Summary: "These plums are black, filmed with a dusky heathery-honey color, they will stain a mouth like passionate kisses." Krycek/Marita.

Title: Not Quite Still-Life With Plums
Author: Spica
Feedback: Would be cherished at spica111@fastmail.fm
Archive: Just keep my headers attached and you can have it.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Fox, Chris Carter and 1013.
No copyright infringement intended.
Keywords: V, K/Ma
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "These plums are black, filmed with a dusky
heathery-honey color, they will stain a mouth like
passionate kisses."
Spoilers: None, just a short and sweet relationship scene.
In my mind, this encounter takes place toward the end of the
second season, but it's open to interpretation.
Acknowledgments: Thanks and kisses to KristenK2, Muridae,
Kelly Keil, Vanzetti, Bardsmaid--you all helped me develop
and improve this snippet, and made it a fun writing
exercise.

*******


NOT QUITE STILL-LIFE WITH PLUMS


His room is stark, dawn-bright but drab, temporary home that
it is. Covarrubias still stands in the center of it, stark,
bright and drab also, her beautiful face drawn into its
habitual death-mask of solemn reserve. Alex sits on the edge
of the bed looking up at her, hardly bothering to hide his
tiredness. She has said what she came to say, so why isn't
she on her way out? He has killed two men this night; he can
smell the gunsmoke and the blood still. He wants to think
about something other than business. He wants to clean
himself, wants a shower; come to think of it he wants to
jerk off in the shower, imagining that he strips the young
queen's death-mask from her along with that hard, elegant
suit, fucking both her and himself back to life.

With idle curiosity he follows her gaze, and does a double
take when he sees where it has settled in captive
distraction. It's the one decorative item in the room, a
plain, rectangular pewter tray on the bedside table, its
shape pleasingly curved. On it are three smooth, perfect
plums, dully reflected against the metal they rest upon.

Plums. Mild amusement takes him at seeing her immaculate
guard compromised by something so simple. So Marita
Covarrubias knows of temptation--hell, maybe there's even
red blood circulating under that pale flawless complexion.

Alex hesitates, then nudges the tray toward her, raising his
eyebrows slightly as he dares her to indulge. He may not be
the most gracious host in the world, but he does know a few
things about how to issue a challenge. She stiffens and
stands cornered by his ironic invitation, considers the
fruit as though it were a whispered offering from a serpent.
These plums are black, filmed with a dusky heathery-honey
color, they will stain a mouth like passionate kisses.

He expects her to take a cool stance, to promptly deny
herself or defy him. But she looks entangled in crossed
strands of memory, something dreamy-slow about the way her
lips part, something tugging at her far beyond the simple
facts of fragrance, flavor, texture. He watches with rising
fascination as color skims warm over her high cheekbones, as
her gaze deepens and goes distant with recollection.

What was it? Did your first lover feed you one; did your
mother serve you a few on a tray like this; did your
grandparents own an orchard?

Four seconds of lost time, and then she catches herself,
turns her focus back to the offer at hand. He sees her
weighing memory against reality, desire against stickiness,
gratification against mess. Pressing her wide lips together,
she turns her gaze from the tray and dismisses the thought.
But her skin is still suffused with that fine deep radiance,
there's a wistfulness in the firm set of her mouth, and his
heart lurches. He can't let it not happen.

"They're delicious. Try one." His quick, near-whispered
words interrupt her as she starts on her curt good-bye, and
she stops in surprise and suddenly looks truly flustered.
Tempted as much by her blush as by his own words, Alex leans
forward by way of example and takes a plum between his
fingers, brings it to his mouth. He tastes the chalky
dryness of the surface, then lets his teeth test and break
the tender, yielding skin. Juice bursts in a sugary-tart,
sun-warm flood into his mouth. He swallows with eyes
lowered, but it's her he sees--the quick subterranean river
of her blood darkening her cheeks, ripening her lips to
receptiveness. It's her he tastes--sweetness of saliva and
suppleness of tongue, purity like water from the bedrock to
quench and cleanse.

He hears the sharp snap of her heels and his eyes flash
open. Belatedly, he realizes that he has ended up rising to
his own bait, but by now that doesn't even seem relevant. He
gets to his feet and overtakes her by the door, puts his
hand on her shoulder with a sudden humility he can't quite
decipher--is it apology, confession, supplication?

Not Covarrubias, this is just the woman Marita turning to
face him unmasked in the bright, drab room--ferocious as a
cat, careful as a sparrow. She's gathering herself for
attack or flight, but hesitates as she meets his eyes--
raises her chin, hitches on a breath. It sounds like a
question. Trespassing through the layer of tailored suit,
his hand tightens around her slim shoulder, supplies her
with a possible answer.

She releases a deep sigh of troubled concession, and then he
barely has to lean forward before she meets him, transports
him to a flitting blur of sunlight and shady orchards, warm
earth and scents of harvest. She's drawn into his mouth, she
commands his embrace: honeyed and ripe and delicate-skinned,
all ruptured surface and surging acid-sweetness beneath.


End