Title: Aux Etoiles Author: abracadabra Rating: NC-17 Category: MSR 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... Summary: Just what is it that makes a moment magic? URLs: Fanfic Corner: http://www.geocities.com/mesmerizememulder/ Spooky's Girl's Site: http://www.geocities.com/spookys_girl2000/nancy.html Spoilers: Very teensy ones for Goldberg Variation, Je Souhaite. Takes place in the fantasyland between S6 and S7. 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. 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. *::*::*::*::*::*