Perhaps it is the weather that day, or maybe he had just got out of the wrong side of the bed, but if one more girl comes in and asks if he can make a pumpkin spice latte, he is going to lose his shit.

Bruce Banner is so not getting paid enough for this.

Working at Starbucks should qualify him for the United Nations. He had been smiling at insipid customers for several hours now, none of which had thought of actually considering what they wanted before they stepped in front of the counter, and he hadn't launched himself over the counter to claw off their faces yet so he would say he was pretty good at his job.

Because fuck whatever that weird chick said about Starbucks being a good source of the psychology of the American people. Starbucks was a good source of the stupidity of human nature.

Take for example the 40 year old woman standing in front of him, hmming and hawing over the limited selection of coffee hanging above his head, currently holding up the line as more and more people build up behind her. Why on earth couldn't she have considered deciding on her drink while she was waiting in line? Why couldn't she have gone to a different Starbucks? Why couldn't she have not lived at all? WHY COULDN'T SHE HAVE DECIDED WHILE SHE WAS WAITING IN LINE?

God help her if she asks a stupid question.

"So, like, how much is the dark mocha frappe?"

Rush hour is finally over. The crowds are gone, night was near and Starbucks is now filled instead with the weird lonely hipsters, dressed in their oversized sweaters, ragged beanies and scuffed converses, typing loudly away at their typewriters.

Don't these people have actual jobs?

Ross had long fled, leaving nothing more than a sneer, leaving him to clear up and lock up the store all alone.

He had just tucked the various creams and milks back into the fridges when, lo and behold, just as the malevolent gods would have dictated it, the doors to the store open.

And knowing just his luck, two rich snobs are standing at the door, both looking around the store with the air of someone finding dog shit on their shoes.

"Why me?" Bruce murmurs under his breath.

Expensive shoes taps their way up to the counter, eyes scanning over the boards above his head. The taller one, with a long woolen coat draped over his frame and expensive green scarf hanging loosely around his neck, raises a cigarette to his lips.

"You can't," Bruce begins, "smoke in here."

Green eyes, the exact shade matching his scarf, turns to him. The man gestures at the near silent store around them and shrugs.

"You still can't," he replies to the silent message. "Pretty sure it's against the law anyway."

The other man, shorter than the other, shakes his head in amusement. "Just do as he says, Loki."

Loki shrugs again, this time turning pointedly away and looking at the empty streets outside the store.

The shorter man rolls his eyes almost apologetically at Bruce. His eyes are very brown.

"He's not really a talking sort of person," he says in a way of explanation. "Can I get a grande double shot on ice, breve no classic, one pump sugar free hazelnut, one pump sugar free vanilla?"

The almost moment had been ruined.

"Sure," Bruce says almost automatically, mouth stretching to form a grotesque imitation of a smile.

"And I'll have a caramel frappe," says Loki.

Bruce promptly decides he likes Loki more.

He turns away to make their drinks, hands flying over the counter, all the while cursing his luck, internally screaming at the universal law of that one asshole coming in when it is nearly closing time and then placing a complicated order, designed to make baristas want to kill themselves.

"So you got a shitty dad too, huh?" comes the voice from behind him.

He didn't drop the ice but it's a pretty near thing.

"Sorry?" he asks, keeping his voice even.

He could see out of the corner of his eye, the shorter guy pointing at his wrist.

"Unless you're into kinky bondage, which I don't think you are, those are the marks of a shitty dad."

Bruce promptly pulls down his sleeves to cover up the bruises. "It's really none of your business," he says coldly.

It might be his imagination but he's pretty sure he just heard Loki murmur "Good job".

Bruce turns back around, grabbing the whipped cream, only to see the shorter guy, this time with a definitely apologetic grin on his face, raise his hands as if surrendering.

"I just put my foot in it, didn't I?" he asks.

"Yup," is his answer.

Another grimace. "I'm sorry," the guy said. "No brain to mouth filter, shouldn't have said anything, sorry that I brought it up and all that."

The apology is flippant but he gets the feeling that the other guy genuinely means it. The anger deflates and he offers a shrug of his own. "Whatever."

The drinks are done and he grabs them both, setting them on the counter. "That would be $15," he drones.

Loki starts digging into his pocket but the other guy stands still, staring at him with that half grin on his face.

"Let me make it up to you," he says. "We'll grab a drink or something."

Bruce pauses. He is definitely interested, but he says nothing, staring at the other guy until he too fumbles in his pocket for cash. The money is placed in his hand and he goes to take it but the guy then makes an aborted movement to grab his head.

"What do you say?"

Bruce thinks on it. The guy definitely interests him, and he doesn't exactly have anything to lose, going on his first date in nearly a year. But for slightly petty reasons, he feels like teasing the guy.

"I'll think about it," he says instead.

The other guy grins, and this grin is slightly happier than the rest. "I'll convince you."

Loki clicks his tongue from the door and the other guy rolls his eyes again, an almost perfect symmetrical end to their conversation.

"See you around," he promises.

"Tony!" Loki says and he grins. The guy practically bounds out of the door and it closes with a final jingle of the bell, leaving Bruce yet again in a near silent store, filled with various typing hipsters.

Tony. It's a nice name for a guy with very brown eyes.