From: char@chaffin.com   
      
   BEAT THE CLOCK   
   By Char Chaffin   
   MSR, R, Vignette   
   Spoilers:  Cancer Arc   
      
   Thanks: to Tess, Sallie, Carol and Robin for preview, beta,   
   enthusiasm and friendship abounding.  Ladies, I adore you all!   
      
   Summary:  There's always a clock, ticking life away -   
      
      
      
   He brings her flowers in a pretty yellow-frosted vase.  White roses   
   and Black-Eyed Susans, cheery and fragrant.  He sets them down on her   
   table and leans in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.  He pretends   
   not to notice the transparent skin, the shadows that dominate her   
   eyes.  He pretends not to notice her breathing is too rapid, her hair   
   too lifeless and her hands too thin.   
      
   She pretends she is fine.   
      
   They talk of mundane things, when they talk at all.  How spring   
   seems to be evolving into summer much too quickly.  How the daffodils   
   in the courtyard are already withering fast, the double lilac bushes   
   following quickly in their wake.  How much her godson has grown;   
   she'd had a chance to see new photos just last week.  How he spent a   
   few days with his mother and they only argued twice.   
      
   They don't talk of cases, of family; her brother, or his sister.   
   They avoid the illness topics and the hard fact that sooner than   
   later, he'll be placing those white roses and Black-Eyed Susans on   
   her grave.  She pretends she's well... and he's adamant that she'll   
   recover.   
      
   At the moment, they're both wrong.   
      
   He sits too close to her on the bed, holds her hand too tightly,   
   gazes into her eyes too desperately.  She smiles too brightly.  The   
   truth coils between them like a hissing snake, ready to pounce, to   
   rip through their fragile world with poison fangs and a death-   
   rattle.   
      
   To be in her presence right now is as painful as it is precious for   
   him.  She's the love of his life, though he doesn't know quite how to   
   tell her.  He wants to make love with her until they both drop from   
   sated exhaustion.  He wants to wrap her in protective layers of   
   emotion and shield her from the rottenness of the world, from her own   
   imminent demise.  He wants to marry her on a warm spring day; wants   
   to give her children, perhaps two of each.  He wants to live with her   
   in the country, dance with her on the twelfth floor of the ritziest   
   hotel in Paris, on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  He wants   
   to rock their grandchildren in his arms while she smiles that sweet   
   smile, standing next to him with one hand stroking his white hair.   
      
   She wants to live long enough to tell him she would marry him   
   someday, if he asked.  But she doesn't think it's fair to say   
   anything right now, when she knows her days on earth are numbered.   
   She doesn't want him to grieve for her any harder than she already   
   knows he will.   
      
   So they sit close to each other and they clasp hands, her small,   
   thin and pale fingers twined within his tanned, strong grip.  He's   
   the picture of health and she... isn't.  Their time together shortens   
   right before their very eyes, day by day and minute by minute.  He   
   has so much work to do - but he won't leave her side.  She needs to   
   sleep - but sheer will keeps her aware and focused on him.   
      
   The clock on the wall of the quiet hospital room ticks on.   
      
   *************************   
      
   He brings her red roses in a lovely crystal vase shaped like a Calla   
   lily.  Tiny sprigs of pink baby's breath nestle in among the dark   
   crimson blooms, showcasing the perfection of every opening bud.  He   
   places his offering on a low table near the sofa; his smile is wide   
   and his eyes visually adoring as they rest on her lovely face.  He   
   kisses her lips gently and like Sleeping Beauty she awakens, to   
   answer his smile with one of her own, to encircle his neck with her   
   strong young arms... to laugh aloud when he lifts her up and into his   
   eager embrace, her dainty bare feet dangling off the floor.   
      
   He accuses her of napping and she tells him she only closed her eyes   
   for a moment; then pleases him to no end by whispering that she was   
   dreaming of him.  Their lips meet in a kiss that starts as tenderness   
   personified and escalates into a passion that transcends both time   
   and place.  He carries her to the bedroom, not breaking their kiss,   
   feeling his way by instinct.  He lays her on the bed and she reclines   
   there, a delicate woman in old faded jeans and a green tank top, red   
   hair tousled and blue eyes already heavy with need.  Her arms reach   
   out to him and he wastes no time in joining her there, within her   
   embrace, the only place he really wants to be.   
      
   They don't speak; there is no need for words.  They don't worry   
   about anything; there's no point to it.  Tomorrow is a world they'll   
   visit soon enough, and this time they'll face it without fear of any   
   sort of loss.  The love is years-old, the sex is new, and their   
   devotion a thick promise between them, free of anxiety and rife with   
   wellness.   
      
   Her skin is warm, rosy, bursting with health.  Her energy is   
   bottomless, her desire endless, her strength formidable.  Every inch   
   of her - from the top of her glorious hair to the tips of her toes -   
   proclaims that she's in control of her own destiny.  The sight of her   
   in their bed never fails to humble him and he finds himself offering   
   a silent prayer that it will never change between them, that it will   
   always be just this way.  She's his miracle and she cheated Death for   
   him.  Together they found a way for her to stay alive, for each other.   
      
   They don't have to pretend, not now, not ever again.  She takes on   
   the role of aggressor and she's no longer afraid to give him   
   everything she has, for she knows the worth of each day they spend   
   together.   In a room filled with sunlight and open windows,   
   she kneels in front of him, tugs off his shirt and pulls at his   
   jeans.  She unbuttons and unzips until he's naked before her, all   
   tight muscles and smooth skin, hot flesh.  She runs both hands over   
   every inch of him and smiles when he trembles, tenses, groans.  Her   
   fingers seek him out and claim him; her mouth teases him, enflames   
   him, drinks him in.   
      
   Her love swamps him; abundant, clean and good.   
      
   They have all the time they need to love, to make love, to reaffirm   
   love.  She releases him long enough to help him shed her own clothes,   
   a breathless giggle escaping her when he takes her over.  Tugging her   
   down beneath him... stroking her soft skin... kissing every inch of   
   her body... arousing her.   
      
   In silence they make the most exquisite love to each other.  In   
   silence they celebrate the moment, secure in the knowledge that after   
   an hour, a day, a month or a year, there will be many more such   
   moments.  There is no necessity for small talk, for prevarication,   
   for anything less than the absolute truth.  When he moves into the   
   cradle of her hips, slides himself inside, deep within where she's   
   warm and tender and welcoming... his truth shouts louder than any one   
   or several-dozen words could ever speak.  When each thrust and every   
   countermovement brings them closer to that one instant of pure   
   connection, she gladly accepts her own significant truth... that   
   she'll never let him go, never lose him, never need anyone or   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)