Title: Aux Etoiles
Author:  abracadabra
Rating: 17+
Keywords: MSR, RST
Spoilers: Very teensy ones for Goldberg Variation, Je Souhaite.
Takes place in the fantasyland between S6 and S7.
Summary: Just what is it that makes a moment magic?
Disclaimer:  Even now when the show has ended, these wonderful
characters still belong to Chris Carter, Fox Network and 1013
Productions. I have no intention of trying to make any profit off
writing these stories; I just want to have some fun and allow them
to have a few experiences we'd have never seen on the air...
Notes: This story takes place in the Au Naturel Universe, but you
do not need to read that story to understand this one. They work as
stand-alones. However, I would love it if you read that one, too.
Camp Simms is truly a former Defense Site, but I have absolutely no
idea what it looks like. And, beyond its use as a setting for the
story, its former or current function plays no role in this story.
Thanks: As always to the best betas in the business--Denise and Kim.
And to Traci who always reads and gives me new ideas.
Archive: Sure. Just let me know where first, please.
Feedback: Gratefully and graciously accepted.
Email:  abracadabra1754@hotmail.com
Sites:
Fanfic Corner: http://www.geocities.com/mesmerizememulder/
Spooky's Girl's Site: 
http://www.geocities.com/spookys_girl2000/nancy.html
Date:  July 2002

*::*::*::*::*::*::*::*::*
Aux Etoiles
By abracadabra
*::*::*::*::*::*::*::*::*

Camp Simms, Former Defense Site
Southeast Washington, D.C.
22 May 2000
6:15PM

"C'mere Scully."  He intones the two simple words, adding the
crooked finger, beckoning her.

Content to watch and wait, he notes her slight scowl borne of
another long day in the field. Literally 'in the field'. In the
hotter than usual sun of the early spring just outside D.C. He notes
the shift of her weight to one leg, one hand on her faded
denim-skirted hip. It's just a little unusual for her to be dressed
thusly, but he's not complaining. The plain, short-sleeved white
cotton tee is of course neatly tucked into the waistband, but the
shirt itself clings to her over the swell of her breasts and just above
her navel. One sleeve is haphazardly tucked into her bra strap
while the other droops under the weight of the waning day.

She doesn't comply, her head tilted just so as if attempting to
divine his ultimate meaning. He's perched at the edge of the
top step, the warm beige paint dully shining in the faint rays of
the vanishing sun. Her eyes drift upwards briefly, scanning the
porch itself, the floorboards sloping forward, the milky paned
windows behind, also settling into the off-white clapboard house.
One of the sites of their latest case, now on hiatus, as they are.
They are not supposed to be on this 'case', but as usual, her
partner, the love of her life, has let the word 'conspiracy' draw
him like a rat following the Pied Piper to this site. And, although
she does not subscribe to that image for either of them, she is
here with him. Where she will always be.

It is two days before they can talk to the newest suspects. And by
the virtue of the sensitivity of this case, the Bureau has required
they be sequestered in a motel although they both live so very
close to this site. She wishes they could sneak home. He calls
those two days 'down time'. She calls them time away from her own
bed, her own bathroom, more time to live out of the godforsaken
suitcase.

His words hang between them in the still pre-summer evening, but
he's willing to wait. All good things come to those who wait...or so
he's been told. He's already sampled some of those 'good things', but
he wants more. If she can just let her guard down a bit, he muses.

She's all about lines and angles and rough edges now as his eyes
wander over her, but he notices that she has moved forward. So, it's
only one step, but that's her way; one measured step at a time. No
leaps for her. That's his style. He tilts his head to mirror hers
and he squints at her, the accompanying smile on his lips turning
to a grin as she rakes a hand through the tendrils of hair framing
her sunburned face, allowing him to see her scattered freckles.

Two more halting steps, one eyebrow raised and she finally answers
his request. "Why?" One simple word that asks much more. It's clear
she's interested. She always is where he's concerned, but sometimes
she's more interested than others. But she's also skeptical and
curious. He's impetuous and often devious and he's playful and
sometimes mischievous. He seems to know when to employ which to
get what he wants--which is usually her. And, most of the time,
that's okay with her because most of the time, she usually wants
him, too.

It's the game; it's the dance that's intriguing with them. She
wonders what it will be this time. He looks innocent enough. That
is; if the word 'innocent' could ever be used to describe him.
She considers it for all of two seconds and imperceptibly shakes
her head. No, innocent he is not.

He wonders what is going through her beautiful head, but he likes
what he thinks he sees. She's moving again--that's a good sign. So,
he slides back just a bit, already making room for her between his
legs which he spreads farther. Palms down on the painted wood,
heated from the day's sun beating down on it, he bends his elbows,
taking some of the weight into his upper body. His hips shift just
a bit and he's thankful he also dressed  more casually, the fine
mesh knit of his short-sleeved button-front shirt keeps him cooler
than his usual starched, crisp dress shirts and the light poplin
cloth of his summer weight pants a little more forgiving.

And, when he'd chosen them earlier this morning, she'd actually
told him he looked very nice in them. He remembers her words, the
way she placed emphasis on the word 'very' as she mock-casually ran
a hand over the flat front of the pants, the way her gaze lingered
just the slightest bit on what she referred to as the 'drape of the
fly'. He hadn't been quite sure how a fly 'draped', but if it
resulted in the way she looked at him and the accompanying feelings
it engendered then he'd make sure his fly draped every goddamn day
from now on.

She waits for his answer to her question, but in the meantime,
she's quite content to observe him. She's a highly trained observer
and has most likely catalogued almost all of his many looks and
postures and gestures. Individually, she can read each one--just as
he can read her. However, it is the combination of his many looks
and postures and gestures which often surprises her and infuses new
meaning to his words. From the way he has moved, he is clearly
asking her to sit with him. No, she silently amends, not sit 'with'
him, sit 'surrounded' by him. Well then, that is just fine with her.

There are times when his size is overwhelming to her and there are
other times when even though he is physically taller than she, she
sees them as equals. Her mind takes flight then and she imagines
still other times when his size overwhelms her and she relishes
feeling overwhelmed. Blanketed in him. In the touch of his hands,
the caress of his lips, the moist sweep of his tongue, the heady,
musky scent of him.

But she differs from him. He seems to find the most everyday,
mundane and usual settings and juxtaposes them with sensual and
sexual overtones. It almost would seem that he derives pleasure from
watching her wrestle with his need to arouse her in very public
places.  She prefers the more sheltered and guarded and private,
but is amazed at how she is more than a little willing to also
consider many of his other options. So, thoughtfully considering
this option of his, she crosses her arms in front of her and walks
toward him, her sling-back flats tamping down the high grass in the
field in her wake.

*::*::*::*::*::*

He pats the surface of the porch between his thighs and tips his
head just so, beckoning her once again. He is aware that she's made
her decision, but that she can't simply say 'okay'. She has to weigh
her choices, gather the evidence and arrive at an answer to her
hypothesis. She needs anecdotal confirmation and he's more than
willing to provide it. If she will just hurry up and comply with his
invitation.

She regards his body language now as the toes of her shoes make
contact with the edge of the bottom step. There is not much now,
nor has there ever been much 'closed' about him. At least not to
her. His forearms rest easily on his thighs, his hands hanging
between his legs. He has left plenty of room for her to nestle
there. Even his face is inviting her, his lips parted, his eyes
focused so intently on her that she is forced to glance at the few
locks of hair that bracket his forehead. Such a lanky, muscled body.
So at home in his skin.

She leans forward and places her hands on his knees, indicating
that he should move toward her a bit. He understands and she feels
his long fingers encircle her wrists, anchoring her to him. But she
wants a bit more right now and she bends just enough as he leans his
head back just enough and their lips are touching. The feeling is
both electric and warm and moist and nowhere near enough for her.

His hands move to her biceps as she kneels on the worn, but somewhat
cushiony stair carpeting that seems quite out of place here. She is
between his legs, leaning into him, her arms on those legs, hands
holding the folds of fabric at his waist. He draws her to him closer
still, his fingers sliding to frame her shoulders, to hold her where
he wants her. He pulls back a bit at the sound of her huffing
laughter. His much larger nose has bumped her aquiline-shaped nose
in his need to reconnect, to make love to her mouth. He attempts to
reproach her with his darkening eyes, but he knows she is not
buying it, that she realizes it's another part of the tease as his
grip borders on bruising and his lips crush hers.

All before she has had any more time to find a breath. Before she
has had any time to realize that his tongue has slipped past her
lips and is plunging the depths of her mouth with passion. A heat
rises in her, starting somewhere in her belly and radiating in no
particular pattern to other parts of her body, liquefying her,
making her weak in the knees and anywhere else she still has
control of her senses.

He can hear and feel her moaning, the vibrations traveling through
him, and he is moaning with her in his lower tone. She's close to
him, but not close enough and he can't choose between his hands
tangling in her hair to position her mouth for better access or his
hands slipping into the pockets on the back of her thankfully short
skirt to cup her ass and pull her toward the growing ache beneath
his draped fly. He does what comes naturally and one hand lays claim
to her hair and one to her pocket on the back of her thankfully
short skirt.

She somehow manages to undo the buttons on his shirt, shoving the
soft knit panels open so she has naked skin beneath her hands. She
briefly toys with his navel, one index finger rimming it beneath
the belted waistband of his pants, then darting in and out,
mimicking the movements of their tongues. The feel of his abs
tightening under her ministrations spurs her on and her hands
splay open and upward to the solid span of his chest, her thumbs
then brushing with gossamer lightness across his nipples.

He starts and gasps at the sensations as her fingers join her thumbs
and she tweaks and tugs, hoping to elicit more of the same.

She is rewarded as he breaks their kiss for a breath-gulping second,
finding time to search her eyes and murmur, 'Jesus Scully', before
bending her backward to explore her mouth with his once again.
His action accomplishes many things, not the least of which being
her breasts straining forward, perfectly in position for his hands.

The thin fabric is no barrier to the heat of his hand as he
roughly kneads first one, then the other, his knuckles grazing her
very visible nipples as they rise through the cotton. He wants more.
He wants his mouth on her and in his lust-driven state, he
nose-nudges the tight peak first and then his wet mouth fastens over
her cotton-covered breast. Sucking on the one, he massages the other.

Eschewing the massage for closer contact, he tells her that her tee
is in his way, but she is not sure which gets her moving faster, his
words or the feel of his head as he literally burrows under the
shirt, his hands assisting in the effort.  It goes not further than
just above the swell of her chest when he makes quick work of the
front clasp on her white satin demi-bra.

She has long since lost track of the time, but somehow notices that
the last rays of the horizon-sliding sun have vanished and with the
exception of a few bare bulbs softly swaying at the far end of the
porch, they are alone with the night sky.  She is sure that a field
such as this must have wildlife by land or by sky, but either it is
strangely muted or her senses have been diverted to the minute
space between her and him.

And in that space, she has not lost touch or sight or scent of him,
although she is keenly aware now that her knees are going numb.
This is not the numbness from her earlier state of 'weak in the
knee'. As usual, he is right there, anticipating, and his shirt and
jacket are under her--her joints now cushioned. Her smile warms
him as he regards her, lovingly stroking her face before he returns
to her lap at her and nuzzle her, his hands sweeping under her
arms, his fingers curling over her shoulders.

Although her head is thrown back, she arches, she finds his
mouth, her fingers tracing his brows, swirling patterns at his
temples. He is doing amazing things to her, the heightened
sensations rush from the spiraling and tingling pleasure in her
nipples in a bee-line for her pulsing center. She is on fire and the
source is nipping at her causing her to cry out and call his name.
Exerting a control she doesn't realize she still has, she gently
pushes him away. Long enough to lick and butterfly kiss and nibble
at his face while her hands wander south.

Before he has had time to acknowledge her actions, she has unbuckled
and removed his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his fly. Efficient
hands that can wield a scalpel demonstrate their dexterity with
heated and frenzied clothing removal

Backing down a step, she leans into him until her cheek is flush
with his hard heat. Catching her breath, she wraps her arms around
him intending to hold him, hold her position, but she can feel the
throbbing, can feel his heart pumping. Or is it hers? More of her
weight sinks into him and he drops to his elbows, his legs falling
open a bit more. Sitting now, perched sideways on the step, her lips
find the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his knit boxer
briefs and she plants wet sucking kisses there.

His 'ooos' and 'ahh-Scullys' tell her what she wants to know and
she palms his erection in earnest, paying special attention to the
sensitive ridge below the head. Reaching inside the generous flap,
she draws him out, immediately bending to taste him;
warmhoneyvelvethardtangy he is. She pauses, but is not surprised,
that he chooses this moment to talk to her.

"Scully, did you ever stop to wonder how we got here?" He asks her
haltingly. Although he manages to pose the question, it is obvious
to her that he is feeling the effects of her covering as much of him
as she can take into her mouth. She hums her response, causing him
to hum with her, although his wordless tune seems to be a bit more
syncopated than hers. Nonetheless, he continues. "I mean, is it fate?
Or magic?" His hips thrust randomly and he chuckles shortly at
himself and then adds, "That's right; you don't believe in fate,
let alone magic."

He can tell she is smiling, although she has not stopped moving.
And, as a matter of fact, she is also cupping his sac in one hand
through the soft fabric, while she takes his cock through the flap,
surrounding the base of his shaft with the other. He sighs,
forgetting his questioning to watch her head move up and down
along his very sensitive flesh, his hips moving without conscious
effort. Sitting up a bit and moving his feet up one step for better
leverage, he twines the fingers of one hand in her hair, guiding
her head in spite of himself, wanting very much to lay back, both
hands lost in her hair as he clutches her to him. It is only with
the utmost restraint that he keeps his touch gentle.

As it usually is, they are working together. She has set the pace
this time, but he follows at first and then takes the lead. His head
is now thrown back, his eyes slamming shut either against the
onslaught of the thrumming or because of it. He is not sure which,
nor does it matter. She has twisted and turned so she is hugging him
to her, her head bobbing now, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks him
again and again. And then again until his hands at first grip
uselessly at the hard wood beneath him and then clutch at her hair,
not wanting to force her but finding himself so lost inside her
sweet warmth that he simply cannot get enough of her.

*::*::*::*::*::*

She is sure only missing time would account for the fact that he is
now lying on his back and she is draped bonelessly over him, her
abdomen flush with what remains of his former erection.
She is also sure that they are both gulping air and...that she is
still very turned on.

For his part, he does not recall anything other than the musky
arousing scent of them, the searing of her wet lips and even wetter
mouth exacting sweet torture on him. Each time she does so, he is
sure that it is the best he's ever received and that it is the most
exquisite experience any man could have. But that he is the lucky
man, because he has many of those 'most exquisite experiences'.

He is aware of the slight chill as she lifts off of him, telling him
that they should go back to the motel. He is also slowly becoming
aware that remarkably, he is feeling quite rejuvenated and she is
looking quite hot; in the sexiest of meanings of the word 'hot'. Her
hair curls and damply clings to her face and the 'afterglow' gives
her skin a rosy tint he would very much like to prolong.  He smiles
as he sits up, noting the extremely wrinkled white tee with a
displaced white satin demi bra beneath it that she seems to wear so
well. She is always well put together, he tells her, his mirthful
smirk one he knows she would love to erase.

Now she tells him 'C'mere' and that she wants to wipe that
self-satisfied smirk off his rather beautiful face. She can tell
that he is more than willing to help her make it disappear...just
as soon as she can get her lips close enough to his.

Just as she is about to nip at his jaw line, she glances downward to
find that as with many other facets of his personality that are
just a bit outside the norm, so is his rebound ability. Other than
a sharp inhalation, she knows that he has not seen her other
reactions to this new development. But her earlier unsated state is
back with a vengeance and she plans to take matters into her own
hands.

First, however, she wants to follow through and nip and
maybe love-bite his chin and his firm, but plump lower lip and the
tip of his nose and the curve of his ear. And now that she is close
to the long line of his throat, she nibbles there, too, followed by
a little vampirish playfulness.

He tries to accommodate her as she tries to do for him, but this
time he does so by leaning his head away from her. It is one of the
few times that being a bit farther away is very rewarding because
it results in his neck being very exposed to her teeth and her
tongue and the way her lips latch onto his sensitive skin and worry
it and suck on it.

Having a medical degree ensures that she knows her anatomy and
better yet, *his* anatomy. He is sure that's why she knows where
to position herself to be able to feel the rapid beating of his
heart in his neck. He is aware that he is moaning and his lips are
forming her name, the sound morphing into a cross between the
earlier moan and a growing desperation to have her body
much, much closer to his.

*::*::*::*::*::*

A slight breeze stirs the single bare bulbs in their makeshift
fixtures above them and the floorboards beneath them creak and
whine with their movements and the settling of the rustic
structure.  She notes the moist warmth of the evening and idly
marks the fact that somehow her core body temperature is far warmer
than the ambient temperature. In fact, she is both warmer and wetter
than the typical warm and damp D.C. spring night. She doubts the
night sky is thrumming any harder than she is.

It is while her thoughts seem to be making the most profound
meteorological comparisons that she registers that she is no longer
making the most passionate sucking love to her partner's throat but
is rather sitting between his legs, her partially-tee shirt covered
back to his completely bare chest.

As if in answer to her question as to how she finds herself in his
lap, he whispers, "It's magic, Scully." Puffs of breath sending a
shiver through her, hardening her nipples to a tingling fullness
and ache. He wiggles his hips, moving a few inches backward taking
her with him, one arm around her waist, the other hand snaking up
under her tee to cup her skin-pebbled breast. He holds her
especially tight at the waist to help ease an ache of his own in
his quick-to-recover and more quickly stiffening cock.

Her hands move from his forearms, reaching up and behind her, her
fingers in his hair as she tries to turn, tries to connect them with
a kiss. Her actions also lift her breasts to him and he alternately
grazes her peaked nubs with his trailing fingers and  possessively
and greedily tweaks and pinches them.

He maneuvers his face to hers, feeling her lips on his, their heat
in the chilled air sparking. Relinquishing his hold on her, he
takes her chin in his fingers making a match between them as his
tongue parts her lips. In perfect unison, they moan, the vibrations
adding another layer to the already complex scenario.

She positions her leg over his as she inches back into him and he
is momentarily lost in the scent of their combined lust. She feels
the pounding in his chest and the solid throbbing against her lower
back and the way his arm curls around her and allows him to thrust into
her. As their mouths part, she licks her lips, panting, her head
falling back to his chest. But it is a very brief respite when she
feels his hand inching her already hiked skirt higher still until
it is almost as if she is not wearing it.

Looking over her shoulder to follow the path of his hand, he feels
her damp hair softly caressing his cheek. He gently rubs his face
into the wavy locks and then says her name, knowing she will think
he is about to once again launch into a discussion about fate or
magic or starry skies. But he knows it is only because he wants to
touch her.

So he finger paints on her inner thigh without the paint, spelling
out 'Mulder heart Scully'  It doesn't matter if she knows what he
intends, she is reacting more than favorably even without knowledge
of the words. Although he can't quite make out what she's saying at
first, the way she moves her leg to allow him better access tells
him all that he really needs to know.

She is tuned in to her pulse, to the fact that she seems to be
panting even though she is telling herself to breathe normally.
There's nothing really 'normal' about this situation although
engaging in steamy play with Mulder isn't rare in its occurrence.
It is however a rare treat when it takes place when they are
technically still on a case. Even if all they have left to
technically do is complete their final report. Usually the stickler
for finishing up administrivia, she summarily dismisses it just this
once in favor of the rather inquisitive feel of his fingers as they
tease mostly and tickle occasionally. He laps at her neck in the
spot that drives her insanely crazy with want as she feels the
elastic at the apex of her legs move. Move to let him in.

He is too horny at this point--again--to be slow and languid as is
sometimes the case with them. He considers that sometimes slow
and languid is a salve to hot and bothered and sometimes it is like
stoking the already raging fire. How sometimes she works him to a
fever pitch and only to torture him with excruciating slowness
And then there are other times where one of them enters the
situation already so turned on that even the presence of clothing
does not create a barrier and it is about everything and nothing
but frenzied coupling, the sensations running as high as their need.

Tonight he knows it is a little of both. While she seemed to
hesitate initially, she suddenly becomes all hands and mouth fucking
his mouth with her tongue while she dallied on the path of his
chest and then consumed his cock with unbridled hunger.

He loves her mouth on him, her head between his legs
watching her slide him in and out and attempt to suck the life from
him. He knows she loves giving head and is, in fact, damn good
at it. But he can't stand the thought of not being allowed to
'give', too. He is, by nature, sexual even though there is much more
to their relationship. But he faces the fact that along with her
many other fine qualities, he has almost always wanted to taste her
and drive inside her until neither of them can see straight. And
right now, he wants to feel her slick heat and touch her where he
knows he'll push her over the same edge he went over not so very
long ago.

Reaching back and up, she grips his shoulders but then quickly
changes her mind and grabs his forearms, loving the feel of the
muscles there, the power of him. When his hands move to her thighs,
re-situating her, she clutches at him for balance. But being
off-balance is sometimes part of being with Mulder and it is the
sheer anticipation of what he may do that thrills her.

She is always and in all ways amazed by his manual dexterity skills.
The man is a study in kinesthetic pleasure; a true devotee of
employing all the senses in all that he does. And does so well, if
she is asked to comment. But right now, she is beyond commenting
because his very manually dexterous fingers are doing a maddeningly
teasing dance alone the high-cut legs of her panties and an even
more insanely taunting two-step beneath the stretchy hip band of the
very same panties.

Without shame, she lifts her legs up and over his and holds on to
him for dear life as two fingers begin an insistent exploration of
her, slipping effortlessly into the liquid heat of her center,
causing her to  purr and then hum and then escalate into full-tilt
moaning. Stubbornly trying to resist because she knows he will smile
that smug-with-satisfaction smile, she bites her lip to keep from
uttering his name linked to her deity.  Their cheeks touching side
by side as he watches her, she can feel the smugness anyway and
loses the battle, her "God, Mulder!" nearly exploding from her.

"God" is right, he muses, and he loves what he does to her almost
as much as he loves what she does to him. Or maybe it's a tie.
Nonetheless, he needs room to move and the give of the fabric is
just not enough for his long fingers and large hands. Nearly lifting
her from where she is delectably pressed against him, he slides
those large hands under the satiny stretchy fabric cupping her hips
as he whisper-commands, "Take them off, Scully."

In a flurry and tangle of runner's legs and long, strong arms and
fine forensic pathologist's hands and Special Agent in heels legs,
the scrap of cloth ends up on the bottom step of the porch in the
very dark field bathed only by the functional lighting in the D.C.
spring air. He considers ridding her of the skirt also but is either
in too much of a randy haze or likes just how sexy she looks
with it bunched around her hips and waist while that which is below
is open to him and the night air.

Or perhaps it is both. Nonetheless it remains.

Her legs once again part and drape over his poplin casual slacks,
the weight of her thighs on him a symbol of the trust she places
there. Calling upon his excellent multi-tasking skills, he finds a
spot or two along the exposed column of her neck and worries it
with his teeth and playfully nips it with his recently licked lips.
One hand tugs at the turgid peak of her rounded breast while the
other resumes exploring her sex. It is hot and swollen and he dips
first one, then two, long fingers into her, swirling and twirling
them and when she arches into him and her hips meet him with each
stroking, he leans down just a bit more and bites her in earnest
where her shoulder meets her neck.

She is aware that his thumb is playing her like a finely strung and
well-tuned instrument, making her hit all the right notes as her legs
start to shake and quiver and the feel of his rather substantial
erection trapped between their bodies slides her arousal to the top
of the treble clef. Her fingers dig into him wherever she can grab
hold--moving from his thighs to his arms and then to twine in his
hair and settle back onto his arms. He is working her both like an
artisan who has honed his craft and a lover who knows the object of
his affection better than he knows himself and she is putty in his
hands and under his mouth.

She registers the sensations as he moves from one breast to the
other titillating her, taking her upwards still as he tweaks her
nipples and then kneads her soft and firm flesh. And she is
overwhelmed, the blackness around them now shot through
with pinprick stars of white brilliance as every inch of her sparks
and small fires shoot along her neural pathways.

All the while, she hears and feels his the roughened molasses of
his voice coursing through her, telling her, 'beautiful Scully' and
'I've got you' and 'I love the way your body feels in my hands'.
And then she is above them watching the scene unfold and she thinks
that it is fate or magic or heaven on earth. Or it is simply the
most blissful high she can experience.

*::*::*::*::*::*

He knows that she is chilled as the most gossamer of breezes settles
around them. Thinking that she is in that between state hovering on
one side of sated and the other side of sleep, he surrounds her
with his arms, drawing his legs closer together to conserve their
heat. His nose nuzzles her neck and then his face nudges at hers
the way one cat seeks the comfort of another and he elicits a soft
purr followed by a deep sigh from smiling lips. Her formerly closed
eyes flutter--he feels the lashes tickle his cheekbone as she turns
toward him.

Although it is not unusual, it is infrequent that he misreads her.
It is true that she is sated and it is true that she is feeling a
deep state of liquid relaxation. A liquid relaxation tinged with a
leisurely charge.

She is aware of her partner all around her--he supports her weight,
he envelopes her, he breathes with her, their scents co-mingling,
shrouding them in a heady perfume of passion realized. But although
she has had a taste of him, it was all too brief and she needs more.
She knows he needs more by the rigid length of him hot and heavy
low against her back. She murmurs his name and angles more so she
can say it again into his waiting mouth. It begins with "Muh..."
and slips into "Mmm..." as she invites his tongue to meet hers.

All too soon, the kiss ends, but their lips remain so close that
not even a sigh can find its way in between. And he is talking to
her yet again. In that way that she finds soothing and gentle and
arousing and vibrant. He is insisting that she think about his
earlier suppositions about fate and about magic and she is amused.

She loves his curious and open mind, loves its flights of fancy and
fantasy, loves how it pulls her to new realms of possibilities
where she otherwise sees only that which is grounded in fact. But
she has seen one too many instances where his flights are
reality. She knows the meaning of granted wishes and believing in
that which has no basis in worldly verification. The very fact that
they are together in this way is somewhat fantastical, magical and
feels like a granted wish from a Genie released from her captivity.

He relishes the feel of her lips touching his, feather-light,
brushing him just enough to let him know she is there. The bow of
her upper lip is a perfect compliment to her full lower lip and he
dips in once again to taste those lips, one at the back of her
head, her hair tangled around his fingers as he holds her in place.
The feel of her smaller, but no less strong hand at his face, thumb
massaging his temple, heightens the intensity and he is more aware
of the near-painful ache and throbbing between them.

She senses his need for release and turning, one hand planted on
his chest, her eyes meet his. Dark need and flash-fire passion
confirm what she feels. Her gaze sweeps over him; tousled and
matted hair framing a fine sheen of perspiration dotting his
forehead, the slope of his nose, the dip in his chin, half his face
in dim light, half in shadow.  Her fingers stroke his bare chest
lightly, his flat nipples begging for her attention, as his
quickening breathing lifts his chest again and again. It is when
her glance follows the demarcation in his taut abs downward that
her earlier seductive grin becomes a stifled chuckle. She recalls
that in her frenzied haste to take him in her mouth, she chose the
path of least resistance.

His eyes look into hers, his brows raised in bemused query, as he
gazes downward. So intent on pleasuring her was he that he has
missed his current state of dress. He hears her words, "Oh, Mulder",
and snorts at the sight of his raging erection curving toward his
belly...through the flap of his boxer briefs. Their laughter does
not diminish their desire. He has not known any other with whom
he could share laughter in the throes of passion, with whom he
could be so open and trusting and know that it would be returned
one hundred fold. In synch in all things, they both reach for his
cock, attempting to free him from his cotton knit barrier.

Slight color rising in her cheeks, she defers to him in this matter,
her hands never leaving him, massaging his thighs, her lips
planting kisses on his nose.

He is all about efficiency and economy of motion; maybe from
practice, maybe due to runaway urges. Whichever, he manages to
slide both boxers and poplin pants down and place his jacket and
shirt beneath them.

She watches him, head tilted to one side, waiting. She is sure he
is about to pontificate or postulate or attempt once again to
engage her in speculation about the mysteries of the known universe.
She is therefore nicely surprised and doubly turned on when he
intones, low-voiced, "Climb on, Scully."

His arms are extended toward her, opening himself to her,  and he
tilts his head as she has done, unaware of his matched movement.
He remains silent as she fumbles with her skirt. Partners always,
he has her back; or, in this case, his hands on hers, stilling them,
drawing her closer and closer.

It is she that surprises him with her words as she straddles his
lap, her knees on either side of his hips. Her hands now on his
shoulders, hovering above him, she tips her hips upward and presses
into him.

"I've been thinking about fate," she croons as she rocks
her hips.

"And..."

She continues as if he has not spoken. "I don't know if I'd say
this particular event was predestined by some force beyond our
control." She leans in to kiss his upturned and flushed face.

And then her lips curve upward at his uncontrolled and muttered,
"uh...um, Scully..."

"And I don't think that any sleight of hand...oh, except maybe for
this...," she teases as her hand wends its way between them to find
the drops of fluid at the tip of his penis, bringing her finger to
her lips.

"But I *do* think that I'm feeling rather charmed and under your
spell right now," she purrs, inches from his mouth as she gently
guides him to her wet center, "and I forecast a rather magical
remainder of the night for us."

Previously held enthralled by her words, he now grabs her hips,
unable to sustain her teasingly slow pace. Their bodies melded, he
feels her legs wrap around him and watches her head loll back, her
hair hanging in waves and curls and a mass of fluff behind her. His
hands slide up under her skirt, the feel of her behind as it flexes
and tightens spurring him on.

And ride him she does, no longer able herself to speak to him of
unproven hypotheses or continue her erotically lazy rocking. She
rises and falls on him as if her hips have a will of their own and
her core grips him as if she will never release him.

His hands move to her upper arms as his lips descend on her breast,
suckling and lapping at her, trying to take as much of her into his
mouth as he can. Her whimpers shoot straight to where they are
joined and he slows for the briefest moment.

A coda. A respite. A chance to draw back and look at her, this
wondrous woman who moves on him with wanton abandonment
and manages to take him over the edge.

She is lost. Lost in the feel of his lips surrounding her breast,
his tongue flicking around her areola and nipple while the suction
from his mouth drives her wildly insane. Her hand moves to the
juncture of her legs and she touches herself, the pressure of their
bodies bumping her hand, heightening the swirl of electricity.

And then he is stopping, although their hips continue to thrust, the
pace is slowed. Ready to cry out, she looks at his face, her own a
study in carefully controlled frustration. She doesn't utter a word
when she notes the way he regards her. It is tenderness tinged with
lust and desire. She answers his look with the slightest curl of
her lips and a kiss to his brow before her fingers begin to move
and she lifts up until she has almost allowed him to slip from
inside her. She is amazed at how quickly he catches on, reaching
for her hips and drawing her downward, his eyes slamming shut once
again as he bites his lip.

*::*::*::*::*::*

The feeling of having fallen over the edge of ecstasy hangs in the
air around them, suffusing it with an artificial warmth and a cloak
of euphoria. Happily spent, unsure if still shaky muscles will
support them, they pull themselves together.

Buttoned and zipped, she leans into his side, her head on his chest,
the feel of his arm around her shoulders a comforting weight. His
chin rests in her hair, moving only to plant kisses there. She
wraps her arms around his waist, drawing nearer still, wanting to
burrow into him and shut out what lays beyond this porch, this
field. But she knows that there are other times between cases and
other times in the familiarity of their apartments and in their
below ground level office where they will share this closeness and
other less physical closeness.

He nods, as if he knows what is in her mind. And he does, just as
she knows what is in his mind and in his heart. And he knows that
there is nothing and everything magical about that fact.

*::*Fin*::*