To Heal All Wounds

Coffee and Contemplation

Opening the cafe had become rote for Steve and Robin by now. There wasn't a whole lot of thought that went into the process anymore, with muscles having long since memorized what goes where. In all honesty, Steve could have done this alone. He had before when Robin was sick or otherwise couldn't make it in for a morning here and there. But it was nice. Nice to work with his best friend in a lazy flow of actions. To feel her passing around him wordlessly. Occasionally they'd brush hands and she'd grab a finger or two and squeeze, but that was it. They worked silently and in nearly perfect tandem as the pale blue light of the early spring morning filtered in through the wall of south-facing windows. They spoke in their own brand of wordless communication, passing messages between the two of them through light touches and glances.

Robin set out an empty jar and Steve filled it with stir sticks because he was closer to where the extras were stashed. Steve pulled out the to-go cup dispenser and Robin filled that because she had the key to the backroom that day. Somewhere a timer went off and Robin glanced up to tell Steve her hands were busy so he removed the airpot from under the coffee maker and snapped the lid shut. Steve filled the pastry case with leftover treats from yesterday that could still be sold and Robin filled in the blank spots with fresh from the local bakery once the delivery person dropped them off at the back door.

No voices. Never voices. There would be voices in the cafe soon enough. An endless parade of voices calling for orders and chatting with loved ones. First dates and business meetings. Quick lunches and people with an hour to kill before The Next Big Thing in their lives. An endless cacophony of voices from all over town would soon fill the space, but for right now, crystalized for the next hour, there was only the sound of their breathing, the whirring of machines waking up, and the birdsong outside.

When that hour was up, they locked eyes and nodded, almost imperceptively. All was right. All was good. Steve flipped the sign to Open just as the first few patrons began trickling in, eyes heavily lidded and speech mumbled. Steve knew the feeling, having not been able to finish his coffee at home thanks to Eddie Munson's horrible distractions, and was nursing an americano that he'd made between miniature morning rushes.

It was during one of these breaks that Robin broke her peaceful silence, offering a nearly innocuous-sounding, "You never put sugar in your coffee."

It was the first thing she said to Steve after arriving at work that morning. He glanced back at her, watching as she wrapped herself around an airpot to absorb the heat from its sides, her long, willowy fingers wrapped around what remained of her now-room-temperature tea. It had sounded innocent enough, a simple observation between friends about a change in behaviors. But Steve could feel the weight of both her words and her gaze against his back as he stirred in the seven packets of sugar he'd added a moment before.

Steve tried to ignore the invisible press of Robin Buckley against his back and only shrugged in return, answering, "I want to know what the fuss is all about."

"Fuss?" Robin mused with something that Steve did not like lilting in her voice. "And by 'fuss', of course, you mean you want to know why Hargrove takes his coffee like that?"

"Plenty of people put sugar in coffee, Robin," Steve countered, but he knew it wasn't a good enough defense if Robin really wanted to press the issue. To be fair, if Robin really wanted to press the issue, then there would be no defense strong enough to stop her. So he prayed that Robin didn't feel like digging any deeper than she already was, and pretended that he couldn't feel her watching him too closely as he took a long draw from his cup.

"Yep," she sighed finally, her voice thick with feigned acquiescence. "They sure do."

Steve hid his relieved sigh behind his coffee, wincing as the overbearing sweetness hit his tongue. It nearly knocked him on his ass, the cloying, syrupy, sugar-coated flavor overtaking almost everything else about the coffee. It made him cough once, almost choking on the drink. How did Billy drink things like this? Steve's favorite part of coffee was the bite it had. The way the acid felt on the back of his tongue. The bitterness was as much a kick in the ass as the caffeine itself was, and the sugar masked that. Made it softer. Less abrasive.