but he means well…"

Barry tunes out of their conversation and checks the time again for the nth time that night. She's late. She isn't usually late. She did mention that it's been stressful at work—she has to submit and present a feasibility report, if he remembers correctly—but it's still unusual for her to deviate from her routine…

Finally, at around nine, a bundled-up Caitlin and Cisco sweep into the café, arguing in hushed tones.

"…can't possibly finish all that work!" Cisco hisses. "I never liked any of them, but I didn't know they'd be this petty…"

"…too late now… we're presenting in two weeks… no choice but to finish it myself…"

"…would help you but our funders are breathing down our necks for the cryonic guns… Hey, Barry the Barrysta! Nice to see you again!"

"Hey, man," he says. "Hey, Caitlin." He takes in her pale face and the dark circles under her eyes. "Stressful day?"

"I don't even want to think about it," she mutters, unwrapping the maroon scarf from her neck. "I'll have my usual, please."

"Sure you don't want to try any of our Christmas drinks?" he says. "The Gingerbread Peppermint's really good, and there's a discount with the card…"

"Yeah, Cait, live a little," Cisco adds. "Step out of your comfort zone, one drink at a time."

"Why don't you try the Dark Mocha Apricot while you're at it?" Barry says.

"Whoa, okay, too far out of my comfort zone," Cisco says. "I'm sticking with Candy Cane Crush."

"What? But you always get Gingerbread Peppermint."

"Well, I tried Candy Cane Crush the other day, and it was love at first sip. Sorry, man, it's now my favorite Christmas drink of all time. Barry takes gingerbread very seriously," Cisco explains to Caitlin. "If you diss his drink he's probably going to do something nasty to yours."

"His drink?" Caitlin repeats.

"Yeah, Gingerbread Peppermint was his idea," Cisco says. "Right?"

"Just the idea, though," Barry says, embarrassed. "HR was asking for drink suggestions last year and I put in some of mine. I really like gingerbread, so…"

"Yes? Did someone ask for me? I heard my name just now—ah, Cisco! A sumptuous evening to you! It's been awhile, hasn't it?" HR pauses in front of them, eyes twinkling. Barry glances over to the patron he'd just been talking to, and notices that her cup of Dark Mocha Apricot is already empty. "And who is this lovely friend of yours?"

Caitlin blinks at him. "Oh…"

"Yo, HR," Cisco says. "This is Dr. Caitlin Snow, my colleague from S.T.A.R. Labs. Cait, meet HR, Dr. Wells's twin."

"The more dashing, interesting twin, as anyone will tell you," he says, with a small bow. "Also a coffee connoisseur and the owner of this humble establishment, home of the best coffee in the tristate area, according to Central City Picture News, Starling City Star, and the honorable interwebs news source, BuzzFeed."

Caitlin turns to Cisco. "This is really weird."

"May I interest you in any of our Christmas drinks?" HR continues. "The Dark Mocha Apricot, in particular. According to one of our regulars, it drops the bomb of an entirely new flavor onto one's palate; it's an explosion of taste, a new frontier in frappes—"

"My tongue feels assaulted," Caitlin says dryly, but she's amused. "You sure know how to hard-sell, though."

"Why, thank you," he says. "I am told I wear people down with my persistence. Well, how about getting that Dark Mocha Apricot, hmm?"

"No, I think I'm sticking to my usual. I love your mocha, by the way. Sans the apricot."

"You're very kind," he says. "I select only the best ingredients for our drinks. How about you, Cisco? I'm sure your adventurous palate would surrender to the seductions of my Dark Mocha Apricot—"

"Stop," Cisco says. "I don't even like apricots. They're like, the unfortunate children of bland oranges and un-exotic mangoes."

Caitlin crinkles her nose. "Why do you even have an opinion on apricots?"

"Hey, it's a free country," he says. "I can have an opinion on apricots. Besides, my mom used to be into apricot foot scrubs, so…" He shudders. "I'm never putting those things in my mouth."

"You just ruined apricots for everyone," Barry says.

"I shall convert you all yet!" HR says. "So, Cisco, you'll have your usual? Ah, wait, don't say it, don't say it… French roast with just a touch of creamer! Am I right?"

Cisco blinks. "I usually have that in the morning, but… yeah. Wow. It's kind of creepy how you remember everyone's orders."

"Oh, Barry does that, too," Caitlin says, and suddenly everyone turns to stare at him. Blood rushes to his face. "Remember that? It was the second time I came here, and you recited my order from my first time back to me." She's talking to HR now. "Down to the pumps of syrup and the extra whipped cream. I was really impressed."

HR gives him a speculative look. "Hmm… I was under the impression that Kendra's the one with the photographic memory of our regulars, but perhaps I misjudged."

"Yeah, man," Cisco says, "you told me once you forget orders as soon as the customer—"

Barry shoots Cisco a desperate look.

"—I mean, wow dude, you must've improved a lot since then!" he adds brightly. His gaze swings conspicuously between him and Caitlin, and then he wags his eyebrows. Barry wants to die. "Hey Cait, I'll just look for a seat and leave you to—to finish ordering. With Barry. Just… tell it to Barry. Tell our orders, I mean. And do whatever you guys do over the cash register. Bye!"

"…also like your customer service motto," Caitlin's telling HR. "Going the extra smile for the customers. Very witty."

Now HR's really staring at him. "Yes, yes, of course," he says slowly. "I always emphasize during our training that a smiling customer is a satisfied customer…"

"So that's one hot mocha and one Gingerbread Peppermint, right?" he cuts in. He wishes more customers would walk in already. "Will you be paying with your Jitters Card?"

"Cisco wants the Candy Cane Crush, right?" Caitlin says. "And yes, I will."

"Oh, right," he says weakly, punching the orders in and swiping her card.

HR continues chatting with her ("Ah, you report directly to my brother? How is he, by the way? Does he still look perpetually constipated?") and Barry continues to spiral in embarrassment, avoiding her gaze as he prepares their orders.

He's so flustered that he forgets to leave a note on her cup.

. . .

The next day, HR visits the store, chats with the blonde customer who'd ordered his strange Dark Mocha Apricot again, and calls Barry to the staff room for a quick "checkpoint".

"I must say, B.A., I'm impressed!" he says, clapping him on the back. "Taking the initiative to enhance our customer service experience and our barista training modules—remind me to give you a raise!"

"I—uh, I didn't really plan to—"

"Going the extra smile—yes, I like that," HR nods, now mostly to himself. "It's simple and catchy, easy for our new trainees to remember… Yes, I've been so focused on making sure that the baristas know how to fend off angry customers that I've forgotten it has to be more than damage control…"

"Uh…"

"Excellent job, B.A., excellent job," HR says, patting him again on the back. "One is certainly inspired when one is in love, am I right?"

Barry chokes. "Wh-what—"

"Ah, young love," HR says wistfully. "Well, off you go, then," he says, ushering him out of the staff room. "I'm sure there's one customer who's hoping to see you. Now, where did I put that training manual…?"

Barry leaves the staff room feeling more confused than when he'd walked in. But then, HR did offer a raise, so he isn't going to complain.

. . .

On his part, Cisco doesn't return to Jitters—still too many awkward vibes with Kendra, he says, and it's distracting him from work—but he does freak out over chat. The conversation contains various permutations of "Dude, I never knew!" and "When are you asking her out?!" and "Both of you have my blessing, as long as you'll make me the godfather of your firstborn child…" It's also littered with smug emojis in between sentences. In fact, there are more smug emojis than actual words, but that's Cisco for you.

Nothing changes in his interactions with Caitlin over the next week, though. He doesn't know if she's just honestly oblivious or if she's acting normally on purpose, but he does know that if she's not going to bring it up, then he isn't, either. Besides, the timing can't have been worse—she's even more stressed from the report she has to submit, and every time she comes in she looks like she slept one hour less than the day before. He's also on the last leg of finishing the second draft for his thesis, so he knows how it feels.

"Hey—oh, whoa!" She walks in the store teetering in her layers of clothing and the stack of folders she's carrying—it comes up to her nose—so she looks like she's about to collapse. He gestures to Iris to man the register, and he quickly walks out to help her. "Here, let me help you."

He cuts through two-thirds of the stack and she sighs in relief. "Thanks."

"Bad day?"

"The worst," she says. "I have so much data to comb through before the presentation."

"No kidding," he says. "Well, you can't comb through the data on an empty stomach. Why don't I get you a sandwich? On the house."

She gives him a puzzled look. "How'd you know I haven't eaten?"

"Oh—ah, well, you're early," he says, setting the folders down on her table. "You usually come here after dinner, but it's only six, so… I just assumed…"

She smiles at him. "Well, I'm not turning down a free sandwich," she says. "Thanks. You're really thoughtful, you know that?"

"Thanks," he says. "I mean, you're welcome. Can I get you anything else?"

"Just my usual," she says. "Oh, here, before I forget. My card."

"Right," he says, and then adds, lamely, "Well, good luck."

On her cup, he writes:

Have fun (1) with your data! (2)

(1) Some wise person said time flies when you're having fun. I hope you have fun so it'll be over quickly. :)

(2) If it doesn't work, you can have a Dark Mocha Apricot, on the house…

She laughs when she gets her drink and says, "Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll take my chances with the data."

. . .

His shift is over in a blur. He notices that she falls asleep on the table at half past ten, but she looks so exhausted that he decides not to wake her until it's time for them to close.

"Hey," he says, shaking her awake. Jitters is already empty, and they've switched off most of the lights, save for the Christmas lights outside. "Caitlin, wake up."

She lifts her head slowly from the table, and blinks blearily at him under the weak light. "Barry," she murmurs, rubbing her eyes. "What time is it?"

"It's midnight," he says. "You've been out for about an hour and a half."

"An hour and—" Her eyes widen, and she swivels to look at the clock behind her. "Oh my God," she groans. "I fell asleep…"

"You look like you haven't been sleeping much lately," he says, "so I didn't think it was a good idea to wake you…"

"This is bad," she mutters while gathering her folders. She looks ruffled and distracted. "Only two days to the presentation and I don't have enough data to back my claims—stupid Hewitt, he can shove that ego up his—"

"Hey," he says reluctantly, "are you okay?"

She seems to realize he's still there, because she blinks slowly at him. "No," she says. "No, I'm not okay."

"Oh—hey, hey, don't cry," he says. In a fit of panic, he dashes for some napkins and pulls a chair beside her. "Shhh, it's okay, don't cry…"

"I'm sorry," she says. She takes the napkins from him and blots the tears from her eyes. "I don't usually—I've never cried because of work before—"

He hesitates for a moment before putting a hand on her back, and when she doesn't stiffen, he makes soothing back-and-forth motions to calm her.

"I've just—I've wanted this job for a long time," she says, "and—and I want to prove to Dr. Wells that I'm good enough to be on the team for the particle accelerator, even if I'm new…" She trails off and wipes her nose. "All the bioengineers on my team have been at S.T.A.R. Labs for at least five years. They've worked really hard to get their spot on this project, and I just came in from nowhere, so… they don't trust my calculations. I was so sure I was right, but…" She takes a breath. "But after looking through all this data from way back, I'm not so sure anymore. And they decided to draft up their own feasibility report with their calculations, so… I'm doing this alone. I don't know how I can stand up to the board."

"I remember two of your team members," he tells her. "Some guy with only one PhD, and another guy with none, right?"

She gives a watery laugh. "Yeah, those two."

"You really put them in their place back then."

"Yeah, but now they want to put me in my place." She sighs. "I can handle working alone, and I can stomach disagreement, but… not insults. Not when people think I'm incompetent." She bows her head. "I just… can't stand it."

"Hey, you have two PhDs," he says. "If you think you're incompetent, then us PhD-less masses are practically useless."

"I know, but still," she sighs. "There are good days and there are bad days. Sometimes you believe in yourself, and sometimes you just… don't. Or you can't."

Barry takes in her slumped, dejected appearance, and, for the first time in his life, he feels like punching someone. Or rather, four specific someones. He can't imagine what they must have told her to sap her of all her confidence—

Suddenly, he has an idea. Sure, he can't be there to tell those guys off—and he doesn't think he's earned that place in her life yet—but she will, and he knows that she's strong enough to stand up to those bullies. Maybe all he can do now is to show her how.

"Hey, do you mind standing up?" he says.

"Oh—I forgot you're closing—I'll just pack up and—"

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that," he says quickly. "I, uh, I want to show you something."

"Oh." She looks up at him curiously, but she stands from the chair. She's still clutching the shredded piece of tissue in her hand, and the thin skin under her eyes are red from her vicious wiping. "Okay."

He tugs on the straps of his apron. "This," he says, lifting it, "is my shield."

She blinks. "Okay…?"

"I mean it's an apron, obviously," he says hastily. "No need to worry about my mental health or anything, I know it's an apron. Sorry, I'm going about this wrong. Can I start again?"

She's smiling again. "By all means."

"So while we're learning the ropes as baristas," he says, "HR also makes us go through a customer service training module. It's basically a step-by-step guide on handling difficult customers."

"Okay," she says. "I'm following so far."

"I'm lucky because I've never worked the morning shift," he says, "but I've had my fair share of those customers. You know the type. They're cranky, they're always in a hurry, they make lots of demands, and if you slip up once—if the drink is a degree less than what they want—yeah, that actually happened—they blow up, and they treat you like you're less of a person because you made a mistake.

"HR knows how tough that can be, so he always reminds us that our aprons are our shields. Once we put this on, we don't take anything the customer says personally. The apron absorbs all the insults. At the end of our shift, we can just shrug it off. We don't bring the negativity from the shift home."

He unties his apron and drops it on a nearby chair. "Once it's off, I don't let the insults stick around here." He points to his head. "I don't let it get to me."

She's looking at him intently, so he becomes a little embarrassed. "I mean, we have sessions on regulating emotions and things to say to appease an angry customer, but the apron thing really stuck to me, you know?"

"I can see why," she says.

"Here, why don't you try it?" he says, taking a step closer to her and holding the apron between them. "It doesn't have to be an apron, by the way. You can use your lab coat. But for now we can use my apron for practice."

"Okay," she says. She takes his apron and puts it on, tying a ribbon loosely at the back. It's only up to his knees on him, but on her, it falls past her shins. "So now I have my shield on. What next?"

"Whenever someone disses you, just imagine the insults deflecting off it," he says. "And then you have to recite the mantra."

"What mantra?"

"You really want to say it?"

"I'm already wearing your shield, so might as well, right?"

"Okay," he says. "Repeat after me: I am braver than I believe…"

"I am braver than I believe…"

"…Stronger than I seem…"

"Stronger than I seem…"

"…And smarter than I think."

"And smarter than I—hey, isn't that a line from Winnie the Pooh?"

"Nice catch," he grins. "Sorry, our training module's still under construction. HR thought it was good enough to be a mantra… What? What's wrong?"

She's laughing now, so hard that she's clutching her stomach. "No, no, nothing's wrong," she says. "It's just, I'm standing in a deserted coffee shop in the middle of the night, wearing a barista's apron, and reciting a line from Winnie the Pooh—"

"Is that so bad?" he says.

"No! Not at all," she says. "It's exactly what I needed."

"Oh," he grins. "Then I'm glad."

She leaves her shredded tissue on the table and straightens her posture. "Alright, I'm ready."

"Ready for your presentation?"

"No, ready for the insults," she says. "I have my shield and I've said the mantra. Shouldn't I have to practice deflecting now?"

"Oh—well, it doesn't work that way…"

"It doesn't?"

"Of course not," he says. "It's not hazing, you know. And I couldn't insult you if I tried. That'd be bad customer service."

"Hmm, I suppose so." Her gaze turns thoughtful. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Is 'Going the extra smile' really one of your customer service mottos?"

"Yeah," he says. And then, when her gaze flickers downwards, he feels the need to add, "It's one of mine, at least. For one customer in particular."

"Ah," she says. "And memorizing drinks?"

"Uh, also part of my training," he says. "For one customer in particular."

He's glad that it's dark, because his blush is as bright as a Christmas light, and he can't look her straight in the eye.

"I see," she says with a small smile. She unties the apron. "I should give your shield back to you."

"Oh—ah, thanks," he says, but what he's thinking is, I see? He practically confesses to her, and all she can say is I see? But she's still talking, so he wills himself to pay attention.

"…late, and I have to head home," she's saying. She pulls her trench coat around her and wraps her scarf around her neck. "I'm sorry for keeping you. You still have classes in the morning, right?"

"Sort of? Noon is morning for me," he says. "Hey, do you—do you live nearby? Maybe I can walk you home, or something? You're carrying a lot of stuff and it's really late…"

"Oh, I'd like that," she says. "You sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all," he says. "This time I'll be literally going the extra mile."

She crinkles her nose. "You make the worst jokes."

"Well, you're smiling, so that means you have bad taste in jokes."

She raises a brow. "Touché," she concedes. "That makes us quite the pair, doesn't it?"

His heart leaps to his throat. "Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does. It'd be terrible for me if you only actually liked funny jokes, because only one in ten jokes I make is funny—that's an actual statistic, since Iris counted—and…"

She's staring at him, amused.

"I'm rambling. Right. Stopping," he says. "Uh, just let me get my things, then I'll help you with yours."

. . .

"…and then, right after I spend the entire morning building my snow fort, Iris just barrels straight into it! She doesn't even ask me what I'm doing, she just runs straight from our front porch to our backyard and topples the entire thing! I was so devastated. My mom took a picture of my face at that moment, and then I cried for like, an hour. Well, not really an hour—that's not very manly—it was more like, fifty minutes."

Caitlin's shaking with laughter, and the papers tucked in her folders quiver in the night air. "Fifty minutes? That's your designated manly crying time?"

"It adjusts as you go older. Fifty minutes is the designated manly crying time for tough four-year-olds."

She shakes her head fondly. "Do you still have that picture your mom took?"

"Yeah, it should be in one of our family albums. But really, can you believe it? My four-year-old self had just experienced the equivalent of a natural disaster, and instead of comforting me, my mom laughs, and then takes a picture for everyone else to laugh at. Well, she did give me gingerbread cookies so I'd stop crying, so there was some comforting involved, but still."

"Didn't know you were so cheap, Mr. Allen," she teases. "A public official, bribed by gingerbread cookies? Scandalous."

"Ah, you've exposed my ultimate weakness, Dr. Snow," he says. "What ever shall I do?"

"Oh, don't worry," she laughs. "I'll keep quiet about your deep dark secret…"

She walks into a nondescript apartment building, and Barry follows. The warmth inside is welcome, and even if the lobby is small, it's clean, well-lit, and tastefully decorated. They shuffle into the elevator and climb to the third floor.

"Well, this is me," she says, stopping before a room marked 312. "It's not much, but I like it."

"Are you kidding? This place is great," Barry says. "I'll just leave these by the door, then?"

"Yeah, okay," she says. She places her small stack on top of his. "I don't want to carry them all inside, and I think I'm done for the night."

"Well, good night, Caitlin," he says.

"Good night, Barry," she says. "Thank you for the apron lesson. And for walking me home."

"No problem," he says. "Good luck with your presentation. Remember, you're braver than you believe…"

She laughs. "Oh my God," she says. "If I put my lab coat on tomorrow I'll just end up thinking about Winnie the Pooh."

"Hey, Winnie the Pooh is a nice image," he protests. "Better than those jerks, anyway."

"Yeah, well," she says, looking up at him with a lingering smile. "Can't argue with that."

"Uh…" he says. "So I said good night already, but I'm going to say it again because I don't know how to end this conversation, so… good night, Caitlin. See you around."

"Good night, Barry." She stretches on her tiptoes, and before he can comprehend what's happening, she's kissing him on the cheek.

When she pulls away, her eyes are bright. He's stunned to silence.

"That's how you end a conversation," she says. "See you around, Barry."

. . .

Barry floats around in a happy daze for the next few days. Caitlin comes to Jitters only once during that time—explaining apologetically, after ordering a hot mocha to-go, that she'll have to practice for the presentation, so she can't linger at Jitters—but not even that dampens his mood.

He has a chance, he thinks. He actually has a chance with her. He'll ask her out after her presentation, or maybe some time after Christmas… He can bring her to a restaurant or a skating rink, or if she isn't feeling the cold, they can just stay in and watch a movie…

The possibilities, he marvels, are endless.

. . .

It's late Friday night when she finally comes to Jitters again. When she sees him, her rosy face blooms into a beatific smile.

"Hey," she says softly, approaching the counter. "The presentation went really well. Dr. Wells said I was right to correct the calculations. And I have to say, my lab coat made a pretty decent shield."

"That's great!" he says. He would hug her, but the counter is in the way, so he settles for grinning widely instead. "I prepared your celebratory frappe beforehand, so… here you go. It's on the house. Congratulations."

She smiles again and peers at the note on her cup:

You've just proven a wise bear (1) right. Congratulations! :)

(1) Pooh, Winnie The. 1926.

"I have a gift for you, too," she says.

"A gift?" he says, perplexed. "You, uh, shouldn't feel obligated to—"

"Well, it's not really a gift," she says, pulling a Ziploc out of her handbag. "More of a bribe, really…"

She hands it to him.

It's a packet of gingerbread-man cookies, dressed in black Jitters aprons.

His jaw drops. "Did you—"

"Yeah, I baked them," she says. She looks embarrassed. "I stress-cook and stress-bake. It's kind of my thing. I rushed this one, though, and I've never made gingerbread cookies before, and I'm sure it's nothing like what your mom makes, but I hope you like it."

She's rambling. He doesn't think she's ever rambled before.

"I do," he says quickly. "I love it already. It'll be gone before the end of my break." He tucks the cookies into the pocket of his apron and wonders if he can have them framed, or maybe preserved for posterity.

"That's great," she says, smiling. She bites her lip. "Um, sorry, I have to run again to, um, do some last-minute shopping, but… Merry Christmas, Barry."

He's still clutching tightly at the packet of gingerbread cookies. His mouth is dry. "Merry Christmas, Caitlin."

He watches her walk away until she's a speck outside.

"Well, well, well," Iris says smugly.

HR claps him on the back. "Ah, young love," he says. "Aren't you going to go after her?"

"Wha—uh, well, she said she had to do some last-minute shopping—"

"At nine-thirty in the evening?" Iris scoffs. "Please. She's leaving because she's embarrassed, silly."

"She's… embarrassed?"

"Oh, B.A., B.A. Still a novice in love. Tell you what, because I am an incurable romantic at heart, I'll let you off early. Just offset your remaining hours on some other day."

"I… really?"

"And a word of advice from this old-timer: don't let whatever opinion you have of yourself get in the way of your happiness."

An image of HR chatting with the blonde customer—who turns out to be the brilliant physicist Tracy Brand—comes to mind, and instantly he understands.

"Now off you go! I'm not paying you for staying here!"

Barry doesn't need any more prompting. He grabs his coat, scarf, and backpack, and runs out into the night.

. . .

He's not sure if she's home, but he takes a chance and goes straight there, anyway. He lifts a numb hand to press the doorbell to her apartment, and then he waits.

And waits.

Maybe she isn't home after all, he thinks, reeling. Maybe she really did have to do last-minute Christmas shopping. Oh, he's an idiot, he shouldn't have let HR and Iris talk him into this—

"Hello?" the intercom crackles to life. His heart jumps. "Who's there?"

He presses the button. "Hey, it's me, Barry. Like the barista Barry."

"Barry?" she sounds surprised. "Did I forget something?"

"No, no, you didn't. I—uh—can we… talk?"

"Oh," she says. "Okay. Let me get dressed first. I'll meet you in the lobby."

He's unable to sit still on the couch in the lobby while waiting for her. When the elevator doors finally slide open, he leaps to his feet and turns around.

She's dressed in that slouchy S.T.A.R. Labs sweater she was holding the first time he saw her. Her curls fall in soft waves around her face, and she has absolutely no make-up on, but she's breathtaking.

"Hi," he says.

"Hey," she says. Her lips curl into a smile. "You're still wearing your apron."

"Oh." He glances at it. "Well, I'm trying to start a new fashion trend."

"Really?" She takes a step closer to him. "How's that going for you?"

"I don't know," he says. "I'm trying to impress one person, see, and I'm not sure if she'll like it, or if it's good enough for her."

"Yeah?" She pretends to assess him. "It's a little weird, but who knows, maybe she likes it a little weird."

"You think so?"

"Mmm. I don't know who you're talking about, but I'll take a wild guess and say that she might even think it's cute."

She's close now. She still smells faintly of gingerbread, and in the soft light of the lushly-decorated lobby, he can see every shade in her rich brown eyes. He momentarily loses facility for speech.

"We…" he says. "We're not really talking about the apron now, are we?"

She huffs. "Barry, seriously—"

He takes her hand. "Go out with me," he says, and she stills. "I should've asked you out months ago, but I didn't think you'd give me the time of day, so I didn't… But after I walked you home that night, I thought that maybe you'd give me a chance—oh, you don't have to answer me right now, by the way, and I don't mean go out as in go out now because it's freezing outside, but I'd really like to take you on a date some time—"

"Yes," she says simply.

"…Yes?"

"Yes, I'll go on a date with you," she says. And then she adds, teasing, "Only if you're not wearing the apron, though."

"Oh," he says. "Consider it done."

"And for the record," she says, "I would've said yes even if you asked me a month ago."

"Oh…" he says. "Uh. Wow. This is kind of unexpected."

"What is?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Well, I just never really imagined this conversation actually happening—I mean, I imagined the date, but not the events leading up to it—"

"You've imagined the date?"

"Ah, yeah," he says. "It's very elaborate. I'm sure it'd be better in real life, though."

"Yes, especially because I'm here in real life."

"Right. I should… probably get your number? So we can talk about the date. Or just talk, if you like."

"I'd like that," she says.

They exchange numbers. His fingers are numb, so she types hers in his phone instead, and he gives her a missed call.

"So… are you free after the holidays?"

"I am."

"Great," he says. He's still nervous, for some reason. "I guess I'll call you then."

"Sure," she says.

"Okay. Great. Uh. So. Good night, Caitlin."

She smiles. "Good night, Barry."

He's about to leave when he pivots back and says, "I didn't end our conversation properly."

She looks puzzled for a moment, and then realization dawns on her face. "Oh, right. You didn't."

He takes a step closer to her and cups her face in his hands. "Good night, Caitlin," he says, and then brushes his lips to her cheek.

He's about to pull away when she places her hands on his arms, and then lightly pushes him backwards.

"Hmm," she says. "I believe we happen to be standing under a mistletoe."

Barry blinks and looks up. Surely enough, there's an innocent sprig of green dangling above them, along with all the Christmas lights.

He grins at her. "We happen to be standing under a mistletoe, or you happen to push me under it?"

"I did no such thing," she says primly. "Well, I suppose we have to end our conversation properly this time."

"Mmm," he says. "I think I need a primer on all the ways you end conversations. Don't want to make any mistakes in that department."

She loops her arms around his neck, and he wraps his around her waist. She's soft and warm against him, and she smells like the Christmases in his childhood home.

"No need for a primer," she says. "I'll just show you instead."

And then she pulls him down to kiss him on the lips.

It lasts only a few moments, but when he pulls away, he feels lightheaded. He leans his forehead against hers.

"So… last-minute Christmas shopping, huh?"

She bites her lip, embarrassed. "Well, I'd say I was successful," she hedges. "I was able to get something I've wanted for myself, at least."

"Yeah?" he grins.

"Yeah." She lifts the Ziploc from the pocket of his apron and adds slyly, "Got him for a good price, too."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he says. "You'll have to keep baking those things to keep him happy."

"I don't mind," she says. "His extra smile is my extra smile, after all."

He laughs and kisses her again. "Merry Christmas, Caitlin."

She smiles against his lips. "Merry Christmas, Barry."

Notes: I got the part about the apron being a shield from Charles Duhigg's Power of Habit. Apparently, it's part of training for Starbucks employees.

Again, Merry Christmas! Reviews would make my holidays, so I'd love to hear what you think. :)