| Title: Christmas in July Author: J.D. Rush Email Address: yanksfan462@... Category: Gen/Het Rating: NC-17 for m/f sexual situations Summary: Monica cooks a special meal for her special guy. Third story in the Byers/Reyes romance subplot of the "Big Things" Universe. (Follows "The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of" and "Lean On Me".) Disclaimer: CC, yadda. 1013, yadda, yadda. FOX yadda, yadda, yadda. Spoilers: "Three of a Kind", kinda. "Triangle", sorta. And fleeting ones for "All About Yves" and "The Lying Game". Don't even know why I mentioned it. Author's Note: I know it's been a while (does 3+ years equal 'a while'?) so here's a quick summary of my "Big Things" Universe: 1) Season 9, for the most part, never happened, which means no dead Gunmen, no 'The Truth', and Billy is just a normal, healthy adorable baby, not some psycho super-soldier. 2) Scully is married to Frohike, albeit as 'friends only'. *nudge nudge, wink wink* 3) Byers is dating Monica Reyes. 4) Mulder is living in sin with Skinner, and they're both obnoxiously happy--this is where you've come in. There's a LOT more to it, but that's all you need to know to follow this story. (If you're interested in the other chapters of this series, they can be found at The Bunker: http://lgmbunker.populli.net/authorj.htm) Author's Note Deux: The dialog between John and Monica regarding Mulder and Skinner's relationship sort of pays homage to comments made by Bruce Harwood a few years back about the concept of slash fiction. It was also inspired by my own, real life John, whom I've tortured with my slash stories for years. This one's for you, big guy! Author's Note Trois: Thanks must go out to Fiona for the beta, and the good suggestions. I deeply appreciate the help, and the continuing encouragement. I PROMISE to get you that Dana/Mel fic you're holding out for. "For once I can touch What my heart used to dream of Long before I knew Someone warm like you Could make my dream come true. . ." 1 CHRISTMAS IN JULY Saturday July 27, 2002 BYERS: Hair combed? Check. Tie straight? Check. Bottle of wine? Check. Breath mint? Check. Mental checklist completed, I knocked on the door. After a moment, it swung open with a burst of cooled air-conditioned air, and a veritable angel was standing before me. Even her outfit was heavenly--a two-piece blue linen dress, patterned with silver moons and stars. Before I even had a chance to say 'hello', she was in my arms, her sweet lips pressed to mine. Really glad I remembered that breath mint. Even as our kiss ended, her hug tightened. "Ooh, it's so good to see you, mollete. I've missed you so much." "Missed you, too," I sighed. She had been away on a case for 10 days. . .13 hours, and 12 minutes, but who was counting? She smiled up at me, as if able to read my thoughts. Who knows? She probably could. Monica Reyes could do a lot of amazing things. After another kiss, she took my hand and pulled me across the threshold. "Come on in." Stepping inside, I was instantly assailed by a delicious, spicy aroma that seemed to permeate the entire apartment. I had no idea what Monica was cooking, but it smelled wonderful. Reminded of food, I handed her the bottle I was holding. "I picked this up to go with dinner," I told her, as she read over the label. "I've read good things about the vineyard." "That was really sweet of you, John. Thank you." "It should be good, as it got an excellent write-up in 'Martha Stewart's Living'." At her amused look, I elaborated, "Ah, I was doing research for a story a few months back." "I'm not even going to ask," she laughed, placing the bottle on her kitchen counter. "You may want to put it in the fridge," I suggested. "It's supposed to be better chilled." She hesitated for a moment before answering, "Well, it's just that it won't really go with the meal I made. We'll just save it for another time, okay?" "And what's on the menu?" I hinted. "You'll see," she answered cryptically, a twinkle in her eye. "But first things first." Stepping towards me once more, she began unbuttoning my jacket. "Let's get you out of this coat. It must be 100 degrees today." "93, to be exact," I mentioned off-handedly, allowing her to push it off my shoulders. She tossed it onto a nearby chair, then reached up, and started loosening my tie. "And lose the tie, too." "You don't like my tie?" I kidded, as the knot came undone. "First the wine and now. . ." "John. This is a casual dinner," she explained patiently, sliding the tie through my collar and throwing it on top of my jacket. "I know that's not a word in your dictionary. . ." "Oh, ha-ha," I mock-laughed. She grinned at her own joke before giving me a peck on the cheek and making her way back to the kitchen. I was just hanging up my jacket on her coat rack when she called out, "Oh, and take your shoes off." "Why?" "I suppose you can leave them on if you want, but I figured you'd be more comfortable sitting on the floor without them." "We're eating on the floor!?" I exclaimed. "No, we're eating on the coffee table," she clarified. "We're just SITTING on the floor." I looked over at the low table in front of the sofa, already covered with a colorful, fringed silk cloth and dotted with little incense burners. "Should I ask?" "You'll see," she said again, accompanied by sound of shuffling pots and plates. Knowing I wouldn't get more information until she was ready, I sat down on the couch and started removing my shoes. The stereo was on, and I noted she was playing the Stevie Wonder Greatest Hits CD I had gotten her for Valentine's Day. I found myself smiling as she sang along to the song while she puttered around the kitchen: "Ohhh, baby, here I am, Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours." 2 I would have joined in, but I can't carry a tune in a pail. So I just sat back to enjoy Monica's performance. . .and that's when I noticed it. To the left of me, not more than two-foot high, sitting on a low bookcase--a small pine tree, completely decorated, including twinkling lights. I must've stared at it for a minute before asking, hesitantly, "Mo? Is this a Christmas tree?" "Uh-huh." "Is there a reason why you have a Christmas tree set up in the middle of summer?" She wandered into the living room carrying a bowl of lumpy beige. . .something. . .and a plate of odd-shaped crackers, placing both on the coffee table. "Haven't you ever heard of Christmas in July?" she inquired, as she strolled around the room, lighting some mood candles. "Well, sure I've heard of it, but I wasn't aware that anyone actually celebrated it. I thought it was just a movie." The room got quiet for a moment, as Monica changed CD's and soon the soft melodic strains of Debussy's 'Claire de Lune' filled the room. "Of course I celebrate it," she answered with a smile, lighting one last candle by her stereo system. "Why should Christmas only come once a year?" "Besides the fact that it's Christ's birthday?" I pointed out. She shut off the overhead lights, then joined me on the sofa. "Except that December 25th was a date assigned by the Roman Catholic Church to try to divert attention away from the Pagan holiday of Saturnalia during the Winter Solstice. Jesus' true birthday has never been determined, although many experts place it in late September." Pushing the bowl towards me, she offered, "Hummus? I made it myself." As my mind tried to catch up with the sudden shift in topics, I picked up one of the crackers, finding it still warm. "And these?" "Baked pita chips." "You're using the oven in this heat?" She gave a hearty laugh at that. "Not even *I'M* that crazy. I used the toaster oven." "Wow, brains AND beauty," I teased with a grin. "What a lucky guy I am." She just rolled her eyes playfully at that, as I scooped my chip through the dip and popped it in my mouth. Garlic, lemon, and tangy spices burst over my tongue. "Oh, wow, Mo. . .this is wonderful!" "Thanks. I haven't made it in a while," she admitted, as she sampled it for herself. "Almost forgot the recipe." "So, when exactly IS Christmas in July?" I queried, dipping another chip. "Any day you choose. One of the advantages over the original holiday." At that, she reached over and grabbed a small package from under the tree. "Speaking of which, here you go." I put the chip down and accepted the box from her. "What's this?" "A present? You open it?" "You actually buy presents?" She shrugged. "What's Christmas without presents? Go ahead. Open it." Don't know why I was surprised. If anyone would buy gifts for an imaginary holiday--and make it sound reasonable--it was Monica. She definitely marched to her own drummer, which was one of her many charms I carefully unwrapped the shiny foil paper to discover a small velvet box underneath. I opened the box revealing a gold band, similar to the one Susanne had given me years ago. A cold chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning went down my back, remembering how badly THAT relationship had turned out! What is it with women giving me wedding rings? I mean, I must be the only man in America who owns two wedding bands--without participating in an actual wedding. I looked up at Monica, puzzled. "You got me a wedding ring?" I asked, my confusion infusing the question. "No, silly. See?" She lifted the ring out of its cushion and held it up, showing strange engraved writing shining in the light. "It's a replica of the One Ring, you know, from 'Lord of the Rings'? When I saw it, I remembered how much I loved the movie, which made me think of our first date, which, of course made me think of you." Her exuberance, and her smile, quickly faded as she took in my pensive expression. "You don't like it," she stated, flatly. Oh, what a relief! Not a wedding band. Then again, the One Ring was cursed, so getting it as a gift probably wasn't a good omen. <Stop it, John! It's just a memento from a movie, that's all. It's not really the Ring of Doom. Nothing bad is going to happen. She's NOT Susanne!> Noticing the anxious look on her face--and realizing I still hadn't responded--I quickly assured her, "No, no, it's great, Monica. Really. Thank you!" "You're sure?" she asked, uncertainly. "Yes, you just surprised me, that's all." I took a closer look at the ring, admiring the detailing, and started to chuckle. "You know, I just hope Langly doesn't see this. He'll snatch it faster than you can say 'Gollum'." Her smile returned in force. "That's easy enough to fix." She took the box from my hand and lifted the padding, pulling out a silver link necklace. "It comes with a chain, so you can wear it around your neck. Just like Frodo." "Monica. . ." But I couldn't continue--my voice gave out as I swallowed the lump in my throat. Mo was so giving, so thoughtful. How many people would buy a gift for someone just because it reminded them of their first date? Hell, how many would spend all day cooking a meal in this kind of heat? I always thought Monica Reyes was special. But only recently was I starting to learn just HOW special. "John?" she asked, her voice concerned. "Is something wrong?" I shook my head to clear it before answering, "It's just. . .I didn't get you anything." "Don't be so sure of that, mollete," she murmured softly, as she leaned over and kissed me. I closed my eyes, breathing her in, drinking in the sweetness of her lips. I was on the verge of giving up my life to spend it worshipping at her feet when she pulled away. Licking her top lip seductively, she announced, "We better eat before dinner's ruined. You arrange the pillows, I'll get the food." With a final brush of her lips against mine, she stood up and headed back towards the kitchen, leaving me ponder why there's never a cold shower around when you really need one. * * * * * * * * * * "Here, John. Try the couscous." She daintily scooped up a little bit of the grainy pasta with her fingers, and held them out to me. Cautiously, I opened up, taking the tips of her fingers into my mouth. I felt my cheeks flush at the intensity of her gaze, my breath quickening at her soft, "Oh", as my tongue licked at the paste. I could barely suppress a low moan of approval. "Mo. . .that is delicious!" She scooped some for herself smiling at the compliment. "Why, thank you. I'm not exactly Emeril, but I get by." I picked up one of the lamb kabobs from my plate, broke off a bite-sized piece and popped it in my mouth, almost swooning at its tender, delicate flavor. Breaking off another small piece, I presented it to her. She smiled with delight to see that I was continuing the game; leaning towards me, she opened her mouth and deftly plucked it from my fingers. "Where did you ever learn to make such delicious Moroccan food?" I asked in awe. "Um, Morocco?" "You're kidding, right?" "No, I did some post-graduate work there, before I joined the F.B.I." she elaborated, feeding me a slice of grilled red pepper. "I was there for about four months, studying their religion, their myths, their culture. It was quite an experience. Trippy." "And is this the traditional meal of Christmas in July?" She laughed. "You have to admit, it's more interesting than ham and green bean casserole." I broke off another bit of meat, and placed it against her lips. "You just keep amazing me, you know that?" "You're pretty amazing yourself, John," she replied before biting into the morsel. I chuckled at that. "Me? I'm probably the most ordinary person you'll ever meet." "And that's what makes you extraordinary," she argued, offering me a wedge of peeled tomato. "There aren't many ordinary people around anymore. Everyone's trying to be something they're not, putting on airs. You're honest. Real. Pure. And I'm so lucky to have you in my life." A grin spread across her pretty face as she added, "Besides, anyone who routinely breaks into the Pentagon can hardly be called 'ordinary', right?" "We only hit the Pentagon once," I revised, feeding her a small cube of squash. "After Langly mooned the security camera it was all we could do to get out before. . ." I didn't get to finish the story as Monica burst into giggles, a musical sound I could listen to all day. I loved her laughter. I loved her smile. I loved her. Don't know how long I just sat there watching her laugh before she snapped her fingers in front of my face, jolting me out of my thoughts. "Earth to John," she joshed, her giggles tapering off. "Huh?" "You keep staring at me. Do I have something on my nose or something?" Not quite ready to confess what I was thinking, I answered, "No, I just. . .I can't believe we're going to have two whole weeks together." And really, that wasn't much of a lie. Because of our conflicting work schedules, we weren't able to be together as much as we liked. We compensated by making every moment that we DID get together precious. However, that was going to change, starting the first week of August. Fourteen glorious days were ours to spend together, something both of us were quite excited about. She gave me a beaming smile. "I know. It's pretty remarkable. Skinner NEVER authorizes two-week vacations in the summer, but he's been rather," she paused, her smile morphing into a naughty smirk, "mellow, since Mulder moved in with him." "The less said about that the better," I joked, picking off another piece of my kabob. "It's a visual I just don't want floating around my head." "Oh, I don't know," she mused, refilling my cup of green tea. "They're make a really sweet couple." "I suppose so," I hesitantly agreed. Don't get me wrong. I had nothing against gay people or alternative relationships. My friendship with Carl/Carol stripped me of any prejudices long ago. But sometimes I still found myself trying to get used to the idea of my long-time bachelor friend being romantically involved with anyone not named Dana Scully. Especially not his former boss. His very MALE former boss. I had known Mulder for years and never suspected he was anything but straight. To say NOTHING of A.D. Skinner! Then again, we ARE talking about Fox Mulder. Nothing about him should come as a surprise to anyone. Monica, sensing my discomfort with this topic, decided to up the ante by coyly stating, "And I think it's pretty hot when they kiss." "Ah, Monica. . ." I stammered, uneasily, trying to think of a way of changing the subject. But she was clearly just warming up. "Don't you think so? Two sexy guys like that, obviously in love. Seeing them together at Dana and Mel's housewarming party gave me goosebumps." "I, ahh, I. . ." I felt my cheeks burning up, and it had nothing to do with the current heat-wave. Just because I accepted Mulder and Skinner's relationship didn't mean I actually wanted to THINK about it. "Can you just imagine what they look like, naked, together, in bed?" she sighed wistfully, an impish twinkle in her eye. "Sometimes I'd love to be a fly on the wall." Running my hand nervously through my hair, I queried, "Uh. . .how did we get on this topic?" "We were discussing Skinner's generosity in regards to vacation time," she answered, innocently. "Right. Well, I don't know why he authorized it, but I'm glad he did." "Me, too," she agreed, snagging a cube of marinated eggplant from one of the plates. "So. . .have you come up with any ideas?" "We could go to Atlantic City." "Hmmm, we could. Then again, the Cape is nice this time of year." "Too many tourists. What about one of those romantic get-aways in the Poconos?" "You're kidding, right, John?" she laughed. I shrugged. "It was just an idea." We had been at this for weeks, ever since Skinner had approved Monica's vacation request. We had spent hours trying to decide where to go, but kept coming up blank. A major reason for our indecision in choosing a location was because we knew what this vacation would involve, and we wanted it to be special. The truth is, although we had been dating for over six months, we still hadn't. . .*YOU know*. I know that might sound like a long time to wait to. . .*YOU know*. . .and I suppose in today's society it is. But in reality, with all the time Monica has been away on cases and I've been away on stories-- there were many days when we weren't even in the same time-zone, let alone in the same city. A lot of our relationship had been done over a phone line, either with emails or late night hotel calls. Which wasn't such a bad thing, in the end. We both felt, right from the start, that this relationship could be something special, something deeper than just sex, although the physical attraction we shared was unmistakable. So, we spent our time apart getting to know each other--our likes and dislikes, our hopes and dreams, our plans for the future. Talking. Listening. Being there for each other, even if it was only as a voice over the phone from a thousand miles away. Don't get me wrong. Every moment I spent in Monica's presence was treasured, but sometimes, just hearing her on the phone at the end of a bad day could bring a smile to my face, and lift my sagging spirit. Plus, to be honest, as badly as I wanted to make love to Monica, I was nervous, too. Very nervous. It had been a long time since my last sexual experience and I knew I was sadly out of practice. All that nonsense about it being like riding a bike did nothing to ease my mind. I wasn't exactly a Tour de France champion in the first place, if you catch my meaning. And, while I'm being honest, another part of me was afraid of matching up to her previous boyfriends. I know, I know, it sounds stupid, but I knew I wasn't her first, and I couldn't help but worry how I would compare. I mean, I was going up against the likes of Assistant Director Brad Follmer--how could I NOT be intimidated? I just wanted it to be special with Mo. But I wasn't the only one with concerns. Sometimes I could feel the hesitation was just as much Monica's choice as it was mine. I knew she had been hurt in the past, betrayed by men she trusted (enter the infamous Mr. Follmer once more). I sensed she was afraid I'd do the same to her someday. I knew from experience how hard it is to earn someone's trust, and how easily that trust can be lost. I vowed I'd never do anything like that to Mo. Making her believe that, however, was another matter. But now the time had come. We both knew it. Both felt it. We had gone as far as we could the way it was. We were ready to move forward. And this was the perfect time for it. "I hear Seattle's nice," I volunteered. "Ugh. Too much rain. And way too many Starbucks stores." "I didn't know it was possible to have too many Starbucks stores," I joked. She grinned at that. "Okay, you've got a point there, but we run the risk of bumping into Bill Gates in one of them, and there's no telling what you'd do to the poor man." I smiled, evilly. "Oh, so you've heard about the contract hit that Langly has out on him, huh? You should reconsider--it could make me a very rich man." "Too bad I don't visit people in jail," she deadpanned. "Speaking of visiting, we could go see my parents in Mexico." I almost choked on my couscous. "Parents?" "Yeah. Mom. Dad. You know. Parents." "Ah, I'm sure they're lovely people, Mo, but I don't think I'm ready to meet parents yet." Not to mention the fact that. . .*YOU know*. . .would be highly improbable in that situation. "Fine. No parental units. How about Hawaii?" I just laughed at that. "On my non-existent salary? Not likely. What about Orlando?" "Florida in the summer?" she asked, incredulously. "Is something wrong with Florida in the summer?" "Humidity at 1000% and palmetto bugs the size of Cadillacs. How about a cruise?" "Vertigo." "Huh?" "I get seasick," I sheepishly admitted. "I didn't know that." "Neither did I, until we went looking for the Queen Anne." Her big eyes grew to oversize. "The British luxury liner that disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle over sixty years ago? How did you come to be looking for THAT?" "Did I mention Mulder was involved?" "Of course he was," she replied, drolly, as she got up and went to the kitchen. She returned a minute later a small ceremonial pitcher of scented water, which she sprinkled over my hands to cleanse them. It was obvious she had gone all out to make this meal authentic. She finally returned to her pillow and quietly asked, "John, why exactly are we torturing ourselves like this?" "Because we. . .it's. . .we're going to be. . . *YOU* know. . ." I felt myself blush up to my roots. "We don't need hot tubs and mints on the pillows for . . .*YOU* know," she grinned. "But. . .it's our first time. It should be special." She cupped my face in her hands, her fingers petting through my beard, and I melted into her touch. Holding my gaze steady, she whispered, "John, I'll be with you. It's already special." And with that, she pulled me in, her soft mouth pressing to mine. The kiss started tenderly, almost chastely, but a flick of her tongue against my bottom lip quickly changed that. I parted my lips, allowing her inside. Our tongues twined and twirled as the kiss deepened in intensity. Suddenly, I found myself with an armful of Monica, as she slid into my lap, straddling my thighs. As the kiss grew more passionate, her fingers traced over my chest and began efficiently unbuttoning my shirt. A twist of her hips, a strangled groan from deep in my throat, and I felt my shirt pushed off my shoulders to puddle on the floor behind me. My own hands were far from idle as they stroked down her slim waist and over curvaceous hips, which were rocking rhythmically against me. Tearing her mouth urgently away from mine, she panted, "There's always the bedroom." "Your couch is really comfortable," I countered, hypnotized by the fire blazing in her smoky eyes. "Of course, we could just do it here on the floor," she whispered, huskily, before pulling me in for another crushing kiss. "Works for me," I muttered against her lips, easing her backwards as our fevered kiss continued. I was so lost in her that I was taken totally by surprise when she suddenly flipped me over onto my back. As she lay on top of me, she breathlessly announced, "Quantico hand-to-hand combat course. First in my class." "God, I love you," I sighed, only half-kidding. With a devilish gleam in her eye, her hands dropped down to my waist; soon they were unbuckling my belt, then unzipping my pants. The thought crossed my mind that this was happening too fast, especially when she began dragging my slacks down my legs. Once off, she sat back on her heels, and grinned. "White boxer shorts, John?" she snickered. "What's wrong with white boxers?" I asked, curiously. "Even your underwear is unassuming and sedate," she stated, crawling up my body like a cat, until she was straddling my hips once more; of their own volition, my hands slipped up, under her skirt, caressing silky, bare thighs. She leaned down and purred, "But I know that's not the real John Byers. Always cool and in control. Somewhere deep inside there's a tiger waiting to pounce. That's what I want. To turn it loose. To set it free." She sat back up, and with a seductive smile, she pulled off her tank top, revealing her bare, perfect breasts. "Oh, God. . ." I gasped. "You better pray," she quipped, dropping a quick kiss on the tip of my nose before gracefully getting to her feet. She then slid her skirt over her hips and let it fall to the floor. Standing there in just a pair of black bikini panties, she smiled, "Be right back," and dashed from the room. I sat up, trying to catch my breath from the incomparable whirlwind that is Monica Reyes. After a moment or two, I figured I should finish what she started. I was just peeling off my socks when she returned, completely naked. I thought she was beautiful before. . .I thought wrong. Long legs, shapely hips, slim waist, full breasts, honey-toned sun-kissed skin. Those eyes. That face. She was glorious. She was mine. I felt my heart rate ratchet up triple time as she stalked towards me, waving a little square packet in my direction. "Almost forgot," she grinned. "Better safe than sorry, right?" "Ri. . .right." <Oh Lord in heaven above. . .this was really going to happen tonight!> ******** Handing me the condom, she grabbed a couple more pillows from the couch
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