Title:  Play House

Author:  J.C. Sun

Category:  VAO, het

Rating:  PG

Summary:  Playing house.

Implied het.

This falls into the category of 'past unfucking 
likely and in the strong direction of 
impossible'.  Self-insertion more than a tad bit 
plausible...  <snortgt;

Ah, after reading MareZX's wonderful, wonderful 
little snippet of smut (again.  first caught it 
on nick-fixx, then several times on my own hard 
drive, smiling and giggling all the way), I've 
found that it's something of a mild tradition to 
post one's latest Ratwork to the list...  And 
since this dovetails neatly into the current 
discussion on schmoop, I'd love to know whether 
this is 'believable' K/Sc schmoop.

Who am I fooling?  I'm just a sucker for the 
spotlight.

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Yeah, Dana, he's a little boy, he's your little 
boy with killer smile, killer lashes, killer 
hands, killer eyes, killer anything, slit a man's 
throat and come home to you, drop his coat on the 
couch, kick his shoes off into the corner, tug 
you into the shower with him, remembering that 
hot water runs out after fifteen minutes so it's 
a quickie jammed up against slick tiles, your arm 
looped around his neck and you sobbing as he 
pounds you into the wall.

Home.

We're in the kitchen.  Tea is on the stove.  
Ruins of Italian pasta (courtesy Pirandello's) 
soaking in the sink, half a bottle of white wine 
between us, and I've got the latest copy of SciAm 
in my lap.  He's sitting across from me cleaning 
his favorite gun, swiping at some nasty dark 
spots, cursing underneath his breath as he scrubs 
away, and his face has that soft quality of 
someone who's just shaved.  He smells just a 
little like tobacco, but he stepped out to smoke.  
He knows I don't like the smell of cigarettes, 
or, more properly, I'm not supposed to like the 
smell of cigarettes, so he goes out onto the 
balcony, and I watch him through the glass, 
sucking in the fierce dark shape of his body as 
he sucks in the night air, leaning against the 
balcony to stare down into the alley.

Now though, he's all business, all tense 
concentration cleaning his gun.

He came back with a little fringe of a beard.  
New-clipped hair, but the god-awful beginnings of 
a tufted goatee scattered about his jaw.

In between rounds of sex, nibbling on his 
collarbone, murmuring over some new nicks and 
cuts on his ribs:

"You look like a particularly rotten and mangy 
piece of road kill crawled onto your face and 
died."  Small nip on the jugular, hand across his 
cheek.  "Shave it off."

"I kind of like it."

"So?"

Hand sliding between my legs.  "Make me."

General laughter.

My neighbors think we're living together, that 
he's my boyfriend who goes on long business 
trips, and Mulder is my still infatuated stalker- 
ex who pounds on the door at odd hours.  They 
like Alex better: such a quiet young man, my 
downstairs neighbors says, and I catch her 
teenage daughter slinging long sideways glances 
at him when he goes out or comes back.

Alex showed up at my door, one night when I was 
actually in town.  He had this giant gash running 
down his ribs, soaked through the shirt, a bullet 
running in semi-clean bits through his shoulder, 
bleeding to death on my doorstep, me in my 
bathrobe, contemplating letting him bleed to 
death all over my doorstep, trying to come up 
with an appropriately cutting remark, and then 
suits through the hallway come pounding down.  
Ma'am the man you have there is a wanted fugi--

He turned away from me to run, this sudden fluid 
movement in the hallway light, and then I just 
hauled him inside, bolted the door.  Snapped back 
a few shots and hustled him through the fire-
escape, he stole a car, we screeched off into the 
Virginia dawn, and then in the midst of the 
tumult, in a Motel 6 room, he kissed me and then, 
I tumbled into his bed.

Or he tumbled into mine.

Pretty euphemisms all:

I'm fond of him, yes.  He's fond of me, I think.  
He likes my waterbed, I like him in my waterbed, 
but it's not quite that simple, no--

He shows up every once in a while, stays a few 
days, lounging around the apartment, reading my 
newspaper and using all the hot water.  I usually 
either call out or sneak off at lunch or he 
sneaks out of the apartment and brings me lunch, 
and we eat together in the park across from the 
Hoover building.  We're so sweet and conventional 
that old tourist women have smiled their blessing 
at us and asked us when the wedding was.

He smiles and says August, and I hold his hand, 
but now, he's taking a dainty sip from the 
wineglass, balancing the gun in one hand, holding 
the wineglass around the cotton swab.

I smile at him.

He smiles back.

He bats those fine, fine lashes at me.

I bat mine back at him.  It's kind of pitiful how 
short and stubby they are next to his.

He sets the gun and the wineglass and the cotton 
swab down, it makes a little clink on the wood, 
and he says, "You wanna play, little girl?"

End

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