Dejeuner Sur La Deja Vu by Ariadne

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Déjeuner Sur La Déjà Vu  by Ariadne

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From: “Ariadne N.” <> Date: Thu, 10 Jun 1999 20:56:06 +0000 Subject: NEW – Déjeuner Sur La Déjà Vu (1/1) NC-17

Title: Déjeuner Sur la Déjà Vu

Author: Ariadne <>

Rating: NC-17 Classification: MSR, Angst
Spoilers: Monday, Emily, Tooms

Disclaimer: The characters and canonic situations belong to 20th Century Fox, Chris Carter, and 1013 Productions, in no particular order. No copyright infringement is intended.

Notes at the end…


Tuesday, late afternoon rural Virginia

Endless ribbons of tree-shaded Virginia two-lane highway stretched out before them. Motorists in passing cars might have gotten a glimpse of the couple in the blue Taurus, might have seen the pretty woman who drove with such steely concentration with her companion beside her, his long legs crossing and uncrossing restlessly as he stared unseeing at the verdant scenery.

Had the cars not been traveling so fast, someone might have detected the aroma of fresh-baked bread emanating from a paper bag in the back seat. In that fragrance was the promise of a soft, fluffy center surrounded by a crust as brown and crunchy as the paper that held it. The secondary but no less alluring scent was that of sweet, maple-baked ham.

Had there been a traffic light somewhere along the twisted road, the next car might have stopped long enough to pick up the more subtle hint of tension in the air. No words passed between them; they were as stiff and distant as strangers.

Scully turned her neck to peer into the rear view mirror at the source of the comforting smell, a lunch sack given to them by the mother of a kidnapped child. With a clarity she wished would dissipate, she recalled the events of an hour ago. “Y’all must be hungry after driving all this way,” the mother had said to them as they prepared to take their leave. “I’ve got bread fresh out of the oven. Let me make you some sandwiches.” The recollection continued, reminding her of the awkwardness of the thin, tightly-drawn woman who had scurried into the kitchen, her sobs poorly concealed even though she clattered pans and searched through drawers with a strength born of incipient madness.

Both Mulder and Scully knew this feeling of helpless sympathy, their bodies vibrating with the shared sensation of déjà vu. This one had been different somehow, a sharper sensation that reminded Scully of getting her wisdom teeth removed two weeks apart – the second surgery was far more painful because she knew what to expect and was waiting for the cracking sound of her tooth as it shattered under the pliers.

Moments later the woman had reappeared with a large paper bag in one hand and a torn, damp tissue in the other. Her eyes, ordinarily a watery blue, were almost colorless against the red rims of her eyelids. Mulder had taken the package silently, handling the bag as gently as if it had been the body of the child who was almost surely dead.

They had departed quickly, but the fragrance of the bread hovered in the air while the old house receded in the distance.

Scully looked away from their lunch and over at Mulder, who was holding on to a framed photograph of the little boy who had vanished without a trace from a family picnic. Mulder’s fingers were tracing the contours of a face still rounded with baby fat. That morning she had seen him do the same thing over a photograph of the woman who had died in the bank holdup just the day before.

There had been no time to discuss what they had told the panel at the meeting; Skinner apologized as he told them he was sending them directly to the scene of the crime. Their energies were directed to the immediate situation, once again leaving them without a chance to put one puzzle behind them before moving on to the next.

Not that they achieved closure all that often, Scully mused as she kept her eyes on the road instead of on the dark-suited wraith in the passenger seat.

She could still hear Mulder’s listless recitation of the events surrounding Pam’s death at the bank. His eyes had been as drab as his voice. “She stepped in front of Bernard and the bullet that was meant for me struck and killed her. Bernard surrendered to the authorities and there were no further incidents.”

The gazes of the OPC members had turned from him to Scully, who was seated at Mulder’s left. “Does that track with your recollections, Agent Scully?” she was asked.

Shifting in her chair, Scully had looked away from the vacant, haunted face of her partner. “The content of Agent Mulder’s statement mirrors my own memories of the incident.”

Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Those memories, however hard she tried to keep them steady, were constantly shifting in her mind, adding details that could not possibly have happened, fragments of things that she could almost see, could almost feel.

At the meeting she had shoved those feelings and sights away from her conscious thought, nodding and answering the few remaining questions in a brisk and professional manner. Always in her peripheral vision she saw Mulder’s outline, his slumped shadowy posture, and something deep in side her body resonated a warning she could not comprehend.

He sat the same way even now, half-turned away from her, the slope of his shoulders mirrored by the droop of his head. He rested one elbow on the door handle and propped his cheek up on one hand while the other hand continued to hang on to the boy’s photograph.

With every fiber of her being, she believed that something dreadful had happened to Mulder, to them both, yet she knew that they were both perfectly safe.

She knew Mulder felt the same way. He had hovered close to her all morning, his nervous energy thrumming along the edges of her body. With no time to broach the subject before having to turn their attention to the family tragedy at a Virginia farm, the secrets thickened the air between them.

“I need to make a pit stop, Scully,” Mulder said in a monotone.

“We’re miles from anywhere.”

“There are trees, aren’t there?”

Ordinarily she would have found him glancing at her to gauge her response to his juvenile witticism, but today he kept his green gaze turned to the scenery that whizzed past them. Scully sighed and raised an eyebrow. “I think it’d be considered defacing public property, Mulder.”

“Then you can write me a ticket. Just pull over, would you?” The car pulled over and slowed; he did not even wait for it to come to a complete stop before opening the door and sprinting down a dirt path.

She rolled her shoulders forward and back, then picked up the photograph that Mulder had been studying. It was a simple school photo, the colors already picking up the sienna hue of cheap processing even though it was less than a year old. Rusting. Decaying. A body, decomposing into the elements that gave it life.

More than her own daughter had been allowed.


With a quick snap of her wrist she turned the picture face down, then twisted her body away to look out of the window. There was almost no traffic now, only the occasional farm truck, even though there was still plenty of daylight left.

Scully looked up into the sky and examined the clouds. Overhead they were white and fluffy, but in the distance darker thunderheads loomed. They looked more like smoke and dust, the aftermath of a bomb.

He has a bomb he has a bomb he has a bomb…

The car was suddenly too confining. Without thinking, Scully reached into the back seat, grabbed the bag and her purse, and headed up the path at a more leisurely pace than Mulder had taken. Tall trees surrounded her, leafy branches sheltering her from the insistent sun. For no particular reason she took a seat on a gnarled root and stretched her legs in front of her with a contented sigh.

The scent of the bread was too enticing. She opened the bag and removed a packet wrapped in waxed paper, the center still warm. Her fingers brushed against something cylindrical and cold. That poor woman had even thought to put drinks in the bag.

The shade was just dark enough to make reading the label impossible unless she pulled the can out. As she reached inside, an old exchange came back to her in a rush.

“If there’s an iced tea in that bag, Scully…could be love.”

Oh, the strain of keeping a poker face as she had rummaged in the bag as if she were not fully aware of its contents. “Must be fate, Mulder. Root beer.”

“Root beer?” asked a voice from just behind her.

She jumped slightly, then recovered and tossed Mulder one of the cans. “Nice guess, but neither. It’s Coke.”

“Well, I’m o-for-three, then.” He popped the top of his soda and took a long swallow. Even as he stood coatless, tie loosened and askew, he still managed to look overwound as he shifted from foot to foot, his face anxiously scanning the wooded area for something only he could find.

Scully tossed him the remaining sandwich and he caught it neatly. He unwrapped it with deliberate care, as if it might explode, then took a tentative bite. It seemed to meet his needs; he devoured the last crumb and washed it down with the rest of the soda while Scully nibbled thoughtfully at her own sandwich.

“You gonna finish that?” Mulder’s voice was almost surly.

Her reply was succinct. “Yes.” She saw that he was heading toward her Coke and put a pre-emptive hand along the top of the can. “No.”

He stopped in his tracks. His face in the waning light of day was tinged with gray, shadows like smeared tears under his eyes. A tremor flickered the corner of one eyelid and he rubbed it with his knuckle. “You think he’s dead, don’t you? Scott Callahan?”

“Probably.” She took a sip of her drink, decided that she didn’t want the rest of it after all, and passed it to Mulder without further comment.

“I want him to be alive, Scully. I want something to go right in this god-awful week.”

“Mulder, you foiled a bank robbery yesterday that would likely have resulted in the deaths of at least a dozen people, ourselves included.”

“Not without killing Pam.” He drained the last of the soda and crushed the can with vigor.

“You didn’t kill her. Bernard did. Yes, she got in the way of the bullet, but…” Scully stopped, staring straight ahead, a fragment of memory slicing through all her rational explanations.



He was standing at her side beneath the arch of the tree, holding on to her shoulders. “Scully. You DO remember. You DO know that this kept happening over and over.”

“No! No. It’s just a projection, something my mind is flashing as a possible ending to the scenario.”

“You were THERE. How the hell else did I know about Pam, about the bomb?”

“I don’t know! You’re the one with the intuition here, not me. Maybe it was a lucky guess.”

“Damn it!” Mulder straightened abruptly and backed away from her, hitting his head on a low branch with a sickening thud and falling to his knees from the force of the blow.

“Mulder!” Scully dropped beside him and tried to pry his fingers away from the blood that seeped through his thick hair, but he resisted.

“Stop. Stop.” He made an attempt to move away, but the world careened sickeningly and he landed on his back.

Scully sat tailor-fashion on the ground and pulled Mulder’s head into her lap to assess the damage. Her thumb wandered over his temple as she registered the cut at the back of the skull, superficial but bleeding profusely as did all scalp wounds. Cleansing and pressure would be all he would need. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “No one has to die here.”

Why did I say that?

It hit her full force.

We’re on the floor of the bank and there’s a bullet in his chest next to the heart that was so strong just a few minutes ago and he’s going to die I can’t do anything more than hold him while he slips away my God we’re all going to die I can’t connect to this robber, this man with the coldness of death in his eyes he’s got a bomb he’s got a bomb it doesn’t have to end like this he’s got a bomb…

“He’s got a bomb,” Scully murmured through lips suddenly cold with fear. With a wild, terrified cry she shifted and pressed her face against his, insanely wanting to perform CPR on this living, breathing man.

Mulder’s arms closed around her out of reflex. Scully could feel the hard pounding of his uninjured heart beneath her palms as she turned and straddled him, her face dangerously close to his. Their rapid, shallow breathing was the only sound they heard for a lifetime, an instant, before they were kissing. Desperate, they threaded their fingers through wind-blown hair, tugging insistently so that a mouth was right there, a pair of lips poised perfectly.

“You remember,” Mulder managed to gasp. Scully nodded, the anguish of memory etching itself in acid on her heart. She received his kiss, welcomed his tongue as it pushed at her passion-swollen lips until they parted and she could taste the sweetness of mayonnaise against the rough, wet silk of his mouth.

“Don’t die, don’t die,” she begged, hearing her voice as if it were spoken by someone in a distant memory.

Mulder was working his way down her neck, licking in time with the pulse in her carotid artery, and could only shake his head in response. Scully held his head close to her skin. The rasp of stubble against her soft skin was an erotic reminder that she was alive, he was alive, and they hadn’t had to die after all. So intent was she on the sudden rush of adrenaline that she scarcely felt Mulder pulling upwards on the hem of her shirt.

She turned over on her back, arms extended upward, staring him down as he removed the pullover with a single tug. She fumbled with Mulder’s dress shirt buttons and a tie that was infernally stubborn even though it was already loosened. Buttons popped away, imitations of gunshots, and Mulder threw his body over hers to protect it.

To take it.

He placed his hands at her waist and stood on shaking legs, pulling her up with him even as he shoved ineffectually at her slacks. She half-unzipped, half tore them from her body. Through lust-glazed eyes she saw Mulder remove the remainder of his clothing and lunge toward her with his arms outstretched.

Bare skin slid silkenly along bare skin, breasts crushed against chest, hands on hips, dragging their bodies closer and closer. Mulder took two long steps forward until Scully was pressed against the tree. Up she went in his arms, the bark nipping at the skin of her back, until she was able to wrap her legs around his hips and draw him inside of her, where he would be safe.

“Oh God, oh God,” Mulder keened as he watched himself disappear into his partner, his best and only friend, who opened up to take him into her body. Just as she had taken him into her very soul so, so long ago, she welcomed him, accepted him.

Loved him.

He pulled one of her hands away from the back of his neck and brought it down between her legs, a silent plea for her to take what pleasure she could. She kissed him, then put a trembling hand over his eyes. His eyelashes tickled her palms as she whispered, “Don’t look…please…”


“Please…” Her breath caught in her throat and she made a tiny sound between a gasp and a moan. Mulder obeyed, resting his forehead on her collarbone and giving her the privacy she craved.

As she heard his breathing become labored she felt the first shocks of her climax rumbling like a distant thunderstorm. Her body undulated and became liquid, molten. Mulder, unable to resist, slowed his thrusting and gazed upon her.

Scully was gone, seeing herself through Mulder’s passion-darkened eyes, witnessing her own naked, flushed body with its nimbus of red hair caught on the rough bark like the blood of Saint Sebastian. She saw herself lift her hand from Mulder’s face and place the back of her wrist against her open mouth to mute her cries. The taste of her salty flesh brought her back to herself in time to savor the golden brightness of afterglow and the expression of astonished joy on Mulder’s face.

“God, Scully,” he gasped, holding her in a firm grasp as her muscles went slack. “Oh, God…”

They tumbled to earth, to the grassy carpet beneath the tree. At the first shiver Scully felt Mulder unfold himself along her. His hands rested on the ground on either side of her shoulders and his face was only far enough from hers to allow him to see her, to take in the wonder of her.

She missed the most intimate of contact and wrapped her legs around Mulder’s hips to pull him closer. Hungry for the thick arrow that pierced her sex, Scully sought Mulder’s erection with the very core of her being and urged him in.

He groaned, his attenuated body stretching even further, toes seeking purchase in the cool earth. “Watch,” he told her after they kissed themselves breathless, and they both looked at where their bodies joined, where his hard, glistening flesh dove in and out of her.





The vocabulary of ardent desire.

She spoke for him when all he could do was gasp for air. She urged him on, stroking his wild hair from his forehead so that he could continue to look into her eyes. Mulder threw his head back and moaned as his body curved like a bow, his hips thrusting forward in counterpoint to the perfect reverse arch of his back. Scully felt his muscles go rigid.

He cried out and drew her up into his arms to let her ride out the last of his climax. Burying his face between her breasts, he shuddered and moaned until Scully had wrung every drop of his desire from him, until she finally grew still in his embrace with a long sigh.

Only then did he look up at her.

She was already smiling down at him, her eyes wide open as she tried to read his emotions. It was not difficult, for Mulder always wore his heart like a standard upon his shield, and Scully saw the adoration and desire reflected in the light of his eyes.

“Mulder,” she gasped brokenly.

He gave her a shaky smile and pressed his palm against her cheek. “I’m here. I’m alive. We’re alive.”

“Alive…” Her body hummed with it as she sat in his lap, feeling him pulse weakly inside of her and the soft, answering grasp of her body’s own response. Her legs were around his waist and she tightened them to keep her inside of her for as long as possible.

They were silent, needing time to process this newest mystery. Mulder was overcome with a wave of lassitude and he gently disentangled himself from Scully, pushing her down on her side and lying behind her with his chest pressed firmly into her back. Her little groan of protest turned into a contented sigh when she felt his hands reach around to her waist, stroking along her body to the her softly rounded abdomen and over her thighs.

As comfortable as the position was for her, Scully needed to see Mulder. Twisting around took all of her remaining strength. She turned and cupped his face in her hands and he mirrored the gesture. They kissed softly, lips barely touching, whispering over and over to one another.

“We’re alive.”

“We’re alive.”

Scully suddenly took in the precariousness of their situation, stark naked in the middle of the woods as evening started to brush their skin with cool, warning fingers. “Oh, God. We can’t stay here,” she murmured into Mulder’s ear.

“Sure we can. We can forage for…for berries…and whatever the hell people forage for…” He snuggled closer and nuzzled the hollow at the base of her throat.

“Mulder, no. No.” She pushed him away only to have him cling to her even more desperately. “We’ll freeze out here.”

“No sleeping bags AGAIN?” he complained in a mock-whine that earned him a rap on the chin. “Jesus, Scully, you’re one lousy Boy Scout.”

“I’m cold and I’m covered in leaves and I’m NAKED!” She grabbed her clothes and started putting them on none too carefully, acutely aware of Mulder’s appraising stare.

“Looks good on you…” His voice trailed off as they heard a noise from somewhere in the vicinity. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know.” Dressed save for her shoes, Scully reached for her weapon and went into a firing stance while Mulder salvaged his trousers and prepared to join her. “I think…Mulder, it sounds like someone crying!”

“It’s coming from over there, in that clearing,” he whispered. Taking the lead, he inclined his head by way of giving directions. Guns at the ready, they made their way through the soft underbrush, barefoot and silent. In the waning light Mulder made out a small, hunched figure sitting on a log.

“Federal Agents,” Scully said in an authoritative voice. “Hands where we can see them.”

Two scrawny arms, caked with dirt, brought two trembling hands aloft.

“Turn around slowly,” Mulder instructed.

There was a sniffle from the direction of the log, and the figure turned around. Underneath the matted hair and considerable dirt was the face from the photograph.

“Scott Callahan?” Mulder asked incredulously. “Are you Scott Callahan?”

Scully was already running toward the boy as she holstered her weapon. “It’s all right, Scott. My name’s Dana, and my partner and I are here to help you. We’re here to take you home.”

The chubby, grimy face looked relieved and the boy launched himself into Scully’s arms. “I was so scared. Mama’s gonna be so mad at me.”

“No, she’s not. She’s very worried about you, Scott. What happened?”

He showed her one blood-smeared arm. “I got hurt. See?”

Mulder loped back to find his shirt and started ripping it into long strips. Panting with exertion, he handed the material over to Scully, who looked up at him with amusement in her glowing eyes.

“It’s pretty superficial, Mulder, but thanks anyway.”

“I have to explain what happened to it somehow” he whispered in her ear, and she had to hide her blush by pretending to examine Scott’s cut in minute detail.

The boy continued. “There was this trailer hauling a race car and it was, like, parked on the side of the road. I wanted to see the car, so I jumped on board…then the driver got in and I was too scared to get off, so I waited until he got out to…to…use the potty…and I got out and hid.”

“This is a popular place,” Scully remarked dryly as Mulder took out his cell phone and made the call back to Skinner at FBI headquarters.

“He’s safe, yes. Call his mother and tell her we’re on our way back. We’ll be there in an hour. Yes. I will.” He flipped the phone closed. “We’re going to take you back home, Scott.”

“Am I gonna be in trouble?”

Mulder grinned. “Not for the first five minutes, but I’d bet on at least a week in your room.” He helped the boy to his feet and handed him over to Scully, who led him to the car. The exhausted child lay down on the back seat, Scully fussing over him for just a moment and tucking Mulder’s jacket around him. Mulder joined them moments later, holding their shoes. He gave Scully’s to her with a wry smile.

Scott sniffed the air and said dreamily, “Smells like Mom’s sandwiches…did she give you guys sandwiches?”

“Yes she did, Scott. I think they helped us find you.”

“Mulder, don’t even start on psychic sandwiches.”

“Me? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She got into the car and started the engine, her businesslike posture belied by the light in her eyes.

They were alive.

All of them.




The title is a play on the famous painting by Manet, Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe (“The Picnic”). Groan all you want.

Thank you to jordan for beta reading.

This is dedicated to jerry because she wanted to read it.


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