Title: Don't Smoke in Bed Author: Jane St Clair (p.lapointe@sk.sympatico.ca) Rating: NC-17 Category: SR Spoilers: Anasazi, The End, possibly Talitha Cumi Keywords: Pre-XF, CSM/Mrs. Mulder Distribution: atxc, Gossamer, otherwise please ask me first! Summary: Once upon a time, there was a lady named Mulder and a dashing young secret-whatever with a thing for cigarettes. Her husband was a jerk (we all know it). Scandalous doings ensued. There were aliens. And the rest is history. Disclaimer: Hail Carter. Fox owns the X-Files and a lot of TV *I* certainly wouldn't want. As long as there's no money involved, why should any of us sue, really? Don't involve lawyers. You'll only encourage them. This story is rated NC-17 because grown ups eventually have sex. (Well, where did you think you came from?) Also because I'm told the things that come out of my head are too disturbing for children. Safe sex wasn't common practice yet in 1959, but that's no excuse for the rest of us. Behave yourselves, people! And the Surgeon General warns that smoking causes cancer, emphysema, fetal damage, ozone damage, social decay, and, like everything else that's ever existed, eventually death. And it ain't sexy anymore, either. This is not based on "Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man" or "Travellers." Possibly the same universe as "Piper Maru/Apocrypha" (if you remember the flashback bit). If CC had any respect for us at all, you'd think he could manage a consistent mythology. Not that he has any respect for us. I haven't got all my mythology eps in yet, so any errors in basic stuff like original hair colour and habits are hereby apologized for. I am only a poor writer. I work for feedback. I quit my job to write this (you think I'm kidding but I'm not). Without word from my readers, I will shrivel up and die. Save this pathetic hack at p.lapointe@sk.sympatico.ca Flames will be used to warm me over the long, cold Canadian winter, but will otherwise be ignored. ***** Don't Smoke in Bed (part 1/3) by Jane St Clair ***** The people in this photograph, from left to right, are William Mulder, Stephen Caine, Cassandra Spender, Keith Spender, and Christina Mulder, pregnant. In the black-and-white photograph, the red picnic table shows as a dark grey; the patio lanterns are luminous blobs in one corner. Washington, Memorial Day, 1961. B/W. 5" x 7", scalloped edges, photographer unknown. Private archive of Elena Caine, Coventry, West Midlands, England. ***** I'm sure you remember the song. I left a note on his dresser My old wedding ring With these few goodbye words How can I say Goodbye old sleepyhead I'm packing you in Like I said Take care of everything I'm leaving my wedding ring Don't look for me I'll get ahead Remember, darling, Don't smoke in bed Willard Robinson's "Don't Smoke in Bed" ***** He sprawls in a velvet armchair in this anonymous, expensive Boston hotel room. The space smells of leather and flowers, distantly of the chlorine from the pool five storeys below. Yesterday, he swam in it. The pool room has a pre-war, art-deco atmosphere that appeals oddly to his sensibilities. In the ceiling mirrors, he saw himself in the water, floating alone, thin and dark-haired, his black trunks scarred on each him with two white, vertical stripes. The chlorine in the water dried his skin out almost immediately. The skin on the back of his hands is cracked. Tonight the hiss of rain and traffic pours in through the open casement window. The adolescent part of his mind that loves machines begins to name the vehicles by sound and rhythm alone. Chevrolet, Ford, Ford, International farm truck with brakes that need attention. Sweet kiss of a Mercedes. He loves the sound of cars. He doesn't drive for himself anymore; he has a driver waiting with the slick, black Rolls to take him wherever he wants to go. The Rolls, like sex and power and nicotine, is addictive. And he loves it. Under forty, he has a gun, a driver, and bell-boy bringing him a late-night snack. Coffee, chicken-salad sandwich with celery bits. Hotel matchbook on top of the red and white cigarette pack. He lights up immediately and balances the cigarette between two fingers as he signs the bill. The date on it, he notices, is incorrect. Technically, since midnight it has actually been April *27th*, 1959. The bell-boy examines the signature. "Um, sir?" *Sah* - the thick Boston accent. "You weren't expecting your wife tonight, were you?" the boy asks. "No. Why?" "There's a lady at the desk who says she's looking for her husband. A Spender or a Keith. She looks about half crazy. I think they're getting ready to put her out. No one wants a scene at this time of night." He sits up sharply. "Describe her to me." "Five-six or five-seven, light brown hair and eyes, lips like a movie star, but a long nose - almost makes her look like a Jew. Not a local, I think, from her accent, but dressed nice." He pushes past the bell-boy into the hall and takes the service stairs when the elevator is slow to arrive. Unlike the rest of the hotel, the stairwell is stark emergency cinder block, dank and industrial. He isn't supposed to see it. Running by the time he reaches the main floor. Swinging doors explode open before him and he is in the lobby, shouting her name as she struggles with the uniformed doorman pulling at her arm. "Teena!" The doorman freezes at the sound of a new voice and she is able to shake free. If these people wished to avoid a scene, they failed. This is most definitely a scene. A stylish young matron, hopelessly rumpled and wet, has physically battled hotel security in front of a guest. A guest who knows her. One well-timed newspaper photographer could ruin them all. He gathers his wits about him. When he speaks, his voice drips acid. "Just what do you think you're doing to my wife?" "I'm sorry, sir," the doorman blushes. "You didn't leave word you were expecting her, and she wouldn't give her name . . ." He pushes past the uniformed man and catches her around the shoulders, pulling her in against his chest. She buries her face in his shirt front. He is fully prepared to stand like this forever, staring down the guard and waiting for an apology. "I'm so sorry sir." "And it will never happen again, will it?" "No, sir." "Fine." He turns her enough that she can walk, then guides her to the elevator. The operator, a sleepy girl in a kick-pleated black skirt, doesn't look at them. He slams the door to his suite and propels her towards a chair. She watches its arm, stumbles and nearly goes down. He watches until she regains her balance. "Please, Teena, sit down. Put your feet up. Relax. Any time you're ready, feel free to tell me what you're doing here, where Bill is, and why the hell I just told that man you were my wife." * With her hair down and her shoes off, Christina Mulder seems different. If not for her perpetually distracted expression, she would look professional enough to be one of his people. In spite of the late hour - now almost 2 am - she has insatiable energy. She paces. Coming past him, she catches one of his cigarettes and a match and lights up. The blown-out match falls into an ashtray without the benefit of her glance. The way she stands, it takes a long time for him to realize she's crying. His arms come around her from behind and rock her gently back and forth. Just under the collar of her dress, he can see a massive purple bruise marking her collarbone. Under the makeup on her cheek, there is the imprint of a hand. "Bill?" he asks. She nods. "Bastard." Silence. She cries without changing the rhythm of her breathing, without trembling or pressing against him. She is suddenly shockingly self-sufficient. "How did you find me?" he asks. She says, "Bill wrote down the hotel name when you called him, then I suppose decided he shouldn't have. Crumpled it up and threw it away. I found the paper and took it. I would have called you, but the number got lost when he ripped off the page." She pulls a wadded paper from her pocket. It has Bill Mulder's large, precise hand marked across it. He still doesn't understand. "Why me?" "Why what?" she throws back bluntly. "Why come to me? Why tell them you're my wife?" "Because I couldn't think of any other way to get to see you. You don't have a wedding ring, but lots of men don't wear them. It's not unusual." She speaks that much of his language. Her words are precise, she answers questions specifically. She understands the value of being anonymous. She understands evasion. So does he. "Why me?" he repeats. "You're a friend." "Bill's, not yours." "With all my worldly goods I thee endow," Teena intones ironically. "*Why*, Teena?" "Because I didn't know where else to go. Because you're an honourable man who tries to do the right thing. Because you're decent." He barks laughter out into the room. "Rarely that, Teena." His laughter is contagious. She smiles, though she clearly doesn't know why. He takes the cigarette from her fingers and crushes it against the ashtray glass. "You shouldn't smoke," he chides. "There's nothing as revolting as a lady with a Morley." ***** end part 1/3 **** Warnings and disclaimers in part 1 ***** Don't Smoke in Bed (part 2/3) by Jane St Clair ***** At four am the phone rings. A distant-sounding operator asks if he will accept a call from William Mulder in Chilmark. He says, of course. For a few seconds, there is dead air. Then, "Spender?" "Mmm." "Did I wake you?" "No." The automatic response. "I . . . I'm sorry. I know it's late. It's just . . . I can't . . . my wife . . ." Bill Mulder's voice cracks a little. He takes a deep breath and audibly grips his composure. "I can't find Christina. She's gone." A pause while he considers this news. In the darkness, he gropes for a cigarette. "Bill, have you been drinking?" "Yes. No. It doesn't matter, I'm not drunk enough not to know if my wife's missing." Another shaky breath. Tears. "Oh God, what if there's been an accident?" "Bill, you're drunk. There are no accidents. You know that. No one else is going to hurt Christina." Emphasis on "else." "What the hell do you mean?" Mulder snarls. "The unanswerable question: when did you stop beating your wife?" "I didn't." "Bill." "I - " "Bill." He drags the name out, makes it eight disappointed syllables. "You knew?" "Yes." "I didn't mean to." Silence. He finds the cigarette, lights it, inhales, coughs. When Bill doesn't continue, he prompts, "Have you called her mother? Her friends?" "I have. She isn't there. And I was rude to them." "Apologize tomorrow. For now, go to bed. I'll find Christina." "Thank you, Keith." Smile. "Hey, who's your buddy?" "You're my Stone Fox." "I'll find her." "I trust you," Mulder whispers. Keith Spender hangs up and knocks cinders from his cigarette into the bedside ashtray. Into the dark, he whispers, "You shouldn't." Teena stirs. "Who was that?" "Your husband." She asked him not to leave her alone, so he took her to sleep with him in the big hotel bed. She lies close beside him now, dressed in a pair of his navy pyjama pants and a translucent undershirt. He can see another bruise, just to the left of her spine, where the shirt has pulled up in back. She faces the window; he lies behind her. The clouds have broken and the moonlight is suddenly brilliant. * When Bill Mulder married Christina, Keith Spender didn't hear for nearly a month. He'd spent five miserable weeks in Austria, staring into Hungary through half-closed eyes while the Russians undid two years of his work. They were killing his people in the public squares. It was all just such a bloody mess. He came home pissy as a wet cat, ready for a fight he could win. The wedding invitation had been waiting unopened in his D.C. mailbox. He drove to Chilmark. He let himself in without knocking. He was furious. Bill had known this girl for all of five months - six now. And none of them were in a position to marry. Not yet. *For the love of God, Bill. I could have found you someone for a night or two if you were feeling lonely.* Almost immediately, he realized that Bill wasn't home. His coat and overshoes were gone; the house was dark. Boxes were piled up in the bare-walled Edwardian parlour, mute evidence of the recent move in. What had possessed his friend to remove himself to such an isolated place was beyond him. Sheer stupidity. And now there would have to be servants, a maid at least, and who could they possibly trust? Music drifted in from somewhere deeper in the house. In the absence of any artificial light, he followed the sound, stepping quietly around the clutter in the hall. He could almost make out a patch of light slipping from under a closed door. He opened it, muffling the click with one hand. There was light of a sort in that room, though a heavy sheet draped over the lamp kept the view hazy. High-heeled shoes kicked over on the floor, record playing itself out on the table. The furniture looked like it had been left there to wait for some semblance of organization to take hold in the house. On the couch, someone was sleeping. And then the girl Bill had married sat up and turned those incredible hazel eyes on him. "Bill?" she whispered. "No." He stepped into the light. "I'm a friend of his." She smiled cautiously and in spite of himself he was utterly charmed. "Keith Edmund Spender." God, she was so young. She had to be at least six or seven years younger than Bill; he'd pay a mint if she was twenty-five. Still child- thin and small-breasted, fragile inside her dress. The face she offered him was absolutely trusting. She was better than anything he could have picked out himself. She was an innocent. She was perfect. "Christina Mulder," she said, still whispering. To herself, repeating the name to remember it, "Keith Edmund Spender." Then raising her eyes to his. "And what am I going to call you, Mr. Keith Edmund Spender?" Heaven help him, he didn't know for a moment. Already, most people didn't call him anything beyond 'sir.' "You choose," was what he told her. "Spender is fine. Keith or Edmund. Bill calls me Stone Fox. It's my name from the War." "You're the Stone Fox?" He nodded. Her smile widened. "I'm . . . oh . .. . ." Pause. "Bill adores you." "I know." Back towards the front of the house, a hall clock struck one. "I'm sorry. It's very late." He turned to go. "Mister Spender?" He paused at the sound of her voice. "Yes?" "Did you come for something?" Confusion in her tone. Silence. "I came to say, Welcome to the family. Good night Mrs. Mulder. Teena." And left. * In the morning he has to leave Boston; he takes her with him. His driver doesn't question her presence in the car. Dressed again in the clothes she wore last night, she seems imperfect, utterly touchable. She has the delicacy of her make-up. She still smells like his bed. He doesn't know yet when he will tell Bill where she is. Bill has been fragile since his time in New Mexico. He wasn't as dedicated as they thought, maybe. He drinks a lot these days, his hands shake. He's married to Christina and he treats her like an enemy. But Bill loves her. He clings to her with the desperation of a drowning man. And Christina has too much compassion to let him live alone. The drive to South Carolina eats up the day and the next night. Teena sleeps. Awake, she reads a pair of pulp novels she bought at a filling station on the edge of Newark. Spender watches her, memorizing her face. His work lies scattered across the back seat, a tangle of documents, photographs, and memoranda that will have to be destroyed when he finishes reading them. Abruptly, she says, "What did Bill want?" "When?" "Last night." "He was looking for you." Spender pauses, weighs how much to tell her. "He was crying." "Oh," she says in a tiny voice and falls back into her book. He goes back to the notes piled on his lap. * He can't show her this. He leaves Christina sleeping in a hotel room on the edge of Kingstree, South Carolina, the bedside clock reading 2am. He takes the car and drives out himself, carefully not thinking. His driver has orders to stay in the room next to Teena and guard her. Don't let anybody hurt her. Most of the roads aren't paved, and the loose stones occasionally fly up and hit the car, chip the paintwork. The place he comes to isn't marked on any map. It's just a chain of cinder block hangars, a leftover from the War. On the outside, there aren't any lights, and he has to let himself in through the barbed-wire gate that looks so much like part of the fence. He parks the car, lights his cigarette on the heated metal the car's manufacturer provided. He lets himself into the compound. The Russian chemist they hired, Krycheva, perches on a lab stool and only looks at him briefly. Dark-lashed green eyes flick over him and back to her work. Her chin jerks towards the hallway door. "There," she says. Her notes are more interesting than he is. On the other side of that door, two preteen boys are tied to folding chairs. His people pace quietly in the shadows. "Where did you find them?" he asks the dark. "Inside. In Section 31." One of the boys whispers, "You have bodies." He means the silver-gray skin and the organs in jars, the failed ones who died. It will be years yet before they bring anything to life. He crouches in front of the chairs. Tap of ash on the concrete. "You saw." A nod. "You understood you weren't supposed to be here?" Nod. "You must understand, we are fighting a war. Always. There are Communists who would kill for what we have. Russians." Like Krycheva, working at her desk, not caring about politics since she's seen the things they do on both sides of the line. Science is science. He pauses, pulls on the cigarette, inhales smoke. "We have to protect ourselves. Are you good Americans?" Two nods. "You say the Pledge of Allegiance every morning? Do you know the name of the president?" In a whisper, "Dwight Eisenhower. Sir." "Do you know what he said concerning the Korean Armistice?" The boy straightens and nods, then speaks from memory. "'With special feelings of sorrow and solemn gratitude, we think of those who were called upon to lay down their lives in that far-off land to prove once again that only courage and sacrifice can keep freedom alive upon the Earth.'" "That's very good." He runs his fingertips through the child's hair and watches him preen a little. "Have you ever met President Eisenhower?" "No, sir." The eyes half puzzled, half expectant, as if Spender might somehow pull the president out of a hat as their prize for getting here. "He's a man who understands some important things. He understands the danger." The boys don't answer him, or react when he pulls back his hand. Gently, he asks, "Do you know how to keep a secret?" Two emphatic nods. He bows a little in return and straightens, walks around behind the boys. Shoots them both. "That's right. You keep it secret." He turns to the shadows again. "Make it look like a hunting accident." Crushes the remains of the cigarette out. ***** end part 2/3 **** Warnings and disclaimers in part 1. ***** Don't Smoke in Bed (part 3/3) by Jane St Clair ***** Christina curls herself up against the pillows and blinks when he comes in. Again, she asked not to be alone, and he had to tell them she was his wife. She refuses to sleep in a separate room. He strips without looking at her. In pajamas, he crawls into the bed and wonders what it would be like to have a wife and sleep beside her every night. He could have that at a word. He could marry someone. It's nice. It was what Bill wanted. He wants what Bill has. She rolls towards him and tucks herself against his abdomen. "I missed you." He nods and wraps her up in the bedspread. Into the dark, she says, "You're the best person I know." "No," he says. "Better than Bill. Better than anyone I've met. You're stronger than they are. You know how to do the right thing." "Oh Teena." "Fox," she whispers. "What?" "Fox. My Fox. If Bill can call you that, I can." "No." "Who do you love more, Bill or me?" "You." Beyond question. "Mine," she says again. One of her hands slips under his arm and settles in the small of his back. She strokes him up and down through the cotton and though afterwards he can't remember falling asleep, he must eventually. * He has to take her back. Bill is shattering. Spender calls Chilmark from the hotel room while Teena looks at dresses downtown with the driver to protect her. Bill, damn him to hell, is hysterical. The next words out of the man's mouth after "hello" are "missing persons report." They can't have that, not now. If there's going to be a public, messy search for the wife of a State Department man, she'll have to be dead when they find her. It isn't a prospect Spender wants to contemplate. He sends Bill back to New Mexico, telling him to bury what's left of the experiments. That gives him a week. He repeats the promise to find her, then threatens his colleague with hellfire if he ever hits his wife again. He uses short words. He hangs up. He leaves the driver and takes her back himself. The drive north to Massachusetts takes two days; the ferry trip to the Vineyard takes six hours. Christina doesn't say anything. The house is empty. He's been there a half-dozen times since his first visit, when he met her. As always, there's nothing of Bill in it when the man is absent. The maid is gone for now, back to the mainland to visit her family. Christina phoned from New York and gave her the time off. He's slept beside her every night since this started, feeling her clothed body pressed against his. It's convinced him that he wants a wife, but also that he wants Christina. She's so beautiful, so innocent, so smart, and she trusts him so much. How could he resist that? It's so easy to lead her up the unlighted stairs to the bedroom. She stays close beside him, one hand in the small of his back as if she's afraid to lose contact. On the landing, she presses her face into his shoulder. They can't have a light in the bedroom, but there's still a little incandescence coming through the clouds outside. The landscape on the other side of lace curtains is navy and grey, with the beginnings of green. No brilliance anywhere, just mute Atlantic shades. He leads her through this room that smells like wood polish and soft blankets and kisses her next to the bed. So many buttons on the front of her dress. They tangle in his fingers, come undone only reluctantly, and he bends to put his face close to her body while Christina's hands rest undemandingly on his shoulders. This very fine grey wool is so much like her he wants to taste it. The dress comes off her shoulders, finally, and pools around her feet. She steps out of it while he gathers the fabric up and presses it to his face. It smells like her perfume and his cigarettes and the air on the coast of the Vineyard. The slip underneath is satin and smells like her body. Salty. His cheek rests for a moment against her belly while he unrolls the stockings from beneath it. Slow touches on the cold skin. And she leans her weight on them as each foot comes up for him to pull the stockings off. "Fox," she says. And a kiss in his hair. He steps away from her and watches her settle in her underwear onto the cream chenille bedspread. His clothes come off slowly, and she takes each article from him and touches it to herself before folding it away. Her eyes lick the hollows of his ribs. It isn't his first intention to come to her naked, but she only waits when he pauses in his boxers. He can't remember the last time he was naked with a woman who wasn't a whore. He steps towards her. Christina's hands are warm against his waist as she eases the waistband over his erection. Hot skin snaps up to brush the back of her hand, but she only pauses and considers him, then strokes across the root with the tip of one finger. *Mine* He leaves the boxers on the floor and folds himself next to her on the bed. She comes forward to straddle his thighs and lets him take off her brassiere, then her panties. More warm silk, like that slip. He should take some article of hers as a war prize for this thing he's doing. It would prove she's been his. Kissing isn't something he's much done; she's better at it than he is. Of course she is, she's a married lady, after all. Christina teaches him to kiss in this half-lighted room. Her tongue against his teeth, her lower lip between both of his. She tastes so good; he'd eat her if it was possible. This mouthing is a tease. He can taste her by now with the tips of his fingers, a sharp flavour like alcohol. He's going to own her more thoroughly than Bill ever has. It's Christina who finally takes the initiative, rising up on her knees and settling again with his erection just pressing against the wetness of her vagina. She gives him a long, slow kiss, tangling tongues together and pushing at him. Then settles down against him, whimpering a little as he penetrates her, stretching those soft muscles around his cock. She's warm inside, and soft like the rest of her body. He thrusts up and moans. Her breasts in his hands tremble. She rides him, pushing up and sliding down, shifting her hips to find the places inside where she wants to feel him. So good, she's so good. He drops his hands from her breasts to her back so he can support her and buck hard. Kissing her breastbone and the places where the bruises from her husband have almost faded. He comes first, in spite of his best efforts. When he's got enough control of his body again to try anything, he snakes a hand down to find her clitoris while she keeps rocking. Three strokes across that little bit of flesh is all it takes; she's absolutely rigid there, a spot so tiny her can only just find it with the tip of his index finger. She doesn't howl, though, only gasps and hisses his name, and his nickname, and then two distorted syllables that might be "love you." A quick shift of weight lays them out with him on his back and Christina still straddling him and still impaled on him. He only goes soft slowly, stroking her nipples and whispering words that have nothing to do with tests or inhuman beings or killing. She's limp, finally, and he settles her onto her back. Such a beautiful, innocent girl. She's never asked where he was, what he did while he was gone that one night. He needs someone like this, someone to keep close to him on the days when he can't have this woman next to him on the still-made bed. But right now he can have her. He slides toward the foot of the bed, rests between her thighs, and presses his nose to the stiff, dark hair. Salty. A quick dart of his tongue adds taste to the smell, and Christina stiffens. "Yes, Fox, please," she hisses. He goes down on her. She tastes soft, like his possession, like something he can own. She isn't going to change, she'll be like this forever, this beautiful woman who reacts like wave-shocks when he runs his tongue over her labia and pushes delicately inside. He puts everything she's taught him about kissing into this, wanting her to want him desperately. Her clitoris is too tiny to suck on, but he kisses it gently and massages it with his lips, speaks softly against it to let her feel the vibrations. "Is this good?" "Yesssss." Until she comes again and fills his mouth his her taste and now she really belongs to him. His woman more than Bill's now. She can live in his house, but that son of a bitch will never own her again. * The next afternoon, they make love in the back yard, nestled in old blankets from the garage. He rests behind her and slips a hand under her thigh to raise it and pull it back. With the other hand, he spreads her and slips in, then wraps that arm around her shoulders to pull her against him. Thrusting gently, unable to go as deep as he was last night, he teases her for a long time. She whimpers and presses back against him. Kisses on her shoulder blades, on each vertebra within his reach. All that skin has to be his. She has to come first. She does. She's obviously cold, but it only heightens his touches. Afraid the neighbours will hear, she pulls his hand against her mouth to muffle her voice, then licks his palm while her vagina clenches around him and he finishes in long, slow strokes. Here in the back yard, there are shades of green. There still isn't any bright light, though, and the horizon clouds suggest it might rain later. He wraps Christina in two of the blankets and carries her inside. * Bill calls at nine at night, while he's standing naked in the unlighted living room. He picks up the phone without thinking. "Hello?" "Spender? What . . . you're at home?" Damn. "Yes." "Did you . . ." "I found her. She's home. Where are you?" William Mulder lets out a long, wet breath, as though letting go of tears. "Thank you. Oh God, thank you." "Forget it. Where are you, Bill?" "Boston. I'll be home tomorrow. Will I see you?" "No." A decision. He doesn't want to be here to see them together, to see Bill touch her. "But you know you've got my best." "Thank you, Stone Fox." "Don't," he snaps without thinking. "What?" Confusion. "Don't call me that. Don't call me anything." "What?" He drags a hand across his eyes. "Look, I'm tired. I'm sorry. Just . .. . go to bed, Bill." "Right. Thank you." * He has Christina for tonight, then. She's in the kitchen, wrapped in an afghan she dug out of the hall closet in the early evening. Such beautiful legs. Such a beautiful girl. His woman. "Teena," he whispers from the doorway. He can see himself reflected in the window, an unassuming man, older than he looks. He's been playing games for so many years that he expects all the time to see the results tattooed across his features. It hasn't happened yet. Clothed, he's just a man in black. Naked, he's a thirty-something American male with brown hair getting darker as he ages, marked with a broad nose and cheekbones. Christina can't see his power; he can't imagine why she would want him. She comes to him across the dark room, wraps herself around him and the afghan around them both. Like a wife. He kisses her, pushing against the bones of her mouth with his tongue as if eating her. Curls hands under her thighs and lifts her up against him. His. She has to be his. Part of him wants to fuck her against the kitchen wall. Instead, he arches his back and lifts her further, letting her settle onto his cock. Her bent legs nestle against his hips, breasts against his chest. He can feel her nipples through the thin hair. They wrestle into a thrusting motion, the pain in his back from supporting her less than what comes from the idea of losing her. She kisses him and locks her arms and legs around him, whispers, "Carry me." It's the first time he's made love to her fully in Bill's place. After the first encounter on top of the bedspread, they explored the house and yard. Tonight, though, he rests her back against the sheets and lets himself slip out while he gathers blankets around them. It's an illusion, but one he likes. Husband and wife, in bed. It's more like she's his. Christina's given up on his name. She calls him Fox all the time. Whispers it into his skin when he mounts her and presses his cock into that tiny, soft opening. She's so tiny inside, he always wants to be careful. She's so tight he's always afraid he's going to hurt her. But her knees are pulled up close against him and she's pressing him into her. And so he thrusts hard, feeling the shock down his spine and hearing her wail. When it comes, it's a hard orgasm for both of them. Christina's nails sinking into the skin of his back hurt as badly as anything he can remember, but he's pounding so hard against her he can hardly object. The shock of orgasm hitting him feels like deeper pain, and he can't separate the endorphin release in his mind until much later. She sleeps almost immediately, curling into a tight ball against his side. He can't, though. Twisting carefully, he find the cigarettes in the pocket of his discarded pants and lights one. Inhales. The smoke- colour is something he doesn't have to see, he knows it so well. It's the colour the Vineyard's been since he got there, the colour of the light in this room when Christina first sank down on him. There's fire in it somewhere, but he can't see it except when he pulls hard. The night passes like that, Christina's body against his, him pulling cigarette after cigarette into his body. The ashes pool in the bottom of a glass on the night table. Hating Bill for his uselessness and his stupidity and the amazing luck the man had to find this woman. He needs a wife of his own. Once, Christina whispered "divorce," and he had to cover her mouth. She doesn't understand yet that they can't afford a scandal for a man of Bill's position. Quite the opposite, Bill now needs a family. He can't quite manage the idea of her carrying that bastard's children, though. Maybe they can arrange something else. The ferry comes in at eight. At seven forty-five Spender's out of bed and dressed. Christina hasn't moved yet. Properly, he should make her dress in nightclothes at least, but he doesn't want to wake her. Let her sleep, let Bill think she fell asleep like that because she was too tired to find pajamas; it's close enough to the truth to hide the lie. He isn't going to give Christina up. He needs a wife, but not someone to replace this woman who trusts him absolutely. He kisses her hair. The back door screams a little on its hinges, but no one's going to hear it. No one's going to see his car parked half a mile away. Bill's only just coming up the drive, and Spender's setting off cross-country. The invisible man. He grins a little. Around the corner of the house, he can just see Bill come flying toward the door like an ecstatic lover. Damn. He doesn't want to think about it. Another cigarette, then. He lets it rest in his mouth for a long time before he lights up, feeling the wet tobacco taste. Then he walks out, realizing only belatedly that the sheets will smell like cigarettes, and neither Bill nor Christina smokes. ***** end 3/3 end of story ***** feedback to p.lapointe@sk.sympatico.ca !