+A Cup of Milk Tea+

Coffee II: Perfect Sip

Aidan refrained from rubbing his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose instead, head pressed back into his chair, shoulders tense from the hours of consecutive computer usage. He sat there for a while, one part of him trying to work out the tension and weariness from his eyes and the other parts sifting through numbers of spirits and suspected spirits, how the latest report from Eastern Europe and the US had risen in missing members, guerrilla attacks, the background information on their newest assistant secretary for his uncle that he'd gleaned while visiting Kaplinsky Jr. (who really should just be known as Kaplinksy now, with that terrible unfortunate accident.) He thought about the last report of deaths, desertion, assassinations, about the lies that he would have to say and the truths people would treat as lies because it came from him. They would have to move the London headquarters again now that it seemed the location and information had been leaked, have to contact Richie to make sure he knew not to do anything stupid, to keep safe in the hospital. The sheer to-do list that still needed to be finished (there always seemed to be more things to do these days, more people to kill, more sacrifices to be made.) made him smile, a twisted smile that quirked up at one lip. Chaos and order, war and peace. Butchers and shepherds.

Aidan got up from his leather chair, mind mentally noting that the padding was wearing thin again and he should order a replacement when he got the chance, maybe sometime in the next five years, haha. Searching his once barren, now cluttered with files and CDs, pictures and notes written in shorthand and cipher, he found a mug hidden behind a box of lockboxes. Pausing, he then turned and dug into the bottom of his pantry, looking for and pulling out the single serving French press stored in there. He washed off the look of disuse, hearing the little metal pole squeak with mild protest. He lowered his lids and let his memory guide him, hands moving with practice, the odd start and stop not unlike the hesitance of a person remembering how to ride a bicycle again after many years, the actions oddly soothing as he poured in the water, measured out the exact scoop of grounds stored in a small airtight metal canister.

Bringing the coffee back to his desk, he sat and leaned back in his chair, letting the hot mug warm his fingers. He lifted the mug up and inhaled the strong aroma of coffee. He didn't think about the familiarity of the smell, about how many of the people he knew, worked with, once knew, had seen die or turn away or betray them had drank this basic staple, about the way the smell had a way of clinging to the breath and lips, the smell seeping into the collar of shirts and jackets. He didn't think about the stains in the mug that refused to be washed out, had long since eaten its stubborn way into the ceramics. He didn't let his mind wander to long gone mornings of waking up early to bring hot coffee to someone who was no longer here.

He just held the hot cup of coffee, sipping every so slowly, searching to find the sweetness promised in his bittersweet cup, for that ever allusive perfect sip.