Fic: Fire In The Winter, [NC-17]
Feb. 8th, 2011 11:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
labyrinth2015Holiday Hangover Thing the Seventh: moar fic!
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clover71 made this lovely banner for the mpreg story I wrote for her in June, And Spring Became the Summer, and I'm woefully late in thanking her for her efforts! I have to say I'm kind of thrilled at the recent rash of mpreg in this fandom, and am unexpectedly excited about contributing this final chapter to that effort. This was originally intended as Christmas fic, but better late than never - Clover, I hope you enjoy!
Beta thanks to my dearbethbetter and indispensible cincodemaygirl, the latter of whom fortunately convinced me to spare you my squicky fertility metaphors! Warnings for magic realism pregnancy sex, wanton fire horse imagery, and birth.
And Spring Became the Summer | Between the Summer and the Fall | Fire in the Winter
Fire In the Winter
Cook/Archuleta, [NC-17], for magic realism pregnancy, sex and birth, 4,300+ words
After fall, it was time for the winter, and for their child to be born.
Not for profit fictional work. Title and lyrics from “Longer”, copyright Dan Fogelberg, as sung by Arch on Idol
The last few months passed them by in a slow watercolor haze. The fall season came and went, leaves turning from green to gold and then drifting down from the trees in Cook's home town of Blue Springs, one by spiraling one.
And after fall it was time for winter. The atmosphere cooled and thinned and the snows started to come, sweeping across the mountain ridges and the great lakes and finally building up in the winding roads of Utah, the northern state where David had been born.
It didn't get any cooler in temperate La Jolla though, where David got larger with their child: larger and hotter, and hotter under the collar.
One morning, Cook woke from a fever dream – where he was floating in clouds of smoke above a raging forest fire - to find David's swollen legs slung across him and David himself sweating in his sleep, still gripped deep in the heart of that shared dream. The stifling California dawn streamed through the window, pooled in the bedsheets like a lake of fire, and haloed them both in unapologetic light.
It was just too damn hot here. Cook wiped his brow and made an executive decision: he and David were moving back to Utah to have this baby.
Winter had transformed usually stoic, sensible Murray into an otherworldly kingdom: a fragile realm of snow and ice. Cook and David got off the plane to streets of silver and houses that had become fairytale cottages and towers hewn from crystal. The Archuleta house was lined with frost like something out of a storybook, and Lupe was on the doorstep waiting to clasp her boy in her arms.
"Merry Christmas, Mama," David said softly, and went to her. Cook stood some way off as a precaution against this surge of David's emotions, but he still found himself struggling with tears anyway.
In the run-up to Christmas, the Archuleta household was full of holiday excitement. Aunt Maria and Abuelita and a host of cousins whose names Cook could never remember were constantly in and out of the house, as well as friends from church and neighbors from the close-knit Murray community. Cook felt everything David felt, and the festive bustle was like flashing Christmas lights strung along their shared mindscape, the Archuleta siblings a pin-wheeling buzz of excitement that Cook shouldn't have been able to feel but couldn't block out.
Underneath everything, their baby was a little purple dream-cloud, simmering below their joint consciousness. Every so often she'd change position, and Cook could feel her sleepy movements beneath David's elastic skin.
Cook and David stayed with Lupe for two days before the household was rocked by a firestorm.
It happened at night. Cook had been dreaming of horses with tawny eyes and manes made of wildfire; they galloped across wintry plains with hooves that struck sparks from the rocky ground, leaving a flaming trail behind them. David was riding on the tallest horse, lean and athletic again and straddling the horse's bare back. In his arms, holding tightly to the horse's fiery neck, was a laughing little girl with hair as bright as the flames behind them.
"Daddy, look at the fire horses!" she shouted at him excitedly, and David smiled, his dark eyes reflecting the fire, and the horses thundered right up to him. Cook felt the heat singe his face and he wondered how his girl could laugh in the face of the searing flames –
– and he shuddered awake to rattling windows and the smell of Christmas pines burning, and his husband's sleep-thick voice saying, "Cook, I think I did something."
He had indeed: he'd done his best to set fire to their bed and the Archuleta Christmas tree.
Outside, in the Archuleta driveway, there were five wild palomino horses, tossing their heads and pawing the ground. When Cook and Lupe staggered outside to see what was causing the commotion they reared as one and whinnied loudly, and then galloped away off into the night.
Oops, David sent.
Cook called Dr. Chris and Kristine in California, trying not to sound too panicked. Dr. Chris got on the morning flight and was in Murray by lunchtime.
"He's just over-stimulated," she said, rolling up her seeing device. "It seems like you guys are baking up a real firecracker in there!"
"It runs in the family," Lupe said, a little sheepishly. "With my youngest, my ex-husband had had to keep me away from anything flammable."
Pyromaniac, Cook sent, slyly, and David pushed his arm.
Don't start with me, he sent back. I feel like I'm dying of heatstroke all the time, I'm as big as a house, and now our baby is, like, turning me into The Horse Whisperer!
”You heard the doc. The baby just wants some peace and quiet,” Cook said out loud, and David and Lupe sighed.
And so Cook made another executive decision. His agent found a remote mountain lodge in nearby Deer Valley, which came with a helipad and on-call medical attention, tucked away in the Utah mountain fastness like a well-kept secret.
Away from the bustle of festive Murray, David grew serene and calm. There were no more fire dreams or horse sightings. Cook scrambled the eggs his husband craved in the mornings, had Thai food driven in by the snow-truckload in the afternoons, and in the quiet evenings he played the hazy Beatles melodies on his guitar that the baby seemed to adore.
In the run-up to Christmas, Cook woke to find David’s stomach covered in striated marks that indicated their daughter was ready to emerge, but she remained stubbornly high in the womb and breech-presenting.
Dr. Chris shook her head at that week's check-up. "Sometimes the fruit drops from the vine when it's ready, and other times the fruit needs harvesting," she said. "If she doesn't come herself by Christmas, we're going to have to go in and get her."
Cook had to cover his eyes. David squeezed his hand. It's okay, he sent. She doesn't care how she gets here, as long as she gets here safe.
Cook inhaled deeply. We can do this. It was only two more weeks.
The day of Cook's 30th birthday David shook him frantically awake. The sheets were a tangled mess, David himself too-pale and shouting loudly enough to make Cook mind-deaf: Cook, I can't hear her, I can't wake her up!
Cook sat up and tried to struggle past the waves of David's flaring panic. The dreaming purple cloud-consciousness wasn't there. He prodded David's undulating belly, and, thank God and all the powers that were, he felt a sleepy responsive shove.
"It's okay," he murmured, then, it's okay, babe. Dr. Chris said this would happen, remember? It's the transition stage, it means she's gonna come soon.
David rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand. I'm sorry, he sent, shakily; I'm just so used to hearing her, I don't know what I'd do if she was gone... He had to stop, and Cook pulled him into his arms.
"She’s fine," he told his husband, as David sobbed against his shoulder. "I'll call Dr. Chris just to be sure."
Dr. Chris was with another patient and Cook ended up driving David to Valley General, where the ultra-seeing device did in fact show their baby breathing and sucking her thumb, her fingers and toes and everything intact.
"Still breech, though," the tech said cheerfully, and David and Cook groaned. They took the medivac back to the lodge. Worn out from the day’s exertions, David fell asleep against Cook’s shoulder while Cook looked out of the helicopter window and watched the sun set over the quiet mountains. He felt like the whole world was holding its breath and waiting with them.
On Christmas Eve Cook woke up and David wasn't giving off his usual radiator-like heat at Cook’s side. In fact, David wasn’t in bed at all. Their latticed window was wide open, and snowflakes were filling their room with arctic cold.
Cook was freezing and his toes felt numb; he couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to wake up and notice his husband was gone. The fleece cover on their bed was gone, too – David usually kicked it off in the middle of the night, but it wasn't on the floor.
Oh, fuck, Cook thought, and then, though it wouldn't do any good, sent, David, are you okay?
There was no reply, and Cook snatched up his robe and charged through the house hollering his husband's name.
The lodge was dark and empty. The front door, though, was cracked open: light and snow spilled in through the doorway. David's snow-boots lay still in the shoe rack by the door.
Oh, fuck, I am so not up for this, Cook thought as he flung the door wide.
On the doorstep, in the snow – just when he thought he couldn’t curse anymore, Cook saw the bare footprints, David's bare footprints, leading off into the forest.
Grimly, Cook shouldered into his parka, shoved on shoes, picked up a heavy duty flashlight, and took off into the dark after his runaway husband.
The woods were quiet and still and watched Cook as he ran. Above him, the midnight sky was becoming lighter and lighter, morning not far away. If he hadn’t been so worried, Cook might have felt like a prince in some cracked-out fairytale, following footprints like a cunning trail of breadcrumbs in a winding path. Snowflakes drifted down around him, a backdrop of confetti, covering him with white.
Cook didn't get very far into the forest before he saw a wild horse on the horizon, outlined against the lightening sky. He stopped for an instant, and the horse paused and looked pointedly at him before turning and galloping away.
In front of him the terrain dipped downwards. Cook pushed past a thick line of trees, his boot-heels digging into the snow...
... and there in the shallow bowl of earth and snow beneath the tree-line was David Archuleta, barefoot and fast asleep. The fleecy bedcover was spread underneath him like feathers, as if he was being embraced by angel’s wings.
Cook breathed out, shaky with relief. He wasn't sure if he should wake David; he knew you shouldn't startle sleepwalkers, and this probably qualified. He settled for turning off the flashlight, getting carefully onto the blanket behind David, and putting his arms around his pajama-clad spouse.
David was unnaturally hot, his skin underneath his cotton pajamas almost feverish. Holding him was like holding something that might burst into flame at any moment. Gingerly Cook put his lips against David’s temple and very gently sent, Hey, it's me...
Cook felt David's mind start to rise slowly through thick layers of sleep towards consciousness. His rousing thoughts were hot as well, surrounding Cook with a haze of red and yellow like a supercharged heat sink.
Yawning, he sent, ...Cook, I've been having the most amazing dream. We were in this awesome place, like sailing on clouds, just the two of us...
That's fantastic, Cook sent, cautiously, and David turned drowsily in his arms and kissed him.
David's mouth was hot and sweet; still half-asleep, he sucked on Cook's tongue and wound his arms around Cook's neck. Suddenly Cook didn't feel the cold any more.
"I don't think this is such a good idea," Cook tried to say, but David kept kissing him anyway, slowly at first and then more deeply as he moved to full wakefulness, his arousal growing in their shared mind space, an insistent red-yellow that took Cook's breath away along with much of his ability to think. David moved his hips against Cook’s, and through the thin material of David's pajama pants Cook could feel exactly how turned on David was becoming.
David hadn't been in the mood for sex in the last couple of uncomfortable months and Cook hadn't felt much up to it either. Now, though, the realization of just how long it had been made Cook groan out loud.
"Come on, Cook," David whispered, and of course Cook couldn’t deny him anything, especially not now and not this. He struggled out of his parka and undid the ties on David's sleep pants before taking David's heavy length in hand.
"Oh yes," David said breathlessly, arching back against the blanket. Cook rolled over carefully and settled against David's side, stroking his husband with the slow, full-handed movements he knew would make David unravel. He rubbed his thumb over the wet, round head of David's cock and grinned to hear his husband murmur and moan and send yes, oh yes.
You're so gorgeous, Cook sent back, an understatement of how David looked in this moment, with his lush mouth parted and his head thrown back in a wanton arc. Snowflakes scattered like diamonds in his dark hair and his eyelashes, evaporating off his curving skin.
Cook was reaching into his own pants when David sent, urgently, No, I want you inside me, and he caught hold of Cook's hand and laced his fingers around Cook's painful, leaking dick.
Babe, you don't know how badly I want to, but I don't think, Cook moaned; David forestalled this by squeezing him gently and biting his lower lip.
Don't want you to think, I want you to do it, he sent back; Maybe like this; and he let go and turned onto his side in invitation. His pajama top had risen up over the fine bones of his spine and the bottoms had rucked under the globes of his perfect ass, and Cook felt his vision almost white out from want.
"Oh, fuck," Cook said, helplessly; "Hush," David muttered, as if their child could hear him, "but yeah, that's the idea, c'mon."
Shaking, as if his limbs didn’t belong to him and at the same time as if he’d never been more fully himself, Cook kicked himself free of his sleep pants and took hold of David's bare hips and spread him, and pushed slow and slick into his husband's body.
David opened up sweetly, easily, like he always did, taking Cook so deep it made him gasp. It was even hotter inside David than on the surface of his skin. Cook was intimately familiar with David’s body, had spent hours and days exploring every perfect inch of it, but today it felt like the first time, with everything fast and frantic and brand new. He groaned when he bottomed out - it was too much, David was so hot and so heedlessly, recklessly open to him, mind as well as body, and Cook’s own shields fell away into thin air.
There was no self-control any more, no more self, either: filling all of David and being filled by him in every way. There was nothing else except for their passionate rhythm and this morning and the wide world. The sun was rising and they rose up to meet it, hurtling towards the sky; they fell and flew and they were all the seasons one after another, and as the dawn broke over the tree-line they flared alight and came and came together.
Time stood still for them. The snowfall slowed to a stop, and the quicksilver rays of light drew out between the moments, until gradually they had to separate, to drift in the afterglow back to the shores of themselves.
Cook opened his eyes, blinking and dazzled, to the clear Utah morning. The sun made little spots across his vision; he had to rub his wet face with shaking hands.
David hefted himself slowly into a sitting position and stared out into the valley, bright with snow. He was silent for a long moment. Then, tentatively, over his shoulder, he asked, "Um, should I ask what we're doing out here?"
"You tell me, Archuleta. This romp in the snow was all you. I just followed your lead."
David turned around to look at him. He looked a lot less freaked out than Cook thought he'd be, though Cook supposed it was hard to be freaked out while still boneless from a post-orgasm high. "That's pretty weird," he said, "but, I don’t know, also kind of hot that I unconsciously lured you out here and had my way with you?"
Cook had to laugh. It was unbelievable, and unbelievably hot. "The doc didn't say anything about unconscious seduction, but somehow I don't mind. Let's get you back inside, okay?"
Sure. I’m actually cold, now! sent David, demurely. This was, of course, the signal for Cook to bundle his barefoot husband in the blanket and, with the remnants of superhuman fire, to carry David carefully indoors.
They both headed back to bed, where they slept deeply in each other's arms.
In the afternoon they checked in with Dr. Chris, and spent some time on the seeing-phone with their families. Thanks to online shopping and the wonders of Fedex, Christmas presents had been exchanged. The hastily assembled tree in their living room had quite the stash of gifts underneath, 95 percent of which seemed to be for the baby.
As they sat down to their catered turkey dinner, David said, quite calmly, "Cook, this so isn't the best time, but I think she's coming."
Cook froze. He reached for David's hand, but he didn't seem to be able to focus his thoughts enough to send anything or hear anything. Funny thing, he was having problems with his tongue, too.
Finally, he said, "Are you sure?"
David tried to say something, but he was drowned out by loud whinnying sounds coming from outside.
"I take it that's a yes. Okay, okay, let's do this," and, like he'd rehearsed several times over in his head, Cook put in the call, threw clothes haphazardly into an overnight bag, and half an hour later the medivac helicopter arrived.
"Weirdest thing ever, there are five wild horses at your gate," the paramedic said.
"Apparently it’s a family talent," Cook said as they lifted David into the chopper.
"Always a first time for everything," the paramedic muttered, and they took off into the evening. The sun was setting, casting shadows across the plain in front of the lodge where there was indeed a semicircle of horses at the main gate. Their flanks shone red and gold in the sunset against the snow.
David made a small sound. Cook put his arms around him and pressed their foreheads together. Finally he heard the rushing, urgent flood of purple and felt their daughter's fire rise up.
Hold on, he sent, to both of them.
It took a while to prep David for surgery. The baby was still breech, "— and she's coming, all right," the tech said, grimly. "Your OB's on her way but I think you'd better get ready, just in case."
David gripped Cook's hand; his knuckles were white. "Okay," he said, calmly enough, but he wasn't fooling Cook. Cook felt everything David felt, the pain and the panic, and it was enough to make an expectant co-parent want to hit something or to climb the walls.
"I think I'd like a spinal," David whispered to the on-call anesthesiologist when he arrived.
"That's what your OB ordered," the anesthesiologist said, as the nurses started to wheel in various IVs and a large seeing screen. "How are you doing with the pain?"
"Not too bad," David said, weakly. "The spinal's actually for Cook," and Cook realized he was indeed kind of weaving on his feet.
The anesthesiologist glanced at Cook. "If you're the kind of husband that faints in the delivery room, it might be a good idea if you went outside," he said, pointedly.
Cook took hold of himself. "No need, no need. I'm good, blocks up," he muttered, and then he deliberately shoved them into place like Kristine had taught them, green and gold in his mindscape like textbook guardian walls.
But there could be no shielding from his husband's red, flaring pain and their daughter's imminent arrival, making his world shiver around its edges like it was being remade around the three of them.
I'm here, I'm not gonna faint, I promise, he sent, as David lay on his side and closed his eyes as the needle went in. Blocks or no blocks, Cook had to close his eyes too, and could only open them when David was moved onto his back again. The meds took hold in a couple of heartbeats, and as one Cook and David relaxed in relief.
Good job, David sent, faintly, and Cook rolled his eyes.
I see you practicing on me, Archuleta. “Good job,” it's something you tell the baby when she burps on command or goes No. 2 in her diaper.
Gosh, someone's sensitive, David sent, but he was smiling, and Cook ran his fingers over his husband's lips.
Sorry, he sent meekly. It's been that kind of day, I'm doing what I can to hang on.
David kissed Cook's fingertips. Just a little longer, he sent, and Dr. Chris burst into the room in her purple scrubs as energetically as if she was bringing the California sun with her.
"Right," she said, "let's go." She peered at the seeing screen. "And it looks like we’re not a moment too soon, either! Cook, you're coming with, aren't you?"
Cook swallowed. "Anywhere," he said, and let the nurses tie him into a sterile, purple hooded robe that looked like it was made of tissue paper. They let him hold David's hand as they wheeled him into the theater.
The theater's walls were a soft, comforting blue, and the curve of the domed ceiling echoed the curve of David's abdomen. There were serene images projected on the ceiling screen, dolphins and rolling waves and the surf at sunset, intended to calm surgical patients who were awake like David was. Cook found the images worked on him as well and were a welcome distraction from the surgical screens raised across David's chest and the activity on the other side of it.
Let's breathe deeply? Cook sent, like he knew what he was doing; they practiced the classical breathing for a while and watched the picture of gazelles running gracefully across the ceiling.
Then the safari scene melted away to white horses galloping across a beach, and they both heard their daughter let out a staggering mental howl like she was struggling to be free.
Oh, David sent faintly, I think she's stuck; there was a weakness to his mind-voice that Cook hadn't heard before, and Cook felt his world pitch under his feet.
Dr. Chris said, calmly, "Cook, are you still with us? Might be a good time to try a song."
Cook wasn't sure it was at all a good time to attempt any of the stupid birthing tricks they'd practised. He was horribly afraid and wanted to collapse and to smash his fist through the wall at the same time. But he took a deep, centering breath and tried to gather up everything he had, and – the one thing he was good for, the one thing he was good at – he started to sing.
The song David had fixed on was "Longer," which he'd sung on Final Three week on Idol. Cook had always thought it was the sappiest song in the universe, but now, singing for his spouse and his child, he finally understood.
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you
I'll bring fire in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings
At the fourth line, he heard David's thoughts steady, and on the second chorus David joined him, his voice melodious and clear and like nobody else’s on the planet.
And at the end of the third verse, they heard another voice: a high, wordless cry – the sweetest sound, as their daughter was born into the world.
"Congratulations," said Dr. Chris, and she wiped and wrapped and placed a small, pink bundle on David's chest.
They peered at their baby and she peered back. Her eyes were dark, her skin petal-soft. There was a red mark on her cheek: some surgical implement used in freeing her from David's womb had left a cut shaped like a tiny horseshoe. Cook wasn't sure if it would heal cleanly or if she’d always wear it like a brand, to mark her first moments on Earth.
She had dark red hair like Cook's. Cook stroked it with his fingertips, and heard her first tiny conscious cloud-thoughts of wonder and waking.
Caroline Elisabeth, he sent: for his mom, and the Neil Diamond song that David adored. He wasn't sure how it was possible to be filled with so much love for one tiny person.
Then he looked back up at David, and he knew.
"Merry Christmas," David said softly. There were dark circles under his eyes and he'd never looked more beautiful.
It was the best gift anyone could have given them: a lifetime of seasons, and of love. Cook found himself crying and crying, ridiculously, holding his husband and their child close, as the horses ran across the ceiling and the winter snow fell outside, as if tonight the whole world was giving up its treasure.
The baby yawned. In the spring she'd learn to suck her toes, in the fall, to walk, and to hug her Daddy when he cried and couldn’t stop.
Maybe next winter, the wild horses would come down from the mountains to pay homage, and she’d want David to try to teach her to ride.
Cook absolutely couldn't wait.
/end
This entry was originally posted on dreamwidth; you can choose to read it there.
clover71 made this lovely banner for the mpreg story I wrote for her in June, And Spring Became the Summer, and I'm woefully late in thanking her for her efforts! I have to say I'm kind of thrilled at the recent rash of mpreg in this fandom, and am unexpectedly excited about contributing this final chapter to that effort. This was originally intended as Christmas fic, but better late than never - Clover, I hope you enjoy!Beta thanks to my dear
bethbetter and indispensible cincodemaygirl, the latter of whom fortunately convinced me to spare you my squicky fertility metaphors! Warnings for magic realism pregnancy sex, wanton fire horse imagery, and birth.And Spring Became the Summer | Between the Summer and the Fall | Fire in the Winter
Fire In the Winter
Cook/Archuleta, [NC-17], for magic realism pregnancy, sex and birth, 4,300+ words
After fall, it was time for the winter, and for their child to be born.
Not for profit fictional work. Title and lyrics from “Longer”, copyright Dan Fogelberg, as sung by Arch on Idol
The last few months passed them by in a slow watercolor haze. The fall season came and went, leaves turning from green to gold and then drifting down from the trees in Cook's home town of Blue Springs, one by spiraling one.
And after fall it was time for winter. The atmosphere cooled and thinned and the snows started to come, sweeping across the mountain ridges and the great lakes and finally building up in the winding roads of Utah, the northern state where David had been born.
It didn't get any cooler in temperate La Jolla though, where David got larger with their child: larger and hotter, and hotter under the collar.
One morning, Cook woke from a fever dream – where he was floating in clouds of smoke above a raging forest fire - to find David's swollen legs slung across him and David himself sweating in his sleep, still gripped deep in the heart of that shared dream. The stifling California dawn streamed through the window, pooled in the bedsheets like a lake of fire, and haloed them both in unapologetic light.
It was just too damn hot here. Cook wiped his brow and made an executive decision: he and David were moving back to Utah to have this baby.
Winter had transformed usually stoic, sensible Murray into an otherworldly kingdom: a fragile realm of snow and ice. Cook and David got off the plane to streets of silver and houses that had become fairytale cottages and towers hewn from crystal. The Archuleta house was lined with frost like something out of a storybook, and Lupe was on the doorstep waiting to clasp her boy in her arms.
"Merry Christmas, Mama," David said softly, and went to her. Cook stood some way off as a precaution against this surge of David's emotions, but he still found himself struggling with tears anyway.
In the run-up to Christmas, the Archuleta household was full of holiday excitement. Aunt Maria and Abuelita and a host of cousins whose names Cook could never remember were constantly in and out of the house, as well as friends from church and neighbors from the close-knit Murray community. Cook felt everything David felt, and the festive bustle was like flashing Christmas lights strung along their shared mindscape, the Archuleta siblings a pin-wheeling buzz of excitement that Cook shouldn't have been able to feel but couldn't block out.
Underneath everything, their baby was a little purple dream-cloud, simmering below their joint consciousness. Every so often she'd change position, and Cook could feel her sleepy movements beneath David's elastic skin.
Cook and David stayed with Lupe for two days before the household was rocked by a firestorm.
It happened at night. Cook had been dreaming of horses with tawny eyes and manes made of wildfire; they galloped across wintry plains with hooves that struck sparks from the rocky ground, leaving a flaming trail behind them. David was riding on the tallest horse, lean and athletic again and straddling the horse's bare back. In his arms, holding tightly to the horse's fiery neck, was a laughing little girl with hair as bright as the flames behind them.
"Daddy, look at the fire horses!" she shouted at him excitedly, and David smiled, his dark eyes reflecting the fire, and the horses thundered right up to him. Cook felt the heat singe his face and he wondered how his girl could laugh in the face of the searing flames –
– and he shuddered awake to rattling windows and the smell of Christmas pines burning, and his husband's sleep-thick voice saying, "Cook, I think I did something."
He had indeed: he'd done his best to set fire to their bed and the Archuleta Christmas tree.
Outside, in the Archuleta driveway, there were five wild palomino horses, tossing their heads and pawing the ground. When Cook and Lupe staggered outside to see what was causing the commotion they reared as one and whinnied loudly, and then galloped away off into the night.
Oops, David sent.
Cook called Dr. Chris and Kristine in California, trying not to sound too panicked. Dr. Chris got on the morning flight and was in Murray by lunchtime.
"He's just over-stimulated," she said, rolling up her seeing device. "It seems like you guys are baking up a real firecracker in there!"
"It runs in the family," Lupe said, a little sheepishly. "With my youngest, my ex-husband had had to keep me away from anything flammable."
Pyromaniac, Cook sent, slyly, and David pushed his arm.
Don't start with me, he sent back. I feel like I'm dying of heatstroke all the time, I'm as big as a house, and now our baby is, like, turning me into The Horse Whisperer!
”You heard the doc. The baby just wants some peace and quiet,” Cook said out loud, and David and Lupe sighed.
And so Cook made another executive decision. His agent found a remote mountain lodge in nearby Deer Valley, which came with a helipad and on-call medical attention, tucked away in the Utah mountain fastness like a well-kept secret.
Away from the bustle of festive Murray, David grew serene and calm. There were no more fire dreams or horse sightings. Cook scrambled the eggs his husband craved in the mornings, had Thai food driven in by the snow-truckload in the afternoons, and in the quiet evenings he played the hazy Beatles melodies on his guitar that the baby seemed to adore.
In the run-up to Christmas, Cook woke to find David’s stomach covered in striated marks that indicated their daughter was ready to emerge, but she remained stubbornly high in the womb and breech-presenting.
Dr. Chris shook her head at that week's check-up. "Sometimes the fruit drops from the vine when it's ready, and other times the fruit needs harvesting," she said. "If she doesn't come herself by Christmas, we're going to have to go in and get her."
Cook had to cover his eyes. David squeezed his hand. It's okay, he sent. She doesn't care how she gets here, as long as she gets here safe.
Cook inhaled deeply. We can do this. It was only two more weeks.
The day of Cook's 30th birthday David shook him frantically awake. The sheets were a tangled mess, David himself too-pale and shouting loudly enough to make Cook mind-deaf: Cook, I can't hear her, I can't wake her up!
Cook sat up and tried to struggle past the waves of David's flaring panic. The dreaming purple cloud-consciousness wasn't there. He prodded David's undulating belly, and, thank God and all the powers that were, he felt a sleepy responsive shove.
"It's okay," he murmured, then, it's okay, babe. Dr. Chris said this would happen, remember? It's the transition stage, it means she's gonna come soon.
David rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand. I'm sorry, he sent, shakily; I'm just so used to hearing her, I don't know what I'd do if she was gone... He had to stop, and Cook pulled him into his arms.
"She’s fine," he told his husband, as David sobbed against his shoulder. "I'll call Dr. Chris just to be sure."
Dr. Chris was with another patient and Cook ended up driving David to Valley General, where the ultra-seeing device did in fact show their baby breathing and sucking her thumb, her fingers and toes and everything intact.
"Still breech, though," the tech said cheerfully, and David and Cook groaned. They took the medivac back to the lodge. Worn out from the day’s exertions, David fell asleep against Cook’s shoulder while Cook looked out of the helicopter window and watched the sun set over the quiet mountains. He felt like the whole world was holding its breath and waiting with them.
On Christmas Eve Cook woke up and David wasn't giving off his usual radiator-like heat at Cook’s side. In fact, David wasn’t in bed at all. Their latticed window was wide open, and snowflakes were filling their room with arctic cold.
Cook was freezing and his toes felt numb; he couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to wake up and notice his husband was gone. The fleece cover on their bed was gone, too – David usually kicked it off in the middle of the night, but it wasn't on the floor.
Oh, fuck, Cook thought, and then, though it wouldn't do any good, sent, David, are you okay?
There was no reply, and Cook snatched up his robe and charged through the house hollering his husband's name.
The lodge was dark and empty. The front door, though, was cracked open: light and snow spilled in through the doorway. David's snow-boots lay still in the shoe rack by the door.
Oh, fuck, I am so not up for this, Cook thought as he flung the door wide.
On the doorstep, in the snow – just when he thought he couldn’t curse anymore, Cook saw the bare footprints, David's bare footprints, leading off into the forest.
Grimly, Cook shouldered into his parka, shoved on shoes, picked up a heavy duty flashlight, and took off into the dark after his runaway husband.
The woods were quiet and still and watched Cook as he ran. Above him, the midnight sky was becoming lighter and lighter, morning not far away. If he hadn’t been so worried, Cook might have felt like a prince in some cracked-out fairytale, following footprints like a cunning trail of breadcrumbs in a winding path. Snowflakes drifted down around him, a backdrop of confetti, covering him with white.
Cook didn't get very far into the forest before he saw a wild horse on the horizon, outlined against the lightening sky. He stopped for an instant, and the horse paused and looked pointedly at him before turning and galloping away.
In front of him the terrain dipped downwards. Cook pushed past a thick line of trees, his boot-heels digging into the snow...
... and there in the shallow bowl of earth and snow beneath the tree-line was David Archuleta, barefoot and fast asleep. The fleecy bedcover was spread underneath him like feathers, as if he was being embraced by angel’s wings.
Cook breathed out, shaky with relief. He wasn't sure if he should wake David; he knew you shouldn't startle sleepwalkers, and this probably qualified. He settled for turning off the flashlight, getting carefully onto the blanket behind David, and putting his arms around his pajama-clad spouse.
David was unnaturally hot, his skin underneath his cotton pajamas almost feverish. Holding him was like holding something that might burst into flame at any moment. Gingerly Cook put his lips against David’s temple and very gently sent, Hey, it's me...
Cook felt David's mind start to rise slowly through thick layers of sleep towards consciousness. His rousing thoughts were hot as well, surrounding Cook with a haze of red and yellow like a supercharged heat sink.
Yawning, he sent, ...Cook, I've been having the most amazing dream. We were in this awesome place, like sailing on clouds, just the two of us...
That's fantastic, Cook sent, cautiously, and David turned drowsily in his arms and kissed him.
David's mouth was hot and sweet; still half-asleep, he sucked on Cook's tongue and wound his arms around Cook's neck. Suddenly Cook didn't feel the cold any more.
"I don't think this is such a good idea," Cook tried to say, but David kept kissing him anyway, slowly at first and then more deeply as he moved to full wakefulness, his arousal growing in their shared mind space, an insistent red-yellow that took Cook's breath away along with much of his ability to think. David moved his hips against Cook’s, and through the thin material of David's pajama pants Cook could feel exactly how turned on David was becoming.
David hadn't been in the mood for sex in the last couple of uncomfortable months and Cook hadn't felt much up to it either. Now, though, the realization of just how long it had been made Cook groan out loud.
"Come on, Cook," David whispered, and of course Cook couldn’t deny him anything, especially not now and not this. He struggled out of his parka and undid the ties on David's sleep pants before taking David's heavy length in hand.
"Oh yes," David said breathlessly, arching back against the blanket. Cook rolled over carefully and settled against David's side, stroking his husband with the slow, full-handed movements he knew would make David unravel. He rubbed his thumb over the wet, round head of David's cock and grinned to hear his husband murmur and moan and send yes, oh yes.
You're so gorgeous, Cook sent back, an understatement of how David looked in this moment, with his lush mouth parted and his head thrown back in a wanton arc. Snowflakes scattered like diamonds in his dark hair and his eyelashes, evaporating off his curving skin.
Cook was reaching into his own pants when David sent, urgently, No, I want you inside me, and he caught hold of Cook's hand and laced his fingers around Cook's painful, leaking dick.
Babe, you don't know how badly I want to, but I don't think, Cook moaned; David forestalled this by squeezing him gently and biting his lower lip.
Don't want you to think, I want you to do it, he sent back; Maybe like this; and he let go and turned onto his side in invitation. His pajama top had risen up over the fine bones of his spine and the bottoms had rucked under the globes of his perfect ass, and Cook felt his vision almost white out from want.
"Oh, fuck," Cook said, helplessly; "Hush," David muttered, as if their child could hear him, "but yeah, that's the idea, c'mon."
Shaking, as if his limbs didn’t belong to him and at the same time as if he’d never been more fully himself, Cook kicked himself free of his sleep pants and took hold of David's bare hips and spread him, and pushed slow and slick into his husband's body.
David opened up sweetly, easily, like he always did, taking Cook so deep it made him gasp. It was even hotter inside David than on the surface of his skin. Cook was intimately familiar with David’s body, had spent hours and days exploring every perfect inch of it, but today it felt like the first time, with everything fast and frantic and brand new. He groaned when he bottomed out - it was too much, David was so hot and so heedlessly, recklessly open to him, mind as well as body, and Cook’s own shields fell away into thin air.
There was no self-control any more, no more self, either: filling all of David and being filled by him in every way. There was nothing else except for their passionate rhythm and this morning and the wide world. The sun was rising and they rose up to meet it, hurtling towards the sky; they fell and flew and they were all the seasons one after another, and as the dawn broke over the tree-line they flared alight and came and came together.
Time stood still for them. The snowfall slowed to a stop, and the quicksilver rays of light drew out between the moments, until gradually they had to separate, to drift in the afterglow back to the shores of themselves.
Cook opened his eyes, blinking and dazzled, to the clear Utah morning. The sun made little spots across his vision; he had to rub his wet face with shaking hands.
David hefted himself slowly into a sitting position and stared out into the valley, bright with snow. He was silent for a long moment. Then, tentatively, over his shoulder, he asked, "Um, should I ask what we're doing out here?"
"You tell me, Archuleta. This romp in the snow was all you. I just followed your lead."
David turned around to look at him. He looked a lot less freaked out than Cook thought he'd be, though Cook supposed it was hard to be freaked out while still boneless from a post-orgasm high. "That's pretty weird," he said, "but, I don’t know, also kind of hot that I unconsciously lured you out here and had my way with you?"
Cook had to laugh. It was unbelievable, and unbelievably hot. "The doc didn't say anything about unconscious seduction, but somehow I don't mind. Let's get you back inside, okay?"
Sure. I’m actually cold, now! sent David, demurely. This was, of course, the signal for Cook to bundle his barefoot husband in the blanket and, with the remnants of superhuman fire, to carry David carefully indoors.
They both headed back to bed, where they slept deeply in each other's arms.
In the afternoon they checked in with Dr. Chris, and spent some time on the seeing-phone with their families. Thanks to online shopping and the wonders of Fedex, Christmas presents had been exchanged. The hastily assembled tree in their living room had quite the stash of gifts underneath, 95 percent of which seemed to be for the baby.
As they sat down to their catered turkey dinner, David said, quite calmly, "Cook, this so isn't the best time, but I think she's coming."
Cook froze. He reached for David's hand, but he didn't seem to be able to focus his thoughts enough to send anything or hear anything. Funny thing, he was having problems with his tongue, too.
Finally, he said, "Are you sure?"
David tried to say something, but he was drowned out by loud whinnying sounds coming from outside.
"I take it that's a yes. Okay, okay, let's do this," and, like he'd rehearsed several times over in his head, Cook put in the call, threw clothes haphazardly into an overnight bag, and half an hour later the medivac helicopter arrived.
"Weirdest thing ever, there are five wild horses at your gate," the paramedic said.
"Apparently it’s a family talent," Cook said as they lifted David into the chopper.
"Always a first time for everything," the paramedic muttered, and they took off into the evening. The sun was setting, casting shadows across the plain in front of the lodge where there was indeed a semicircle of horses at the main gate. Their flanks shone red and gold in the sunset against the snow.
David made a small sound. Cook put his arms around him and pressed their foreheads together. Finally he heard the rushing, urgent flood of purple and felt their daughter's fire rise up.
Hold on, he sent, to both of them.
It took a while to prep David for surgery. The baby was still breech, "— and she's coming, all right," the tech said, grimly. "Your OB's on her way but I think you'd better get ready, just in case."
David gripped Cook's hand; his knuckles were white. "Okay," he said, calmly enough, but he wasn't fooling Cook. Cook felt everything David felt, the pain and the panic, and it was enough to make an expectant co-parent want to hit something or to climb the walls.
"I think I'd like a spinal," David whispered to the on-call anesthesiologist when he arrived.
"That's what your OB ordered," the anesthesiologist said, as the nurses started to wheel in various IVs and a large seeing screen. "How are you doing with the pain?"
"Not too bad," David said, weakly. "The spinal's actually for Cook," and Cook realized he was indeed kind of weaving on his feet.
The anesthesiologist glanced at Cook. "If you're the kind of husband that faints in the delivery room, it might be a good idea if you went outside," he said, pointedly.
Cook took hold of himself. "No need, no need. I'm good, blocks up," he muttered, and then he deliberately shoved them into place like Kristine had taught them, green and gold in his mindscape like textbook guardian walls.
But there could be no shielding from his husband's red, flaring pain and their daughter's imminent arrival, making his world shiver around its edges like it was being remade around the three of them.
I'm here, I'm not gonna faint, I promise, he sent, as David lay on his side and closed his eyes as the needle went in. Blocks or no blocks, Cook had to close his eyes too, and could only open them when David was moved onto his back again. The meds took hold in a couple of heartbeats, and as one Cook and David relaxed in relief.
Good job, David sent, faintly, and Cook rolled his eyes.
I see you practicing on me, Archuleta. “Good job,” it's something you tell the baby when she burps on command or goes No. 2 in her diaper.
Gosh, someone's sensitive, David sent, but he was smiling, and Cook ran his fingers over his husband's lips.
Sorry, he sent meekly. It's been that kind of day, I'm doing what I can to hang on.
David kissed Cook's fingertips. Just a little longer, he sent, and Dr. Chris burst into the room in her purple scrubs as energetically as if she was bringing the California sun with her.
"Right," she said, "let's go." She peered at the seeing screen. "And it looks like we’re not a moment too soon, either! Cook, you're coming with, aren't you?"
Cook swallowed. "Anywhere," he said, and let the nurses tie him into a sterile, purple hooded robe that looked like it was made of tissue paper. They let him hold David's hand as they wheeled him into the theater.
The theater's walls were a soft, comforting blue, and the curve of the domed ceiling echoed the curve of David's abdomen. There were serene images projected on the ceiling screen, dolphins and rolling waves and the surf at sunset, intended to calm surgical patients who were awake like David was. Cook found the images worked on him as well and were a welcome distraction from the surgical screens raised across David's chest and the activity on the other side of it.
Let's breathe deeply? Cook sent, like he knew what he was doing; they practiced the classical breathing for a while and watched the picture of gazelles running gracefully across the ceiling.
Then the safari scene melted away to white horses galloping across a beach, and they both heard their daughter let out a staggering mental howl like she was struggling to be free.
Oh, David sent faintly, I think she's stuck; there was a weakness to his mind-voice that Cook hadn't heard before, and Cook felt his world pitch under his feet.
Dr. Chris said, calmly, "Cook, are you still with us? Might be a good time to try a song."
Cook wasn't sure it was at all a good time to attempt any of the stupid birthing tricks they'd practised. He was horribly afraid and wanted to collapse and to smash his fist through the wall at the same time. But he took a deep, centering breath and tried to gather up everything he had, and – the one thing he was good for, the one thing he was good at – he started to sing.
The song David had fixed on was "Longer," which he'd sung on Final Three week on Idol. Cook had always thought it was the sappiest song in the universe, but now, singing for his spouse and his child, he finally understood.
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you
I'll bring fire in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings
At the fourth line, he heard David's thoughts steady, and on the second chorus David joined him, his voice melodious and clear and like nobody else’s on the planet.
And at the end of the third verse, they heard another voice: a high, wordless cry – the sweetest sound, as their daughter was born into the world.
"Congratulations," said Dr. Chris, and she wiped and wrapped and placed a small, pink bundle on David's chest.
They peered at their baby and she peered back. Her eyes were dark, her skin petal-soft. There was a red mark on her cheek: some surgical implement used in freeing her from David's womb had left a cut shaped like a tiny horseshoe. Cook wasn't sure if it would heal cleanly or if she’d always wear it like a brand, to mark her first moments on Earth.
She had dark red hair like Cook's. Cook stroked it with his fingertips, and heard her first tiny conscious cloud-thoughts of wonder and waking.
Caroline Elisabeth, he sent: for his mom, and the Neil Diamond song that David adored. He wasn't sure how it was possible to be filled with so much love for one tiny person.
Then he looked back up at David, and he knew.
"Merry Christmas," David said softly. There were dark circles under his eyes and he'd never looked more beautiful.
It was the best gift anyone could have given them: a lifetime of seasons, and of love. Cook found himself crying and crying, ridiculously, holding his husband and their child close, as the horses ran across the ceiling and the winter snow fell outside, as if tonight the whole world was giving up its treasure.
The baby yawned. In the spring she'd learn to suck her toes, in the fall, to walk, and to hug her Daddy when he cried and couldn’t stop.
Maybe next winter, the wild horses would come down from the mountains to pay homage, and she’d want David to try to teach her to ride.
Cook absolutely couldn't wait.
/end
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