Syzygy [McHaleinski]

Syzygy

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When Stiles finds the little cafe, he's running on empty. After weeks of partying and generally enjoying his last semester of college, he'd finally remembered that midterms were around the corner, and has spent the last week trying to catch up. By the time he comes upon the little tucked away coffee shop, Stiles has been up for 36 hours and doesn't exactly remember how he ended up on that particular street. He still has two papers to finish by midnight, and had vacated his dorm room because his asshole of a roommate, a Beta by the name of Theo, has made it his life's quest to drive Stiles insane. It's a bad day for his ADHD, and the exhaustion and anxiety only makes it worse. So out he'd gone in search of some caffeine to calm his brain and a place to work that's stimulating enough but not too stimulating.

And thus, he finds Syzygy.

Stiles blinks owlishly at the sign, mouthing the syllables for a few seconds. He feels an instant camaraderie to the shop, on account of both of them having weird, unpronounceable names. It feels like destiny. If Stiles believed in that sort of thing.

The minute he opens the door, the smell of coffee hits him hard enough to make his knees wobble. With a dreamy sigh he heads straight for the counter. There's only two people ahead of him in line, at a time when the morning rush should be starting up.

Okay, it's destiny. He's converted.

The guy behind the counter is tall, muscular, and dark-skinned, and watches Stiles with something very close to confusion on his face. "Hey, hi uh," Stiles glances at the brass nametag pinned to his apron, "Boyd. I need a large cappuchino - thank you for not doing Starbucks sizes, Christ - with three extra shots, topped with caramel and chocolate."

Boyd pauses in tapping his order into the machine, and stares intently at him. "Three extra shots," he says softly.

"Yeah..."

"A large capp already has two shots of espresso in it. You know that, right?"

Stiles goes a little wild-eyed, and leans over the counter. "Boyd, dude. Boyd. I am a man in need of caffeine. I've been up for 36 hours, and I'm gonna need to squeeze at least 12 more out of my life before I die. Three extra shots, please."

"It's your funeral," Boyd mutters, and finishes punching in the order. "Name?"

"Bruce Wayne," he blurts out. It's a reflex, mostly. Telling people his name usually causes confusion and dismay for all parties involved. And don't even get him started on the nightmare that's his birth name.

Boyd the barista is not impressed, though. When Stiles grins at him, he only sighs, and writes the name on a receipt with a world-weary air. Stiles winks, and shuffles over to join a couple of other tired looking college students at the pick-up counter. He's pretty sure he falls asleep with his eyes open, because it the minutes seem to blur and then suddenly a voice calls out: