Title: Chain Reaction
Author: Tracy
Rating: PG
Summary: One shot in a revolution, one drop from a poison pen, one fruit too small and bitter, one tree too proud to bend, one man to start the trouble, one kiss to seal your fate, one kid that needs some action, one link in a chain reaction.
Feedback: Um, yeah. I'll take some of that.
Archive: You want it, take it. Just let me know, etc etc etc.
Notes: I was listening to John Farnham's 'Anthology 1', in particular 'Chain Reaction' (chorus above- why, oh why are there no more tickets left to his concert?) which as you can see is in no way DRR, but it got me thinking. What would be the catalyst of Monica and John's relationship? I was just playing around, making silly notes and this is the end result. It's a fluffy bit of release – purely for entertainment value and not to be taken seriously at all. :) Leave all sense of reality at the door. ;) But at last I'm over my writers block, so yay me! Enjoy.
~John~
Ya know, if she hadn't been wearing that maroon shirt that clings to her skin and favours her colouring so perfectly none of this would have happened. I don't normally notice what she wears. As long as she's covered, I'm relatively oblivious. But that shirt… that shirt made me look at the rest of her, made me think things and feel things that I thought I'd successfully buried long ago. Damn stupid name for a colour anyway. Maroon. Okay, so maybe I wouldn't have noticed her shirt if it hadn't been pasted to her body at the time. But it was, and I did, and I'm not making any apologies about it. All of a sudden every wet t-shirt fantasy I'd ever had was embodied in this woman standing dripping before me. She was hot. I mean, I already knew that on some subconscious level, but I'd trained myself not to think of her naked and sweaty about a thousand times an hour. But then she spilled the coffee and all my self-control went flying out the window. Yep, this whole thing is down to that shirt.
~Monica~
If I had been paying attention to where I was walking maybe it wouldn't have happened. But as it was, I was preoccupied with a case file I was reading and careened straight into John. Papers went flying everywhere and I spilled lukewarm coffee all down the front of my new shirt. I was pissed at myself, to say the least. And then I was pissed at John, who instead of helping me pick up the papers, stood there with a stupid expression on his face just looking at me. Maybe I shouldn't have blamed him for walking into me. After all, I was the one who wasn't looking where I was going. And I really shouldn't have demanded that he pay for the dry cleaning. That was just unfair. But in my defence he did seem very eager to do it. Probably felt so guilty after I'd finished with him that he would have brought me a new shirt if that were what I had wanted. Which in turn made *me* feel guilty for being such a bitch and taking advantage of his good nature. So, knowing I was in the wrong and starting to feel a chill I did the only thing I could think of at that time – I went home early.
~John~
If I hadn't been lost in my Monica wet-t shirt fantasy there's no way I would have been suckered into paying for her dry cleaning. After all, she was the one who bumped into me. I was just the innocent party being yelled at. What can I say – my mind was on other things. She could have asked me to run through Kersh's office wearing nothing but my tie and singing That's Why They Call Him The Streak' and I would have agreed. By the time I'd come to my senses she was walking away muttering to herself and I was left standing there like the idiot I was. If she had been wearing any other shirt, if she had been watching where she was going, if I had been thinking with my brain instead of my – well, anyway, if any one of these factors were different I wouldn't have used them as an excuse to go around to her apartment to collect the shirt.
~Monica~
So I'd showered and changed and was just thinking about dinner when John turned up at my front door. He was all apologetic smiles and twinkley eyes and insisted on paying for the damage. Let me tell you, arguing with John once his mind is made up is basically a fruitless endeavour. So as my stomach started rumbling I finally agreed and gave in. If he hadn't been so nice about the whole debacle I wouldn't have asked him out to dinner to make up for my behaviour. But he was, so out we went. And if he hadn't been so relaxed and easy going over dinner I wouldn't have reached back for his hand as we were leaving. And if it hadn't felt so nice and comfortable, and he hadn't squeezed my hand back we wouldn't have walked all the way to my place like that when we had a perfectly good car parked out front of the diner. Of course, having no vehicle to drive home in I had to invite him in to call a cab. But then we started talking, and I opened a bottle of wine and we ended up sitting closely on the couch, and somehow the cab was forgotten.
~John~
Somehow it seemed perfectly natural that she should reach for my hand, that I should squeeze hers in reassurance, that we should walk home together. It was only when we got to her front door that I realised that this wasn't my home, and that I had no mode of transport to get back there. But then she invited me in and all thoughts of leaving were banished by good wine and good company and a dizzying feeling of completeness that was invading my senses. If I hadn't told that semi dirty joke she never would have choked on a mouthful of wine and I wouldn't have had to turn her around to pound on her back. Once my hand was there it seemed to stay there of it's own accord, rubbing slow circles, soothing her until well after the coughing subsided. Here's where it gets tricky. If she hadn't murmured my name in that tone of voice that sends all the blood rushing to your nether regions I wouldn't have cupped her face and kissed her. It's as simple as that. That was entirely her fault. But afterwards she didn't slap me as I deserved, she just smiled that Cheshire smile of hers and pulled me closer and this time she kissed me. Man, did she kiss me. Thoroughly. Completely. Purposely. Forever.
~Monica~
So he kissed me. What's a girl to do? There was no way I was letting him off with just one kiss, so I kissed him back. And then we kissed each other for a while. And then. . . well, then things happened. Naked things. Wonderful, naked, sweaty things. Twice. And then they happened all over again in the morning. All because of spilled coffee and a dry cleaning bill.
~John~
Maroon – it's really not such a dumb name. And now it's my favourite colour.
End