Title: Alabaster and Oak (1/1)
Author: Tara Avery
Email: tavery@ntonline.com
Rating: PG13 for a bad word used a couple of times
Category: V, MS something, wenprov (This is a category now.
Scary.)
Spoilers: Not a bloody thing.
Disclaimer: Not mine.  Well, Mulder and Scully aren't mine,
anyway.
Summary: "They are different -- alabaster and oak -- but they
belong together.  No one looking at them could deny that."
Feedback: happily received at tavery@ntonline.com
Acknowledgements: Ropobop for amazing!beta.  M. Sebasky for
knowledge of DC and environs.  Maria Nicole for adding a little
strength.  CazQ, wen and Sabine for the thumbs up.

* * *
Started July 14 at 2:44 PM
Finished July 14 at 4:28 PM
total running time: 1 hr 44 mins
* * *
Alabaster and Oak
Tara Avery
tavery@ntonline.com
* * *

They catch my eye because they are beautiful.  They have an aura,
a charisma.  An artist is trained to see these things in the
world around him.

I think I notice them because of all the beautiful things in this
room, they are the most stunning.  I am not the only person to
notice them, of course, but they remain oblivious.  They are lost
in each other.

I would like to capture them in oils, or sculpture.  She would be
marble -- alabaster -- and he would be something darker.  He
should, perhaps, be carved of wood.  They belong together,
though.  They are different -- alabaster and oak -- but they
belong together.  No one looking at them could deny that.

I have never seen them before, never here, never anywhere else in
this particular art circuit.  I would have noticed them.  I have
a good eye for things of beauty.

They have a tremulousness about them, a shyness.  I'm pretty sure
they're on their first date.  No.  No, they are too familiar for
a first date.  They project a dignity that speaks of long
acquaintance.  I smile.  I know what it is after all.  They are
lovers.  Have been for quite some time.  One of them was married,
has recently been divorced.  They've been together much longer
than the divorce papers have been signed.  This is their first
time in public together as a couple.  Their eyes smile at each
other even as their faces remain closed.

His fingers graze the small of her back, and her face relaxes.
He was the married one, I hazard to guess.  He is far more
comfortable with all of this than she is.  She scans the room
carefully, methodically, as though she's expecting someone to
step out from behind one of the sculptures and condemn her.
She's innocent and nervous, doesn't want to be recognized.  She
doesn't want to be decried as a fallen woman.

He doesn't give a flying fuck what the rest of the world thinks
of him, but he wants to protect her.  He wants to protect her
reputation.  He doesn't want to see her hurt, and he certainly
doesn't want to be the cause of that hurt.  She's been hurt
before.  Her nervousness is the only reason he doesn't press her
up against the wall and kiss her like he wants to.  You can see
it in the electricity of his fingers against her back.  He wants
her.  He aches for her.  I think he must have had it pretty bad
long before they ever got together.

He is no stranger to art -- I may never have seen him before, but
the way he looks at the works spread out around him tells me he
knows what fine art is.  He knows what's hidden under the colors.
He understands the value of beauty.

She, on the other hand, is not so secure.  Her eyes widen when
she sees something beautiful.  Her lips pucker when she sees
something she wants to touch.  As entranced as she is by fine
paintings and detailed sculpture, he is even more entranced by
her wonder.  It's a side of her he's never really seen before.
He loves it.  He wants to see more of it.

It was his idea to come here.  She didn't want to.  She probably
told him it was too soon, that someone would recognize them.  He
cajoled her -- told her it was for charity -- told her no one who
moved in their circles would be there.

He bought her the new dress she's wearing.  He knew it was the
kind of dress she's love, but that she'd never be able to afford.
It's a Calvin Klein, I believe.  Black and crisp and clean.  Her
pashmina alone must have cost him a small fortune, but the color
is the exact hue of her eyes, and he couldn't pass it up.
"They're gifts," he would have soothingly explained, as she
protested the expense.  "I want you to have them."

He oozes money.  Old money.  His family probably owns a house on
the Vineyard.  A big house.  Filled with fine art.  He's
understated though.  He's wearing an Armani suit and probably an
Omega watch, but he's not dripping in gold jewelry.  Classy.  Old
money.  He doesn't live the life of a wealthy man, but he enjoys
fine things.  He has the money to enjoy fine things.

She doesn't have his kind of money, but she understands the value
of a dollar.  She probably lives someplace nice, like Adams
Morgan -- maybe Georgetown -- in a nice apartment, filled with
nice things.  She can't afford anything better than nice.  She
probably works her ass off just to be able to afford her nice
little life.

He wants to change that.  He wants to give her the world.  He
would buy her any of the pieces of art on display tonight if only
she would ask.

She won't ask, though.  I can tell.  And he doesn't understand
that.  He knows this woman, all right, but he can't comprehend
her pride.  He's never been able to understand that about her.
She doesn't want to be a kept woman, and he aches to keep her.

I wonder if that will be the breaking point between these two.
They've probably argued about it before.  She's threatened to
leave and then decided against it at the last minute.  In spite
of their shyness there is a tense history between them.  They've
witnessed tragedy together.  I think, by the way he tries to
shield her with his own body, his own hands, that she must have
been very ill, or witnessed illness firsthand.  You can sense
illness in a person, even years after it's gone.  There is a
shadow that remains.  Good artists have a way of capturing that
shadow, even if their model looks absolutely healthy on the
outside.

It's not going to happen again, though.  Not while he's standing
guard.  Not while he's on watch.  And a part of her resents this,
because she's afraid she might need that protection.

She's always been able to protect herself.  She doesn't want to
need him the way she does.

There is a terrible complexity between these two.  It fascinates
me.

They stand by a doorway, sipping wine, not mingling.  As the
evening passes she grows more relaxed, but certainly not
complacent.  Her eyes sparkle and when he leans down to whisper
something in her ear, she laughs.  I am beginning to understand
his motivations.  She is so beautiful.  Incandescent.  Glowing.
Alive.  All of these words apply.  She has grown more beautiful
in the short time I've been watching them.  He must live with the
constant fear that one day he'll open his eyes and she'll be
gone.  If I were him I'd go mad with that worry.

For the first time during the whole evening they are being
approached.  I watch with a mixture of horror and curiosity.
These people are comfortable by themselves.  They don't play well
with others.  I almost want to see them pushed from their
pedestal, and at the same time I would do anything to prevent it.
Anything except approach them myself.

The woman who approaches them is an 'art connoisseur' whose name
is Patricia Van Dawson.  I'm pretty sure she added the 'Van'
herself.  She's loud and obnoxious and swimming in new money.
Her father broke his back slaving at his own oil wells so his
baby girl wouldn't ever know what it was to be poor.  She
flounces around as though her family is the next best thing to
the Kennedys.  She likes to think of herself as a card-carrying
member of the New American Aristocracy when, really, she's an
awkward hillbilly in a yellow silk dress.

She comes to every art show and gallery opening, waving her
pocketbook.  She likes to think that she alone has the power to
make or break new artists with her monetary contributions or lack
thereof.  Most of the smart new artists smile but avoid her.
Patricia Van Dawson may have money but she's never been known for
her taste.  She wouldn't know Pissaro if he bit her on the ass.

When he sees Patricia drawing closer he bends and whispers
something in his lover's ear.  She nods, face closed.  There is
certainly no laughter now.

I move a little closer so I can hear this strange meeting.  He is
immediately cool and professional when Patricia greets them.  His
mouth smiles but his eyes tell the unknown newcomer to fuck off.
It's one more reason to like him.

"Why, hello," Patricia drawls, sticking a jewel-heavy hand out in
a manner she thinks is dainty.  It looks ridiculous.  To his
credit, he manages to touch those fingers without laughing out
loud.  "Patricia Van Dawson.  I don't believe we've met.  You're
new to town?"

"No," he says, deflecting the hint for an introduction.  "We
heard about this show through the grapevine and decided to stop
in.  It's fascinating."

"Oh yes," Patricia growls, glaring at the other woman.  The match
has been set.  Patricia knows who the opponent is, now.  The man
is momentarily forgotten.  "Why, sweetie, are you feelin' ill?
You're lookin' so *very* pale."

"I'm fine," the woman replies.  "Thank you."

"No, I disagree.  You need some color.  Have you *been* to the
cosmetics counter recently, my girl?  I could recommend some
places that might do you good.  You just -- you --" she shrugs
and laughs slightly, titters, really, thinking herself incredibly
clever.  "You ain't got that 'do re mi,' my dear, if you know
what I mean."

The smaller woman raises her eyebrow and shakes her head.
"Really, I'm fine.  I don't need 'do re mi.'"  She opens her
handbag and draws out a black wallet.  She flips it open,
revealing unmistakable letters in bold, blue print.  "Federal
agents don't require as much 'do re mi' as international con
artists, do they?"

"And that's not even mentioning the possibility of art forgery,
is it, Scully?"  The man grins, and grabs the gold-bangled wrist
of Patricia Van Dawson as she attempts to flee.  To Patricia he
says, "How's that for 'do re mi,' darlin'?"

I watch as they lead her away.  Suddenly professional, these two
are no longer lovers.  They are no longer hiding a clandestine or
adulterous relationship.  Of course.  Agents under cover.  The
way she stands, stiffly, as though she's got a weapon at her
back.  His lazy grin as he clicks the handcuffs home.  How could
I have missed the signs?

Still, there is something about the way he looks at her -- the
way they work together, the electricity between them, the way she
licks her lips the moment before she speaks to him--

--I don't think I was so very wrong after all.

*~*~*~*~*

For those of you dying to know, the improv items were:
"you ain't got that do re mi" from Cofax
"Dignity" from Sabine
"A charity event held at a warehouse art gallery" from M.Sebasky

Pissaro is for Evil and the pashmina is for the goates.

Thanks for reading! tavery@ntonline.com