SO... this was a response to one of my guest reviewers on "Oh, God, Not Another High School Story (SWANFIRE EDITION)" who asked I write a Swanfire coffee shop AU. Just a one-shot, but if you guys like this, and you want more one-shots, or any specific prompts, you let me know, and I will type my little fingers into a frenzy for you. Swanfire is Life.

He had promised himself last time that that was the last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.

The truth was, Neal knew perfectly well that there was only one proper way to study for a history midterm: to pull an all-nighter and desperately cram everything into his head the night before. And even though it made him miserable beyond belief, tearing at his very will to live, and he swore to himself that he would never ever ever put himself through such pain and torment again, he knew it was the only possible way he could pass that damn midterm. Tonight, he would sell his soul to chapters six, seven, eight, and ten (they had skipped chapter nine for later).

And to do that, he needed coffee. Like, a gallon of coffee. Continuously. Throughout the night. Sure, tomorrow morning, he'd look like an ADHD squirrel on crack, but he was going to need it if he was going to make it through the night with only his impossibly dull history book to keep him company.

He tugged open the door to CoffeeBean, one of the campus's better coffee bars, and tossed his backpack on a table before going to stand in line. He groaned, seeing the length of the line: it seemed like everyone and their grandmother had had the same idea. Although, he supposed it must have been a million times better to be on this side of the the counter: he could only imagine how fried the poor baristas' nerves must have been. Last semester, he'd worked at the corner Starbucks; and on particularly hectic days, he'd thought about hanging himself with his own apron strings.

By the time Neal got to the front of the line (like, a million years later), there were only two girls left working, as the rush had died down quite a bit since. One was a dark-haired girl, almost lazily putting a frappachino together: clearly a long-time veteran of the barista world, as she tossed together the drink like she was doing it in her sleep. The other girl—blonde, with cat-eyed glasses—was a wreck.

"I can take the next guest!" she called out frantically, rinsing out a blender with shaking hands.

Neal swiveled his head around, and realized that he was the "next guest". Oh, damn it, he thought, approaching the counter with a sinking feeling. Why did he get stuck with the newbie girl? What if his order was too complicated and she got all nervous and panicky and made herself sick? Then he'd feel guilty. He couldn't study like that, not with the guilt taking up all the space in his head! Where was he supposed to store the dates of battles no one cared about, or the names of politicians he didn't know?

"What can I get you?" the girl asked anxiously, blinking through her glasses rapidly.

"Iced coffee, large. Sorry, venti," he added hastily, as the girl looked helplessly at the stacks of cups beside her. "It's the biggest one—see?" He pointed it out for her.

The girl looked at him with immeasurable gratitude. "Thanks," she said exhaustedly. "I'm really sorry, this is my first day, and everything's been—" she made an explosion noise, waving her hands. "What's the name for the order?" she asked, uncapping a Sharpie.

"Neal."

"Neal…" she muttered, scrawling it onto the cup. "Okay, that was iced coffee?"

"Mmm-hmm," he nodded.

"Okay, iced coffee, iced coffee…" She flipped through her recipe book, shaking her head. "I can't find it. Hang on, let me ask Ruby. RUBY!"

The dark-haired girl made a frustrated noise as Blondie (as Neal had taken to calling her in his head) pulled her away from flirting with her customer, who had long since paid for and received his drink. "I'm busy, Emma. Look at your recipe book."

"It's not in there—" Emma began, but Ruby cut her off.

"It's iced coffee, okay? It's not that hard." She pitched her voice down, though Neal could still hear her perfectly well. "Now leave me alone, I'm trying to get this guy to ask me out."

"But—"

Emma's shoulders dropped helplessly as Ruby turned away. Neal offered her half a smile as she turned back to him, sighing heavily.

"Okay, so I'm going to try making this for you, but I can barely mix ice water now," she said forlornly. "I don't even know if I remember this one…"

"It's pretty easy," Neal said, leaning over the counter. "You remember how to work the espresso machine?"

Emma looked up at him in wonder for a minute, then slowly nodded. Neal smiled.

"Good. So it's just two shots—yeah, put 'em right under there, and press the button—no, no, the one over…there you go. Okay, now while that's brewing, go over to the ice, and use the biggest scoop. Looks like it's the yellow one."

Emma obeyed, going over to the ice machine. Neal nodded his approval as she held up the yellow scoop for assurance, and watched her carefully shovel the ice in there.

"Okay, good," he said as she returned, a small, relieved smile on her face. "Now, the espresso should be done, so you just pour it over top. Just dump it real quick, so it doesn't burn your hand…there you go! Good!"

Emma beamed as she fitted the lid to his filled cup, and handed it over to him. "There you go, Neal."

"Thank you—" he made a show of checking her name-tag—"Emma."

Even after he handed his $4.50 over (ridiculously expensive, though this time, he didn't gripe about it as much), Neal hovered by the counter. Emma glanced up from rinsing another blender, raising her eyebrows.

"Did I not make it right?" she asked, a hint of anxiety creeping into her voice. "I can make you another—"

"No, no, you did fine," Neal said, taking a sip to show her. "See? Pure deliciousness."

"Okay…" Emma said, a confused smile on her face. Neal scratched the back of his head, hardly believing what he was going to do. He never did this. This never happened. Why was he doing this? He had a midterm to cram for. He didn't have time for this, he had to deal with dates of battles and political names…

Meh. They were long dead, they weren't going anywhere.

"Hey, listen," he said hesitantly, leaning against the counter. "I… I don't usually do this, but…"

Emma turned off the water, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked toward him, a small smile on her face. "Yeah?"

Neal shrugged, tracing his finger along the counter, keeping his eyes down. "I dunno. I was just going to say…if you ever want to, you know, get coffee—like have someone else get you coffee, not you get you coffee—"

"Yeah?"

He shrugged again. "Nothing, just…I also like coffee, so maybe we could get coffee. Sometime." He chanced a glance up at her, raising his eyebrows. "Maybe?"

Emma tilted her head, twitching her mouth to the side. "Does it have to be coffee?" she asked. "Can we get juice?"

"Uh…" Neal blinked. Of all the responses he'd been expected, that was not one of them. "Yeah, juice is…fine."

"It's just, I've only been working here six hours, and I'm already off coffee," she explained hastily. "Nothing against you and your coffee habits, I'm not judging. I'm just sick of it, myself."

"Juice is fine," he repeated, grinning. "I mean, I haven't had a juice-date since I was five, but juice is fine."

Emma smiled. "Okay, then. Me. You. Juice. And you can just text me—" she plucked the cup out of his hand, and scribbled her number on the other side—"when you're up for it."

"Okay," he said as she handed the cup back. He glanced down at her number, then back up. "I'm probably not going to save this cup, so I'm going to probably copy this down somewhere."

"Good plan."

"But I might forget where I copied it down."

"Less good plan."

"So I might come back and ask you to write it down again, and probably stay in case you get stuck on more drinks."

Emma raised her eyebrows, smiling. "That works, too."