Agent Reyes is drunk. I've never seen her drunk, so this occasion is momentous enough for me to savor every little detail for future taunting. Mulder insists that I wouldn't tease her so much if I weren't attracted to her. I think he should mind his own damn business.
Of course, Mulder has a fantasy about Monica and me. He tries to tell me about it now and then, but I shut him up before he gets far. I know he's attracted to her. He doesn't love her - he loves me - but he'd like to fuck her. So would most men in the Hoover Building. Some of the women, too.
It's tough when you're a woman at the Bureau. You're subject to sexual harassment every day. The FBI doesn't realize we're in the twenty first century; there are plenty of females in administrative roles at the Bureau, but agents? Monica and I are two of the few. Best to let them think you're queer, even if you aren't. So I don't give them any cause for contemplation. When Monica stares at me, I stare right back.
She's staring at me now, swallowing her fourth margarita. It isn't prepared like she wanted, and neither is the enchilada, but because she's Monica, she hardly complains. Or maybe her quiet compliance has more to do with her state of inebriation. She looks at my quesadilla in mild disgust. "You should come to my place sometime," she says, the alcohol slurring her words. "I'll fix you a real Mexican dinner."
"Take her up on it, Scully," Doggett says. "Damn good eatin'."
Mulder vies for the spotlight, as usual. "I'll take you up on it."
Monica smiles at him distractedly and returns her gaze to me and my plate.
"I don't know Monica, this is pretty good," I tell her. The truth is I don't even taste my food; I'm just eating out of nervousness, I think.
"Let me try it." She leans forward and dips her fork to my plate. I stare at her lips as she chews. I thought Mulder was the most intriguing person I'd ever known until I met her, but Monica fascinates me. I can't read her. Sometimes I wonder if I'm looking too hard for something behind the amiable exterior. Maybe years of X files have me too paranoid to accept that some friendly faces aren't just masks.
"It's all right," she says. "I can do better."
"I'm sure you can." Mulder's flirting isn't very subtle. He and Doggett have been fighting for Monica's attention all evening, the tension between them almost palpable. It's an odd moment in our history: this is the first time the four of us have gone out to dinner together. Mulder and me all the time, John and Monica, all the time, but never as a group. It's no wonder; for all the time we've spent working cases, we have little else in common. We're segregated even here, Doggett sitting beside Reyes on one side of the table, Mulder beside me on the other. Not a good arrangement, as far as I can tell, Mulder and Doggett facing each other. I'm afraid one of them will reach over and strangle the other before the night is over.
It's a good arrangement for Monica, though. She's safer here, across from me. If she sat beside Mulder as he had requested, she'd be cornered between the two men. At least this way she has an escape.
I knew they'd be after her tonight. Doggett has marked his territory around her, and Mulder tries to push John's buttons whenever he can. But the two men aren't the only reason for the strain; Monica and I add an undercurrent that defies rational explanation. She has a bit of hero worship going on with me, and I'm not sure I like it. I only know that when she looks at me with those doe eyes, I want to bolt.
So we sit here, co-workers trying to make it through a meal. As a unit, the four of us are fine for business, but sit our personalities down at a dinner table and the strain becomes obvious. The pitchers of margaritas are helping with that, though. They're certainly helping Monica.
In fact, she's the only one here that seems completely at ease. Probably the alcohol. She's explaining to Mulder why she hasn't eaten the food on her plate and why she's diving for chips and salsa instead. "It's not the real deal," she says almost inaudibly. I think she's so drunk she doesn't realize that she's whispering.
"But it's good," he argues.
She clumsily reaches over and tears a piece of his quesadilla, squeezes it between her thumb and forefinger. "It's nothing but grease. This is not how food is prepared in Mexico."
"But the cooks, the waiters, everybody working here is Mexican."
Monica looks at him for a moment. "They're Hispanic. They're not Mexican."
"From Mexico, right?"
I can't believe Mulder is being so obtuse. "Monica." She swings her gaze at me, but before I can rescue her from the conversation, Mulder's back at it.
"But when you ordered your dinner, you told them to prepare it a certain way and they did. They fixed it just like you wanted. How could you not like it?"
Someone who didn't know him might overlook his sardonic tone, thinking it's playful. To me, he's beginning to sound a lot like a bully, as he does when he drinks. Monica peers at him, her eyes mere slits. "If I gave you the ingredients for a meatloaf and you cooked it for me, does that guarantee I'll like it? No. You may prepare it wrong. You may add too much onion, too little pepper, overcook it, undercook it..." She lifts the pitcher and it slips in her grip.
Mulder's there immediately, his hand covering hers, helping her lift and pour. The way he leans toward her, the way he speaks to her, makes me angry. He has no right to be coming on to her. "If I fixed it, you most definitely wouldn't like it." Mulder's wisecrack makes Monica smile, and she looks up at him gratefully. The gaze he returns her is pure lust. What an embarrassment.
I need to leave before I say something I shouldn't. If Doggett loves her, as rumor has it ≠ hell, as the look on his face has it ≠ then he should cut the quiet act and wrangle the alpha male position from Mulder. Mulder has no long-term interest in Monica; the leer on his face says it all. I've seen that look before, and I have no doubt he won't quit pushing until he gets what he wants from her.
As furious as this makes me, as angry as I am at Mulder for being a prick and at Doggett for being a wimp, I'm mostly angry at Monica. She was giggling at everything her partner said when we first got here, and then the alcohol took effect, and now it's Mulder she favors. She'll be going home with one of them tonight.
I can't imagine her with Doggett. Not sexually, anyway. I've never been able to picture them as a couple. But I've often imagined what she and Mulder would be like together. I can see her beneath him, her legs wrapped around him as he thrusts into her. She'll cry out, as I once did; he's a large man and focused only on his pleasure in bed. He'll go down on her first, warming her up to him, but he won't have his mouth on her long enough to give her an orgasm. He'll pull away and hover over her for a moment, letting her appreciate his size, and there won't be further prelude. He'll spread her legs and guide his penis, hardly entering her. And he'll keep his hand down there, feeling how wide he's stretching her, and without warning, while looking right into her eyes and smiling softly, he'll thrust inside so forcefully that the breath will be knocked out of her, and when it comes back, when she's able to breathe, all she'll be able to do is hold on and beg for a quick ride. But Mulder isn't a quick ride. Something shattered in me that first time with him, years ago, when I thought men were the only choice.
Once I became cognizant of women ≠ as sexual beings ≠ as a possible alternative to the unfulfilling relationships I was having with men - it was too late. Mulder killed my sex drive, but I'm not sure if it was working with him or fucking him that did it. I only know that I quit wanting sex a few years ago and have never thought again about sharing my bed with anyone. Except the one time; the one time when I was so tired of being lonely, the one time that created William. So whether or not a relationship with a woman would have been a similar disappointment is something I never found out. I don't think about it much, and I suppose the reason I'm thinking about it right now is because of the woman sitting across from me, looking naÔve and vulnerable. I don't want Mulder to ruin her like he ruined me.
It seems to be out of my hands, though, because she's looking at him like she's in a daydream. "Tell me something." I'm pretty sure he'll tell her anything she wants to hear. Both of them will. Mulder's eyes are on hers, rapt. Doggett stares at his beer, but he's listening to Monica. "When was the last time someone blew you away? I mean totally blew you out of the water?"
I have no idea what she's talking about. I don't want to know. I do want to know. I find myself leaning forward, listening just as carefully to her slurred words as the guys.
"What do you mean?" Mulder asks. "I mean like... someone who was ... just gorgeous..." Her voice is so soft I can barely hear her. "Or smart or strong ... or maybe it was their eyes... maybe they have the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen." She gazes at each of us in turn. "But their eyes are a trap," she says softly, hoarsely. "They're so beautiful to look at that you don't realize they're weapons until it's too late."
"And how can eyes be weapons?" Doggett asks. "Eyes are the mirrors of the soul, they say." Monica nods. "They are."
"So how can they be weapons?"
"Maybe their eyes are so beautiful that you can't help but stare into them, maybe it's the beauty of them that draws you in." Her voice becomes even softer, until she's mumbling more to herself than to us, rubbing the lip of her glass, staring at the contents sloshing. "And then you're trapped. And those beautiful eyes stare right down into your heart, right through you." She's so far away that I'm not sure she's even aware of us. "And you're as helpless as a fly in a spider's web, and the spider can take you any time it wants." We're all silent, considering spiders and flies. I think Mulder probably assumes she's talking about him, while Doggett hopes that it's his crystal blue eyes she's referring to. I just stare at her, wondering how anyone can so brazenly flirt with two men at the same time. "Well," Monica says cheerily, snapping out of her daze. "Gotta pee." And the heavy mood that she has set lightens it in a heartbeat. "Oh! Whoops." She's standing, swaying. Doggett's up and steadying her before I can react.
"I'll go with you." Maybe I can use this time to convince her that she should go home soon, alone. But I realize as she leans and wobbles and uses me as a crutch that she might be too drunk to make sense of what I tell her. Indeed, proof of this is the trip to the ladies room; it's slow and every man in the room watches us. It reinforces what I've already decided. She's drunk and there are many people ready and willing to take advantage of a drunken woman, even the men at our table. I think it's best that I take her home.
The restroom isn't empty when we get there, but a stall is free, and I guide her to it and hold the door closed, because she's too unsteady to work the latch. "You okay in there?" I ask after a minute. She's still working with the zipper of her jeans.
"Yeah," she says, and that's all. Finally, she gets her pants down, empties her very full bladder, and soon the toilet is flushing.
"Need any help?" I hear her struggling again with her jeans; this time to pull them up.
A moment later, the whole stall shakes as she bumps it heavily. Lost her balance. "Monica?"
"I'm all right." An interminably long time after, she pulls on the door and I release it. She walks unsteadily to the sink, oblivious of my gaze or that of the other woman here, who's touching up her mascara.
"I think it's time for some coffee," I suggest. The woman eyes me, then Monica. She sums us up with a mere glance, it seems.
Monica doesn't reply, just washes her hands and rinses them and continues standing there, staring into the mirror, her hands under running water.
I guess I'd stare in the mirror, too, if I looked like her, if I had her long, chestnut hair and big brown eyes. She's tall, has a perfect figure and a wardrobe that shows it off; a wardrobe that constantly gets my attention. Tonight she's wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt, and even in this simple outfit she looks pretty. She must have gone home and changed after work today. I came straight from Quantico, and I look as tense as I feel in my suit, hose and pumps. I smooth my jacket down. It's long and nice, cut tight across my chest, as is my blouse, and at work this looked great, but next to Monica, I appear uptight. I wish I'd had time to change into something comfortable. "No more margaritas."
She shakes her head, absorbed in her reflection, and I grab a couple of paper towels and turn the water off, irritated with her indifference. "Here." My voice is hard. I don't like her drunk. She's not even conscious of her surroundings; she's somewhere else, and someone could easily take advantage of her. "Dry your hands." The other woman glances at me and makes a beeline for the door.
Monica wipes her hands and continues staring in the mirror, but now it's my reflection she looks at. "Are you and Mulder...? Are you... with him?"
I snatch the paper towels from her hands and throw them away. "Wait until you sober up before you decide you want to fuck him, okay?"
She frowns at this at first, and then she looks amused. A smile plays on her lips. "I don't want to fuck him."
"That's certainly not the signal you're giving out."
She slowly shakes her head. "Maybe you're misreading my 'signal'." She says this last bit coyly.
"Monica, you're drunk. Do you realize that?"
She stares in the mirror at me with that same sensual smile, her eyelids hooded. "Yes."
I speak slowly so maybe what I'm saying will sink in. "Someone is going to take advantage of you tonight if you don't sober up. Let me take you home."
"The guys aren't going to take advantage of me," she says softly, brushing the hair back from her face and staring at herself in the mirror once again. "They aren't like that."
"All men are like that, Monica." She has no idea how vulnerable she is. Stupid girl. I could show her with one swift move, if I chose to.
"Are you speaking from experience?"
I'm somewhat taken aback by her question, but there doesn't seem to be anything snide in her voice. Her tone is mild, and she's staring at herself again, in a trance, it seems. Defenseless. I move close to her, behind her, and reach under her t-shirt and unsnap her bra, and I do this amazingly quickly, as if I've been practicing on someone else, as if I've unsnapped more bras than just my own. I haven't, I'm positive. I'd remember the sensation, the sudden moisture between my legs.
When I finish, I stand back, cross my arms and wait for the consequences of my inappropriate behavior. It takes her much longer to react to what I've just done than it did for me to do it. She looks at me incredulously. "What...?" And then she realizes, reaching back, laughing. "What did you do that for?"
"I told you someone could take advantage of you tonight."
She finds this incredibly amusing, giggling while trying to hook her bra again. I can't help but smile for the first minute or so. Then I begin growing impatient. She reaches around and back again and again, to no avail. Just when I'm about to say something, she bends over, as if this will help her, but the bra has shifted and she still can't quite get her unsteady hands on it, and now matters are worse, because she keeps losing her balance, grabbing onto the sink for support.
She'll never get the damn thing fastened. "Monica."
"Dana." She stifles her giggles, concentrates very hard on her task.
I give her my best no-nonsense tone. "Agent Reyes."
She apparently finds my best no-nonsense tone entertaining. "Agent Scully," she mimics. She's still bent over, and now she lets out the laughter she's been holding in. She laughs so hard that tears streak out of her eyes.
"I'm going to leave you here."
"Wait." She stands and sniffs, trying to control herself. "Okay, I'm really going to try this time."
And she does. She tries very hard, only bursts into giggles once, briefly, but she's lost her coordination and it's not coming back any time soon.
"Let me do it."
She's instantly subdued. "I'll have it in a minute. Why don't you go back to our boys?" The laughing fit appears to have exhausted her. She looks drained.
"Excuse me? Our boys?" I stare her down.
"Oh." She straightens. "Forgive me. Your boys." She meets the challenge of my gaze, looking ridiculously sexy. One strap of her bra is sliding down past the short sleeve of her t-shirt, her hair is mussed from all the bending she's been doing, her cheeks are flushed and her mascara is streaked from her bout of laughter, which seems to have had sobering effects on her. She seems tired but her eyes are more alert than they've been all evening.
"Uh, no. They aren't mine. Help yourself."
"I don't want them," she says quite seriously.
The look she gives me is not one I care to decipher. I move the conversation back to her bra so I can get out of here. "You're tangled," I lie. "Here." I wave my finger at her left shoulder. "Pull your arm out of that sleeve."
"I have no interest in either Mulder or John," she reiterates, following my instructions. Her eyes are on my face.
"Now pull the strap down."
The strap has already fallen; she pulls it off her arm. "Do you?"
"What?" She's twisting around in the t-shirt. "No, no, not like that. Put your arm back in." I hold her shirt while she works her arm back into the sleeve.
"Do you have any interest in them?"
"I've already answered that." I wag my finger at her torso. "Do the same thing on the other side."
"No. You said that they weren't yours." She's so focused on my face, on our conversation about the men, that she continues following my instructions without questioning them. "You didn't say that you weren't interested." She has no idea what I've coaxed her to do until her bra falls to the floor.
I pick it up and put it in my purse. "Now. Ready?"
She's gone from focused to slack-jawed in a heartbeat. Her nipples are quite obviously erect beneath her body-hugging t-shirt. The guys will drool when they see her. Hell, I'm drooling. "Come on."
She still doesn't understand what I just did, and she won't for a few more minutes. I take her by the hand and pull her to the door, turning to look up at her to try and impress upon her one last time that someone will take advantage of her tonight. Someone already has. "No more alcohol, okay?"
"Dana? Do you have any interest in them?" Monica asks me quietly. She rubs her tongue over her bottom lip, a habit that I've always thought sexy.
A woman enters the restroom, brushing past us.
"I've told you twice already," I softly chastise. I can't resist the impulse: I stroke my thumb over her lips, smearing her lipstick. "No. I have no interest in either one of them, romantically, sexually... no interest." She closes her eyes, licks her lips when I move my hand away. "Come on."
"Are you taking me home?"
Monica lets me lead her back to the table, and the guys are staring at us, right at her breasts, and then at me. They see our entwined hands; they see her smeared lipstick mouth; they see her bra sticking out of my purse when I reach inside for my wallet. "Wouldn't want you two fighting over who pays her bill." I drop the cash on the table, glance at Mulder and Doggett, pick up Monica's jacket, and pull her along again.
She stops when we're close to the door, turns and looks at our partners. "'Bye," she calls.
They're still staring at her, of course.
I give her hand a slight yank and she follows me to the parking lot, her gait becoming slower and slower until she stops all together. I jerk her back into action. "Where's your car?"
This is good; I don't need any complications right now. I unlock my car from a few feet away and guide her to the passenger's side. Between the two of us, we manage to get her into the seat, but when I get behind the wheel, I notice that she can't manage the seatbelt. "Here," I say gruffly, suddenly very aware of her. Her presence, her scent. I have to lean close to her to get it secured, but I do, and we drive away in silence.
I've never been good at small talk. "I guess you're pretty pissed at me." I throw her a questioning glance. Butterflies dance in my stomach when I realize she's been staring at me the whole time. Her body is turned toward me, the seatbelt keeping her somewhat upright.
"Why?" Her head leans against the headrest, her cheek against the leather.
"I ruined your plans."
"To get laid."
She gasps. "Oh." But she's sharper than I gave her credit for earlier, because she quips: "Well, the night is still young."
It takes a minute for my voice to return. "Yeah."
She smiles sleepily. "I told you I had no interest in guys."
No interest in guys? Period? Or no interest in the guys we were with this evening? I swallow. "You were flirting with them a lot for someone who has no interest in them."
"Mm." That's all she has to say.
"And they seem to have a lot of interest in you." I can't look at her, not even a glance, but in my peripheral vision I see her curl up. "Doggett. He seemed really... unhappy tonight."
Her explanation is simple. "Mulder's an asshole."
"Is he in love with you?"
"Mulder? You've got to be kidding."
She's quiet for a moment, and I finally steal a glance at her. She's still staring at me. "We're close friends," she says slowly. "I imagine that our relationship is a lot like yours and Mulder's. Without the bitterness." My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. I don't like her observations. I don't like it that she thinks she knows me so well, because she doesn't.
"What else do you want to know?" she asks.
No interest in guys? "So why were you flirting with them?" I ask again.
"The margaritas, I'm sure." Her voice is soft.
"Yeah, well you need to be careful with the alcohol."
"Yes, ma'am," she murmurs. I look at her, curled up, holding her jacket. She smiles at me.
She doesn't understand. "You're an agent, but your guard was completely down. You could have been taken advantage of, raped."
"I was in company that I trusted."
"You shouldn't have trusted the company. They're men, Monica. Bottom line, they are men."
"But you were there. I knew I could let my guard down and drink as much as I wanted, because you'd have my back." She slips a hand from her jacket and touches my arm, rubs it, and we're holding hands suddenly. I'm sure my pulse couldn't be any faster if I were running. "I knew you wouldn't let them ... I knew you'd ..." She gives up trying to say what she planned to say. "I just knew." I absolutely must not look at her. I have to look at the road. I'm ≠ shit. "Dammit! Missed my turn." It'll be a pain in the butt to get back to it with all of the one-way streets around here.
"Hmm. Getting us lost, Agent Scully? Are you going to conveniently run out of gas as well?" She rubs her thumb over my knuckles.
Iím going to conveniently wreck us is what I'm going to do, because I can't think with her being so... sexy. I'm pulling into a one way street that's lined with parked cars, I've missed my turn, and I need to get us out of here, but she's ... she's flirting. I guess alcohol makes her indiscriminately flirtatious. "I didn't realize I was so transparent." If she thinks she's being cute, I'll gladly give her a little scare. I extricate my hand from hers.
"You're anything but." She leans her head back again and squirms around.
The street we're on doesn't exit where I thought it would, and if I turn at the end of it, it'll take even longer to get back to the street I missed. I parallel park and try to think.
"Oh, PARKing. Uh huh. That was my next guess." Monica's face is hidden by her hair; she's looking down at her seatbelt, unsnapping it. "There. Much better." She stretches her legs and bats her lashes at me. "Parking?"
"Be quiet. I've got to think."
She is quiet, for a moment, and then she's leaning near me, whispering. "I'm going to take this opportunity to tell you something."
I'm not sure if she's whispering because she's still drunk enough not to understand that I can barely hear her, or if she's whispering because she's sober enough to understand the effect she's having on me. "That trick back there in the bathroom? Sexy."
Oh my. "What are you talking about?"
"Getting my bra off, making the guys think we were fooling around."
I can't reply to this. I've got to focus on where we are and get the hell out of here so I can get her home. Her home. Get her to her home. Her loft. Which is northeast of where we are now. I just need to turn left at the end of this street, but I can't. My only option is to turn right. So how will I get back to where I need to be?
Monica sighs and moves away. "If you turn right at the stop sign, you can make a left on Dumbarton and then a right at Wisconsin, which will intersect with ≠"
"Yeah, I know." I don't need her to tell me how to get around; I've lived here longer than she has. I carefully back away from the car parked in front of me, pull forward, back away again.
"You've got plenty of room over here."
"I've got plenty of room to turn right," I tell her. And now I have plenty of room to turn left, which is what I do, driving the wrong way on this one way street in order to get back to where we were. I pull out just as the light begins to change and this time I don't miss my turn.
The rest of the trip passes in silence. I'm driving aggressively, and then I remember she's taken her seatbelt off, and I slow down a bit. I'm trying to concentrate on the road and not on her, not on the way she leaned close, the way she whispered in my ear, or the way she'd held my hand earlier. Indiscriminate flirting, that's what it was. Nothing would be different if this were Doggett or Mulder driving her home.
By the time I pull into the parking garage at Monica's building, my underarms are damp, my hands are cramped from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, and my jaw is sore from clenching my teeth. It's ridiculous. But one look at my passenger and all of these problems are magnified. She's curled up in her seat, facing me, her eyes closed, dark tresses partially hiding the small smile on her face. She's gorgeous. "Monica." I'm too loud. I wish I didn't have to wake her up.
"Dana," she sighs.
Good God. Her voice does a number on me. "Wake up; we're at your place."
Her eyes slowly open. "Wasn't asleep," she murmurs.
I unbuckle and get out of the car, and when I open her door, she's looking under her jacket, which is draped across her waist, and she appears to be trying to unbuckle her seatbelt. She unbuckled it fifteen minutes ago. "Come on," I say a bit too gruffly, and offer a hand.
"I can do it." Monica gets out of the car, brushing against me. "Goodnight, Agent Scully. Thanks for the ride." She leaves the door open and moves unsteadily toward the elevator. I slam it shut and watch her.
Is that it? She comes on strong when she's too drunk to care that she's flirting with a woman, but now that she's sobering up, she gives me the cold shoulder. She called me 'Agent Scully,' dammit. I grab my purse and lock the car. "Monica." My voice is muted by the noise of another car arriving. Still, she hears me and turns. She shouldn't walk to her loft alone. I drove right in without needing a code for the gate. The gate wasn't even closed. "Can I come up? Use your restroom?" I reach her in a few steps.
"Sure." Her smile is lazy. "But you don't need an excuse."
Given the fact that she dismissed me just a moment ago, I'm not sure what she means. "It's not an excuse." I just want to make sure she arrives safely, that's all.
I follow her. Monica walks carefully now, like she's trying to prove to me that she is indeed capable of getting home safely, then stands at the elevator, punches a button. She holds the door for a guy who looks like he belongs in a gang. He very well could, given the section of town she lives in. "Hi," she smiles. And to my amazement, he smiles right back.
"What floor can I get for you ladies?"
"Two," Monica says, still smiling. "For both of us." She leans back against the elevator, resting her weight against it, closing her eyes, her guard very much down. Is she counting on me again to cover her back? Or is she this naÔve? She can't be. She's an agent.
The young man's eyes are on her breasts, and my eyes are on him. "Yo, Monica, you all right?"
Well, at least she knows him. I feel a little better.
She nods, grinning, eyes still closed.
"Yeah, you look like you doin' all right." He returns her smile and addresses me. "Shit, the girl's a badload."
I have no intention of talking to him, even if knew what he was saying.
Monica does, though. "Are you home this weekend?"
"You know it. Gotta see the rents."
She opens her eyes as the elevator comes to a halt. "Yeah? Well you better clean up that mouth or they're going to send you right back."
He grins widely. "Yo, I can clean it up. I'm clean. You ladies have a pleasurable evening." He holds the door for us.
Monica pushes herself forward, swaying. I catch her, and the guy reaches out to steady us both.
"Whoa there. You got her?" he asks me.
"All right then," he says. His eyes are on us as we move away. "Banging," he mutters. "Damn." And the elevator closes.
"Who the hell was that?"
"Jamal. Home from college. Parents live the next floor up. The rents." She shoves her hand in her jeans pocket and pulls out her keys. "That's what they're calling parents these days, Dana. 'Rents'."
"I guess you pick up a lot of slang living in this part of town."
Monica looks at me and rolls her eyes. "Most of the slang I pick up is from a teacher who lives here. She picks it up from her students; I pick it up from her." She fumbles with her keys at the door and finally gets it open.
She goes straight to the kitchen. "Bathroom's that way," she says, pointing.
I remember where it is; I've been here before. I also remember that she hangs her terrycloth robe on the back of the bathroom door. I found it sexy then and I find it sexy now. I wash up and stare at myself in the mirror. I look nervous.
When I rejoin her, she's sitting on her sofa, shoes off, bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. Something about the image of her stops me dead in my tracks, makes my heart thud hard in my chest. She's drinking a bottle of water. "Care for one?" She tilts it toward me.
I shake my head, realizing that staying is not a good idea. Not with her looking like this, pretty and sexy and just... edible. Indiscriminate flirting, I remind myself. It isn't me she's interested in, it's companionship. A fuck. "I'll be going."
Monica lets me get a few feet away before calling to me. "Agent Scully?" Her half smile is as sleepy and sexy as her eyes, and she crooks her finger, motioning me back. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
I answer her question by arching my eyebrows.
"I believe you still have my bra."
"Oh." Crap, she remembered. "I forgot."
"Mm," she says, stretching her arm out to me, hand open, fingers wiggling. "Did you?"
"Yes." I didn't forget. How could I forget with her pert nipples, her ample breasts straining against her t-shirt? I'd have to be blind. My face burns and I fumble with my purse, open it, and pull the bra out too fast. I'm in too much of a hurry, clumsy, and so her bra comes out of my purse, heavy, pulling a receipt and my keys with it. The keys clatter to the floor and before I can even see where they've gone, Monica's bending, scooping them up, more graceful than she's been all evening. By the time I get the receipt into my purse and have the bra firmly in hand, she's leaning back once more, her bare feet arcing against the heavy chest that she uses as a coffee table. "Here." I offer her the rather plain white bra. Bigger cups than I would've thought before I saw her without it. But it's quite obvious how full her breasts are now, the t-shirt hugging them.
"Maybe I'll just keep these for a while." She jingles the keys. "Let's see what we have here; I may want to trade." Her look is sly.
"Hand them over."
She studies them instead, one by one, and I study her. "House. Car. Hmm." She holds one up. "Office?"
I nod. "If you can call it that. My hole in the wall at Quantico."
"No key to the classroom?"
I smile. "Do you think I'm the only one who uses that auditorium?"
"What's your hole in the wall like?"
"It's a hole in the wall." I snap my fingers. "Hand them over."
"What's this?" She holds another key up.
She makes a face. "And what's this one for?"
"My mother's house." I move to her to snatch them away, but she blocks me with a raised arm. "Monica, come on."
She holds the keys away from me with one hand, out of my reach, while holding me back with the other. "Oh." She brings them close to her face and looks at one front and back, and then looks at me, smiling. "The basement," she says.
"Your office." "It will never be my office. Yours and Mulder's." She's right; it isn't her office. But it never was mine, either. It's Mulder's office, dark and cluttered and emotionless. I see Monica there, in the gloom, when she should be somewhere light, somewhere with lots of windows. I nod. "Mulder's. Anyway, what would you want with my keys?"
She rests her head against the back of the sofa and looks at me through half-closed eyes. "What would you want with my bra?" "I don't want it. I'm trying to give it back."
"You don't want it." She swings the keys back and forth as if to hypnotize me with them. I make a very feeble attempt at grabbing them again. "You don't want my bra but you went to such lengths to get it."
I turn an even deeper shade of red, and this time my attempt at taking the keys isn't feeble. Still, she parries quite well for someone who's drunk. "Give them to me, dammit."
"Give me my bra."
"Give me my keys and you'll get your bra back."
She grins in that way of hers, that totally charming way, lips curving downward then up again as her smile broadens. "I have other bras, but I bet you don't have other keys."
I don't. I lean over to take them again and my breasts press against her forearm. I am completely aware of her arm flexing beneath my right nipple, and I press into it hard enough to fall if she were to move, but she doesn't move away. She presses right back against me, loving this little game. "Monica."
"Okay, here's what I'll do." She purses her lips, thinking. "There are six keys. Answer six questions for me and you'll get them back."
"Give me my keys, Monica." I say this as firmly as I can. I'm terribly turned on by this woman who's flirted with everyone this evening, more turned on than I've been in years. I have absolutely no desire to get my keys back at this point, but I do need to control what's going on here. It's a struggle to maintain my composure around Monica; it always has been, and I think she knows it.
"Six keys. Six questions. And don't give me any vague answers, like 'maybe' either. Direct answers."
"No." I stick my hand out. "Just hand them to me. Now."
"First question," she begins. "Is Mulder really William's father?" "Yes. Give me the-"
"Question two. Are you in love with him?"
It should be obvious to her that I'm not. I thought I'd spelled it out by now. "No."
"Were you ever in love with him?"
She looks perplexed. "Then why were you with him?" she asks softly.
"That's not a 'yes or no' question."
"I didn't say it had to be a yes or no question. I said direct." She shakes the keys at me, emphasizing each syllable: "Direct."
"I love him deeply. He is... he and I have only had each other to count on for the past seven, eight years. There was no one else. The hours we worked, the job itself... He was all I had. And I needed that connection. Or so I thought at the time." I shrug. "And he loved me. He still does."
"No kidding." Her voice is tight. "I'm quite aware of that. Everyone is. He may as well broadcast it. And would you sit down already? You look like you've got one foot out the door."
Well. Being admonished by Monica is as much of a turn on as everything else about her. The tone of her voice causes the image I had earlier ≠ of Monica lying passively beneath Mulder ≠ to slip away. It's replaced by an image of me lying passively beneath Monica. I sit opposite her in a chair; I'm on the edge of the seat, arms propped on my knees, hands clasped together. I'm ready to bolt, but I'm beginning to think that I might like to pounce instead. Monica is leaning back on the sofa, looking casual and sexy, her bare feet rubbing the edge of the coffee table. She lazily drops her knees open, closes them. Again. Again.
"Yeah," she says, softly sarcastic. "I can see how that's a lot more relaxing for you. Do I really make you feel that uncomfortable - that you can't wait to get out of here?" And then she holds her hand up quickly. "Never mind. That's a question. Strike it." She stares at me intently. "Okay, next one. And it's a doozy, so brace yourself."
Oh God. I do brace myself.
"What's your favorite thing to do?" she asks, sounding like a reporter for some teen magazine. "Not a mom thing with William, not a family thing, not a work thing, and NOT," she stresses. "NOT A Mulder thing. What's your favorite thing?"
She studies me intently, furrowing her brows. "I want to ask you why."
"Ask me why."
"I don't want to use up my questions," she says solemnly. "I have other things to ask."
"I like the solitude. I like the demand of it."
"I didn't realize you were into it so much. I mean, I know it's what you've done in the mornings when we've been away on assignment, but..."
"I race sometimes, once a month or so."
"I'm impressed. Do you...? No, wait, let me rephrase. I imagine you race to win."
"I only race against myself."
"How appropriate," she murmurs, dropping her knees open, then slowly closing them. This thing she's doing with her legs is causing a tugging sensation right between mine. I try looking at her eyes, but they're too sexy to look at. And her breasts are out of the question. I stare at her feet. Toenails nicely painted pink. Okay, can't stare at the feet. Forehead. I stare at her forehead. "All right, Agent Scully, question six."
I wait with great anticipation, thinking this question will be a doozy. This one will be the shocker. She swallows, looks at me, then down at the floor. "If I wanted to kiss you, would you let me?"
It was a doozy, all right, one I felt from my head to my toes. I knew it would be a revealing question, but I had no idea she'd be so bold. "Actually," I say thoughtfully. "That was question seven."
Her eyes fly open wide. "No. That was six."
I shake my head, trying to keep a blank face. "Number six was my favorite thing."
"No. That was five! I counted."
"No, number five was 'And would you sit down already?'" I brush a piece of lint from my skirt.
"No." She puts her head in her hands and shakes it back and forth. "No, no, no, no."
"Question one: is Mulder William's dad? Question two: Am I in love with Mulder? Number three: Have I ever been in love with Mulder? Number four: Why was I with him? Number five: Would I please sit down already? Number six: What's my favorite thing to do? Number seven: Would I let you kiss me?"
She continues shaking her head back and forth, hair covering her face.
"The keys, Monica."
She holds them out without even looking up.
I stand and take them. "Forget the toss-away question, the one you threw away when you asked me to sit down. You asked me six questions and four of them were about Mulder. I'd say that's pretty revealing."
She looks up. Her face is bright red. "You played tricks on me twice tonight. I'd say that's pretty revealing, too."
"When did I play tricks?"
"When you got me to take my bra off at the restaurant. And then this... When you tricked me into asking that last question."
"I didn't trick you, Monica. You tripped yourself up. You lost count of the questions."
She's clearly embarrassed. "You knew I had already asked six questions, so why didn't you stop me before I asked the seventh?"
"Because I wanted to know what you'd ask me." I say this without even realizing how conceited it sounds until she replies.
"Well, now you know."
Yes, I know. And the knowledge should satisfy me, but it doesn't. I've one-upped the guys tonight. I got her bra off, I brought her home, and now she has revealed that all of the flirting she's done this evening could lead to more. She wants to kiss me. I stare at her lips, wondering what she kisses like, wondering how it would feel to kiss a woman. I'm already so aroused that I'm very damp, and thinking about her lips and tongue is making it worse.
"I won't keep you any longer." She reaches her hand out for her bra.
"Not so fast. One bra. One question."
Monica's head snaps up. "No." Her eyes flash. Any remaining signs of inebriation are gone; she's angry and humiliated. I've humiliated her, dammit. "That's not what we agreed. The keys for my bra."
"I'm changing the rules."
She eyes me warily. "What do you want with my bra anyway?"
"I don't know... Maybe I'll wear it."
Her eyes cut over my torso. "I'm not sure it'll fit you, Dana. It may be a bit large."
Okay, score one for Monica. I swing the bra in the air in front of her. "One question."
"Go ahead." She sounds resigned.
"If I had answered 'yes' to question number seven, what would you have done?"
Her mouth drops open and she looks away quickly, then back at me. Humiliation dissipates in front of my eyes. A sort of nervous grin crosses her face and she purses her lips, sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, releases it and rubs her tongue over it. And then something else, the wariness settles back in. "I guess that's something you'll just have to ponder, because you didn't answer the question."
Not exactly what I had hoped to hear. I hand her the bra. "Fair enough." She's still so vulnerable, not up to sparring anymore. I should leave her alone; I've teased her enough for one night. A person could easily take advantage of her and I don't want to do that. "Thanks for an interesting evening," I say as lightly as I can.
Just when I realize that I don't want to leave, when I'm turning and walking to the door, trying to figure out how to go back to her and smooth things over, how to give her that kiss she asked for, it hits me.
I brought her home to get her away from those pricks and I've been a prick myself. "You tease her because you want her," Mulder says frequently and scornfully. It turns out that he's right. I'm every bit the bully he is, as arrogant and as self-centered. I wanted to protect her from the likes of him, and who am I to do that?
I don't want her to look at me like I look at Mulder, with disdain and bitterness. I am so accustomed to provoking Monica that I've been doing it all night without noticing. Why doesn't she hate me? I would, if I were her. So I brace myself when I glance back at her. She doesn't appear bitter, just confused. This makes me so grateful that I have to clamp my mouth tight to keep the relief from expressing itself. I'm sorry I've been a prick, I'd like to say. This is not how I want things to be between us. This is not how I want to be with you. Instead, I just look into her large eyes and tell her: "I shouldn't have counted."
"No, you shouldn't have."
She gives me a small smile, and I'm hopeful. "Monica." I take a step toward her, not knowing exactly what to say. She sits, watching.
"What?" she asks, so lowly I can't hear her; I can only see her mouth form the word. She leans forward, drinks deeply from her water bottle and leans back again, resting her head against the sofa, staring at me. When I don't reply right away, she closes her eyes.
"I didn't mean to tease you so much."
She doesn't look at me, just keeps her eyes closed, face tilted toward the ceiling. "You always tease me."
I take another step forward, and another, until I'm standing near. "You're good for teasing. You take it well." Oh, God. I just roll my eyes at myself. "You're a good sport." Oh, this is getting worse and worse. "I don't mean any of it, you know. I'm just having fun."
She still doesn't look at me. "You're like the twelve year old boy sitting behind me in class, pulling my hair. Punching me. Teasing, taunting, because he likes me." She opens her eyes. "Do you like me, Dana?"
My heart begins racing. I swallow and try to answer her question. I'm not as quick witted as Monica, or as sexy. I can't turn her on with a mere look, batting my eyelashes, and I don't know the words to say, either. Words aren't easy for me. None of this is.
Her eyes roam over my body, which I'm sure gives me away. My cheeks are flushed, my nipples are erect, and if I dare look down at them, I imagine I'd see that they're straining hard against my button-down blouse and thin jacket. I clutch my purse tightly, holding it in my fist. Both of my hands, in fact, are fists; I'm trying to control the shivers that her gaze is causing. That her words are causing. Do you like me, Dana? She stares at my eyes, my lips, my neck, and then lower and lower and lower, until she's staring at the hem of my skirt, my legs, my pumps. And up again. "I like you," she says huskily, and I just about jump out of my skin.
I become very wet instead. She caused that sudden rush to my panties, and I'm sure that's exactly what she intended. She likes me. I don't know why. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but she appears sober, just lethargic. In any case, it must be easy for her to be confident when my state of arousal is so obvious. Even if by some chance she doesn't see it, I'm sure she can smell it. I'm four feet away and my desire is heavy.
"But I never know what you want." Her voice is throaty. "You push and push and ask for so much from me, and then you just... you just go away. You're only around when you need something or when you want something. Do you realize that?"
I shake my head, no.
"At least with Doggett and Mulder, I knew what they wanted tonight. But you?" Her feet flex and her knees begin their routine again, dropping open, then closing, lazily back and forth.
"Maybe I don't want anything." I can hardly speak.
She knows where my eyes are; she stretches her legs languidly, crossing her ankles. "Mm. I highly doubt that."
I want to leave right now to prove it to her. But I want to stay even more.
"I'm sure there's something you want, isn't there, Dana?" Monica blinks slowly. "Something I can give you? Something I can do for you?" She stretches, cat-like, and yawns, blinking even more slowly this time, resting her eyes for a moment. "Otherwise, I think you would've left by now."
"Maybe..." My voice is a quivery whisper. I clear my throat. "Maybe I don't know what I want."
"Oh, I think you do." Her eyes, sleepy and sultry, penetrate mine. "I think you've known for a while."
A shudder passes through me like a sudden chill, only I'm not cold. Far from it. I think I've underestimated either her power or my weakness, I'm not sure which.
She stands, moves to me as gracefully as if this is a movie, a book, a dream. And she looks like a dream with her bare feet and hip-hugging jeans, her long tousled hair and too-tight t-shirt. A wet dream. "I think you're just afraid," she says quietly. And with a tentative look, she reaches out and touches my face.
She traces my cheekbone with her thumb. And then the other, and then her fingers are in my hair, stroking. "Monica." I'm on sensory overload; I just stand here numbly for a moment, until I get my bearings, and then I step back so quickly that I stumble.
She catches me, hands on my arms. "Why are you afraid of this?"
Because you turn me on so much that I can't control myself: I'm wet for you, Monica; I'm so obviously wet for you; I haven't been attracted to anyone in years, and you come along and awaken my entire body just by looking at me, just by talking to me; fascinating me so much that here I stand, drawn to you like a magnet... You haven't even kissed me, Monica, and I'm so aroused that I can't turn back. My body is physically preparing itself for orgasm... it has lubricated itself in preparation for your entrance. And if I leave right now, I'll go home and masturbate while thinking of you. But if I stay... I won't have any self-control. And because of this, because my body has reacted to you so strongly, there must be something else going on, something more than physical, because you've done more to me without even touching me than any man ever has; because you have as much power over me right now as you did when you reached between my legs and pulled William into the world; because you have too much power, Monica. Too much. You have more power at this moment than anyone has ever had.
She even looks powerful; I have on heels and she's barefoot, and still she towers over me. Her hands hold me firmly in place, and now her thumbs begin caressing my arms. If I'm going to leave, I need to leave now, while I can, but her hands are rubbing my arms, and her voice is soft, and it's been so long since I've been touched. "Tell me why you're afraid of me," she says. I try turning, just my torso, because my feet are lead. "Uh-uh. No ma'am. You're staying right here." Her right hand slips to my waist, slides around to my back, holding me firmly. "You're not running away tonight. Not like you always do. Running away when you realize how close I am. Not tonight."
"Not tonight," she says again, more firmly this time.
"I'm not sure this is what I want." My voice is hardly there. I can't look at her.
The hand that's on my back begins rubbing circles. I should leave because this is out of control. She was flirting with all three of us this evening, I remind myself. All three of us.
"Look at me," she says quietly.
I do, but only briefly, because what I see in her eyes is too much, because what I see is more than lust.
She tilts my face to force me to look at her and then slides her fingers through my hair, cupping my head. I hear the ticking of a clock nearby, sounding loud suddenly. Monica leans down, her lips touching mine lightly once... and again. Sweet, soft kisses, gentler than I've ever felt. They become wet, her tongue licking my lips insistently, until I open up and let her inside, a mistake if I plan to leave tonight, I realize as soon as her tongue touches mine. A rush floods my body, leaving me absolutely soaked. My knees weaken, and she wraps her arms around me, practically holding me up.
We kiss like this until I grow dizzy and Monica pulls away, also needing air. "See?" she says shakily, grinning. "Nothing to be afraid of." She gazes at me for what seems like a very long time, and I try forcing myself to stare back at her, but it's difficult. Her eyes slip to my mouth and she bends again to kiss me.
I grip her biceps, my purse banging against her arm. I'm on tiptoe, and both of her hands are on my back, pulling me up to her, and there isn't a sound for a long time but the wet smacking of our mouths, our heavy breathing and the ticking of the clock. I'm losing myself, my reserve, my calm.
One of her hands slips beneath my jacket, and the other follows, rubbing my back. I become so acutely aware of her hands, of how large her palms are on my back, of the length of her fingers as they trace my spine, that the sensations her tongue makes become secondary.
Her mouth breaks away, kisses my temple, my cheek, my ear. "I just want to touch you," she breathes, and to demonstrate, she gradually tugs my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. I rest my forehead on her chest, trying to slow my breathing, to think, to simply think for a moment. Everything is happening so quickly.
Her shirt smells like flowers and eucalyptus and honey. I breathe her in deeply. Detergent, deodorant, cologne, I realize, but these rational thoughts disintegrate when she succeeds with my shirt, and her fingers touch skin. Monica moans, and her mouth is on mine again.
She kisses me until my lips feel swollen, her hand trailing over my back, making patterns slowly and so softly I can't think. I've never felt weaker or more powerless in my life than at this moment. I've always been a leader, but not now. I'm not remotely guiding this interaction. I'm not even following; I'm only experiencing what she's doing to me, and what she's doing to me feels a thousand times better than anything anyone else has ever done.
Everything is sensation, mostly taste and touch and sound, because my eyes are closed and my entire body is a massive bundle of nerve endings, pulsing. It's frightening how she's undoing me with every kiss and touch. She's touching everywhere but nowhere in particular until her fingers settle on the clasp of my bra.
She's overwhelming me. "I don't..." I don't know what to say. Why am I still resisting this when it feels so good? Because it feels too good. I feel too good. I feel too much, and what does she feel? Her desire is probably a result of her inebriation. Mine isn't. Mine...
"You've trusted me with your life," she whispers. "Trust me now." Her mouth rests against my head; she's almost panting. Her fingers begin working with the clasp of my bra, and I jerk involuntarily. She moans at my reaction. She moans right in my ear, her breath hot.
Having her try to get my bra open is the sexiest thing I've ever known until she succeeds. Her fingernails scrape across my skin and I groan and jerk once more, this time so hard that my purse falls to the floor, its contents spilling. Monica reacts to this feverishly, kissing me hard enough that I'm certain to have bruises later. Her hands are all over my back. Then she grips my waist and she slides her hands up my sides, her thumbs gliding over the curve of my breasts closest to my underarms, barely touching them. I shiver. Her thumbs trail down, further from my sides, to my nipples, rubbing them gently, her hands tracing my breasts. She shudders and wrenches her mouth from mine, panting heavily now.
Is she like this with everyone? Is she so sensual and sexual that all of her lovers have been treated to such passion? I don't want to think that. I want to think that this is as potent for her as it is for me.
She looks steadily into my eyes, as if she's reading my thoughts, and begins removing my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders with enough force to press me back a few steps. She lets the jacket fall to the floor near my purse, but what's more, I let it fall to the floor. Everyone else in my history has been reprimanded for similar sloppiness, for similar mistreatment of my clothing, even when the garments in question weren't $400 Michael Kors jackets. But the discarded jacket is on the periphery of my focus. Monica has begun on my blouse, unbuttoning it. She seems deliberate and careful, and if it weren't for her trembling fingers, she'd also seem very smooth. I look down at her hands, watching her, until she tilts my chin up and covers my mouth with hers once more.
She continues kissing me while unbuttoning, and when she reaches the last button, she pushes her hands up under my open blouse, under my open bra, and cups my breasts. Her reaction to this is more than her tiny whimper - her body spasms, her pelvis bumps against me, and she squeezes and caresses and decides suddenly that she's got to get rid of my blouse. She tries to remove it, pushing it off my shoulders urgently, her tongue thrusting in my mouth, her midsection pressing against mine, everywhere pushing, pushing until I trip, banging my elbow against whatever's behind me ≠ a bookcase, I think - and she pulls me tightly to her, her hands on my back again, trying to press me right into her, it seems. And only now does she break away from my mouth.
"Oh, God," she murmurs, staring at me. "You are so beautiful." With one hand firmly pressed against my lower back, holding me to her, she touches my cheek with the other. "You are so..." and she leans down and kisses me gently but thoroughly, continuing to hold me with her left hand while touching me with her right, tangling my hair, trailing across my shoulder, and then her movements become so fluid that I think she must be a dancer. She runs her hand under my arm, stroking the length of it while pushing it gently upward at the same time, so that by the time she reaches my wrist, my arm is outstretched, as is hers, as if she's going to lead me into a dance. Instead, she unbuttons the cuff of my sleeve and entwines my hand with hers, bringing it to her lips for fervent kisses before lowering it to my side. And she mirrors this process, pressing her right hand to my lower back, holding me, while her left presses my arm upward, stroking it. This time she kisses the length of my arm once the cuff is open and she takes my hand and brings it to her mouth and kisses it and lowers it to my side and pushes my blouse off. And it, too, is discarded on the floor, an Allen B. stretch cotton khaki shirt that I paid over a hundred dollars for. Her blatant disregard for my clothes, the urgency to get to my body, is as erotic as her mouth, which is open on my neck, kissing, licking and sucking its way from my ear to my shoulder. She pulls my bra off without ceasing her impassioned ministrations. She makes love like she's a poet, an artist.
Or a sailor. Once my torso is bare, her hands course over it, settling on my breasts, and she moans and mutters words that must be Spanish curses, given their intonation. "Monica."
Her mouth moves to my ear, her hands still squeezing and pulling and stroking. "Hmm?"
"What are you saying?" I ask, expecting sexual vulgarities.
She holds still and doesn't answer immediately. "You burn inside me like fire," she finally breathes. "And other things you're not ready to hear."
I pull away, finding out that it is indeed a bookcase that's behind me, full of books that shift when I bump them. I don't pull away from her for the reason she thinks, not because I'm afraid or overwhelmed, even though I am. I pull away so I can look at her. To see that this is real, because I've got so many endorphins in my bloodstream that I can't think coherently. This could be a dream for all I know. She smiles softly, trying to tear her gaze away from my breasts, my torso. She touches the cross on my necklace, takes it between her thumb and forefinger and caresses it, examines it. And I finally touch her. Her breasts. I run my thumbs over her nipples, cup her, and she gasps, and her mouth doesn't quite close after this. It remains open, and she stares at me with such concentrated longing that I do it again, more firmly this time. "Dana." She shudders.
Oh, God. Is this how I make her feel? She's so sexy, arching, tilting her head back. My hands are on her breasts, and she covers them with her own, squeezing. I'm just seeping now, constantly lubricating; even my thighs are wet. "Yes, yes," she murmurs, and then Spanish again.
"Your hands, your touch," she translates, straightening. She moves my hands away and strips her shirt off in a quick, fluid movement. When she drops it to the floor, she begins with Spanish again, this time not waiting for me to ask for an interpretation. "Touch me everywhere."
I can't touch her for looking. Monica's clothes have been concealing an amazing body. Her breasts are full and ... just ... amazing. Firm and full and breathtaking. I place my palms on her chest and slide them down to her breasts, to her tummy, and to her breasts again. More than I know what to do with, but luscious enough to eat, and that's my sudden desire. I kiss them, suck her nipples into my mouth, and Monica's body undulates as if to music. One of her hands presses my head firmly on her and the other trails over my back, squeezes my ass and pulls me to her roughly. She lets me stay on her breasts as long as I want, and it's a long time. I've never held a breast in my mouth. I had no idea.
"What did you say?" she murmurs, tangling her fingers in my hair, kissing my neck, moving to my lips and then alongside them.
"I don't know." I didn't realize that I had spoken.
She kisses me and grins on my mouth before leaning back and stroking the hair from my face. "You said you had no idea about something."
"I had no idea it could be like this," I tell her.
She looks at me tenderly, caresses my cheek with the back of her hand, and runs it down my neck, down my chest, between my breasts, down to my skirt, resting the palm of her hand on my abdomen, and then lower. She leaves her hand there for a minute, not stroking, not squeezing, just... resting it, but I'm not sure if she's gauging my reaction or if she's letting me get accustomed to the feeling of her hand there, or if she's claiming that area. Before I can decide, she places both hands on my hips and kisses me and I wrap my arms around her neck and pull her in deep. The softness of her breasts, the pure erotic feeling of her breasts pressing to mine, leaves me breathless. I don't know how much more softness I can bear.
Her hands slide to the back of my skirt and begin working with my zipper, and she's trying so earnestly that her mouth stops kissing, just holds perfectly still, her tongue thrust inside. I suck it and squeeze her breasts, and she leans heavily against me, momentarily trapping my hands where they are, a thumbnail on each nipple. Forgetting the zipper, Monica reaches over her head and braces her hands on the tallest shelf of her bookcase, arching toward me. I've never felt such a thrill at touching someone, but it's impossible not to be thrilled by this woman. Monica moves with my hand, seeming to ripple with each caress, giving me the amazing pleasure of knowing how I make her feel. "You're breathtaking."
She smiles softly at my words and continues arching, her pelvis pressed to me, her spine curved, head tilted back. I press my hand flat on her chest and she lets her head fall back more, hair cascading behind her. The men we left at the restaurant wouldn't have appreciated such beauty. The thought of her going home with either of them repulses me. "It drove me crazy to see you flirting with Mulder and Doggett."
Monica withdraws from my touch long enough to give me a look that sends shivers down my spine. Then her hands are gripping my shoulders and her mouth is descending on mine so forcefully that my head bangs against some books, which knock books beside them, which begin falling on the floor. Monica is oblivious, her hands coursing over my torso, fingernails scraping my arms, my waist. She dips her head down, bending, and lavishes her attention on my breasts, tongue stroking and flicking my nipples, lost in her passion, her hands touching every part of me that the skirt is hiding until they travel down my thighs and back up again, pulling my skirt with them. She moans. Her fingers trail over my thigh-highs, over the exposed flesh above them, over the legs of my panties.
"Monica." I'm not even coherent. Her name is just a whimper.
She sweeps her hands up, cupping my ass, and stands tall, pulling me with her so that I'm barely on tiptoe, mostly hanging in her embrace, her hands squeezing and pulling and massaging before lowering me down again, my skirt catching on her jeans and riding up. She moans and runs her hands over my hose once more at the place where they end and flesh begins. And then she reaches between my legs and we both groan. Hers is a long, keening sound from deep within. Mine is probably the same. I'm wet through my panties, a fact that becomes more pronounced as her fingers slide along them, cupping me, then stroking me.
She's breathing hard, her fingers insistent, but they don't need to do much. I'm already beyond the point of arousal - my body has just been waiting for release. My hips begin rocking against her hand, harder when she begins muttering in Spanish again. "Monica-"
"Hmm?" She's out of breath. "What is it?" she whispers, her fingers still insistent.
My hands are on her shoulders; I'm trying to hold myself up.
"Dana?" Monica kisses my bent head. I'm watching my skirt crease and fold over her cloaked hand. It's surreal. "Look at me," she says in her breathless, whispered voice, fingers pressing harder, faster.
The moment I look up at her, her fingers slip inside my panties, and she's talking to me, how gorgeous she thinks I am, how good I feel to her, and she's rubbing my clit and whispering so many terms of endearment, so many that I'll never remember them all, even though I'm concentrating, and the orgasm slips up on me while I'm still staring at her, and I practically double over in her arms, convulsing and groaning as if I'm giving birth again.
After my body has quieted somewhat, Monica's hand slips from my panties and she pulls me close in her arms, and I huddle there, head on her chest. I fight to control the trembling; she soothes me, rubbing my back. She kisses my forehead, my hair. "You're amazing," she whispers.
This surprises me enough that I unfold myself to look at her, wondering why she thinks I'm amazing when she just brought me to orgasm. She's the amazing one, such a passionate person. I wrap my arms around her neck and draw her head down to me, to kiss her slowly and earnestly. My gratitude is deep.
Our kiss is leisurely and sweet for a while and her hands stroke my sides up and down so lightly that it tickles. But our peace is shattered when the phone rings. I break away to give her a chance to answer it. "God," she whispers, totally focused on me, her voice rough, her eyes penetrating mine. "God." Her hands squeeze my ass, pulling my skirt up further, and she shoves her leg between my thighs. "I just want you so badly."
She doesn't even seem cognizant of the ringing phone. Her passion for me, the level of her desire, is so ... It's so foreign from the Monica I thought I knew. I thought she had a crush on me, yes. I thought she was sweet and gentle and kind, and she is all of these things, but she's also erotic and strong and insistent, and the way she has taken charge of the situation, the way she has me pinned to the bookcase with her knee between my legs, so powerful, so commanding, but still so gentle ... this is so different than how I imagined her to be. Not that I have imagined her or fantasized her. Except for those times I imagined Mulder fucking her. I don't want to think of her with him. I don't want to think of the possibility of her with anyone else; however, a woman is leaving a message on Monica's answering machine, and she's saying that she had a great time the other night, but she hasn't heard from Monica in a couple of days and is everything all right?
"No one." Her mouth crushes mine in a feverish kiss.
Is she seeing someone? The thought invades my mind, distracts me from everything she's doing. Who else does Monica touch like this? Just because I haven't slept with anyone in years doesn't mean Monica's bed is as empty. Maybe she has a string of lovers as long as her arm. Maybe her bedroom is Grand Central Station.
"Come on." Taking me by the hand, she leads me away from the main area of her loft. We pass her answering machine along the way, and even though she doesn't glance at it, I do. A big red 3 is flashing. Three messages. From the same woman?
Her bed is large. I glance about, not even sure what I'm looking for. Evidence of other lovers, maybe. Monica moves behind me, unzips my skirt and lets it fall. "I haven't done this before." I sound like a virgin. "I mean with a woman." Now I just sound like an idiot.
"Mmm." She wraps her arms around me, pelvis to my ass. "Then how lucky am I?" she murmurs in my ear. Her lips trail kisses along my neck. "I'm honored," she whispers.
She touches me, speaks to me as if she adores me, and this turns me on more than anything ever has. I reach up and pull her head down to me, kissing her heavily. Her hands cover my breasts. "God," she mutters, and turns me around and pushes me toward the bed and then presses me down onto it. I kick off my shoes and watch her undress. She pushes her jeans down quickly, and then her panties, without a trace of self-consciousness. She shouldn't be self-conscious; her body is magnificent, trim and lithe and ... womanly. Full breasts, flat stomach, dark patch of hair between her legs. Scar on her right breast. I stare at it as she pulls my panties down and off, leaving me wearing nothing but my thigh-high hose. "Oh," she says. She's staring at the area between my legs, clearing her throat. "Well, that answers that question."
I've been here before; I know exactly what she's referring to. Is the hair on my head natural? Or do I color it? "And what question is that?" I don't understand why people are so fascinated by this.
A grin flashes across her face and she waggles her eyebrows. "Well, Agent Scully, I was wondering... " She freezes for a moment, eyes large. "Freaking Jesus. You're in my bed. Dana Scully is naked in my bed."
"Yes, she is."
"And I'm about to ..." She trails off, picks up again in Spanish.
I shiver. "You're about to what?"
Monica kneels on the bed, lifts my legs and parts them. She hovers over me, palms flat on either side of my torso, knees between my bent legs, her eyes glued to mine. "Make love to you," she translates softly, planting a kiss on my cheek. Her mouth moves to my neck, nibbling it, and she sits up, her hands on my wrists, pushing my arms above my head. She dips back down to my ear. "Hold you, kiss you, touch you," she continues. "Make you come for me until you're so exhausted that you don't have the energy to get out of bed. I'll hold you prisoner with my tongue." She licks my ear to demonstrate.
I'm speechless, which is becoming the norm tonight. She's sexual and sensual and incredibly gorgeous. And familiar, like someone that I must have lost long ago, someone I didn't even know I was missing. I focus on the scar on her breast again.
Monica sits back on her heels once more and places her hands on my shins, stroking me until she reaches the top of my thigh-highs. She pulls them down slowly, bending to kiss along each leg, removing the hose and kissing shins, calves, knees, thighs. Inner thighs. She scoots down, lies on her stomach and oh... Her tongue doesn't just taste me, it ravishes me; she's gorging herself on my labia, my clit. I rise up on my elbows to stare at her. Seeing Monica between my legs, making love to me like this, is ... carnal; I think I could come just watching her. She raises her head. "You okay?" Her voice is so hoarse that it fades out before she finishes speaking.
I nod dumbly. Monica's face is slick. Strands of hair cling to her cheeks. What is that she said earlier? Freaking Jesus. I have never seen anything so intensely erotic in my life as this woman: naked, her cheeks, chin, mouth wet, looking up at me with eyes that are half closed, lust on her face primal, as if feasting on me is sating a voracious appetite. I was deadly wrong to think her passion was a result of too much alcohol. She's wanted this for a long time. Shudders wrack my body.
She goes down on me again, her eyes remaining on my face at first, and then she bends her head and concentrates her attention on my clit, rolling it under her tongue, sucking and nibbling and flicking it rapidly before releasing it. She tries to penetrate me with her tongue, isn't satisfied, and pulls away, crouching on her knees again. "I can't do enough," she says somberly, entering me with her fingers.
"You're doing terrific," I utter between moans. "Trust me on that."
"I want to do more." She bends and kisses my stomach, fingers pumping slowly. "I want to do so much." She hovers over me and kisses me, and her mouth tastes like sex. I clutch her fingers tightly and release. Monica shifts, begins pumping in and out and slapping my clit with the heel of her hand, and I'm coming again, and it burns this time. It's a long burning wave and she slaps me harder and faster until the orgasm rips out of me, and I lie in her arms, shaking. I feel like crying, even though I'm not sad at all, but I fall asleep instead.
I wake up just a few minutes later, or so she says when I ask her. She's lying on her side, stroking my belly, staring at me with her large eyes. "Go back to sleep," she murmurs. "I'll cover you."
I stare right back at her, feeling like someone who has been fucked very well. I've discovered a whole new type of sexual experience, but I've been so aroused by Monica, by her overwhelming emotion and sensuality and eroticism, that I've done very little but take from her. The night is unbalanced. I want to watch her explode.
"Here, get under the covers," she whispers.
"No." I put my hand between her legs, and she's hot and wet, and she groans deeply. I have plenty of experience bringing myself off, so I put that knowledge to good use, squeezing and pinching and rubbing, and Monica just melts. I've never had someone react so strongly to my touch; it makes me feel ... powerful. I spread her, place my mouth on her clit and begin sucking and licking, and she becomes putty, bending and moving, arching her hips up, talking to me, some in Spanish, some in English, mostly unintelligible because she's speaking so lowly, but my name and various forms of God's name are sprinkled into the mix.
"I want you so much, Dana." She says this clearly, stiffening for a moment, stroking my head. "Come here." She pulls me up to her chest and wraps her entire body around my torso. "I want you right here when I come." And she guides my hand between us, moving into the position that suits her best, and stares into my eyes.
"You're beautiful," I tell her.
A gentle smile lights her face. "You don't know what you do to me."
I didn't before tonight, but I'm learning now. Her body language speaks volumes. Still... "Tell me."
"You... have this power over me. I watched you all the time when we worked together. And now you're not there."
Her voice reveals the emotion behind the words, and I kiss her reassuringly. "Why did you watch me?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know. I just couldn't take my eyes from you. I just wanted to please you so badly." She strokes my head. "I always want your approval, you know?"
This isn't really a revelation. I knew she idolized me; I knew she had me on a pedestal. But hearing her say the words has set me on fire. I pump her carefully, suddenly needing to hold back, to not go crazy on her. I need to hold back because the adrenaline surging through me is enough to rip her apart if I don't control myself. I concentrate on being gentle.
"I felt like the schoolgirl with a crush on the teacher." She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me sweetly, her body curving into my touch. "I wanted you to keep me after class."
I have to see her come. She has to come for me right now. I crash my mouth onto hers and slam my hand on her clit hard, repeating what she did to me earlier. I want to fuck her. She's revealed so much this evening, uncovered so much about me, tapped into something inside me - my passion - whatever has been dead for so many years. I just want to fuck her until she screams my name; I want to make her feel exactly how she's making me feel.
She tries to wrench her mouth from mine, moaning deeply. Whatever she's unleashed in me is going to veer out of control. I want to possess her. I want to make her happy. I kiss her harder before finally releasing her lips, and she begins thrusting against me wildly, throwing her head back, erupting beneath me.
I kiss her face and neck as she recovers, sweat glistening on her forehead. It takes her a few minutes, as it had taken me, but she's completely different in her afterglow. Where I held still, wrapped up tight, she's open and relaxed and loving, winding her body around mine, touching, whispering her gratitude. I want more.
I nibble her shoulders and earlobes despite her giggled protests, and when I can take it no longer, when I feel like I'm going to explode if I don't fuck her, I press her hard to the bed, straddle one of her thighs, and clamp my mouth on her neck. I want her so badly I can't see straight.
"Oh, God, what are you doing?" She holds my head firmly in place, obviously wanting me to continue sucking her neck. "Dana." I feel her legs begin jerking, trembling. "Oh!"
Even right now, blind with lust, I have to tease her. I just can't help myself. "Do you want me to stop?" I lift my head as if to move away.
"No!" she cries. "Please, no, no," and she pulls me down firmly. "Please."
I fairly gush over her fervent plea. Her legs lock around my midsection. I push her wrists into the mattress and continue bruising her neck, and she slips into a different state of arousal, it seems, tremors in her arms, her belly. Making mewling sounds. This goes on until the tremors in her legs become more pronounced ≠ pronounced enough that she can't control them; the entire bed vibrates. "I'm burning up," she says in a voice that sounds very much like she's crying. "I can't stand this. I can't..."
I'm not even touching her. I'm just holding her wrists and sucking her neck, and she's whimpering that I need to hurry, that I need to help her, that I need to finish her. I push my knee to her center, and she gyrates against it immediately. I press and withdraw my knee, press and withdraw, until I'm banging her clit over and over, gently at first, then harder and faster, then slower and softer again. I ease off her neck, kiss her and dip down to the other side, opening my mouth and flicking my tongue over the skin there, but before I can clamp down again, she's exploding, groaning and crying, and when the first wave passes, she takes my thigh between her hands and holds my knee firmly at her center and holds still until another wave comes, and she convulses on my knee, and when this one passes, she releases my thigh, telling me to keep my knee right where it is and to kiss her neck again. And another quiet wave comes.
Monica holds me afterwards, her body still shaking with tremors. She kisses me and tells me how wonderful I feel to her, and finally I feel sated. I could drift to sleep very easily here, lying on top of her, but she rolls me over onto my back and gives me an oral experience like nothing I've ever known. Her tongue licks me everywhere thoroughly, occasionally flicking my clit. She does this slowly and continuously until I feel like Iím going mad. I arch up to her and she enters me with her fingers, pumping both my vagina and my ass while flicking my clit rapidly between her teeth. This orgasm is rough and she rises to meet me, kissing me softly, telling me to come for her, and I clamp down again on her neck while I ride it out.
Later, she spreads my legs and places her pelvis to mine, gyrating slowly while looking down at me. She says my name again and again. She says it when she comes.
It's Saturday morning, too early for me to be up, considering the night I had. Monica is still in bed, sleeping soundly. I want her awake. I want her.
And that's why I got up, wrapping her terrycloth robe around me. I got up to make coffee, and it's almost ready, but I'm too impatient to wait for it. She's in there, in her bed, gorgeous and soft. I return to her, sit beside her, stroke her hair, kiss her brow. "Mmmm." She smiles softly, eyes closed.
I kiss her lips gently. They're probably as sore and chapped as mine.
"Is that you, Agent Scully?" Her voice is hoarse.
"Yes, Agent Reyes." I push her hair back, kiss her cheek. "Who else would it be? The nameless nobody on the phone who called three times last night to see where you were?"
Her lips twitch. "Could've been her."
Her eyes flutter open. "You're jealous of a voice on my answering machine."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes you are!" This seems to delight her. "You were jealous of Mulder and Doggett last night-"
"I was just curious."
"Curious?" She bursts into laughter. "This is great. I feel so powerful. I have Dana Scully in my robe, in my bed-"
"You really enjoy that, don't you?"
"Well, yeah." She eyes the gap in the robe, the swell of my breasts. "I really enjoy it."
"No, I mean the whole 'Dana Scully,' 'Agent Scully' deal. What happened to just 'Dana'?"
She crooks her finger, signaling me to lean close. "Sometimes," she says conspiratorially. "I get turned on by calling you 'Agent Scully.'"
"Yeah." Her voice is whisper-soft. "Sometimes, on cases, I've thought about you at night, in my bed."
Oh, God. This woman is going to give me a heart attack. "You have? And what did you think?"
"Different things. What it would be like to kiss you." She pulls my head down and kisses my lips softly. "What it would be like to make love to you. Where I stood with you. Whether you would consider dating me."
"I don't think we can date, Monica." I look her steadily in the eye.
I shake my head. "This is too intense for dinner and a movie."
"Yes, it is." She kisses me thoroughly. "It's very intense. We're very intense."
"Yes." Monica looks at me seriously. "I don't think we can date, either. Not for a long time. We'll be too tired."
"From all the sex."
"It's going to be rough. Work."
She pouts. "You're so far away. You're an hour away now. Why can't you come back to the Hoover building?" She rubs her hands over my shoulders. "You could work in the basement, with me."
It would drive me insane to see her every day and not touch her, but what would be even worse would be seeing her interaction with all of the men. Doggett, Skinner, Follmer. It would make me crazy. "I think working in the basement with you would be a very dangerous thing."
"I have to know something, Monica. The girl on the phone-"
"Are you dating her?"
She shakes her head wordlessly. Then, "We went out a couple of times, but no, I'm not dating her."
"Is there anyone else I need to know about?"
She licks her lips. "No. Is there anyone I need to know about?"
I just laugh at first, but she looks confused. "Nobody," I assure her, sliding my hand under the covers to cup her breast. "There isn't anyone else I want, Monica." I bend to take her nipple in my mouth, but she sits up and pushes me down, across her lap, on my back.
"Just me?" she asks, opening my robe.
I nod. "Only you." And she ravishes my breasts with her lips and tongue, and once again, my body begins preparing for her entrance.
It's two hours later. We're showered and fresh and she's propped up in bed, waiting for me. I hold the cup just out of reach. "Coffee for a question," I offer. "Very strong coffee. You might need it, although I must say you don't appear to be suffering from a hangover."
Monica shakes her head. "No hangover. Not from the margaritas, anyway." She winks.
"Were you...?" Hmm. Heavy question; I don't want to hurt her feelings. "Were you still drunk last night when we...? I mean..."
Her face softens. "No. Well, I didn't feel drunk, okay? Once you did that thing - that bra thing in the ladies room - I sobered up pretty quickly. And I think after you got me home, you sweated the rest of the alcohol out of me anyway. Don't you?" She waggles her eyebrows. "Now I would like my coffee, please. G-woman."
"Is it always this good?"
"The coffee? It's two hours old; I don't think it's that good." She pauses at the look on my face. Her eyes grow large. "Oh! Oh... you mean with women?"
"No, with you."
Her cheeks flush prettily. "I don't know, Dana. Why don't you hang around and find out?"
I set our coffees down on the bedside table. "I guess I'll have to, won't I?"
"Especially since I still have your keys."
"You took them again? Why? Do I need to have a set made for you?"
"Six keys..." She smiles impishly and jangles them in the air.
"But I answered all of your questions last night." I kneel on the bed beside her.
"Oh, no. I have lots more."
"Like what's your favorite color?"
"To look at? Red. To wear, black. On you, brown."
"Brown, huh? I knew that."
"No you didn't."
She nods. "Dana, I did. Trust me."
"You look at me more when I wear brown."
I arch my eyebrow at her instead of replying.
"Okay, number two... What's William's favorite book?"
I grin. Easy answer. "Green Eggs and Ham."
"Are we going to six again?"
I roll my eyes at her.
"Number three. Have you ever been to Mexico?"
"A few times, but never for pleasure."
"Number four. When is your birthday?"
"I can't believe you're a Pisces. I simply can't." She shakes her lovely head. "You must have a hell of an ascendant. Leo ascendant, or Scorpio or something. You are SO not like a Pisces. What year? '64?"
"1964, yes, and that's question number five."
"Well, your Chinese zodiac sign is the dragon. That's much more fitting. Powerful, strong, successful, a natural leader, a very good motivator." Her eyes blink, sultry. "I've wanted a dragon lover. It's supposed to be my best match for romance."
I quirk my eyebrows. "How's that? What's your Chinese zodiac thing?"
She looks sheepish. "The monkey."
I have to chuckle at this. The monkey. "And how are a dragon and a monkey supposed to be compatible?"
She licks her lips, shakes her head. "I don't know. From what I've read, it's a fiery match, electric. Full of passion. We feed off each other's energy. Dragons and monkeys easily become consumed by each other."
Consumed. I believe it. I want her right now, again, even though my body aches from so much lovemaking.
She returns my gaze. "Okay, number six.... hmmm.... gotta make it a good one.... Let's see..." She frowns, thinking, and I take the opportunity to grab the keys from her.
"Hey. HEY!" She lunges forward too late; I toss the keys toward the door, and they skid into the next room. "That's not fair."
I place my hand squarely in the middle of her chest and push her back down to a reclining position. "You lie there and think up all the questions you want to. I've got better things to do."
She swallows. "You do?"
I pull the covers off her naked body and stare at it. There are simply too many things I haven't done yet. Things I want to try. Her nipples harden under my gaze, spurring me on. I crawl on top of her, kissing her breasts, her bruised neck.
"Oh! I've got my sixth question. Dana?"
"Hm?" I suckle an earlobe.
"I have my sixth question."
I sit up reluctantly, straddling her hips. "What?"
"When was the last time someone blew you away?"
The same question she asked all of us at the restaurant. "It was..." Last night, when she kissed me for the first time. An hour ago, when she made love to me for the fifth time. Thirty seconds ago when she said my name for the thousandth time. "No, I don't want to talk about that right now."
She looks crestfallen.
"I'd rather talk about the *first* time someone blew me away." I lock my eyes with hers, stroking a strand of hair away from her forehead. "It was in late May, and I was pregnant with my son, whose life was in danger. And there was a woman... a fellow agent... a woman I had met and had worked with and had never really seen until then, when she drove me to Georgia, when she guarded me, fought for me, when she delivered my child safely into the world.
"I had never really seen her; but during that trip I saw her heart, her soul, her brilliance, her courage, her strength... I saw her." Monica watches me, eyes filling with tears. "I was lying there and she was delivering my child, and there were intruders... and the only thing that kept me hanging on to any kind of hope, the only way I could get through it was by looking into her eyes. And her eyes became the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen, eyes that seemed to stare right down into my heart." I swallow. I've said a lot. Too much, maybe, because tears are spilling down Monica's face.
"That was the first time someone blew me away. But you asked me when was the last time someone blew me away." I wipe her tears. "Don't cry. Kiss me."
She takes my head in her hands and kisses me sweetly and emotionally.
"That was the last time someone blew me away, Monica. That kiss of yours." I nibble her ear. "Now. Did I answer all of your questions?" She nods.
"Good. Blow me away again."