Just a Little Pick-You-Up

Thanks to cup-of-hot-coffee for the prompt!

Steve

"So you broke it off, huh?" Clint smiled consolingly. They were standing in line at an indie book café, the kind that served coffee in mismatched mugs, played instrumental jazz and had thrift store armchairs encircling thrift store tables. It'd been Clint's idea; Steve just usually went with cheap stuff from a cart.

"Yeah," Steve sighed, "It just wasn't… working. Alex's nice but just wasn't…"

"The One. I get it." Clint commiserated by giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder, though he used his archery arm so it hurt more than he probably intended.

"Yeah, it just didn't seem fair to draw it out." Steve grimaced. "Sometimes, I think there must be something wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you, man. You just haven't found it yet. Trust me, when you do, you'll know." Clint assured him and, as a happily married man with two kids, he seemed like the type of guy who knew what he was talking about. "Now, what do you want? My treat."

"Just a latte's fine."

"Alright, how about you grab us a table?"

Steve nodded and headed towards the comfy couches . It was pretty early in the morning so he had his pick of seats. He chose one by the window to watch the people passing by.

Clint joined him a few minutes later with a smirk on his lips.

"What's with you?"

"I think the barista's a little sweet on you." Clint answered in that smug tone that came out whenever he was teasing someone. He passed Steve his latte, which was in a huge pastel green mug with white polka dots. It was balanced on a comically-small blue saucer which was entirely covered by a brown, recycle-look napkin. He could see some writing so he lifted the cup to read it.

Sounds like your having a bad day, so here's a cheesy line to 'pick you up':
You're like pizza - even when you're bad, you're good ;)!

Steve couldn't help the laugh. It was so ridiculous and yet exactly what he needed right then. He looked over at the bar to check out the author and wondered how he'd missed the guy the first time round. He had warm eyes and black hair that was pulled into a 'man'-bun. It should have looked ridiculous, but somehow the guy made it work; maybe because a few strands had worked themselves free, giving it a careless look. He was clean shaven too, which Steve didn't expect given the general fad for a five o'clock shadow, but it accentuated the smile he was directing at a customer. A guy could stop someone dead at twenty paces with a smile like that.

"You okay, man? You're staring." Clint asked, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice. Steve looked back at him with a glare.

"I was not staring." Steve protested, though he knew he had been and that made him feel guilty because he'd broken up with Alex on Saturday, barely two days ago.

"Yeah, you were. It's alright, I'm not judging. It's free to look, right?" Clint smirked into his black coffee.

"Shut up."

Clint pantomimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

Of course, nothing could actually keep Clint silent for longer than 30 seconds but he did at least change the subject. He told Steve the story of their weekend escapade when their youngest had mistaken his mother's secret stash of wine coolers for soda. Steve couldn't stop laughing at Clint's impression of his drunken 7 year-old. Clint was always good at distraction and if Steve bolstered it with discreet glances at the friendly barista every now and then, well… then nobody needed to know but him.

Clint finished his story, checked his watch and sighed.

"Ah, the weekend is officially over." He lamented.

"Nothing last forever," Steve commiserated.

"Alright, I'm gonna use the can and then we should probably get going." Clint said as he stood. Steve nodded and started collecting their cups together into a little tower in the centre of the table. He wasn't sure if he was being helpful, but it made him feel better.

He was just shrugging on his jacket when he spotted the napkin still peeking out from beneath his cup. He glanced around for the barista who'd written it, half-hoping he had come closer now that was Clint was gone; or a least be looking in his direction. Of course, he hadn't moved. He was laughing with a brunette girl behind the counter. Steve wondered if they were flirting.

He looked back at the note. It seemed rude to leave it there to be thrown away, especially if the one who cleared the table ended up being the barista who'd written it. He pulled it free from beneath the balancing mugs and quickly folded into his pocket before Clint came back. He told himself he was just being polite, that was all.

He'd made up his mind to thank the guy too,but by the time Clint had come back he was alread busy with new customers and it would be way too awkward to interrupt. He settled for hoping the barista would look up as they passed, but he didn't. Instead the female barista gave them a cheery goodbye as they past her and into the winter chill of Queens.

Work was a ten-minute stroll away though a small park and then a plaza of office buildings. The Maria Academy for Gifted Children (also know as Tony Stark's MAGiC school) had an extensive campus for an urban academy, but Steve guessed the Stark fortune could afford a lot of decent real estate. It was an impressive place, made even more impressive by the fact that 'gifted' did not actually mean 'monetarily'. A large majority of their students were scholarship students, which would be impossible for any investor with pockets shallower than Tony Stark. (Although, it didn't hurt that Principal Potts was particularly skilled at convincing other rich philanthropists that their school was a worthy cause for tax write-offs.)

Even though it was half past ten, the school grounds were still milling with students. As recent studies had proved teenagers were more productive later in the day, classes now started at 11 and finished at 6 every day. Steve wasn't really sure if it made that big of a difference, but he certainly appreciated the lie-ins.

Clint and Steve split at the school gates, Clint heading to science complex for his Applied Calculus class whilse Steve meandered towards the Art block. It was usually only a few minutes walk to reach his classroom, but today he was intercepted by the gym teacher. Natasha Romanov was a stunningly beautiful woman of terrifying capability. How someone with five black belts, certifications in almost every firearm in existence and 5 years experience as a Primaballerina ended up teaching surly teenagers, Steve had never been able to fathom. How someone of those qualifications actually seemed to enjoy teaching those surly teenagers was even less fathomable.

"So I heard you have an admirer." She smirked in lieu of hello.

"Clint text you." Rogers surmised; he'd never understood the relationship between Clint and Natasha, only that it was Clint that had got her the job at MAGiC and that they never kept secrets from each other. Even when those secrets were other people's.

"Of course." Her grin was reminiscent of a shark who'd smelt blood. " A hot barista - bit young for you don't you think?"

"He wasn't young. Late twenties at least." Steve argued before he realised that wasn't what he should have been protesting.

"And working in a coffee shop? Not a great sign for something long-term, but still perfect for a rebound." She winked at him salaciously and he didn't bother asking how she knew he needed a rebound.

"There is no rebound. There is no anything here. He was just a guy trying to be nice." Steve retorted firmly.

"Yes, and I bet I know how you'd like to thank him," she countered mockingly, but there was no malice in it. Steve had come to realise (after a few months of friendship and a long conversation with Clint) that this was how Nat showed affection.

"As much as I appreciate the invasion of my love life, Nat, I have a class in twenty minutes that I need to prep for." He told her.

"Have it your way." She conceded, "but we should drink this weekend."

Steve groaned but knew there was no use arguing, "Friday night, please. It took me two days to get over the last time."

Natasha laughed, "You're getting old."

Steve's first group was his most difficult class. Grade Nine were difficult not only because of they were more interested in phones than art but because it was the age of unchecked hormones. Half of the class erupted into giddy giggles whenever he spoke to them, which was irritating and mildly disturbing to contemplate. After an hour of that, Steve was more than ready for his much calmer class of twelfth graders.

All of them already had projects they were working on for their end-of-term assessments and required very little direction so he was sat at his desk, trying to mark Art History essays. Unfortunately it was hard to concentrate on a poorly-composed report on the effect of Picasso's abandonment of classical style when his mind kept sliding back to Barista Guy and his note.

There were a lot of questions rolling around in his head, such as 'I wish I'd seen his name tag so I didn't have to keep calling him Barista Guy' and 'You're like pizza - what kind of pick-up line was that?' and, more importantly, had the guy really just been trying to be nice, or was Steve supposed to read something into it? Steve couldn't even tell if the guy was gay; he had a terrible gaydar. And even if he was, maybe the guy had just been doing his #actofkindness of the day or whatever the new fad was now. He'd probably posted a picture of it on Instagram. If he'd signed his note, Steve could have tried to find his Instagram account to check.

Fortunately, before it went any further, Steve was interrupted from his thoughts of internet stalking by one of his students.

He went back because he liked the coffee. That's all.

"Oh hey, it's you. Where's your friend today?" The barista asked, his smile wide and genuine. . Now that he was close Steve could see that the sleeves of his black uniform t-shirt stretched interestingly over his broad arms and that the silver name tag pined to his chest read 'Bucky'. His hair was in a ponytail today.

"Ah, he's got the school run today,"Steve answered, trying not to feel awkward. "I… erm… so I just wanted to say thanks. For yesterday. The note. It cheered me up." He smiled because he didn't want to come off too serious, which would be creepy, but it felt a bit more like a grimace.

"No problem, we've all been there. Break ups are tough." Bucky commiserated with a sympathetic smile. Then he waved towards the menu board pinned on the wall behind him "So what can I get you?"

"Just a latte, please. Regular's fine." Steve tried to ignore the disappointed feeling he got from the generic response. What had he expected really?

"Sure, to drink here or take out?" Bucky asked, already going through the motions on his register's computer screen.

"Take out." Steve refused to let himself sit on one of the comfortable sofas and stare at the barista pathetically as he drank his coffee. He'd done enough time as the moon-eyed loser in high school.

"Sure, any syrups? Caramel, hazelnut, vanilla?"

"No thanks, I like my coffee to taste of coffee. Or at least a very milky kind of coffee." Steve conceded.

Bucky laughed; it was the kind of laugh that made you grin along with it, kind of wild and unmeasured. He took Steve's payment and then gestured to the bookshelves, "Why don't you check out some books? I'll bring it over to you when I'm done."

"Oh, ok. Sure. I'll have a look." Steve wandered over to the nearest bookcase as the sound of the coffee grinding and milk starting to be steamed. He ran his finger along the spine of a careworn Dickens, which was nestled alongside a modern thriller and a thick book on the proper maintenance of vegetable gardens. There didn't seem to be a system, just a gentle kind of anarchy.

He was thumbing through the gardening book, purely out of curiosity, when the barista appeared at his shoulder.

"Here you are, one regular latte to go." Bucky announced.

"Thanks. Well I better go to work." Steve gave that small, reluctant smile that always seemed to accompany those words.

"You work near here? Whereabouts?"

"The Maria Academy, do you know it?"

Bucky looked surprised, "MAGiC? Yeah, of course. Wow. Are you a teacher?"

"Yeah, just art, though." Steve admitted, a little deprecatingly.

"Just art? Art's the best class: no lectures,no books, getting messy with permission, what's not to like?" Bucky grinned and Steve could just imagine him as a teenager starting paint fights and drawing rude doodles in other students' sketchbooks.

"Well, I have to teach art history too, so it's not all watercolours and paper-maché." Steve confessed with a laugh.

"Aww, that's a shame. So do you have a free period now?"Bucky asked, glancing at his watch as if double checking it was nine thirty.

"Ah no, we don't start classes until 11."

"Damn! I wish my school had done that. Might not be doing my degree ten years later than everyone else if they had." Steve wanted to ask about that but the front door opened and a young couple came in. "Sorry, man, gotta go. Enjoy your coffee!"

It wasn't until Steve had already left the café that he noticed the writing on his cup.

No syrup - good choice. You're sweet enough :P