Something a little different.

* * * * * * *

So here we are
At the last broadcast
Here we are
Our last broadcast

* * * * * * *

Her voice was desperate and cracked on the phone, a truly pathetic dinner invitation. But it would be a truly pathetic dinner, too, virtual strangers meeting with nothing between them but a cold body, a son that was no longer.

There would be demands for answers, maybe; pleas to make things right. She knew that she would never be enough, she hadn’t been enough yet to anyone. She wanted to apologize and say she couldn’t make it to dinner, she had a schedule to keep, and wouldn’t it be better for all of them if she stuck to the work?

What she said, though, was a very gentle “I’ll meet you at seven.”

She hung up the phone and thought, if only I could make things right, for both of them.

* * * * * * *

They sat across a booth from each other, in an especially dark corner of a dark and smoky restaurant, two gin and tonics marking personal boundaries in the vast expanse between them. They told each other to call me Barbara, call me Monica, dispensing with the formal roles of agent and investigated that had been demanded of them for the last two weeks.

Monica blurted that she knew nothing more, had no more answers, and Barbara said nothing and ordered another gin and tonic.

Barbara asked questions she knew the answers to – Was Monica married? Did she have any children? – and Monica was struck anew by the force of her grief and wondered if there was a woman somewhere in Texas who had grieved the loss of her own child, the one she’d chosen to give up, with the same tenacity.

Monica was starving, but Barbara didn’t eat anything, so she didn’t either.

Barbara asked how her husband was, and Monica was unsurprised to hear that he had hardly been at home; he’d been with her, working, driven.

Barbara said that Monica had seen more of her husband lately than she had, and Monica wondered if it was an accusation, wondered if she should let the poor woman know that her last relationship had been with a woman and besides, she had her eye on the new ASAC, Brad Follmer.

Monica chose instead to remain silent, and Barbara continued that John blamed her.

“I think he blames himself more than anyone,” Monica offered softly, and Barbara gave a grimaced grin in response.

I was the one watching him, she said. Monica told her not to blame herself and the other woman looked at her like she was insane.

They shared a final round of drinks – their fifth, by Monica’s tally – and exited.

* * * * * * *

They hailed a cab together and didn’t consider that they lived in opposite directions. They sat in the back and said nothing and soon Monica realized that Barbara was shaking with the weight of her checked sobs.

She put her hand to the woman’s shoulder; Barbara turned and they simply looked at each other for a brief moment, and then it didn’t matter which one of them moved first because their lips were pressed against each other, hands twining in each other’s hair, and Barbara was still shaking.

Their mouths fought hot against the other and their hands wandered, grabbing at breasts, snaking under jackets and shirts. Their breathing was heavy and neither one knew if it was from arousal or tears.

There was an electric pulse as their breasts pushed against the other’s, and Barbara moaned in Monica’s mouth and thrust her hips against Monica’s weight. It had been six months since someone had given Monica an orgasm but she realized that tonight she had no right to be the selfish one.

She undid the button of Barbara’s jeans, pulled down the zipper, and slid her fingers against the warm wet skin; she pressed lightly on her clit and Barbara bit down on Monica’s lower lip with a gasp. Monica moved her hand deeper, slipped in one finger, then two, in and out, and when Barbara came without much effort on Monica’s part all she could think was, I could probably fuck her husband too.

Barbara pulled away, saying nothing, turning towards her window and buttoning her jeans. Monica thought of Bob Harvey and Luke Doggett’s small body and the fact that she’d just fucked a drunk grieving woman in the back of a cab, and for a moment she hated her life.

The taxi pulled up in front a small, dark house; Barbara got out without looking at Monica, slamming the door on the smell of her climax and walking towards a home that was empty in all the wrong places.

Monica directed the silent cabbie to her own place and brought her hand to her face, smelling it and trying to take comfort in the fact that she had been the only warmth Barbara Doggett would find tonight.

* * * * * * *

end

* * * * * * *

Notes:

When I said I might write a Reyes fic, this is not what I expected.

This is the smuttiest thing I’ve ever written, and possibly the most difficult two pages I’ve put out. It was inspired by “Release” and it stuck in my head as a challenge – could I do something dark and slashy and smutty? I’m actually playing with some ideas to fit in with my “Multiverse” world, but I knew that if I didn’t do this now, it would never get done. Reyes/Barbara Doggett slash is not something I think I’d be able to revisit.

That said, I hope you… enjoyed it, I guess. I didn’t particularly enjoy writing it, but it was different, and not in an entirely bad way. Anyways, it’s short, right?

The quote is from the Doves “Last Broadcast.” I highly recommend the Doves – they’re the original Coldplay.