Her eyes fly open wide. "No. That was six."
I shake my head, trying to keep a blank face. "Number six was my favorite thing."
"No. That was five! I counted."
"No, number five was 'And would you sit down already?'" I brush a piece of lint from my skirt.
"No." She puts her head in her hands and shakes it back and forth. "No, no, no, no."
"Question one: is Mulder William's dad? Question two: Am I in love with Mulder? Number three: Have I ever been in love with Mulder? Number four: Why was I with him? Number five: Would I please sit down already? Number six: What's my favorite thing to do? Number seven: Would I let you kiss me?"
She continues shaking her head back and forth, hair covering her face.
"The keys, Monica."
She holds them out without even looking up.
I stand and take them. "Forget the toss-away question, the one you threw away when you asked me to sit down. You asked me six questions and four of them were about Mulder. I'd say that's pretty revealing."
She looks up. Her face is bright red. "You played tricks on me twice tonight. I'd say that's pretty revealing, too."
"When did I play tricks?"
"When you got me to take my bra off at the restaurant. And then this... When you tricked me into asking that last question."
"I didn't trick you, Monica. You tripped yourself up. You lost count of the questions."
She's clearly embarrassed. "You knew I had already asked six questions, so why didn't you stop me before I asked the seventh?"
"Because I wanted to know what you'd ask me." I say this without even realizing how conceited it sounds until she replies.
"Well, now you know."
Yes, I know. And the knowledge should satisfy me, but it doesn't. I've one-upped the guys tonight. I got her bra off, I brought her home, and now she has revealed that all of the flirting she's done this evening could lead to more. She wants to kiss me. I stare at her lips, wondering what she kisses like, wondering how it would feel to kiss a woman. I'm already so aroused that I'm very damp, and thinking about her lips and tongue is making it worse.
"I won't keep you any longer." She reaches her hand out for her bra.
"Not so fast. One bra. One question."
Monica's head snaps up. "No." Her eyes flash. Any remaining signs of inebriation are gone; she's angry and humiliated. I've humiliated her, dammit. "That's not what we agreed. The keys for my bra."
"Well, I'm changing the rules."
She eyes me warily. "What do you want with my bra anyway?"
"I don't know... Maybe I'll wear it."
Her eyes cut over my torso. "I'm not sure it'll fit you, Dana. It may be a bit large."
Okay, score one for Monica. I swing the bra in the air in front of her. "One question."
"Go ahead." She sounds resigned.
"If I had answered 'yes' to question number seven, what would you have done?"
Her mouth drops open and she looks away quickly, then back at me. Humiliation dissipates in front of my eyes. A sort of nervous grin crosses her face and she purses her lips, sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, releases it and rubs her tongue over it. And then something else, the wariness settles back in. "I guess that's something you'll just have to ponder, because you didn't answer the question."
Not exactly what I had hoped to hear. I hand her the bra. "Fair enough." She's still so vulnerable, not up to sparring anymore. I should leave her alone; I've teased her enough for one night. A person could easily take advantage of her and I don't want to do that. "Thanks for an interesting evening," I say as lightly as I can.
Just when I realize that I don't want to leave, when I'm turning and walking to the door, trying to figure out how to go back to her and smooth things over, how to give her that kiss she asked for, it hits me.
I brought her home to get her away from those pricks and I've been a prick myself. "You tease her because you want her," Mulder says frequently and scornfully. It turns out that he's right. I'm every bit the bully he is, as arrogant and as self-centered. I wanted to protect her from the likes of him, and who am I to do that?
I don't want her to look at me like I look at Mulder, with disdain and bitterness. I am so accustomed to provoking Monica that I've been doing it all night without noticing. Why doesn't she hate me? I would, if I were her. So I brace myself when I glance back at her. She doesn't appear bitter, just confused. This makes me so grateful that I have to clamp my mouth tight to keep the relief from expressing itself. I'm sorry I've been a prick, I'd like to say. This is not how I want things to be between us. This is not how I want to be with you. Instead, I just look into her large eyes and tell her: "I shouldn't have counted."
"No, you shouldn't have."
She gives me a small smile, and I'm hopeful. "Monica." I take a step toward her, not knowing exactly what to say. She sits, watching.
"What?" she asks, so lowly I can't hear her; I can only see her mouth form the word. She leans forward, drinks deeply from her water bottle and leans back again, resting her head against the sofa, staring at me. When I don't reply right away, she closes her eyes.
"I didn't mean to tease you so much."
She doesn't look at me, just keeps her eyes closed, face tilted toward the ceiling. "You always tease me."
I take another step forward, and another, until I'm standing near. "You're good for teasing. You take it well." Oh, God. I just roll my eyes at myself. "You're a good sport." Oh, this is getting worse and worse. "I don't mean any of it, you know. I'm just having fun."
She still doesn't look at me. "You're like the twelve year old boy sitting behind me in class, pulling my hair. Punching me. Teasing, taunting, because he likes me." She opens her eyes. "Do you like me, Dana?"
My heart begins racing. I swallow and try to answer her question. I'm not as quick witted as Monica, or as sexy. I can't turn her on with a mere look, batting my eyelashes, and I don't know the words to say, either. Words aren't easy for me. None of this is.
Her eyes roam over my body, which I'm sure gives me away. My cheeks are flushed, my nipples are erect, and if I dare look down at them, I imagine I'd see that they're straining hard against my button-down blouse and thin jacket. I clutch my purse tightly, holding it in my fist. Both of my hands, in fact, are fists; I'm trying to control the shivers that her gaze is causing. That her words are causing. Do you like me, Dana? She stares at my eyes, my lips, my neck, and then lower and lower and lower, until she's staring at the hem of my skirt, my legs, my pumps. And up again. "I like you," she says huskily, and I just about jump out of my skin.
I become very wet instead. She caused that sudden rush to my panties, and I'm sure that's exactly what she intended. She likes me. I don't know why. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but she appears sober, just lethargic. In any case, it must be easy for her to be confident when my state of arousal is so obvious. Even if by some chance she doesn't see it, I'm sure she can smell it. I'm four feet away and my desire is heavy.
"But I never know what you want." Her voice is throaty. "You push and push and ask for so much from me, and then you just... you just go away. You're only around when you need something or when you want something. Do you realize that?"
I shake my head, no.
"At least with Doggett and Mulder, I knew what they wanted tonight. But you?" Her feet flex and her knees begin their routine again, dropping open, then closing, lazily back and forth.
"Maybe I don't want anything." I can hardly speak.
She knows where my eyes are; she stretches her legs languidly, crossing her ankles. "Mm. I highly doubt that."
I want to leave right now to prove it to her. But I want to stay even more.
"I'm sure there's something you want, isn't there, Dana?" Monica blinks slowly. "Something I can give you? Something I can do for you?" She stretches, cat-like, and yawns, blinking even more slowly this time, resting her eyes for a moment. "Otherwise, I think you would've left by now."
"Maybe..." My voice is a quivery whisper. I clear my throat. "Maybe I don't know what I want."
"Oh, I think you do." Her eyes, sleepy and sultry, penetrate mine. "I think you've known for a while."
A shudder passes through me like a sudden chill, only I'm not cold. Far from it. I think I've underestimated either her power or my weakness, I'm not sure which.
She stands, moves to me as gracefully as if this is a movie, a book, a dream. And she looks like a dream with her bare feet and hip-hugging jeans, her long tousled hair and too-tight t-shirt. A wet dream. "I think you're just afraid," she says quietly. And with a tentative look, she reaches out and touches my face.
She traces my cheekbone with her thumb. And then the other, and then her fingers are in my hair, stroking. "Monica." I'm on sensory overload; I just stand here numbly for a moment, until I get my bearings, and then I step back so quickly that I stumble.
She catches me, hands on my arms. "Why are you afraid of this?"
Because you turn me on so much that I can't control myself: I'm wet for you, Monica; I'm so obviously wet for you; I haven't been attracted to anyone in years, and you come along and awaken my entire body just by looking at me, just by talking to me; fascinating me so much that here I stand, drawn to you like a magnet... You haven't even kissed me, Monica, and I'm so aroused that I can't turn back. My body is physically preparing itself for orgasm... it has lubricated itself in preparation for your entrance. And if I leave right now, I'll go home and masturbate while thinking of you. But if I stay... I won't have any self-control. And because of this, because my body has reacted to you so strongly, there must be something else going on, something more than physical, because you've done more to me without even touching me than any man ever has; because you have as much power over me as you did when you reached between my legs and pulled William into the world; because you have too much power, Monica. Too much. You have more power right at this moment than anyone has ever had.
She even looks powerful; I have on heels and she's barefoot, and still she towers over me. Her hands hold me firmly in place, and now her thumbs begin caressing my arms. If I'm going to leave, I need to leave now, while I can, but her hands are rubbing my arms, and her voice is soft, and it's been so long since I've been touched. "Tell me why you're afraid of me," she says. I try turning, just my torso, because my feet are lead. "Uh-uh. No ma'am. You're staying right here." Her right hand slips to my waist, slides around to my back, holding me firmly. "You're not running away tonight. Not like you always do. Running away when you realize how close I am. Not tonight."