Title: Lay Lady, Lay Author: abracadabra Rating: NC-17 Keywords: Smut, MSR, PWP Spoilers: None Disclaimer: These wonderful characters are not mine in any manner, shape or form. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox. No profit is to be made from this story. Summary: Savannah, Georgia, scorching heat, the Midnight Inn Notes: Song title and lyrics borrowed without permission from Bob Dylan. Archive: Please do! Feedback: Love it: abracadabra1754@hotmail.com Websites: http://www.geocities.com/spookys_girl2000/index.html http://www.geocities.com/mesmerizememulder/ Thanks: Denise and Kim...you two are simply the best! Lay Lady, Lay by abracadabra (part 1/2) ~~~*~~ Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed Whatever colors you have in your mind I'll show them to you and you'll see them shine She makes me want to sing sometimes. To put the words to a melody that would convey to her how I feel about her; how much I want her; how much I need her to need me. She brings out the songwriter in me sometimes. Makes me want to serenade her with the words that would lyrically express my devotion; would wrap her in the hazy cocoon of my longing. She's every fantasy I've ever had and never realized. And she drives me to distraction. Through the years, there have been times when I've wondered how it was possible that we ever got to this point. We two; different and the same; needy and needing; loving and loved, finally and always. Together now in all ways I've wanted to know her. I want to give her everything and so much more, but ours is a friendship the depths of which I've never experienced before. There is a respect, an almost blinding belief in each other that comes from many cases, endless travel time and much more questioning and challenging and debating and sharing. 'Sharing'. What does that mean to you, Scully? How do you decide what is yours, what is mine, what is ours? When did that change? Knowing her mind was probably the most difficult thing for me. But somehow, as we have danced around each other, I figured out how to show her her feelings, how to let her see them and share them. ~~~*~~ Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean And you're the best thing that he's ever seen It is the heat. The type that is romanticized in novels as 'sultry'. The sultry that is shown in movies with hair falling in damp tendrils and bangs dripping with beads of sweat, with thin fabric clinging wetly to body curves and dips and angles. It is the sultry heat in Savannah that brings us to the brass bed. At the Midnight Inn in Monterey Square. Not a vacation, but a brief respite between our daily drudgery, after one waste-of-the-taxpayer's-money case and prior to the next otherworldly investigation. 'Down time' they call it in some circles. I have had enough of the back roads of Georgia to last me a lifetime, feel sullied and marked from being dragged through the street dirt by the dregs of humanity. She is waiting for me, has checked us in... to the only remaining suite in the city. We have air conditioning and she is sitting on the long and sweeping front steps in the noon day sun. A vision. Gleaming hair like burnished copper, upswept on one side and held in place by a small gardenia. Her face dewy, her lips stained and wet cherry, eyes the color of limpid pools. Elbows on her knees, hands on her cheeks, as she watches the street, her breasts rise and fall beneath the white gauzy blouse with the dark lace bra beneath. Her shell pink toenails in her tan leather slides peak out beneath her sand linen skirt now hiked to her knees. She stops me in my tracks when she smiles at me and our gazes lock, the space between us electrified. I am amazed as ever at the power she has over me. The way a glance, the turn of her head, the rise of an eyebrow can reduce me to pure feeling. She leans back, propped up by her forearms as they lean against the stone stair behind her, the gossamer fabric of her shirt stretched nearly taut across the rise of her chest. Tiny pearl buttons grasping at the placket creating small gaping holes and glimpses of her chocolate satin bra. Her hair falls to her shoulders as she sinks back. I stand, hands on my hips, one hip thrust to the side, and tilt my head. I picture her elsewhere and right here. The glare from the sun as it beats down on the pavement makes her squint and she lifts on hand to shield her eyes as she regards me. She says my name, a statement, and I crook my finger, beckoning her. Gathering the linen of her skirt, holding it at her thigh, she stands and moves to the bottom step, but comes no farther. I approach her slowly, feeling the current between us arc and shimmer. We meet face to face, two inches of heels and several inches of step bringing us eye to eye...and mouth to mouth. Without preamble, her hands are on my shoulders and her tongue drags across my lower lip with the humidity of the day. I rock back on my heels with the heat-searing kiss that follows. It is not that she has never kissed me this way; it is just that it has never happened in Monterey Square at noontime. Or it could be because even though we have joined with our lips the connection still has the ability to melt something deep inside. My hands rest on her hips, the linen limp under my hands but hot over her skin. She increases the contact, pulling herself toward me; her lower body connecting with mine and my lips trail from hers to her neck, sliding along the length of heat slicked skin. She tells me that our suite is ready and so is she. My mind ponders the double entendre she lets float between us. Our eyes meet once again and I detour to catch the scent of the flower in her hair. She smiles knowingly at my stalling technique, takes my hand and leads me up the curving staircase. The wrought iron rail burns beneath my hand and she fingers the trailing bougenvillea vines that wend their way along our path. Twin double globe topiaries flank the ornately carved oak door as we pass though it. The Italianate style Midnight Inn rises proudly above the quaint street in Savannah's Historic District. The entryway boasts of the same vertical majesty, the hardwood floors polished to a high gleam, leading to the grand staircase illuminated by an Austrian crystal chandelier high above us. She looks at home here, far from the dark tailored suits and meetings and orders of our usual world. She belongs here, amidst the finer qualities of life. I long to be a part of that life, her life. ~~~*~~~ Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile Why wait any longer for the world to begin You can have your cake and eat it too Why wait any longer for the one you love When he's standing in front of you White. Airy and light...and white surrounds us, a calm settling in keeping the oppressive heat at bay. She's unpacked for us already and I can find no signs of anything other than comfort and content in our suite of rooms. She toes off her slides and moves to one of the many windows, pulling back the hinged white louvered and slatted shutters. The leaded glass pane is raised and the street sounds and the smell of the tropical flora rise and mingle with the lightly lavender scented sitting room. One hand palms the glass, the other lifts the hair from her neck, her fingers tangled in the strands as she twists them slightly and holds them to her head. I tell her that I can do that for her and close the distance between us in two strides. I bend to bury my nose in her tresses and I move to plant a kiss at her nape. She shivers in the heat and her hand falls to my head. She murmurs my name and I imagine her eyes closing to match the sound she makes. Hardly any words are exchanged between us, but we need so few, really. In choreographed form, my arms slip under hers, wrapping her in them as hers reach behind me, drawing me closer. We are just warming up, but cannot remain like this for long, my back bowed as it is with our height difference. But we possess each other's body long enough to communicate that the need is there...and it is increasing exponentially. She nearly purrs as my hands untie the shirttails, letting them come apart and my fingers touch her bare midriff. I straighten up as she backs into me and I interpret her body language. It's telling me that she wants more touch. The pearl buttons are tiny for my suddenly-clumsy hands and she chuckles, her hands moving up and behind my neck. It's a stretch but she loves a challenge. Nearly as much as I love her. When the material is unfastened, it parts, leaving the chocolate satin the only barrier between my hands and her breasts. She draws my arms around her once again and tells me to listen. I try, but the blood that has begun to pound in my ears makes it difficult. I wonder what it is that she hears, how she can focus outside this room, outside us and then I hear it, as if she has somehow channeled the sound of the splashing courtyard fountain directly to me. I am overcome with desire. No, that one word does not begin to describe it. I would have to add 'love' and 'lust' and 'burning need' to fully capture why I want her to consume me; how much I want to be consumed by her. She feels it too, I can tell by the way she moves and the little sighs and breathy almost-moans she makes. She wants everything now and she wants small temptations in an unhurried pace. She slips from my arms, meandering into the bedroom and out onto the balcony. She steps up onto the low footstool that stands against the alabaster painted rail, and leans forward to place her hands on the support. I join her and we have a better view of the enclosed courtyard, the fountain gurgling, the morning doves cooing. *** End part 1/2