Welcome To The Harem

Only In Threes by cgb
Summary: "You wanted this." NC17, Doggett/Scully/Reyes (in a way).

Title: Only in Threes
Author: cgb (luberluber@yahoo.com.au)
Fandom: The X-Files
Web: http://appelsini.tripod.com/Christine
Category: D/S/R (in a way)
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Please do.
Summary: "You wanted this."
Author's notes: For Anna-Moonbar to whom I promised a
Doggett/ Reyes/ Scully threesome fic. This is kind of
a variation on the theme.


1. You Watch Them

In the dream you watch them. At first, you watch. You
don't know how you got there and you don't know where
you are. It's a hotel. It's every hotel you've ever
been in. It's dark and it's small and the neon shines
through the frayed curtains and maybe it's a movie
you've seen. Maybe it's every movie you've seen.

You have a cigarette in your hand and you take long
drags while you watch them. You are as intrigued as
you are betrayed.

He always wanted this and you couldn't admit it,
didn't want to think that he could do this to you.

And maybe that's why he's here. Maybe part of you
knew. You can control your dreams. Always could.
You're controlling them now.

*You wanted this.*

His hands are stroking her ribcage, trailing upwards
towards her breasts. His fingers sense her, brush
across her nipples, feeling them harden beneath him.
She leans her head back and gasps. She's calling out
his name and in your ears it's a curse.

She rocks her hips against him and she's all cream
curves and red hair. Her belly rounds in front of her
and you're amazed at the detail you give her in your
dreams. You've paid attention. She's beautiful, of
course, and you wonder whether you always knew this
about her.

She moves and you can't take your eyes off her. She's
close. She tells him so.

You drag on your cigarette and you hear the sound of
smoke rushing through your windpipe into your lungs.
You hear your heartbeat as it gains momentum, as it
pounds against your ribcage, harder and harder with
each thrust he makes in her.

And then she's looking at you. She's looking at your
through red tousled hair that hangs in front of her
face. She's looking at you with her lips parted and he
lids slightly lowered. She's saying his name: John,
John, John over and over and she's saying it for you.

You are transfixed by her and when she beckons you
move forward, hypnotised by the sound of her voice and
the swaying of her body against his.

You want this. This is your dream.

She smiles at you and licks her lips. You move closer.
Your hand is on the bed, you lean into her and she
raises her head to meet you. You kiss, her tongue
tracing your lower lip.


2. When She Wakes

When she wakes the wind is blowing the curtains. They
hang suspended in the air and then drift into position
again like a great jellyfish that fills and propels.

She breathes hard. Her body still feels the dream,
still pulses from her unconscious orgasm. Her dreams,
sexual or otherwise, are not usually this vivid.

She gets up and closes the window. The clock by the
bed reads five am, too early to be awake, too late to
get any quality sleep in before morning.

The room is cold and she's thinly dressed. She wraps
arms around herself and stands in the centre of the
room for a while, unmoving.

*You wanted this.*

She's not sure that's true, and even if it were it
wouldn't solve the moral ambiguities inherent in
fantasising about one's colleagues - especially in
situations that said colleagues would no doubt find
perverse. Dana and John suggest a rigid inflexibility
in all things and it's difficult to imagine their sex
lives any different.

She's used them, violated them somehow, John and Dana
and their Patrician nobility. They make her feel left
of centre, slightly off balance. Imperfect.

And obsessed. She reaches for the sweats lying draped
over a chair. Every g-woman jogs sometime or so it
seems. Maybe it's the only way to be in the job, and
stay sane. Maybe it's just easy.

She runs. Too fast, too hard. She goes one more block
and then one more block and then sprints the last one
hundred yards. She breaths awkwardly, breaths coming
and going at the same time, coughing a little because
she still hasn't quit smoking (not yet, not today).

And she thinks that if she just tried harder, pushed a
little further, she'd be just like them and she
wouldn't be fighting off feelings of inadequacy and

*It must be normal to feel like this.*

But it's crazy too and she's always been dancing on
that border and she wonders whether the insane know
something the sane don't.

She finds the coffee maker, throws the used filter
into the bin and begins filling the new one. One
scoop, two scoop, three scoop and it's probably going
to be a four scoop day.


3. I See Her

She sips her coffee like it's part of the conspiracy.
Delicately, not trusting it to be the right
temperature. She doesn't trust me but I become less
offended as I see her lack of faith in the everyday,
the little things.

"Everything okay, Dana?" John takes his role as Alpha
Male seriously and Dana seems to work within the
model. He likes to think she needs him.

She doesn't of course.

"Fine," she says. She places the cup back on the desk,
'hmming' over the coroner's report on our Methuselah.
He didn't live to be nine hundred but the neighbours
claim he's been the same age since they were children.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the light on the
ceiling. It's a dull week - ergo the John Doe

John leans over her shoulder as if he could possibly
understand what she's reading. "Interesting," he says.
John finds everything she does interesting.

I close my eyes.

Shapes dance before me. For a while they are
meaningless - remnants of the light's impression on my
retina - but gradually they take form, become people,
friends, colleagues.

I dreamt about them last night. They flash before me
now, subliminal images feeding into the data stream
from my optic sensors. A conspiracy in itself.

I don't know why I do this. A good psychologist will
say it isn't wrong but the collective undercurrents of
baggage and emotional overload in this room ensure
there's no way it can be right. There's too much that
isn't said. And maybe that's why I'm compensating with
midnight fantasies that aren't as much a part of my
unconscious as they should be, but I'm not about to
excuse myself. Not here.

"Agent Reyes?"

I open my eyes. She's looking at me expectantly. John
is nowhere to be seen. "Where's John?"

"He went to get the missing persons reports." She
frowns, concerned and confused.

"I'm sorry - I wasn't paying attention." I shake
myself and lean forward.

She looks back down at her reports. "Well as I was
saying, there's no 'Cosimo Boadicci' listed in Italy
either but there's always the possibility."

I become fascinated by the colour of her hair. It's a
rusted brown today, and it usually is. In the dream it
is a brilliant cherry red matching the gloss on her

"Of course the Fascist regime made many Italians
citizens persona non grata."

"Agent Scully?"

She pauses. "Yes?"

"Have you ever had a prophetic dream? I mean - have
you ever had a dream that came true?"

She taps her pen against the table a couple of times,
and then she puts it down and clasps her hands

"Is there something you want to talk about, Agent

You. Me. John. Sex. Love. Dreams. You.

"No. I had a strange dream last night." I wonder
whether she sees through me, whether that stare hides
telepathic capabilities.

"Have any of your dreams come true?"

I take safe ground. "They're usually nonsensical -
places I used to live, people I knew. What about you?"

"I dream about the end of the world," she says and her
face gives away nothing.

She holds me like that for a while, her expression
unchanging. I till her words in my head, playing with
appropriate responses that don't sound trite.

And then John returns and saves me.

"Here you go." He throws a file down in front of Dana
and she opens it casually.

"My god," she says. "That's him." She flicks over the
page to the report. Her mouth falls open slightly and
instinctively I feel her disbelief. Dana can use the
words 'aliens' and 'national security concern' in the
same breath but I get the feeling it's against her
better judgment. I suspect she still has a super-ego
that insists on making sense of it all.

"What is it?" I ask.

"That photo was taken in 1952," John says.

Dana offers up theories: a father, brother, close
relative. John suggests two generations of illegal
immigrants might be the cause. And it's all plausible
and probable but I know it isn't right.

Dana stands up and shuffles into her coat, promising
to revisit Forensics after her stint at Quantico. John
nods goodbye while claiming the chair she has vacated.
He sinks down heavily, needfully.

"Are you okay, Monica?"

I take a styrofoam cup from my desk and crush it in
one hand before relegating it to the waste-paper
basket underneath the "I Want to Believe" poster. Dana
kept the décor but we never asked her to change it.

*Sometimes, I think about you.*

I leave the words in my head, leave them for the end
of the world.

"I'm fine," I say.



Title from a song by the Breeders from the album

And not being able to put italics in these posts
really sucks.


"The elves are the harbingers of our doom!"
(Stargate SG1)