Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine.
* * *
Dana will not think about anything when she finally gives in.
She will not think about her other, once-binding contracts of love and association when she is being kissed on the neck.
She will not think about the other who was more than a partner and less than a lover when she is being held down (not) against her will.
She will not think about the years she spent waiting for that and the days she has spent (not really) wanting this when fingertips press into her shoulder, one two three, a signal even she cannot deny.
She knows she will not think of Monica when she goes back to him.
* * *
Monica does not want to be the other woman.
She cannot stand to think of the places he's touched her and how many times he's explored the places she has not yet discovered.
She has waited long enough and for the first time today since her return (alone) Dana holds her stare. A challenge? An acquiescence. An understanding?
She wants to ask Dana where he's gone now, why he's left her to crawl home once more; she holds her tongue because it's not yet time to give the game away.
When the moment arrives, she will not think of the shorthand they must have developed for all of this.
How does he tell her what he wants? How does she tell him what to do?
She closes her eyes. There are no signals. She will fly blind.
It is what she does best.
* * *
John won't meet her eyes the next morning and she wonders if Dana's marked her in some way.
Does he wish he had been in Dana's place? Or hers?
"I called last night," he says. "You didn't answer." Where were you?
"Yeah," she says. It's none of your business, and you wanted it that way.
She sits down at her desk and he brings her a cup of coffee. She glances up; something's on his mind. For a fleeting, horrific moment she sincerely believes he's going to ask how Dana was. Leaving the "in bed" implicit, like a fortune cookie.
"Here's the freak of the week," he says instead, tossing a file onto her desk.
She tears into it with grateful abandon.
He will not dare broach the subject again.
Today.
* * *
Dana does not sleep.
At least Monica has the courtesy to pretend.
She wants to ask Dana if she regrets this (her) yet. Weeks have passed since the first encounter, which while not disastrous, might best be described as accidental, in retrospect. She's smoothed out her technique since then.
But with the silence hanging over she can deceive herself into believing that when Dana speaks she will not tell her what a mistake she has made. She quiets her mind and waits.
Dana opens her mouth.
Monica laughs as Dana presses her lips into her stomach; Dana looks up and favors her with a smile, a real one.
With the silence hanging over, she can deceive herself into believing Dana's come back for her.
* * *
Monica can't wait a second longer, even if she probably should.
"How did it happen?" she finally asks, six weeks after their first time. Dana's apartment is hollow; she can hear her voice echo through every room before Dana responds.
I came back because I was starting to forget the lines of your face, she does not say.
"I told him what you said in your letter, that you'd returned to work," she says carefully.
"Oh, no." Monica is instinctively sympathetic, apologetic for being to blame.
She shrugs. (She does not cry.) "That just made it easier for him to say what he hadn't wanted to say. He'd gotten used to being on the road alone." She keeps her eyes on Monica. "He liked the idea that I would have something to come back to."
"You really loved him," she says, and it can't be a question, even if it is.
"No," she assures her, offering a mirthless smile. "Yes. But… what we had isn't even something I could explain." She shakes her head. "It was nothing I ever expected."
She looks away.
Monica smiles back.
But Dana's not looking at her.
* * *
Monica surveys the farmland.
The landscape is flat, quiet. The midday sky is dark.
"Monica!" John yells, running toward her from the house, some distance away. The Kansas wind carries his voice in a thousand directions at once. She turns.
The kid's bursting out of the barn, coming at her with a pitchfork, shouting at her in a dead language, blood pouring off his face.
(She burrows her head into your shoulder, twitching in her sleep.)
Monica pictures the baby sleeping in his crib, the toddler paging through picture books, the second-grader with a comb-over haircut and a new sweater from Sears on school picture day.
She reaches for her gun.
(She wakes up before you do. You hear the shower running. You smile with your eyes closed.)
He doesn't even see her. He's not looking at her. She's the government, come to take him away, come to tear apart what she doesn't want to understand.
"They said you would try," he yells. She strains to understand, although she's aware she should be running away. "They said I shouldn't let you. They told me all about you." He looks at her for the first time.
"Please," she says. "Don't let this happen."
He charges. She fires.
(You wake up alone.)
* * *
John sincerely tries to comfort her. She forgives him his failings.
He puts his arms around her awkwardly. Over his shoulder she watches the mother emerge from the house, so far away, as she discovers the scene.
"There was nothing else you could do," he says into her ear.
Of course there was something else I should have done, she wants to snap. Instead she lays her head against his chest and closes her eyes.
Coming closer now, the mother begins to scream.
They separate.
(Just in case.)
* * *
Dana does not ask what happened.
Monica might love her.
* * *
Monica takes a deep breath and for the first time since Kansas, thirteen days ago now, she does not shudder when she exhales.
Enough time has passed now that she stops listening for the phone when Dana invites her over. (Every call might be him, contrite on one end, and her, complying on the other, making Monica the odd man out. Of all the nightmares she has, that might be the one she likes least.)
Dana makes her dinner.
Monica rests on her couch with her head in Dana's lap.
They are no longer co-workers. Neither one is anyone's rival.
She breathes in.
Maybe she's happy now.
(Is Dana?)
She absently strokes Monica's hair while forensic specialists dissect cadavers on cable.
(Yes?)
* * *
Monica closes her eyes. Dana is kissing her and she likes the idea that she doesn't feel obligated.
But if this is love, what happens when Monica doesn't come back?
She's spent all this time waiting for Dana to leave. She thinks she could take it; she'd hate it, but she'd live.
What about Dana?
What happens when she loses Monica, too?
They don't make love that night.
Or the next.
The night after that, Monica sleeps alone.
* * *
John has let this go on much longer than he should have.
"I can't," he groans, three beers past his limit. His hands are placed respectfully in inoffensive places, while she is not so scrupled. She's straddling him on this chair in his kitchen, after the pizza and the videos and the inability to talk about what she can't say to him, long after every bar in town has closed.
She leans over him, letting her hair dangle over his shoulders. Head down, eyes up. "What's wrong?"
"Look, Mon," he sighs, leaning his head back, creating some distance between them. "I love you, but no."
"What's wrong?" she repeats, laughing a little. He's so silly, after all.
"You're in love with her."
The smile dies.
"And I'm not un-entangled myself."
Her eyes widen. This is a much safer subject. "Who?" she demands, ready to tease. "That girl on the fifth--"
He shakes his head, then bounces his knees, indicating that she should get up. She does. "We're not gonna talk about that."
"Oh, I think we are."
"No, we're not," he says firmly, guiding her by the shoulders into the living room. "Let me get you some blankets, a pillow or something. Can't drive home now." He staggers back into the bedroom, then returns with his bedspread--she recognizes it from long ago--and a pillow, as promised. "Be fine," he mutters, tossing them onto the couch.
"How did you know?" she asks.
He freezes.
Is she talking about him? Is he expected to confess?
She wants to laugh again, but she doesn't. "About me," she clarifies, putting him out of his misery.
"Oh, that." He waves his hand. "Obvious." Walks away. She follows.
"I'm serious, John."
He turns around. "Out every night. Secretive. I haven't seen her twice since she got back. And--sometimes you come in wearing her shirt."
She shakes your head. "You really did love her too, didn't you?"
"Sometimes we don't know what we really want," he shrugs. "What I want now is to go to my damn bed. Okay?"
"You can't sleep without your blanket." She brings it back to him, and lies beside him beneath it until morning.
* * *
Dana sounds concerned. Monica tries not to be too thrilled about it.
"Where were you?"
"John and I have a standing engagement," she explains. "Thursday nights. Haven't you noticed?"
She kind of laughs, kind of doesn't.
"Nothing happened." She almost feels guilty. "We're friends."
"Yeah," she says. "I remember."
She puts an arm around Dana as they walk into the restaurant. "He knows," she whispers. Dana looks like she's been shot.
"You told him?"
"He figured it out." Monica holds up her hands in surrender. "Don't ask me how. Really, don't ask."
"And he's okay with it? I thought--" She bites her lip. "Never mind what I thought."
"He's in love with someone who isn't me. Or you, for that matter."
"Good for him." She smiles. She means it.
(Good for us, you do not say.
Because you're not quite there yet.)
* * *
Monica wants to call him up, tell him about the change in plans. She wants to call him up, tell him never to come back again.
She wants to ask her what she'll do when he walks in the door again.
She wants to ask her when she's going to tell her mother.
She doesn't say anything. She treads lightly. Why upset things?
Especially when she already knows the answers: no telling and never.
But maybe it's okay. Maybe she can live with his shadow looming overhead. What could satisfy her?
If Dana says she'll reject him, she's lying.
If Dana says she'll accept him, her heart might break.
If they say he's dead, neither one will ever believe it's true.
So she waits, and she waits, and she waits.
Until one morning, many sleepless nights later, when she wakes up and realizes she's forgotten to expect him.
* * *
Dana's outside their new house, painting over the last owner's worst whim to make the shutters orange.
They never mention his name now. Six months have passed since Dana's return. Monica can't remember his voice.
They never discuss William, either. She finally allowed Monica to pack up his things and donate them to the Salvation Army, when she left that home for this one.
Monica's changed their phone number. (Just in case.)
She left the FBI to write books about voodoo cults and rainmakers. John stayed on, for reasons they never discuss. She still sees him every Thursday.
No one's made an attempt on her life in a long time, not since the kid in Kansas with the pitchfork and the paranoia.
She's safe.
For the first time in forever, she really believes it.
Dana curses up a storm; Monica can hear her through the open window, so she abandons the unpacked boxes and brings her some tea. She offers to take over.
"No," Dana says, staring at the offending shutters, half orange and half white (or pale orange). "I can do a better job than this. I really can."
She looks so determined. Monica tells her to forget the paint.
They go inside.
Monica leaves the front door unlocked.
* * *
Dana will not think about anything when she finally gives in.
She will not think about her other, once-binding contracts of love and association when she is being kissed on the neck.
She will not think about the other who was more than a partner and less than a lover when she is being held down (not) against her will.
She will not think about the years she spent waiting for that and the days she has spent (not really) wanting this when fingertips press into her shoulder, one two three, a signal even she cannot deny.
She knows she will not think of Monica when she goes back to him.
* * *
Monica does not want to be the other woman.
She cannot stand to think of the places he's touched her and how many times he's explored the places she has not yet discovered.
She has waited long enough and for the first time today since her return (alone) Dana holds her stare. A challenge? An acquiescence. An understanding?
She wants to ask Dana where he's gone now, why he's left her to crawl home once more; she holds her tongue because it's not yet time to give the game away.
When the moment arrives, she will not think of the shorthand they must have developed for all of this.
How does he tell her what he wants? How does she tell him what to do?
She closes her eyes. There are no signals. She will fly blind.
It is what she does best.
* * *
John won't meet her eyes the next morning and she wonders if Dana's marked her in some way.
Does he wish he had been in Dana's place? Or hers?
"I called last night," he says. "You didn't answer." Where were you?
"Yeah," she says. It's none of your business, and you wanted it that way.
She sits down at her desk and he brings her a cup of coffee. She glances up; something's on his mind. For a fleeting, horrific moment she sincerely believes he's going to ask how Dana was. Leaving the "in bed" implicit, like a fortune cookie.
"Here's the freak of the week," he says instead, tossing a file onto her desk.
She tears into it with grateful abandon.
He will not dare broach the subject again.
Today.
* * *
Dana does not sleep.
At least Monica has the courtesy to pretend.
She wants to ask Dana if she regrets this (her) yet. Weeks have passed since the first encounter, which while not disastrous, might best be described as accidental, in retrospect. She's smoothed out her technique since then.
But with the silence hanging over she can deceive herself into believing that when Dana speaks she will not tell her what a mistake she has made. She quiets her mind and waits.
Dana opens her mouth.
Monica laughs as Dana presses her lips into her stomach; Dana looks up and favors her with a smile, a real one.
With the silence hanging over, she can deceive herself into believing Dana's come back for her.
* * *
Monica can't wait a second longer, even if she probably should.
"How did it happen?" she finally asks, six weeks after their first time. Dana's apartment is hollow; she can hear her voice echo through every room before Dana responds.
I came back because I was starting to forget the lines of your face, she does not say.
"I told him what you said in your letter, that you'd returned to work," she says carefully.
"Oh, no." Monica is instinctively sympathetic, apologetic for being to blame.
She shrugs. (She does not cry.) "That just made it easier for him to say what he hadn't wanted to say. He'd gotten used to being on the road alone." She keeps her eyes on Monica. "He liked the idea that I would have something to come back to."
"You really loved him," she says, and it can't be a question, even if it is.
"No," she assures her, offering a mirthless smile. "Yes. But… what we had isn't even something I could explain." She shakes her head. "It was nothing I ever expected."
She looks away.
Monica smiles back.
But Dana's not looking at her.
* * *
Monica surveys the farmland.
The landscape is flat, quiet. The midday sky is dark.
"Monica!" John yells, running toward her from the house, some distance away. The Kansas wind carries his voice in a thousand directions at once. She turns.
The kid's bursting out of the barn, coming at her with a pitchfork, shouting at her in a dead language, blood pouring off his face.
(She burrows her head into your shoulder, twitching in her sleep.)
Monica pictures the baby sleeping in his crib, the toddler paging through picture books, the second-grader with a comb-over haircut and a new sweater from Sears on school picture day.
She reaches for her gun.
(She wakes up before you do. You hear the shower running. You smile with your eyes closed.)
He doesn't even see her. He's not looking at her. She's the government, come to take him away, come to tear apart what she doesn't want to understand.
"They said you would try," he yells. She strains to understand, although she's aware she should be running away. "They said I shouldn't let you. They told me all about you." He looks at her for the first time.
"Please," she says. "Don't let this happen."
He charges. She fires.
(You wake up alone.)
* * *
John sincerely tries to comfort her. She forgives him his failings.
He puts his arms around her awkwardly. Over his shoulder she watches the mother emerge from the house, so far away, as she discovers the scene.
"There was nothing else you could do," he says into her ear.
Of course there was something else I should have done, she wants to snap. Instead she lays her head against his chest and closes her eyes.
Coming closer now, the mother begins to scream.
They separate.
(Just in case.)
* * *
Dana does not ask what happened.
Monica might love her.
* * *
Monica takes a deep breath and for the first time since Kansas, thirteen days ago now, she does not shudder when she exhales.
Enough time has passed now that she stops listening for the phone when Dana invites her over. (Every call might be him, contrite on one end, and her, complying on the other, making Monica the odd man out. Of all the nightmares she has, that might be the one she likes least.)
Dana makes her dinner.
Monica rests on her couch with her head in Dana's lap.
They are no longer co-workers. Neither one is anyone's rival.
She breathes in.
Maybe she's happy now.
(Is Dana?)
She absently strokes Monica's hair while forensic specialists dissect cadavers on cable.
(Yes?)
* * *
Monica closes her eyes. Dana is kissing her and she likes the idea that she doesn't feel obligated.
But if this is love, what happens when Monica doesn't come back?
She's spent all this time waiting for Dana to leave. She thinks she could take it; she'd hate it, but she'd live.
What about Dana?
What happens when she loses Monica, too?
They don't make love that night.
Or the next.
The night after that, Monica sleeps alone.
* * *
John has let this go on much longer than he should have.
"I can't," he groans, three beers past his limit. His hands are placed respectfully in inoffensive places, while she is not so scrupled. She's straddling him on this chair in his kitchen, after the pizza and the videos and the inability to talk about what she can't say to him, long after every bar in town has closed.
She leans over him, letting her hair dangle over his shoulders. Head down, eyes up. "What's wrong?"
"Look, Mon," he sighs, leaning his head back, creating some distance between them. "I love you, but no."
"What's wrong?" she repeats, laughing a little. He's so silly, after all.
"You're in love with her."
The smile dies.
"And I'm not un-entangled myself."
Her eyes widen. This is a much safer subject. "Who?" she demands, ready to tease. "That girl on the fifth--"
He shakes his head, then bounces his knees, indicating that she should get up. She does. "We're not gonna talk about that."
"Oh, I think we are."
"No, we're not," he says firmly, guiding her by the shoulders into the living room. "Let me get you some blankets, a pillow or something. Can't drive home now." He staggers back into the bedroom, then returns with his bedspread--she recognizes it from long ago--and a pillow, as promised. "Be fine," he mutters, tossing them onto the couch.
"How did you know?" she asks.
He freezes.
Is she talking about him? Is he expected to confess?
She wants to laugh again, but she doesn't. "About me," she clarifies, putting him out of his misery.
"Oh, that." He waves his hand. "Obvious." Walks away. She follows.
"I'm serious, John."
He turns around. "Out every night. Secretive. I haven't seen her twice since she got back. And--sometimes you come in wearing her shirt."
She shakes your head. "You really did love her too, didn't you?"
"Sometimes we don't know what we really want," he shrugs. "What I want now is to go to my damn bed. Okay?"
"You can't sleep without your blanket." She brings it back to him, and lies beside him beneath it until morning.
* * *
Dana sounds concerned. Monica tries not to be too thrilled about it.
"Where were you?"
"John and I have a standing engagement," she explains. "Thursday nights. Haven't you noticed?"
She kind of laughs, kind of doesn't.
"Nothing happened." She almost feels guilty. "We're friends."
"Yeah," she says. "I remember."
She puts an arm around Dana as they walk into the restaurant. "He knows," she whispers. Dana looks like she's been shot.
"You told him?"
"He figured it out." Monica holds up her hands in surrender. "Don't ask me how. Really, don't ask."
"And he's okay with it? I thought--" She bites her lip. "Never mind what I thought."
"He's in love with someone who isn't me. Or you, for that matter."
"Good for him." She smiles. She means it.
(Good for us, you do not say.
Because you're not quite there yet.)
* * *
Monica wants to call him up, tell him about the change in plans. She wants to call him up, tell him never to come back again.
She wants to ask her what she'll do when he walks in the door again.
She wants to ask her when she's going to tell her mother.
She doesn't say anything. She treads lightly. Why upset things?
Especially when she already knows the answers: no telling and never.
But maybe it's okay. Maybe she can live with his shadow looming overhead. What could satisfy her?
If Dana says she'll reject him, she's lying.
If Dana says she'll accept him, her heart might break.
If they say he's dead, neither one will ever believe it's true.
So she waits, and she waits, and she waits.
Until one morning, many sleepless nights later, when she wakes up and realizes she's forgotten to expect him.
* * *
Dana's outside their new house, painting over the last owner's worst whim to make the shutters orange.
They never mention his name now. Six months have passed since Dana's return. Monica can't remember his voice.
They never discuss William, either. She finally allowed Monica to pack up his things and donate them to the Salvation Army, when she left that home for this one.
Monica's changed their phone number. (Just in case.)
She left the FBI to write books about voodoo cults and rainmakers. John stayed on, for reasons they never discuss. She still sees him every Thursday.
No one's made an attempt on her life in a long time, not since the kid in Kansas with the pitchfork and the paranoia.
She's safe.
For the first time in forever, she really believes it.
Dana curses up a storm; Monica can hear her through the open window, so she abandons the unpacked boxes and brings her some tea. She offers to take over.
"No," Dana says, staring at the offending shutters, half orange and half white (or pale orange). "I can do a better job than this. I really can."
She looks so determined. Monica tells her to forget the paint.
They go inside.
Monica leaves the front door unlocked.