"She'll be alright." Monica says, breaking the thick silence that has set between them ever since they dropped them off. They'd entered the hideout they'd found and begun setting up their equipment, busy with their task, avoiding the worry that oozed out of John.
"I know," he responds, playing it cool, but it's a lie and she can see right through him. "Okay, fine, but you can't blame me for worrying."
She stops setting up the tripod for their rifle by the window and takes a deep breath.
"I -"
"Don't. I'm not blaming you." John walks up to her, cutting her off, but still keeping some distance between them. "I don't regret staying. I don't want you to feel like I could choose her or anyone over you. It's just…" His words fail him, they always have. John Doggett is a man of action. He proves what he means; by staying, by running, by grounding her with touches that leave her feeling that she could die in that very moment and be completely alright with it.
"Look - I'm not blind." Monica bridges the gap between them, carefully taking his hand and kissing the rough and scarred knuckles of his right hand. They're strong, beautiful hands, covered with freckles that she's counted many times, and soft blonde hairs that frame his hands delicately yet quite manly. "I know that rehashing everything in the last few hours for the sake of sharing our story opened old wounds that you never want to talk about. I know you like to tough it out, and forget distant realities like Barbara and Luke… what our own child would have been like…"
John can't stand to look her in the eye, and she knows it's not because he's ashamed, but because the hurt within him is ten times greater if he sees that pain reflected in her own eyes. And it would be so easy for him to see it now, when tears have welled up and threaten to fall, leave their leave wet trails down her cheeks. Like they have so many times before. Many tears have been shed about these memories.
"I see the way you see Ally, with that mix of big brother love and fatherly protectiveness…" He nods at her words, allowing himself the recognition, as he leans against the wall behind him. "And funnily enough, had I not convinced you not to go with her, with them, I would have still understood… why you'd do it."
John meets her eyes this time, searching out the recognition in her, drinking in the understanding and sincerity straight from the tap, and she relishes in the glimmering blue depths staring back as the light filtering from the windows play with his captivating irises. She kisses his eyes, and he breathes her in, feeding from the skin of her neck like a lifeline; she knows that her smell drives him insane.
"I feel selfish, saying no," Monica continues as he pulls her even closer. "I adore you for living up to your promise to never leave me behind if I wasn't all in with the plans, but what I want you to understand too is that you don't have to be the only one that puts their life on the line…"
She lifts his chin to meet her eyes once again.
"Share the load. It might sound mechanical and even detached, but right now, we only have a few of us left… if the worst happens…" Her words get caught in her emotions, that she's worked so hard to keep in check, only to fail miserably.
"We'd still have some bullets left," John says, completing her thoughts and confirming her meaning.
"I know this is our fight too, but still, I'd like to stretch out this lease on life we've been given if we can." She smiles, seductively, because if this is the last opportunity to live a few moments more, to share a few adventures, or a few thrilling minutes more to light their skin alive, she's going to make it count. She won't allow it to be a melancholy thing, no, she plans to infuse him with her love, and with hope for the future. "That's what we're working for, John."
He cradles her head, angling her lips to his, caressing softly, their kiss growing hungrier by the second, deeper as he nudges the seam of her skin with the wet and hot whisper of his tongue. It's all consuming, their breaths mingling and fusing in a dance that's well known but never a dull one. It could never be between them.
"I know, I know..." he repeats as a mantra, and twists her around, pushing her body up the wall as she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him to her, their kisses smoldering and fierce. His hands roam her thighs as he pushes against her, forcefully, almost with an angry streak to him. She welcomes it. Because she's just as desperate, needing to feel the power behind his soul, behind his life force.
He pinches her nipples, rough, and she bites him back, almost drawing blood. His moans make her dizzy and even more aroused, all of her blood driving fast to her center, as she feels the heat of them fuse through their clothes.
She knows this is not the moment, he knows this is not right, but what if there's not a next time?
His fingers tug on her waist band, and she gives thanks for a second that the pants fit loosely as he pulls them down just enough to expose her, pushing her underwear to the side. It's all so fast as he frees his pants as well, taking himself in hand and entering her. He's hard and needy, buried to the hilt, as he lets the shiver that courses through their bodies fire them up as if wrapped in a live wire.
The whimper that mewls out of her dies in his throat as the kisses continue, unquenchable, consuming them like molten lava cursing through their veins. John pumps in and out of her, gliding faster and faster as she becomes even more aroused; his thumbs find her center, and its almost too much. Too much for her instincts, too much for the emotional charge behind this coupling, too much for her overloaded senses that crackle with the mix of stimulation, her desperation, his, the fiery tendrils of desire licking her insides, building up and filling her system with the perfect orgasmic cocktail.
His nostrils flare with the effort, beads of perspiration adorning his forehead as it mingles with the dew that forms on her own. The exertion of their lungs is a rhythmic sound that sets her on a trancelike state as they soar, letting their bodies express all of the meaning that seems to escape in the absence of words. Her heel digs on his lower back and he picks up the pace even more, hitting all the spots he knows so well by now, the sensation only heightened by the roughness of the wall behind her.
She isn't aware of the tears that fall freely from her eyes until John carefully begins drinking from them, washing her clean of her suffering, letting his lips brand her with the words he won't pronounce. She clings to him, increasing the friction, clenching around him, the air is thick around them, scarce, and suddenly everything spins, intensely, her vision reduced with the shards of pleasure that shoot from her. He follows, with a couple of pumps and a muffled scream in the crook of her neck, his grip bruising on her hips, grabbing on to dear life as he releases himself in ecstasy.
It is just a few minutes, but even if it were a second, it was a second more of the uniqueness that is only them. They remain together for just one more moment, before John pulls his handkerchief and tries his best to clean the evidence of their encounter, sweet and careful as she watches his actions, and then he lowers her legs, holding her until she can find safe footing.
"I love you," Monica says, as he adjusts back her pants, and she does the same to him, careful, lovingly.
"I do too, my love." He kisses her one more time as she nods, holding back tears; she needs to get a hold of her emotions fast. He hugs her again, nuzzling her hairline, breathing her in, calming down, and then her phone goes off.
"Scully is here," she announces with a huff, recognizing the ringtone. He untangles himself from her arms, delivering one last peck to her lips, and wiping the trace of tears from her face. He returns to set up the rifle as Monica does her best to go back to her task, leaving no evidence of what just transpired.
The door of the abandoned apartment opens, and Scully and William walk in, getting rid of their gloves and shaking off the snow collected on their coats.
"Any word?" John asks, nonchalant, and Scully nods, letting out a heavy sigh.
"They met, they've agreed on our plan… I just..." She pinches the bridge of her nose, and William grabs her hand, reassuring, calling her attention, and she smiles at him, not wanting to upset him.
"Honey, why don't you grab this and have a snack while we set up?" She suggests, handing him a bag of chips and a gatorade. The boy is not particularly thrilled about the idea, but he obeys. He will know everything either way, Monica considers, but the traditional sense that they can guard him from this situation still stands. It's a fake reassurance.
"You're worried," Monica states, walking towards her, and Scully nods, briefly.
"I just don't believe that Diana buys any of Mulder's story," she confesses. "I know her, or at least what she used to be. She knows him well too, she knows what he stands for and what he would do to get his way."
John finishes setting up and joins William, distracting the boy from their conversation.
"I don't know, Scully." Monica provides, taking a seat on top of one of the heavy-duty cases. "We've changed with time, she may even be as insecure as us… being a supersoldier might not make you an insensitive being. We don't really know the scope of their… transformations. Maybe we've just had bad luck. All the supersoldiers we've run into weren't nice as humans, so why would they be any different in their …afterlife?"
Scully considers this, worrying the tip of her boot on an uneven wooden board.
"Billy Miles wasn't what he ultimately became…" she notes. The man had chased them through Washington and many states until he had found them in Georgia. The memories of that horrific night still haunt her; stranded in the middle of nowhere, fearing that William's debut in this world would also be the last breath he'd get to take. "We've yet to be proven that there's any type other than cruel assassin."
Maybe she's being too naive... again. All of these people had lives before, relationships and families and stories that tied their existences in a bow.
Even Diana Fowley… the woman's reputation doesn't lack for threatening details.
"But then it is... her." Monica remarks.
"But then it's her." Scully recognizes, giving in and swallowing thickly. "I shouldn't feel like this, I shouldn't toss this in the bag. I know that I'm dwelling on things that are inconsequential and I should be looking past those memories."
Her voice is just above a whisper, the confession hurtful even to herself. During the last few years, Scully has found in Monica a sounding board that filled the gap once left by her sister, left by the inability to have a closer relationship with her mother; the possibility to have a moment of sisterhood and an escape valve. Monica doesn't judge, she guides, in her funny ways, in her wise ways; the woman has also transformed in front of her, maturing and evolving in their relationship.
"When she was alive - their connection was unnerving to me, because he always caved, he always believed in her…" Scully takes a seat right next to her, combing her fingers through her hair. "Monica, it goes past jealousy… I fear that letting them know that we're here, that we have him, we've given them tools, an edge…"
"Have we really? Or is it that you feel that's the case because it was Mulder that confided in her?" Monica probes, perhaps hitting the nail on the head. "He's changed too. I'm sure that distance has put many things in perspective for him, and you're right, we've yet to know any supersoldier that hasn't turned out to be a crazy assassin. I doubt that Mulder is prone to try to prove us wrong."
"Have you met the man? That's his favorite sport." Scully scoffs, shaking her head in amusement while Monica rolls her eyes. The man is a magnet to these kind of situations.
Before them, John and William engage in a friendly arm wrestling game. The two women sit in silence, enjoying the moment and allowing themselves the levity, if even for a second. It will be over soon.
"Don't get too rowdy, boys," Monica warns, and Scully smirks, looking at her cohort and noticing the tell tale piece of plaster on her jersey, reaching to pick it off of her shoulder and dusting off some of her hair. Monica blushes red as a beet, and brushes the rest of the white dust off her dark clothes, eyeing Scully, who shakes her head knowingly.
"You know… life affirming and all that," she justifies, somewhat bashful, flashes of her previous thirst with John dancing in front of her eyes. Monica has never been too demure about their private matters, but there's always that stray moment of decorum that hits her, mostly because Scully has never been as open about it as she is.
Scully sighs, amused.
"No need to excuse it, the more life we can get, the better."
A/N: I have an immense love for the characters of Doggett and Reyes. I feel that in the show they weren't given the chance to be as great as they could have been, and sadly we didn't get to see the scope of what their own fates could bring in terms of storytelling. So, yes, I'm enamoured with the fact that I get to play with them. Also with the opportunity to have Scully come to terms to the Diana Fowley of it all.
Thanks so much for all the kind words about last chapter, indeed enjoyed them, especially since they're both original characters and I appreciate that you've hopped in.
KyinHI, I love you forever.