Very short fic written for Leslie's birthday. My first friend in the fandom and without her support and encouragement and friendship I wouldn't have the guts to be doing this. So every one wish ScullyAsTrinity a Happy Birthday!
Thanks Leslie!
He would never be the type that would bring her flowers or woo her with candy and that vintage bottle of wine (definitely not the alcohol). He would stutter and stumble around his feelings; perhaps awkwardly holding a door for her or take her coat from her in a display of gentlemanly manners. Every time he performed these actions, he would blush slightly, almost regretting the necessity of the action and silently urging her to hurry so it could be completed and he could move on.
No, courting her in outwardly displays in what was deemed by society as appropriate would always be a struggle for him, a challenge to the years he spent alone. This was something he was never going to excel at, only just manage. He was never very good at conforming.
But when they were alone, when it was just him and her, he would spin sonnets and whisper tales of an era that was both magical and fantastic. He spoke of a knight's love for a maiden and the trials that were endured to prove that love; of fights with mystical dragons and enchanted forests. With every word that's spoken, she could feel herself falling more and more under his spell until all she could hear was the sound of his voice and murmured tales he spoke to her. His words were a drug that she grew addicted to, listening to them as they were whispered along her skin, in her hair, around her soul. His stories were smeared along her neck, between her breasts and she swore they would remain forever tattooed there along with the scratches his beard left behind.
In his words, there in his tone as he spoke to her, hidden beneath all of his public inaction, was where he layered in his love for her. She could hear the love with every verse and knew that what he felt for her was a love so deep it threatened to burn them both. He was courting her in the only way he knew how; with words and erotic motions. When they threatened to spill over; she would kiss him, capturing his words and holding tightly onto him. In her kiss she poured back his poetry, his sonnets and all his magical tales wanting him to know that she understood, so much, how he loved her. She gave him his words back, knowing that he would share them with her again and again.
She never expects flowers or candy, public displays of affection. Oh, he'll capture her eyes in a crowded room and send her heart racing with just a look. She waits for the words that he shares with her and her alone and it's enough.