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