[ficlet] Poetry (PG)
Title: Poetry
Author: tiptoe39
Rating: PG for innuendo, perhaps.
Summary Pointless Valentine's Day fluff.
Date: Feb 14 2008 06:30:35
From: suresh.m@hotmail.com
To: matthew_parkman@nypd.ny.state.us
Subject: Happy Valentine's Day
====
You're still asleep. I wanted to be the first to wish
you Happy Valentine's Day. Because I know you're going
to crow about being the first, and you will have been
wrong, wrong, wrong.
I can't wait until you get to work and get this
message. I expect a phone call of utter defeat.
Back to bed now (from hotmail to my hot male. Oh, god,
you're right, it is sexually transmitted.)
-Mohinder
Mohinder Suresh, Ph.D.
Associate Professor of Genetics
Chennai University
"Utter defeat, huh?"
Mohinder jumped. He snapped his laptop shut and twisted around to face a lazy grin and a bare chest. Matt was laying on his side, elbow on his pillow propping up his head. "You'll have to do better than that, you pretentious bastard," he said.
"I thought you were still asleep," Mohinder hissed apologetically.
"Your thoughts woke me up," pouted Matt. "As an apology, I think you need to get me breakfast in bed. As in now."
Mohinder scowled. He scrambled up onto the bed next to him. "Make me," he dared.
"I could, you know."
"Of course." He dove back into the sheets, rolling like a sleepy cat against Matt's side and yawning. "Because nothing says romance like mental domination."
Matt rose up on both fists and hovered above him. "I'll show you domination," he said with a wicked grin. All of a sudden he was licking at Mohinder's neck just enough to tickle, and the very dignified scientist was reduced to hopelessly flailing and giggling on the bed, trying to bat away the assault.
"Matt! Cut it out!" he protested weakly.
"If you won't bring me breakfast in bed," came the petulant reply, "I'll just have to eat what's here." The licks turned into nibbles; bites; full, open kisses. Mohinder groaned and tilted his head to catch some in his mouth.
"Our..." he gasped, "our daughter is..." His words were crushed against Matt's mouth, and his arms went around the big waist, pulling his weight down onto him, even as he continued with his halfhearted protestations. "Aren't you... supposed to be doing something romantic? Like reciting poetry or something like that, instead of pouncing on me?" This, even as he strained upward to meet him.
"You want poetry?" Matt stopped his assault for a moment and gave a wicked grin. "Sure, I'll give you poetry. Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and you are a pretentious bastard." Mohinder guffawed. "Hey, I could have told you the one about this man from Nantucket..."
"Matt!"
"What?" He looked hurt. "You're the cultured one! You recite me a poem."
Then, to Matt's amazement, Mohinder turned red and scrambled to his feet.
"Hey... what's that reaction about?" Matt reached forward to pull him back to the bed, but Mohinder retreated, going for a drawer at his desk. "Hey, you can't distract me with your fancy scented oils or whatever..."
But there was no bottle in Mohinder's hands when he closed the drawer again. Instead, there was a small, folded piece of paper. Matt fell silent and blank. Gingerly, Mohinder fumbled with the paper, not daring to meet Matt's eyes. When he began to read, it was in a quiet but even voice that slowly gained strength.
"Manhattan is a stranger
of many strange lands. Still I'm wandering,
trying to find the place where
the concrete grows, because this pavement
is plastic like a mattress.
I could fall into this city
if not for you. I walk up your arms
like avenues, your shoulders
are streets buzzing with the traffic
of day-by-day, I wait to cross them.
Your legs are the ladders
I descend to touch the beating heart
of the city, so desperate and deeply
needy. Only here could this
man happen, only beneath the
manhole covers and the steam
could I find your name lying
like a penny, wet and slippery,
head and tails, and know that's
why they say the streets are paved with gold.
And so am I, tonight. Your copper eyes
like miner's lamps, ignite me
and I lie beneath a city I know
because your name is in its heart."
Silence hung for a long, long time in the bedroom.
"Holy." It was almost too much to get the second syllable through his lips.
Mohinder sat on the bed again, handed the paper to him. "It... it started when I started thinking that your name is inside the word Manhattan, sort of, and..."
"Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait." Matt scrambled to him and goggled at the page in amazement. "You WROTE that?"
"I'd think that would be painfully obvious," Mohinder muttered, grabbing a pillow and burying his face in it.
"Oh my God. Oh my God." Matt snatched the pillow, cupped the back of Mohinder's neck and pulled his face in for a kiss. "Is there anything you can't do?" he said in a tone thick with wonder.
Mohinder gazed at him. Flushed face, sweet caramel eyes, strong shoulders, craned in toward him. For him. He felt tears, true tears of joy, thick in his throat. "Tell you how much I adore you, perhaps," he whispered.
Matt set the poem down and took Mohinder in his arms. "Then show me instead."
:end:
Author: tiptoe39
Rating: PG for innuendo, perhaps.
Summary Pointless Valentine's Day fluff.
Date: Feb 14 2008 06:30:35
From: suresh.m@hotmail.com
To: matthew_parkman@nypd.ny.state.us
Subject: Happy Valentine's Day
====
You're still asleep. I wanted to be the first to wish
you Happy Valentine's Day. Because I know you're going
to crow about being the first, and you will have been
wrong, wrong, wrong.
I can't wait until you get to work and get this
message. I expect a phone call of utter defeat.
Back to bed now (from hotmail to my hot male. Oh, god,
you're right, it is sexually transmitted.)
-Mohinder
Mohinder Suresh, Ph.D.
Associate Professor of Genetics
Chennai University
"Utter defeat, huh?"
Mohinder jumped. He snapped his laptop shut and twisted around to face a lazy grin and a bare chest. Matt was laying on his side, elbow on his pillow propping up his head. "You'll have to do better than that, you pretentious bastard," he said.
"I thought you were still asleep," Mohinder hissed apologetically.
"Your thoughts woke me up," pouted Matt. "As an apology, I think you need to get me breakfast in bed. As in now."
Mohinder scowled. He scrambled up onto the bed next to him. "Make me," he dared.
"I could, you know."
"Of course." He dove back into the sheets, rolling like a sleepy cat against Matt's side and yawning. "Because nothing says romance like mental domination."
Matt rose up on both fists and hovered above him. "I'll show you domination," he said with a wicked grin. All of a sudden he was licking at Mohinder's neck just enough to tickle, and the very dignified scientist was reduced to hopelessly flailing and giggling on the bed, trying to bat away the assault.
"Matt! Cut it out!" he protested weakly.
"If you won't bring me breakfast in bed," came the petulant reply, "I'll just have to eat what's here." The licks turned into nibbles; bites; full, open kisses. Mohinder groaned and tilted his head to catch some in his mouth.
"Our..." he gasped, "our daughter is..." His words were crushed against Matt's mouth, and his arms went around the big waist, pulling his weight down onto him, even as he continued with his halfhearted protestations. "Aren't you... supposed to be doing something romantic? Like reciting poetry or something like that, instead of pouncing on me?" This, even as he strained upward to meet him.
"You want poetry?" Matt stopped his assault for a moment and gave a wicked grin. "Sure, I'll give you poetry. Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and you are a pretentious bastard." Mohinder guffawed. "Hey, I could have told you the one about this man from Nantucket..."
"Matt!"
"What?" He looked hurt. "You're the cultured one! You recite me a poem."
Then, to Matt's amazement, Mohinder turned red and scrambled to his feet.
"Hey... what's that reaction about?" Matt reached forward to pull him back to the bed, but Mohinder retreated, going for a drawer at his desk. "Hey, you can't distract me with your fancy scented oils or whatever..."
But there was no bottle in Mohinder's hands when he closed the drawer again. Instead, there was a small, folded piece of paper. Matt fell silent and blank. Gingerly, Mohinder fumbled with the paper, not daring to meet Matt's eyes. When he began to read, it was in a quiet but even voice that slowly gained strength.
"Manhattan is a stranger
of many strange lands. Still I'm wandering,
trying to find the place where
the concrete grows, because this pavement
is plastic like a mattress.
I could fall into this city
if not for you. I walk up your arms
like avenues, your shoulders
are streets buzzing with the traffic
of day-by-day, I wait to cross them.
Your legs are the ladders
I descend to touch the beating heart
of the city, so desperate and deeply
needy. Only here could this
man happen, only beneath the
manhole covers and the steam
could I find your name lying
like a penny, wet and slippery,
head and tails, and know that's
why they say the streets are paved with gold.
And so am I, tonight. Your copper eyes
like miner's lamps, ignite me
and I lie beneath a city I know
because your name is in its heart."
Silence hung for a long, long time in the bedroom.
"Holy." It was almost too much to get the second syllable through his lips.
Mohinder sat on the bed again, handed the paper to him. "It... it started when I started thinking that your name is inside the word Manhattan, sort of, and..."
"Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait." Matt scrambled to him and goggled at the page in amazement. "You WROTE that?"
"I'd think that would be painfully obvious," Mohinder muttered, grabbing a pillow and burying his face in it.
"Oh my God. Oh my God." Matt snatched the pillow, cupped the back of Mohinder's neck and pulled his face in for a kiss. "Is there anything you can't do?" he said in a tone thick with wonder.
Mohinder gazed at him. Flushed face, sweet caramel eyes, strong shoulders, craned in toward him. For him. He felt tears, true tears of joy, thick in his throat. "Tell you how much I adore you, perhaps," he whispered.
Matt set the poem down and took Mohinder in his arms. "Then show me instead."
:end: