From: perelandra@my-dejanews.com Date: Wed, 21 Oct 1998 08:55:17 GMT Subject: NEW: "Little Things III: Primavera" by Perelandra ==================================== TITLE: "Little Things III: Primavera" AUTHOR: Perelandra (pen_phile@hotmail.com) CATEGORY: VH RATING: PG KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST SPOILERS: None DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files" and all "The X-Files" related characters and situations are the intellectual property of the FOX network, Chris Carter, and 1013 Productions. This story is not intended to infringe on the above copyright in any way, and is intended for entertainment purposes only. AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the third in the "Little Things" series...if you haven't read "Little Things: Minty Fresh" and "Little Things: A Red Suit" yet, I suggest you do! You don't really NEED to read 'em to understand this fic, but it helps get into the spirit of things. :) Of course, my love and my props again to my wonderful beta reader, Kat. FEEDBACK IS THE FOOD OF LIFE...PLEASE FEED A HUNGRY WRITER! pen_phile@hotmail.com -------------------------------------- I have seen things. Extraordinary things. I have seen the fantastical. Lights in the sky, the darkest of conspiracies, the limits and extreme possibilities of human behavior and the little microcosms we create for ourselves in our personal struggles for the truth. I have seen things that have amazed me, intrigued me, angered me, hell, scared me shitless. But nothing, nothing, has astounded me more than the sight I see before me. I've seen my partner bloodied, broken, in peril and in pain. I've seen her near death more times than I can stand to remember. I've seen her furious as a dervish, her red hair and icy blue eyes spitting fire and ice at suspects, at conspirators, even at me. But never, ever have I seen her in such raw, unadulterated rapture. I should take notes on what chicken primavera can do to a woman. She hasn't spoken a word to me in over ten minutes as she devours, ravages the pasta, murmuring little sounds of pleasure as she shovels great heaping mouthfuls into that impossibly small body. I lower my eyes modestly, almost embarrassed for her in the cheap Italian restaurant as she goes through one of the most ecstatic eating experiences of her life. That I've seen, anyway. Then again, it's understandable. We'd been out investigating dead cattle all day, and suffice to say, we hadn't had the time or the stomach for any food. We certainly skipped over the beef section of the menu. There must be something in this chicken primavera. Her fervent bites have progressed into embarrassing slurps now as she attempts to sop up excess sauce with a curious, yet impressive, manipulation of pasta and fork. The whole messy bundle somehow finds its way into her mouth, and she seems to enter a state of religious rapture as she closes her eyes and a low, alto "Mmmmm..." escapes her lips. If she keeps this up, she'll disturb half the restaurant. But for some reason I keep my mouth shut, and politely finish my own plate of vegetarian lasagna. There's something about the way a woman looks, when she's in love...if only with a plate of food. There's something about the way Scully looks, when she's happy. It's undeniably sexy, in a way. I catch myself stealing a dirty glance at the ravished plate of chicken primavera. Poor thing didn't even have a chance. I take a sip from my glass of chianti, a long, slow, elegant pull, and contemplate the rapidly disappearing pasta in front of Scully. I take a moment to drink in the atmosphere -- the fine Tuscany wine and tea candles almost ridiculously offset against the red Formica table, the hustle and bustle in the kitchens almost drowning out, but somehow providing an interesting complement to the strains of Dave Brubeck wafting out from cheap speakers. Cheap chic, I think to myself. How vulgar, how offbeat, but yet -- how perfect. I relax into the romance of the urban charm, sounds and sights of the base and the refined meshing into a perfect, urbane atmosphere. How perfect that Scully and I are here, right now, at this moment. The mundane and the fantastical -- two words that seem to define us, to define our lives. How appropriate that we would be sitting here, slurping pasta to the sounds of "Just You, Just Me." My eyes drift over and study her face, a face so intent on devouring every single morsel of chicken and pasta and sauce on her plate. Carefully steadying each heaping bite as she raises the fork to her lips, catching each drop of sauce that threatens to drip from the heaping mass of starch. Looking like she is desperately in need of a bib. How cute. Cute?? Yes, there *definitely* must be something in this chicken primavera. Not seriously, of course; if I had suspected any of that, no matter how starved she was Scully and I would be on our feet and chasing the nearest conspirator. No, nothing concrete and serious and bad about this ordinary plate of Old Country primavera. Its aspect, an air about it, however, seems to have changed slightly for me. I watch, almost relishing the way she seemed to find heaven in each bite. How nice. How nice to know that when the big picture, when the things that matter fail to garner justice and truth and happiness for her, she finds that solace in the little things. It's always a treat to see Scully happy like this. It's like she shines; and if I thought she was beautiful before, she's absolutely divine now. Even with a huge smear of sauce on her chin. Impulsively, I lean over, napkin in hand, and interrupt her fork's routine journey up to her mouth with a swift, yet lingering swipe of my hand. She looks at me with surprise and gratitude. When she looks at me that way, I can't help but smile. "I must say I'm a little jealous of the way that pasta's making you feel, Scully." Oh my. Did I just say that? "What exactly do you mean, Agent Mulder?" She challenges me. Well, two can play at that game. I lean in close to her, wit meeting wit in that years-old battle we have learned to wage so well. "Nothing, Agent Scully. 'Cept I wish I'd had the primavera as well. You seem to have had more fun with that than my lasagna. Although mine had olives...I love olives." "And the garlic bread?" I lean in even closer. "Like you said, best in the county." She smirked, wrinkled her nose, and shut herself up with the last bite of pasta. She sighs and leans back in her chair. "I am stuffed," she pronounces. Wrinkled her nose. Olives and garlic bread. Ooh. I back away, sheepishly, and attempt inconspicuously to pop three Mentos into my mouth. "Ooh, mints...may I?" "Uhh...sure." She pops one into her mouth and leans her head back in the chair, sated. The music, now Kenny G, seems to wail off like a distant intruder. "Do me a favor?" she asks languidly. "What?" "Tell 'em to put Dave Brubeck back on. And pour me another glass of chianti." Anything she wants. ---------------------------------- THE END! "Little Things: Primavera" by Perelandra (pen_phile@hotmail.com)