A/N: Each chapter will be teensy and short. Because that's how I roll. Picture Barista!Raptors as combos of Lisbeth Salander and Gogo Yubari. Maybe with a dash of Harley Quinn.

"Not. For. Anything."

"Dude, come on." Owen banged his head against his desk (which was tucked behind fifty-pound bags of Nicaraguan Dark Roast); a six-inch stack of shipment orders cushioned the blow. "Help me out here. I need a day off."

"So just take one."

"Can't. That would leave the girls by themselves."

"They managed before you were hired."

"Trust me, they did not 'manage'. There was no 'managing' going on in here."

Barry rolled his eyes on the other end of the line. (Owen didn't have to see it to know.) "Your sales pitch needs some work. Plus, I've got a job."

"Your boss is an asshole."

"You're an asshole."

Fair point. "Just think about it. Assistant manager's a pretty sweet gig. Masrani adds a lot of zeros onto a paycheck. And, uh… the girls aren't that bad. Really."

"You're so full of shit, Grady."

Another fair point. "Seriously, man," Owen pleaded. "I've worked twenty-six days in a row. Before long I'm going to turn feral and start biting the heads off live chickens."

"They do that?"

"Maybe. I don't track their off-hours." A chime rang through the shop. "Gotta run — another dissatisfied customer to disarm. I miss the Navy."

"No, you don't."

True.

It only took thirty seconds for Owen to get from the back room to the register, but that was more than enough time for Charcoal Suit Who Obviously Doesn't Read Yelp Reviews to get pissed off. "Excuse me," he said, waving his hand in front of Delta's face. "Excuse me!"

Delta's eyes stayed closed, her head bobbing along to her iPod.

Figured.

Owen wasted no time in yanking the earbuds out. "Register," he said, ignoring the girl's squawk of rage. "Nickelback is for break time."

He knew for a fact that Delta listened to Russian death metal, which was at least part of the reason she glared at him like she'd happily flay him alive.

Owen glared right back. "Don't give me that shit," he warned. "Do your job, or the iPod gets steamed brevé. And Charlie," he added, not bothering to look over his shoulder, "get your ass off the counter."

The laugh behind him sounded more like a bark, but he heard steel-toed Doc Martens hit the tile, so that was something.

"Um…" The suit glanced towards the door. "You know, I think I'll come back another time."

"Don't even think about it," said Owen. He still hadn't broken eye contact with Delta. Charlie was disinterested, Echo was prone to sabotage, and Blue (who refused to be called Bravo — near as Owen could tell, half the girls' problems came from being raised by a marine with PTSD who named by military code) had sky-high control issues, but Delta was the one most given to random, pointless acts of mutiny. Like this. She looked ready to claw his face off with her three-inch gel nails for daring to suggest she'd sully her ears with Nickelback.

Owen just narrowed his eyes. "Seriously?" he told her. "Of all the stupid shit to fight about, this is the hill you want to die on?"

Another beat.

Then Delta heaved a huge sigh. Disdain dripped from every inch of her turn to the register, but turn to the register she did. She crooked her finger at the suit.

"Macchiato," the suit said.

Delta rang it up. Owen thought about ordering her to ask the customer if he wanted an extra shot of espresso, but decided not to push his luck. He also decided to ignore the fact that he could see Charlie grinding up decaf. At least she was making the drink without being asked.

After the customer was gone — without leaving a tip in the jar — Owen tossed them each a Jolly Rancher from the stash he kept in his pocket. "There," he said. "Good girls."

Delta snorted, and Charlie snickered, but they both ate their candies without hesitation.

Baby steps.