Scotch Pine
It was late.
The outside barren. Bare. And white. Nothing of summer, or even autumn, remained. All a memory. All waiting to happen again.
All in respite.
Out there, the glitter-glistening icicles, like recently-invited guests, hung from the black-shingled edges of the house, while the trees, undressed, stood silently, solemnly, waiting and watching (as nature's true sentinels do).
Inside, strung, colored lights, on an upward climb around the Scotch pine that was serving, handsomely, as their Christmas tree, cast a dozy, cheery glow into the living room. Over the faded, chipped, rust-red bricks of the fireplace, and over the wooly stockings (two big and one little, for the parents and the baby) that were hung there. Shades of orange, pink, red, blue, and green, of course, washing (in luminosity) the drying pine-needles, softening their quick-scented sharpness. Illuminating the antique, wooden jumping jack ornaments, and the lingering pine cones, and the homemade, sewn-together decorations, as well as the few packages that, wrapped all prettily, sat humbly on the tree skirt, on the floor, their dedications revealing their recipients.
('To my darling Adelaide,' and, 'For Field, my love,' declared the presents, in their marker-written words. And on the name 'Adelaide,' Field had drawn two little wings coming out of the sides of the 'A.' While she, not to be outdone, had drawn a long, snaky line extending from the 'F' in Field, representing his tail.)
Outside, indeed, it was dim; long since dark, but the totality of twilight being softened by a full moon. The ground lightly dusted with snow, which reflected all that pale moonlight. And the air with a temperature of twenty-eight. (And more snow to come, maybe.) It was an unpolluted, countryside night, befitting of a December. Where you could see the barn from the house. And, oh, that cheeky chill would insist, wouldn't it, on hovering just outside the windows (with the electric candles perched in every inside sill).
Inside, the nativity scene was set up in the kitchen, on the Hoosier cabinet, depicting of Christ, of Hope, the humble birth of their salvation. And the corn stove was on, whirring in that soft, mechanical way (as it did), huffing out heated air into the old farmhouse, warming its creaky joints and crevices.
And an open, ninety-nine cent cardboard box of big candy canes rested, at an angle, on the coffee table. With several empty spots in it.
And the winged, pink-furred bat and shy, honey-tan mouse were sinking into the soft, blue cushions of the 'big-enough-for-two' couch. Half-bare and half-drowsy, and roasting in the perfect warmth of each other's fur and form. And the warmth, as well, of this settling, silent night.
"That's your last one, okay?" Adelaide whispered, her fingers gently on his forehead. Gently scratching through his fur with her blunted claws. A bit. And a bit more. And then gently sliding her fingers to his ears. He loved when she gave attention to his ears. And she found she liked to give it. They were cute, after all. Sometimes, she just had the urge to mess with them, if only to make sure they were really real.
Field, eyes closed, head in her lap, nodded weakly. Making for a slight rustle-rustle sound. "Okay," he whispered. The words somewhat muffled. The long end of a candy cane in his muzzle. His paw holding to the curved 'hook' of it. Sometimes, his sucking of the candy cane being noisy. At other times, soft. But, regardless, he was enjoying the thing. Doing his best (as his rodent instinct for cleanliness dictated) to keep from getting his paws sticky.
"I don't want you getting hyped up. That's your third one." Or was it his fourth? She'd lost track.
"I like peppermint," was the mouse's airy, little excuse. In his wispy voice. Which, when he whispered (as he was doing), made him to sound even more effeminate than he already was. "I like candy canes. I like ... peppermint," he repeated, feeling his ears getting hotter. Feeling the blood starting to go there. His heart picked up its pace. Just a bit.
"And I like mouses who aren't sugar-scurrying up walls," was Adelaide's smiling response. Going tenderly, still, with his ears. Relaxing him (in a manner of speaking, anyway). "It's late. It's dark. It's cold." A pause. And a breath. "And I don't wanna have to be chasin' you," she said, "from room to room."
"You won't have to chase me," he insisted lightly.
"No?" she prodded.
"No," he said, giving another suck-suck of the sweet, red and white-striped candy cane. The red stripes fading a bit. From where he licked them off. From where his tongue had worn them away. "Anyway, you got wings, so if I was scurryin' up walls, you could be flyin' me down."
"I could be, huh?" A tender smile. Oh, goodness, he was so innocent. So wide-eyed. How did mouses do this? How did they melt your heart like he was doing? Just by laying there and sucking on a candy cane, in his sprawled, half-dressed way. She was going to overdose on 'cuteness.' I'm going to overdose, she thought. But then she came to realize: you can't overdose on mouses. They're like water-soluble vitamins. You can't store them, so you need more, more. Every day, you need your share.
God made it so that you couldn't be immune to their instinctive charms.
Diabolical.
Delicious. She licked her lips a bit, her fangs kept from view (for now).
"Mm," was his response. "Mm-hmm." A deep, lingering sigh through the nose. His twitching, sniffing nose. Twitch-twitch! Pause. Sniff. Sniffy-sniff. Twitch! And a crunch-crunch. Crunch. As he bit the end of the candy cane off, chewing, crunching. It had been getting too 'sharp,' and he didn't wanna hurt his tongue. You know, like how, when you sucked the ends of candy canes too long, you sucked them to needle-points? And then you'd accidentally poke your tongue? Best to bite the brittle part and move on to the next segment. Oh, Field was a peppermint expert. When it came to candies, he majored in peppermint. With a focus, specifically, on candy canes. He could eat them like crackers.
Especially those little, miniature ones, that came in the little, plastic wrappers. He could pop those out and chomp-chomp on them. He couldn't convince himself, even for a moment, to suck on those miniature candy canes. Oh, no. No, cause the little ones, they were so right for bite-sizing. And you just crunched. And crunched. And the wintery peppermint taste came out, flowing onto your tongue, in a wave! A pure wave of mint! All at once! A fierce blast of it. Much stronger than if you decided to only suck it.
The bat, reading his mind, chittered. "Mm ... you're really driftin', you know that? When candy canes start dancing in your head like they are ... maybe it's time for you to go beddy-bye."
"I can't help it. An' I may be dozy ... but I'm not goin' to bed yet. An' I'm eatin' a candy cane, aren't I? I have the taste in my muzzle, and it's on my mind, and ... " He was babbling, in a somewhat incoherent, mousey way. As he was prone to do late at night, when he was tired.
" ... no need to explain," she said, smiling, petting him lightly. Lovingly. Returning, after a few pets, to the stroking of his fur. And to the ear-massaging. Oh, the ear-massaging, yes. Especially that. Feeling, in his mind, the quiet, little plea of 'more, more ... I want her to do that more' ...
"Mm," was his mouse-sound. Akin to a mouse-purr. A throaty, muzzle-closed kind of sound. Still light. Still airy. But too throaty to be a squeak.
"I can see where our daughter gets it from, though ... "
"Mm?" The honey-tan mouse opened his grey-blue eyes. Looking up at her. His head was still resting in her lap. She was sitting, leaning back against the couch-cushions, and he was on his back, head in her lap. Sprawled lazily.
"The propensity for being hyper. Bein' all googly-eyed."
"Propensity ... "
"Too big a word for a wordy mouse?" she teased. Visibly showing her white-glinting fangs, this time.
"Too late in the night for a wordy mouse to be wantin' to comprehend what wordy words mean," was Field's tongue-twisting response. Causing him to pause, and to take a breath. "Uh ... " And then he frowned a tiny bit, and shook his head. "Or somethin'," was his unsure addition, his whiskers doing a twitch-twitch. Sniffy-sniff.
A slight giggle-chitter. "Mm. So cute ... so cute," she breathed, hardly able to stand it. Oh, gosh. Her pink, soft paws playing, lightly, with the edges of his ears. His dishy, fleshy, sensitive ears. The big, cute (there was that rascally word again!) ones. The ones that would swivel as they did. The ones that, when 'dealt with' properly, could make him weak at the knees. Which was what she wished to do: make him weak at the knees. "Mm ... I know you're not hyper right now, but you can be," she assured. "I'm never so hyper as you."
"You get worked up, sometimes. Sometimes, you flash your fangs at me an' ... like how you just did." A giggle-squeak. "Don't think I didn't notice!" More giggle-squeaks, all light and airy.
"Oh, I intended for you to notice. But that's a different kind of worked up." A wink. "And, believe me, we're gonna get to that soon enough ... "
A flush. Ears going rosy-pink! (Or ROSIER pink, being that they were already sufficiently flushed.)
A chitter. "Mm ... no, I'm talkin', like, in normal situations. Just bein' bouncy. Just bein' all innocent. I mean, I might have some of those qualities. In small doses. You have them in spades."
"And diamonds and clubs and hearts and ... "
Chitters!
He giggle-squeaked.
"You and your 'cheesy' jokes," she observed warmly. "What am I gonna do about you, huh?"
"I am a mouse."
"I know ... I know," she whispered, most assuredly. Oh, most assuredly, indeed. There was no mistaking it. And the bat paused for a moment. Breathing. Slightly fiddling with his ears. Even giving, now and then, a tiny tug at his whiskers. Just to hear him squeak. Just to be able to hear that. Until she whispered, "No, but, I'm more ... rough-and-tumble," she said. "I'm feisty. I'm more liable to be toothy and playful than I am to be all wide-eyed, you know, like you and Akira ... I know she gets it from you."
A slight nod. "Mm ... maybe. But she has plenty of you in her, you know," the mouse assured. "Her confidence. She doesn't shy away from things ... like I would. She has your strength. I know she's still young. Maybe it's too early to say, but I like to think that she has more of you," the mouse said, "in her."
"My strength? Mm ... you have strength, Field. It's just a different kind. It's ... a purity of faith. Of heart."
A flush. Opening his muzzle to say something. But closing it.
"I guess we can just be glad in knowing that she got the best parts of the both of us. She's got us half-and-half. That's probably truer." Adelaide continued, trailing. And pausing. And adding, "And we just have to be good parents, and ... hone those characteristics." She trailed again, sighing. It was a worry, often. Raising a child. It was no easy thing. It was no ideal thing, obviously.
But neither of them would give back their daughter for anything.
It was worth it.
Field sighed out, sinking further against Adelaide. And into the couch, too. No shoes, no shirt. Just a pair of frayed, old jean shorts. The white band of his briefs showing. And his tail trailing away and to the floor, like the rope of an anchor flung into the sea. To keep him in place. To keep him from floating away.
"Akira enjoyed the lights, though." The bat, herself, was dressed much like the mouse: barely. A bra on. Underwear. Nothing much else, aside from her fur. And, after all, who in their right mind would be fully dressed at this time of night? And when such a romantic vibration was pulsing through the air, too?
The clothes had literally been begging to be taken off.
The only reason they hadn't been removed completely was because of the temptation it would've presented. Which would've been fine, but the pair wanted some quiet, intimate cuddle-talk time. To begin with.
Just sit. Just lay. Just talk. Deep, deep into the night.
There'll be time enough for the other stuff.
"Those, uh ... the lights," Field said. Sucking on the remainder of the 'stick' part of his candy cane. "From earlier, you mean," he finished.
Adelaide had, now, one paw on each of his ears. Had his lobes trapped between her thumbs and forefingers. And was rubbing. Just with those. Making for a tiny, pinpointed kind of friction. A spot-on sensation.
The mouse breathed. Breathed. Ears hot, hotter. The little capillaries were beginning to show in the pink. Visibly show. A breath.
"Her eyes just lit up," Adelaide elaborated. "I could ... well, you could feel her happiness, you know? Her awe." They had gone, earlier in the night, to Lebanon. To the John Deere store, where they had a big, sprawling light display. Lights strung on tractor tires. Lights on wires, making nativity scenes and farm displays. And, inside the store, they had hot chocolate and popcorn. The whole thing was free. And they did it every year.
"She liked the moving ones," Field said quietly, responding. "The lights that ... it made it look like they were moving, you know?" He smiled. It was amazing how much happiness it gave you, as a parent, to see your child happy. Like his world rose and fell with the well-being of his daughter. As well as the well-being of his wife.
His family.
I have a family, he thought to himself. Very rarely did he truly dwell on the magnificence of that fact. And when he tried to, it floored him.
A nod from her. Slightly changing the topic. But keeping on the theme of 'lights,' saying, "When I put her down near the Christmas tree, she always reaches for the lowest strand of lights. Just stretching an arm, her little paw open." Adelaide sighed, eyes a bit hazy. "She tries to reach for the nearest, little bulb. She can never reach it. I pull her back before she starts grabbing the pine needles."
"What colors does she reach for?" A random whisker-twitch.
"I don't think she cares which colors. It's just ... any one of them. She just likes how they glow. How they twinkle."
A sigh. "Mm ... " A paternal smile. "Well, she tried to open your present ... this morning," Field said, in a drifting, quiet voice. "Mm. I told her it was for you, but she just wouldn't listen." Eyes opening, he smiled up at his wife.
She smiled back down at him. "I guess she gets the stubbornness from me, then."
"Are you stubborn?" the mouse said, teasingly. "More stubborn than me? I can be stubborn," he said.
"Sometimes." A chitter. "Everyone can be. But, no, you're not stubborn enough to BE stubborn. But I really can be," the pink-furred bat insisted. "When there's something I want. I don't have the finesse," she whispered, "that you have ... in getting things done. In going after things. I just go right for it."
"Better than over-thinking to the point of worrying," Field said, "like me."
"You don't worry nearly as much as you used to ... "
"No, I don't," he whispered, sucking on the candy cane. His tail wavering about, snaking above the carpet of the living room floor. "I don't," he repeated. And he reached at her with a paw. Giving a weak, loving clutch of her fur. Before letting go, his paw falling back down to its spot of rest.
Oh, maturity. Oh, growth. Oh, experience.
Oh, faith.
How You've led me, Lord.
How You've made me stronger.
The love of You and the love of her.
I was healed with love, the mouse knew. And he thought it clearly, with confidence. So that Adelaide could feel it with her strong, emotional feelers. Her God-given mental acuity. So she could FEEL his gratitude and not just hear it.
A breath from her. Mouthing, quietly, 'Thank you.'
The mouse nodded warmly, continuing, "You really think you're stubborn?" Eyes still open. Eyes still locked with hers. Oh, her pink, shimmering orbs. Her dilated pupils. If he wasn't careful, he'd get lost in those. And then find himself in her mind, as he often did. But that wasn't such a bad thing, though, was it. So, no need for caution.
Throw it all aside.
Dive in.
"Mm-hmm. Like, say, if I wanted mouses ... "
" ... you'd get stubborn."
"Maybe. Maybe," Adelaide whispered, trailing. Working her husband's ears. "Only if the mouses tried to get away."
Field smiled, his dimples showing, this time, in his furry cheeks. And the heat in his ears beginning to spread to his furred forehead, his cheeks. And to his neck. Making him to pant lightly.
And she pointed out his dimples. Moving a finger and poking him, very gently, where his dimples were.
"Hey," was his weak sound. Whiskers twitching. Twitch-twitch. Sniffy-sniff. "Hey, that tickles ... " A few giggles. "What are you doin' ... touchin' my dimples ... "
"I had to make sure they were real." Her angular, swept-back ears listened to his breathing. And all the sounds of the old farmhouse. Those 'house' sounds. Oh, she knew them well.
This house had a personality all of its own.
"Are they?" An inhale, and a smile. "Do they pass," he asked, exhaling deeply, feeling the sensitivity of his ears affecting him in heavier ways. "Do they pass your inspection?"
"I think so." A little nod. "I believe they do. God made you just right. I can't find any defects."
"You said," Field continued, picking up on what they'd dropped, "about how 'only if the mouses tried to get away.' I don't recall ever trying to get away."
"No ... but, sometimes, you do like scurrying. You've even admitted it. Are you gonna deny it now?"
"No. I do like scurrying." A hazy, dreamy grin. "I can't help it. I'm prone to it ... " His whiskers did a bit of their twitch-twitching. "So prone to it that you've got me talkin' 'bout it, it seems." A giggle, and a sigh.
"Exactly. And, that being the case, sometimes, when you take to scurrying, I have to chase you down."
"Fly me down, you mean ... flap and fly," he whispered, "to stop my hurried scurry-scurry. You fall on me from above, and pin me down, and as I wriggle on the ground, you cool me with the beating of your winged arms. You tame me," he waxed. "You make my heart to scurry. My heart," he whispered, "most of all."
"I suppose I do," she whispered. Loving his words. Loving the spontaneous poetry of his words. And loving the soft sound of his voice. Loving him. "I suppose so," she repeated, drinking in the air they shared.
"You like that, though," he continued. "Flyin' me down ... "
"Do I?" her pink eyes gleamed.
"Chasin' me down, pinnin' me, havin' me right where you want me. You may be prey, but you enjoy a good hunt."
"For play," she said. "For play."
"For play," he repeated, "you enjoy a good hunt."
"Mm ... " Her fingers roamed, roving over the flesh backsides of his ears. Softly, softly, her fingertips lightly touching. Barely touching. Creating that sparkling kind of sensation. That 'pleasure-on-eggshells' delicacy. "I admit I do, darling, but admit this to me: while I like to chase you, you like to BE chased. Hmm?" Ear-rubs.
Making him to shiver.
Making her to keep going. Keep doing it. "Mm? Field?" she cooed.
"Y-yeah." A weak nod. "I do ... "
Her fingers slid round, moving, suddenly, to the smooth interiors of his ears. Where the short, invisible hairs were. The light 'ear-fuzz.' She ran her fingers all along the insides of his lobes.
Making him to crunch, involuntarily, on his candy cane. Leaving, now, only the 'hook' part. Which his paw closed around (to keep it from falling to the floor). A tiny breath. His tail wavering. Soft, squeaky sounds coming out of his half-open muzzle, as he panted for breath.
"You doin' okay down there?" Adelaide asked.
A swallow, and a nose-sniff. And a little nod. Eyes closed again.
Chitters of amusement. "Thought so," she whispered. And, after a moment, she said, "Here ... let me put the rest of your candy cane away. I don't want you to drop it on the couch."
He didn't argue. He weakly gave it to her, and she put it back in the box.
Field's honey-tan, trim, furry chest rose and fell. Rose and fell. And his nose sniffed. The scent of her, so close (and so warm). And the scent of Scotch pine. The Christmas tree. And a smile, and an airy, breath-wavering, "We, uh ... we got the tree there. Feel like it's ... " A giggle-squeak. A swallow. "Oh," he went, shivering.
Her fingers pressing firmly on the insides of his ears. Massaging, moving. Rubbing. Making him dizzy with heated, heady pleasure.
"Oh ... " The mouse licked his dry, peppermint-tasting lips, and he finished his interrupted thought. About how, "The, uh ... feels like the tree's watching us. Like it's trying," he breathed, "to hide in the corner there. But it's so pretty and lit up, and it smells all of ... of ... "
" ... Christmas smells," she supplied.
A weak, weak nod. "Christmas smells," he managed, eyes shut. "Like cinnamon rolls and peppermint sticks and popcorn balls, and taped-up paper packages, and the country chill. The nippy, icy air, and the smell of damp fur. Of crackling fires, and ... and stuff," he finished, his breath leaving him.
Until she slowed. Until she stopped. Knowing it was getting too sensitive for him to handle.
A contented sigh from the mouse.
The bat shifted a bit, changing positions. "Hold on a second," she told him. "Lift your head a bit ... "
He did so.
And she pulled her legs away. And moved to a lie-down. Beside him, facing the same direction. And they both, in unison, scooted so that the couch cushions supported them. And their eyes were meeting. And their noses were touching.
And the bat whispered, "I think this is better."
"Is it?" His eyes sparkled.
"I think so," she assured. The pinks of her more glorious than all those colors on that tree. Better than any rose, any flower. Better by far.
Field breathed. And nose-nuzzled her. His ever-moving whiskers brushing against her. And he asked, in a whisper, "What kind of tree is that ... again?"
"The tree?"
"The Christmas tree. What kind of ... "
"Scotch," she whispered back. "It's a Scotch pine."
"Mm." The mouse thought for a moment, and then responded, with quiet brightness, "So, either we got an alcoholic tree, or a tree made of tape."
A helpless chitter. "Or," Adelaide added.
"Or?"
"Or you," she accused, barely-clothed, furry body pressing to his. "Or you," she whispered, "are bein' a silly mouse."
"Me? A silly mouse?"
"Mm-hmm. I've often known you to be a silly mouse," she added.
"Why, I never," Field began, giving a mock-scoff. "A silly mouse ... "
"Mm-hmm. Mm ... "
Their lips, in a vulnerable, unguarded second, met. Effectively ending any further conversation. And spawning a warm, cuddling silence, which soon gained (as they pressed closer, closer) a good deal of heat.
Oh, anything to keep warm, mind you.
One had to keep warm.
So, they did just that. 'Kept warm' in the glow of the Christmas tree. And neither of them needing any bidding. Neither of them thinking twice.