Needs moar Mike Meekins!

My friend Erin and I thought this up, and I wrote it; kudos to her for a good number of the ideas, though.

So this is a general fic, taking place two years before Meekins becomes a cop at the age of 22; he's 20 and therefore still in college. Apologies for any inconsistencies and errors regarding characterization and setting, etc.

Meekins c. Capcom, Katherine c. Me.

XxxxoxxxX

One chocolate drizzled mochachinno with whipped cream- grande.

Eight hundred calories.

Four dollars and ninety-eight cents, out of his pocket, into the cashier's hand, into the cash register.

She smiled at him. He smiled back, as best he could.

One table, by the window, so he could watch for her.

Mike Meekins took the first sip of his coffee and wrinkled his nose- not because of the coffee, no, the coffee was perfect, just the way he liked it. He was wrinkling his nose because he was nervous...

And cold.

He missed L.A.; at least there it was warm and sunny, and his family was in reach. Now Mike found himself in a huge college in Michigan, where heating was always cranked up to some obnoxious, sauna-like amount and you'd have to wear seven hundred layers when it snowed. (This particular coffeehouse was freezing for reasons unknown to him. The theory going around the customers and the workers was that the heater was busted.)

To keep him warm, there was a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a University of Michigan sweatshirt, a heavy winter coat draped on the back of-

A bell tinkled. He looked up from the mochachinno that he had guzzled half of without even noticing.

There she was- that girl from the track team. She and Mike ran and raced together, and just now had he gotten up the nerve to ask her out. She agreed, hesitantly, but agreed, and Mike's roomate had helpfully informed him he was absolutely white when he got back from practice.

As her heels clicked on the polished wood floor with military precision, his hands settled into a familiar, fidgety rhythm with his coffee cup- shff. shff. shffshff. shff. Back and forth. Back and forth. The steaming liquid inside sloshed around violently, nearly knocking the whipped cream out of the cup.

She paid for her drink and looked around the coffeehouse for him. He sprung up and waved his hands wildly; he would shout her name, but his voice had somehow run away from him. His ridiculous height would have to be enough.

Sure enough, she spotted him, and giggled all the way to the teensy seat across from him. Mike sat back down, a little too sharply, and swigged his coffee like it was the very drink of life.

What did he say?! He had never done this before, he had no experience with girls at all!

"Hi," he finally croaked, promptly taking another gulp of coffee at the sound of his harsh voice.

"Hello!" she chirped easily, daintily sipping from her own decaf latte- six hundred calories, as opposed to his eight hundred. She was so good at this, unlike him. "Mike...was it?"

That wasn't a good sign. Here she was, his date, and she didn't even know his name! Nevertheless, Mike nodded somewhat enthusiastically, grateful for conversation.

"Yeah! My name's Mike." He knew her name already- Katherine. Katherine, just as fast as he in races.

"This coffeehouse is sooo friggin' cold!" Katherine shivered, hands flying up to cover her skinny arms. Not knowing what else to do, he offered his sweatshirt.

"Oh...oh, no, that's okay," she stammered, but Mike had already taken off his sweatshirt and passed it to her.

She smiled as best she could, and put it on. It was way too big for her, her hands easily disappearing in the sleeves. As she stared out the window uncomfortably, Mike basked in his own chivalry, ignorant towards her discontentedness.

"When's the next race?" she asked.

"Next Friday at five," he answered.

And then there was silence.

Katherine shifted in her seat and wrapped her arms around herself again. She was still shivering, even with his warm, baggy sweatshirt; what in the world was wrong with her? He sipped at the whipped cream at the top of his drink, staring at her, having nothing better to do. His watchful eyes on her didn't help at all- she continued to shudder.

He had an unbearable urge to stand up, to leave that chilly coffeeshop and go back to his dorm and sleep the disaster away. Nevermind that she had his sweatshirt, and he would surely forget his winter coat, lying there on the chair- Mike wanted to leave as fast as his feet would take him.

She spoke again. "Listen, Mike..."

"Hmm?" He perked immediately. "What, what is it?"

Even worse, his voice, unused to such silence, had adopted a loud, screechy tone. Katherine winced, as did several nearby customers, swiveling in their seats to stare at him.

"I...I've got a boyfriend already..."

"...wait, what?"

"I've got a boyfriend, Mike." She smiled weakly, and moved to take his sweatshirt off. "Sorry, but you're a little too late. Thanks for the offer."

There was a sound like shattering glass, and this time, he really did want to leave the coffeehouse. But his body didn't respond to him, eyes remaining fixated on the spot where she once sat. In a flash, she had stood and tossed his sweatshirt on the table next to him. Mike made no move to pick it up.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she repeated to him as she took her coffee and left the coffeehouse, but her tone didn't sound too sorry at all. It sounded more like she had made a petty mistake, and was only trying to make everyone forget about it by repeating a familiar word over and over again- sorry.

Then Katherine jogged down the street in the opposite direction, away from the window Mike was sitting near, and was gone.

The customers returned to their coffee. The workers returned to their labor, mixing drink after drink for waiting students.

He was the only one left dwelling on the incident. Tears were threatening to fall from his eyes, but he tilted his head back, and they sloshed back into his eyes. The sting of rejection...it would strengthen him when he became part of the police force! He had to embrace it, internalize it, let it crystallize and use it to deliver justice to petty criminals the country over!

Mike Meekins put his rejected sweatshirt back on, threw his winter coat over his shoulders, and downed the last of his mochachinno before leaving. The bitter taste of the coffee gone cold stuck to his tongue and reflected on his breath, imprinting itself on his brain as the taste of rejection.