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the sun doesn't help

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After the funeral, Monica really isn’t expecting to hear from him again. The evidence that he is just as much of a petty liar as he seems, a total hypocrite, talking peace and forgiveness out of one side of his mouth at the exact same moment that he’s filing a revenge lawsuit against Pied Piper just because he can’t handle having lost to Peter at TechCrunch, one last time- well, it’s not exactly making Monica feel better about her decision to fuck him.

 

Honestly, though? At least that had been a decision. In the last week Monica doesn't feel like she’s decided or done anything; conversations happen to her, the sun comes up and goes down several hours later, but she really doesn’t care either way. Her new boss has repeated the words “Peter Gregory is dead” so many times that they've lost all meaning, so every morning some part of Monica is surprised to walk into Raviga and see that tiny, owlish woman in his place. All Peter’s clients, meanwhile, are so needy, somehow finding ways to make this about themselves and their shitty, doomed companies.

 

Anyway, one evening after she’s ushered the last of the insufferable money-grubbers out of the office, and is standing behind her desk, contemplating the possibility of a cigarette- just one- a Hooli chat bubble pops up on her phone.

 

“How did you get this number?” she says, frowning down at Gavin Belson’s smug, smirking face.

 

“I’m outside,” he says. He’s in the front seat of a car, judging by the background of the image.

 

“What, here?” He nods. Monica has a lot of fucking questions about that, but she is honestly far too tired to even bother.

 

“Fine,” she says. “You can come in, I haven’t locked up yet.”

 

Honestly, at this point, she thinks, why  wouldn’t this happen. Why wouldn’t Gavin Belson also be here, stalking me, on top of everything.

 

She looks up to see him leaning in the doorway, looking smug as always. He’s wearing some kind of ugly sweater, even though it’s fucking hot out; he has no eyebrows to speak of, which makes him look creepy, like a troll doll or something; Monica finds that her hands are shaking. She wouldn’t trust herself to speak even if she had anything to say.

 

“Shall- I want to go into his office,” Gavin says, with this air of entitlement to his voice that she can’t stand. Laurie fucking Bream’s office now , she thinks, but she just shrugs and follows him over. There are a couple boxes of Peter’s things still by the door, nothing important or valuable, just stuff that should probably be thrown out whenever Monica can get around to going through it. Fencing magazines. Designs for miniature airplanes drawn on the backs of envelopes. Gavin’s kneeling down and rifling through one of the boxes.

 

Abruptly Monica is furious that Gavin Belson thinks he can be here, touching Peter’s things when Peter isn’t even here to complain about it- irrationally furious that Gavin Belson is here in Peter’s office and Peter is not, and no one else is left in California who gives a flying fuck (Peter’s sister, yeah, but she’s gone back to Pennsylvania now). It’s not fair , she thinks, and then hates herself for thinking that. She’s not a four-year-old child. She’s pushing thirty, and she’s seen enough in this town to know that life isn’t fair and never will be.

 

Be that as it may, she’s crying now, for the first time in days, and a real ugly cry too, shoulders shaking and snot running down her face and horrible sobbing noises escaping her open mouth.

 

Unprofessional, she thinks. She’s managed to hold it together this week, more or less, wearing smart pumps and sensible blouses and holding a distant, neutral smile.

 

The irony of it is, Peter knew her, could judge her on the body of her work for him over the years, would know that this is just a shitty week and give her a couple of inches of slack to get through it. Now, though, Laurie and the rest of the partners are in and out, and everything’s in flux. Everything’s in question, including Monica’s position at Raviga, so this is the week when it’s most important that she come off as more than the pretty token woman with the histrionic emotional issues, that she demonstrate that she can hold her shit together, make it look effortless. And she’s managed it, barely. Buried everything deep enough under layers of small talk and poise- but now, as Gavin fucking Belson is rifling through Peter’s private things like he has any right- anyway, she doesn’t give a fuck what Gavin Belson thinks of her or her professionalism.

 

He turns around after a minute, either not finding whatever the fuck he’s looking for, or finally unable to ignore the conspicuous display of human emotion in the room any longer. He just frowns at her, not saying anything. It’s not fair , Monica thinks again.

 

After a minute or so more, she pulls herself back together, rubs her face and looks at the eye makeup that covers her hands in mild interest.

 

“What are you doing here,” she asks.

 

“You- your face,” he says, gesturing and grimacing. She nods and goes to get tissues off of the desk.

 

“Okay,” she says. “I shouldn’t have even let you in here. Tell me what you want.”

 

“You said,” Gavin starts, and then looks almost uncertain for a moment. “You said I could contact you.” She had said that, hadn’t she. She can’t remember why. Somehow, a week ago, she’d felt capable of coping and somehow also supporting someone else- a total stranger at best, at worst an enemy- it seems like something from another life.

 

“I’m not talking,” she says. “I don’t want to talk. So if that’s what you want, you know. Hire a therapist.” He nods.

 

Something in her, the same part that’s satisfied by the killing off of cells every time smoke scorches her throat, that’s desperate to get out from under this stupid, heavy fog, to fuck up if it’s the only alternative to inaction- something in her says

 

“You can fuck me again. We can fuck on his desk,” and that idea should be disgusting or ridiculous but it’s happening.

 

“Get your,” and Gavin gestures at her pencil skirt impatiently. “You have to get that shit out of the way.”

 

Monica crosses the office, unzips the skirt and lets it fall to the floor, pulls her underwear and pantyhose down just far enough and braces her hands against the edge of the desk.

 

“Condom,” she says, and he sneers and brandishes one.

 

“Obviously. I have no intention of paying child support-”

 

“Shut up and fuck me,” she says, and he obliges. She’s not even that turned on, honestly, not wet enough for the stretch not to skirt the rough edge of painful. She grunts. Gavin grips her hips and moves her, driving in and out monotonously. The angle is not particularly good for her, though it is convenient how close they are in height; and when she glances over her shoulder he’s not even looking at her. His eyes are scanning the room, brow furrowed. He’s thinking about Peter.

 

“He would fucking hate you for this,” she says, and Gavin growls.

 

“Fuck him,” he says. “Let him hate me. He’s good at it.”

 

I hate you, she thinks, and it’s true. It doesn’t even make any sense to her why Peter cared about this small-spirited, selfish man. Somehow even though he’s fucking her it’s like he doesn’t know she’s there- she might as well be a fleshlight or something, just an accessory- he’s certainly not touching her anywhere that might help her get off.

 

There is definitely something unfeminist about how wet that fact is making her. She reaches down to drag two fingers over her clit, moaning. This is weird, this should be weird, this doesn’t feel weird. It feels right. For the first time in a while Monica is one hundred percent sure where she is. She comes almost too easily, faster than she ever has with a vibrator or the boyfriend of the week lapping dutifully at her cunt.

 

Gavin makes sort of a surprised noise, and she tightens her cunt around him again, on purpose this time, still feeling the aftershocks of her orgasm. He twitches inside her. Fuck. Monica reaches a hand up to push her hair out of her face, pushes back on his dick, willing him to hurry up but not wanting to speak and remind him that she’s there. It doesn’t take too much longer after that for him to finish and pull out, tying off the condom and throwing it in the wastebasket. Monica wonders whether Laurie will look down and notice it in the morning. It’s still less conspicuous than Gavin pulling out and coming all over Peter’s old desk, which she realizes she’d half been expecting him to do. If it was anyone else that would be a ridiculous thought, but this is Gavin Belson.

 

He zips up his pants and starts to say something. “Well- good,” he says, and then does a weird little bow.

 

“Mhmm,” Monica says, and does a little half-wave. She waits for him to leave, then gets in her car. She smokes two cigarettes on the drive home and then goes straight to bed, even though it’s barely nine p.m.