SNOWED

by Mik

I hate snow.

Oh, sure, it looks like a postcard. It looks serene. It looks soft and inviting. It's supposed to make you want hearth and home and hot chocolate.

Well, I want him and he's stuck in this mess. There's nothing serene about it. DC always grinds to a halt when it snows. We had a date tonight - well, sort of. Now I have videos.

Don't give me postcards. Don't give me homilies. Don't give me hot chocolate. Give me Walter, pizza and making out on the sofa like teenagers.

I hate snow.

IN

by Mik

Glaring out the window at these bits of lace and devastation, I hear scuffing sounds at my door. Large rats are the only thing that could be out in weather like this. I pick my gun up from the table because my large rats are usually armed.

I don't believe it. Looking like a mountain top, covered with snow, he's standing there. His eyes are as hot as summer, but his fingers are freezing and that bucket of chicken will last 'til the spring thaw sitting on my counter.

He smiles. I say something dumb, like I thought you couldn't make it. He smiles again. It says something brilliant, like I did.

I pull him in, shut the door, kiss him. I want to thaw him out, warm him up, let him heat me through.

The chicken can fend for itself.

- END -