Pet Fly and Paramount own these characters, and I do not. Make of that what you wish.

For Aly, as always! May she reign forever!
Also, I would like to thank debraC and Dolimir for their very helpful betas.

Not only is there a little Mary Sue in the middle of the story, but it's me! I do that exact thing at the coffee store ALL the time. (Sorry!)

This story is a sequel to: Last Train Out to Decafville

I knew it was wrong when I was doing it, but I just didn't care. You know how it is sometimes, when you KNOW there are going to be consequences for your actions, but you just don't care, because you're having so much fun? That's exactly how it was with Sandburg.

I mean, I knew the whole casserole thing was wrong, but Christ! It wasn't like I put spoiled fish in it, or anything. It was just pure, natural ingredients. I even went down to the co-op and listened to a five-minute lecture on the benefits of miso before the pierced wonder there would tell me where they kept the kelp. Like THAT'S a question I ever thought I'd be asking anyone.

I had my doubts while I was making it. The thing stunk to the high heaven. I had smell dialed down to zero, and I STILL thought I could smell it. But every time I'd start to reconsider, I'd hear that little fuck's voice: "Why don't you just order a heart attack on a plate, Jim?" or "Maybe we can just mainline that fat directly into your arteries?" or "Do you know how many acres of rainforest are demolished to supply the beef for just one Wonderburger restaurant?"

It wasn't the fact that he lied about what he was eating that bothered me. What really gripped my nuts were the endless, eternal, goddamned LECTURES about every piece of food that entered my mouth, and there he was, swilling down half a box of the most super-processed, ultra-sugared pile of crap cereal every morning! It just wasn't fair! I should at least have gotten rebuttal rights.

So I made the fucking casserole, and I made him eat it, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I really did. What can I say? I'm a cranky bastard with a fine sense of revenge.

The next morning, however, was another story. I felt really bad. The poor kid had been puking all night, he looked like shit, and I felt like scum on a stick. I mean, he's put up with every bad mood I've had (and I've had a LOT), he's followed me into one nasty situation after another, gotten shot , beat up, drugged, DIED for Christ's sake, and oh, yeah! Fixed my senses, and saved me from a life in the insane asylum. But I guess that's not enough to cut him a little slack, not with Jim 'Asshole' Ellison.

I was lower than scum. I was the scum that scum mocks. So I wanted to show him how bad I felt, make it up to him, kind of. So while he was in the shower, I made him some plain toast, and that tea he likes, the one with the stupid bear on the box. I mean, he's lived with me for almost four years, right? You'd think he would know that it meant I was sorry.

Yeah, that's what you'd THINK. But life just doesn't work that way when you're dealing with Sandburg. He walked into the kitchen and stopped dead, about a yard away from the table. He looked at the food, and then at me, and then back at the food. Finally, he said "You made toast for me, Jim?"

I said, "No, the toast fairy made it! Who do you THINK, Sandburg?" and he nodded, and said "You going to force me to eat that, too, Jim?"

Well! It felt liked I'd been knifed, or something. How could he think that? It wasn't like I ran around force-feeding him. I mean, there was a REASON for yesterday, it was payback. It wasn't like it was a habit I had or anything. I was hurt, I really was, so my tone was probably a little harsher than I meant it to be when I said "What the FUCK kind of question is that? How could you even ask that?" I'm sure I was glaring, too. I always glare.

So now he raised both hands like I was going to hit him or something, and started backing away. "Ah, no man, my stomach's still a little sore, don't really feel like eating this morning, late anyway, got a meeting with my advisor, won't be at the station this afternoon, office hours you know, see you tonight!" and then he grabbed his backpack and was out the door before I could so much as open my mouth.

So there I was with dry toast and tea I hate, and I felt like I just stomped on a baby rabbit, and I was also royally pissed. Because I didn't DO anything. There I was trying to make up for bad behavior, and I get kicked in the balls.

But see, that's the thing about Sandburg: you love him to death, but at the same time, you just want to kill him. Really.

The next week just sucked. I mean, sucked with a capitol S. I barely saw Sandburg, he was whipping in and out of the loft like a tornado, leaving a trail of crap behind him. The kid could NEVER get lost in the woods, a blind man could follow the trail of stuff he drops. But I picked it all up, never said a word. Did he notice, maybe realize it's my way of saying I'm sorry? No, of course not.

At the station, it was even worse. I mean, he would FLINCH when I reached out to touch him. And that really annoyed me, because he had no REASON to think I was going to hurt him. Sure, you take my past behavior into account, and he'd have reason to be worried if I came at him with a doughnut or something, but come on! I was starting to think he was milking the situation, just for the pity points.

On Friday, it got so bad that Simon hauled me into his office and gave me a 45-minute ass-reaming. The subject? 'Stop Fucking Around With Sandburg, and Start Concentrating on the Job.' There were twelve finger-points, two desk slaps, and four "Dammit, Jim!"s. I left there with my ears ringing, my head throbbing, and strict instructions to "Patch things up with the kid! I don't want to see your sorry face back here until everything's fixed!"

I clenched my jaw the whole way home and went right to bed.

I woke up next morning, and it was the complete opposite of last Saturday. No sunshine, so nice coffee smell, and I SWORE I could hear Sandburg huddling in fear under his covers. I just couldn't take it anymore. I think I snapped, or something. The next thing I knew, I was in Sandburg's room, pulling him out of bed and shaking him. "What do you want from me, huh? What the HELL do you want from me?!"

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I realized this was probably not the best way to apologize.

Sandburg poked me in the chest. "First of all, I want you to put me the fuck down!" I dropped him like a hot potato, and he scrambled across the bed, clutching the blanket to his chest. "What is WRONG with you, Jim? I mean, did you suffer brain damage while you were sleeping? An aneurysm? An alien device, implanted in your skull? WHAT?"

My arms flopped uselessly at my side; I really couldn't think of anything to say. Finally, I scrubbed my hands over my face and said, "Look, Sandburg. Whatever you want, okay? I just can't stand this anymore. I know I fucked up, but dammit! I've been trying to fix it, and you haven't been helping." I stopped to take a deep breath, and to think. I wasn't sure I was making sense at this point.

I spread my arms. "Whatever it is that will make this better, whatever you want me to do, I'll do it, okay? Anything you want. Just tell me what to do."

Blair just looked at me, didn't say anything, and for a minute I didn't think this was going to work. But then he smiled, and it was evil. "You know, Jim, I have no idea what you're talking about. But if you're REALLY going to do anything I want? We're going to Rocket Boy Coffee."

And he slipped by me and went for the shower, and I just stood there in my underwear, really depressed. Because I HATED Rocket Boy, and the little fuck knew it. It's trendy and annoying, the music sucks and is way too loud, and it's filled with neo-hipsters, all talking on their cell phones and wearing those shit-stupid narrow black glasses. It gave me a headache just thinking about it.

That woman worked there, too, the one that Sandburg liked so much, with the out-of-control hair and the wrinkly skirts, who's always fondling people. But God forbid I should try to stop my partner from being mauled in public! That just got me an inspired discourse on 'uptight, anal, repressive WASP-y cops with a touch phobia and a truly restricted sense of personal space'.

But hey! If that's what it took to square things with Sandburg, than that's what it took. I survived 18 months in a jungle; I can make it through an hour at a coffee shop.

I sighed. It was going to be a long fucking day.

Rocket Boy was just as hideous as I remembered. I dialed everything down and prayed to God that Zelda wasn't working. But apparently God was pissed off at me too, because there she was, every annoying inch of her. Sandburg threw himself at her, making little kissy noises (I swear!) which she returned until she saw me standing there.

She actually flinched as well! I mean, what? Suddenly I'm a psychotic axe-murderer? I tried smiling at her, but I don't think it came out right. She started kind of backing away from me. Sandburg slapped me on the arm. "Jim! Stop scaring her!"

I just shrugged. Obviously, it was impossible for me to do anything right today. So we all just stood around staring at each other until I finally snapped, "For fuck's sake! Order some coffee or something!"

You know, maybe those counseling sessions Carolyn wanted would have been a good idea after all.

So once more, I had to step in and try to fix things. "Sorry, I'm a little tired. Go ahead, do the whole deal. It's Blair's show today; we do it the way he likes it."

That bitch stared at me like she thought I was lying. I smiled so hard, my teeth started drying out. When she finally spoke, her tone was incredibly unbelieving. "And you're not going to break my arm, or anything?"

"I barely touched you las-" I stopped, took a deep breath, and started over. "No, I will not break your arm. Just go ahead; take Blair's order."

Zelda snorted, (Zelda! Who the HELL names their kid Zelda, anyway?) but at least she moved over to Blair and left me alone. She put her hands on his face, fingers all stretched out like a Spock mind-meld or something. She closed her eyes, and after a minute opened them and said "You want a hot chocolate. A LARGE one, with whipped cream, and two oatmeal-raisin cookies."

Blair smiled. Well, thank God! He was happy! Finally! He said, "That's exactly what I wanted." Then his smile turned nasty. "Now do Jim."

Oh, yeah, like I didn't know THAT was coming! Zelda looked doubtful, but I just stepped up and said, "Go for it." Stoic, you know? But tastefully so. She did her whole touchy-feely routine and said, "You, my friend, want a double scotch on the rocks, so you're kind of screwed. I'll just give you a black coffee." She stopped to smile, and hers was just as evil as Sandburg's. "And the check."

So there we were, sitting at a wobbly table, Sandburg NOT sharing his cookies, when he asked me, "Jim? Not that I don't appreciate free food as well as the next guy, but what was all this about, anyway?"

I swear, I wanted to kill him. It was so fucking obvious! How could he not know? It was frustrating, but I tried to explain it to him one more time. "Look, Sandburg. You know that I care for you, right? I care for you a lot."

His eyes widened, and he dropped his cookie. "Really, Jim? Do you REALLY mean that?"

I tried not to glare at him, but he made it so difficult. I mean, did I have a speech impediment now? Why would I say it if I didn't mean it? So I asked him that. "Christ, Sandburg! Do you think I would say it if I didn't mean it?" I shook my head. "You're lucky I've mellowed with age. I NEVER would have put up with this shit from Carolyn."

"Carolyn?" he said, and now his voice was all wobbly and his heart rate picked up and he started sweating. I mean, what the hell? What was his problem NOW? I have never met anyone more difficult to apologize to. Blair coughed, and rubbed a finger along the table. "Are you, um, comparing us, you know, us TOGETHER, with you and Carolyn? We're like, um, similar?"

I rolled my eyes. "You and Carolyn are definitely NOT similar, Chief. If you had been anything like Caro, you would have been out on your ass in four minutes, never mind four years."

He looked puzzled. "That's a good thing, right?" And I said, "Yes, Sandburg, that's a VERY good thing." And then hoped to God that everything was finally settled, but I should have known better. Sandburg was involved, right? So it couldn't possibly be easy.

Yeah. So then Blair's heart rate slowed down, and his temperature rose, and he reached over, and put his hand on my wrist. When he spoke, his voice was all low and husky, like he had a cough or something. "So, Jim. About that 'I'll do anything you want' you promised? I have some ideas about that, man." I think he might have even... winked at me or something. See? The Sandburg Zone.

Anyway, I shook my head and pointed a finger at him. "Uh-uh, no you don't, Willy Lohman! You wanted Rocket Boy, you GOT Rocket Boy! How many apologies do you think you're going to GET for the casserole, anyway?"

Well! You'd think I stuck him with a cattle prod, the reaction I got. He snatched his hand away like it was on fire, blushed to the roots of his hair, and started trembling. I was about to check his chocolate for drugs when he began babbling. "The casserole? This was about the... oh, right, right. What else would it have been? I'm so STUPID sometimes!" He stood up so fast his chair fell over, and he didn't even look at it. "Look, Jim, I think we need to go home now. I've got a lot, um, a lot of, um, papers to grade, okay?" He didn't even wait for an answer, he just bolted out to the truck.

I just sat at the table and put my head in my hands. Because while I may have fixed the casserole thing, I sure as hell had just broken something else, and fuck if I knew what it was. And I knew, I just KNEW, that my life was about to reach new and undreamed-of levels of suckiness.

Oh, was I right! It was the worst week EVER, right up there with when that bitch Alex... never mind, I don't think about that. Anyway, it sucked.

And it was worse than last week, because Blair was there, all right, cooking and at the station and watching my back and all, but it was like he wasn't Blair. No bounce, no sparkle, no quick grins. It was like he was dead inside, my own personal Rami flick: 'Zombie Blair Does Paperwork'.

I had no idea of how to fix it.

And everyone at work kept asking me who dumped Sandburg, and they wouldn't believe me when I said no-one did. Conner was the worst, though. She had a toy car, a school bus or something, and she kept throwing it at my head. It HURT! And when she wasn't throwing stuff at me, she was muttering about 'idiots' and 'dingos' and God knows what else. I swear, that woman is just PMS on wheels.

And that pink thing is fucking ugly.

So that week royally sucked. Just call me Ellison, Mayor of Suckville, because it looked like I was going to be living there for a while. It was SO bad, in fact, that I was only somewhat surprised to find myself at Rocket Boy Coffee that Friday night. Sans Sandburg.

I thought "What the hell, it can't hurt, can it?" and went inside, looking for Zelda. It took some convincing to get her to sit down with me. She kept looking at me like I was going to bite her, or something. Guess I kind of lose my charm without Sandburg around.

I bought her a cookie and everything, but it didn't seem to calm her down. Finally, I said "I just want to talk with you, okay?"

She looked skeptical, but I guess she thought if she humored me, I'd leave. She sighed and said "About what?"

"Blair," I said, and then I stopped, because I didn't really know what to say. But I had to say something, because I REALLY needed to fix this. I swallowed and said, "We're, well you see, we're having... problems."

I was going to say more, but she raised her hand to stop me. "Before this goes any further, I want you to know that I'm not REALLY psychic. It's just a game I play with easy-going customers."

Well, NOW what the fuck was I supposed to do? She must have seen the terror on my face, because she pinched the bridge of her nose and said, "Look, I'm going to give you a little advice here, okay?"

I nodded. Pathetically.

"Okay. So Blair's your friend?" Nod. "And you're having problems; problems you want to fix?" Nod. "So, to fix those problems, you go to a coffee store, WITHOUT Blair, and ask the advice of a woman you don't really like?" I nodded, more slowly this time. She sighed again and said, "I think I'm seeing your problem here, Jim." She waved a hand at me. "Go home and talk with BLAIR."

I slapped my hand down on the table. "But he doesn't understand, he NEVER understands! I mean, his car always has gas, and I return his library books before they're due, and does he think the Laundry Fairy cleans his underwear? What does he WANT from me? Blood? I don't-"

Zelda grabbed my flailing hands and pinned them table. "You're right. All of those things say: 'you're my friend', 'I care about you', 'I like having you in my life'. But you know what? Sometimes it's not enough. Sometimes, you Have. To Say. The Words. So go home, and talk to Blair."

I hung my head. "But it's hard."

She sighed a third time, and I could tell she was losing patience with me. "Jim. We're in public, you just threw hissy fit, and you're holding my hands while everyone stares at us. How much harder could it be?"

I jerked my hands away and blushed, kind of like Sandburg did a week ago. She stood up, made a 'shooing' gesture at me, and said, "Go home. Suck it up, be a man, and go home and talk about your feelings."

And what the hell could I say to that, huh? So I went home. Blair was sitting on the couch, watching... 'A Wedding Story' on TLC? Dear God. I turned off the TV and sat down next to him. "Chief, we have to talk."

He looked supremely uninterested. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." But then I couldn't think of what to say; it was really hard with him just staring at me. So I looked down at my knees. Oh, very inspiring. After a minute or two, he crossed his arms and said, "So talk."

"So give me a minute, okay? This, this isn't something I ever thought I'd be saying to another guy." I heard Blair's quick intake of breath, and I hurried on, afraid he was going to run into his room, or something. "You got to know you're my, that you, well, you mean everything to me, Chief."

When he spoke, his voice was all low and raspy again. "Do you mean that, Jim? I mean, REALLY mean it?"

Well, Christ! Didn't he ask me that last week? Why does he ALWAYS ask me that? I swear to God I'm speaking in English here, I don't know WHY no-one understands me. I growled, kind of irritated, "Of COURSE I meant it! I wouldn't have SAID it if I didn't mean it!"

Blair poked me in the leg, and said, "Look at me, Jim", so I did, and then he said, "Do you love me?"

Finally! An easy question! I said, "Of course I love you, buddy! You're my best-" Anything else I planned on saying was smothered as Blair launched himself at me like he was shot out of a cannon. Before I knew what was happening, he was attached to my neck and sucking away at it like a remora.

I put my hands on his shoulders to push him away, but he reached up and put his hands on my face, and whispered "Oh, Jim, I've been waiting for you for, like, FOREVER!" and then he dived in and kissed me so long and so hard and so deep that I almost passed out.

And then he was rubbing against me and his hands were on me, and my senses spiked with the pleasure, and suddenly it was all synesthesia. I could taste his moans, and hear his hair and smell my name as it left his mouth. It was too much, it would never be enough, and even though I was coming in my pants like a horny 14-year-old, I felt amazed and cherished and loved and god-like.

Mostly, though, I felt really, really surprised.

But in a good way.

So now it's Saturday again, but this one definitely does NOT suck. Oh sure, there's no great coffee smell, wafting up from the kitchen, but to compensate for that, I've got Blair Sandburg in my bed. I run my hand along his back and watch, awed, as even in sleep he leans into my touch, trying to become one with me. I shake my head and laugh.

See, that's the thing about Sandburg: he'll take you on one HELL of a journey, but you have no fucking idea of how you got there.

And you know what else? When I woke up, three Saturdays ago? All I wanted was a decent cup of coffee.

Shit. What the hell did I know?

End All I Wanted Was a Decent Cup of Coffee by Blankety: blankstreet@hotmail.com

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