Welcome To The Harem

Queen by M Sebasky
Summary: Deslea's rec: "Oh, this little vignette is a true delight. Diana is smart and sassy and sexy and far from nice, but endearing just the same. This one packs a punch. Diana-lovers will see the spirit and fire they adore. Fowley-haters will see their worst opinion of her confirmed. Everybody wins!"

TITLE: Queen

AUTHOR: M. Sebasky

E-MAIL ADDRESS: msebasky@yahoo.com

DISTRIBUTION: Archive away, just keep my name on it.


RATING: R with profanity, adult situations.

CLASSIFICATION: Diana in the tub looks back on her day and forward to
the time to come.

KEYWORDS: Glee, Revenge, Diana sows her oats, Krycek, Fowley, Scully,

THANK YOUS: Thanks to all the people who know who they are.

Feedback welcomed at: msebasky@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, I don't claim them, I don't make any
money off of them and I fully respect the people who do.

I am the queen of the fuckin' universe.

I can't remember ever feeling this pumped, this alive, this cognizant
of who I am and what this is really all about. Not since we dodged
that bullet, me and ol' Tarbreath, last year. It was close, people.
It was close. I didn't think we'd get out of there without resembling
an amateur's potato chip left in the FryDaddy too long. But we did
it. Correction: I did it. I'll do this next thing too, as slippery
and as beautifully as I can. Darlings, I've got the whole vista, the
whole shebang laid out in front of me like Aladdin's mythical carpet.
Andthis ride is going to go fast.

Watch me. Watch me as I go.

Every hair on my arms is standing straight up at attention, every
neuron in my brain seems to be firing cannons instead of synapses.
This is better than sex. No no no no no-..heh-.I take that back. This
is better than sex with Krycek!! Now **that** is saying something.
For a one armed man, Alex can really fuck. You'd think
there'd be a balance thing going on, but he really works around it. I
had heard that certain people who experience a handicap compensate for
it in different ways. In Alex Krycek's case, that is a gross

I'm a-twitter just thinking about it.

But enough about dear Alexi. More about me. If this all works out,
I'll have it all. Everything I ever wanted. And a bag of chips.

It struck me earlier today as I leaving the hospital how plum my
position is. There is very little I cannot do right now. The Lizard
King thought he could do anything until he became too much of a
dissident and then, alas alack poor, poor Jimmy, there was that
bathtub in gay Pairee.

Y'know, I've learned that if you be quiet, take orders and carry a
lipstick, you can learn anything you ever dreamed of and then some.

I was actually thinking about that particular coup today, the one
against Morrison. Spender, full of his usual know-it-all pomposity,
regaled me with his whole "let's keep the world free of drugged freaks
not under our control" antics of the 60's and early '70's one long car
drive back from Annapolis last year. In fact, it's the memory of that
particular event that got me where I am tonight, my body form-fitting
the antique porcelain tub in my bathroom, a bottle of nice delicate
Chablis chilling in the ice bucket next to me, a single crystal glass
wedged in there next to it . I thought about going ahead and popping
the Dom, but for all my hubris (hubris, amusing it's such a man's word,
but the only one that fits), I'm not ready to dance a jig on anyone's
grave quite yet. So, wine will do for now.

Soon. Soon. Breathe in. Breathe out. Look forward. Savor it.

Wait for it.

Baths are a luxury for me. When I first saw this delight of an old
claw-footed goddess in that antique store in Falls Church, I knew that
she and I had many a date to make some destiny. Sometimes, you see
things that instantly fill you with possibilities. Let me give some
advice: when you find one of those "Objects des la Couer", acquire
it. No matter what the cost.

Anyway, I thought a little soak would help relax me, help keep me
neutral and calm, keep this cauldron of glee from bubbling over before
I can actually afford to enjoy all of this. But it's just not
working. The tub isn't performing its usual mantra on me. Maybe
there's just no soothing me at the moment. The water around me is
serving only to keep me from blazing up like a torch at the mere
prospect of what's ahead, holding back the forest fire hungry to blaze
right toward the tree line. They have no idea.....correction, the
bitch has NO idea what she is up against. No idea what her little
redheaded self is facing this time. Who chooses to go mano to mano
with her. If she did, she'd tremble all the way from her toes to her
light brown roots.

Now now. I know you'll think I'm being catty. But, as Fox is so fond
of saying, "the truth is out there". And the truth in this case is,
you can't see them from straight on. I'm taller. I can look down.

The roots are out there folks.

If only....no.

No time for "if onlies". If onlies get in the way. This precious
time is the only luxury I can afford at the moment.

Ohhhh but it's coming. Like all the avenging angels. Almost done.
Good fight, finished, kept the course, victor, spoils. All that.

Sometimes, when I think about the whole thing, from start to finish,
the elaborate setups, the fine balancing act we've worked so hard to
achieve-no, strike that-I've worked so hard to achieve. I deserve some
credit here. Certainly more than anyone around me wants to allow me to
actively savor. Don't get me wrong, I don't want praise. I just want
what was promised to me. What I've worked for. Harder and longer and
more passionately than anything that Little Miss "I'm his partner and
his doctor" has ever worked for. I have felt things during all of
this that she has only read about in books.

Let's face it, ladies and germs, when it comes to depth and breadth of
expression, Dana Scully doesn't hold a candle to me. She's too
afraid. Afraid life's fragile balance will be uprooted, that she will
have to branch out and change to fit the world not as she wants it to
be, but as it actually is. Afraid she might have to bend a little.
Afraid she may have to redefine for herself what she understands love
to be.

I'm not afraid.

Watching her tonight over the surveillance cameras, (yeah, like I'm
ever going to leave the two of them alone again during the short time
that's left) leaning over his bed, trying to "reach him", I wanted to
stroll back in the room, take her outside, drop the concerned,
conservative facade thrust on me and give her a little sisterly
advice. Tell her flat out that how very wrong she is about all of
this. Love is not this crystalline gossamer web she thinks she's

Love is a mud pit with a springboard on the side. You can dive in or
you can stand on the side and watch.

If Miss Dana Scully wants to know the real sentiment behind what all
those poets were praising for all those centuries, she would have to
take the plunge and get herself dirty. She'd be forced to feel. And
heaven forbid, she might have to live a little. Who knows? Maybe Miss
Priss would even get a little, although that's the least (and most)
important part of the whole thing. I certainly have her beat in that
area. Practice does indeed sometimes make perfect.

She doesn't get that either.

If she was willing to get dirty, if she was willing to stand on the
edge and throw herself face down in the beautiful mess of love, she'd
find out that love sticks to you, covers you in every part with it's
wonderful, luxurious dirt. It saves you from fragility and gives you
strength and will beyond anything she's every considered. I know.
I've taken the plunge already. Fox knows it too. He's right there
next to me.

What the red-headed wonder doesn't get is Fox likes a good roll in the
mud. He's about the most visceral man I ever met. For all his
cerebral goings on, when it comes down to it, when the day is done and
the lights are off, Fox Mulder wants someone to be warm up against,
someone to reach out and be there. Willingly. With all the ghosts
that haunt that man, he needs someone real, someone grounded, someone
willing to touch and feel and smell and throw their head back and
laugh, just like all those women in the porn he watches so attentively
and often. He'd never admit it, but he's got so much baggage of his
own, he doesn't have room in his life for anyone else's.

That disqualifies St. Dana of the Bleeding Wounds right off the bat.
She's a walking ad for Samsonite. I've learned to travel light.

Love is thick. And Dana Scully's version of it is like powdered milk
compared to the cream I offer. If she ever learned the secret to love,
she'd actually be a real threat to me. In the short time left in this
elaborate dance, I'm certainly not going to be the one to tell her. As
long as she stays in the dark about that, there is no contest. I win.

Hmm. Think I'll do my nails tonight. Something prophetic. Maybe

Red like her supposed hair.

Red like the blood pounding in my jugular.

Red. Red. Red.

It's a good color on me. Don't you think?