Title: Here Be Dragons
Author: Tracy
Summary: At the edge of the known world, there be dragons.
Rating: R. There's a few bad words and an adult situation or two. Kiddies be warned.
Category: UST / Humour / DRR Archive: Yes to XFMU. All others please ask first.
Notes: I have no idea where this came from. It's kinda fluffy, and I'm hoping kinda humourous too. Drop me a line and let me know what you think
Dedication: To Kate, who really inspired me with her fresh enthusiasm for John & Monica, and encouraged me to write more DRR. I didn't realise how much I missed these guys! Thank you for opening my eyes again. -toasts- Hope you like. :)

x

When it all came down to it, he couldn't be held accountable. There were circumstances. Very extenuating circumstances, as a matter of fact, which truly happened to be beyond his control. Completely. He squirmed in his chair and chanced a sideways glance at his partner. She had turned her body towards him, and was studying him with her head cocked to one side, like she knew what he'd done and, aww, shit, who the hell was he kidding? She knew, alright, and she wasn't going to buy any of that crap about circumstances either. Nope. Not in a million years.

He was so dead.

He had a fleeting, panicked thought that maybe he should apologise. Yeah. He should definitely apologise. No doubt about it. Just as soon as he figured out how to phrase it so that he didn't sound like a complete loser, he would. He really, really would.

He kicked himself mentally and took another sip of the Jack Daniels he'd been nursing for the past twenty minutes. He wasn't gonna apologise. He knew he should, but he wouldn't. He was going to pretend that it never happened, that she never caught him, and then he was going to pray that the ground would open up and swallow him whole, just so he'd never have to face her again. Yep, that was the plan.

He kicked himself again and tried to ignore Monica's amused expression. If only he had been paying attention instead of trying to look down her shirt, none of this would be happening. Actually, strike that. If only she'd been paying attention to something other than him, he wouldn't have been caught looking down her shirt. So yeah. Her fault. Entirely.

He tried to find something else to look at; something to take his mind off the area that he should defiantly not be visualising cupped in his hands and covered in lace or silk or hell, anything soft and black . . .or white . . . or red . . . oh yeah, definitely red, and instead concentrated on the dish of peanuts in front of him.

Well, he tried to concentrate on the peanuts. He really did. The trouble was, the area where he was not supposed to be looking was right on the edge of his peripheral vision, and how could he not look when it was right there? He was a man, wasn't he? He had eyes, didn't he? If she was just gonna advertise her assets like that, of course men were going to look. He slung back the last of his drink and waved at the bartender for a refill.

"I'm getting too old for this crap," he muttered, and ignored Monica's bemused look.

She waited for him to continue, and when he didn't she questioned, "John?"

"What?"

"Did you say something?"

"No."

Entirely her fault. They were supposed to be working, but she'd gone and worn the blue shirt. He hated that blue shirt. He hated the way it sat on her hips, he hated the way it hugged her waist, and he hated the way that it tightened across her chest whenever she stretched. Or sighed. Or breathed, for that matter.

The woman sure did a lot of breathing in that shirt.

He hated the way that it rustled when she moved, he hated the way it complimented her skin tone, and he hated the way it smelled. Shirts shouldn't smell like the people that wear them. Shirts should smell like starch or fabric softener or . . . god, anything that didn't make him think of sex and Monica and sex with Monica and . . . did he mention the sex? in the same breath.

But that shirt - he hated that she liked it enough to wear it at least once a week, he hated how he would stare at that third button and will it to pop open, and he really hated how much time he put into thinking about that third button. He even dreamed about that button, and all the ways that he could kill it.

It was the third button which had led him into trouble. It had actually done it. It had popped open. Somewhere, at some point, it had just – popped. He thought it had happened after she'd come back from the bathroom, because he remembered glaring at the button just before she left, and it had been intact then. So, she'd come back, and he'd looked up from scouting the room, and bam! No third button.

He probably should have told her. Yeah. Hindsight really was a wonderful thing. But he hadn't. He'd just stared at the soft swell of flesh that the third button revealed, and willed the fourth to pop.

He shoulda quit while he was ahead. Because it was while he was concentrating on that fourth button that he'd realised that if he angled himself just so, he could actually see down her shirt. Hello, cleavage heaven. He'd stared; he could admit it. He'd stared pretty damn hard. And then . . . then she'd said something – he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was – which apparently warranted a reply, and he'd been too busy trying to decide which exact shade of blue her bra was (oh, he just bet she wore matching panties) to form a coherent response.

He'd been sprung. Big time. And it was all her fault.

Too bad that he knew she wouldn't buy it.

"John."

"Yeah," he grunted, silently cursing the bartender for taking so damn long with his drink.

"Heads up. We're on."

She didn't sound pissed. She should be pissed. So this was good. Maybe.

He followed the direction of her eyes and cursed his bad luck. Of all the times for their suspect to make an appearance, he had to go and pick tonight. For three nights they'd been sitting in this sleazy bar with cheap booze and an even cheaper clientele. For three nights they'd put in their time, turned up nothing, and gone home to wash the smell of smoke and whatever else from their skin. For three nights it had been plain sailing. But then a blue shirt and a popped button had entered the equation and totally screwed with his head.

"Shit. He's gonna make us," Monica said, hiding the words behind her drink.

"He's not going to make us."

But he was. Mild frustration set in that they should get made before they'd had a chance to observe what they had wasted three nights on.

She put her drink down. "I have an idea. Just play along, okay?"

Before he had a chance to figure out what she meant, she moved closer, one hand coming to rest on his thigh while the other wrapped itself around his neck. She was burning a hole through his jeans but at that point in time he didn't particularly care. All he cared about was the fact that her lips were drawing closer to his and for once it was completely okay to be thinking about them parted and moist and waiting for him, because they were parted and moist and . . . aaaah fuck, moving against his in a delicious slow dance and the only thing he was remotely capable of doing was moving right along with her. And – whoa – that thing she was doing with her tongue? Should totally be illegal, but who was he to argue?

He'd almost forgotten all about the suspect they were supposed to be watching. The suspect who had, by all appearances, lost interest in them. But Monica kept kissing him, and hell, a man didn't pass up an opportunity to lock lips with a woman dressed in the most amazing blue shirt in the world. So he kept right on kissing her back, and even managed to throw in a few patented John Doggett special moves, and fuck! Did she just moan? Did he just make Monica Reyes moan?

He repeated what he'd just done, and then let his hand travel to the curve of her butt, and oh yeah – she'd moaned.

He was so the man. Yes, he was.

The. Man.

He gave himself a mental 'high-five' and was dimly aware of someone yelling out, 'get a room!' when it all went to crap.

The monster woke up.

Not good. He had his hands on her ass, his tongue in her mouth, and oh, it was bad. Very bad. Because the moment it woke up, Monica knew. The ground that he'd wanted to open up and swallow him earlier? Couldn't happen fast enough.

He knew his only chance of redemption was to untangle himself from her and get as far away as fast as he could. Unfortunately she seemed to have other ideas.

"Monica. Lemme go," he managed to grunt.

"Can't," she murmured into his mouth. "He's watching us again."

Crap. Crap, shit, fuck.

He had no choice but to stay exactly where he was, and sweet Jesus, if she would only move her hand then things wouldn't be nearly so bad.

"Agent Reyes," he began.

"Monica," she corrected, and her hand inched higher.

Ohgod. Did he just groan? "Fuck." Yep, he did. He was having an honest to goodness religious experience, right in the middle of a roomful of strangers, and there was nothing he could do – nothing he wanted to do – to stop it.

She left his mouth and concentrated on his neck, biting and grazing and making his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he knew that he'd be marked in the morning, but he didn't care. Then – then she suddenly stopped, and he growled – actually growled, when she took her hand away and picked up her drink.

"What the fuck are you playing at, Agent Reyes?"

She put her drink back down, wound his arm around her waist and stepped back against him. "I told you," she said, pressing her ass against his groin, "its Monica. The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be."

Sweet fucking Jesus. A woman does not lean back against a man and not feel his erection. She just doesn't. So either it was a deliberate action or . . . there was no 'or.' He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. He really wanted to know what was going on. "Monica," he began, only to stop when she threw her head back and exposed her long throat. She was so not playing fair.

He was so going to punish her for that, and . . . wait, where the hell had that thought come from? Think un-sexy thoughts, think un-sexy thoughts. Trouble was, he couldn't seem to think of any, and shit! What the FUCK was she doing now? She was rubbing against him. And the friction – oh god, the friction was killing him.

"John," she replied, the smugness evident in her tone.

He sucked her skin into his mouth in an effort to control the noises that threatened to spill out and embarrass him; if he was going to wear her mark, then she sure as hell was going to wear his too.

"Don't start something you can't finish," he warned.

"Don't you," she retorted, and ground against him once more.

He swore again, and reminded himself that this was all her fault.

"How do you figure?"

"Huh?"

"You said this was my fault," she said slowly. "And I said, 'How do you figure?'"

He'd said that out loud? Well then, shit. He may as well tell her. Hell, she probably knew anyway. "Blue shirt," he said, and kissed the spot that was already beginning to purple. "Love that blue shirt." Oh yeah, he really loved that shirt.

She moaned again, and he was still the man. "I know. Why do you think I wear it?"

"You . . . what?"

"I know."

Crap. Shit, fuck, crap. She knew.

"You know?" he repeated stupidly.

"Uh-huh."

"And you . . . wait. You wear it every week, and you know?"

"Yep."

"But –" Oh, this was not good.

"What, you think that you can spend all day staring at the third button and I wouldn't notice?"

"I . . . shit. You really knew."

He was so not the man after all. But hey, if she knew about the button, then it really was her fault.

"Okay," she laughed, and he realised that he'd spoken out loud again. "I'll accept some of the blame."

Some? Nah-uh. It was all on her. He was completely blameless. Innocent, even.

"Really?" she asked, and turned to face him.

Again? How could he not realise that he was saying these things out loud? Oh yeah. Butt, tongue, lips, skin, smell. Kinda clouded his senses a little.

"Then what's this?" And she rubbed her hand against his groin, and he almost died a happy man right then and there.

Okay. Really not fair. "Circumstances," he tried to explain. "Extenuating circumstances. Very." And so what that he couldn't form a coherent sentence – again. It just proved his point that it really wasn't his fault.

She leaned forward and kissed him. "You're so cute when you babble."

He grinned, because cute was good.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

She stroked him again. "I have just the leash for that thing."

Fu-uck. She was gonna kill him.

And he grinned again, because it would so totally be her fault.

End.