In Spring by JHJ Armstrong piglit1975@aol.com Content: MSR, V Summary: A year in the life. Disclaimer: Mr. Carter, I don't think you want 'em anymore. I'm taking 'em, and Season 8 can go hang. So there. Feedback: Save a starving fullback at piglit1975@aol.com. Find this and other works at http://copygirl.softballjunkies.com/pigsfly.html Notes: To Livia (thanks for the food), Fi and the Token, and cofax and M. and ... Virginia. As always, you are the perspiration behind my inspiration. =========================== Summer. It was a Thursday in July. Breathlessly hot. Rose petals wilted as they lay on the sidewalk beneath a cafe's outdoor table, panting for air, edges wrinkling, hoping for a zephyr of relief that would never come. The world, complaining and congested, rushed in great waves from freezer to oven to freezer, as if life might vaporize if left outside too long. A man and a woman were among the hordes, letting the world hurry around them. As they walked, their words argued but their voices caressed. He slung his suit jacket carelessly over a shoulder; she watched his graceful movements with a wistful eye. Her posture was proud, straight and tall, smaller legs striding as he loped. She had no trouble keeping up. On a day when tempers flared within three feet, they were within three inches, his hand gently guiding her around smelly tourists and squalling children. She wore a secret smile when he did it. Waiting for the light, she spied an ice cream cart, scratched gray metal sweating almost as much as its proprietor, a cherubic man who winked at her and lifted his waffle cone filled with creamy cheesecake swirl in toast and temptation. She licked her bottom lip, then bit it and shook her head ever so slightly in regret and self-denial. Her escort saw the whole operation. But the light turned and she stepped briskly off the curb, so he filed it away for another day. --------- Another week and a few more days found them back at the same corner. Still hot, ice cream man still there, still selling vanilla and chocolate, but now he offered bottled water, too. She bought one, handing over a limp five-dollar bill, shaking drops from the clear plastic and holding sixteen ounces of cold to her neck while waiting for change. She walked to the corner, not noticing that she did so alone. She missed him a second later, turning around to be greeted with a double scoop of the cheesecake swirl. She looked up at him, trying to admonish but actually grateful, and his eyes twinkled at her in invitation. She laid her hand on his and leaned forward, wrapping her lips around the mound of sugar, eggs and cream, tongue just grazing the side of his index finger. Pulling back slowly, she gave him a little-girl-with-pigtails smile and an "mmmmmm" of appreciation, then started across the street. He stared after her, licking sticky rivulets off his own fingers, wondering what she would say if he asked to taste her. In summer, she said maybe. ====================== Autumn. He chased her while they chased monsters. She eluded capture. On a Saturday, they went for a walk. The path crunched as they strolled. Wind ruffled their hair, but it had a chapping bite and none of the summer's balm. The night before, they'd sat together in a dark theater and watched people fall in love. She wished it really could be that easy, but if wishes were horses she'd have ridden off into the sunset with him long ago. On the way to the car, his right hand swung next to her left, asking to be held. She watched it sway back and forth out of the corner of her eye, but the more she thought about it, the more intimate it became, and she couldn't make the gesture. Today, they both had their hands in their pockets. He would often take one of his out, smoothing back the strands of her hair when they got too unruly, or running a path along the back of her arm. She knew he needed to touch, knew he didn't share her reservations about tactile connections. She didn't know how to tell him his need could be overwhelming. They sat on a bench, watching leaves make kaleidoscope patterns as they fluttered down to faded grass, giving up life so that life could continue. He reached for her. She let him, just let him, and he realized it wasn't enough. He asked her what was wrong. She didn't answer. He pushed. She shook her head. It's not you, she said. It's me. Please understand. You're asking more of me than I can give. She said she needed some time, and she walked away. He stayed behind and cried as broken bits of foliage fell softly upon his grief. In summer, she'd said maybe. In autumn, she said no. ====================================== Winter. They stayed partners, though it was somewhat harder to remain friends. She'd never thought innuendo could be frosty. Her car wouldn't start; she took the bus to work. Once, she knew he would have picked her up, warm gaze and hot coffee at the ready, even though it was out of his way. She didn't know anymore, and half expected a cold shoulder. Time passed. She found herself watching him, trying unsuccessfully to find out, without thawing, how much she'd hurt him. Shivering, she looked up at barren elm trees and refused to dwell on might-have-beens. She took refuge in the lab, in frozen corpses that weren't offended by her briskness. Grey days became black nights. She dreamed in monochrome, fighting through swirling blizzards, struggling to reach a pinprick of light in the distance that held out a faint hope of shelter, of companionship and warmth. But when she got there, there was nothing, absolutely nothing. She would lose her will to go on then, and the maelstrom would swallow her whole. She'd wake exhausted, sad ... alone. But still on her chosen path. After all, there were parts of her no one else should see, and she was sure she liked it that way. If she took him into her heart, would there still be room for her? If she took him into her heart, it would shatter if she lost him. It was not worth it. It simply wasn't. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, said the wise men (and Elvis, he would remind her); who was she to argue? But it is human nature to ask what if. Being human, she did. It was a Tuesday in Pennsylvania when she had an epiphany. They'd wrapped up the case, and she was packing for the next day's flight. She heard him yell, and yanked open the door, reaching for her gun. She saw him, snow in his collar, hiding behind a blue Honda, hands hastily packing snowballs to hurl back at one of the detectives, a short, stocky blond with incredible aim. He looked at her, and he was smiling, his face illuminated with the simple joy of a parking-lot snowball fight. Come out and play with me, his eyes asked. She gave him a tentative smile and closed the door, pretending not to notice how his smile faded as she did so. She snuck out the back window and helped the detective cream him. Later, over steaming cocoa with jumbo marshmallows, they talked. That night she dreamed of the blizzard again, but this time, she found the shelter and he stood within. He wrapped a blanket around her chilly shoulders and led her to sit before the fire. When she woke, the sun was shining outside her hotel window with a beckoning brilliance. She smiled. He found her outside, making angels, red hair bright against new snow. She said she wasn't afraid anymore. In summer, she'd said maybe. In autumn, she'd said no. In winter, she asked if they could try again. ====================================== Spring. This was her favorite of all the seasons, things growing and becoming and leaping. She was growing, too; becoming a participant in the dance he'd started, finding the courage to leap with him, though she kept her eyes wide open. On a Friday, she asked if he had plans for the next evening. He said he'd meet her there. He did, and brought her yellow roses. They had spring rolls and a crunchy pork-garlic dish that neither of them could pronounce but both decided was very good. Over green tea ice cream, one dish and two spoons, their hands touched more than once. She hooked his pinky with hers, playful. Her fortune cookie told her the truth: "One cannot control the wind, but one can adjust the sails." Later, they kissed. It wasn't the first time, but for them each time was a rediscovery. On a Saturday, she stood in her bedroom, contemplating the golden man bared before her, and she couldn't help but think that perhaps everything would be okay. Birds sang in the park. The world blinked sleepily, awaking for the first time once again. The cherry trees budded, promise and beauty in pink and white. In spring, she said yes. --30-- ================================== fee