Dana sat in the dining room, sipping her coffee, waiting for Mulder to join her. It had been several days, but she still couldn't quite believe that she'd kissed him. That day in the stables, he was irresistible: sweaty and barely dressed, his strong bare arms working clumsily at woodwork. Then he'd lifted his shirt to wipe his face and she knew then that she couldn't let herself leave without tasting him first, pressing her hands against his skin. At the thought, a heavy pulse throbbed between her thighs. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, took a sip of her coffee to hide what must be a foolish smile and red cheeks.
When he'd joined her for dinner later that evening, it wasn't strange or different, as she'd feared it would be. He'd told her one of his crazy stories while she argued about it's plausibility. He teased and joked, but eyed her with affection as she went over a new medical procedure she'd read about.
After dinner, well... she sat in his lap and they'd kissed once more, leisurely and softly, continuing their discussions between caresses and laughter. His hands slid over her dress, his touch whetting her senses to a fine edge, despite layers of satin and lace. The whorls of his fingertips, each taste bud on his tongue, the softness of his lips against her neck. As things heated up, Mulder pulled away, deftly slipping out from underneath her. He retrieved his hat from where he'd playfully placed it on her head and gave her a gentlemanly peck on the cheek before saying goodnight.
But he came back the following evening, and they continued with this new routine, although it became more difficult each time to allow him to leave her at the end of the night.
The front door to the hall blew open, and Mulder rushed in, shooting her an apologetic smile before knocking on Madam's door. He wore his usual ensemble, except due to the heatwave, his sleeves were rolled up and his shirt was unbuttoned, allowing her to admire the strong muscles of his arms, and the hint of hair peeking out from the neck of his undershirt. She fanned herself, staring blatantly at him and hoping he'd notice.
It was frustrating and amusing that he was so unaware of how physically attractive he was. She learned quickly that she couldn't give him any ladylike hints and hope he'd realize what she wanted; instead, she had to smack him over the head with a proverbial hammer. Like whispering in his ear she wanted him to shave before dinner, so he could kiss her neck without leaving a mark. Luckily, he was good at remembering such things once she'd told him, and every evening since he'd arrived with a clean-shaven face.
"I'll just be a minute, Dana, gonna wash up. Madam says she wants to see you though," Mulder said, approaching her table. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he wished he could lean down and kiss her cheek. She wished he would, onlookers be damned.
As he disappeared into the washing room in the back, she watched, his pants cradling his figure in a way that sent a thrill up her spine. Sighing, hoping her state of mind was hidden from everyone else, she approached Madam's door.
"It's open," the other woman said, after Dana knocked.
Madam was sitting at her desk, the smoke from her pipe creating a haze that gave the room a dreamy, soft quality. Her quarters were lit brightly, oil lamps illuminating the papers spread out over the desk's surface. Stacks of books, and sheafs of paper lined the shelves. A rifle was mounted on the wall behind her, an heirloom from Madam's father before he'd passed. They'd bonded early on over their shared loss, a close relationship that transcended the usual expectations that fathers had for their daughters. In each case, the girl growing into a woman who knew her father was proud of her, even though society shunned them.
"You wanted to see me, Madam Hall?"
"I told you to call me Monica."
Dana simply nodded, and sat on the high-backed chair in front of her desk, hands in her lap. She admired the owner of the Gilded Hall, though at first she hadn't known what to make of the woman who ran an establishment that sold the bodies of young women to desperate men.
"A little birdy told me that you and Fox have become close," Monica began, placing her pipe on its stand and steepling her hands on the desk in front of her. Her dark brown eyes watched Dana carefully.
She shifted in her seat. "He's a good friend. Someone with whom I may speak freely."
"You seem to be sharing more than words of late."
Dana's face warmed. She should have known that despite how careful she and Mulder had been to be discreet, she would find out eventually; the Madam seemed to always have news of everything important. Despite how scandalous she knew her relationship with Mulder would be seen by others, she found herself not caring if the whole town knew of it. He made her happy, for the first time in a long while. And anyway, how could someone hiding away from the world have any sort of reputation to protect?
"I don't see how any of that should be of your concern."
"How well do you know him, Dana?"
"Well enough," she said, her voice tight and controlled. The ache of her desire, placed in the back of her mind, faded into a simmering anger.
"Did you know you are not the first woman in this town to catch his attention? Mulder may not show interest in the girls here, you know why that is. But a man like that could have any woman he wanted, he wouldn't have to pay." Madam tapped her pipe into a tray, then started to clean the bowl. Her eyes kept darting over to Dana, though, gauging her reaction.
"I think, Monica, that you step where you are not welcome, into unknown territory," she said, a flush rising up her chest to settle on her cheeks, her fury building at the implications of her words. "You assume many things, among them, that I cannot make my own decisions regarding such matters."
Monica set her pipe down once more, and leaned forward. Her eyes were sympathetic, which only aggravated her further.
"I am only looking out for you, Dana."
"You pretend to know me, but you regard me as someone else I think. I am not Edith!" Dana's anger boiled over. She knew Monica looked at her, sometimes, seeing someone else. The loaned dresses, the conversations they had, the distant look in her eyes. The other woman was unwilling to see her, as she clutched onto her past.
Monica was silent, her emotions flashing in her eyes at the outburst. Still, she deliberated carefully over her words before speaking.
"Of course you aren't," Monica said, sadness softening her usually stony face. Guilt at her outburst quenched the fire that had built inside her chest. When she'd arrived at the Gilded Hall, she'd had nearly nothing. Only a few dollars to her name, and her fierce pride. Monica took her in, looked her over, questioned her. Saw something else besides the bravado and singular torn dress. She'd given her Edith's things, let her recover, and didn't even mention the possibility of servicing the men. Relief flooded her when she'd told her she'd be teaching the girls and helping with their needs in between visits by the physician. She owed her everything, but she could not pretend to be someone else.
"I'm sorry, Monica," Dana said.
"It's all right, Dana. I know you can take care of yourself. I forget sometimes," she paused. Running her hand along her mouth, contemplating the woman in front of her, she continued. "My last name isn't Hall, you know."
She nodded, and forced herself to relax, to listen instead of react.
"It was Edith's last name. I took it when we moved here." Monica's hand reached out to the only portrait she kept on her desk, her fingers tracing the woman's face.
"How did she die?" Dana asked.
"Influenza," Monica said. She looked at Dana sharply. "You are nothing like her. I think I thought if you wore her dresses, if you stayed here and kept me company, you would change into her." She laughed. "Now I'm sounding like your fellow, Fox."
"What was she like?"
"She was soft, sweet, let me decide most things. She never had a bad word to say about anybody, unless they hurt a woman, then nothing could stop the fire coming from her mouth. It was all about profits for me, before Edith. I never would have done all that I do, if it hadn't been for her." Monica looked past her, seeing the ghost of her lover in the corner of her room. "I don't think he's a good choice for you, Dana. But he'd be crazy not to love you."
Dana rose from the couch. She understood where Monica's concern originated, but she could feel her stubborn anger rising within her and she needed to leave before she said something she regretted. Ever since she was little, when her mother tried to get her to show more interest in dolls and dresses instead of books and her father's guns, she resented when people tried to force her path. But more than that, she hated when people misunderstood Mulder, didn't see past the arrogant, jovial face he presented to the world, to the hurting, sensitive man underneath. How he ached to do the right thing, anguished over his decisions.
"I'll leave you, Monica, if that's all?"
Monica nodded, and relit her pipe. The smoke puffed between them, masking the woman's face from her as she left the room.
Dana shut the door quietly behind her. Mulder was sitting at her table, a smile spread across his face as he joked with Melvin. He really was handsome. The way his dark hair flopped over his forehead, strong forearms leaning on the table in front of him. When he saw her there, his eyes caught hers and her heart skipped a beat. The way he focused on her, made her feel like she was the only woman in the room - surely, this was something special to him, just as it was to her.
She smiled back and joined him at the table. All of her experiences with him told her the truth of his intentions. Still, Monica's words needled at her from the place in her mind that they settled. Mulder could have anyone he wanted. Edith had been soft and sweet, and Dana was nothing like her. Deep down, Dana knew she was different, hollow, broken. With Mulder, she thought the empty places within her had been filling, turning her back into the woman she once was. Even if she could be fixed, would she be the woman he truly wanted?
Mulder's hand on hers stilled her mind. "I'm sorry I was late."
Looking back at him, she saw the evidence of his affection for her written on his face. He made her feel as though she deserved to feel again, to experience life fully, and she would not abandon it because of unsubstantiated rumor and guesswork. He was worth it, and she was beginning to believe that she was, too.