These characters and their environs on the X-Files belong 
to 1013 Productions and Chris Carter.  No infringement is 
intended.  I just want to play with the boys for a while 
before I let them go back to the lives they don't have on 
the show.  This is just for fun, no money is being made
from this.  

This story will eventually involve sex between two men, 
aka: slash.  If that is *not* your cup of tea, sweet as 
it is, then don't read it!  (simple, ain't it??)

Feedback is *very* much appreciated, and always answered. 
Flames will be passed around to friends and chuckled over.  :)

Fourteenth in the Tapestry Series.  You might want to read 
the others first, just so we're all on the same page, here.
Previous stories can be found at:

http://members.tripod.com/~AiR_WSW/Amirin4.html

For Sickleweed, who wanted a story with a happy ending for 
the boys.  This will be about as close as I can get.  And 
for Desiree, who wanted a story where Krycek doesn't die.  
And for Toddie, for every other reason.

More to come...

Weft - Waking by Amirin <groh@iquest.net>  #141


***********************


I don't know how long we slept, but it was just turning 
light outside when I finally surfaced.  Which, admittedly,
amazed the hell out of me, because we'd both been dead to 
the world by ten or so, at the latest, and it had to be 
around six, now.

We'd started out with some space between us, but the 
distance had lessened considerably sometime during the 
night, leaving him right next to me.

The room was early-morning cool and I could feel the heat 
coming off of him so I moved closer to the source.  Tried 
to tell myself it was easier than getting the covers up 
off the floor and back onto the bed.

And it probably was easier.  But that wasn't the only reason 
I gravitated toward him.  

And I knew it.

My forehead found his shoulder of its own accord and Alex 
was barely conscious enough to acknowledge it, even though
I was leaning on the one that didn't have an arm attached 
to it anymore.  My shoulder fit perfectly into the void 
where his arm left off, scar tissue rough against my neck,
my chest touching his side.

For all that it sounds like I've totally lost my mind, it 
felt good.

My hand on his chest, the shallow, rhythmic breathing almost
hypnotic.  His heartbeat, echoing against my wrist.  Soft 
exhalations stirring the hair on my forehead.

See what I mean?  It was...nice.

And then he moved, smoothly, slowly, like oil, and his 
mouth was on mine and I felt his sigh, a soft sound against
the hard scratch of stubble on my face, and he was hot, so 
hot, and when his tongue caught mine, I caught fire.  His 
hand was in my hair, tight, but not painful, holding me
still, like he thought I planned on either fighting him or 
running away.

Not hardly.

I swear I honestly didn't remember he only had one hand.  
It was everywhere, on my face, stroking my arm, rubbing my 
back, resting on my hip for a moment and the kiss went on, 
my hands all over him, reading the raised scars on his body 
like braille on linen.  He was strong and careful, all that 
lethal power still sleeping, and I thought about every time
I'd ever hit him, hurt him, and knew he'd been holding 
himself in check, because the body under my hands was that 
of a killer, a man who could've broken me in half back then 
and who could, right now, if he wanted to.

And he felt so damned good.

Jesus.

I forgot about his wound until his groan reminded me and I 
heard more than pleasure in the sound of it and did a quick 
hand-check and felt gauze under my fingers.  I yanked my 
hand away and moved back, checking to see that he was all 
right, knowing I didn't want to hurt him.  Not now.  Not 
ever again.

"Sorry."

"S'okay," he whispered, tongue leaving hot streaks on my 
neck, thumb making first one nipple on my chest tighten 
and throb, then the other one, and I felt my way up his 
leg, fingertips caressing his inner thigh.  He opened to
me with a sigh and a rough chuckle and a slow, firm 
caress of his own that just about brought me off the bed 
with a curse.  

He backed off with obvious reluctance and a not-so-obvious 
grin, and darted in time and again for quick kisses more 
given than stolen before he settled at my side, the palm 
of his hand stroking my chest with calculated carelessness 
as his head rested warm and heavy on my shoulder.

And I couldn't help wondering if it was all some sort of 
test, to see how I'd react to him, to this, to his touch, 
his mouth...  

Briefly debated getting pissed off, but I wasn't, really, 
and I knew he'd know.  If he wanted me angry, he could make 
me angry, far too damned easily.  He knew where the buttons 
were and he'd never been shy about pushing them.

So, if he didn't want me pissed, what the hell *did* he 
want?  Just some kind of assurance that I wasn't going 
to shoot him for kissing me?  That he could make me 
respond to physical provocation with something other than
anger and violence?  That last night's notable abstinence
from my usual habit of beating him up hadn't just been 
exhaustion on my part?  That the days of using his face 
to sharpen my knuckles on were over?

*What*?

I brushed my fingers over his back, lightly enough to make
him shiver, and rubbed it away while my other hand took 
his and held it still.  He waited in silence, not tense, 
simply waiting, for me to speak, or move, or whatever I
was supposed to do now.

I had no *idea* what the hell I was supposed to do now.  

I briefly thought about asking him but didn't know if he'd
be able to stop laughing long enough to answer me 
intelligently.

"How's the leg?" I asked him quietly, voice still rough 
with sleep.

"Good," he answered with an easy shrug, eloquent as 
ever.

I moved my hand from his back to his shoulder, the one 
without an arm attached, and ghosted my hand over it 
gently, waiting for a negative reaction on his part.  

The provocation was my own, this time, and just as 
purposeful as his had been.  I needed to know, as badly 
as he did, where the new boundaries were.  

The hell with boundaries, I was looking out for 
landmines.  Anything that might make the assassin-in-
stasis explode from the illusory veneer of civilized 
man seemingly at rest in my bed.

I wasn't an idiot.  I honestly didn't *want* to make 
Alex angry; I simply needed to know what *could* in a 
setting as non-threatening and neutral as I could 
possibly make it.

As for the anticipated and unpleasant reaction on his 
part, I didn't get it.  I barely got *any* reaction 
from him, at all.

His breathing got a little more measured, a little 
more deliberate, like he was trying to *keep* from 
reacting badly, the closer I got to the scars at the 
end of his arm.  One of his fingers twitched slightly 
in my other hand and he released a tension I didn't 
know he was carrying when I finally moved my hand out 
of his danger zone and just traced the lines of shoulder
and backbone and clavicle with a fingertip.

"I won't hurt you," I whispered and hoped it sounded 
like the promise it was.  

Apparently, it did.

"Okay," he replied, his hand tightening momentarily around
mine.

We lay there in restful quiet, breathing and being in 
tandem through no real effort of our own.  He aborted an 
attempt to reposition his leg and inhaled a little too 
sharply.

"Time for more meds?"  

It was more statement than question, but he nodded.

"If I don't eat something, the antibiotic will make me 
sicker than hell."

"Then let's get you fed."

"I really don't want to be around...people, right now.
*Other* people," he amended quickly and went on to 
explain at my frown.

"Folks around here notice things like limps just like 
they noticed the arm.  I don't want to deal with it."

"But, you know these people," I protested, not getting it.

"They don't know I'm here yet and I really don't want to
have to make the rounds, everyone wanting to know what 
happened, me having to dish out the same load of bullshit
fifty times over...They already think I'm the clumsiest 
bastard ever to walk the face of the earth."

"Okay, okay.  I get it," I grinned slightly.  "Welcome to
smalltown living, huh?"

"Yeah," he answered with something that was almost a 
smile.

"Not a problem.  The diner has carry-out.  We can go eat
in the park.  If you want to."

"Sounds good.  Thanks."

It was definitely a smile that time.


~~~end