From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 4 Apr 2002 03:20:54 -0000
Subject: Repost:  "Touch" by David Stoddard-Hunt, MSR by David Stoddard-Hunt
Source: direct

Reply To: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com

TITLE: Touch
AUTHOR: David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY: S, A
KEYWORDS: MSR
RATING:   R
SPOILERS: none
SUMMARY: On days like today, his touch is devastating.
ARCHIVE: I'd be delighted. Just let me know.
DISCLAIMER: Others created and own these characters. I
improve them, for no personal financial gain. No
infringement upon the profits of 1013, Fox, or anyone
else is intended.
FEEDBACK: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
WEB SITE: http://www.geocities.com/mattersofbelief/
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was originally posted last fall,
and is being reposted along with its sequel, "Scenes
From A Mutual Seduction." Please note that the sequel
has a more adult rating. Those not of age, please read
some of my other work. Thank you. As always, thanks to
Abra for being the kind and talented soul who offered
to create a home for my work, and then did. Thanks to
Pige for the spatula. 

********************************************************

She thinks he considers it endearing, protective. If
she's honest with herself, and she almost always is,
most of the time she hardly notices it. Except for the
occasional day. Such as this one. Today, the  slight
pressure of his fingertips on the small of her back
threatens to sear into her skin, atomizing the tattoo
she'd had placed there on a night of impulsiveness, to
protect herself from his heat. It failed.

Today, she is acutely aware every moment his hand
rests there, shepherding her from car to building,
through menacingly dim hallways, away from vaguely
threatful colleagues. The heat from his touch will
burn into her soul if she lets it continue. It pools
in her stomach, boiling, the steam traveling in all
directions.

She rounds on him in annoyance.

"Mulder." Her tone is pointed, but not yet sharp.

Instead of answering, he waits patiently, indulgently,
his hand still aloft, waiting to claim her anew. She
simply stares at him, her jaw clenched, lips drawn
tight, fuming.

When she turns back, his hand is there again, and she
feels it as it begins to happen, the wetness forming
between her legs.

"No!" she thinks angrily, trying to will it away,
knowing she cannot, knowing it is inevitable. On days
like this. It might happen in the ladies' bathroom on
the floor above their basement office. It might happen
in her car after she's left work early, with minimal
explanation, his concern trailing after her, like a
faithful pet. Or, it might happen as they walk, his
hand the trigger, her back the primer. God, she hopes
not, not here, walking inches from him.

But, on days like today, his touch is devastating.
Even a woman of her iron will and control surrenders
utterly to its whim. She will submit, his fingertips
ensure this. She knows it, feels it happening, theheat
spreading into her belly. She is aware, now, of
her legs as she walks.

She tries to walk more quickly, move away from the
will of his heat. He doesn't even need to lengthen his
stride to keep pace, and her ire rises at the
arrogance of his lanky grace.

His fingers have not moved from their accustomed rank.
Why, then, does she now feel them on the sides of her
breasts? Tickling, blood racing to color her chest in
rosy hue, her nipples next to betray her will,
tightening, becoming exquisitely sensitive. Even her
anger eventually turns against her, the heat it leaves
in her cheeks a reminder of the heat below.

She will come, no matter what she wants. On days like
this.

She should fight it, she thinks, and she will, for a
time. Maintaining control has long been a hallmark,
paramount in her life. She despises that this is
beyond her control. Especially irksome that Mulder is
in control. Enraging. Except, the thought lingers, at
the instant she finally gives in to it.

At the moment of capitulation exists a freedom she
never experiences otherwise. She is unshackled from
Dana, the responsible daughter, no longer on call as
Doctor Scully, forensic pathologist of last resort. In
that instant, Agent Scully's brief to watch over
Mulder's shoulder, her own interpretation of that
brief to watch out for his back, is null and void.
There is no responsibility, no anger, no guilt. Only
his touch, her body. And absolution.

She's always held rein over her passion, kept it
corralled, preferring, she thinks, a stable emotional
life. But, that is not possible today. His fingers
have lifted the reins from her grasp, lightly, with a
haughty confidence and ease. He has loosened the
rein, allowed her passion to buck and shake its mane,
pawing impatiently in the dirt. No matter, she
decides. She alone holds the latch to this corral and
will keep this snorting beast within, the caprice of
his will be damned.

En route back to the Bureau, they pass a gilt-glassed
office block. In its jewel-like facets, she glimpses
their reflection, again and again, her face tight,
flushed. His stride is relaxed, his step light. He
seems not to have a care in the world. "Prick," she
swears, sotto voce. In response to her quickened pace,
he seems, if anything, to have slowed his stride. His
palm is now flush on the small of her back, the heat
intensifying geometrically, spreading out in vectors
all over her body.

In the sepia panels, she sees still photos of the
faintest hint of a smile teasing the ends of his full
lips, creasing his smooth cheeks. Fury blazes through
her, and a tremor shakes her lower abdomen, dampening
her thighs. Her head snaps forward, her rage
turning inward at her body's own incremental
surrender.

As they enter the elevator on the first floor of the
Bureau, she is given a brief reprieve from the tyranny
of his touch, as another agent joins them for the
short ride to the basement. She feels Mulder's absence
from her back sharply, as a phantom pain, an
amputation. The congestion, the pressure, in her lower
belly
increases, becomes insistent. His grants her the favor
of his hand again for the few steps from the elevator
to their office, and she sighs in relief, the
sharpness easing.

In front of their door, he steps around her, reaching
for his keys, his other hand trailing from the small
of her back, across her side. She has to dip her head,
so that he won't see the blush that scorches across
the bridge of her nose, and brands her cheeks.

As he leans in to unlock the door, she stares at him
under her eyelashes, unsure whether she wants to haul
off and hit him, or pull him to her, claw at him, fuck
him senseless. She wonders whether she might do all of
the above.

Pushing the door open, he turns to bid her entry.
Seeing her face down turned, he proffers two fingers,
those two fingers, placing them gently under her chin,
lifting her face so that she sees in his eyes that
which she didn't even know she'd sought: permission.

With a rush, her release comes, flooding her cheeks
with color, her eyes with a hazy light.

When she is finished, he withdraws his fingers from
under her chin and she collapses against the jamb. She
watches him, unable to move, as he strolls to his desk
and, a soft smile visible on his lips, begins to flip
through a file.

"Bastard! " she spits. He looks up with his eyes only,
peering over his glasses. But there is only wonder in
her voice, and on her countenance, love.

-End-