Notes: The title is a Squeeze song of the same name.

Black Coffee in Bed

Rina

August 2005

Disclaimers: Do I look like I own them?

Itís the smell that wakes me, pulling me from fragmented dreams of Ancient technology, Wraith stunners and Kavanaughís ponytail, and I do not want to know how they all fit together, thank you very much. That smell, itís

heaven: strong, bitter, familiar... Coffee!

I open my eyes to focus first on the metal mug being waved in front of my nose, then on the person holding it. Questions can wait as I sit up and grab the mug, even enjoying the way the warm metal heats my palms. God, coffee; weíve been out for more than a month, and the whole city is in withdrawal, and this isnít the watery, instant shit we were drinking at the end but real, dark roast Colombian.

I lean my face into the steam coming from the mug and groan and lift my gaze to glower at him when he smirks. "Okay, where did you get it?"

"Canít tell, itís a secret."

"Is there more?"

He only shrugs, and I swear, if I didnít love him, or, more to the point, if it wouldnít spill my coffee, Iíd kill him. Maybe. Smug is a good look for John, but then again, what look isnít?

The first sip is nirvana, almost hot enough to scald my tongue and strong enough to walk out of the room on its own, but I donít care about fried nerve endings or caffeine overdose because itís coffee.

"Like it?" Heís sitting on the side of the bed, laughing at me but also looking as proud of himself as the guy who caught the winning touchdown pass in one of his football games.

"Yeah." I mean more than the coffee, and he knows it; that expressionís one that turns me on, though I wonít mention how pathetic it is that everything about him, including his snoring, does that. I take another drink, savoring the strong acidic burn, closing my eyes to enjoy it all the more. I feel the bed shift as he moves and open my eyes to find him leaning over me, an intent expression darkening his hazel eyes.

"John, I really want to finish this while itís hot." Iím whining, and I canít help it. John or coffee - why do I always have to make the hard choices?

"Thereís more." He nods toward a thermal carafe on my desk, and I groan before knocking back another gulp, not even tasting it, and then his handís under my t-shirt, and his mouthís on mine, and there is something in the world that tastes better than coffee, and I have an unlimited supply, thank god.

I drop the mug to the floor because his hands are there, and heís sucking there, and this is the best way in two galaxies to wake up - especially since thereís more coffee to be had once weíre done.

  since 02-04-07

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