Also for Mikee who encouraged, pleaded, pouted, brainstormed, cajoled and did a bunch of other things that got this story off the ground - including the eventual beta.

*

John died on a Friday. He was shot during a raid, never seeing the guy behind the curtain with the .22. A uniform got the shooter in the temple but not before he'd shed two bullets, both found in John's body at the autopsy.

Monica was there of course. Partners to the end. They didn't work the X-Files anymore but they stayed together, assigned violent crimes and cult investigations. Chasing madmen.

She held his head in her hands and said spurious things like "you'll be okay, you'll be all right." She spoke them like a prayer, over and over again as if she could speak them into truth. She'd never felt so lonely.

John died and they buried him in Arlington. Last of the great heroes.

On the Saturday she drank.

*

On Sunday she wakes up with a drumbeat in her temples and her throat dry and aching. She sleeps on her couch, channel surfs and finds herself flipping between Doris Day stealing Rock Hudson's underwear and the Home Shopping channel. In the evening she writes a letter to Brad and tells him what he probably already knows but really should hear from her. She smokes a cigarette on the porch and thinks about how she doesn't have any food in the house.

She thinks she'll resign. She thinks she'll hand in her resignation on Monday and AD Elliot will tell her she'll only accept it when Monica is in a fit state of mind to make life changing decisions.

She thinks she'll try to return to duty and the Assistant Director won't accept that either so she'll hang in limbo, not quite in and not quite out.

She goes inside and mixes a drink and wonders whether there's any truth to the rumour that the hair of the dog that bit you has curative powers. She mixes a gin and tonic with too much gin, the bitterness of the gin over powering the sugary quinine taste of the tonic. It's not at all satisfying but she drinks it anyway.

For the third night in a row she sleeps with her clothes on.

*

On the Wednesday Monica wakes to the sound of footsteps and running water. She reaches for her gun in the bedside dresser, gets out of bed and creeps along the hall, both hands holding her gun in front of her. She steadies herself, takes a breath and jumps into the kitchen doorway, feet firmly placed to steady herself against the kickback of her gun.

She yells, "Don't move!" but finds she recognises her intruder and the second half of the phrase comes out quieter than the first.

Dana is leaning back against the sink with a tall glass of water half way to her lips. She has dark brown hair, glasses and a baseball cap but it's unmistakably Dana.

"Jesus," Monica says, pushing the word out with her breath.

"I'm sorry," Dana says. "I couldn't risk calling first."

Monica nods, puts the gun on the bench by the sink and runs a hand across her face. "It's okay."

"I'm so sorry about John. I wanted to be at the funeral but…" Dana doesn't finish. Doesn't have to.

"Yeah. It's okay. It was… nice." His mother cried, his ex-wife held her hand, strange cars drove around the perimeter of the lot daring those in hiding to risk exposure for their old acquaintance. It had been in vain as Monica knew it would be.

"You look like hell," Dana says.

"I'm okay." She doesn't care that she sounds repetitive. "Where's Mulder?"

"You know I can't tell you."

"Yeah." Monica waves a hand, dismisses the thought. "What are you doing here?"

Dana has a look about her, even under the Halloween get-up she looks permanently disturbed, perpetually worrying about unforeseen events.

"I came to see you."

*

Monica makes tea - Green tea which Dana never liked. It's a little revenge, a little 'where have you been' and 'what are you doing here now' and it's also all she has.

They sit in Monica's sparse living room, unchanged since John last parked his feet on the coffee table, his boots leaving a black mark she still hasn't removed. She scolded him for that and now she's angry she ever said harsh words to him, wasted their time together acrimoniously.

Dana sips her tea and looks at Monica from beneath a dark fringe, large bangs sitting just below her eyebrows, hiding her eyes. Monica thinks of hiding, being followed in the street by plain suited strangers and ducking into doorways, disappearing behind a parked van or losing herself in a crowd. She's been on the run, too.

"It's not safe here," Monica says.

"It's not safe anywhere - but I scanned your house for bugs."

"I'm clean? I'm surprised."

"You never checked?"

"I have a neutraliser." Not that they ever discussed anything important in her house. Not that they discussed anything important at all. They knew nothing important. Anyone eavesdropping would only be privy to her (and John's) frustration with being kept in the dark - even out of necessity. It felt like being forgotten. Deserted.

That was before she knew what it was like to be truly left behind. She longs for her frustration now in the same way she longs for summers with her parents, dreams of family and children and retirement in the tropics.

Dana keeps her posture rigid, unwilling to settle back into her chair. Monica wonders if she's ever comfortable anymore, if she ever lets herself be supported.

Monica lights a cigarette. Dana makes a face. "You were going to quit?"

"That was before I learnt I was going to die in an alien invasion rather than by lung cancer."

Dana doesn't miss a beat. "I think you're going to drink yourself to death before then."

Dana hasn't failed to notice the empty bottles in the recycling. Her voice has a professorial tone, like she's just heard Monica's excuse for failing to complete an assignment.

"John is dead, Dana. He bled out his life on my hands." She hasn't washed her clothes. She has blood-soaked trousers festering in a plastic bag in her laundry and she can't bring herself to wash them. "This is how I close my eyes and not see him die over and over again."

Dana is fazed. She looks away for a moment, regrouping. "He would never have wanted to see you this way."

Monica wants to scream. Dana and her goddamn pull it together woman speeches and the way her look makes you want to do anything for her, be anyone for her. John felt it too. Monica used to hate that about him, hate the way they shared this, this Dana madness. "It's a good thing he isn't here then."

Dana reacts by closing her eyes briefly, and then leaning forward to take a cigarette from the packet sitting on the coffee table in front of Monica. She lights it and takes a short drag.

"We're all going to die, right?" she says to Monica's shocked face.

Monica sighs, lights another cigarette for herself. "Some of us sooner than others."

"I can't stay long," Dana says.

Monica nods and they smoke their cigarettes in silence.

*

Monica progresses from the tea to vodka on ice, ignoring Dana's disapproving look. She holds the glass to her forehead, ice dulling the pain in her temples. She has a headache when she goes to sleep, she has a headache when she wakes up. She blames it on the nighttime, on sleeping alone.

Dana sits back in her chair, shoes off and feet toeing the cushion's edge. "I wish I could tell you more," she says. "And it's not that I don't trust you."

"I know," Monica says. Even the most trustworthy have their breaking point. What if they held a gun to her head? What if they held a gun to her parents' heads? But she thinks about them some times: Dana and Mulder hiding in forgotten corners of the country, together for always. Or what's left of it.

"I've wanted to come back for so long," Dana continues. "I never thought I would miss what I had here but I find myself remembering things, details like the way the carpet never met the wall at the back of the office."

Dana never left the office. She was always there in the empty corners, hovering by the filing cabinets like a phantom fated to haunt them while they carried on her work. She felt Dana at her shoulder as she leafed through the file of her latest case, taking in photographs of the victims with her scientist eyes, impassively cataloguing bruises and lacerations.

Monica felt her there. John did too, but he never admitted it. She attracted them in different ways. For John it was her vulnerability, for Monica it was her strength.

And Dana thought only of Mulder. There was a lesson in that. She wishes she knew what it was.

Inevitably Dana left them and ridiculous though it may have been to feel betrayed by that, the feeling is there and she can't shake it.

"They turned it into storage space," Monica says.

"It was always storage space. Mulder convinced them to let him have a corner for the X-Files, but I suppose it was destined to be storage space again." Dana runs her fingers along the chair of the sofa, following them with her eyes. "We lasted longer than I expected."

Monica stands. "I need another drink." She goes into the kitchen and fills her glass with ice from the freezer. The vodka hasn't moved from its place on the bench by the sink. She uncaps it and pours herself half a glass.

When she turns around Dana is standing behind her. "You don't need that," she says.

She makes a face at Dana and goes to walk past her. Dana blocks her path. Monica leans back against the bench and takes a sip from her glass in defiance. "I don't need an intervention, Dana."

"I'm not doing this for you." Monica raises the glass again. Dana grabs her wrist before it reaches her lips. She meets Monica's eyes, dangerously serious. "I'm doing this for John."

There's a surprising amount of strength in her grip. Her free hand takes the glass from Monica's and places it on the sink. Monica reaches for it with her other hand and Dana grabs that one too. They stand like this, face to face, eyes meeting eyes.

"John's dead," Monica says finally.

"Yes."

John's dead, John's dead - she can't accept it, no matter how many times she repeats it in her head. John's dead and Dana Scully is holding her wrists. She should cry. She should fall to the floor and let comfort her as she has surely come to do.

Instead she throws herself forward, pushing Dana across the room and up against the wall. With Dana's hands still on her wrists she presses her mouth to Dana's, hard and forceful. Dana is too shocked to resist.

The kiss lasts only second and when she lets go, Dana still has her grip on Monica's hands. Dana's mouth is open slightly, looking crushed and wet. Her eyes are wide.

Monica can't help herself. "Was that what John wanted?"

Dana let's go of Monica's hands. "Monica, for god's sakes…"

Monica kisses her before she can finish her sentence. Eventually Dana reacts, her lips moving against Monica's.

She thinks that maybe John did want this. He probably thought about it. She knew he watched her watching Dana and some times he looked like he wanted to ask her what it meant that she looked at Dana the way she looked at him.

She admits to herself that she never imagined Dana would kiss her back. Dana probably never imagined it either. Her hands move uncertainly to Monica's thighs, like she's not sure where to put them.

Monica reaches for Dana's shoulders, pulling Dana hard against her body. She breathes Dana in, her mouth open against Dana's. Hot air between them.

Outside the kitchen window the dark midnight has turned faintly purple. Monica expects Dana will disappear when the sun comes up, which leaves little time to do whatever it is they are about to do. She's not sure what that is but she plans it to be memorable.

She pushes Dana's cotton knit sweater above her breast exposing a plain, white bra. She leans down and gently bites Dana's nipple through the fabric. Dana groans and leans back against the wall, arching her back a little so that she invites Monica to her breast. Monica slips a hand into the cup of Dana bra, stroking Dana's other nipple.

Eventually the clothes become too much of an impediment and Monica wriggles Dana out of her sweater and bra. She continues her attentions to Dana's now naked breasts.

Monica guesses that this is Dana's first time with a woman, although she admits there's a great deal she doesn't know about the woman. She knows that the open minded, more receptive Dana is a recent creation - Dana would say so herself - and this is just an extension of that modification to Dana's world view: everything is possible and anything is acceptable.

Monica's history is patched, but she expects Dana already knew that. For John it was a curiosity at the best of times and a source of resentment at the worst. Being honest had only scored so many points with John.

John is dead. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind while she fumbles with the buckle on Dana's belt. She gets it on the second try and begins edging Dana's jeans to the floor. Dana is wearing black bikini-style cotton. Life on the lam obviously isn't as risque as it sounds.

Dana's jeans are discarded along with her sneakers and socks. Monica remains on the floor, kneeling in front of Dana. She hooks her thumbs under Dana's panties and watches Dana's face as she leans her head back against the wall, eyes closed, giving in to the moment.

The panties are relegated to the corner of the floor where Dana's jeans and shoes have been abandoned. Monica parts Dana's legs at the knees and inches her tongue along the inside of Dana's thigh, finding Dana wet between her legs. Monica hadn't known how much of Dana's reaction was genuine until now. She easily slides two fingers inside, feeling Dana go rigid with the sensation. She slides another finger in and then another. Dana's hand drifts to her breast and she rubs her own thumb lazily against her nipple. Her tongue finds Dana's clit and Dana jumps a little at the touch.

She speaks, finally: "Oh god… Monica," and Monica is pleased that's it's her name on Dana's lips and not Mulder's. Dana's eyes are closed but she's here, not somewhere else, not with someone else.

Monica keeps up the pressure of her tongue between Dana's legs and her finger thrust hard, gradually increasing in pace. Dana's moans increase in frequency until Monica feels a hand push her head back, hears Dana's voice saying, "stop."

Dana's look is intense. "You first," she says.

At first Monica doesn't understand. And then Dana gets to her knees beside her. "Take off your clothes," Dana says. She uses her Agent Scully voice. A tone Monica hasn't heard since the morning John burst into the office and told her Fox Mulder had been found and was awaiting a military trial for treason.

It's a tone Monica always found difficult to resist. She pulls her t-shirt over her head and tosses it next to Dana's clothes. She didn’t stop for underwear when she thought her house was being burgled so the process is far quicker than it was with Dana.

When she's naked, she notices Dana studying her; a scientist observing a specimen. It makes her feel more exposed than undressed.

"Lie down," Dana says, and Monica leans back on her elbows, lowering herself to the floor.

The roles are reversed. Dana is the aggressor, slavishly submitting to Monica's need. She runs her hands along the length of Monica's body, pausing to lightly run her fingers across Monica's breasts, and comes to rest between her legs. She mimics Monica's former ministrations, sliding her fingers inside her, two, three, then four at a time.

Dana uses her tongue now. Monica squeezes her hands into fists to ease the building tension. She wonders if there really is an afterlife and whether John is looking down at her now, relishing the sight of Dana Scully between his girlfriend's legs, her arse high in the air. Surely divine justice for a good man.

She thinks she might be speaking. She's sure she's saying Dana's name repeatedly in between gasps and moans and other noises too animalistic to be described. Her hands try to grip the floor, find something to hold onto. Eventually she settles on pressing her fingers into her palms so that her nails dig into the flesh painfully.

She comes. Her knees involuntarily try to squeeze together but are prevented on doing so by Dana who is still between them. Dana recognises the reaction and slows her movement to a stop. She lifts her face from Monica's thighs and wipes the back of her hand against her mouth, brushing her hair to the side. Monica remains on her back, letting her breathing slow.

Dana reaches for her clothes and re-dresses methodically. She even laces her sneakers. If she is dissatisfied it doesn't show and Monica wonders whether Dana Scully has ever had the audacity to look unhappy with her lot. Or whether she just gathers her disappointments to herself and moves on, accepting that life is about the needs of others, Dana the heroine of her own Bronte-esque epic.

Dana finishes dressing and goes into the next room, leaving Monica to recuperate on her own. She allows herself a moment of post-coital relaxation before finding her clothes and following.

They take up their previous positions. Monica on the couch, lighting a cigarette and Dana already smoking in silence. They don't dare look at each other.

"Did that fix it?" Dana says, eventually.

It takes Monica a moment to work out what Dana is referring to. "I don't know."

Dana stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "He was a good man, Monica. You should honour his memory, not destroy it."

Monica looks out the window. The morning shines through making the electrical light in the room redundant. It reminds her of waking up in her car on a stakeout, John in the passenger seat, his eyes never leaving the family home of their suspect. His presence was a constant in her life, wherever she was.

"I have to leave," Dana says.

"I know."

Dana stands. She looks like she is about to say something but instead she turns and heads toward the door. Monica looks out the window, checking the street outside. "How do you know it's safe?" she asks Dana.

"Someone is coming for me," Dana says. "It will be all right."

By way of affirmation a car pulls up to the kerb outside Monica's house. Dana opens the door, turns back to Monica for a moment and smiles briefly.

"Take care, Monica."

Monica nods and then leans forward and embraces Dana. Dana returns the embrace but pulls back quickly. It isn't much, but it's something.

"Dana - " On the verge of leaving, Dana turns back to Monica. Monica glances quickly at the car by the verge. The windows are dark and she can't see who is waiting inside. "It helped - something helped."

Dana doesn't say anything, doesn't smile. She nods and steps down the porch to the waiting car.

Monica watches as it drives away. When it disappears around a corner she looks up, almost instinctively, to the sky. It's cloudless. A fine day. She frowns and shuts the door on the scene.

She pulls the blinds across the windows, shutting out the light.

"It's just for today," she tells the room. Despite its emptiness she feels them there: John and Dana watching over her until the end. "I'll be okay," she tells them.

Fin

*