Secret Bird
by Politic X

Part 8
See part 0 for header information.


Monica leans back to gaze at me.  She gives me a
devastating look, one that I know even in the
moonlight, and pulls me to her again slowly and
tenderly, kissing my cheek, whispering my name.
Our mouths are together again, and I could kiss her
for the rest of my life.  I'd never grow tired of
her lips.  I want them to tell me a thousand
stories.  I want them to say my name every morning
and every night.

I want to be the only one she thinks about.  I want
to deserve her love.  I want to know why she chose
to be with me rather than her friends when that
fellow died.

"Tell me about Marty Cheron."

Her back straightens.  There's a subtle squaring of
her shoulders.  "Where did you hear that name?"

"I've been hearing it all night.  The Cheron this,
the Cheron that.  I finally asked Stephanie, but
she wouldn't tell me the whole story.  Just that
it's a sculpture by a man who died recently."  I
look at her, but she's hiding her face from me, in
the shadows.

"And what did she say exactly?"

She's being unduly cautious.  Cautious enough so
that I'm suddenly jealous.  I wonder why she wants
to protect the dead man from my scrutiny.  "Evasion
doesn't become you, Monica."

She scowls and turns away slightly, hands twisting,
fingers clasping and unclasping.  I put my hand on
her arm.  My fingers graze her breast, but she
doesn't notice.  "Tell me."

She remains silent.

"Fine."  I want to throw a tantrum right here.  My
emotions have run the gamut since my pregnancy, and
I blame hormones.  But the fact that my emotions
are so extreme, I blame on Monica.

I don't throw a tantrum, just let go of her arm and
wait.  She seems to be literally chewing her words
before she spits them out.  Her jaw is moving, but
her mouth isn't opening.  Finally, her lips work
over each other, pressing and pursing, and she
says, in a voice I hardly recognize because it's so
wired with tension, "He died."

"I know he died.  I know he sculpted a piece of art
for you.  I know that it was a freak motorcycle
accident.  And I know that you were with me
delivering William when his funeral took place."
Saying the words makes me realize why I brought up
the subject to begin with - to thank her.  I stroke
her forearm.  "Tell me why you were with me."

She tells me exactly what I want to hear.  "It was
a choice.  Life or death.  I chose life."  The
words come out splintered; she's still tense.

She can't be any tenser than I am.  "And you regret
that?"  I unfold her arms, take her hands, rub her
fingers.

"Yes," she finally manages.  "And no."  She presses
her lips together, pauses.  "I regret that I
couldn't be in two places at once, but I don't
regret the choice I made.  Marty was dead; there's
nothing I could do for him.  But I could help
William make it safely into the world."

"Stephanie said they needed you - your friends did.
She said that they needed you to investigate his
death."

She stares blankly.

"But you haven't?"

She shakes her head.  "No.  There hasn't been -"
she clamps her mouth shut on the rest of the
sentence, but I know what she's saying.  She hasn't
had time to investigate his death.

"I've been keeping you pretty busy, haven't I?"

"I didn't want to leave you; I was worried about
you and your son."  Her words are bitter again when
she mutters: "Mulder's son."

Bitterness is an especially vile thing when it's
coming from her mouth.  I don't want to cause her
regret.  "You've done a lot for us.  Don't think
for a minute that I don't realize that, Monica."  I
feel suddenly ashamed.  "I haven't been good at
thanking you for all you've done for me.  You've
kept me sane.  You've saved my life in more ways
than one."  I squeeze her hands.  "My son's alive
because of you."

"I don't know about that," she murmurs.  She still
won't look at me.

"I do."  I draw her closer, wrap my arms around
her, but she's not yielding.  I kiss the hollow of
her neck and run my hands up her bare back.  I kiss
her throat.  I feel her begin to relax.  "You've
done more for me in the past few months than a
lifetime of friends."

She reaches down, runs her fingers through my hair.
"I'm angry at Mulder," she says.  "For deserting
you."

I shake my head.  "He didn't desert me.  I asked
him to leave."

"Oh."  Her face tilts toward my lips.

I lean up to meet her kiss.  I inhale her breath as
she flicks her tongue inside my mouth.  She tastes
like cigarettes and alcohol, a combination that
reminds me of smoky bars, pretty women and sex.
It's a taste that excites me, and I arch toward her
like the needy person I've become.

She probes me with her tongue, and I let her; I'm
pliant in her arms.  I'll let her lead for now.
I'll let her lead for as long as she wants to.  If
I wasn't so tough, if I wasn't so frozen, I'd melt
on the spot, and still, it's all I can do to hold
my own.  I'm so frightened of how good she makes me
feel that I want to run away, but it's been so long
since I've felt this.  And I'm not sure it was ever
this intense.  I'm in love and I'm scared to death.

I pull away.  "Where was the accident?"

Her body stiffens again.  "North Carolina."

"Is that where he was from?  Where he was buried?"

"No.  Macon, Georgia."

"You seem to have quite a few southern connections
for someone who was raised in Mexico."  I know that
this is coming off as an interrogation; still I
have to know these things.

She smiles, but it's brief and tight.  "Yeah, I
guess I do."

"Raney's from Atlanta, right?"

"Not originally, but that's where he lives now."

"And Stephanie?

"Yeah, she was born and raised in a small town in
Georgia.  Not as small a town as Doggett's, but
there aren't many as small as Democrat Hot
Springs."

Cheron, Laos and Pritchard.  I wonder that Monica's
three best friends at Brown were all from Georgia.
And Doggett's from Georgia, too.  It's a curious
thing for someone raised in Mexico.  "We'll go
there on Monday, okay?"

She looks puzzled.

"North Carolina.  We'll start an investigation of
our own."

"Oh."  She shakes her head and frowns.  "I can't.
Stephanie's staying here with me until Wednesday
and then she's driving down to Florida for
Thanksgiving."

The holidays; I forgot.  "What are your plans?"

"For Thanksgiving?  I'll go home when Stephanie
does."

My heart sinks.  It would be nice if she didn't
have plans.  It would be nice to see her sitting at
my mother's table.  Every person in my family will
adore her; Mom already does.  "When will you be
back?"

She grimaces.  "Sunday."

"How am I going to go that long without seeing
you?"  I mean to tease her, but it comes out
petulant.

She smiles, a full radiant smile at me.  It makes
me so happy that I grin right back at her.  Her
hand strokes my hair, rubs my back.  "Guess I have
bad timing."  Pain flicks across her face.  "Having
this party tonight."

She's holding something back from me, and I don't
want her to.  I need to know everything.  "Sounds
like perfect timing to me.  Stephanie gets to stay
with you while she's on school break; you get to
catch up with her.  And all your friends were able
to be here tonight."

She looks away.  "It's the first time I've seen
most of them since before Marty died."  She twirls
my hair absently.  "Some of them haven't forgiven
me for not being there.  They don't understand."

"I don't see it.  Everyone looks thrilled to be
here and to see you."

"I don't know."  She's still far away.  "His
parents hate me."  She shakes her head slowly, as
if this still surprises her.  "They hate me for not
being there.  At the funeral."

"You must have been very close to him."  I know she
was, but I don't know the nature of that closeness.
Were they friends?  Lovers?

Oh, God.  Were they married?

Oh, God.

The thought makes me sick.  But those photographs
of Marty, those photos of the girl.  What if she
was married?  What if she had a child?  Impossible
- I'd know.  Monica's wide open; what you see is
what you get with her.  But it was Stephanie who
told me that there were things Monica wouldn't talk
about, and I think Stephanie would know.  I think
they were lovers at one time.

What do I know of Monica's past?  I don't even know
much about her life here and now.

She continues looking beyond me.

What exactly did Stephanie tell me about Marty?
That most of his artwork was for Monica.  That
everyone expected her to be at the funeral and they
expected her to handle the investigation into his
death.

His parents were particularly upset that she didn't
make the funeral.  My mind runs over the various
possibilities and the probabilities.  Why did she
come to Washington?  Doggett had called her in to
help out on a case and called her again to get me
to safety when William was due.  Then he asked her
to join the X Files division and I've kept her
running ever since.

Her face is slack.  She's in a painful place right
now, thinking about this dead man.

"I'll go on Monday and stay a couple of days.
Check out the situation," I tell her.

I suddenly have her attention.  "What?"

"I'm going to leave on Monday, go to North
Carolina."

"No."  She's vehement.  "No."  She touches my face,
becomes gentle again.  "It's Thanksgiving, stay
here, with your family."

Sure, it's Thanksgiving.  My best friend, who
happens to be my son's father, and the woman I'm in
love with won't be here to share it with me.  It'll
just be another family reunion.  "I'll leave Monday
morning.  They'll have to cover for me at work.
I'll come back on Wednesday."  It's a lie.  I'll
leave tomorrow and I won't come back until I have
some answers.  It's the least I can do for her.

"Dana."  Her word is a warning.  "Don't."  She
shakes her head.  "Okay?  Just don't."  She kisses
me.  "Please just stay here and rest and have a
good Thanksgiving.  Okay?"

"Will I get to see you at all?"  Damn.  I'm
whining.

"Yes."  She kisses me.

"When?  You're leaving Wednesday.  When do I get to
see you?"

"Well, there's tonight."  She kisses me.

"And?"

"And there's tomorrow."  She kisses me.

"And?"

She smiles on my lips.  "You know where to find me.
I'll leave the rest up to you."

I think about how I frightened her earlier with my
intensity.  I made her cry, and I don't want it to
happen again.  "Maybe you shouldn't leave anything
up to me, Monica."

"Why not?"  She kisses me.

"Because."  My hands are squeezing her arms too
hard.  My teeth bang against hers.  'Because I'll
only hurt you again,' I think.  'And because you'll
let me.'

---------------------

The guests have left.  Most of them, anyway.

Monica's sitting in a club chair, thinking about
Stephanie, who has taken a young woman to her bed,
and about Raney, who looked resigned to that fact
when he left.  The two women are in the guest
bedroom now, and we can hear them bumping and
laughing.  I've waited an eternity for the party to
end.  Whether Monica loves me or not, whether she's
bi or gay or even straight, she's going to be with
me tonight.

She must feel me eyeing her, because she looks up
at me and shudders.  I'm ten feet away from her,
staring.  I gaze at her legs, her skirt, her
blouse, her arms, her breasts.  I can't wait for
this any longer.  I won't.

She leans back in the chair and I move one step
forward.  Her chin tilts up and her lips part.  I
take it as an invitation.

Her mouth is open before mine even gets there, and
I push my tongue inside.  It's deep, but I want to
be deeper.  I support myself by propping up with my
left hand.  My right's tangled in her hair, and I
open my mouth wider to devour her.

She moans in my mouth.

Kissing her isn't enough.  I want her on me, inside
me.  I want to be inside her.  She's been
everywhere for the past few months, but not close
enough.  I push my knee between hers, and she moans
again.  Her hands are on my back.  My fingernails
are digging into her skin, and I don't want to
cause her pain, but I can't let go of her either.

"Dana," she says, trying to pull away.

I'm bruising her mouth.  With a conscious effort, I
move my lips down her face, along her neck, until I
can take hold again.  I bite her, sucking her in.
Her moan isn't soft this time and her chest heaves
beneath me.  I push her against the back of the
chair and hold her there.  I have her pinned, my
pretty butterfly, and I release her long enough to
gaze at her like a prize.

What I see surprises me.  Monica's eyes are mere
slits, her mouth open.  "Please," she says, wanting
more.  She looks at me from behind heavy lids.
"Please."  She places her hands on the back of my
head and pulls me down to her lips.

Her bare thigh jumps beneath my touch.  I'm not
playing, so I don't caress her, I just push my hand
up under her skirt.  She's so wet that I cry out.
I didn't know before tonight that she wanted me at
all.  And I never would have guessed that she'd
want me this much.

I keep my hand where it is but I pull my face away
again to look at her.  I do stroke her now, through
her panties.  Her hands are on my back; she's not
holding me so much as hanging on.  Her breath
catches and her eyes drift shut and open again.
We're staring at each other when she comes, her
eyes growing wide, then narrow, fluttering shut.

I'm so grateful that I want to be gentle with her,
but I still need her so much that I can't be.  My
desire is overwhelming.  I balance between these
two extremes.  Her hands are on my face again, her
eyes are moist and grateful and loving.  "Dana,"
she whispers.

(Continued in part 9)