~*~*~*~ SMUT ALERT ~*~*~*~

DON'T READ THIS AT WORK!!!

CHAPTER 22

When their session was over, Tomás said, "I can marry you in the 
Church. I *am* a real priest, you know." Doggett and Reyes grinned 
at each other, revealing equal amounts of joy, excitement, and 
anxiety. "But you wouldn't be *legally* married without a license, 
and under the circumstances..."

"No, you're right," Reyes sighed. "But a church wedding... I'm not 
religious, well not in the way you think of it."

"Neither am I," Doggett volunteered.

"Yes, I know," Tomás laughed. "If that bothered us, would you be 
here?" Chastised, Reyes and Doggett remained silent as Tomás 
continued more seriously. "After tonight's events, might I suggest 
sooner rather than later? We have already started preparing for your 
departure..."

"Preparing? How?" Reyes asked, startled.

Tomás leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "We make up something 
like care packages for the people we help. Things to help you along 
the road, in case you can't go back home."

Doggett's face wrinkled up with worry. "What have you heard?"

Tomás sighed. "Your Skinner? He replied with one word: No."

The newly engaged couple looked into each others' eyes, communicating 
all that needed to be said. "So what happens now?" Reyes asked.

"We'll give you enough information to find your way to another 
shelter. But it will be up to you to actually find it. We can't 
risk another leak. You'll pick your time. You'll pick your place." 
Tomás started rocking in the rocker, feigning a more relaxed attitude 
than he felt. "You may decide not to look for others of the Via. 
It's up to you. We don't want to know." He rocked back and forth a 
few times as the pair before him sat in silent thought. "It's better 
that way," he added.

They sat in silence for a long moment, then heard a tentative knock 
on the door. Monica rose to open the door, and found a bashful 
Gibson. He eyed the diamond on Monica's finger and waited patiently 
for her to say something. "Yes," Monica answered his silent 
question. "We've decided to get married."

"Congratulations," Gibson said, holding out his hand to shake hers.

Monica ignored his polite gesture and reached around his shoulders, 
hugging him tightly. "Thank you, Gibson," she murmurs.

Gibson pulled away and smiled, then turned to 
John. "Congratulations," he repeated. John waved an acknowledgement 
and smiled awkwardly.

Tomás repeated his own congratulations then excused himself, leaving 
the little family together in the candlelight.

"Did you still want to talk to me?" Gibson asked, a little nervous 
but steeling himself for the questions.

John tried to suppress a grin. "Yes, Gibson. We need to know more 
about your parents."

Gibson's eyes reddened but he stood firm and answered, "Ask me 
anything. It's okay."

Monica put a hand on his shoulder and led him toward the rocker, his 
favorite seat by now. "You're sure, Gibson," she asked 
soothingly. "If it's too much..."

"He said it's okay," John interrupted testily. "Monica, let him 
talk. He wants us to know."

"He's right. I do," Gibson assured her.

"C'mon Mon," John urged. "Sit down over here. Let the boy talk."

Gibson winced at the word "boy" but continued looking Monica in the 
eye. "I'm good," he assured her again.

Reluctantly, she returned to the couch, where John was patting the 
seat next to him. He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a 
little squeeze. She responded with a proportionately small smile, 
then leaned back.

"Now, Gibson," John started, his investigative persona coming to the 
fore. "Were those parents your natural parents? Or were you 
adopted?"

"My parents were my real parents," Gibson replied. "I don't know who 
those two people were, though." He started rocking gently, his feet 
pushing off from the floor. "They seemed different."

Monica nodded. "When you were living with them, did you notice 
whether they had a bump?" She put her hand to the back of her 
neck. "Right here? Either of them?"

Gibson shook his head. "No, but my foster parents did. Both of them."

***************************

John sighed. "I'm so sorry, Gibson," he said sincerely. "I helped 
set that up."

"It's okay," Gibson said bravely. "You couldn't have known. They 
were very good at fooling people."

"But they didn't fool you?" Monica said. "Why?"

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully, reflecting back on his short 
time with them. "They were just ... different. They didn't really 
think. They were doing all the right things, but there was nothing 
behind it. Not from within themselves anyway."

"They were being controlled by an outside force?" Monica probed, her 
raised eyebrows showing more curiosity than concern. Gibson somehow 
felt comforted by this change in her demeanor.

"Seemed like it," he concluded. "Like, they would be in the middle 
of something, then they would suddenly leave the house. As if 
someone called them, but I couldn't hear anything."

John and Monica exchanged glances. "Well, this is something new," 
John said, sighing. "And you couldn't sense anything different when 
this happened?"

Gibson tried to remember it better, but just shook his head in 
frustration.

"Okay," Monica said, keeping a positive yet inquisitive frame of 
mind. "Back to your original parents. No bumps on the neck... but 
did they *seem* different in any way? Were they controlled by an 
outside force? Did they do anything unusual? Have unusual friends?"

He shook his head again. "They were just like other people, but..." 
Gibson paused, hoping not to have to continue, but both John and 
Monica looked at him expectantly. "But this man came to visit 
sometimes. They tried to make me leave the house when he came, but 
sometimes I could sneak back in."

"This man," John questioned, feeling his interrogator's muscles 
coming back. "What did he look like? Taller than me? Shorter? How 
old was he?"

"He was tall," Gibson said, but then he grinned and added, "But I 
think everybody is tall."

"You're not too old for a growth spurt," Monica said. "And I've been 
meaning to talk to you about your calcium..." John shot her a glance 
and she said, "What color was his hair?"

"Gray, and his skin was kind of gray too. He smoked. A lot," Gibson 
said, noting the pair's instant reaction to this detail. "There were 
always stubs from Moreley's in the ashtray when he'd been there.

Monica and John looked at each other significantly.

"What?" Gibson asked.

"We think we know something about him," Reyes said calmly. "But the 
last anyone's heard of him he was very ill."

"I don't think we have to worry about him," Doggett said thougtfully, 
leaning forward and putting his hands on his head and smoothing his 
hair back. "But he probably wasn't working alone."

"There may have been others," Gibson said, rocking faster, his feet 
slapping against the paving stones. "I can't remember.." he pursed 
his lips, straining to remember. "It was a long time ago..."

"That's okay," Monica said soothingly. "Take your time."

John looked at her disapprovingly and she mouthed "What?" He mouthed 
back "Later," and turned his attention to Gibson.

"Think of... think of people in suits. Men in black suits maybe. Or 
pinstripes..." he urged gently. "They may have had bulges here," he 
patted his side. "Where they would have had their guns."

Gibson shook his head. "Sorry. That one man is all I remember."

"It's okay," Monica cooed. "As you remember more things be sure to 
tell us. We knew that one man, we may know others."

"If you don't mind," Gibson said, standing and walking to his 
room. "I'm tired." He opened the door slowly, turning around to 
check their expressions. "Goodnight," he said.

"Well," John said heavily. "That's our signal. He eyed her 
mischievously and pushed himself up from the sofa. "Oww!" he 
groaned. "I'm too old for this sh--"

Monica grabbed his arm and helped him right himself. "Nobody feels 
good after being thrown into a wall," she clucked. "You're not 
old." She grabbed him around the waist and added, "You're certainly 
not too old for me."

He grinned and kissed her, softly, tenderly. Not the kiss of an old 
man, she thought. They worked their way toward the bedroom slowly, 
each step separated by several kisses, until Monica grabbed John by 
the shoulders and started pushing him onto the bed. He fell backward 
onto the mattress and yelped.

"I have something for that," Monica grinned, pulling at his pants. 
He cooperated, pushing his jeans down, and when she reached for his 
underwear he groaned. "Awww," she sighed. "I bet that hurts."

"Hmm mmm," he answered, his voice muffled by his pillow.

"And I bet you could use a massage, too," she said softly, moving her 
hands up under his shirt. She reached for one of the vials Catherine 
had given her, and opened it. A pungent yet oddly sweet aroma wafted 
out, making her grimace. "I have something for the muscle aches... 
And something else for this," she said, poking one of his puncture 
wounds.

"Ow!" he shouted.

"Just testing," she said, reaching for the other bottle. "We'll 
start here..." She poured a little of the white fluid onto each 
cactus wound then gently rubbed it in. "That's okay?" she asked 
tentatively. He responded with a satisfied moan, and she continued 
until they were all treated. "And now for the fun part," she said, 
grabbing the other vial. She poured some of the pungent oil into the 
palm of one hand and rubbed her hands together. Starting with his 
neck, she massaged, him, replenishing the oil frequently, until she 
felt his muscles loosening.

"What was it you were going to tell me later?" she asked, still 
massaging his back. "About Gibson?"

"Mon, don't take this the wrong way, but there's something you gotta 
know about teenage boys." John paused as he chose his words. "I 
know you're not his mother, but you're the closest thing right now. 
And, well..." He could sense her steeling herself against hurt 
feelings, but he felt it needed to be said. "He seems to like you. 
And that's good. Just don't..." he took a deep breath and 
finished. "Don't hug him in front of people. You're babying him. 
Let him have some dignity. Awright?"

Monica's lips clenched as she nodded. "Okay. Anything else?" She 
skipped to his thighs, massaging them with the same oil

"No," he smiled reassuringly. "You've been doing a great job." He 
sighed as she switched thighs. "You're a natural." 

"Thanks," she sighed. "I got to know a lot of traumatized kids when 
I worked the Crimes Against Children Division in New York, but not 
many were teenaged boys. You'll tell me if I mess up again?"

He rolled over and smiled up at her. "By that time he'll feel 
comfortable telling you himself," he said reassuringly. "He's 
already opened up to you a lot. You're good for him."

Monica blushed. "So are you. This isn't making you think of Luke?" 
She started massaging his shoulders from the front, her hair hanging 
down and swaying as she moved.

"No," he said, watching her hair. "He's his own person. He's not a 
replacement for Luke, if that's what you mean." He turned his eyes 
toward hers and she looked down on him.

"Yes, that's what I meant," she sighed, moving her hands 
downward. "And I'm glad to hear it. He deserves that much."

A comforting silence came between them as she worked lower. "Thank 
you, I feel much better," he said huskly, grabbing her hands, then 
running his own up the length of her arms. He pulled her down and 
toward him until she was on top of him. Smiling, he whispered, "I 
think I'm ready for that make-up sex now."

**************************************

"Oh you are?" she smiled coyly and rolled onto her back beside him. 
He rolled with her and assumed a push-up position over her. "That 
backrub was supposed to be relaxing!" she laughed.

"It was," he said, bending to kiss her cheek, then whispering into 
her ear, "I'm *all* relaxed except the one place you didn't massage."

"Maybe I should massage it, then?"

"Gotta be thorough," he said softly, nuzzling her neck.

Monica reached between them, her hands sending involuntary spasms 
through his body as they made their way downward. When they reached 
their goal he gasped and buried his face in her hair. "Monica..." he 
growled. "You're so good to me..." He gasped again when she reached 
still further, gently kneading him as he began to move against her.

"I can see you have a problem there," she laughed lightly. She 
pushed him onto his back, watching his eyes, their lids half-open, 
his glazed pupils fixed deliriously on hers. She grinned, mirroring 
his own expectant grin, then buried her face in his neck and started 
a slow trail of kisses downward, over his chest, his abs, and 
finally... His chest heaved as she sucked, licked and stroked him in 
all the ways he loved, then found a few new ones. She continued her 
slow tease, as he wove his fingers through her hair and breathed 
noisily until he suddenly slipped a hand under her chin and pulled 
her away.

"Not yet," he whispered huskily.

She slid seductively up his body, then lay on top of him, her hands 
cradling the back of his head. "I must be doing something wrong," 
she whispered. "It isn't relaxed yet."

"Maybe I can't relax if you're not relaxed," he winked. They rolled 
over and he snaked a trail of tender kisses from her ear to her chin, 
down the side of her neck and over her collarbone, coming to rest on 
an overripe nipple. Alternating light, fluttery motions of his 
tongue with warm and enveloping suckling, he took his cues from her 
sighs and gasps, which gradually grew more frantic. His fingers went 
to the other breast, imitating the ministrations of his mouth, gently 
kneading the rosy nub. Her sighs grew deeper and more insistent as 
he continued to work both breasts, instinctively lightening then 
deepening the pressure on each. As she gyrated under him, he pushed 
himself into her, rubbing his throbbing cock against her strong 
thighs. And as he felt her body writhing he also *felt* her 
feelings, her ecstasy, and she in turn sensed his impending release. 
She whispered, "John, I feel your..." then suddenly threw back her 
head and squealed from the back of her throat as her body shuddered 
underneath him. Her orgasm reached deep into his soul, moving to the 
pit of his stomach then pushing onward to his own ultimate release, 
linking their bodies in inexorable spiritual union.

John collapsed on top of her, then rolled to her side, keeping an arm 
over her waist. "How did you do that?" John asked, when his 
breathing approached normal.

"Do what?" Monica asked, pushing sweat-dampened strands of hair 
behind her ear.

"I felt you," he sighed. "I felt what you were feeling."

She stroked his cheek and smiled knowingly. "You were open to me," 
she answered. "And I felt you too."

After edging closer to her, he shook his head and said in 
amazement, "That just shouldn't be possible. Any of what happened..."

"I know," she pulled him still closer. "But why question it?" She 
wrapped her arms around him, kissing him tentatively then pulling 
back. "I want my husband to know what I feel."

A gleeful grin crossed his face. "And the future Mrs. Doggett.... I 
love the feel of her mind inside mine." He kissed her tenderly then 
whispered into her ear, "That part of her mind anyway."

"They do say the mind is the most important sex organ," she 
teased. "Maybe we should just think about it..."

"Oh no...." he mockingly chided. "Tell me what I think of that 
idea...." And as he held the image in his mind of their bodies 
writhing, a smile spread over her face. With the tip of his fingers 
he traced the line of her jaw, stopping at her chin, then he gently 
ran his thumb over her smiling lips. She captured his thumb and 
sucked on it seductively, her liquid eyes fixed on him. "I think you 
know, but I hafta tellya, Mon..." he whispered huskily. "Making love 
to you is incredible... and it keeps getting better and better." He 
pulled his thumb from her mouth and kissed her tenderly, keeping his 
mouth on hers as he slid on top of her and sought entrance to her 
soul once again.

Monica reached her arms around John's neck, then ran her hands 
through his hair as he started thrusting in slow, sensuous motions 
that made her whimper. He pulled her legs up, hooking them over his 
shoulders, and her delighted squeals spurred him to more rigorous 
pounding below. Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, 
John paused, and Monica could feel what he wanted to do. "Yes," she 
whispered, then pulled away from him and got on all fours.

Without speaking, they resumed their animalistic dance, each sensing 
the other's pleasure until their spirits poured out in mutual ecstasy.

Later, they lay next to each other, basking in shared comfort and 
trust, silent except for their breathing. John broke the silence 
first, saying, "I sure hope Gibson didn't overhear that. If he knew 
what it was like to link minds that way..."

"I'm sure he knows," Monica said nonchalantly, wrapping an arm around 
his waist. "But we don't have to worry about him and Lita. They're 
not ready."

John brought a hand to her hair and cradled her head. "You're good 
for all of us. Lita included," he said, kissing her cheek 
lightly. "You're a good person, Monica."

"Good has nothing to do with it," she protested. "I love you, and I 
love them. How could I do otherwise?" Before he could answer, she 
turned around, letting him spoon behind her.

He leaned forward to whisper into her ear, "That's what I mean."