Title: Night Treasures II: Snow-Shadows
Category: V, MSR
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Itty-bitty one for 'Detour'.
Summary: Oreos, mouthwash, the Weather Channel and a little more
late-night
snooping around.
Archive: FYI, guys, I'm gonna be offline from July 10th for about
a month,
so, just this once, go right ahead and archive. Just *please* let
me know
afterwards where you've put it <g>.
Disclaimer: Julia Child belongs to herself, or possibly to the
military-industrial entertainment complex, I'm not sure which.
Everything
else belongs to CC, 1013 and Fox. I'm not making a red cent off
this.
Feedback: Always worshipped at CazQ@tesco.net
Author's Notes: I conquered my Cowardly Lion-style fear of
sequels and let
Scully have her turn at bat. Step inside, take a seat and think
cool thoughts.
For Shawne, Sender of Season 6 Eps From Afar: see you in China,
honey ;).
Thanks to EPur, jerry, Kristy and Alicia for blitzing commas,
colons and
double negatives. Wayward and various atxc denizens take
responsibility
for Mulder's soap <g>.
******
Night Treasures II: Snow-Shadows by CazQ
( CazQ@tesco.net )
*******
Dear God, Mulder, your apartment's cold. Maybe not 'marooned in
Antarctica' cold, but cold enough to make me curse under my
breath as
I slide out from the warm cocoon of the bed. You mumble something
in
your sleep as I reluctantly pull away from your warm, solid body,
but you
don't wake. So tempting to stay put...but I *am* thirsty.
Figures, really. We've been...well, lovers, for almost five
months now, but
in all that time this is the first full night we've spent in your
apartment.
Figures that the first time I stay over the ancient heating
system in your
building would break down. I should've known. Should've brought a
snowsuit along. Next time it turns this cold, we stay at my
place.
I slip out of the bedroom, letting the door shut softly behind
me, and
swing right into the living room, grabbing the old afghan off the
couch and
wrapping it around myself. Better...the wool is thick, slightly
scratchy
where it touches my skin, as warm as an embrace.
As I tuck the folds of the blanket around me, I suddenly stop
short. I
remember with a strength that takes me by surprise that time I
fell asleep
on your couch after a long night of working up expense reports. I
woke
minutes later to find you carefully tucking the afghan around me,
as tenderly as a parent tucking a child into bed.
That was...God, February? That long ago? The memory evoked by the
touch of
the soft, heavy blanket on my skin is as clear as if it had been
only
yesterday.
I remember it so well; the bitter-sweet pleasure of indulging
myself by staying perfectly still, letting you think I was still
sound
asleep so that I could stay there a little longer. I remember the
way
love overwhelmed me in that moment, like a strong wave knocking
me off
my feet, rising up completely unexpected, as I lay there
substituting the
touch of your blanket for the desperately desired touch of your
hands.
I shake off the memory, reminding myself that I no longer have to
find
substitutes for your embrace. It was such small revelations of
love and need
as that one that kept pushing us towards one another, with the
slow
inevitability of glaciers moving, until we arrived in each
other's arms.
Now...no more substitute embraces. Now I have the real deal.
Smiling a little to myself in the dark at that thought, I head
for the front
door, grab your beat-up running shoes and slip them on in lieu of
slippers.
They're about four sizes too big, making me feel like I've put on
a pair of
clown shoes, but they'll do. Ah...I snag your leather jacket from
the
coat-stand and shrug into it, wrapping the afghan back round me
afterwards.
I feel like a child going through the dressing-up box. I leave
the lights
off until I reach the kitchen, moving carefully and as quietly as
I can
through your shadowed home.
I flick on the light, go to the faucet and fill a clean-looking
mug. As I
drain it, I turn round, suddenly certain that you must have woken
and come
into the room, but there's nobody there. Then it comes to me: I'm
wearing
your jacket and your shoes, wrapped in your blanket. The end
result is to
envelop me in your scent. Worn, warm leather, overly-expensive,
delicious
cologne, a lingering trace of gun-oil, and good old honest sweat.
It's
reassuring and unbelievably intimate.
Thirst quenched, I realise I'm hungry. Starving, actually. I do
tend to get
hungry after good sex. Not that I'm holding out much hope of
finding
anything much to snack on in the recesses of your lair, but I
guess it's
worth a try.
Well, well, well. Somebody went to the store today. Last time I
risked a
look in your refrigerator, you had one lonely egg, four cans of
Coke, a few
bottles of beer and, bizarrely, an eggplant. Even Julia Child
couldn't have
made a meal out of that.
This time, though...you've been stocking up. All the basics, plus
all the
elements of an *excellent* breakfast. Let's see: we've got
Florida orange
juice, with pulp and without. We've got milk, whole or 2%. Some
Canadian
bacon, half-a-dozen brown, farm-fresh eggs, two different kinds
of
cheese...and what's this? Hidden away behind all the other
bounty, we
have a big tub of natural yoghurt, with a large pre-packed fruit
salad
nestling next to it.
Oh, Mulder. Someone's been poking around in my refrigerator. You
know what I like...or rather, it would appear you hope you do.
You'd
never buy all this stuff for yourself; it looks like you've tried
desperately to plan for every possible breakfast eventuality,
just in
case I change the habits of thirty-odd years and decide I'd
*really*
like a full cooked breakfast first thing in the morning.
Looking at the spread of food in front of me, I feel a sudden
urge to go
wake you up, and show you in every way I know how just how fond I
am of these little gestures of yours. However...I *am* still
hungry.
Out of curiosity, I shut the fridge to try the cupboards. Here in
the
cupboard by the sink we have...ah yes, an assortment of fruit
teas and an
unopened pack of Oreos. The Oreos are less touching, but only
because
I know you'd happily live on those if you could. Still, I'll give
you the
benefit of the doubt and assume you remembered *my* fondness for
them.
A cup of Autumn Fruits tea and an Oreo feast. Perfect, worth
staying away
from the warmth of the bed for for a little longer. I'm tempted
to wake you
and share it with you, but I don't have the heart to disturb your
sleep.
Besides, there's something pleasing about being alone in
the night-silence
of your home, wrapped in calm and cosy darkness, something that
feels both
peaceful and wonderfully right.
I sit at the table with a small stack of Oreos and wait for the
kettle to
boil, hunched over to stay warm. As it starts to whistle I snatch
it up from
the burner before the noise can disturb you, stumbling over your
shoelaces
as I get to my feet. I make the tea, enjoying the warm, sweet
scents of
blackberry and apple, and settle back in front of my Oreo tower
to enjoy.
I work through the cookie hoard in my usual methodical manner.
You once
compared watching me eat Oreos to watching me perform an autopsy.
I guess
maybe there is something in that: I lever the tops off, and
nibble my way
through those before attacking the filling. That part, my
favourite, I like
to scrape off with a nail, in careful rows, transporting the
little blobs of
creamy sugar-hits to my mouth and licking them off. Finally, the
bottom
layer gets the same attention as the first. Then...well, then
it's time for
another one. Everyone has to have a few weaknesses.
As I eat, I'm struck by a sudden thought: have you been stocking
up your
kitchen like this since we started sleeping together, just in
case one day I
suggested we go to your place for the night? Or did you panic
when I called
to ask if I could come over? Did you run down to your car and
take off for
the store, racing round and then high-tailing it back here in
time for my
arrival?
I'm not sure which of those scenarios is the right one, but both
of them
work their way into my heart and melt something there a little
more,
something that's gradually been vanishing, becoming less and less
a part of
me since the first night I took you home and into my bed. That
something,
that little core of hardness, has melted away almost entirely by
now, under
your gentle but persistent onslaught: I guess that's why I
suggested I come
over here tonight. Time for me to cross over into your territory
a
little.
Now that I'm here...I think I'd like to get to know the place a
little
better. I want to know what you keep in the dusty corners and
inner
sanctums of your home, the things you hide away from prying eyes.
This is
your retreat, your bolthole from an overly cruel world, and you
trust me
enough to let me in. This bit of your world is now, by extension,
part of my
world too, for better or for worse. Let's see what my
newly-expanded
realm contains.
Clutching my half-empty mug of tea in one hand, I grasp the edges
of the
afghan with the other and shuffle out of the kitchen. Jeez, I'm
shivering
again. Better limit myself to just one room tonight . There will,
I realise
suddenly, be other opportunities. I intend to make sure of it.
Bathroom. I don't think I've ever set foot in there. I slip back
into the
bedroom, where you're still dead to the world, and pad across to
the
bathroom, shutting the door carefully behind me. Once inside, I
flick the
light on, and push the door to. Settling on the edge of the tub,
I survey
the territory.
The mirror over the basin has obviously seen better days. It's
slightly
rust-spotted, cracked in one corner. Getting up from my perch, I
pull it
towards me, exposing the contents of the medicine cabinet,
feeling a slight,
voyeuristic thrill. Shaving kit, toothpaste and worn toothbrush,
deodorant,
mouthwash, Q-tips, dental floss...oh my, moisturiser. Vain much,
Mulder?
Not that I begrudge you your little vanities: on the contrary,
I'm rather
fond of the end product. Still...I'll store that one up.
Ammunition for a
good teasing there.
Hmm...spearmint mouthwash. I know the taste of that one, usually
mixed with
the bitter notes of strong coffee when you sneak a morning kiss.
You still
do that, every so often, despite my rebukes, grabbing me as I
come into the
office, or waiting for me in the echoing shadows of the
parking-garage.
Never more than a few seconds of contact before I pull away from
you, and
then you'll calmly escort me away from the car and down to the
basement,
or pull out a file for me to examine, for all the world like you
haven't
just given me a brief taste of a mint and coffee flavoured
heaven.
It annoys me, but not for the reason you assume. You think it
irritates me
because you're taking a risk, the risk that someone might see,
rumours and
whispers might start running around. In fact, it annoys me
because it's so
teasing, so tantalising to feel your mouth on mine like that and
know that I
can't touch you again all day.
I don't want you to stop doing it, though.
I return to the tub and lean down to grab the translucent sliver
of soap
resting on the side. It's slick with water, smooth as an egg.
Let's
see...Coast? I know exactly where you got this, I realise: I've
caught
you once or twice in motels, furtively sneaking those little bars
of soap
off the maid's cart and into your pockets. Ladies and gentlemen,
Fox
Mulder's Showering Experience, brought to you courtesy of Motel
6.
I slide my fingertips over the soap and imagine it sliding over
your skin,
as you stand under the pounding, steaming water, leaving trails
of tiny
bubbles and fragrance over your body.
I put it back down and wipe the filmy traces off my fingers on a
nearby
towel. It's well-worn and nubbly under my hand, dark blue, a real
bachelor's
towel. I'll bet it's never even heard of fabric softener. Now I
picture
you stepping out of the shower, reaching blindly for the towel,
scrubbing it
roughly over your head so that your hair is left standing up in
crazy
tufts, while water makes your tawny skin gleam.
Suddenly, I've had enough of exploring for one night. I'm cold,
and the
bed's warm. Why stand here picturing perfection when it's asleep
in the
next room?
Leaving the mug on the windowsill, I silence the gently humming
fluorescent
light, returning the room to darkness, and shuffle out, shoes
sliding over
the worn tiles. In the bedroom light slides around the edge of
the window
from the streetlights, throwing bars of illumination over
your sleeping
form. You're huddled under the covers, cocooned, only your head
sticking
out of the bundle of blankets.
I discard the afghan, the running shoes and the jacket in the
middle of
the floor, making a mental note not to trip up on them in the
morning. I
start towards the bed but after a second, turn back, grab the
afghan off
the floor and settle instead in the chair opposite the bed,
snuggling into
the thick, scratchy wool of the blanket and tucking my bare feet
under
me.
Tempting as it is to slide right back in beside you, I think I'd
like to sit
here for a minute and just...just look at you.
Beyond the bed, I can see the snow falling outside the window.
Big, feathery
flakes of snow, drifting slowly downwards beyond the window,
whirling and
shifting in the wind. It's like the pure, white wood-ash that
flies out of
a bonfire, the individual flakes evanescent and delicate,
although it's
falling heavily. I wonder if it will snow all night...the
forecasters on the
Weather Channel were making concerned noises about six to eight
inch falls and deep drifts when we switched on after dinner.
Snow, real
snow, not just a dusting of it or freezing rain, in November in
DC; it's
unusual, although not unheard of. Unusual...and undeniably
beautiful.
Beautiful as the snow is, it's not as beautiful as the sight of
you
sleeping. I like this, watching you when you don't know I'm
looking.
Without me in the bed you revert to your old habits, sprawling,
taking
all the covers for yourself. You sleep as soundly as an exhausted
child.
Before we made it this far, I always thought you were one of
those
rare specimens who could function on four hours sleep a night.
Now I
know that you sleep like the dead; you just do it when you feel
like it,
which is not necessarily on the same timetable as most people.
It's very still in here now, the snowfall wrapping us up in a
blanket of
silence, embroidered with your slow, deep breathing and my
quicker,
shallower breaths. You roll onto your side, and I take in the
sight of your
profile against the pillow, conveniently limned by the glare of
the
streetlight.
Your mouth, soft, sensuous, almost feminine. The sexiest thing
about your
mouth, of course, is what comes out of it, and I don't mean your
tongue,
talented though that may be. You're the first of my lovers to
truly share my
passion for words as foreplay, for the sexual currents that can
run deep
under the ebb and flow, the thrust and parry of conversation.
Your nose, your hated nose: I've come to love it. It's strong,
distinctive,
you. I like to start kissing you there sometimes, a gentle
scattering of
feather-light touches, and work down to your mouth.
The hollow of your eye socket, the line of your lashes lying
against your
cheek. Those eldritch, luminous eyes hidden now, unable to work
their
magic on me.
The soft fall of your hair onto your brow: you've started wearing
it longer,
now that you've figured out how much I like to touch it, to wind
my fingers
in it while your worshipping mouth moves down my body.
I yawn, not bothering to smother it with my hand. The snow has
thickened
now, falling in fast, furious flurries. I should get back to bed.
I'll just
watch you a little while longer, here in the dark and the
silence, where no
one sees...
******
"It's 7:00 am, and you're listening to WTOP 107.7 FM! Don't
get out of bed
if you don't have to, DC: it's been coming down hard out there
overnight,
and we have six inches of fresh snow on the ground downtown, with
more
forecast for later in the day..."
The air is split by a shrill, persistent electronic beeping,
threading
through the inane chatter of the DJ like a hurried heartbeat. The
slap of
hand connecting with plastic, and the alarm clock shuts off,
mercifully.
Odd, I don't remember my bed ever feeling this cramped before.
"Scully? What're you doing over there?"
Ah. Yes. Not my bed, and not my apartment. Not your bed either,
come to
that. Must've fallen asleep in the chair: no wonder my lower back
is
complaining.
I open my eyes, scrubbing at them with one hand and masking a
yawn with the
other, and forget whatever I was about to say. The room is filled
with
snow-light: pure, pale-blue shadows and white, white light
bouncing off the
walls, making the air look like springwater. It reminds me of
waking up on
childhood mornings, opening my eyes, and grinning with the
knowledge that
school would be called off. It transports me for a moment to an
age of
innocence, when there were snowmen to build, snowball fights to
have
with Bill and Charlie, Mom and Melissa making hot chocolate in
the kitchen,
steaming oatmeal laced with honey for breakfast. It's beautiful.
Not as beautiful as the sight presenting itself to me from the
bed. There
are certain side-benefits to losing one's innocence, after all.
You're
peering blearily at me, jaw shadowed with a slight growth of
stubble, hair
mussed, looking vaguely worried. You sit up, the blankets falling
away to
reveal the taut planes of your chest, lightly dusted with dark
hair.
Snow-shadows fall across your skin, edging and defining your
muscles.
"I must've fallen asleep...I got up for a drink of water,
and I was just
going to sit here for a moment." I wonder if you'll ask me
exactly why I was
sitting opposite the bed instead of getting back into it, and
what I'll tell
you if you do.
I could always just tell you the truth, I guess: I was indulging
in the
simple pleasure of watching my lover sleeping. I think we might
be ready
for the sharing of that particular truth, and the thought makes
me smile
with quiet delight.
Instead, though, you scratch your head, closing your eyes for a
second, and
say, voice rusty with sleep, "It snowed, huh?"
"Yeah, plenty, apparently." I unfold myself from the
chair, wincing
a little as vertebrae pop back into place, stretch and pad over
to the
window.
It's stunning. The sun is just rising, and every cliché you can
think of,
white blankets and icing on a cake and all that jazz, applies. It
looks as
if the street outside is coated in layers of cloud, pure and
white. No one's
been out yet, not even the snowplows, and all the dirt and grime
of the
city has been spirited away. Oh yeah, Mulder, it snowed.
"It's beautiful out there."
"Plows been through yet?"
"Nope."
"Mmm. Guess we'll just have to take the day off, huh?"
I turn and see you grinning widely, your teeth like crushed snow,
dazzling.
"Guess so."
"Come back to bed, Scully, you'll freeze."
I pad back to the bedside, never taking my eyes off yours, and
slide under
the covers. You lean down and whisper "Now strip, Agent.
Skin on skin, best
way to get back body heat, remember?"
My lips curve upwards slightly as I wriggle out of my pajamas and
crawl up
against you. "This ain't no sleeping bag, Agent
Mulder."
"Perceptive," you mutter, planting a soft open-mouthed
kiss on the curve of
my shoulder. You sit up straighter against the pillows, and
gently pull me
between your legs, my back resting against the comforting
solidity of your
chest. I pull the covers up around us, tucking them under my
chin, as you
wrap your arms around me, under my breasts. You clasp your hands
together
over my sternum, and I lay mine gently over yours, feeling your
thumb come
up to trace lightly over the backs of my hands.
You lean down to rest your head in the crook of my neck, breath
hot on my
skin, and murmur, "If the roads aren't clear, the guy who
fixes the heat
might not be coming today."
I mutter something that could be taken as an agreement as your
mouth
wanders up the side of my neck. You take my earlobe between your
lips and
tug gently before concluding, "Guess we'd better stay
someplace nice and
warm then...like in bed."
"Mmmm."
You bring a hand up to cup my face, turning it towards you, and
lean round
to reach my mouth, giving me a slow, warm, gentle good-morning
kiss. "You
taste of Oreos, Scully," you mumble into my mouth, and I
chuckle delightedly
and lean into your kiss. I like it here, wherever we are, Mulder.
I like it,
and I think I'm going to stay.
******
"Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
...Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare."
'The Sunne Rising', John Donne
******
FINIS
DC natives, forgive me for snow in November <g>.
Uh...artistic license? ;)
Feedback is less fattening than Oreos, and just as satisfying:
CazQ@tesco.net
