He makes the mistake of asking his assistant how he takes his coffee. Rather, he makes the mistake of insisting that his assistant demonstrate how he takes his coffee, after spouting some nonsense about being able to tell a great deal about a person according to their cream and sugar preferences. This is ridiculous, of course, but Brains is curious. A month of working with the boss's son, and not even once has John taken him up on the offer of a cup of Brains' coffee. Neither the morning's custom roasted Sumatran blend, nor the afternoon's single sourced Colombian Arabica. John hadn't been tempted even the most hallowed of Brains' selection, the brew he makes himself and only breaks out for the most serious of projects on the tightest of schedules, doubly caffeinated and weighed within a milligram. John's politely declined each time.

But now he happens to have followed the young man to the break room, and he happens to notice that he's gotten a coffee cup down from the cupboard, one of the big, sixteen ounce mugs in sleek matte black ceramic. He looks, as usual, a little bit spooked to be caught doing anything at all, but Brains is sure to offer him a reassuring smile, before launching into a fanciful spiel about coffee preferences, and the intensity of his curiosity with respect to John's. Truthfully his objective is moderately evangelical in nature, and by discovering just what exactly his assistant considers the ideal cup of coffee, he hopes to set him on the path towards a superior experience, perhaps via the recommendation of something that would be a better fit than the sludge that gets cycled endlessly through the lab's common coffee pot. Brains is working his way up to considering John a friend. This is the best way he can think of to initiate some amicable bonding.

This desire suffers slightly as he steps back to allow John to make what he considers a drinkable cup of coffee. It becomes a test of Brains' ability to keep a straight face, as he watches the younger man retrieve a can of whipped cream from the fridge. It's bad, but it gets immeasurably worse as John up ends the star-shaped tip into the coffee cup, and deposits what must be a volumetric measure of eighteen ounces of nitrous-whipped cream directly into the mug, topping it up a full, fluffy two inches past the lip.

Brains is unable to prevent the escape of the tiniest, most pathetic noise of protest as John very patiently pours a ribbon of hot black coffee over the towering mound of sugary fat, until the entire mess has melted down into bubbly foam around the rim of the mug, a concoction that's turned a perfectly passable cup of innocent black coffee into a frothy gold, a shade to match the ocean damp sands of LA's beachfront. A cup filled with the equivalent of a middling dirty blonde, where there was once a glossy, perfect brunette. A process which takes all the delicate chemical ballet of a perfect, heady cup of well brewed coffee, and smothers it in the lipids and insipid proteins of a can of Reddi-Whip. He has the temerity to stir it, without clinking the spoon against the sides of the mug even once.

Confronted with Brains' helpless expression of abject horror, John at least has the politesse to offer an explanation, even as he lifts the mug and offers a sheepish toast. "My brother suggested it. I'm supposed to put some weight back on," he says, prosaic, leaning against the counter. And then, embarrassed, "I knew it would probably be, uh. A little offensive. Considering, um, your tastes. I probably should've left it at 'cream, no sugar'."

"That th-there's a m-medical c-component c-certainly softens the b-blow." Brains adjusts his glasses. "There would p-possibly have been the n-necessity of urgent medical intervention on my behalf h-had you ever d-done it to a c-cup of mine."

"No kidding." Brains can count on one hand the number of times he's seen John smile. It's a ghost of an expression whenever he has, like it's not often practiced and therefore somewhat forgotten. This time it almost reaches his eyes, as he sips deliberately at the nightmare he's concocted and says, "Would you believe I can make it worse?"

"You couldn't p-possibly."

"In a word."

Brains shakes his head, mocking despair. "I a-am the unfortunate child of c-curious parents," he laments. "What word?"

This time the flash of a grin might just be genuine, though it's gone like a lightning strike. John salutes him with the mug again, and explains, "Decaf."

And though he hears a chuckle as he goes, Brains is forced to turn on his heel and leave the room.