TITLE: An Honest Word
AUTHOR: winter baby
FANDOM: The X-Files
CHARACTERS: Doggett/Reyes, Doggett/Scully, Mulder/Scully
SUMMARY: We all lie, for better or for worse.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: About four months ago, the Harem issued a Doggett the Manwhore challenge. It asked for a tongue-in-cheek, sexually-satisfying, one-night stand between an unlikely other woman and Doggett!Manwhore. This is not that fic.
+  An Honest Word  +
Dana comes in the darkest hours of the night, driving by his house once to make sure Monica's car isn't in the driveway and then parking a block away. She's so silent about the whole thing he isn't even aware that she's in his bed until he wakes up to find her pulling at his boxers.
They never speak a word as her bare leg arcs over his torso, straddling him. Her eyes are shut tight and her hands massage her own breasts, while he holds her by the waist to steady her as they fuck on his bed. The same bed he fucks Monica on.
He moans and pants like a teenager, but Dana is always deathly silent. She bites down on her lip the whole time, only the smallest whimper escaping when she comes. The tiny portion of his brain that isn't focused on her writhing body tells him that it's to keep from screaming out a name that isn't his.
Even when riding him, she's so restrained.
After, Dana slides off him and pulls her clothes back on as silently and quickly as they had come off. She slips out the backdoor as an extra measure, and he's left alone on the sweat-soaked bed, wondering what she tastes like because his mouth never gets close enough to her body to find out.
Morning comes and he has to face them both.
He doesn't know how to act around either of them at work.
He's very careful around Dana, never going outside the FBI regulated parameters of partner. Even when they're alone in the office, he calls her Agent Scully.
She's the same towards him.
To Monica he tries to be more sensitive – less curt and dismissive of her theories. She looks at him incredulously whenever he pipes up to agree with her, and he knows she's wondering why he's acting so unlike himself. He can't tell her it's because he's riding the biggest guilt trip of his life.
At the end of the day, they all leave separately. But if it isn't a particularly exhausting night – usually one that was preceded by paperwork and not fieldwork – Monica comes over for dinner. They talk a little about their current case and make fun of inane reality shows as they fight over the remote, but most of the night is spent in comfortable silence.
Monica falls asleep with her head resting against his chest as he watches the 1:30am SportsCenter. When he moves to carry her to the bed, her eyes flutter open and a drowsy smile spreads across her face.
Sleeping with Monica is completely different than it is with Dana. Monica needs to touch him like none of his other lovers did, and her mouth and hands rove all over his body.
Moans come from deep within her throat and she screams so loudly when she comes he wonders why the neighbors haven't called the police yet. Afterwards, they collapse into a messy heap on his bed, sheets and legs tangled, and she whispers "You make me happy" before drifting off to sleep.
He loves Monica for her openness. He loves that she's good and kind and generous with her emotions. But most of all, he loves that no matter what they've had for dinner, she always tastes like strawberries when he kisses her.
So then he doesn't know why on nights like these, with Monica sleeping soundly in his arms, he stays up wondering if every car that passes by is Dana's, wondering if she's hurt by the sight of Monica's jeep in the driveway or if she just couldn't care less. And always he's wondering what Dana tastes like, if only she would let him kiss her.
"Maybe he has some kind of telekinetic ability," Dana says quietly, holding the casefile in her hand and not meeting his gaze.
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," he answers gruffly. What he really means is I hate that you're using me.
She looks up at him sharply, drops the folder onto his desk, and walks out of the office. The walls shake when she slams the door.
He hears Monica sigh from where she's sitting at his desk, and he turns to face her.
"What?" he snaps, and she just stares back at him with hard eyes.
He knows tonight he will be going to bed alone, and he can't decide if that thought makes him feel lonely or relieved.
The next night, Dana comes. He can tell that she's been crying by her stained cheeks and the reason is all too obvious.
When he moves to kiss her, she turns her head quickly and instead he catches the side of her neck. She pleads in a tired voice, "Please, John," and he thinks that this is the first time she's ever spoken when in bed with him.
They settle back into their old positions, and her body arching that way is almost enough to make him forget that she's thinking about another man. When Dana comes, she collapses on top of him, sobbing. She buries her face into the pillow and he wraps his arms around her.
Sometimes Monica talks about Dana. She says that he's too hard on her, too cold and distant. Can't he see that she's in pain? Can't he try to be a little more open to her? Offer some kind of comfort?
He never answers her.
Somehow they're in Rhode Island. He doesn't remember getting on a plane and coming here, but he must have because he's standing in the living room of a terrified housewife as she recounts her tale of floating pots and pans. Monica glances at him and gives him a small smile. She thinks the look on his face is from disbelief, when really it's from confusion.
Time passes by so fast, without him even realizing it and already they're back in the motel room, pulling at each other's clothes and nearly missing the bed. Smooth, hot skin and strawberry-flavored lips and why can't this be enough for him?
Even here, all the way out in Rhode Island, he listens for the sounds of a car passing.
Nothing comes of it.
They drive back to D.C., almost a day's worth of traveling. Monica said she felt like watching trees pass her by. He likes to humor her.
The case was inconclusive, as all their cases are. Strange things have been happening to him ever since he joined the X-files, and he tries his hardest to rationalize them. He doesn't want to end up like Dana or Monica, believing in things that don't exist because it's easier than believing in those that do. And he definitely doesn't want to end up like Mulder, whose belief in everything is what got them stuck in this situation in the first place.
Monica falls asleep in the passenger seat, even though this was her idea. He reaches over to smooth her hair and whispers, "I'm sorry."
She won't ever hear him, and she won't ever know how much he hates doing this to her.
Night falls as they finally reach D.C., and Monica kisses him good night before disappearing into her house.
When he gets home, Dana is already waiting for him.
The first time he woke up to find Dana in his bed, he almost fell out in surprise.
"What are you doing here?" he asked in a panicked voice, watching her naked breasts heave as tears streamed down her cheeks. She only shook her head and he could see it in her eyes.
Mulder's gone. Mulder's left her again and please, please just let her feel something other than this.
She moved over him and took him inside her, sobs becoming a gasp.
Every time feels like that first time. She's desperate and in pain, and he can never turn her away.
Monica says something along the lines of "I know what's been going on." He can't be sure, though. He's too caught up in the Yankees game, but when she turns the TV off with a determined click of the remote, he turns to face her.
"What?" he asks in an exasperated voice, regretting it the instant he sees Monica's angry face.
"Dana. She's been here," she accuses. He just shrugs and reaches for the remote but Monica grabs it away from him. His heart is pumping harder than when a gun is pointed at him, and he thinks only Monica can make him feel this guilty about anything.
"So what if Dana's been here? She's a friend," he lies, keeping his eyes on the blank TV screen. He knows that's a mistake. He knows she can tell he isn't being truthful.
"That's all, then? Just a friend?" she says incredulously, and she's giving him an opening, a chance to admit to everything. She'll be hurt and angry, but over time she'd forgive him because he'd told her the truth.
Sometimes he can be so stubborn and infinitely stupid.
"That's what I said, isn't it?" he snaps at her, and forces himself to meet her gaze. Her mouth becomes a hard line and he sees in her eyes her heart break. She drops a small, diamond
earring into his hand and it takes him a second to realize that it's Dana's.
"I found it under your pillow," Monica tells him in a tight voice.
He wants that moment back, so he could do it right this time. He wants to be able to confess everything to her, to tell her that he doesn't know why he can't say no to Dana, and that it wasn't to hurt her. He doesn't know why he can't stop hurting her.
He never gets the chance to say any of those things because she's already gone, car squealing out of his driveway. He falls back onto the couch with his face in his hands.
He glimpsed tears in her eyes as she ran out of his house, and there's no measure for how much he hates himself at this moment.
The next morning, he wishes he called in sick. Monica won't look at either of them, burying herself in paperwork. Halfway through the day, Dana leaves early with the excuse of William needing her, and he thinks that there are those that need her more.
She leaves anyway, despite his eyes silently pleading with her, begging her not to leave him alone with Monica.
As soon as the door shuts behind Dana, Monica looks up at him with hard eyes.
"Aren't you going to go with her?" she spits at him and he can't believe how angry her face is. Her once soft features are all angles now and the warmth in her eyes replaced by something cruel.
He leaves because he can't take Monica's anger or hurt anymore. She's on the verge of tears, and he hears her scream "Son of a bitch!" as he walks down the hallway and onto the elevator. When the doors slide shut, he's met with the reflection of a defeated man.
He whispers, "I'm sorry," and can't, for the life of him, understand why he's never said this to Monica's face, why it's always when she's unreachable to him that he admits he never
meant to hurt her.
His doorbell rings and he goes to open it because he's not asleep, despite the late hour of the night. Dana stands there, face a ghostly pallor under his porch light.
"You changed your locks," she states simply and he nods. She looks at him expectantly, wanting an explanation and to be let in. She's shivering in the chilly night air.
"I don't know why you do this to me," he says before closing the door on her shocked and hurt face.
He climbs back into bed, alone and cold and barely remembering what strawberry lips taste like.
[ end ]
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