Notes:
The title is a Squeeze song of the same name.
August 2005
It’s the smell that wakes me, pulling me from fragmented dreams of Ancient technology, Wraith stunners and Kavanaugh’s ponytail, and I do not want to know how they all fit together, thank you very much. That smell, it’s
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; we’ve been out for more than a month, and the whole city is in withdrawal, and this isn’t 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?"
"Can’t tell, it’s a secret."
"Is there more?"
He only shrugs, and I swear, if I didn’t love him, or, more to the point, if it wouldn’t spill my coffee, I’d kill him. Maybe. Smug is a good look for John, but then again, what look isn’t?
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 don’t care about fried nerve endings or caffeine overdose because it’s coffee.
"Like it?" He’s 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 expression’s one that turns me on, though I won’t 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 it’s hot." I’m whining, and I can’t help it. John or coffee - why do I always have to make the hard choices?
"There’s 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 hand’s under my t-shirt, and his mouth’s 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 he’s sucking there, and this is the best way in two galaxies to wake up - especially since there’s more coffee to be had once we’re done.
since 02-04-07
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