Author: Skinner Box
Title: Coney Island Baby
Feedback: BurrhusFrederic@worldnet.att.net
Status: Complete
Archive: Please ask first.
Pairing: Spender/Krycek
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Two Fathers, One Son
Summary: Angsty Jeffrey vignette.
Notes: Thank you to drovar, the fine folk at the Spenderfic list and to Ursula.
Warnings: Songfic. PWP with no sex.
Disclaimer: The X-files and these characters belong to Chris Carter and Fox Broadcasting. I play with them out of love and for no profit.


Coney Island Baby
by Skinner Box

Jeffrey cooked tonight- a more than passable and even "heart healthy" paella. Which means Alex is doing dishes, kitchen stereo cranked. Velvet Underground, or maybe just Lou Reed-Jeffrey can never tell the difference.

One armed dishwashing is quite a process- every dish gets laid on one side, then the other, on the rack in the bottom of the sink while Alex runs a dishrag or a scrubbie over it. Jeffrey mostly avoids the kitchen for the duration, avoids the urge to just elbow his partner out of the way and take over. Cook never washes, and they trade off cooking when Sasha's home... which is less and less these days.

The music's gone slow and melancholy... and somehow that's enough to pull him from the too empty sofa and through the dining room to lean in the doorless doorway to the kitchen. Fuck it's loud in there. Weird. Alex calls loud music a security risk. Alex, haggard and too thin but still beautiful. He's left the dishrag on the edge of the sink, the water still running, and he's dancing, head back, eyes closed.

Reed's voice doesn't quite sing... it's somewhere between a growl and a chant. Rough and incantatory, and fierce lovely Alex is swaying, just a bit, keeping the slow beat with a pulse of heel and hip that shifts with his occasional half turns as that lonely hand kisses from opposite hip to chest to cheekbone and then swirls up like smoke to do its own weaving counterpoint above Alex's upturned head.

The music goes vehement and Alex does one of those impossible things Jeffrey's only seen real dancers, or ex-dancers like Alex, do, whipping his hand down in an arc that sweeps the floor, his torso following, face brushing his knee while his legs keep doing that pulse and shift from before, only faster now, in time with the suddenly angry guitar. He comes up from it in a gravity defying ripple Jeffrey's learned to call a body wave, then settles along with the music. His shoulders are leading now, and he goes to one leg for a beat or two every few bars, hand punctuating the singer's words in empty air.

The last lines are spoken, almost no music behind them. It must be enough for Alex to hear something because he freezes and his eyes snap open as the song promises "man, I swear I'd give the whole thing up for you."

Jeffrey's lover meets his eyes for one savage moment. And then turns away.

The End


Archived: May 18, 2001