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We'd started out with some space between us, but the distance had lessened
considerably sometime during the night, leaving him right next to me.
The room was early-morning cool and I could feel the heat coming off of him
so I moved closer to the source. Tried to tell myself it was easier than
getting the covers up off the floor and back onto the bed.
And it probably was easier. But that wasn't the only reason I gravitated
toward him.
And I knew it.
My forehead found his shoulder of its own accord and Alex was barely
conscious enough to acknowledge it, even though I was leaning on the one that
didn't have an arm attached to it anymore. My shoulder fit perfectly into the
void where his arm left off, scar tissue rough against my neck, my chest
touching his side.
For all that it sounds like I've totally lost my mind, it felt good.
My hand on his chest, the shallow, rhythmic breathing almost hypnotic. His
heartbeat, echoing against my wrist. Soft exhalations stirring the hair on my
forehead.
See what I mean? It was... nice.
And then he moved, smoothly, slowly, like oil, and his mouth was on mine and
I felt his sigh, a soft sound against the hard scratch of stubble on my face,
and he was hot, so hot, and when his tongue caught mine, I caught fire. His
hand was in my hair, tight, but not painful, holding me still, like he thought
I planned on either fighting him or running away.
Not hardly.
I swear I honestly didn't remember he only had one hand. It was everywhere,
on my face, stroking my arm, rubbing my back, resting on my hip for a moment
and the kiss went on, my hands all over him, reading the raised scars on his
body like braille on linen. He was strong and careful, all that lethal power
still sleeping, and I thought about every time I'd ever hit him, hurt him, and
knew he'd been holding himself in check, because the body under my hands was
that of a killer, a man who could've broken me in half back then and who could,
right now, if he wanted to.
And he felt so damned good.
Jesus.
I forgot about his wound until his groan reminded me and I heard more than
pleasure in the sound of it and did a quick hand-check and felt gauze under my
fingers. I yanked my hand away and moved back, checking to see that he was all
right, knowing I didn't want to hurt him. Not now. Not ever again.
"Sorry."
"S'okay," he whispered, tongue leaving hot streaks on my neck, thumb making
first one nipple on my chest tighten and throb, then the other one, and I felt
my way up his leg, fingertips caressing his inner thigh. He opened tome with a
sigh and a rough chuckle and a slow, firm caress of his own that just about
brought me off the bed with a curse.
He backed off with obvious reluctance and a not-so-obvious grin, and darted
in time and again for quick kisses more given than stolen before he settled at
my side, the palm of his hand stroking my chest with calculated carelessness as
his head rested warm and heavy on my shoulder.
And I couldn't help wondering if it was all some sort of test, to see how
I'd react to him, to this, to his touch, his mouth...
Briefly debated getting pissed off, but I wasn't, really, and I knew he'd
know. If he wanted me angry, he could make me angry, far too damned easily. He
knew where the buttons were and he'd never been shy about pushing them.
So, if he didn't want me pissed, what the hell did he want? Just some
kind of assurance that I wasn't going to shoot him for kissing me? That he
could make me respond to physical provocation with something other than anger
and violence? That last night's notable abstinence from my usual habit of
beating him up hadn't just been exhaustion on my part? That the days of using
his face to sharpen my knuckles on were over?
What?
I brushed my fingers over his back, lightly enough to make him shiver, and
rubbed it away while my other hand took his and held it still. He waited in
silence, not tense, simply waiting, for me to speak, or move, or whatever I was
supposed to do now.
I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do now.
I briefly thought about asking him but didn't know if he'd be able to stop
laughing long enough to answer me intelligently.
"How's the leg?" I asked him quietly, voice still rough with sleep.
"Good," he answered with an easy shrug, eloquent as ever.
I moved my hand from his back to his shoulder, the one without an arm
attached, and ghosted my hand over it gently, waiting for a negative reaction
on his part.
The provocation was my own, this time, and just as purposeful as his had
been. I needed to know, as badly as he did, where the new boundaries were.
The hell with boundaries, I was looking out for land mines. Anything that
might make the assassin-in-stasis explode from the illusory veneer of civilized
man seemingly at rest in my bed.
I wasn't an idiot. I honestly didn't want to make Alex angry; I simply
needed to know what could in a setting as non-threatening and neutral as I
could possibly make it.
As for the anticipated and unpleasant reaction on his part, I didn't get it.
I barely got any reaction from him, at all.
His breathing got a little more measured, a little more deliberate, like he
was trying to keep from reacting badly, the closer I got to the scars at the
end of his arm. One of his fingers twitched slightly in my other hand and he
released a tension I didn't know he was carrying when I finally moved my hand
out of his danger zone and just traced the lines of shoulder and backbone and
clavicle with a fingertip.
"I won't hurt you," I whispered and hoped it sounded like the promise it
was.
Apparently, it did.
"Okay," he replied, his hand tightening momentarily around mine.
We lay there in restful quiet, breathing and being in tandem through no real
effort of our own. He aborted an attempt to reposition his leg and inhaled a
little too sharply.
"Time for more meds?"
It was more statement than question, but he nodded.
"If I don't eat something, the antibiotic will make me sicker than hell."
"Then let's get you fed."
"I really don't want to be around... people, right now. Other people," he
amended quickly and went on to explain at my frown.
"Folks around here notice things like limps just like they noticed the arm.
I don't want to deal with it."
"But, you know these people," I protested, not getting it.
"They don't know I'm here yet and I really don't want to have to make the
rounds, everyone wanting to know what happened, me having to dish out the same
load of bullshit fifty times over... They already think I'm the clumsiest
bastard ever to walk the face of the earth."
"Okay, okay. I get it," I grinned slightly. "Welcome to smalltown living,
huh?"
"Yeah," he answered with something that was almost a smile.
"Not a problem. The diner has carry-out. We can go eat in the park. If
you want to."
"Sounds good. Thanks."
It was definitely a smile that time.
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These characters and their environs on the X-Files belong to 1013 Productions
and Chris Carter. No infringement is intended. I just want to play with the
boys for a while before I let them go back to the lives they don't have on the
show. This is just for fun, no money is being made from this.
This story will eventually involve sex between two men, aka: slash. If that is not your cup of tea, sweet as it is, then don't read it! (simple, ain't it??) Feedback is very much appreciated, and always answered. Flames will be passed around to friends and chuckled over. :) Fourteenth in the Tapestry Series. Stories also can be found at:http://members.tripod.com/~AiR_WSW/Amirin4.html For Sickleweed, who wanted a story with a happy ending for the boys. This will be about as close as I can get. And for Desiree, who wanted a story where Krycek doesn't die. And for Toddie, for every other reason. More to come... Weft - Waking by Amirin groh@iquest.net #141 |
