Author's Note: This is set in the Star Trek Mirror Universe, an AU in which human aggression and selfishness is more pronounced. This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: mirror.

Inspired by the jpg in the cover image, found by Teresa.

Thank you to Teresa for beta'ing this.

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit.

"Your Saturday is here," whispered Grace, a woman hiding from an abusive husband with certain unsavory connections.

Rachel nodded from her resting place in the kitchen and adjusted her uniform and hair from her typical friendly, approachable, and sexy look that got her the most tips, to a more demure girl-next-door look. Rachel sneaked a peak in the freezer, using the reflective surface as a mirror. Excellent.

Rachel was always a quick and accurate judge of men, and had known within a half-a-minute of seeing this slightly rumpled, introspective Miles Matheson, that he would make a good mark. Not too creepy, not too needy, not too suspicious. Luckily, Miles returned regularly to the café and tipped well. He typically came by Saturdays at around 2 and stayed for several hours, his nose deeply buried in some abstruse sciency book, a notepad of magical scribbles sprawled beside him. He ordered whatever pastry item she recommended and a house coffee, though he asked for his refills to be decaf. He always tipped near 100% of the bill, frequently apologizing for hogging one of her booths for so long. Definitely a good mark.

Rachel also knew within a half-a-minute that he'd be put off by anything too forward. He was shy; timid was the way to go with this mark. She guessed his sexual fantasy was totally "girl-next-door." On the other hand, she used a completely different technique for her Tuesday, an early-thirties divorcé, who needed to be dominated a bit and liked her in slinky dresses.

Rachel walked up to the booth Miles had settled into. His leather jacket was bunched up in the corner, his bag of books splayed open, his heather-gray V-neck shirt already coffee-stained. She timidly smiled at him and said, "We have an excellent carrot-cake muffin today."

Miles returned her smile and pushed his glasses up his nose, "Sounds good, and a coffee please."

Rachel nodded and returned promptly with the muffin and a mug of coffee. She set them down at the booth, and he murmured his thanks, his somber brown eyes never leaving his book. Rachel sighed silently; she had played out the timid phase long enough. It was time for Phase two. Rachel palmed Grace a piece of paper in passing. Grace knew the drill. She knew the way Rachel operated, knew her way of meeting guys, and knew her way of burning through them in her attempts at finding The One. Just like Rachel knew exactly what sort of men to keep an eye out for and warn Grace about.

Rachel tended her tables, fairly light for a Saturday afternoon: one couple, one family, two girlfriends catching up, and Miles. She was ultra-attentive to Miles, and as soon as he waved off another refill, she gave Grace a nod and hid in the kitchen where she'd have a good vantage point.

Grace walked over to Miles' booth and handed him the bit of paper Rachel had handed her. The noise of the kitchen – namely the spray of the dishwasher – masked their conversation, but Rachel knew Grace was telling him that Rachel liked him, and that she was too shy to do anything about it, but he really should give her a call.

Miles blushed, took the paper, thanked Grace, looked at the paper, and rubbed his hand along his neatly trimmed beard. Rachel watched a few more minutes, watched him stare at the piece of paper, and then reverently fold it up and put it in his wallet. Excellent. Rachel hid for a bit longer and then rang up his bill.

Rachel nonchalantly slid the check on his table with her left hand, a coffee pot in her right, intending on refilling the girlfriends' mugs. Miles grabbed her left wrist and held it firmly but not tightly; Rachel didn't expect this. Miles' hand was oddly callused, also something she didn't expect. In her experience, scientists had baby-smooth hands, probably from spending all day in lab coats and gloves, or HAZMAT suits, or whatever. Rachel turned around, her face a mask of timid innocence.

"Yes?" She asked, "Is there anything else I can get you Miles?"

She waited, her left arm crossed over her body, the warmth of Miles' hand seeping into her wrist.

Miles seemed frozen in indecision, but he finally forced out, "Do doyouwannahavedinnerwithmesometime?"

A genuine smile found its way onto Rachel's face, and she softly said, "Yes." She then looked down at her feet, remembering the role she was playing.

"Tomorrow?" He asked.

Rachel took a moment to think. Tomorrow was Sunday. She worked until 4 – the post-Church crowd – but should have plenty of time to clean up before dinner.

Rachel shyly smiled and nodded.

"Seven?" He asked, and she nodded.

"Meet here?" He asked, and she shrugged. It wasn't like she could give him her home address and have him pick her up there. She shared a small two-bedroom rent-controlled apartment with Grace, Nora – a "sixteen-year-old" jailbait runaway – and Nora's kid sister Mia. The three adults all worked under the table at the café and between their tips, they could cover rent, utilities, fuel for Grace's bike, and not much more. The apartment wasn't in the best of neighborhoods, and having him pick her up there shouted "damsel-in-distress" not "girl-next-door." She no longer played into the "damsel-in-distress" fantasy; she had too much self-respect.

He looked a bit at a loss, so she acquiesced to his meeting place, "Sure."

"Cool, um, I mean, good," he said. "See you then."

Rachel smiled and then pointedly glanced down at her wrist. He was still holding it firmly, taut across her body. Miles followed her eye line and dropped her hand so quickly she would have thought it was scalding hot.

"Sorry. Um. I didn't mean to. Sorry." Miles apologized, and rhythmically clenched his hands together, on top of the table.

Another genuine smile found its way onto Rachel's face, and she gently stroked the back of his hand. "It's okay."

Rachel continued on to refill the girlfriends' mugs, and by the time she gave them a refill and rang them up, Miles had left, leaving only $10 – nearly double his bill – and a note. Excellent. Rachel tucked the note into the waistband of her apron and gave Grace a big thumbs-up.

Later, while sitting on the toilet, Rachel pulled out the note. It had very clearly been written on a piece of paper neatly torn from his notebook. In a crisp, clean, almost copperplate script, Miles had written:

Dear Rachel,

Your friend Gracie gave me your number. I think it's only fair if you have mine.

(630) 252-2000

Miles Matheson

Discounting the fact that he got Grace's name incorrect, it was a sweet, simple note. And there was something indefinably sexy about a man with good penmanship, maybe because it indicated a certain amount of conscientiousness.

Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)