Spoilers: Nothing in particular

Notes: inspired by an image that just somehow came to mind of paper flowers.

The two poems by Emily Dickinson are courtesy of the Collected Poems, published by Courage Classics and with essays by Elizabeth Jennings and Thorton Wilder.

Archive: Okay to DitB, WWOMB, anyone else just ask.

"It was a dark and stormy night," Alex said in a spooky, low voice.

"Sounds like the beginning to a bad movie," Walter replied.

"Or a bad novel."

Ironically "stormy weather" was playing on the radio. It was tuned to a local station that played jazz with minimal interruptions for commercials or from the D.J. Billie Holiday's weary voice strained above the sound of the rain drumming on the roof of the car. The windshield wiper slashed back and forth, trying in vain to keep the glass clear and visible.

Walter leaned forward to see through the driving rain. He strained to see just a few yards ahead. It didn't help much. He felt as if his glasses needed miniature windshield wipers of their own.

There was also a strange rattling sound coming from the car's hood to complicate matters. He pulled off the highway, which blessedly had few cars on it, just a few brave souls courageous, stupid or stubborn enough to face the storm. Just moments ago, the weather report had promised worse to come with whipping winds that could easily turn into a tornado. Texas weather this time of year was unpredictable and a storm could just decide on the spur of the moment and the whim of the wind to turn around and chase someone in the opposite direction.

"Did you run out of gas?" Alex joked. "My mother warned me about men like you and the kind of stunts you'll pull in order to steal a boy's virtue."

Walter chuckled. "My momma told me all about bad boys like you too. She also said that you have no virtue left."

Alex mock pouted. "You're willing to take a risk stopping out here to take a look at the engine?"

"There's some farmhouses down this road. It's better than being stranded in the middle of the interstate. At least this way we can get out of the rain and get some help if we need it."

Alex shrugged. "I guess so. Just so long as there's no family resembling those kooky people in the Texas chainsaw massacre movies."

Walter shook his head. "Stop spending so much time over at Mulder's house watching scary movies, okay?"

Walter pulled into the driveway of the first house with lights on. He honked the horn but no one came to the door. He stopped the car just beneath the garage overhang. It was raining harder now. He popped the hood and stood looking down at it for a few minutes.

When he was a boy, he'd watched his dad, uncles, cousins, brothers, fiddling with cars, fixing them, tuning them up, overhauling engines, but nowadays everything was electrical. He really didn't want to touch anything unless he knew what he was doing. He let the hood fall shut with a soft thump.

Alex tried the cell phone but the signal didn't reach. He braved the rain, which felt like sleet stinging his skin. Soon it would turn to hail. The wind rose and sliced through the trees. By morning some of them would be uprooted and left lying in trenches of mud.

No one answered his persistent knocks. The doorbell was dead. Either the owners were ignoring him or no one was home. Hopefully they weren't dead just like the bell.

There was a great crack of thunder, which preceded a bolt of lighting that lit up the sky like firecrackers. He winced at the loud explosion and cupped his hands over his ringing ears. The porch light went out. "Great, just what we need," he muttered, still shook up by the grumbling sounds of thunder. "Electricity's out," he announced.

Walter got out the flashlight and they both peered into the house. They tried knocking again, but no one came to the door. Walter tried the door, found it locked, then reached beneath the welcome mat on instinct and found a key.

"Talk about trusting," Alex said, amazed at the lack of security he'd come to find in the small towns they'd visited while on vacation in Walter's home state.

They entered cautiously, still not sure if the owners wouldn't be lurking behind the door with a shotgun. It was estimated that there were three times as many guns as people in Texas. The thought of all those arms-bearing people comforted Alex. Just as long as none of the weapons were pointed at him.

They tried the phone first but weren't surprised to find it dead.

They wandered through the big house, the flashlight touching briefly on framed family photos on the wall, a collection of old lanterns in one corner of the living room, a weathered piano, sofas with floral upholstery and lacy doilies on the arms, the oil cloth on the kitchen table, a red kettle, frog-shaped sponges on the kitchen sink; then onto the bedrooms, where everything else was kept clean and neat with hand-sewn quilts covering neatly made beds and cherished silver brush sets were laid out, while the hair-snarled ones were hidden in dresser drawers.

They explored the upstairs too, finding the attic warm and cozy. It was one of those attics where they could both stand up straight instead of a crawlspace just filled with pink insulation.

"What do you suppose they have outside?" Alex asked.

Walter frowned at him, wondering what he meant. "Oh there's a barn out back, a shed, I didn't see much else in the dark."

"Maybe they're hiding in the barn, waiting for us."

Walter sighed. "Would you cut out the theatrics already?"

Alex shrugged. "You never know. I wonder if they have animals. I didn't even hear a dog. Most people around here seem to have dogs."

"Maybe they just have cats. You know to keep the mice population down."

"They don't like rodents huh? What about rats?"

"There is one rat in particular I am very fond of." Walter pulled him close and kissed him.

"'The rat is the concisest tenant.
He pays no rent,
repudiates the obligation,
on schemes intent.

Balking our wit
to sound or circumvent,
hate cannot harm
a foe so reticent.

Neither decree
prohibits him,
lawful as
equilibrium.'"

Alex wrinkled his nose.

"Emily Dickinson," Walter said by way of explanation.

"You don't have any nicer poems about rats?"

"I just thought she was appropriate."

"Why is that?"

"Well have you ever heard the idea that you can recite her poetry to the tune of 'the yellow rose of Texas'?"

Alex rolled his eyes. "I get it. We're in Texas."

"Exactly."

"How about this one?
'love is anterior to life,
posterior to death,
initial of creation, and
the exponent of breath.'"

"That's beautiful."

"That's Emily, too. I can't wait to get married to you."

"Me either. I'm glad you insisted on coming with me to meet the whole clan. It was also a nice touch when you asked my family permission to make an honest man out of me."

Alex laughed and leaned into Walter. "An honest man out of you? Should be the other way around," he murmured into his neck.

"It was sweet Alex," Walter insisted. "My aunt Thelma just about swooned."

"I do have a way with the ladies I'm told."

"The gentlemen too."

They kissed again, this time more passionately. Walter pulled back when he heard a noise. "Now you've got me spooked. It's just the floorboards settling," he explained.

Alex was on alert nevertheless. It was always there, a human instinct that was honed by years of covert actions. "Come on, let's take a look around. These old attics are neat."

Walter swept the flashlight around the floors. They were old polished wood, still imprinted with scuff marks from children's shoes while playing, the sweet, lemony smell of wood polish, sticky fingerprints left behind from hands that had spread wax onto the boards in long sweeping strokes.

They made themselves comfortable on an old mattress and picked through the drawers of an old armoire and heavy trunk, finding plenty of yellowed black and white photos of farmhands and ancestors, books that were crumbling into dust, hand-written recipes, discarded greeting cards, well wrapped linens, old toys that needed a toy hospital (missing button eyes from dolls, mangled limbs on action figures, teddy bears that needed their fuzzy coats washed and combed) letters bundled up and tied with ribbons, school projects.

They looked through the scrapbooks and photo albums that looked to cover at least three generations of family, marveling at the change in fashions and the long letters that became simple notes, the elaborate hand made greetings that were written in painstaking script and decorated with beads and glitter turn into commercial greeting cards.

Alex pulled out a series of letters that turned out to be love letters. They giggled at the old fashioned wooing.

A girl's diary traveled the gamut from a young, wide-eyed innocent to turbulent, troubled teenaged years, then a foray into the angst ridden world of teen pregnancy, sent away from friends and family, until her humbling return home.

They quickly put the letters and diary back where they found them. There were some things that were private and not meant for others' eyes.

Alex and Walter lay on the mattress, listening to the music the rain made as it dashed against the tiny windowpane and thrummed on the roof. Alex sang softly (Dido's "Thank you", one of his favorite songs because of its melancholy, laid back melody and lyrics) while Walter stroked his silky hair.

The scent of wood polish mingled with something like sour moonshine and fermenting wine, the musty scent of hay, the dust from papers and a flowery smell combined with the hypnotic sound of falling rain and the cozy environment made them both sleep.

They awoke with the rain pounding once again. Outside the yowls of barn cats pierced the air with their violent cries. Mice hid from their natural enemies, deep beneath hay stacks. The rain hissed right back at the felines as they took dainty steps to avoid the puddles and mate.

Alex found a train of paper flowers that someone had created with construction paper and crisp tissue paper that was now faded in color and crushed. Once they had been scarlet, pink and white, celebratory flowers pinned to cars on parade on the way to a wedding. He examined the paper roses carefully. It was a craft, resembling origami in its beauty and complexity.

"Walter these would be perfect for our wedding."

"I thought you wanted simple. A simple ceremony with a little reception. All of a sudden you changed your mind at aunt Thelma's breakfast table to include best man and bridesmaids and the like and a catered party."

"A boy can change his mind," Alex defended.

"Whatever you want baby, it's okay with me. We can have a fleet of limos, Mulder and Scully as witnesses, your former spy friends as bridesmaids and bridegrooms, even an ice sculpture if you want."

"I'm not too sure about a swan sculpted from ice and dripping water all over the floor but I love these paper flowers. They're perfect."

"Then that's what we'll have. I'll shower you with paper roses, real roses, cherry blossoms, magnolia flowers, anything." Walter pulled Alex to him and kissed him. Alex pulled Walter down on the mattress. The small window illuminated the room with ghostly moon light which shone through the dusty panes like a veil of lace. They made love slowly and tenderly, stopping only long enough to undress and pile their clothes in a heap at the foot of their makeshift bed. They used saliva for lubrication and Walter slid easily into Alex's body. It was a place quite used to his penetration so there was only the mild burn which soon turned into waves of pleasure for both of them.

They rocked in time to the pattering rain, made the floor creak and shift beneath their combined weight and motion. Alex cried out first and seconds later a boom of thunder muffled Walter's echoing shout.

They snuggled together, kept warm by body heat and a well-worn quilt they found. It smelled a little stale but it was a comforting scent of bodies that had wrapped themselves in it seeking warmth, comfort, privacy.

They settled in for a long night listening to the raindrops splash against the window, the distant boom of thunder, the occasional streak of lightning that competed with the full moon to light up the night sky.

They woke in time to see the sun rise, a hazy pink hued sky wrapped in gauzy white clouds with the hint of blue to come. The rain had stopped and in its place was an arching rainbow. The electricity had come back too judging from the sound of the clock radio blaring below.

They folded the quilt back up, made sure everything was in its place, undisturbed as before, and quietly made their way downstairs. Walter cooked up a big breakfast to feed their growling stomachs.

Alex made sketches of the paper flowers, including every fold, crease and ruffle. But just in case he plucked one single rose off the chain to be sure he got the details just right. He was only getting married once in this lifetime.
 

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