|Feedback: Brightens my day
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
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
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
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
It's like a dream.
"I've never seen those pearls before. Are
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
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,
Your voice drops low. "Does that surprise
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
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
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, Scully...is 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
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,
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
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.
"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
"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
"Please," you beg me, "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,
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
One smooth, slick thrust, and I'm inside
Searching for the woman who tried to stay
Finding her, like a pearl.