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Neither Toying, nor Talking
By Scribe

To His Mistress, Objecting to Him Neither Toying, or Talking
By Robert Herrick

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes;
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now, since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.

Someone once said that you never really know anyone till you go on vacation with them. Not necessarily true. I knew Fox before we came up this mountain, and I knew exactly how he was going to react when the generator failed and the rains came down.

He's bored. Oh, it's not like he's trying to conceal it. No, Fox Mulder is not discreet about his displeasure. He's been sitting there, staring at me for the last hour, and I've been carefully avoiding his eyes for that same amount of time. I have to. If I look at him, I'm liable to give up on what I'm doing, and that wouldn't be good for either of us.

After all, he's the one who's been urging me to get into a more, shall we say, mainstream profession. That's why I've taken on this security consulting job, and I have to have these specs read by the time we get back, and he knows that. I wouldn't have brought work along if I could have helped it, and he knows that, too, but it doesn't seem to be helping things.

The electricity is off, so he can't use his laptop or watch videos. It's been pouring the last two days, so he can't hike. (Though I think he's fooling himself about that. Mulder is not nature boy, and I have a feeling that a couple of hours of struggling uphill through brush and over rocks would have had him ready to consider 'roughing it' as no Jaccuzi in the hotel suite.) I suggested that he read a book. We do, after all, have plenty of fuel for the hurricane lamps. He flipped a few pages, then went back to staring at me.

It isn't easy to ignore him. If it was, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be in his life. I would have done my assignment, maybe killed him, and been on my merry way, a footloose and fancy free young assassin with the whole world open before me. Instead I'm here in a small cabin, in the deep, damp forest, with a surly, pissed-off lover who's irritated because he thinks I'm not paying enough attention to him.


Let us now sing a chorus of 'Can't Help Lovin' That Man o' Mine'.

But the ordeal is almost over. I'm on the last page of the report, and I already know what I'm going to tell the dim-bulbs who submitted it to me. With a little money and a lot of work they can plug the holes in their Swiss cheese security system to the extent that a retarded nine-year-old with a Commodore 64 will no longer be able to breech it. If they want impenetrable, it's REALLY going to cost them.


That wasn't me, that was Fox. Again. You'd think the man was oxygen deprived, the way he's been heaving sighs, right and left. It's getting to him that I'm not reacting. He crossed his arms a couple of minutes ago. His chin is sunk down on his chest, and his mouth is at maximum sulk. I'm tempted to just toss the report, forget the last few paragraphs, and climb on top of him. I get so hot when he pouts. Well, I get hot whatever mood he's in, but that's not the point.

I finish the last few lines, set the report neatly on the table, and turn toward him, as he sits on the far end of the couch. "What?" His eyebrows go up in a questioning gesture. "What is it, Mulder? What's wrong?"

Now he looks away. "Nothing."

I rub my face. "Christ, Mulder, do not play that game with me. It's a woman's trick, and you know damn good and well that you might bottom for me, but you sure as hell aren't femme. Talk to me."

"Why should I?" The tone is petulant. "It isn't like you've been making an effort to talk to me."

"And here we have the problem."

He looks back at me. "Well, it's true. You've been ignoring me all day. You haven't said more than two words together."

"I had to get that finished, you know that."

"I can understand you wanting to spend time on it, but you've been absorbed."

I slide closer. "Feeling neglected, babe?"

He growls. "Don't be stupid. It's just common courtesy to pay some attention to someone when you're in the same room. And..." He stops, looking away again, beginning to blush.

"And what?"

"Lately you're... you're not..." The flush deepens. "Well, except when we're in bed, you don't..."

I get the picture now, and he's right. I've been preoccupied with this new job prospect lately. I haven't been as affectionate as I've been in the past, as I want to be. Shit, I'll have to watch it, or I'll turn into one of those workaholic, takes-his-mate-for-granted assholes. But I must admit that I'm loving the fact that he's been missing my loving. I slip even closer. "Herrick."

He blinks at me. "What?"

I put my arms around him. He's stiff, still unready to forgive, or give in. "Robert Herrick. To His Mistress, Objecting to Him Neither Toying, or Talking. First line?"

He frowns, thinking. It's become a game with us. No, it's more serious than that. Poetry has woven itself through this relationship, all the way back to when it began. We recited a nursery rhyme to each other the first time we met, but what started between us that day is far from childish.

After a moment he finds the words he's looking for. "You say I love not, 'cause I do not play still with your curls, and kiss the time away."

I run my hands into that thick brown mop, letting the strands sift through my fingers, and lean in to kiss him lightly at the corner of his mouth, just where his lips turn down. "You blame me, too, because I can't devise some sport, to please those babies in your eyes."

He scowls and tries to pull away. If there's one thing Mulder hates it's being called childish. He's had too much of that from his family, his boss, his partner. He doesn't want to hear it from me, too, but there it is. He doesn't understand... I don't understand how he can have seen all that he's seen, been through all that he's been through, and still have kept that inner child. I'll have to explain to him some day the difference between childish and childlike.

I refuse to let go. When he turns his face away I put my lips to his ear and whisper, "By Love's religion, I must here confess it, the most I love, when I the least express it."

He looks back at me, almost reluctantly, and speaks the next line as a question. "Deep waters noiseless are?"

I nod, continueing the poem. "...and this we know, that chiding streams betray small depth below."

This time he doesn't turn away when I go to kiss him, and I feel him start to relax in my arms. I find myself smiling against his mouth. He wants the little physical shows of affection? He wants to be petted, and made much of? I can give him that, happily, and I do. I let my hands wander all over that long, lean body: stroking, caressing, pinching gently. Soon he's clinging to me, warm and pliant, sighing as I nibble at the tender skin just below his ear.

"So when love speechless is, she doth express a depth in love," he murmurs.

I work the button and zipper on his jeans, reaching inside to find him warm and firm "And that depth bottomless," I agree.

I bend down and kiss the rosy tip of his erection, then lick away the bead of clear fluid that oozes out to greet me. He moans my name as I slowly draw my tongue down to the base, then up again, and take him in my mouth. I concentrate on giving him the hottest head of his life, using every trick and technique I possess. I love him, and he deserves the best.

I draw it out for long minutes, holding his hips down when he wants to thrust up into my mouth, making him endure exquisite torture. Finally, when he's almost frantic, I relent. I let go, and he bucks wildly, spewing his seed down my throat, and I drink him dry. When it is done and he's limp... Well, his spine, anyway: his prick is still half hard. When it's over I take my time licking him clean. He's almost purring when I'm done.

I sit back up and kiss him. This used to make him pause, but he's grown to enjoy it when either one of us shares the other's taste after sex. He welcomes my tongue into his mouth, sucking it softly.

Finally I lean my forehead against his. I knew this last couplet was coming, and I know what his reaction is going to be. "Now, since my love is tongueless..." He bursts out laughing, and I have to chuckle along with him, but I continue. "Mulder?" He sobers a little, but he's still smiling. "Know me as such, who speak but little, 'cause I love so much."

He nods, and snuggles down beside me, arms around me. For a long time we sit like that, in silence. And it's all right. I think he's learned an important fact: that if you love someone, you don't always need words...

Back to Main MenuFeedback welcome.  And I'm always interested in poetry suggestions.