TITLE: Tenderness
AUTHOR: coolbyrne
RATING: PG
CATEGORY: DSR, AU (tho' isn't all DSR alternate universe?)
SPOILERS: None. (Feb.2002)
DISTRIBUTION: If you like it, by all means, take it.
DISCLAIMER: CC, you only have a month or two left to hire me,
man! They aren't my characters, but I love to mess with 'em!
FEEDBACK: Constructive criticism/compliments gratefully
accepted at fugitive@ihateclowns.com. Flames gleefully mocked in
other forums.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not quite what you might expect if you've read
my stuff, I don't think. I hope that doesn't take away from your
enjoyment of it (that's assuming you liked my other fic. LOL!). I
attempted two "new" things with this fic, which I've never done- put
it in present tense, and go without dialogue.
Thanks to D.H Lawrence for the title idea. (The original title for
"Lady Chatterley's Lover" was "Tenderness.")
Thanks to Ri for returning the beta favour! (I put that exclamation
point in there just for you. LOL!)
**

'Now he would have given all he had or ever might have to hold her
warm in his arms, both of them wrapped in one blanket, and sleep.'

'.. his face a little flushed and his hair ruffled, curiously warm and
still and beautiful in the dim light of the lantern, so beautiful, she
would never tell him how beautiful. It made her want to cling fast to
him, to hold him, for there was a warm, half-sleepy remoteness in his
beauty that made her want to cry out and clutch him, to have him.'
"Lady Chatterley's Lover"-D.H Lawrence (pages 149 and 183 res.)


***

Before he even opened the door, he knew she was on the other side.
Her loneliness had sent a minor vibration down the string that
seemed to connect them, and he had lain awake in his bed, waiting to
hear the gentle rapping of her knock on his door.

Sure enough, he finds her standing on the other side of the big oak
obstacle. A slight shiver from the 3 a.m. air runs through her body,
and he steps aside to let her in. He closes the door behind her and
helps her out of her coat, wet from the rain that nearly lulled him to
sleep as he waited for her. She turns to him and wordlessly he draws
her into his protective circle. Wordlessly, she allows herself to be
drawn.

There is no greeting between them, for a greeting implies a parting
and a reconnecting, and they have never parted. There is no need for
reconnecting, for they are always connected.

How different from their day lives. Partners and lovers and never the
'twain shall meet. It's all "Agent this" and "Agent that," their
formalities so pressed and firm that they set his teeth on edge. In the
quiet moments of the day, when he thinks she's unaware, he looks
over at her and wonders how much more she can carry alone. In
those same unaware moments, she sneaks glances at him and
wonders how much more he can bear. Sometimes they catch each
other, and she is always the first to look away, left to wonder what is
in his eyes, those eyes that seem to be able to look at her, through
her, into her.

Those eyes of his. Windows to his soul, a soul she realizes she
doesn't quite know. In the early days of this, she felt she could read
all his inner workings in them. Desire. Anger. Fear. Compassion.
Lust. Love. She wonders when they became so indecipherable to
her. Was it when he realized he saw no mirror in her own? When he
realized all that she would give him came in furtive visits in the
middle of the night?

She wants to give him more now, to finally experience the relief of
letting go, of lasting freedom. Freedom from herself, from the life
she has let build shackles around her heart. But she fears it is too
late, that she has taken him down this path too long and that he shuts
himself off when around her. A self-preservation tactic. She is well
versed in them herself. How ironic that it is in their most vulnerable
moments, as he holds himself above her, in her, her back arching up
to meet him that they feel safe enough to show themselves to the
other.

She pulls back from his eternal embrace and looks up into those
mysterious blues. She has left damp evidence of her rest on his gray
t-shirt, against the contours of his chest.

He looks down at her and shields his heart from her gaze. He brings
his hands up from around her back and rakes them through her wet
hair, his fingers leaving thick, deep paths through the red. When
they reach around to meet, he grasps two handfuls and tugs her head
backward, and meets her upturned mouth with his descending.

She thinks of all the moments they spend together that this is the one
she loves the most. This moment when he erases all the borders and
tears down all the walls she so carefully builds up during the day and
shows her how foolish her efforts are. This reclamation in one
single, hungry kiss.

He used to pour every emotion he could never audibly convey to her
into this one single, hungry kiss. In the early days of this, he thought
the very fierceness of all he felt could seep through the cracks in her
defense. But no matter how easily he erases the borders and tears
down the walls, there is always that one solitary door to her that
remains closed no matter how much he knocks. It is like a Chinese
puzzle box; so complex-looking, so daunting, yet in the end, he
knows so deceptively simple.

He knows if he could only stop feeling, to remove himself from her
and all that she does to his heart, that he could figure it out. He is
like that: analytical, practical, logical. But she changes that in him,
and he can't solve her. So he forces himself to withdraw, to stop
feeling; he tries to become like her, in the hopes of solving her. She
thinks it's self-preservation. Maybe it is. He thinks it's just another
form of problem solving, unaware that it only creates more problems.

She holds him, always needing to touch him in some way, as if she's
afraid he'll disappear, leave her life like so many others she's cared
about before him. She slides her hands from around his back and
trails them over his shoulders, down his biceps, and up to his wrists.
With her right hand, she takes his left and steps backwards, towards
the stairs. Once he moves near her, signaling his assurance (as he
always does), she turns and replaces her right hand with her left.
Walking directly in front of him, she leads him up the stairs. He lets
her lead, as he always does and always has. After all, it was she who
initiated this.

He had been waging yet another silent war with himself that fateful
day, as they stood at the table in the motel room, him looking over
her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the file she wanted to share. In the
midst of processing the information she was giving him, he found
himself transfixed with the hollow behind her ear. Found himself
wondering if she dabbed perfume in its little corner and found
himself leaning in slightly in an attempt to find out. He caught
himself as his head tilted forward, and he was angry for letting
himself become like this; this man who lived only for the hollow
behind the ear of a woman he could never have.

She had chosen that particular moment on that particular day to turn
her head and catch the look in his eyes. His inner war displayed
itself in his eyes as a mixture of lust, anger, and something else.
Something almost feral.

She took him that night, and he let her take him.

And that's how it has been ever since. He is never the one to knock
on her door at 3 a.m. Not because he doesn't feel the very same ache
of loneliness, but because he doesn't know if she'd answer the door.

They reach his bedroom together. The bedside lamp gives a warm
amber glow to the room. He strokes the middle of her back with his
right hand and suddenly realizes the rain has soaked through her coat
and into her clothes. He turns her around and returns her kiss before
gently pushing her down to sit at the edge of the bed.

He kneels before her and begins to unbutton her blouse. When he
reaches her waist, he tugs the hem from her jeans and undoes the
remaining buttons. He circles one of her wrists with his large hands
and turns her hand over so he can undo the cuffs, then slides his
fingers between blouse and collarbone and peels the fabric away
from her skin until she is bereft of this garment.

With his hands on her waist, he motions for her to stand up, and
deftly undoes the button of her jeans and parts the teeth of her zipper.
Curling strong fingers over the waistband, he makes a downward tug,
so that the heavy denim of her jeans and the delicate silk of her
panties join her blouse on the floor.

She runs her fingers absently through his hair while he does this and
watches him as he goes about his task with a determined devotion.
In that moment she sees all that he has to offer and wonders why he
offers it to her.

There is emotion and care to his activity, but nothing one would
describe as passion. He gladly does his task, not for the physical
pleasure, but because he sees it as his job, his duty to take care of her.
It touches him not outwardly, but inwardly. It lights warmth in him;
not one of extinguishable, fleeting fire, but of glowing, burning
embers.

She feels this warmth in him, from him, as he kneels before her and
rests his head against her abdomen in a form of reverence. He slides
his hands up her thighs and reaches up to her shoulders, drawing her
close.

It is when she looks down and sees this tenderness from him that she
realizes how bereft her life is of it. How the cold hard edges of blind
logic and mistrust and denial have replaced all the softness in her
life. He replenishes her loss, cups the little flame of feeling left
inside her and makes sure it stays lit.

He feels the tremor through her stomach and looks up at her, only to
discover she is crying. His mouth opens and all that he does not say
is written on his face. Worry. Concern. Care. He gets her to sit
down again and brushes her hair back so that he can kiss her cheeks
and soak up her tears with his lips. He makes quiet soothing sounds
and brings her in closer.

She wraps her arms around his neck and nuzzles the hollow behind
his ear, her tears leaving cold wet stains on his cheek. Moments pass
and the world carries on without them.

When he is assured that she is no longer crying, he reaches around
her and pulls the blankets of the bed back. She crawls in at his
wordless gesture and waits for him.

He stands up and strips off his material shell, the glow of the lamp
bathing his lean body in various shades of amber and shadow. He
senses she is looking at him, really looking at him, so gives her this
allowance.

She looks at him as if seeing him for the first time. They have shared
countless nights of intimacy, yet he stands before her as if a stranger.
She is puzzled at this. She recognizes the planes of his chest, the
curve of his thighs, the squareness of his hands and fingers, the blaze
of his eyes.

It is when she gets to his eyes that she realizes what's amiss. She
may recognize the body, but she cannot see the spirit. It was on
display in those early days, when he thought that if only he gave it,
she would take it. But he quickly realized she wouldn't take it,
would only leave it tattered and torn. So he never offered again.
And now she is sorry she would never get the chance to see it.

She reaches out her hand, in sorrow and invitation, and he slides into
bed with her, covering her body with his.

He is always amazed at how his hard angular body fits together with
her soft curves. As if they were the proper fitting pieces to a puzzle.
He kisses her lips, her throat, the valley between her breasts. He
wants to make it last, to draw it out, savour it. He knows before
long, she will leave the warmth of his bed, of his arms, of his heart
and return to the shadows of her life, leaving him vacant and cold.

He lowers his head farther, but she will have none of it. She wants it
to linger as well, but there is an urgency in her tonight, a longing for
him that she can no longer bear. She reaches between their bodies
and guides him into her.

He echoes her moan with his deep rumbling baritone and closes his
eyes in an attempt to burn this moment in his memory. He knows
it's futile, to try and equate an image with the intensity of this instant,
but he needs it, needs to remember it.

She reaches up and cups his face in her hands, waiting for his eyes to
open. He looks down and thinks he has caught a glimpse of
something.. something from her. Her eyes are open and pin him in
place. It is the upward thrust of her hips that break him from his
thoughts and continue this primal dance they began so many months
ago.

He holds himself up with rigid forearms and slowly pushes
downward, gauging the reaction of her body, her mouth, her eyes.
She keeps them open, hands still holding his face. Her mouth opens
in response to his hips meeting hers, but she keeps her eyes on his
despite the urge to close them and spiral off into her own ecstasy.
Not tonight. Tonight she will share this with him.

He senses a difference in her, but does not know what it is for
certain. Soon, it doesn't matter, as thought gives way to feeling, and
his slow movements increase to furious thrusts, their pubic bones
colliding and retreating, colliding and retreating. Still, she holds him,
even as they race towards a glorious end.

It is at the narrow edge of this cliff, before they fall together, that the
last visages of their defenses crumble and for the first time, he sees it
in her eyes. Something that he feels has no discernible word to
describe it, but he feels it in his heart. In the moment of release, he
lets his soul reveal itself in his eyes, and for the first time, he sees a
mirror in her own.

When hearts and breathing and thinking return to normal, he shifts so
that he is off of her, but covers her with a heavy leg and a gentle arm.
He waits for the inevitable moment when she slides out of bed and
out of his view, leaving nothing behind but her scent and her
memory. Uncertainty has always stopped him from asking her to
stay and she has certainly never offered. He has long given up
expecting this night or that encounter to be any different than the
ones before and the ones to come. And yet, there IS something
different, he's sure of it.

She turns her back and molds herself into him, not wanting to leave
this night. She is tired of leaving, tired of slipping out of the warmth
of his bed, his arms, his heart. His tenderness. But it is a cycle of
her own making, and she doesn't know how to fix it.

It is so quiet. She can hear his breathing and the gentle tick tick of
the grandfather clock downstairs. A reminder of time and the
passing of it. How much time has she let slip away without a thought
to accounting for it? How many games of "what if" has she played
in her head as she lay alone in her bed at night? How many more
will she play?

She doesn't want to leave, but she has long set the rules in stone.
She squeezes the hand of the one man who could break them, before
she slips her legs out from under his and sits on the edge of the bed.
There is a grip on her heart that threatens to bring tears to her eyes
once again, the feel of the string between them being pulled taut.

He has not let go of her hand, holding it by the tips of her fingers,
firm enough to make her stop, but tender enough to let her go, if she
wants to. She doesn't want to.

His quiet rumble breaks the silence.

"Stay."





-end