Title: Aux Etoiles

Author:  abracadabra

Email:  abracadabra1754@hotmail.com

Rating: NC-17

Archive: Sure. Just let me know where first, please.

Category: Story

Sub-category: 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.

Thanks: As always to the best betas in the business--Denise and
Kim. And to Traci who always reads and gives me new ideas.

Webites:
http://www.geocities.com/mesmerizememulder/
http://www.geocities.com/spookys_girl2000/nancy.html

Author's 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.

Feedback: Gratefully and graciously accepted.

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 cushioned 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.

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