Title: Self Portrait

Author: Meg

Rating: T-ish

Timeline: Season 9 to now

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing. Don't claim a thing. Don't sue.

Author's Note: This thought came to me whilst playing with my new PEBL phone last night, and before I knew it, two chapters wrote themselves. Have fun and please review!

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I stared at the new budget for five straight minutes before I realized that I was trying to stare through the paper. Lifting my head, I let my eyes readjust to color instead of shades by focusing my eyes on the little American flag sitting on my desk. That too became blurred.

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my tired eyes with hands that felt stiff and sore from typing and giving my John Hancock all day. Only when the backs of my eyes started going nova did I finally pull my fingers away from my face. Leaning my head on my hand, I tried to focus once more on the budget. It needed to be re-examined before its presentation to the Attorney General tomorrow morning at 0700. I glanced at my watch; it was 2330 hours, and I was still 46 pages from being finished. Coffee. I needed coffee. And fast. I was going to stab my eyes out with my pen if I didn't have coffee.

"Laney!"

I bellowed my secretary's name before remembering that she had left over three hours ago. Date. Dammit.

Making coffee was not my thing. Beer was my thing. Ask me to recommend you a beer for a barbeque, I'd tell you straight up Budweiser. A quick drink at a bar, Guinness. A Mexican dinner, Corona, no lime. I always hated the lime. Beer should not be futzed with.

I pulled the filter out of the coffee machine that sat on Laney's credenza. Wrinkling my nose, I threw out the soggy grounds. Laney was the best secretary in the world—well, next to Walter—but she never could remember to empty out the filter. At least her coffee was decent.

Opening the door to the cabinet below, I stared in horror. Tin cans, plastic jugs, tiny plastic jugs—all full of coffee. French Roast, Hazelnut, Café Verona, Ground Dark, Ground Medium, Ground Light, Vanilla. Oh, for cryin' out loud! Why in the universe did the woman need so many different types of coffee?

Slamming the door shut, I turned immediately to Laney's desk. She always left her emergency cell number on a post-it in the uppermost left drawer. Yanking it open a little too hard, the drawer went flying. Pens, pencils, white-out, papers, folders…it all landed on my feet. Deep breaths. Chill. In and out. In and out. ARGH!

I plopped down on the not quite vacuumed carpet, not caring if my dress pants got lint on them. As I started shoving the items back into the drawer, I noticed a little book. Its size was no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. The little tabs on its side held the letters of the alphabet. Curious (and probably breaking the law—I wasn't so sure), I started thumbing through it. Then it hit me.

Flipping the pages, I found the name. Glancing again at my watch, I checked to make sure I wouldn't be a pain in the ass. It felt really late to me, but it was only around 2130 there. I grabbed the phone and dialled the number, checking the address book to make sure that my memory was still correct.

Three rings later, a sleepy voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey. I need your help with something."

Silence.

A grunt.

A sigh.

"You really can't live without me, can you?"

I rolled my eyes, but grinned. "You know I can't." Another sigh blew into my ear. "Cut it out! Just help!"

"Okay, okay. What do you have to do?"

"I have a budget that has to be reviewed by 0630, and I still have 40 or so pages to go."

"French roast."

"Sweet."

"Good night, Jack."

"Night, Spacemonkey."