Black Coffee

Part One:  On the Doorstep

Summary: A visit. Post-series.

Rating: PG-13

A/N: "Betcha can't write a Miho/Amon scene, Kate." "Oh, I can too!" "That doesn't count." I'm not sure if I won or lost that internal argument. This takes place in the Psychometric Musings universe. Call it an outtake.

He showed up on my doorstep a few days ago. No call, no email – he just rang the bell, and when I answered, there he was. Talk, dark, mysterious. Sexy as hell. What would you do?

I asked him in for tea.

Yes, I know, he doesn't drink tea. Neither do I, truth be told. But it makes for a soothing ritual, and I wasn't sure I could handle myself if we just slipped back into our old black-coffee routine. At the least, tea-making takes up some time, and encourages a little light conversation. Tea is the appropriate offering for a coworker-cum-casual-friend that I hadn't seen for more than a year. Coffee is for more intimate relationships; for two tired, disillusioned people seeking solace in each other's company. For those fighting on the same side of an undeclared war. For comrades.

Coffee is for lovers.

So we sat in my rarely-used living room, sipping mediocre tea (I never claimed to be a hostess) and exchanging pleasantries. He had come back to Japan to do some recon work with his brother. Robin was fine, but it was too dangerous for her to come with him. She was in Europe, under Juliano's care. The STN-J had reestablished a routine of sorts; two new Hunters had recently arrived from HQ. Doujima had actually developed a work ethic. The "senior" members were increasingly involved in Nagira's clandestine resistance movement, especially Michael. We only Hunted Witches who flagrantly misused their powers…

And all of a sudden, his mouth was on mine, and his hands were roaming all over me, and I knew this had heartbreak written all over it, because a man like him simply does not show up on a girl's front porch for no reason. Especially not a woman like me. Amon never did anything (or anyone? Scratch that thought) without a reason. I had a pretty good idea what this reason might be. I had seen it in his eyes when he mentioned that woman-child, Robin Sena, the Witches' Eve. His Hope, and mine. I heard it in his voice, when he said her name, and I knew he was seeking, not comfort, not companionship, but simple oblivion.

So, did I push him away? Detach myself gently, and seek to draw him out with gentle hands and silent sympathy? Break out the Scotch, let him drink himself unconscious, then call Nagira to come pick him up? Put my hard-won knowledge of human nature to actual use, and let this terribly complex, terribly conflicted man talk about his love for a seventeen-year-old girl?

We melded together, my hands as impatient and fumbling as his. I could feel the desperation pouring off him, in waves. His hands left bruises on my upper arms, as I tried to crawl inside his skin.

I saw his lips shape her name, as he came.

Afterwards I slipped out of bed, made myself some coffee, and sat on the couch, wondering what the hell I was going to do.