When he stares at you, you think you know what he sees. Blue eyes, milk white skin, rich red hair. The face of an Irish warrior queen. When he touches you, with hands gentle and reverent, you think you know what he feels. Curves and lines made richer because of birth and life and years.
You know it all.
You are a visionary, after all. A seer. An oddity. A freak.
You turn your face into the pillow and try not to cry out when he takes you so high you can't help but fall...when he whispers "Dana" into your hair and then pulls back, stricken and apologetic. "I'm sorry, Reyes...I'm so sorry..." He is caught between the flat, crisp, cadence of New York and the molasses drawl of the South more securely than he is caught between two women.
You kiss his shoulder, softly, and tell him it's okay...*it will always be okay*... you understand ...*you will always understand*. You gather him close with your lips and your arms and your thighs and soothe away the guilt that furrows his brow.
You try not to dwell on the fact that it is always "Reyes" here in this bed. That it is, even more often than always, "Scully".
You try not to dwell on the fact that it is not your awkward angles or the swing of your dark hair or your quirks that turn him on...that bring him here night after night after you brush casual shoulders at the office.
You try not to dwell on the fact that you are constantly dwelling on the fact that he makes love to *her* when he should be making love to you.
And you whisper "John" into his throat and tell him the sting of tears in your eyes is just because he makes you feel so good.
Not because you're a stand-in for someone else.
Not because you're, damnably, still Monica Reyes and you're still second best.
You love him so damn much you'll take him any way you can.
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