From: Princess Twilite <princesstwilite2@aol.com>
Date: 6 May 2003 11:13:16 -0700
Subject: NEW: Taking It Back -NC-17- (1/1)
Source: atxc

Yes to Gossamer

Title: Taking It Back 1/1
Author: Princess Twilite (princesstwilite2@aol.com)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Hearts are fickle. Monica isn't immune indecision.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter has all rights.
Distribution: Yes, anywhere
Category: Story, Romance, Angst, Doggett/Reyes 
Spoilers: The Truth, series finale
Beta readers: XFMU@aol.com, wonderful, give her thanks too if you
liked this story.
Feedback: Nice to receive. If it's critical, I prefer it OFF-LIST
Website: http://www.shippersunited.com/whip
Author's Note: I suppose it's better late than never. I'm new to
actually finishing X-files fan fiction, even if I watched the show
religiously.

* * * *

Dust stuck in every crevice of Monica's wrinkled outfit, inside her
nostrils, burning her lungs like cigarette smoke was wont to do. And
as desperately as she was craving a little nicotine, it was too hot to
even consider sucking one in. Her dry lips parted, and she darted her
tongue out, licking her bottom lip with a quick swipe that would no
doubt chap her mouth.

She sat on the hood of the car, the metal burning her bare thighs and
her ass beneath the cotton shorts she wore. Monica shifted, peeling
her skin from the surface and resting in a different spot. It didn't
make any difference, she thought, staring at the long road ahead,
tinted orange and thrown into a blurry wave of heat in the distance.
It was burning everywhere.

At one time, she'd loved the heat. It had a thick way of moving,
settling on the grass and bringing everything to a slow grind. In hot
weather, the world was like molasses. Nobody was in a rush to get
everything done. Hurrying meant you'd fall over and croak from heat
exhaustion, so survival dictated that you go about life easily.

Lately, she didn't care so much for the heat . It smothered her like
an itchy blanket, and she'd been scratching at herself, trying to get
free ever since.

They'd been driving for three days. Three *long* days. They were
constantly on the move, silently afraid. John kept the radio on,
acting like he enjoyed the way the songs tripped over each other as
one station fought for dominance. Monica had been mostly without
argument, even when the airwaves became a gray blot of sound. She
understood that he only fought for the music because he felt helpless
otherwise, and the silence irritated him.

Monica lay back against the windshield, looking up at the sun glaring
down at her. She squinted when the rays caught in her eyes, closing
them tight against the intrusion. The backs of her eyelids were pink
from the force of the light, and even there she wasn't safe from the
sun. It was bothersome, never letting up now that she'd let it in.
Monica hated its sudden focus on her, when it hadn't ever noticed her
before.

Sighing, deep in the belly like she'd taught herself and Scully too,
Monica tried to cool herself down by will alone. Her arms were slick
against the glass of the windshield, her hair plastered to the back of
her neck, and she reminded herself of an egg in a frying pan. But she
couldn't bring herself to move, pinned by the sun to the earth, stuck
like a butterfly stabbed by a pin.

She should get up, get behind the wheel, and start driving again. John
had been sleeping in the back seat for a few hours. Monica had spent
that time alternately watching the road pass under the car's tires,
fading sullenly behind them, and flicking her gaze to the rear-view
mirror where she could see his head rocking against the window where
he'd propped himself. John looked beaten up and aging, legs bent on
the seat, jeans frayed at the hems. Kinda beautiful, too. In his way.

Monica had kept the radio on, because she was afraid he'd wake up if
she turned it off. Things had been tense between them, like a rubber
band being pulled to its limits, and they were both afraid of when it
might snap back. When would it happen? Where would they be? And God,
the worst of all, how would they handle it?

The reprieve from all those half-glances and uncomfortable silences
was like a gift; Monica cherished the alone time. But there had been a
bubble of awareness beneath her heart, rising and bumping against her
ribs, making her uncomfortable sitting in the driver's seat, listening
to John's quiet snoring.

Something had made her pull over to the side of the dead road, shove
open the door, and drag in stale air with panting gasps. She didn't
know *what* it was, just an urge she found herself acting on. And here
she was, feeling like a piece of crispy toast, laid out on a metal
plate like an offering to jam-covered fingers.

It hadn't been a completely bad drive so far, Monica admitted to
herself, shifting sloppily against the hood of the car. Usually, they
got along fine and even laughed a little, though there wasn't much to
laugh at with what they feared, but they TRIED. Still, there was an
undercurrent of something hard to swallow, and she didn't like the
change in dynamic one bit.

Monica had been in love with John Doggett for too many years. So many,
that it was second nature to associate him with her heart. But now,
staring the possibilities of her unrequited love not being so
unrequited, she was starting to think it had been because he wasn't
there and she didn't have to deal with the actual responsibility of
loving someone. Things were no longer as simple as that.

A year, that's how long she'd had to deal with it. *Really* deal with
it. Being around him, smelling him, tasting him on the back of her
tongue even though they'd never even properly kissed.

Stretching her arms up above her, Monica slicked her fingers across
the roof of the vehicle. She dragged her nails against the metal,
feeling the tension vibrate in every muscle of her body, deeper than
the bone.

She was no longer sure what she wanted. Not now when he was looking at
her more often than not, and there could be real repercussions from
letting him touch her. Repercussions like getting distracted enough to
be killed, ruining their evolving friendship, or worse -- actual
commitment. Maybe she would always be a silly girl with gangly limbs,
flirting with the dark haired boys until they flirted back. Getting
bored when she won their hearts. Getting scared and leaving them
behind to wonder what they'd done wrong.


Angry with herself, Monica slammed her palm down against the roof.
Winced. Dammit, that had been loud enough to wake John up, even though
he slept like a dead animal. Surely enough, the car sunk and shook a
little on its wheels. She heard the rear door on his side open and
slam.

Monica kicked the grill of the car in frustration, banging her
sneakers against it hard enough to jar the car again. Just *great*.
When she finally forced herself to open her eyes, John was standing at
her knees, staring at her with red-rimmed eyes and hair that stood up
in all directions.

"Somethin' wrong?" He slurred slightly, shaking his head to clear off
the last vestiges of sleep. She fought the urge to slide her fingers
into his hair and smooth the rough edges of his weariness away. Her
stomach was falling again, like it always did when she was around him.

She was SICK of it.

Monica primly slid her knees together. "No. Nothing's wrong. I didn't
mean to wake you John, why don't you go back to sleep? We'll get
moving again in a minute." She shifted a little against the hood,
considering sliding off to the side since she couldn't move forward
without being right up against him. His knees brushed hers.

"Nah, something's bothering you." A tired smile flitted across his
mouth. "Though that ain't a surprise really, considering we're
basically running from the law. Things I really don't care to think
about just after waking up." John tapped a finger against her knee. "I
know you well enough to see you've been edgy. Something else is
upsetting you. Something that's not about what we've been running
from. Enough to make you beat up a car."

Monica wondered what made him think he knew her at all. After all,
she'd been out here fantasizing about what it'd be like to leave him
behind and be free of all the ties that had drawn her to D.C. in the
first place. The X-files were gone now, weren't they? Monica wasn't
even sure why they were traveling together. They could easily part
ways and vanish. They'd be easier to find together than they would be
on their own.

Glancing at his face as he waited, she immediately felt guilty for
even thinking about ditching him. He'd been through enough in his
life, hadn't he? Why she was suddenly getting a case of the jitters
when it came to actually having what she wanted all along was beyond
her.

It was easy to want. It wasn't so easy to HAVE.

"I'm just tired of running," Monica replied, wiping sweat from her
nose. John followed her movements with odd eyes, and she curled her
fingers into her palm. "We should start on our way again." When she
sat up, she expected him to move out of her way, but he only stood
there, completely still. Watching her face intently, he brushed the
sweat from her cheeks with his thumb.

Monica sucked in a breath, pulling away cautiously. She hoped like
hell the rubber band wasn't snapping back already. It wasn't the time...
she hadn't been given enough space to think, much less make a decision
based on his dark looks and the haunting way they'd been left all
alone in this world, but for each other. A hard rock of fear rolled
over in her stomach, had her lips flinching back as he reached for her
again.

His face tightened into a frown. "See? Something's wrong. Tell me."

Monica's heart throbbed thickly, all the way to her fingers. Her
throat turned as dry as the desert around them. As hot as the hood
against her thighs, as she sat in an awkward position, trying to hold
her body away from his without being obvious.

"I don't think..." Monica tripped over the words, clearing her throat
over an arid lump of trepidation. She wasn't a coward, she told
herself. She wasn't!

He dipped his knees, gaining her eyes. "You don't think what?"

Monica lifted her chin, pulling her knees closer to her stomach, the
soles of her sneakers sliding along the grill. Firmly, she said, "I
don't think we should be doing this."

John lifted his hands, showing his palms to the sky as he rolled his
eyes in bemusement. "Doing what, Monica? Running?"

"Running together," she said quickly, on a burst of air. Then she
sealed her lips together, digging her nails into the back of her other
hand. John looked lost for a moment, completely shocked by what she
said.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, scowling. Monica directed
her eyes over his shoulder, at the vast nothing stretched out on
either side of them. Everything was flat, and everything was near dead
from the heat. Just like where she'd grown up. "Monica, it'd be crazy
to split up now. That's reckless thinking."

Monica ducked her head, avoiding his gaze. "It might be safer. They
know we're traveling together, or I get the feeling that they do." She
felt John roll his eyes again, probably thinking: 'There goes Monica
with those *feelings* again.' She bristled, slamming her eyes back
onto his. John nearly stepped back from the force of her stare. "We
need to split up. Throw them off a little."

"You..." John began, but shook his head and closed his mouth, squinting
as if he couldn't see something. Pivoting, he walked away from her,
stopping at the edge of the road, right in front of a cactus, hands on
his hips. He stayed that way for at least three minutes, while Monica
felt sick to her stomach. At least she was telling him. At least she
hadn't just grabbed her bag out of the back, and begun walking away.

How could she explain it to him, that with all the running around,
something had woken inside her? It was a realization of his
expectations and how she'd been waiting for him all these years. And
maybe the waiting was going to end, and she didn't know how to *deal*
with that on top of everything else. The world was *this* close to
ending. How could she tell him that she wasn't sure what she wanted
anymore?

Monica slipped off the hood, standing awkwardly while she waited for
John to face her again. When he did, she wished he hadn't. A shadow of
realization had passed over his face, making his eyes darker than
normal. Shades of anger.

"This isn't about them at all, is it?" John asked, walking toward her.
He stopped a foot away, looking none-too-happy. "You've got a stick up
your ass for a whole different reason, and you're just too damn scared
to say anything about it."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "You're wrong," Monica said. "I
don't want to see you get hurt." Or myself, she added silently. "Think
about it, John. We could move quicker apart."

"No," John said simply, taking another step toward her. Monica's chest
cramped up, a warning that she forced herself to ignore. "I may not be
good at a lot of things when it comes to you, but I'm not a damn fool,
Mon."

When she would have opened her mouth to say that wasn't what she
meant, John stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around the back of
her neck, pulling her face close to his. He didn't kiss her. Yet.

"We ain't splitting up," he said resolutely, and then very carefully
placed his lips over hers. Monica blinked, standing utterly still.
She'd seen this coming for weeks, ever since he'd hugged her and
whispered in her ear that things were gonna be better now. Somehow it
still hadn't prepared her for the reality of *John* kissing *her*.

A hunger ignited in her stomach as he cupped her face and kissed her
harder, licking at her bottom lip like it was something tasty. Monica
swallowed hard and kissed him back, curling her arms around his waist
and leaning against him. When he parted her lips and pressed his
tongue past her teeth, she held onto him tighter. Touched her tongue
to his and let the heat burn through her in a harsh spread of fire.

It had been so LONG since anyone but Brad had kissed her, and even
longer since she'd kissed someone in return. It felt good, like taking
that first sip of coffee and not burning your tongue, like sleeping in
on Sundays with the blinds pulled down. It just felt *good*.

When she started shaking, John pulled back and cursed, kissing her
hard on the forehead and pulling her deeper into his arms, holding her
like she was something precious. Monica dug her face into his shoulder
and felt like the coward she'd told herself she wasn't, unable to face
up to reality after waiting so long for it to finally *happen*.

"Shit, I'm sorry Monica," John said, sighing deep in his throat. His
hands stroked over her back and Monica bit her bottom lip. "I didn't
mean... well, I did... but, ah shit."

"It's okay," Monica whispered, releasing him from her arms, stepping
back. She wiped her palms over her red cheeks as if she could cool
them that way. "You were upset. Maybe it WAS stupid to suggest... I just
think we might need..." She took a deep breath. "I think we might need a
little time apart."

John pulled back as if she'd slapped him. Then his eyes narrowed. "I
see how it is. It's not them you're worried about. It's me." He
nodded, repetitively. "Well alright then... I'll just get my bags, and
be out of your aura or whatever you like to call it."

"John!" Dammit, now she felt guiltier than ever. It wasn't like she
was talking about never seeing him again. She froze, watching him walk
around the car, unsure. What WAS she talking about? Talking about a
pile of baggage a mile high, she thought ruefully. Following his quick
strides, she slammed the car door he had opened before he could grab
his stuff. "I didn't MEAN it like that!"

She was sure of that much. She didn't mean anything that could put
that horrible look onto his face.

John grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her against the car,
holding her there. Monica's eyes widened, her body stiffening as he
leaned against her, glaring into her eyes.

"Just what DID you mean? Huh? I kiss you... God Dammit, I KISS you and
you tell me we need some time apart." His fingers tightened on her
shoulders, and Monica fought the urge to struggle away. Lines furrowed
his brow. "You're hell on my ego, Mon."

"I only meant," she began, much more calmly than she felt. "That maybe
we should take an afternoon away from each other. I want to think
about some things. I don't think that's something that should piss you
off."

"You weren't talking about taking a day off," he muttered, jaw
clenched. "You were talking about running just when things were
getting interesting."

Monica didn't dignify that with an answer, tilting her chin haughtily.
But her eyes betrayed her, like they always did.

John nodded, grimacing. "If you don't want me Monica, I'll back off.
It's not like I've been forcing myself on you." He stared down at
their bodies, pressed together as they were. Monica raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, usually," he qualified.

"I know that."

"Then what's going on?" John demanded, not letting up. "You're going
hot and cold all of a sudden. I can't figure out what's changed."

"Everything!" Monica shouted, past endurance. She shoved him back a
few steps, causing him to nearly fall on his ass, but he caught
himself. "Nothing! Dammit John, what's changed for YOU? I never
thought..." Monica shut her mouth, frustrated by the lack of words to
explain. There was no way to tell him that she'd never expected him to
want her in return and actually do something about it, even as slow as
he was going about it.

"I'm no good with words," John said roughly, touching her chin. Monica
didn't pull back, *couldn't*. His face was open, hypnotizing. "You
know that. But I... If you want me, you gotta know I've been wanting you
too. I'm just not very good at showing it."

"You've shown it fine," Monica replied nervously, reaching up to tuck
a slash of hair behind her ear. John caught her wrist before she
could, holding it while he gently pushed the hair away from her face.

He kissed her again, more sure this time, with fervor. When he pulled
away, they were both gasping and Monica reached for him once more,
missing his lips when he turned his face away. Kissed his cheek.

"You gotta make a choice, Mon," he panted into her ear, holding her in
place so that she couldn't wriggle free and try to get to his mouth.
"I can't do this halfway. I've been wanting you too long to kiss you
and forget about it."

Choices. Monica looked down the road where they'd come from. Heat
littered the horizon, cloaked around them like a mosquito net. Why did
she have to make a choice NOW, when things were so confused?

"There's a motel about an hour back," she whispered, setting her chin
on his shoulder. "Maybe we can try to work this out of our system so
we don't get ourselves killed?"

"I won't just want it one time," John warned, still not looking at
her. "Monica, not half way."

"I know. But I want you and I want my time to think about it, too. Why
can't I have them both?"

His cheek was hot against hers, the stubble scratching her as he
pulled back far enough to press his forehead against her shoulder.

"Let's go," he muttered into the damp cloth of her shirt. "But you
better hurry with your thinking. I've done enough thinking for both of
us over the years and I'm damn sick of it."

* * * *

Monica unlocked the door, stepping into the muggy motel room with John
just behind her. The curtains were thick, covering the windows as if
they'd never been opened. Her heart slowed when she glimpsed the bed,
splashed by sunlight from the open door. She jumped when he shut it,
leaving the room in sweat-weighted shadows.

John moved behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling
her back against him. Fitting their bodies together.

She sighed and tilted her head at an angle when he brushed her hair
away from her neck, baring her throat to him. John placed a soft kiss
on the nape, lingering there and breathing on her skin. Monica
shivered, a drop of sweat rolling down her back beneath the cotton
t-shirt. She stared at the wall while he palmed her shoulders,
massaging the tension away. Whispered in her ear that her skin was
*so* soft. Then he turned her around, dragging his lips along the
surface of her bare collarbone.

Knees really trembled, she realized. It had never happened to her
before. No one had ever meant enough to her, besides Brad, and she
didn't allow herself to think of him very often. She should have run
away from him long before she actually did.

"You sure, Mon?" John asked, lifting his head. His eyes were gleaming,
glossed over with arousal, his face flushed. Her breathing picked up.

"I'm sure I've wanted you for a long time," was her reply. Monica
hoped he took it at face value, because it was all she could offer
when she wasn't even sure about tomorrow.

Another kiss, lips sticking together as she slipped her fingers
beneath John's shirt and felt the muscles in his belly contract at her
touch. His tongue was hot in her mouth, their breaths slapping at each
other when she pushed his shirt further up, flattening her hand
against his skin.

They stopped kissing each other long enough for him to tear the shirt
off over his head, and grab her again, pushing her toward the bed. It
hit the back of her knees and they both fell, his weight stealing her
breath, his lips sealing onto hers like a pact. Monica moaned at the
feel of him on top of her, splaying her palms along his bare back,
distracted by the thought: 'I'm going to make love with John. I'm
going to screw John. I'm going to *fuck* John.'

He shoved her t-shirt up her torso, and Monica raised her arms,
letting him pull it from her body and toss it over his shoulder. His
smile was a delighted glow in the dark, and he pushed toward her, an
animal peering from the loneliness of his den. Monica hissed when he
took her nipple into his mouth through the white lace of her bra,
nipping like she was a new toy he'd been waiting to play with for far
too long.

She *liked* this kind of heat. Her brain turned to mush when he pushed
the cups of her bra down and licked around the areola of her right
breast, sucking the nipple teasingly between his lips and turning his
eyes up to her. Her stomach clenched in reaction.

Monica was suddenly glad--joyously glad--that John wasn't a man of
many words.

Her back arched sharply when he slid his hand down to rub her sex
through the shorts, cupping her firmly and squeezing. A severed moan
snapped from her throat and into his mouth when he moved up, taking
her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging until she kissed him
furiously in return. Monica hugged his neck as she rode the pressure
he placed on her crotch.

The ceiling was a neutral place to look, and her eyes fell on it when
her head tipped back against the pillow. John began pulling the shorts
down over her hips, jerking them open and over her thighs. She kicked
them down the rest of the way, shoving them to the end of the bed with
her toes. Nearly naked now, because she hadn't had time to grab any
underwear.

"Damn, you're hot." Growled. His eyes burning everywhere. And maybe
they weren't the prettiest words she'd ever heard, but she'd never
cared for sugary speeches that said nothing. She could SEE how much he
wanted her. Monica's toes curled up, mouth falling open. She felt
John's attention on her, focused on her pleasure like a wolf on its
prey.

Didn't he look a little *too* pleased with himself?

She wanted to give it back as good as she was getting it. He was
smirking a little too hard, eyes glittering. Pulled in by the way his
mouth parted, teeth glinting at her, Monica smiled slyly. Staring him
square in the eyes, she unsnapped his jeans and brought the zipper
down. He gave a grunt when she cupped his erection through his
boxer-briefs, and set his forehead against hers, breathing hard.

"Christ, you're gonna kill me," he muttered as she stroked him, moving
to straddle her hips and pull her hand away from his cock. His fingers
were trembling, little shocks that traveled from him and into her.
"You'd like that, wouldn't ya?"

"Not hardly," she whispered, and grabbed the back of his neck to pull
him down for a long kiss. Teeth clashed as he went without struggle,
gladly swallowing her gasps as he parted her thighs and slid his legs
between them. Her fingers followed the trail of his spine down his
back, grasped his ass over his pants, pausing there to tease. He
chuckled and squirmed away from her touch, his hair tickling her chin
as he ducked into her neck. Monica tucked eager fingers into the loops
of his jeans and pulled them away from his hips.

He seemed fascinated by the taste of her skin, slipping his palms
around her breasts, distracted by her breathing, so she took advantage
of the moment to drag his underwear off as well.

John gasped, pulling back. "Whoa," he said. "Slow down. We don't have
to rush this. We got a nice sturdy bed, and as far as I'm concerned,
this is gonna take me a nice... long... time."

He grinned at her again, that smug bastard. Grinned like he had her
trapped and she wasn't going to be going anywhere until he said so.
Monica swore at him, something in Spanish that he couldn't understand,
wondering why he thought they had so much time, when they were wanted
dead.

"Slow," he said again, pressing his lips onto her chin lightly. His
stubble scraped her neck. "Like this." Maintaining eye contact, he
laved his tongue down the column of her throat, licking the dip
between her breasts. Monica gave a shuddery sigh, chopping it off at
the end when he unlatched her bra. She sat up a little, letting it
slide down her arms, dropping it to the floor beside the bed.

When she turned back toward him, John stopped her with a hand on her
shoulder. She nodded warily, even though she trusted him more than
she'd trusted anyone her entire life. Being empathetic didn't lead to
illusions about humanity, so he was a refreshing man to know. What you
saw was what you got. Mostly.

Wrapping an arm around her stomach, he pressed against her back.
Monica closed her eyes, grinding her teeth together, trying to stay
still as the length of his cock rubbed against the curve of her waist
and his index finger slid between the folds of her sex. She bit her
lip, a cry gurgling in her throat as he moved her legs further apart,
urging her to sit on his thighs, trapping his penis between his
stomach and her ass.

John's fingers plied her, lips attached to her shoulder blade, and
Monica found her head falling back on her neck, a groan bursting
through her clenched teeth. His thumb pressed convulsively on her
clit, making her hips jerk in twitchy circles against his erection.
John's teeth came out, nipping at her skin, his grip on her becoming
tighter as their passion rose.

"I can't believe," she started to say, but John placed his free hand
over her mouth, like he didn't want to hear a THING about disbelief.
Funny, coming from him. Monica sucked his thumb into her mouth,
delighting at the way he moaned, long and low, his hips thrusting
convulsively into her backside.

Enough, she thought with a cry, when his finger thrust inside of her. 

Grabbing his hand and pulling him forcefully out of her, Monica spun
on his lap, kissing his surprised mouth. She slipped her tongue past
his lips, wrapping determined fingers around his cock and setting
herself down on him with a hard thrust. Monica tossed her head back,
eyes squeezed tight at the pleasant intrusion, and John dropped to his
back on the bed, like a fallen man.

"Y... you..." John shook his head, jaw locked around words that he
couldn't speak. His fingers dug deeply into her ass, hard enough to
hurt. Monica, when she could breathe again, smiled down at his
stupefied expression.

Then she lifted herself off of him, until he was almost completely out
of her, and set her hips back down. John shouted a curse, seizing up
around her, stomach muscles bunching, his shoulders lifting from the
bed. His lips were pulled back into a grimace that made Monica feel
like a queen. She set a steady, fast pace that had her thighs
quivering and sweat dripping down her temples.

In the near black of the room, John's skin gleamed with perspiration,
his pelvis slamming up into hers as the pulse of lust throbbed through
them. Monica reveled in the power, dragging her hands over her own
body, threading her fingers through her hair and baring her teeth.

Let's see who has control, she thought, a vivid need for power
bursting in her chest. Let's see who's calling the shots now. She
couldn't be had... *couldn't*, even this way, even by HIM. Monica Reyes
was NOT about to be anybody's forever. Chances were that there wasn't
going to be a forever anyway.

She heard him grunt beneath her, and abruptly she found herself on her
back with her wrists trapped against the bed and him pushing himself
back between her thighs, thrusting sharply into her. Monica cried out,
arching against the bed in fury and desire.

Nobody's anything, she told herself. Nobody's something. She'd been
alone so LONG. How could she be someone's anything?

Half afraid, half wanting it, Monica dragged hazy eyes open and found
his face over her, drawn into a deep scowl of passion, red like a
bloody flag waving in the wind. Sweat fell from his nose onto her
chin.

"Not half way," John muttered, and then maneuvered both her wrists
beneath one of his hands, grabbing her thigh with the other and
raising it toward her shoulder. Monica gasped, unable to breathe as he
thrust inside her again. A slow, torturous drag of his hardened flesh.
Over and over while she writhed under him, intoxicated by the heat
wrapped around them, fighting its way up inside her until her limbs
turned to steel and her insides melted into jelly and she SHOOK.

"You wanted me," he whispered in her ear as he continued to plow into
her, voice jagged compared to his rigid control. Lines creased his
forehead. "Now you got me, Mon. This is what you've wanted, right?
What're you gonna do now? Back way from it? No, nuh-uh. Sorry
sweetheart," he gasped, and his lips curled back. "Too late for that."

He'd always been a prick, she thought, and came again. John muttered
something that wasn't really a word while he fucked her into the
mattress, finally letting go of her wrists so she could dig her nails
into his back and he could tuck his arms beneath her body, bucking
into her with abandon.

Hungry for his pleasure, Monica sucked John's earlobe between her
lips, tonguing the tip. He stilled against her, every muscle tensing.
Then he groaned once, and came hard, shuddering on top of her.

* * *

"Shit!"

They had both been staring at the ceiling, faces masked in shock like
they'd been hit by an angry hurricane, when John suddenly swore again.
Monica grimaced and stayed very still as he rolled onto his stomach,
bringing his face over hers.

"What?" she asked, acutely aware of how naked she was and that the
sweat wasn't even cooling on her body because it was so damned hot.

"We didn't protect ourselves," John said, looking worried. Monica felt
her face go white, a brief panic spurting through her, making her
heart thump in terror before her mind cleared, and she remembered.

"I'm protected John," she told him. He looked so relieved that Monica
was nearly offended. She rolled away from him and sat at the side of
the bed, looking for her clothes in the relative darkness. "We
women-folk have a little something called the pill."

John shifted behind her and kissed the back of her neck, causing a
shiver of memory to drive a crack right down her center. "Don't
stiffen up on me now."

"I'm not," Monica replied defensively, grabbing her bra from the
floor. But all she could think was that they'd just screwed the whole
dynamic of their relationship up, and she was an *expert* at screwing
up relationships. "We should get going. We've been here too long."

"This how it's gonna be?" John demanded, taking the bra from her,
balling it up in his closed fist. Monica sighed and turned to him. His
face was still a little red, probably from anger.

"How do you want it to be?" 

John shook his head, and moved to sit at the edge of the mattress,
staring down at the lingerie in his hands. Sighed. "I don't know, I
guess. I just don't want you acting like this again. Scares me, ya
know?"

She did know. It scared her too. The fact that just when John seemed
to be coming around, she wanted nothing more than to get AWAY.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm not... I can't..." Monica scowled, feeling naked in
more ways than one. She stared at the tense line of his shoulders, at
the strong curve of his spine. John Doggett had been the center of her
universe for years. The frightening part was that she felt more for
him now than she had then.

Maybe... just maybe, she'd only fallen in love with him today. Maybe
she'd been fooling herself all along that it would be EASY to love
him. She felt sick deep inside, in a way that only happens when you
figure out you've been lying to yourself.

"I know," John replied, and then handed her the bra back. Their
fingers touched, eyes catching, holding. Something hard moved into his
gaze. "One way or the other, we stick together. Whether you want to be
with me like this or not."

Monica sighed. "You got it."

It... and her, even if she couldn't be somebody's something.
 
* * *

They left the room quietly, without a word between each other. Leaving
the door unlocked behind them, they turned away from the black hole of
heat. John smiled tensely and cupped her bare elbow as they walked on
the cracked sidewalk, toward the parking lot. Twig-like yellowed grass
stuck up as if it was cowlick on the earth, drawing Monica's eyes and
sympathy. John held onto her gently like he didn't want to scare her
off, but that made her edgier than if he would have just grabbed her.

She walked carefully, knees still rubbery from being tucked up near
John's shoulders as he pounded inside of her. The awareness of that
was between them, a new connection born that she couldn't shake off.

Did she want to?

Don't think about it, Monica told herself. He was going to give her
all the time she needed. That was just what who he was. And that was
why she hated herself so much for being unsure.

They'd done it. The big IT.

Years of *not* doing it, and suddenly they had. Monica felt a little
lightheaded still, but didn't stumble, striding forward. Didn't want
him to see her fall.

The car gleamed in the sun, alone in the parking lot, with the blur of
light blinking from its skin. Monica paused and John turned toward
her, concerned. She shook her head.

He wanted to be with her.

John kissed her briefly, a dry peck on the lips before walking around
the car and getting into the driver's side. She touched her mouth,
wondering at this change between them. Wondering how to act and the
right things to say. Oh, he'd give her time, but his patience wouldn't
be easy. It would be hard earned and shaky.

And they'd both have to deal with her decision.

Monica slipped into the passenger's side, slamming the door after her,
and buckling her seat belt as John started up the car. He put his arm
over her seat to look behind him, driving in reverse to get out of
their parking space. She watched his hands as he cranked the wheel to
the right, angling the car toward the exit.

He was silent, thoughtful. Monica's chest grew tight in the heaviness
of quiet, but when she reached to turn on the radio, John stopped her
with a single finger on her wrist. She looked up at him in surprise,
only to find him shaking his head, a half-smile playing on his mouth.

It was sadder than anything, and she felt immediately contrite,
pulling her hand back. So he didn't need the radio anymore. Okay then,
she could deal with that.
Hopefully. 

Monica shifted in the seat, easing herself into a more comfortable
position. They hadn't figured out exactly where they'd go, but she
imagined it would be somewhere just as hot, with crumbling buildings
and slick-sheeted beds.

In the side-view mirror, through the words 'Objects may be closer than
they appear' she caught a glimpse of the motel sign swinging
reluctantly on its rusty chains. Monica frowned in bemusement. It
wasn't windy. The air was so dead it was difficult to breathe in.

John placed his palm very lightly on her thigh, where the skin was
bare and a little tired from the strain they'd both put on it. She
glanced down at his large palm, stunned by the gentle,
without-pressure way he had set it there, even as he made his
intentions clear with a strangely open look in her direction. Her
heart gave a throbbing beat, thickly rolling over. And then she forced
her eyes back onto the side-view mirror. Watching the sign get further
away.

Maybe the sun was pushing against it, moving it from the place it had
always sat at rest, disturbing the status quo. Monica placed her hand
over John's, palming his knuckles, and turning her gaze to the road
ahead.

She'd bet, double or nothing, that it was going to be a bumpy ride.

The End 1/1