You hated coffee.
It was bitter. It was gross. It always tasted different: too sweet, maybe sour, overly strong, watery, and never right… it was just plain bad. So, you hated the person who was making you buy thousands of boxes of coffee per week.
Finally, you just couldn’t do it anymore. You couldn’t spend so much money on something you despised so much any longer. You stomped up to the prosecutor’s office, stormed in, slamming down the request sheet for a perfectly rounded 1,111.1 pounds of coffee grounds onto his desk.
“Godot, what the hell.”
The white haired male looked up at you, or at least you hoped he was, through that special visor of his. He had that eternal smirk on his face that only widened when he picked up on your frustration.
“You’re the accountant. I’m pretty sure you can read numbers. If you can’t, then you’ve tricked all of us for an impressively long time.”
“Don’t give me that crap. No. No! I’m not buying you coffee any more!”
The tanned man frowned slightly and tapped his pen onto his desk, the sound muted by the stack of papers he had. You hardly saw the clutter any longer. Everybody’s desk, including yours, looked like a storm had been through, so you’d just gotten accustomed to it. Save for Edgeworth’s desk, but he was a different universe from the rest of them.
“You’re not spending your own money. I don’t see the fuss.”
“No, I’m not. Excellent observation.” You did a slow pace of despair around his room, your arms crossed tightly around yourself so that you wouldn’t pummel the guy. “It’s government money, and instead of locking up criminals, I’m buying you Italian roast.”
“Actually, I requested Arabic. And raw. Just so you know.”
“Are you serious?” You stopped moving and stared, disgusted, utterly horrified by the prosecutor. You’d seen lots of hellish men and women. You’d seen the most broken of humans. But you’d never seen anybody so
Godot sighed nonchalantly, looking back up from resuming his work, having ignored you. You were shaking your head, pressing your lips together.
“You’re so damn bitter.”
Godot gave a short chuckle that was more grating than anything else. “So? I should take that as a compliment.”
“Hardly. You’re… hateful. It’s vile. You’re like your crappy 17 cups of coffee. You make me antsy and tired at the same time. You’re like some drug, a poison, slowly making people around you despise themselves. I can’t stand you.”
You turned heel to leave, not forgetting at all the paper that still lay on his desk. He could have his 1,111 pounds of coffee – and yes, even the .1 as well. Maybe he’d become a better person, a better drink. Sweeter. More pleasant.
You obeyed the command, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply to brace yourself for the oncoming storm of stupid metaphors he always had. You turned around slowly. He was standing, brushing crinkles out of his silk vest, and a white mug was in his hand. Your nose wrinkled.
“Drink it,” he said. Or rather, demanded.
Scalding. Burning you with his words, like coffee always had. You put trust into the drink and it always hurt you.
You looked into his mug, seeing the condemned black liquid. You shook your head immediately.
“No. I won’t do it.”
“Drink it.” His visor seemed to brighten for a moment, flash with a surge of anger, and you swallowed thickly. You snatched the mug from him and sniffed it warily. It didn’t smell terrible. A tentative touch of the liquid to your lip told you that it was only warm, a perfect temperature for sipping without it becoming overly cool. You looked up at the tall prosecutor who was watching you silently, emotionlessly, his hands placed loosely in his pockets. You took a sip.
Flavour burst along your tongue. It wasn’t bitter. It was fragrant – sweet but not too sweet – had body and strength without being too strong, and was… delicious. You felt dread when you took another sip, against your conscious will. You thrust the mug back out towards Godot, looking away, your face red.
“My best blend.” He took the mug back from you, his tone so casual that you couldn’t help but be suspicious.
“I… thought your favourite was 102.”
He split a grin out of that smirk, though the haughtiness was still there, and you suddenly hated yourself for feeling light headed.
“It is. It suits me. Bitter, dark and hateful, right?” His tone suddenly became so spiteful and self-deprecating that guilt punched you in the gut. He pushed the mug back towards you, which you instinctively took, regretting raising your hands for it immediately. Before you could take them away, he placed his fingers over yours in a fluid motion, holding you to the mug and himself.
“What are you…”
“This one suits you. Warm as the spring’s breeze. Sweeter than a goddess’s touch. A smell that reminds you of the sunlight that filters through a tree’s branches. My best blend.”
“I – you can’t…” you flustered, unable to handle the sudden change in the ruthless prosecutor. He simpered before he kissed you, so quickly you weren’t sure if it happened or not, except for the faint lingering taste of bitter coffee. Stunned and holding his mug, you were left thinking, coffee’s okay.