SHELTER FROM THE BITTER COLD (1/2)
by Jill Selby (msselby@socketis.net)

Summary:  A follow-up to "The Bitter Taste of Revenge."  Scully's
ordeal with Jimmy continues to haunt her and, by extension,
Mulder.

Disclaimer:  Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten
Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network.  All others
are the author's creation.  Any similarity to any person, living
or dead, is purely coincidental.  No infringement is intended.

Classification:  SRA
Relationship:    MSR
Rating:          PG
Spoilers:        None

**Feedback always sincerely appreciated.**
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SHELTER FROM THE BITTER COLD (1/2)

She looked cold, huddled near the edge of the bed with the covers
bunched up around her knees.  Mulder tugged on the blanket
and drew it over her until she was once again cocooned in its
warmth.  Not so long ago, she wouldn't have needed the blanket.

During their first night as lovers, and routinely during every
night they had spent together since, some insecure part of Mulder
made frequent Scully-checks.  If he awoke to find she had rolled
away from him in her sleep, he would gently pull her back into
his arms.  She had always come to him willingly.  Sometimes
sleepily aware, sometimes unconsciously, she would relax against
him with utter confidence that she was safe and loved.

Until four weeks ago.  

Until a deranged monster named Jimmy broke into their motel room
and ripped her from her lover's embrace.

She had survived her captivity, and for a time, that was all that
mattered to Mulder.  She'd been found, battered, but whole.  And
that was enough.  

It had taken eleven days for her injuries to heal enough for
lovemaking to be possible.  They had spent the night of every one
of those days together, but separated by her need for recovery
time.  Her bruised flesh was still too tender.  He didn't want to
risk hurting her further by unwittingly tightening his arms
around her in his sleep.  They had shared a bed for those eleven
nights, but little in the way of physical contact.

She was near.  And that was enough.

When her pain eased, it was enough that she allowed him to touch
her again, even if he had to slide his hands beneath a nightshirt
to do it. They'd been suffering a frigid, blustery December.  It
was understandable that she might want to wrap herself in flannel
to ward off the chill, although a month ago she had been content
wrapped in nothing more than his arms. 

The energetic, adventurous edge had disappeared from their
lovemaking.  The pace now was reverent.  Slow.  Not a bad
exchange, he had reasoned.  He had left it to her to tell him
when the time was right, and a little more than a week ago she
had informed him that her injuries were sufficiently healed. She
hadn't initiated the encounter, exactly.  Just given him
permission.  

She had freely offered him access to her body, even though it was
always partially cloaked in soft cotton.  He had touched her
body, her skin, every night since then.  The intimacy inherent in
the act should have reassured him, and yet he was feeling
anything but confident. Those beautiful, abstract parts of her he
had once touched with such reverence, her heart and soul, were
still wrapped in layer upon layer of self-protection, out of
harm's way.  Out of his reach.

Now, the emotional cord that had always held them entwined, even
when their bodies were separated, had begun to fray dangerously
thin. As Mulder tried to compensate for the new fragility of
their connection by moving closer, Scully was pulling away.  He
couldn't help but wonder if she had returned as whole as he had
first believed, or if part of the woman he loved had been left
behind in a secluded cabin in California.

Just hours ago, she had again selflessly offered her body up to
serve his physical needs.  And there was no question his body
enjoyed it.  But it wasn't everything they'd had before.

And anything less than everything just wasn't enough.
____________________________
____________________________

She was awakened by the menacing whisper of footsteps on the
carpet.

Fear closed her in its vice as each hushed footfall brought the
threat nearer.  Every muscle in her body coiled, preparing for
defense against a would-be attacker.  A scream tore at her throat
like broken glass, but she held it there.  She didn't dare make a
sound.  Didn't dare move, even to nudge Mulder awake.  Not if it
meant giving up the precious tactical advantage of surprise.

A step closer.  

Beneath the covers, her hands clenched into fists.

Closer.  

She begged for strength in silent prayer.

Another step brought him right to the edge of the bed.

She was certain he would hear the rapid pounding of her heart.  

And then he touched her.  Ran a caressing hand over her cheek and
into her hair.

With speed and strength honed by training and fueled by
adrenalin, she jerked away and captured his wrist in a powerful
grip.  Her attacker, masked by midnight shadows, took a startled
step back, but Scully held on and let his movement pull her
upright.  She drew back her right arm, punched forward,
connecting solidly with the man's jaw.  She released him then,
but only to put enough space between them to drive her foot into
his abdomen and propel him backward into the dresser.

He fell with a satisfying thud against the heavy piece of
furniture.

"Mulder, get the light."  Her voice was breathy, raw, but loud in
the stillness of the room.  Even so, Mulder didn't respond.  The
only answer came in the form of a groan from her defeated
opponent.  She couldn't suppress the flash of angry
disappointment that Mulder had managed to remain asleep and
oblivious to the danger.  She fumbled for her gun on the
nightstand, and once it was firmly in her grip, switched on the
bedside lamp.

Her vision was blurred by the sudden brightness, her arms
trembled, but her aim didn't waver.  She barked a warning to the
predator crumbled in a heap on the floor.  "Don't move."  

"Whatever you say, Scully.  Do you know you have dust bunnies
under your dresser?"

His voice registered at the same instant her eyesight cleared. 
She was across the room and kneeling at his side in the space of
a heartbeat.  "Oh my God, Mulder.  I didn't . . . I thought . . .
I'm so sorry."  

Mulder began to uncurl from his huddle on the floor, and eased
himself into a sitting position.  When Scully reached for him, he
leaned away and held up a hand to halt her. "Wait."  

She followed his wary glance and was astonished to find the gun
still in her grip, aimed at Mulder.  His life was resting on one
shaking finger still poised over the trigger.  Her eyes traced
over the polished metal as she lowered the gun to the floor.  She
shoved it aside, beyond reach, but still in sight.  

In California, a frightening stranger had abducted her with the
intention of separating her from Mulder for the rest of her life. 
The experience had terrified her.  Wounded her.  Added new scars
to a collection of deep, but healing, cuts into her psyche.  Now
as she stared at the weapon on the floor, her soul began to bleed
again as realization stabbed her and conscience twisted the
knife. With careful deliberation, she had killed the man who
tried to sever her bond with Mulder.  She had survived, only to
find herself, in a moment of reckless panic, nearly succeeding
where Jimmy had failed.  
____________________________
____________________________

It had been a colossally stupid thing to do.  He should have
known better than to try to steal up beside her while she was
sleeping, not after what she had been through.  Now he had
souvenir bruises to prove that he had taken vacation from his
senses.  His jaw ached, his stomach churned, and he would
probably have a nice imprint of the dresser drawer handle on his
ass.  But his own pain was incidental at the moment.  

She was motionless, mesmerized it seemed, by the gun on the
floor. The fear and rage had evaporated from her expression. 
Guilt and embarrassment, although surely roiling just beneath the
surface, were not yet discernable in the neutral set of her
features.  It was a traitorous tear that gave her away; a tiny
drop clung to her lower lashes and glittered in the soft light.

"Scully?"  He spoke gently, afraid of startling her again, but
she didn't react.  "Scully, it's okay."  

The motion was nearly imperceptible.  Just a slight shake of her
head accompanied by the barest whisper of "No."  She turned to
face him then, and repeated the motion and the word with more
force. "No.  It's not okay."

She launched to her feet and strode to the closet.  Yanking a
large suitcase down from the shelf, she flung it on the bed and
turned back to pluck his shirts and suits from their hangers. 
She tossed the bundle of clothes on the bed beside the suitcase
and returned to where he was sitting, still leaning against the
dresser.  "Can you scoot over?  I need to open this drawer."

"What are you doing, Scully?"

"I'm packing your things," she said so matter-of-factly that at
first he wondered if they were going on some trip he had
forgotten. "You're moving back to your apartment."

"What?"

"You can't stay here anymore."

He ignored the complaints of his battered body and pushed to his
feet, planting himself in the small space between her and the
dresser.  "I'm not leaving, Scully."

"This is my home, and you'll leave when I decide.  I've decided
you're leaving tonight."  

She was putting as much authority as she could marshal into her
voice, but he detected the uncertainty she was trying to
camouflage.  He held his ground when she attempted to shoulder
her way around him to reach his sock drawer.  "No.  Not until you
give me a good reason."

Scully took a step back from him and crossed her arms over her
chest.  He'd seen her examine mutant cellular material with this
exact same expression of incredulity.  "Christ, Mulder, I could
have killed you tonight.  How much more reason do you need?"

"That wasn't your fault."

"No?  Whose fault was it then?"

He closed the distance between them and brought his hand up to
smooth down the unruly strands of her sleep-mussed hair.  "If
anyone is to blame, it's me."

She sighed and pulled his hand down to her lips for the faintest
hint of a kiss.  As his hand fell away, her lips turned up in a
small, sad smile.  "Your infinite capacity for self-blame never
ceases to amaze me, Mulder, but I truly can't follow your logic
on this one."  She brushed her fingers over the darkening bruise
on his face.  "I did this."  She dragged up the fabric of his
t-shirt to reveal the red, foot-sized mark on his stomach.  "I
did this. And I came close --"  Her voice snagged on a small,
anguished sob. "Too close to putting a bullet through your brain. 
So, while I appreciate your willingness to confess
responsibility, the evidence doesn't point to you as the culpable
party."

"Come here." Slipping his hand into hers, he pulled her toward
the bed.  He sat down on the edge of the mattress and patted the
space next to him in invitation.  Though she looked uncertain
about his intentions, she didn't hesitate to sit beside him. 
"I'm sorry I startled you tonight."

She shook her head.  "Mulder, it was my --"

"You overreacted, Scully.  We both know that.  But it was a
natural, justifiable reaction after what happened in California." 

In contrast to his soothing tone, her voice took on a note of
high-pitched desperation.  "Don't you see?  No matter how you try
to explain it away, it doesn't excuse it.  I hurt you.  I could
have killed you.  I'm not going to take the chance of it
happening again."

He tilted his head to catch her troubled gaze.  "I promise not to
take any more nighttime strolls around the bedroom if that makes
you feel better."  

"It doesn't."  

In the hours before he'd awakened her, he had rehearsed every
possible segue into this most difficult of conversations.  Now
that the moment had arrived, he realized that levity and
circuitous word games would fail him here.  Scully deserved the
direct approach.  "We have to talk about California."

Frustration marred her pretty features.  She had made it
abundantly clear that she wanted to put that event behind her. 
His refusal to talk about it had been a festering irritation
between them for weeks. "We've talked about it.  I murdered a man
to save my own life, even though the rescue team was about ten
minutes away at the time, and now I have to live with that."

"Yes, you do.  And I won't lie to you and tell you that it will
be an easy thing to live with.  I'll be as supportive as I know
how, I'll talk about it whenever you want to talk about it, but
you have to be the one to make peace with yourself.  I can't do
it for you." 

His candor seemed to take her aback and she studied him for a
moment before nodding her agreement.  "So there's nothing to talk
about."

"There's one thing we've never discussed.  Something we've both
been afraid to bring up."

"Nothing happened, Mulder."  She squeezed his hand in a
reassuring gesture.  "He didn't touch me, I told you that."

But she had misunderstood.  "This isn't about Jimmy.  It's about
me."  Dread poured into his veins, bile bubbled into his throat. 
His relationship with Scully was the foundation on which he had
built his entire future, and now it threatened to collapse
beneath the weight of a single question.  

"Scully, do you blame me for letting him take you?"
____________________________
____________________________

End part 1/2 of "Shelter from the Bitter Cold"



SHELTER FROM THE BITTER COLD (2/2)
by Jill Selby (msselby@socketis.net)

See part 1 for Summary and Disclaimer.  

Classification:  SRA/MSR
Rating:          PG
Spoilers:        None
____________________________

SHELTER FROM THE BITTER COLD (2/2)

Disbelief rendered her mute.  For long seconds she could only
stare at Mulder as she tried to comprehend his question.  Even
when she found her voice again, she could manage nothing more
profound than "What?"

"I would understand, you know, if you blamed me."  His tone, his
posture sagged in disgrace.  "If I had done my job, Jimmy never
would have been able get to you."

"Your job?"

"To protect you."  He raised his eyes to look at her, and gripped
her hand a little tighter to punctuate his statement. 

"That's not your job, Mulder."  With her free hand she brushed
his hair away from a nearly-healed wound near his temple. 
"You're my partner, not my bodyguard, and even if you were, he
knocked you unconscious.  There was nothing you could have done."

He shrugged away her answer.  "I'm sure, intellectually, that's
what you believe."

"But you're suggesting that, emotionally, I expected my lover to
come charging up on a white steed to whisk me out of danger?"

"Maybe."

Mulder wore guilt like a second skin.  That she hadn't
anticipated his self-blame was an alarming indication of just how
distracted she had let herself become.  "You're wrong, Mulder." 
She spoke with such conviction, surely he would have to believe. 
"I never blamed you.  Neither intellectually, nor emotionally. 
There wasn't a minute when I was trapped in that cabin that I
didn't wish for you to find me, but it never crossed my mind to
hold you responsible for my being there."  

He still looked uncertain, so she moved closer and slid her
arms around him.  She kept him snared in her embrace, fastened to
her gaze, as she spoke.  "I was frightened for my own life, yes,
but even more terrified of what Jimmy might have done to you.  I
knew, though, that if it was humanly possible, you were out there
searching for me.  I was absolutely certain of that fact.  It
gave me strength.  Hope."  She caressed his cheek.  "You gave me
those things.  I wouldn't have survived without them."

The first glimmer of acceptance appeared in his eyes, although he
continued to resist.  "Still --"

"Don't martyr yourself over this.  You're not the villain here."

He seemed to consider her words for a moment, then conceded the
argument with the slightest of nods.  She felt enormously
relieved to have averted that particular crisis, until a
reassured Mulder, turned her own argument against her. "Neither
are you, Scully."  

It was the same tiresome chorus, and one she had become adept at
ignoring.  She untangled herself from him and headed back to the
dresser, still determined to pack his things and send him home. 

He chattered on, but was forced to talk to her back as she rifled
through the dresser.  "No one but you considers your defense
against Jimmy to be an excessive use of force.  You can't keep
punishing yourself for crossing a line you never even
approached."

Love, she surmised, must be blinding him since only minutes ago
she had demonstrated rather dramatically her precarious balance
on that line.  "You keep telling me that, but how can you believe
it, especially after what happened tonight?"  

"There is nothing dishonorable about self-defense."

She returned to the bed with an armful of his t-shirts and laid
them in the suitcase, putting unnecessary attention into
straightening the pile, solely to avoid looking at him.  "There
is when it makes you point a gun at the man you love."  

"No."  He rose and moved behind her, reaching around to still her
fidgeting hands.  His body pressed against hers and his voice
rumbled in her ear.  "You pointed the gun at a threat, to
neutralize it until you could make an identification.  There's
nothing wrong with your procedure, Agent Scully."

"But --"  Her voice was faltering, and so, she feared, was her
determination.

Mulder must have sensed that she was weakening.  He turned her to
face him and drew her close.  "Now if you had shot me after you
knew it was me . . .  well, then I might have wondered if some of
the magic had gone out of our relationship.  The fact that you
didn't leads me to believe that you still like me, at least a
little."  

At the touch of his lips to her forehead, her eyes squeezed shut. 
Emotion choked her, and the words would barely push past the lump
in her throat.  "I love you."

"I know you do."

She gathered the crumbs of her resolve and took a step back from
him, hoping the stubborn expression she adopted was even remotely
convincing.  "And that's why you have to leave.  I'm afraid I
might accidentally hurt you again."

"You're hurting me now."  

Pain ravaged his expression.  She could feel it squeezing her own
heart in its unmerciful fist.  Still, she tried to argue.  "It's
not the same thing."

"You're right."  He captured her hand and brought it up to his
bruised cheek.  "Punch me in the jaw and the bruise will fade in
a week or so.  Shut me out of your life, and I'll never recover."

She let her hand linger on his face.  "I don't want to shut you
out.  I just . . . I just want you to feel safe."

"I only feel safe when I'm with you."

She stumbled back.  His words, so tender in intent, hit in the
very center of her anxiety.  Knocked her emotionally off balance. 
Even her physical equilibrium couldn't compensate, and she sank
to the bed.  Her limbs trembled and no amount of willpower was
sufficient to slow her hammering pulse.

His warm hand rested on her leg and Mulder's concerned voice
drifted up from where he was kneeling in front of her.  "Scully?"

Her first attempt to answer failed altogether.  She cleared her
throat and managed to rasp out a few words.  "I'm fine.  I'm
sorry."

"Tell me."  

Such gentleness threatened to snap her tenuous control, and it
was only made worse when he leaned in to try to make eye contact. 
She turned her head to avoid it.  "I can't."

His hands came up to cradle her face, to turn her toward him, and
to make avoiding him impossible.  "Don't pull away from me,
Scully.  You say you don't blame me for what happened in
California, but something's bothering you.  Have I done something
to upset you? You have to tell me or I can't fix it."

"You can't fix this."  She was certain he couldn't.  She also
knew, despite her protests, he would persist until she told him
the truth.

"I can try.  But you have to tell me what it is."

Her fingers twined with his and she pulled his hands down into
her lap.  "Do you remember . . ." she began in a watery whisper. 
"Do you remember the first night we made love?"  

He winked.  "Vaguely."

Her own recollection of that night, at once beautiful and
bitterly painful, washed over her as she described it aloud. 
"That night as I was falling asleep in your arms, I remember
thinking that I had never felt so safe.  That nothing evil could
find me there.  And all the nights after that, no matter what
kind of monster we had faced during the day at work,  I could
retreat to that shelter and feel safe again."

"Oh, God, Scully . . ."

She couldn't let him interrupt.  Couldn't give him an opening to
start the self-flagellation all over again.  "It was childish,
Mulder.  You aren't my security blanket."

"But when I let Jimmy take you . . ."

"Please try to understand, this isn't about your being unable to
help me.  It's about an illusion that was shattered the instant
Jimmy touched me.  You could have killed him right then and it
wouldn't have changed that.  Darkness is part of our work and
it's part of our lives.  It doesn't respect boundaries, no matter
how I might wish for a place that was off-limits."  Tears were
tracking down her face and she angrily wiped them away. "I was
stupid to let my guard down.  I realize that now.  It was a
beautiful sanctuary for awhile, but Jimmy destroyed it when he
pulled me away from you that night."

"We could rebuild it."  Mulder sounded more pleading than
assuring.  Begging, almost, for her to cling to something that
had never been a tangible reality.

"It's not bricks and mortar.  I can't just slap a fresh coat of
paint on my sense of security and forget everything that's
happened."  

"No.  But you can get it back if you want it badly enough."  

He seemed so certain, and she desperately wanted to believe it
was true.  "How?"

He tugged on her hand and pulled her down from the bed, into his
lap.  She relaxed against him, waiting for him to whisper the
greatest of all secrets in her ear.  

"Slowly."  

Which was better than not at all, she supposed, but disappointing
just the same.  

"One brick at a time."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, rubbed her cheek against the
soft cotton of his t-shirt.  It would be so tempting to try, but,
"I don't know where to start."

"Can I make a suggestion?"  She raised her head to look at his
face, and was surprised to find something like mirth sparkling in
his eyes.  With a lift of a curious eyebrow, she gave him
permission to continue.

He fingered the top button of her flannel nightshirt.  "I really
hate this shirt, Scully."
____________________________
____________________________

He wished he could snatch the words out of the air.  In one
breath he had spoken of the need to move slowly, and in the next
he was cajoling her to take off her shirt.  He'd known teenagers
with more finesse.

She crawled out of his lap and settled down on her knees in front
of him, but she didn't speak, and her expression gave nothing
away.

She smoothed the nightshirt over her thighs and fingered the
fabric for an eternity before she looked at him again.

"This shirt?"

Verbosity would likely get him into further trouble, so he did
nothing but nod.

"My mother bought me this shirt."

He wondered if he was actually shrinking, or if it was only
wishful thinking on his part to suddenly be able to hide in the
carpet fibers.

"Mom loves this color."

Some sort of gurgle came from his throat, but it hardly qualified
as a response.

"I have to tell you, Mulder . . ."

He braced himself.

"I've never liked lavender."

"Huh?"

"Lavender.  It washes me out.  But it's Mom's favorite color, and
she's unconsciously foisting her preferences on me."

He opened his mouth, but hesitated to speak, not yet certain of
what had just transpired.  

"So, Mulder, you don't like it either?"

With a tentative hand he reached for her and brushed his fingers
across her shirt sleeve.  "I just know that it's not nearly as
beautiful as what's underneath."

She answered with an embarrassed smile and her eyes flickered
downward.  He'd never known her to be shy, though he had rarely
been so bold in his compliments of her body.  He'd always been
one for showing appreciation rather than stating what he thought
should be obvious.  "I still have bruises."

His fingers wandered back to her top button and slipped it free. 
Keeping his touch delicate and watching her for any sign of
resistance, he ran his hand down her skin until it met another
button obstacle.  Her stillness gave him permission to continue
and he made his way slowly, breaching each button barrier he
encountered during the journey.  Once the shirt hung loose, he
slipped his hands inside, letting them travel over her shoulders
to nudge at the offensive lavender material until it fell down
her arms.

The agent looked at his partner and saw the greenish-yellow
splotches around her ribs.  Ugly reminders of the beating she had
taken from a madman.

But the man looked at his lover and saw white skin, perfect
breasts, pale freckles and a sexy little birthmark on her
stomach. "I don't see any bruises, Scully."

There was no doubt that it had been exactly the right thing to 
say.  His reward was immediate:  the gentlest, sweetest of
kisses.  Her lips didn't linger on his, but neither did she move
away.  He only had to lean forward a fraction of an inch to meet
her lips again.  And again.

A dozen breathless kisses later, she whispered to him.  "Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"I really hate your shirt."
____________________________
____________________________

It didn't take long to discover that they had a similar loathing
of each other's underwear, and the garments were cast aside with
the disrespect they deserved.  

Scully pushed to her feet, dragging Mulder up with her, and took
two steps back until her legs bumped into the bed.  She started
to sit but Mulder yanked her forward.  

"Scully, the suitcase."

She twisted around to survey the bed; it was a mess.  The
suitcase yawned open, empty except for a well-organized pile of
undershirts. 

Mulder's suits and dress shirts were tangled in a heap amidst the
blankets.  Another time she would have shown more concern for his
belongings, but Mulder's hands were sweeping across her body and
erasing any cares she might have had for his apparel.  She swept
the suitcase off the bed, then fell forward into the mound of
shirts and suits, carrying Mulder down with her. 

"You're paying for my dry cleaning, Scully," she heard him
grumble in her ear.  

She wriggled beneath him and he eased his weight from her so she
could turn over.  Her arms looped up around his neck and pulled
him back down atop her.  "If you're going to live here, Mulder,
you're going to have to learn to hang up your clothes."

"I'll get right on that."  He pushed away and reached for a
shirt.  

She intercepted his hand with her own.  "Later would be okay."

His hand slipped from hers to continue with its rediscovery of
her body.  "Do you have something else you want me to do right
now?"

She had forgotten how delicious it was to feel him touching her
so intimately.  To have her skin pressed against his.  She
vaguely recalled that he had asked her a question.  While the
teasing banter had been fun, and a long-time missing from their
lovemaking, her quick-wittedness had slowed to match the languid
crawl of Mulder's hands on her body.

"What do you want me to do for you?"  He must have perceived the
shift in her mood, because his tone wasn't playful anymore.  

"Touch me."  

And he did.  With his hands, as he had on their first night
together.  With his mouth, as he kissed her with a newness that
excited her and a familiarity that soothed her.  With his spirit,
as he stripped away her fear and made her forget, even if only
for a few minutes.

When it came to loving Mulder, she'd always found it much easier
to give than to take.  But tonight, just this once, it felt right
to be greedy.  What she demanded of him, he gave.  And then he
gave more still.
________________________
____________________________
For a time there was no sound in the world except their gasping
breaths.  No life in the universe beyond that room.  His
awareness of her so complete, he knew she was watching him even
before he opened his eyes for confirmation.  

"You okay, Mulder?"

"Never better."

She pulled one of his wrinkled dress shirts from beneath her. 
"The same can't be said for your clothes.  I'll take them to the
cleaners tomorrow."  

"I'll take them, Scully, as long as I can hang them here when
they're done."

She rolled away, rose from the bed, and began gathering his
clothes.  She dropped a bundle of suits and shirts in a chair and
turned toward him.  "You aren't afraid?"  The question was asked
almost casually, but he knew its import.

"Only of losing you."  He sat up and held out a hand to her.
"Come here."  

He stopped her before she could sit.  "Just a second, Scully." 
She remained still as he slid from the bed and walked behind her. 
Mulder picked up the nightshirt at her feet and then tenderly
threaded her arms into the sleeves.  Beginning with the top
button, he fastened each closure one by one until she was again
covered by soft, lavender cloth. 

Except that her hands were trailing behind his, unbuttoning each
button in his wake.  She shrugged out of the garment and let it
fall away.  

Wrapping herself instead in the shelter of his arms.
____________________________
____________________________

End part 2/2 of "Shelter from the Bitter Cold"

Author's Notes: This story was literally salvaged from the trash
bin by Shari and Lisa who convinced me there was something here
worth saving, even without the smut.  If you disagree, blame
them. <g>

Feedback to msselby@socketis.net is welcomed and appreciated.