Gazebo by Mish

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Gazebo by Mish

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From: Mish <>
Date: 23 Jan 2003 09:02:01 -0800
Subject: xfc: NEW: Gazebo, 1 of 1 Source: atxc

Gazebo by Mish

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.

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!


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.


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,” 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.


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.


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