TITLE: Las Flores de la Luna
AUTHOR: bugs
EMAIL ADDRESS: bugsfic@yahoo.com
URL: www.underthewing.com/bugs
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: XFMU; you don't need to ask. I'll do 
Gossamer. Any other archives, just drop a note. 
SPOILER WARNING: "John Doe"
RATING: NC-17
CONTENT WARNING: Eek! PWP Sex! 
CLASSIFICATION: DRR, A, S
SUMMARY: Doggett remembers. 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to syn, for pointing out the difference 
between 'rod' and 'reed'.  And pointing out this story's a 
touch...well, something.  Something that means I should post and 
run before I think about it twice.  Also, thanks to the Why 
Incision list for their PWP discussion, which drove me to this 
pointless depravity.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: "John Doe" didn't do a lot for me, but with 
another viewing, I decided I could perv it up.  I needed to move 
into smut for Doggett and Reyes anyway. *cracking knuckles*


*****


"He should be in a hospital." 

Dana's acting like a typical doctor, talking about the patient -- 
me -- like I'm not there.  Maybe I'm not.  I've reclaimed pieces 
here and there, enough to get by, but some chapters remain 
shadowed.  Luke's back, mostly.  My first date: my sweaty palms, 
my itching underwear, her pearl-pink lip gloss.  My high school 
graduation: shorts under the slippery black gown. Hollering at the 
top of my lungs for all my football buddies when their names were 
called. 

"He should be home."  Monica thinks she knows what's best for me.

The first time I saw her: staring up from the bottom of my black 
well, and she stood there, reed thin, long arms wrapped around her 
middle, crying for family she didn't even know.  My fury.  We 
didn't deserve pity.  We were a beautiful, bright, loving family. 

Skinner says, "He can't.  His ID is gone."

"Surely--" Dana says.

"Things aren't as easy as they used to be. We'll get duplicates 
faxed down here by tomorrow, Monday at the latest," he says.

Dana repeats, "He should be under observation."  She glances at 
her watch.  "But I need to catch the afternoon flight back to 
D.C."

"Give me some money.  I'll check into a hotel. I just need to 
rest."

Monica moves in front of me, forcing me to look at her instead of 
the wall.  "Yes, you need to rest.  Somewhere calm.  Quiet."


Later that day, she buzzes the bell by a solid door on a high 
white wall.  We're in a small town.  Where, I don't know.  I'd 
kept my eyes closed during the long drive.  I'd had enough scenery 
for a while.  

"Si?" crackles through the loudspeaker.

"Hola, Es Monica." 

"Moni?"

"Si."

The door buzzes, and she swings it open.  She leads me into a 
courtyard choked with vines and flowering shrugs.  Water trickles 
in a central fountain.  I stumble across the large heaving pavers. 
The place seems to be in a gentle decline. 

Monica calls out, "Tia Fatima!" 

"Moni!"  An equally tall and thin woman rushes out from a dark 
doorway. "Es usted!"

"Estimada tma," Monica says as the two women embraced. Her aunt's 
hair is silver and cut short. Despite the heat, she wears a 
cashmere top and skirt. 

The older woman gives me a similar examination. I feel every grain 
of dirt on my flesh and clothes as her gaze sweeps over me.

"Uh, I really need a bath, if possible," I say, then cringe. I 
haven't even introduced myself and I'm demanding use of her home.

"Tia Fatima, this is my partner from the FBI, John Doggett," 
Monica says clearly in English.

Fatima gives me a short tip of the head. 

"Ma'am," I stutter out. 

"We have many baths, bedrooms. Monica will make you comfortable."

Monica gives one of her lopsided grins from behind her aunt's 
back. 

The older woman says to her, "I was just on my way out of town. 
I'm going to Monterey, for the horse show, mi dulce."

"How long will you be gone?" Monica asks.

"The weekend," Fatima says, clasping hands with her niece. "I'm so 
sorry, but I'm sponsoring the Grand Prix and I need to be there--"

"Yes, of course," Monica reassures her.

"We can get a hotel," I say, then realize that doesn't sound too 
good. I'm dead tired. 

Her aunt arches an aristocratic dark eyebrow at me.  "No, please, 
stay here. As I said, we have much room."

The two women converse quickly and endlessly in Spanish. I ease 
back onto a bench, letting my head hang. Finally, I hear kissing 
and then, "Good day, Senor Doggett.  Please, make yourself 
comfortable."

I rise. "Ma'am, thank you."  I even manage sort of a bow.

A door closes.  My eyes shut. 

Monica murmurs, "Come on, John."

The bedroom is dark and cool.  Her hands chill my skin as she 
peels my filthy clothing off.  I should stop her-- zipper down, 
pants.  

"Don't take my shoes!"

Her voice drifts up to me, "I'll leave them right here.  But you 
can't take a shower with them on."

"Okay." 

My underwear disappears down my legs.  I should cover myself--she 
wraps a towel around my hips.  Her lips are at my ear.  "Just a 
little further, John.  Let's get you clean."

The water is hot and I gasp, my eyelids snapping open.  White 
tile, steam, water streaming off Monica's hair.  The loofa rips at 
my skin but feels so good at the same time.  I will be clean when 
she finishes.  She's close, picking the grit and blood from around 
my eyes.  Our gazes meet, hold. 

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," she says, bathing the cuts on my 
forehead.

My head drops.  I'm so tired-- a black undershirt and panties 
plaster to Monica's white skin.  I hitch a breath in and study the 
chrome faucet handles. 

She soaps up a washcloth and runs it across my back and chest. 
That feels better, soothing.  Down, across my ass, she lowers 
herself in the narrow stall, my legs, scrubbing at my feet...

"Lift."

I balance myself and pick up a foot.  I can't look down.  I can't 
see her on her knees, water beating at her back...I do.  Rivulets 
run between her small breasts, across her thighs--

"Other foot."  Her voice is all business.  Thank God.  Thank God 
for a forty-year-old, exhausted, penis.  

Her tongue coiled around my dick, inhaling my length, pulling me 
in, even as I protested, said something about the hour, or needing 
to call a witness, but I couldn't keep from cradling her head, 
encouraging, begging, needing---

"Uh, I'll let you finish," she stammers.  She rises, eyes averted 
from my very awake erection.  She offers me the washcloth.  I 
scramble for my dignity.  She steps out from under the flow and 
begins rubbing her hair dry. 

"Thanks."

She had done it.  She had given me a blowjob at some point, 
somewhere. I suppose it would be rude to ask the details.  

"What's my wife's name?  Has someone called her?"

"You don't remember?"

"I guess not.  Teri."  The answer comes suddenly and quickly.  I 
lean against the wet wall.  "I guess you don't need to call her."

Gently, she says, "No."  She tugs at my arm.  "All done.  Here. 
Take a towel."

Between the two of us, we get me dry and under the cool sheets.  
She turns on a ceiling fan and I watch the blades circulate above 
me. 

Her, "Goodnight," seems very far away. 


I wake.  The clock reads seven, but I'm not sure if it's morning 
or night.  I'm not even sure what time I'd gone to bed.  The 
terror and confusion of the past two weeks comes back in a rush.  
I drag on a tee shirt and pants she left out.  Stumbling, I make 
it into the hall. 

"Monica!" I yell.

Nothing.  Maybe she hadn't come.  Perhaps I'm still in the 
cartel's hands and this is just their next game.  I'm at the top 
of stairs and my head whirls. 

"John!"  Monica stands at the foot of the steps, small and pale 
below.  "Stay right there.  You're still weak."

Then she's at my side.  Her fingers wrap around my arm, strong 
enough to bruise.  "Let's go back to bed."

"No, I need to get up."

"What for?"

I stop.  "I don't know."

She chuckles.  "Exactly.  Come on."  She turns me around and 
starts steering me back to the bedroom.  

"I'm hungry." 

She stops.  "Okay, that's a reason to come downstairs."

"What time is it?"

"Dinner time, that's probably why you're hungry."

"How long did I sleep?"  I pick my way down with her aid.

"Over twenty-four hours."

"Jeez!"  I lean on the wall for support. 

"You needed the rest."

She'd been at dinner.  She spoons me out some soup and salad, her 
idea of food. 

Grinning, she says, "I can find a steak in the freezer, I'm sure."

Stuffing lettuce in my mouth, I say, "That's okay. It's good."

Dusk falls.  Shadows bathe the patio.  The moonflowers open their 
white throats and the air becomes heavy with scent.  Monica can't 
stay still, roaming the courtyard, sipping from a goblet of red 
wine.

She's found an old flowered dress to wear, the cotton thin and 
worn.  It hugs her slim body.  Her bare feet glisten against the 
terra cotta tiles.  She sweeps her hair to the side, cocking her 
head to peer at me like an exotic bird, exposing her neck.

I speak before she does.  "This is your place.  I've never seen 
you like this."

She takes another swallow of wine, and her hair falls to cover her 
eyes.  "Like what?"

"Loose.  Happy."

A stung expression flits across her face, then she teases, "How do 
you know you haven't seen me this way?"  

Exhaustion floods me again, and I close my eyes.  Sharp, angular 
features, crisp shirts, nipped waist on coats, tight, held in...my 
fingers, fumbled to find the right combination to open the buttons 
on her vise-gripping jacket...

"John?"

"John?"  Teri's upturned face, as she brushed her long hair, the 
questions there, none of which I could answer...

"John?"  Dana leaned over the desk, just close enough so I could 
smell lavender and babies. 

"John?"  Monica's at my side, her hand heavy on my shoulder.

"Stuff just comes and goes."

"I'm sorry.  Is it painful?" 

"It's confusing.  Hard to process.  Hard to know what's real.  And 
what's fantasy."  My eyes snap open.  She smells of that same soap 
she lathered all over me.  This close, I can see she wears no bra. 
A test.  What color are her nipples, John?

"Excuse me?" she asks, her voice weak.  In slow-motion, I watch 
her glass tip.  I catch it in time and drink deep.  The wine is 
heavy and rich.  

"Did I ask something?"  My head buzzes.  

The night was hot.  A ceiling fan twirled over us. I was dizzy 
with fear and hate and need.  Gardenias were blooming and the odor 
drifted into the room.  The walls beat red, the floor glowed 
purple.  

"Yeah," she mumbles, swaying closer.  I catch her, letting my 
heavy head come to rest under her breasts.  My breath moistens the 
nearly transparent fabric of her dress.  There's a thousand tiny 
buttons down the front and I ease a few open, licking the exposed 
skin.  Goosebumps rise on it. 

Somewhere music blared.  Cajun, strange music to fuck to.  Would 
she let me?  Would I want to?  I had to.  My cock burned.  I was 
sweating like a pig and had to get out of those clothes.  She 
helped. 

"What did I ask?" I say.  Her fingers comb through my hair, 
nervous, hot.  

She leans down and whispers, "An extremely personal question." 

My hands find their way under the dress's hem.  Her long legs take 
forever to traverse before I grip her ass.  "Did you answer?"  Now 
I've forgotten the question. 

"No." Her lips nibble at my ear, then neck. 

"Do I already know the answer?"

She arched up, tight breasts sharp in the moonlight.  My mouth 
searched, found, first one nipple, then another.  She was slick, 
like a snake, and I could barely hold her down.  Her nails 
scrapped up and down my ribs, my spine, finally gripping my neck, 
keeping my mouth at its work. 

"I don't know."  As though to silence me, her mouth finds mine.  
The wine tastes even richer this way.  I open my legs, pulling her 
closer, and my hands squeeze her ass.  The muscles contract in 
response, and for some reason, that's sexy as hell.  I make a lap 
for her to sink onto.  More buttons come undone.  Reaching over my 
shoulders, she grabs my tee shirt, pulling, tearing at it. 

This frantic, it had been this frantic.  I needed to be inside 
her.  In the tangle of limbs, I found my goal, sinking two fingers 
in, stretching, pressing.  She'd come off the mattress, rising to 
sitting, groaning from somewhere deep inside, "John!"

She mumbles in my ear, "John, betta stop tha..."

I like when I make her slur her words.  

"Stop what?"  My palm presses against her pelvis bone.

She forces a gulp down.  "That..." she rasps, grabbing the short 
hairs on the back of my neck with a ferocity that hardens my cock. 

"That?"  My fingers push aside her cotton panties, flitting across 
her slippery skin.  "Or that?"

"Come 're," she'd managed to mutter, pushing me onto my heels.  My 
head lolled back, hypnotized by the fan.  I couldn't watch.  I'd 
come like a kid -- she slid down onto my cock and wrapped her arms 
around my neck.  That was better.  I was safe now.  I was warm and 
held in her grasp ---

"John," she whispers, tongue exploring my throat, biting at my 
Adam's apple.  She shifts back, away from my touch. 

"You want me to stop?"  

Her eyes glow in the dark.  The fountain's spray beats down on the 
pool of water.  A dove murmurs somewhere in the vine.  Her hand 
reaches down between us.  She shakes her head no.  My head rolls 
back--

My arms held her to me, letting her lead the pace.  Up and down, 
loss and return, again and again. My anxiety disappeared.  I could 
stay like this forever--

My fingers find their way back between her thighs.  I have to 
return.  She undoes my fly, releasing my dick.  Our mouths 
collide, retreat, seek, return--

She started to cry.  Great wracking sobs that shuddered through 
her.  I was repulsed.  I didn't need her pity, I needed her cunt. 
I needed a release.  I crawled away. 

I lift her, setting her on the table's edge, then sweep the dishes 
off.  Her protests are lost among the crashes of breaking 
crockery. 

I grab her face.  "What the hell am I doing?" I ask her.  "Did 
we?"

Her hands rise to my face.  Our hands smell of our sweat and need. 

She whispers, "No."

The courtyard is completely dark.  The tearing of her dress is 
loud in the night.  A window is lit on the second floor, dropping 
a single, yellow square to the right of us.  The edges of her body 
are tinged with that light.  I lick at it, like butter.  

She starts to say, a rapid thunder of words, "You were gone for so 
long.  I was so scared--"  Her head thrashes back and forth and 
she loses her train of thought.

The long length of her body lies before me as I rise back up.  My 
hands trace from neck to hips, making unseen tracks.  "I'm back."

She breathes, "Yes."  Our gazes hold as I enter her.  We're quiet, 
moving slowly.  The doves fly from one niche to another, their 
wings beating an accompaniment.  Our hands grasp together.  Her 
fingernails cut into my skin. Her neck arches, her grip squeezes 
my cock and the spell is broken. I explode; a rumbling from deep 
inside. 

I slide down beside her on the table.  My fingertip circles one 
areola.  Sluggishly, the nipple responds and tightens.    

"Brown."

"What?"

"Your nipples." 

Her face turns away and I drift back to sleep. 

****

The End

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, did they? 
You tell me: bugsfic@yahoo.com  And I did warn you it was 
pointless.  La casa, fragrant flowers, a bruised, dirty man, a 
woman...what the hell was supposed to happen? 

Yes, I did steal a moment from "The Big Easy". Steal only from the 
best. 

More bugsfic: www.underthewing.com/bugs