A/N: Ninjahurt, I'd say that is as inevitable as death and taxes. Since you all know what's coming, here we go. Sorry this took me longer than usual - it's all written, sometimes it just takes me a little longer to prep and clean up and post.

8. No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk

"Steve!" There was unmistakable relief in the tone, but Steve was busy staring past the waitress to the congested dining room that he hardly recognized as his restaurant. "I'm so glad to see you!" For a minute, he was sure she was going to throw her arms around him. "Is Jesse with you? We could really use him, too."

"No, I'm here in Jesse's place…" Steve finally managed to shake off a little of his shock at the sight of patrons draped and propped and perched on every available surface. "What's this, Cristina? What's going on?"

The waitress followed his eyes to the packed interior. "They're members of a bus trip. Seems their bus has a flat tire and the driver sent them here for dinner while it's getting fixed. Of course, that means they've displaced some of the Wednesday night crowd, who're a little cranky about it. It's kinda volatile out there. You sure Jesse can't make it? We could really use the extra pair of hands."

Steve shook his head, still gazing in shock at the wall-to-wall throng. As an owner, it should be swelling his heart with gladness, but somehow his heart insisted on staying cold with dread.

"Well, I'm glad you're here anyway," Cristina continued brightly. "Do you want to wait tables, or bus?"

Steve glanced down at the rolled magazine in his hand, stopping the breath that wanted to turn into a sigh just in time. So much for his quiet night and magazine and dinner sitting down. In fact, so much for dinner, period, from the look of things.

"I'll bus," he said at last, stuffing his magazine in his back pocket and heading to the kitchen for a dishpan and apron.

0000

What kind of lunatic, Steve wondered as he scraped gnawed bones and sticky pools of barbecue sauce into a dishpan and stacked plates, what kind of an insane imbecile…he dumped ice next to the bones and telescoped the plastic tumblers together…I mean, what kind of absolute, off-his-nut, brainless, witless loser, spends his days - oh, and nights - let's not forget the nights - he pulled his damp rag out of his apron pocket and gave the Formica surface a quick scrub - chasing down lowlifes, wrestling thugs into submission, kneeling in blood, digging under corpses, crawling through alleys, arguing with prosecutors, and then decides it would be fun - FUN, mind you, to spend whatever pitiful scraps of time are left balancing books and scouring toilets and clearing tables? He propped the dishpan on his hip and moved to the next table. Well, if I had a mirror handy, my friend, I would show you what kind. It's not a pretty sight. He scraped the next table's plates over his dishpan and then collected them in a stack.

"We've been waiting for our coffee for almost ten minutes."

It took Steve a second to realize he was the one being addressed. He summoned a cordial smile and nodded to the portly gentleman glaring at him from over the remains of a stack if rib bones. "I'm sure the waitresses are doing their best. I'll mention to one of them that you're waiting or I'll get you the coffee myself."

"Do you suppose that will be anytime this year?"

Steve set his jaw firmly against a sarcastic answer and arranged his face in what he hoped passed for a pleasant expression. "It'll be in a just a minute, sir. We appreciate your patience."

"Yeah, figures you folks would come in here and take over and then you can't even be polite about it. That's OUR table - every Wednesday night - an you don't see me giving you a hard time."

Steve glanced over at a group of three younger men at a nearby table, all scowling at the portly man's party. "And we appreciate your patronage, sir. I promise we'll make it up to you. Now, I'll just catch the waitress - "

"Yeah, because Mr. High and Mighty needs his coffee. Never mind that I haven't had my beer refreshed. Usually I don't even have to ask - Darla knows me. Sometimes she even has time to chat - but not tonight. No, she's got important COFFEE to serve. Where the hell did that bus come from anyway, freakin' Buckingham Palace?"

Steve rubbed automatically at the bump at his hairline, made a face when he realized that he'd probably just anointed it with barbecue sauce. He lifted his hands. "Just settle down - the waitresses are serving as quickly as they can. If you'll both just be a little patient, you'll be taken care of shortly. Coffee for the bus tour is on the house, and sir - the house would also be glad to buy the next round of beers for your table." He couldn't wait to try and explain this one to Jesse.

The portly man sneered. "The busboy is buying drinks on the house?"

Steve managed to keep his smile in place. "I get really good tips," he quipped dryly.

"He's one of the OWNERS, you moron!"

Steve turned back to the beer-drinking table of three. "Sir, I appreciate the support, but - "

"Who are you calling a moron? Man puts on a busboy's apron, he should expect to be treated like a busboy!"

Kind of has a point, thought Steve ruefully. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to sit back down."

"Why should he sit down? It's the other guy that called him a moron! Been glaring at us ever since we got here! No reason for it, I tell you! Our money's as good as anybody else's!"

A large crowd of patrons, probably the bus tour, chorused universal approval of this sentiment.

Steve tried not to groan aloud. Oh, great, he thought. And me without my riot gear. "All right, all right - everybody just take it easy. I know it's been a trying night, but it's one night and if you'll just be patient, you'll all be taken care of."

"Yeah, our one night ."

Steve didn't even try to suppress his exasperated look at the beer drinking table. Regular patrons were important and Bob's depended on them, but come on - they couldn't be expected to guarantee that nobody else would ever come in and sit down at the wrong table.

"Well, we can't help it that our bus got a flat tire!"

"Yeah, well, you could try being a little polite - come in here and start pushing the help around!"

Steve turned to glance at this fourth table. Great. Evidently the beer drinking patrons had some support, too. He'd better get this contained before it got completely out of hand. He spotted Cristina busy with a table in the corner, but Darla was nowhere in sight. Cristina glanced at him questioningly and he returned what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"I'll find someone with the coffee pot and bring you your beers, sir." He gathered the rest of the cutlery and dishes from the table and strode toward the kitchen, pausing by Cristina on the way. "Please tell me that there's coffee made," he breathed so that only she could hear.

"I just started a pot," she whispered back. "Should be about ready."

Steve flashed her a quick, relieved smile, then frowned again. "And where the heck has Darla disappeared to? This isn't a good time to be short of hands!"

Cristina made a face and finished unloading her tray onto the table before turning away from the patrons and lowering her voice still further. "Boyfriend trouble. Go easy on her, Steve - she's having a hard time."

Steve scrubbed at his forehead, wincing again as he hit the bump he couldn't seem to remember was there. "I'll - get the coffee and try to track her down. You have enough orders ready to keep you busy for a little bit?"

Cristina skimmed the counter with her eyes. "I've got the next three - then we're going to need you on kitchen duty again."

"Right," Steve gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder with his free hand. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Steve pushed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen and dropped his dishpan on the counter. A glance at the coffee station told him that a pot was nearly ready - he had time to load the dishwasher and start a quick wash run - cutlery especially was running awfully low. He plunked dishes inartistically into the machine racks and dumped in an unspecific amount of detergent, closing the door with one foot while snagging three long necked beer bottles from the cooler. He stared at them enviously for a minute. His plans for the day had definitely included being on the other end of one of these - nothing sure had gone as he'd imagined.

He lined them up on a tray with fresh creamer, hit the "on" button on the dishwasher, hooked a hand around the coffeepot handle, and opened the swinging door with his hip. Or meant to. The door swung suddenly inward - he lifted a hand to stop it, forgetting he was holding a coffeepot until the dull thwack of cracking glass reminded him, followed in quick succession by the chill smack of cold beer bottles against his chest as the tray flattened them there.

In the next instant he found himself doing a modified Mexican Hat Dance as the beer bottles dropped to the floor, spraying foam in a tinkling anvil chorus, and a waterfall of hot coffee exploded at his feet, baptizing his left shoe. He jumped back hastily, trying to avoid as much of the scalding brew as possible, slipped in the coffee/beer mixture and hit the linoleum on his side with a thud. Stunned, he tried to lever himself up, slid in the beer again and lay still.

"Steve!" There was a pair of waitress shoes, and then knees, in front of his eyes. He blinked at them. "Oh, Steve - I'm so sorry - I didn't realize - Cristina said we needed coffee…"

Oh. Darla.

"Let me help you up…are you hurt?"

Was he? He couldn't tell any more. Probably not - aside from feeling like he was trapped inside one of his father's Laurel and Hardy movies….

Darla was behind him with her hands tucked beneath his arms, trying to hoist him up. He struggled to get his feet under him, but they slid on the slick surface like a cartoon character's. He blinked at the floor, looking for a dry spot to get purchase. "Watch out for the glass…" he muttered automatically. Darla had managed to get herself positioned under hisright arm now, and him balanced onto his feet. He leaned on her shoulder and limped away from the mess, grabbing the counter for support. He felt Darla's anxious hand on his back, checking for damage.

"Are you okay? Steve, I feel just terrible. I can't seem to do anything right today…" Her voice cracked as Steve hefted himself cautiously onto a stool, still a little dazed.

She couldn't? She should see his score for the day…He got a glimpse of her face and almost groaned aloud. Oh, no. Not more of the crying. He could deal with anything but the crying…

"Darla, I'm fine - " He reached out to pat her shoulder, noticed he was still holding the handle and neck of the coffeepot with a few shards of glass clinging gamely to it and tossed it in the sink. "Just a silly accident. Come on - it's not worth this - " He did reach her shoulder this time, and to his surprise, she fell into his chest, sobbing. His arm went automatically around her. "There, now - what's this all about? Not a couple of beers and some coffee and me taking a dive…"

"I'm sorry." Darla's voice was muffled by his shoulder. "I know I haven't done a very good job tonight - I walked out on my boyfriend today - I don't know what I'm going to do…"

"Oh, well - " Steve patted her awkwardly. Not exactly his area of expertise. "He'll probably come crawling back in a day or two. Why, I have another friend who had the same problem this morning and now it's all patched up."

"I don't know - " She accepted the paper napkin Steve handed her and blew her nose hard. "I know he loves me, but he promised never to hit me again, and - "

"He hits you?" Steve tried to get a look at her face. "Darla, that is not a guy worth keeping."

Darla blew her nose again. "He does love me, I know it - "

Steve closed his mouth hard against the obvious rejoinder. Never ceased to amaze him how many woman confused a pop in the mouth with true love. "Look," he offered at last, "This isn't really the time to talk about this. We have a dining room full of customers and no coffee for them - but I promise I'll be fully available later to hear all about it. Now, do you think you can finish your shift, or do you want to go home?"

Darla blotted her eyes with the soggy napkin. "No, no - I want to stay and help - what do you need me to do?"

Steve eased himself off the stool, grimacing at the ache in his hip. "You can start a fresh pot of coffee. And Darla - let me drive you home tonight. I know this kind of guy - they don't always take rejection well."

Darla was already dropping a packet of coffee into the basket and hitting the brew button before reaching for the mop, but she looked up at that. "Oh, no, Steve - he wouldn't hurt me."

Steve counted to five, slowly. "You said he hits you…?"

Darla was efficiently mopping the glass and liquid together into one spot. "Well, that's just when he's had a bad day, or he gets jealous. He does love me…"

Steve counted to ten this time, using fetching the dustpan to cover what he was sure was showing on his face. "Just the same," he said at last. "Let me walk you to your car at least. I'll feel better."

Darla smiled shyly at him. "All right." She scuttled broken glass into the dust pan while he held it. "I'm sorry I was such a mess, Steve. It won't happen again."

"Well, life happens." Steve straightened carefully with his dust pan. "Now, do me a favor? That coffee is done and the natives are restless. If you'll bring it out to them, I'll finish the floor. Table Five is especially antsy."

"Right away. I'll get the beers, too. How many?"

"Three Red Dogs. Thanks. I'll be out as soon as I'm finished here."

"All right." Darla briskly set up her tray and snatched the coffee pot, startling him with a quick kiss on the cheek as she breezed past. She paused at the door. "Oh - and Steve?" Steve looked up from his mopping. "You know that clean shirt you keep here in case you're going out afterward?" She glanced meaningfully at his shirt front. "You might want to put it on."

Steve looked down at his t-shirt, liberally doused with splashes of beer, coffee, cream, and mascara. He stared at it for a minute, then began to pull it over his head.

Oh, yeah. Definitely.

Figured.

TBC