Feedback: Brightens my day <G>
Rated: NC-17
Archive: Yes! Drop me a note so I can visit!
Category: MSR Timeline/Spoilers: None whatsoever. This is set, um...somewhere pre-cancer arc, maybe? Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, right, right. Suggested Listening: Written under the influence of Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks," quite possibly the sexiest record ever made.

Thanks: To Amanda, my ginsu-beta. She slices, she dices, she chops three ways! And she makes perfect julienne fries every time! Hey A, thanks for the assignment. <g>

Lori Lori, thanks for the test drive!

Visit the Mystic Mulder Ranch and check out the awesome way Amanda decorates my fic:

Summary: Plot, what plot? This is a story about desire.



The buffet was picked clean hours ago, the cake cut, the speeches made. The booze is holding out, though, and die-hards are swaying, arm in arm, earnestly singing along to a Van Morrison song. Your cousin is still receiving kisses and congratulations at the bar. Your eyes meet hers across the room and the two of you exchange a conspiratorial, bride-to- bridesmaid smile. Clearly, the master plan has come to fruition; the evening is an unprecedented success.

I linger outside the plantation hall, leaning against the tall verandah doors, taking another sip of wine. Cabernet, ripe and heavy like this late summer night.

You give your cousin the high-sign and slip away, skirting the edge of the dance floor, dodging a clump of long-lost friends who beg you to dance with them.

A broad staircase sweeps down at the end of the hall, and you pause there, lifting your skirt, revealing delicate ankles and sculptured feet in ivory heels. As you bend to fill your fist with pale blue silk, your long string of pearls shifts to one side, cascading across the tender skin of your throat, brushing the swell of flesh beneath. You swing onto the stair, poised like a ballerina, your face flushed with the excitement of champagne and dancing.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes sweeping the crowd, and find me lurking on the edge of the party.

You smile. My heart beats faster.

As you turn, your bare back and shoulders glow in the warm light cast by the crystal chandelier. Your climb is deliberate, slow and sensual, your dress an azure ripple against the motion of your hips. You clasp the aged banister gently as you ascend, touching the centuries, caressing time.

I finish my wine in one gulp, leave the glass on a table, and answer your silent call.

I look up just in time to see you turn left, moving away from the festooned balcony that overhangs the plantation hall. Just a short time ago, your cousin and her husband stood on that balcony, tearfully stammering true-love vows they'd written themselves. You smiled confidently just a few feet away, maid of honor, keeper of the bridal bouquet. Anyone else would have thought you the picture of composure, but I could tell that the cream-colored roses in your hand were trembling.

I've never seen you tremble that way.

When you mentioned this wedding last Monday, I didn't understand why you were inviting me. I balked, arguing that I'd only met your cousin once, two years ago, when I witnessed your will at her office. You insisted. "Lori wants you to come," you told me, touching my sleeve. "Come on, Mulder, you can be my dancing partner. It'll be fun."

How could I resist an invitation like that?

I follow you up the stairs, touching the banister where you touched it, remembering the way your fingertips traced the contours of the gleaming mahogany. I imagine myself carved and polished like this, imagine you wanting to touch me this way.

Upstairs, a single candle flickers. I follow the scent of your perfume to a bedroom at the end of the hall.

Moonlight spills through sheer curtains. You stand at the foot of a canopied bed, gazing into an enormous gilded mirror. I hold my breath as you touch perfume to your wrists, redden your lips, smooth your hair.

I know why you invited me tonight. This place is magic, all velvet and lace, roses and music and lamplight. It's a place outside time, fluid and implausible. Here it's safe for you to bare your shoulders, wear a string of pearls.

I cross the threshold and close the door.

Your gaze rushes across the glass and finds me, reflected, a shadow near the doorway. You smile and wet your lips with the tip of your tongue.

You're pleased that I came when you called me.

I take a step, but my feet don't feel like they're mine. It's not possible that I could be myself and still be here with you. I should be a man who ties his horse at the gate, leaves his hat and gloves with the maid, orders the butler to send up a brandy.

I'm behind you now, watching you in the mirror, watching myself and wondering if I'll dare to touch you. Eyes locked on our reflection, you twine the string of pearls around your fingers, toying with them, raising them to your lips.

It's like a dream.

"I've never seen those pearls before. Are they yours?"

I slip my arm around your waist.

You allow the strand to fall, arching against me almost imperceptibly.

"A family heirloom," you answer, eyes on the mirror. "Very old."

Your head falls back, sweet-smelling hair fanning across my chest. Feeling giddy and reckless, I pull you closer, turning you slightly and lifting the pearls on my fingertips.

My lips brush the delicate flesh of your ear. "You were made to wear them."

Your lips curve languidly; just a hint of a smile. "You think so?"

I circle your waist more tightly. "God, yes."

Your voice drops low. "Does that surprise you?"

I wish I knew how to answer. Surprise seems too mild a word.

On working days, you're scalpel-sharp, angular as a y-incision sliced into lifeless flesh. You face our daily horrors with sober efficiency, rational to a fault. I admire your professionalism, your brilliance, your courage. You're my trusted colleague, my valued partner, my friend.

I'm not supposed to notice you're a woman.

Our reflection tonight is made of shooting stars, an image of serpentine bodies cut loose from angular reality. This moment fires my imagination: now I'm free to worship at your feet, bathe you in scented oils, light a thousand candles around your body.

And you ask me if I'm surprised.

My god, I'm utterly speechless.

Unable to answer your question, I touch a few pearls to the curve of your throat. You sink against me and close your eyes, lifting your chin just a little as satin orbs twirl and tease. I trail the smooth spheres along the fine bones at the base of your neck, then allow the glossy strand to slip lower. A row of tiny moons orbits one breast, then the other.

You shiver with pleasure. Your breathing quickens.

I brush the pearls across your lips.

Your eyes drift open, so wide, so blue. You gaze at me hungrily. Then your tongue snakes out, glistening, exquisite, slowly caressing the tip of the strand.

I've forgotten how to breathe.

This isn't supposed to be happening.

All at once I'm overcome with doubt, filled with shame. We're supposed to be partners. We're supposed to be professionals.

But how can we deny this?

I turn you like a charm on a silver chain. You take the pearls out of my hand, lift the tip of the strand with your forefinger, and hold a single bead to my waiting lips.

I lean forward, swirl my tongue gently around the gem, then kiss the tip of your finger and draw it into my mouth. I can hear your heart pounding. We're so close now. In a moment we're both going to burst into flames. My throat is so dry I can barely speak. "God, this what you meant when you said you needed a dancing partner?"

You wrap your arms around me with a cry, pull my mouth to yours. No hard lines anymore, no sharp corners, no angles, only wet silk and velvet, the music of your moan, your slender body surging between my palms.

Pearls, pearls, rolling between us...

This isn't a dream. It's real. So real.

"Scully," I rasp, "Is this..."

You nod. "Lock the door."

I'm not a professional, now, no, I'm a man, that gallant man with the horse and the gloves and I turn the lock with trembling fingers, drop my jacket by the door, scoop you up and push some things out of the way as we fall on the bed. I unbutton my shirt so I can feel you against me, then fill my fists with pale blue silk.

You twist your fingers in my belt, fumble with my zipper, slip your warm fingers inside my briefs...

"Wait, oh god, Scully, wait, wait..."

You fall back on one elbow, stroking me gently, stroking, stroking....

I reach down and stop you. "We...we can't rush this..." I stammer. "I don't care if someone comes."

You are wanton and breathless in the moonlight. "I don't care, either" you whisper, reaching up and winding your arm around my neck. "I don't care," you repeat, drenching my mouth with kisses.

I wrap myself around you, mute, insensible, grinding myself against your soaked lace panties, your satin- tipped nipples crushed against my chest. I rise to my knees, lift your legs into the air.

"My shoes..."

"Leave them on." I kiss the top of one foot, then the other. I drag my tongue along the sheer, flesh- warmed fabric that covers each calf, lingering in the tender spots just behind your knees. Then I spread you wide on the bed, settling between your legs.

"Mulder, Mulder...inside me, please now..."

"Wait, wait..." I taste the skin of each thigh, lapping gently along the edges of your stockings, tracing your garter belt with the tip of my tongue. Its lace is like a pathway and I follow it home, moving higher, moving deeper...

"Please," you beg me, "Please, please..."

I hover, overwhelmed by the rich scent of your need. I touch my tongue to silk. You shudder.

A voice rises, somewhere down the hall. "Dana? Hey, are you up here?"

"Now," you tell me, "Now, now..."

My hands are shaking wildly. I tear your panties as I lay you bare. You push my pants and briefs down and I nearly come as you touch me, caress me, pull me closer...

"Dana! Lori's going to throw the bouquet..."

One smooth, slick thrust, and I'm inside you...

Inside you.

Searching for the woman who tried to stay hidden.

Finding her, like a pearl.



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