Gazebo
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Rating: NC-17
Category: MSR, PWP (sort of)
Summary: No way.  Can't summarize Sybil's
Birthday Fic.  Let's just say, it's post "all
things", and it has smut.
Disclaimer: None of them are mine, though the
story belongs to Sybil.

No beta on this one - read at your own risk.  I
couldn't very well let Sybil see it, now could I? 
Besides, I just finished the sucker ten minutes
ago.  Cutting it close. <g>

Note: This was a little something on my zip disk
that eventually became "No Quarter Given", though
that fic ended up being vastly different.  I
never got rid of it, however, having a thing for
M/S smut, New Orleans style.  And when Sybil's
birthday came around, I figured it was time to
finish it once and for all.

Happy Birthday, sweetie!



Gazebo


She moves through the crowd with quiet purpose,
sipping the expensive champagne with distraction
and exchanging pleasantries with even less
enthusiasm.  It's really not her thing, these
gatherings of the rich and powerful.  But duty
calls, and despite her dislike of the fawning and
preening, she brushes aside her reluctance and
walks among them with graceful poise.

Keeping an eye on her assigned point of entry -
the east ballroom door - she listens to the
crackle of voices through the miniscule device in
her left ear.  One after another, they pipe in
every ten minutes, signaling the 'all clear' in a
rhythmic litany of bass and tenor.  She imagines
when all is said and done, they could produce a
chart-topper with the "Surveillance Rap."  The
thought makes her grin for a moment, then it
fades as the flight of fancy is suppressed by the
demands of the job once again.

Her regal form has not gone unnoticed and she
tries her best not to squirm under the scrutiny
of the gentlemen in the room.  With modest pride,
she admits to herself that she does turn out well
in her finery, though she's certain some of the
other gowns in the room are ten times more costly
than her own.  The simple royal blue column dress
hugs her body from the top of her breasts to the
tip of her toes, flaring away from her calves in
a provocative split that allows ease of movement. 
It also gives a glimpse of her trim ankles; she
feels the heads turn as she passes, warms under
the lingering caress of masculine eyes as they
travel from the exposed nape of her neck to the
arch of her Achilles tendon, strained with the
effort of balancing on three-inch heels.

Her arms are bare and she shivers, though not
from the icy blast of the air conditioning.  She
only wants to do her job and go home; it's not
often she's called upon to work without her
partner.  She's not alone, though, far from it. 
There are a dozen capable agents milling about
inside and outside the premises, waiting just as
she is for the target to make an appearance.  An
assassin of deadly precision, mocking them at
every turn in his bold killing spree of the
country's richest men.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees the latest
would-be victim, laughing with friends and family
in the center of his birthday party.  Midas
reborn with his money flowing in an endless
stream of oil and natural gas from the swamps of
southern Louisiana.  Instinct tells her she
should treat him with detachment, his polished
good looks and arrogance naturally limiting her
interest.  Maybe if he were a bit more rumpled, a
tad more insecure... she tamps down the thought. 
It's good that he isn't; she doesn't know if she
could resist him otherwise.

In her professional contact with him, she's found
him to be a down-to-earth man, at ease with
prince and pauper alike.  He clawed his way up
the ladder of success, demanding respect yet
never trampling upon the blood and sweat of
others to do so.  She admires him, even finds
herself enjoying his company, brief as it has
been.

His eyes meet hers across the room and he smiles,
nodding his head in acknowledgment.  He is a
handsome man, some fifteen years her senior.  And
if circumstances were different, she imagines she
could possibly lose her head over him.  The flame
in his gaze tells her he's interested but she
doesn't mirror the look, just nods her head in
silent greeting and turns away.

She misses another.

Feels that one's absence in the slow thump of her
heartbeat, theorizes in her analytical mind that
every other beat is not as strong when he's not
beside her.

She longs for another.

Pictures a lopsided smile amidst the backdrop of
the ancient oaks of Audubon Park, sun-dappled and
rakish.  He would melt into the easy charm of the
south, despite his Yankee origins.  Her fantasies
have taken a definite turn toward the romantic
since she's been in New Orleans.

She aches for another.

A piercing pain upon awakening every morning in
her lonely hotel bed, the humid sheets smelling
of her, and only her.  If she closes her eyes,
she can almost bring to mind his scent, mixing it
with the heavy aroma of the jasmine that adorns
her balcony.  If she opens her mind, she can
almost hear the moan of her name in the seductive
patois of the street vendors below.

It brings a prick to her eyes, the memories that
are so few, so new.  To be pulled away from his
arms so soon after discovering him as a lover is
confusing, at the least.  Her body yearns for his
touch already and it's only been a matter of
days.  When did she ever feel such agony?

She rouses from her reverie and chastises herself
for her loss of focus.  The clock above the
massive fireplace reads 11:45 p.m.; the night is
still young and there is work to be done.  She
breathes her name into the microphone hidden in
her bodice and turns to make another round
through the ballroom, depositing her half-empty
champagne flute on the nearest tray.

This is her boss' idea, a respite from the daily
grind that has been her work life lately.  At
first she refused on the premise that she was
needed where she was, at her partner's side.  She
remembers storming into the basement to seek his
help in swaying Skinner to her reasoning.  But to
her consternation he had agreed.  We need some
time apart, he'd said.  To think.

At first, she was hurt at his soft words.  Her
reply had curled her tongue before she'd clamped
down with her lips, stifling the question.  To
think?  They'd spent one night together as
lovers, opening with her secrets and closing with
her hurried departure as he slept on.

With one look at his calm, yet guarded eyes,
she'd known he was right.  She'd felt everything
that he was pour into her, body and soul, that
wonderful night.  And though she'd answered with
her lips and hands, she'd not answered with her
heart and mind.  They may have broken the
physical and emotional plane, but not the
spiritual.  Despite her journey of the spirit
while he'd been in England, she still had yet to
walk that path with him.

Her resentment at his intuitive statement didn't
last long; she knew they'd survive this test and
in turn, become stronger for it.  But she can't
bring herself to like it.  She's tried to enjoy
this mini-vacation but is failing miserably.

She wonders if he's just as miserable.  A selfish
part of her wants it so; just as another, gentler
part of her wishes him no pain.

The voices in her ear cease for a second, then
return with a cacophony of sound and excitement,
drowning out her drifting thoughts.

"West patio!  West patio!" comes the shout.  "Got
him in my sight!"

Her dress trips her up for a second and she
curses its length in her haste to provide backup. 
The crowd is oppressive, however, closing in as
more and more guests arrive, the fashionably late
mingling with the early boozers in a sea of
cologne and glitter.

"Damn," she mutters, elbowing her way to the far
end of the ballroom.  Several of the haughty
faces give her condescending glares but she
ignores their cool gasps of "Well!" and "The
nerve!" as she steps on buffed shoes and pampered
toes.

By the time she reaches the patio, she's winded
and frazzled, but her gun is drawn from her
evening purse and her hands are steady.  The
object of their operation is being led away in
handcuffs; a twinge of disappointment at missing
the collar is quickly replaced by a surge of
relief.

"What happened?" she asks the agent to her right,
her cheeks flushed with the waning surge of
adrenaline.

He murmurs a few closing syllables into his cell
phone, then gives her a triumphant smile. 
"Caught him trying to sneak in with the cake." 
He nods at the vulgar monstrosity large enough to
hold not one, but two scantily clad party girls. 
"The girl's okay, just shaken up a bit.  She
phoned the house fifteen minutes ago saying some
guy had hijacked the bakery van."

"An accomplice?" is her next question.  He must
have had a driver; surely the other agents
realize this.

"Nabbed him trying to leave the estate.  Must
have gotten spooked by all the commotion."  With
a "well done" to the group of agents left, he
nods and leaves with the suspect.

Scully watches the patio clear and returns her
pistol to the little black purse.  It doesn't
take long for the purr of the crickets to resume
and she takes a deep breath, knowing that her
time here has come to an end.  She can go home.

"Dana?"

Startled, she whirls to find Mr. Midas, aka LeRoy
Martin, approaching from the bright lights beyond
the patio doors.

"Mr. Martin," she says softly, giving his surname
its French pronunciation, the last syllable
climbing in tone after the slow rolling of the
first.  Her voice a steady drone of
professionalism, she continues, "I assume Agent
Pomeroy spoke to you?"  She'd seen the SAC at the
far end of the patio, instructing the agents
before they'd taken the suspect away.  As she
speaks to Mr. Martin, she glances around; she's
the only agent left on the patio.  A twinge of
disappointment makes her pause - now she'll have
to take a taxi back to the hotel.

"Yes," Mr. Martin answers, stopping a few feet in
front of her, hands in pockets.  "And I thought I
asked you to call me LeRoy?" he adds with a
devastating smile, his voice a slow shade of
Cajun French, royal purple and almost dripping
with sensuality.

His seductive tone wraps around the moss-draped
oaks and settles upon her shoulders.  She stifles
the shiver before it can travel up her spine.

"Mr. Martin -" she begins.

"LeRoy."

"LeRoy," she concedes with a sigh, "I really
don't think this is a good idea."

He tilts his head but doesn't move closer,
careful not to invade her personal space.  She
appreciates his slow movements for what they are,
his gentle wooing generating a tickle of warmth
in her chest.  But she knows it cannot be.  Maybe
if it were years ago, or even months ago....

"You're off duty now, aren't you, Dana?"  His
brown eyes linger over her face.  She realizes
he's doing his best not to let them travel
further down.

"Yes," she replies, "but I'm -"

She breaks off, wondering just exactly *what* she
is.  Spoken for?  That sounds so antiquated, so
not *them.* Yes, they've become intimate; crossed
into a new relationship, one that usually means
exclusivity.  But the ease with which Mulder let
her come to New Orleans is scary.  As if he's
testing her, pushing her away from him.

We need time to think, he'd said.

"Involved?"  LeRoy's quiet answer accompanies the
shift of his eyes to her left hand.  "You're not
married."  At her intake of breath he amends, "I
asked Agent Pomeroy.  Please excuse my
presumption.  But when I see something I want, I
don't waste any time."

Like seven years?  Scully thinks with sarcasm. 
Mulder didn't seem to mind long waits.  All the
time they've spent at a slow burn, when they
could have been....  Suddenly it occurs to her
that she's not being honest with herself or
Mulder.  Neither one of them corners the market
on open declarations of love.  In her case, now
is the perfect time to start.

"There's someone else, LeRoy."  Her voice is
thready and she clears her throat.  "I'm in love
with someone else."

A smile blooms on her face; she wishes the
handsome face before her belonged to another. 
And it will... just as soon as she can make it
home.

She's had time to think.

LeRoy's smile is wistful and he takes a step
forward, lightly clasping her hand.  She doesn't
pull away; she's not intimidated by his
attention.  Rather, her admission makes her laugh
with relief.  "Sorry," she says, giving his hand
a small squeeze.  "You're a wonderful man -"

"But I'm not him, right?" LeRoy finishes, his
chuckle joining hers.  His eyes sheen with
disappointment, but he doesn't press her.  She
feels her admiration for him rise another notch. 
"Thanks for an eventful night, Dana.  Tell him I
said he's a lucky man."

Scully allows him to brush her cheek with his
lips before he takes his leave, blending back
into the bright gaiety of the party.

"I will, LeRoy," she whispers into the humid May
air.  "I'll tell him."

She brings a hand to her face, capturing the hint
of a tear before it has a chance to escape her
eye.  A rumble of thunder from the southeast
makes her shoulders jump; the wind has shifted to
the north with the approaching storm.

It's appropriate, she thinks.  The rain will wash
away what's left of her resistance.

Feeling like she could climb Mount Everest, she
pulls the microphone from her dress and the
device from her ear and walks to the edge of the
patio.  With a windup that would be the envy of
Nolan Ryan, she stands in the shadows and fast-
pitches them both into the lily-covered pond.

"Ready or not, Mulder, here I come," she mutters
with a decisive nod, hands on hips.

"Nice curve... starts high, bottoms out... just
nips the inside corner...."

She holds her breath as the thunder carries his
voice across the lawn, where it caresses the
valley between her shoulder blades.

"Have you been practicing without me, Scully?"

Her head drops with her light exhale and her lips
curve into a knowing grin before she turns to
face him.  Or rather, she faces his shadowy form
as it languidly leans against the massive trunk
of the gnarled oak some thirty feet away.  Black
upon black, he blends in with the ancient tree;
only the glitter of his gaze tells her he's not
Jean Lafitte's ghost, bent upon sweeping her away
in the dead of night for lands unknown.

As she approaches him on shaky legs, she quickly
amends that thought.  Beneath his easy stance, he
is poised as if ready to pounce, his knees
slightly bent and his chest rising and falling
under his crossed arms with heavy excitement.

"Mulder -" she whispers, a bit frightened by his
dark persona.  Yet at the same time she finds her
skin tingling under his lidded gaze, sensing she
is most certainly the prey and not really minding
it one bit.

"You didn't answer me."  His demand makes her
falter and she searches her already foggy brain
for the question.  As a flash of lightning
illuminates the candelabra of limbs behind his
head, she remembers.

And realizes exactly what he means by "practice."

Her slow steps resume and she allows her lips to
turn up, a reassuring relaxation of her brow and
chin.  She wants to rush to him and become one
with his shadow... instead, she waits until they
are inches apart before breathing a question of
her own.

"What are you doing here, Mulder?"

This close to him, she can now make out the
bruise of his unshaven cheeks and smell the
urgency of his insecurity as it mixes with the
ozone-laden air.

His hands fall away in surrender to her devouring
gaze and he bends over her, still towering above
her despite her added height.  With a brush of
his fingers, he swipes at the first drops of rain
on her cheeks.

"I missed you," he says, in truth and
desperation.  "Not as much as you've missed me,
apparently."

The sadness of his words makes her stomach lurch;
he'd seen her meeting moments before with Robert
and had assumed....

Lightning arcs overhead as she mirrors his touch,
cupping his cheeks and leaning in closer to let
her reply mist between them.

"I told him there was someone else."  She smiles
at the bloom of wistful hope on his face; she
reels at the press of his hot breath on her chin. 
"I missed you, too.  What took you so long?"

Not that she ever expected, in her wildest
dreams, that he would come to her.  It hadn't
even been discussed as a viable option.  Now she
knows this separation was an experiment, for the
both of them.  The lure of an older man, powerful
beyond her wildest dreams, the fact she'd almost
run from Mulder's bed after they'd been so close,
his willingness to let her leave him... it all
added up to a designed test.  Of desire?  Of
commitment or trust?  Or of love?

Anger should be choking her, but she feels
nothing but an overwhelming sense of happiness. 
Mulder gave her the chance to run; despite his
jealousy and fear.  The machinations mean little
- it's the end result that counts.

And she's right where she wants to be.

His hands move from her face to wrap around her
back.  "Had to be sure," he says shakily into the
warmth of her neck.  "That, and I had to sneak
over here after work.  Gotta be back in the
morning or Skinner'll have my ass."

"I should be coming home soon.  We got the guy,"
she supplies, burrowing into him, her arms
sliding under his leather jacket.  "And I love
you," she says, as if the addendum is so
familiar, despite its fresh birth on her tongue.

Her breath is stolen by the tightening of his
embrace for just a second, then she hears him
whisper, "I know.  I've always known.  I just
wanted you to know."

The thud of his heartbeat under her cheek tells
her he feels the same, he's never pretended
otherwise.  How she waited this long to tell him,
she doesn't know.  Mulder was right, as he
usually is... well, 99.9 percent of the time,
anyway.  She needed to think, needed to want,
needed to yearn.  Needed to learn.

The rain is harder now, fat, cold drops that make
their way through the leaves of the tree with
torpedo accuracy.  Mulder pulls away, and after a
scan of the patio and ballroom with a grimace,
his eyes light upon something beyond her line of
vision.  Grabbing her hand, he guides her from
under the canopy of cobwebbed limbs into the back
yard.  Before she can put voice to her query, she
hears one word thrown over his shoulder.

"Gazebo."

She braves the ever-increasing storm and Mulder's
unrelenting grip on her hand, raising her eyes to
their destination.  Why they aren't just
returning to her hotel, she doesn't know.  It
dawns on her that she doesn't really care,
either.  The white, polygonal structure at the
far end of the lawn beckons with each flash of
white heat from the sky above, its glass-paned
windows seeming to move with liquid life from the
now steady rain.

In seconds they are inside, Mulder slamming the
door behind them and turning to face her with
eyes that are steaming in the darkness.

"Gazebo?" she asks with an arch of her brow,
glancing at the interior with a jaded eye.  There
are luxurious furnishings in the spacious, one-
room building;  chairs and sofas of taste and
elegance.  It is meant to be a retreat, she
realizes.  A place to gather one's thoughts and
contemplate, meditate even.  Half-closed blinds
drape over the windows, affording a view of the
outside while enclosing those within in its cozy
embrace.

"He's rich," Mulder murmurs, shedding his jacket.

Scully drops her small purse on the nearest chair
as she's assaulted by the heat of his body, even
though they are still separated by three feet or
more.  "He's not you," she answers, her words
almost lost in the patter of rain on the slate
roof as she toes off her sodden shoes.

Mulder moves closer as the storm rages around
them.  A collective roar from the faraway
ballroom, followed by the cessation of the little
light trickling from it, tells them the estate
has just lost power.

LeRoy Martin's voice drifts to them, his
authority apparent even at this distance. 
"Ladies and gentlemen, please stay where you are. 
The generator will be turned on shortly. 
Meanwhile, have some more champagne!"

Scully is distracted momentarily by the
disruption, then starts when Mulder's hands
settle on the bare skin of her arms.  "He's
powerful," flows into the shell of her left ear.

Her inattention is short-lived, as the contact
draws her into Mulder's embrace.  "He's still not
you," she says, her voice plummeting into a husky
moan.  She twists in his hands as his mouth
traverses the slope of her neck.

Mulder's lips follow the lax line of her jaw,
muffling his words, and she senses his underlying
reluctance to state the obvious.  Still, with a
sigh, he lets it through.  "He wants you."  

In the next moment, the ballroom lights flare to
life and Scully waits until the deafening
applause dies down before halting Mulder's
exploration with both hands.  She holds his face
above hers and sees desire in the darkened gaze
illuminated by fingers of light from the slatted
blinds.  But she also sees a residual
apprehension there, just a touch of it in the
crease of his brow.

"I know," she whispers, her thumbs smoothing the
fine pattern of lines at the corners of his eyes,
"but he's not what I want."

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, though he
must know by now, she thinks.  It's just another
step toward certainty, she realizes.  The words
need to be said, as if by giving them life on her
lips she will carve them in impervious,
everlasting stone.

"You.  I want you, Mulder."

With a reaching, hungry mouth, she seals the vow
between them.  His lips part under her insistence
and in a moment, he takes up the challenge. 
Amidst an almost painful devouring of her mouth,
he holds her close, his arms pulling her up to
meet his need.  She feels her zipper give way,
the rasp of metal lost in the storm's fury beyond
the windows.  The storm within grows, and she
moans against his lips, knowing she has to
temporarily end the kiss to pursue what she
wants.

Panting, she pulls away, her hands shoving up his
sweater with clumsy fingers.  He obliges her soft
curse of impatience and makes quick work of the
offending garment.  It is lost on the floor as he
comes back to her, all heat and moist skin.  The
bodice of her dress falls away, but is trapped at
her waist.  At the first touch of her bare
breasts to his chest, she hisses, knowing she
won't take the time to disrobe fully.  Her
nipples are hard, the twin mounds of flesh
beneath swollen.  She can no more wait than she
can speak.  A soft, pleading sound comes from
deep in her throat, and she brings her arms up to
encircle his neck, searching his eyes for
understanding.

Mulder's face above hers is tight, and she knows
he sees her need.  It is not a time for slow
kisses and lingering touches.  Only a fast, hard
coupling will do for either of them.

Thunder rolls above, and gooseflesh rises on her
skin as he takes two steps back, her body
clinging to his like a musky, winding grapevine. 
A moment more, and he lies upon a wicker chaise,
falling to a semi-reclining position.  A ragged
exhale leaves her lungs empty as she falls with
him, but it is of no matter.  She takes air from
him as her mouth completes the journey down to
capture his very breath.  He tastes of rain and
bitter coffee, and her tongue delves deep as her
hands curl into his hair.  She discovers she
loves to kiss him, to play with his body -
something she will have more time to do later,
she vows.  Now, she just wants the feel of his
body within hers.  Her legs fall to either side
of his and her hips grind into his denim-clad
erection, feeling his groan rumble up under her.

He takes control at her wanton position; lifting
her slightly, he silently tells her to plant her
feet on the floor, his hands urging her thighs to
comply by gently giving them a squeeze.  She
follows his lead, though it shifts her mouth away
from his.  Flushed with the need to touch him
still, she slides her hands over his skin and
stares at his shadowed face, licking her lips,
telling him with her gaze that she can wait no
longer.  This is not the slow joining of their
first time, punctuated by queries of comfort and
sighs of disbelief at the sheer profundity of the
momentous lovemaking.

No, this is carnal, a melding of bodies too long
denied to even tarry with disrobing.  This is
seductive and yet combative, a culmination of
years of frustration and second-guessing.  A
realization that they are indeed, and will always
be, lovers.  Mated, matched, espoused... whatever
name is put to the status of their union.  If not
ever legally, then most certainly physically and
spiritually.

Unblinking, his eyes narrowed and feverish, he
accepts her appeal for a more hurried pace, as
his hands slide down her legs.  Past her knees,
he begins the path upward, this time taking her
dress with him.  She pushes away his trembling
fingers, freeing his hands to make himself ready
as she drags the tight blue satin to the tops of
her thighs; her legs get weak as they fall apart
in an even wider splay of readiness.

Her name forms on his lips, but it is a plea
without voice, and he bites his lower lip over it
as he struggles below her body to give her what
she asks for.  Soon, his jeans are soon no longer
an obstacle.  The rough material slides down, and
his shorts follow in an instant.  Through the
silk of her damp underwear, she feels his cock
spring free, hears his sigh of satisfaction at
the embrace of her cradling thighs.  Content for
the moment, he grins, arching an eyebrow as his
hands come up to fondle her breasts.  The
gauntlet is thrown - it's up to her to parry.

She does without hesitation, though she realizes
to rid herself of her underwear requires total
withdrawal.  With a sultry half-smile of her own,
she reaches between them, levering up on her toes
as she bunches her dress high around her hips. 
One hand holding the silk panties aside, she
grasps his pulsing flesh with the other and
slides him home.

His eyes widen at her maneuvering, then quickly
squeeze shut.  The raindrops clinging to his
cheeks glisten in the muted light, mixing with
the more shimmering veil of sweat that suddenly
vies for dominance on his dark skin.  Hands that
were moments ago teasing her breasts fly to her
ass, where he presses her more fully onto him.

At once, she begins to move upon him, his thick
feel within her inciting her to completion faster
than she ever thought possible.  Moments away
from a mind-blowing orgasm, she feels him shift
beneath her; his boots hit the floor as he sits
up, spreading her wider to his thrusts.  He has
assumed control once again, as they face one
another on an even plane of movement.

His smile is wicked, but strained.  She hears
herself speak, an urging litany of "please" and
"Mulder" interspersed with praises and curses of
him and a deity she's sure equally withholds
ecstasy from her grasp.  Her nails rake against
his slick spine as his hands move her at will. 
Face to face, he dares her to reach for it, with
eyes that possess her soul and a mouth that
barely touches her own.  She wants to kiss him,
but he won't let her.  Instead, he keeps a
distance of mere millimeters, his breath heavy
and full of muttered urgings that thrill and
challenge.

Take it, she hears in the sweet noise.  Take me.

So she does.  Constriction begins in her lower
body, building to a crescendo of pulsing rhythms
that greedily grab at his hard flesh.  Her back
and neck tense, and her head falls to his
shoulder, where her mouth opens to silence her
scream of pleasure against his skin.  Beneath
her, he bucks up into her slippery, tight
opening;  he comes not long after she does,
holding her with a firm, slightly bruising grip
as she feels a stream of warmth bathe her walls.

His cry is silenced as well, delivered close into
her neck and tousled hair.  She feels it more
than hears it, and she revels in the unspoken
affirmation that mirrors hers.  They have no need
of words, and hold each other for long minutes
afterwards.  She is drained, and she suspects he
is just as exhausted.  Just as sated, just as
happy.

After a while, she feels the pinch of the rain-
cooled air, and she shivers, her arms pulling his
warm body closer.  "No, don't move," she
whispers, feeling him tense in the prelude to
action.  She wants a few moments longer of this
raw, open embrace.

"Okay," he says in return, pressing a kiss to her
neck, his hands moving up her back.  "Guess you
really did miss me, huh?"

She cups his face in her hands and looks at her
leisure.  He's still warm from their lovemaking,
his cheeks burning under her fingers.  Hair
sticking up everywhere, his mouth in the shadows
tinged pinkish red from her lipstick, he's quite
a sight.  If she had to put a name to the look,
she'd say, "Scully-fucked."  It makes her grin,
makes her feel as if she controls this
uncontrollable man, though she knows damn well
she never will.  Still, it's nice to pretend for
a moment that she can tame him with sex, and her
grin becomes sultry as she lowers her lips to
tease his own.  Off his confused look, she
states, "You look very scruffy, Mulder."

"Yeah, well that's what not sleeping for a week
will do to you."  His gaze burns still as he sits
unresisting to her caresses.  "That, and having
the woman you love attack you in a gazebo."

"Excuse me?" She's hard put to give her mock
anger any sort of credence, given his subtle
admission, the first she truly believes.  "Just
who attacked whom here?"

"You attacked *me*."

"I wasn't the one with the plan," she reminds
him, snuggling close, her nose entranced with his
bristly cheek.  "Gazebo, indeed."

"All I wanted to do was kiss you," he pointed
out.  "You attacked me.  Admit it."

She pulls away, looking at his happy eyes, full
of daring and love.  "All right, I admit it.  I
have a thing for attacking tall, dark, and spooky
men in gazebos," she drawls, more serious than he
knows.  "It's a fatal weakness."

"I knew it.  I *gotta* get me one of these," he
sighs.  Mischief sharpens his features as he
adds, "Any thoughts on attacking a tall, dark and
spooky man in your hotel room?"

"Just one."

"What's that?"

Leaning close, she gives him a passionate,
lengthy kiss, knowing her response to his query
lies within.  There's no need to say the words,
or answer any more questions.

Tonight, she's answered them all.  His and hers.



END