Author: Karen
(snarky_freak@hotmail.com)

Rating: Oh, heck.  Let's say strong R to 'mild' NC-17
Keywords: DRR.  Blatant DRR.  Doggettfic/Reyesfic
Summary: 'It all started with three words.'
Spoilers: Empedocles, 4-D, mainly.  All other spoilers are
very minor.
Disclaimer: Again, Doggett, Reyes, and the rest of the XF
peeps are not mine.  So, again, quit lookin' at me like
that, `kay?  On a side note, Tanner Lawson, D.V.M., is mine,
though.  In his case, I guess you can look at me like that...
Archive: All are more than welcome, just PLEASE notify me
via e-mail...
Author's Notes: Okay.  First off, for Chloe and Sarah, who
commissioned me to write a DRR fic wherein Reyes believes
Doggett's interested in Scully, but in reality, Doggett's
really interested in her.  I must admit that this was quite
a challenge for me, particularly because I wanted to explore
a great deal of the two characters' conflicted feelings for
one another.  So, yes, I apologize now for the length of
this baby!  I hope you do enjoy it...  Thanks again, C & S
for the rockin' challenge (just bring it, baby, just bring
it!)!  Also, this takes place about one and a half, to two
years after S9, with the episodes that have aired so far
serving (I'd say right up to TN1) as background stuff.
Lastly, if the rating hasn't scared you away yet, here goes:
BUG OFF KIDDIES!  THIS AIN'T FOR YOUs!!!  I'm doin' you a
favor by shoo-ing you away! ;o)  There, my conscience is
clear...

---

-Isosceles-

It all started with three words.

We were on M Street.  I dragged her to that stand I keep
talkin' about.  Not two blocks from her apartment, so we
walked to it.

Was it a Saturday--a Sunday?  I can't even remember.  But
still--

Still, I remember it.

Three words.  Who woulda thought?

I had nothin' to do that day--what else was new?

Alarm went off, got out of bed and thought of her, for some
reason.

Thought she probably had nothin' to do, either.  Seein' as
she'd just moved here, I figured she had nothin' to do.  No
one to talk to.

That sounded familiar, `cause that was me, too.  Nothin' to
do, no one to talk to.

Hell, we're partners.  Friends, even.  Good friends.  She's
seen me at my worst.  Least I could do was cheer her up...
So I drove there without calling first, knocked on her
door...  Well, I didn't really knock on her door, `cause it
was open, and she was standing right there, in the hall, with
her back to me.

She was arrangin' and re-arrangin' somethin'.

A welcome mat.  With green leaves and pink flowers.

I bit down on my tongue and fought off a nasty grin.  She
looked so pleased with it, how it went well with the color
of the wall, or somethin' like that...  Couldn't stand to
tell her it'll probably be gone the next morning.

Stolen.  Looted.  God knows why, but still--it happens.
All the time.

Three words.  Wow.

It didn't take much to convince her to walk to M Street.

What do I remember most?

The bare feet she slipped into those shoes, or the sweatshirt
she pulled over her white T-shirt?

Nice running shoes.  Faded sweatshirt.

Couldn't be those two things.

The messy ponytail?  The way she kept lookin' up for no reason
at all, just to smile at the clouds in the sky?

Her hair was too wispy to stay neat.  Her eyes were big and
hazel.

Couldn't be those, either.

That fist she made when she punched my arm, when I said
somethin' that made her laugh?

I couldn't take her fist seriously.  Monica was a peacemaker
to the end, and fists just weren't her style.

Couldn't be.

Three words.

Could be.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Probably.

"I met someone."

I remember leaning closer, and wordlessly offering her the
mustard.  "Huh?"

"I...  That's enough, John, thanks." she blocked the mustard
bottle and sucked the tip of her thumb, getting rid of the
excess I had accidentally squeezed onto her hand.  Typical
Monica.  No napkin, no problem--nothing she can't adapt to
and work around.

"Wha'd'you say?"

"I said," she took a small bite and chewed slowly.  "Met
someone."

The grease and smoke from the grill felt too hot and too
suffocating all of a sudden.  "Huh.  Yeah?"

She nodded as she walked to a bench and sat down.  "You're
right.  This is really good.  I'll probably--"

Met someone?  Who?  So what?  Why's she tellin' me this,
anyway?

"Where'd you meet him?"

Her slow smile worked its way to the corners of her mouth.
She held the bun in mid-air and looked at me from under her
brows.  "What makes you think it's a 'him,' John?"

"Fine.  Where'd'you meet?"  I looked away then, not sure
why, and stared at a store window across the street.  I could
see our reflection--Monica, happily chewing away at her food,
and me.  Starin' at nothing and everything all at once, and
not really knowing why.

I remember suddenly thinkin' about the welcome mat by her
front door.  I remember wanting to tell her that it'll be
gone the next morning, that there was no point putting it
there, no point trying to--

"The shelter.  He works there.  He just graduated from med
school and he--"

"Didn't know homeless shelters had their own doctors."

Another smile for me.  The kind that used to make me forgive
her for her freakiness sometimes, the kind that used to make
me feel that things would be fine, even when Hell was on
Earth and waiting for me.

The trademark Monica smile.  It was becoming infuriating,
all of a sudden.

"What's so funny?"

"Tanner's a vet, John.  He works at the animal shelter."

I shrugged, nodded, squinted and did just about everything
else but talk.  I know.  I probably had 'rude-son-of-a-bitch'
stamped all over my face then, but hey, you try sittin' there,
listenin' to that and watching her face light up.

Tanner.  Dr. Tanner whatever, D.V.M.

Tanner and Monica.

Monica and Tanner.

Sounded alright.

I guess.

What the hell kind of a name is Tanner, anyway?

It's a nice name, really.  And I'm just lonely.  I should
be glad for her, that she's not like me.

Lonely.  Miserable.  Alone.

Really.

I'm glad she met someone.  Glad to know she's makin'
friends around here.

Guess I should stop droppin' by for no reason at all on
Saturdays, or Sundays...

Right.  I should be happy.  Monica's my partner.  Monica's
my friend.  Monica deserves to be happy.

What am I talkin' like this for?

As if I had a say in anything.  As if it mattered to me,
really made a difference to me...

Why should I?  Why should it?

She's a free woman.

She's young.

Pretty.

Unattached.

Beautiful.

Those eyes of hers can get any guy in trouble, any time,
any day.

Attractive.  Yeah.  Very.

Hey, I'm a guy, and I'm straight, alright?  There'd be
somethin' wrong with me if I didn't think those kinds of
things.

Any red-blooded, straight guy would look at her and think,
'Yeah.  That's nice.  I like that.'

Hell, dollars to donuts, those green-blooded aliens Mulder
keeps talkin' about... If they're straight--God, Monica's
made me so politically correct these days--they'd probably
have second thoughts, before they try anything around
her...  Like kill her.  They'd think twice, look her over,
and maybe...

Yeah.

Sexy.  Monica was--is...

I remember clearing my throat and frowning at my polish
sausage sandwich.

What in hell am I doin,' thinking about her like this?
She helped me find Luke, for cryin' out loud.  She was
there at the funeral.  She was crying for me.  Me and
my wife.

Ex-wife.

For god's sakes, she knows my ex-wife.

Hell.  I'm just bein' honest, aren't I?

I wasn't afraid, not that--

Her smile widened and she nodded at the food in my hands.
"Since when did you stop inhaling these, John?  I thought
they were the best in the city."

Shut up, John.  Stop thinkin' like this--whatever this is,
John.  Just shut the hell up and talk to her, John.

I cleared my throat again and shrugged.  "They still are.
Guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought."

"You want to walk back?"

"If you wanna."

I couldn't care less, Monica.

Yeah.

Right.

"Are you okay?"

She was looking at me again.

Big, hazel eyes.  So worried all of a sudden.  For me.
About me.

She's not sexy, you bastard.

She's your partner, you bastard.

She's your friend.

And it's too damn late.

You bastard.

"Fine," I managed to breathe out.  A few steps away from her,
and she can't see my face any more.  I toss the sandwich in
the trash.  The waste.  The garbage.

You've got a dirty mind, John-boy.

That was all I kept saying to myself, the rest of the way
back to her apartment and my pickup.

She didn't bother trying to talk to me.  She's like that--
she knows me too well, knows the way my stupidities get the
better of me at times.

Best to stay quiet.

"See ya Monday."

Three words, spoken by me.

She nodded, smiled and half-waved as I unlocked the door on
the driver's side.  "Have a good weekend, John.  Thanks."

Typical Monica.  Never lets on that I've hurt her.  Her
feelings.  Just... Her.

I nodded, and watched her walk all the way up the stairs and
disappear.  She didn't even look back to see if I'd gone.

Guess she wanted to see if her welcome mat was still there,
where she left it.

I remember thinking up of an excuse to follow her.  It would
be so easy--

About that case last Tuesday...

I forgot to ask about those lab results you checked out
Friday.

You were at the animal shelter?  What for?  You gonna get
a cat, a dog--

A boyfriend?

She met someone.

That's nice.

I'm happy for her, really.  `Cause she deserves it, more
than anyone else.

After everything I've put her through, she more than
deserves it.

As if I had a say in anything.

She met someone.

Really, that was nice.

Monica.

Tanner.

It sounded okay, really.

I remember slamming the door shut and driving home.

I felt lonelier than ever, and found myself wishing I'd
never dropped by in the first place.

That welcome mat was for Dr. Tanner whatever, D.V.M.

Not me.

And I didn't know why, but I went home, crawled under the
covers and pretty much slept the rest of the weekend away.

Seemed every time I woke up, or got outta bed, I kept
thinkin' `bout nothing but three words.

She met someone.

---

It's been what?

A week, two weeks, maybe?

Feels like months, years--even.

I'm reading an autopsy report, and I'm staring at her.

She's got her glasses on.  Her eyes are scanning the file
in front of her for something.

"You lookin' for somethin'?"

She smiles and looks up at me, before she shifts her gaze
to the clock on the wall.  "I was," she says as she removes
her glasses, closes the file and stands up.  "Not any more."

I watch her walk to the coat rack and pull her silk scarf
off the hook.  "Where you goin'?"

"Home, John.  It's almost six.  You should go, too."

"I'm still readin' this."

She shrugs and grins at me.  "If you're trying to make me
feel guilty, it's not working.  I have to go.  Actually,
I'm running late already."

Her arms slide into the sleeves of her coat, before she
gathers her hair up in one hand and pulls it over her collar.

"Yeah?" I look down and squint at the autopsy report.  None
of your business what she does after work, John.  None of
your business.  "Got a date tonight?"

Monica laughs under her breath.  "You can say that."

"How is Tanner, by the way?"  None of your--

"He's..." she pauses and smiles, searching for the right
words, and thinking about Tanner, too, no doubt.  "Fine,
John.  I'm surprised you even remember his name."

I can only nod at her.

Not like I have a say in anything, right?

"He's taking me to the opera tonight."

My head snaps up and I can feel myself frowning at her in
confusion.  "Since when d'you like the opera?"

Another laugh for me.  She buttons up her coat and picks up
her bag from a nearby chair.  "I don't; he does.  He thinks
I'll like it, so, hey--I'll give it a try."

Open-minded.

Carefree.

Typical Monica.

It's a love-hate relationship that I have with that side of
her.

I hate it.  How that side of her pushes me to dredge up
things I'd rather forget or ignore.

But, all the same--

I love it.  How that side of her makes me stop and think
twice about rules, and limits, and things I can and can't,
or should and shouldn't do.

I shrug and smooth out my hair, taking the pencil in my hand
along for the ride.  "Have fun tonight, Monica."

She grins, rolls her eyes and turns to leave.  One last look
over her shoulders, and she'll be gone in a few seconds.

"I will, or at least, I'll try...  John?"

"Yeah?"

Her face turns serious, but only for a second or two.  A look
of concern wipes away the cheerful glint in her eyes.

"What is it--what's the matter?" I couldn't help but ask.
Maybe, just maybe, there was something she wanted...

"Nothing, really.  I just worry about you.  Go home, okay?"

The expression on her face tugs at something pounding under
my ribcage, and my voice momentarily fails me.  "Yeah.
`Course I will.  Thanks, but don't worry about me, Monica.
Really--I'm fine."

She nods--apparently understanding what the hell it was I
just said--then turns on her heels and walks down the hallway.

The sound of her footsteps fading little by little into the
background suddenly makes me wish we were still out on a
case somewhere, in the middle of nowhere.

No opera music.

No dinner dates.

No Tanner.

Whatever.

---

She smiles as if her life is perfect.

Maybe it is.  Or maybe it's close to perfect, at least.

"What's on your mind?"

I cast a glance at the rearview mirror and catch my own
eyes staring at me.

"Nothin'," I answer her bluntly.  'Nothin' you'd wanna
hear, that's for sure...'

"Come on, John.  You've had that look on your face for
an hour now.  What is it?"

"It's nothin', alright?"

I can see her jaw clenching just a little bit.  Her hair
moves around slightly--a clear indication that she's
shaking her head at me.  "Suit yourself..."

"When d'you say this guy we're investigatin' was born?"

Sure, John-boy, go ahead.  Ask the stupidest, most irrelevant
question in the world, why don't you?

As stupid as my question sounded, she humors me and starts
rummaging through the papers in the file folder resting on
her lap.  "September...  23rd... 1952."

She doesn't even ask me why.  She knows me that well.

How come I don't know her like that?  How come I don't--

"Any plans for the weekend?"

I shrug and frown at the road before me.  Must she ask that
question?  I mean, really...  Of all people, she oughta
know...  Unless--

"You know, there's a NASCAR race tomorrow afternoon."

I nod at the windshield.  '`Course I'd know; that's the
highlight of my weekend, right there...'  "Yeah.  You're
right.  Heard some guys talkin' about it earlier.  Maybe
I'll watch it..."

"What time do you want to come over?"

I turn my head and regard her blankly.

What about your weekend?

Don't you see enough of me already?  Aren't you sick of me
yet?

What about your boyfriend?

Are you still seeing him?  Does he know about me?

Does he look at you the way I look at you now?

It's too damn late...

Isn't it?

"Huh?"

Wow.  You've got a Ph.D., dumbass, and that's all you
can come up with?

"The race.  I was thinking we could..." Monica tucks a
lock of hair behind her ear and shrugs a shoulder at me.
"Watch it together.  I mean, I don't see you over the
weekend any more, John.  You haven't dropped by lately,
and...  I mean, you're probably busy, but..."  She sighs
and smiles at her own mess of words before she takes a
quick breath and tries again.  "We can get hotdogs..."

"You mean, polish sausage."  I look ahead at the road,
thinking it over.

"So...?"

"Don't you got somethin' or somewhere else to--"

"Well, no, I just thought--"

I can practically feel her blushing beside me.  I don't
blame her.  Hell, if I were in her shoes, I'd probably
punch me for bein' such a Grade A asshole.  But I'm not in
her shoes, and she's not like that.

"Be there at two."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I do something?"

"Huh?"

Monica shakes her head and folds her hands neatly on her
lap.  God, she looks like a little girl when she does that.
How could I do that to her?  Talk about feelin' like
somethin' I'd scrape off the sole of my shoe...

"`M sorry--"

"--just lately, it feels like you're mad at me for
something, John."

"No, it's nothin'.  Not that.  I'm not mad, Monica, I'm
just--"

Pissed off.

Annoyed.

Irritated.

A little upset.

Not myself.

"--havin' a bad day's all.  I'm sorry."

We drive the rest of the way in silence.  Monica dozes off,
while I mentally kick myself for bein' the guy she knows so
well.

---

"Excuse me..."

I turn around from the filing cabinet and look for the source
of the voice behind me.

Let me guess?

Dr. Tanner whatever, D.V.M., right?

"Can I help you?"

"Is...  Agent Reyes around?  I--"

"She's upstairs.  She'll be back in a few minutes.  Come on
in."

"Thanks.  Sorry, I didn't introduce myself, I'm Tanner
Lawson--"

"John Doggett--Agent Reyes's partner.  _Doctor_ Lawson,
right?"  I ask as I shake his hand.

"Yes, it is.  Well, it doesn't really--"

"Sorry," I wave a hand to dismiss his modesty and gesture
to the visitor's chair in front of Monica's desk.  "Please.
Have a seat.  She'll be here soon."

He thanks me again before he straightens his trench coat
and looks around the office, with somethin' like awe lighting
up his face.  He's takin' in the freak show, apparently.
Those alien-faces pictures.  Those yellow clippings from old
newspapers.  That poster, that screams MULDER IS STILL HERE,
SOMEWHERE, `CAUSE I WANT TO BELIEVE...

He probably never expected FBI Agents to work in basements,
and look into urban legends, and on and on and on.

'Tell you what, Doc, I never expected--never saw--this comin'
to me, either...'

Yeah.

Monica's type, definitely.

Dark brown--almost black--hair.  Slightly wavy hair.  Not
long, but not short, either.

Green eyes, or some color like that.

A Roman nose.

Face shaved religiously, and scrubbed clean every morning
and every night.  Doesn't look like it, though, `cause his
hair's so dark.  Always looks like he's got a five o'clock
shadow, even at ten in the morning.  Sorta looks like an
artist.  Or poet.  Mysterious, misunderstood.  Or somethin'
like that.

Monica's type.

Opera-lovin'.

Animal-lovin'.

`S it just me, or's there a pattern here, somewhere?

Tanner Lawson clears his throat and turns in his seat to
look at me.  "Agent...  Doggett?"

I look up from my desk and arch an eyebrow at him.

He doesn't look like a vet.  Not to my mind, at least.
Like I said, mysterious, misunderstood...  Monica's type.

"You know Monica really well, don't you?"

I try not to clench my jaw at this.  'Don't tell me, he'll
`fess up to me, her trusted, reliable, loyal and benevolent
partner, and say he wants to--'

"Why d'you ask?"

He shrugs and smiles down at the floor.  "It's like this,
see...  I want to--"

"Tanner?  What're you doing here?"

Speak of the She-Devil.  Monica breezes through the door
and almost floats over to her desk, obviously surprised
and pleased to see her vet-friend sitting in the office and
paying her a visit.

Tanner Lawson stands up immediately and turns his back on
me.  She's got his full and undivided attention, I take it,
and I can't say I blame him.  I wonder if he's seen her--

None of your business, John-boy.  None.  And you're a sick
bastard for wonderin' that about your partner...

Not really thinking, I push my chair back and head over to
the door.

"Monica.  Gonna check on those ballistics, `kay?  See if
they found somethin'..."

I'm about to step into the hallway when her vet-friend calls
after me.  I look over my shoulder and nod at him.  "Nice to
meet ya, too, Dr. Lawson.  `xcuse me."

I don't want a part in this.  I don't want to sit here, and
pretend I can't hear them, or see them, or...

I know what it looks like, but hey--

Jealous?  Me?

Come on.  It's Monica; why should I be jealous?

She's single and she's free to do whatever she wants.

Besides, I'm not.  I'm not even remotely interested in her;
she's a friend is all, and nothin' more.

And the two of them look good together, anyhow.

I should be happy for her.  Hell, I _am_ happy for her.

Not like I've ever made her smile like that before, the way
he does; the way he just did.

And why is that?

A year and a half, goin' on two years workin' together, and
she still looks at me that way.  The one and only way she
looks at me.

She smiles.

And her eyes try to tell me that everything's gonna be okay.
That I'll be okay.  That she'll do everything she can to
make sure I'm okay.

Is that all there is between us?

How come I never thought this before?

How come now, after seein' this guy--this Tanner Lawson,
D.V.M.--how come now, after all this time...

I think about her and say to myself, 'Why not?  How come
nothing--not a thing--has happened to change whatever's
between the two of us?'

I'm not gonna kid myself, here.  I know the answer, known
it all along.

I'm that pig-headed.

I've known all along how she felt about me.

All this time I've ignored her--that change in her.  That
tiny change in her that's been tryin' to tell me that yeah,
she wants me to be okay.  That yeah, I would be much better
than okay if I just let her in, just once, just for a
little bit.  That tiny change in her.  Made her think I
could make things okay for her, too.  Better than okay for
her.  Hell, she thinks I can make her real happy.

And what if I can?  Doesn't seem like she thinks that way
any more, anyway.  She's got her good-lookin' vet, now,
charmin' the...  pants off of her.

Christ.  Why on earth am I thinkin' these things?

Because.

Just because.

Face it, you sick bastard--she _thought_ you could make her
real happy.

She had that much faith in you, and you just shrugged it
off and looked the other way.

And now...?

Well, John-boy, I only got one thing to say--

You're too damn late, you son-of-a-bitch.

Too damn late.

You were too busy, with your head in your ass, tryin' to
put your life back together, to the way it was, with a
woman you truthfully don't know at all.  A woman who's
never thought twice about the man she really loves, a woman
who has no qualms lying and hiding and keeping secrets from
you for the sake of that man she loves; the man she'd die
for, and cry over, and sacrifice her health for...  Need I
say more?  Okay, I'm up for it now--insult to injury
time--let's have it: a woman who never would and never will
think of you the way you think--thought--think of her.

Leave the past in the past.

Stick it, John.  Stick it and just shut the hell up, `cause
practicin' what you preach has never been your style.  Leave
the past, but don't leave the past.  Believe it, but don't
believe it.  Feel it, but don't ever admit to it.  And the
ultimate kicker: fight for somethin' you don't believe in,
fight for the things you mock.  Somethin', anythin',
nothin'--just fight.  `Cause fightin' gives you a glimmer
of hope that next time around, you just might win Luke back,
from that place you don't believe exists, from that God
you've stopped talkin' to since that time you found Luke...

There a word for this delusion?  Yeah--Bullshit.  With a
capital B.  That's all you're good at; that's all you got
left.

And you wonder why you're miserable?

Agent Scully.  Dana.  Your wife.  Ex-wife.

William.  Will.  Luke John.  Luke.

They've never been one and the same.

You did that.  You made them one and the same.  Your own
stupid fault.

Face it, pal--

Everyone's moved on.

Even _she_ has moved on.

That one person you counted on and still count on, but never
really, properly, truthfully thanked--and probably never
will--she's moved on, too.

She got your stupid, self-destructive hints.  Took a while,
a long while, but hey--

She's in that basement office right now, and she's moving on,
like everyone else.

Everyone.

Everyone but you.

Christ.

Coffee sounds real good right about now.

---

-Equilateral-

He sleeps so peacefully.  Like a lamb.

If I tell him that when he wakes up later, I know he'll
laugh.

He'll laugh in that way of his, and he'll touch me--my face,
my shoulder, my arm.

For some reason, watching him sleep reminds me of the first
time I did this with Brad.

That was years ago, back in New York.

I had no idea where to go from there, from that night.

Thinking about it now, I can't help but smile, because I
still don't know how exactly things turned out the way they
did, all those years ago.

He sighs and rolls over on his stomach.  His pillow falls
over the edge of the bed and lands on the pile of clothes
on the floor.

"Tanner..."

I know he can't hear me, but I can't help trying.

"Tanner."  I reach across the bed and grasp one of his
shoulders gently.

Gradually, he raises his head from the covers and looks
around in the dark.  "Mon?  What is it?  Somethin' wrong?"

Actually, yeah--

Something's wrong.

For one--

I feel guilty; like I'm cheating on *him*, somehow.  Tanner,
is that normal?

No, Monica, it's not.  It's obsessive, and it's extremely
unhealthy and you should stop it right now...

I shake my head and try to smile.  "Nothing's wrong.  You
just lost your pillow."

He nods groggily, reaches for the pillow and clears his
throat.  "Thanks...  What're you doing up anyway?"

"Nothing, really.  I can't sleep.  Don't worry about it,
I'll be okay," I pause and drag the bed sheet over his back,
helping him to settle in again.  "I'm just thinking."

"Okay.  Happy thinking," he grins, winks affectionately at
me from under his eyebrows and closes his eyes.  "G'night."

"`Night."  I watch him again.  His body's relaxed, his
breathing has slowed to a quiet, contented snore, and I'm
left wondering one thing--

Does John sleep like that, too?

---

I thought women were supposed to be moodier than men.  I
thought women were always more emotional than men.
Apparently, I thought wrong.

He's frowning.

He's been frowning, on and off, since this morning.

"John?"

He furrows his eyebrows and squints at me.  "What?"

"It's almost lunch time.  Do you--"

"Go on ahead, Monica.  I'm not hungry yet."

No use arguing, then, if he's in that kind of mood.  I put
away the report I've been working on and stand up behind
my desk.  Just as I was about to grab my purse, the phone
rings.

John looks over at me, then looks back at his computer
screen again.

Get it, or don't get it--doesn't seem like it really
matters to him either way.

With a shrug, I pick up the phone and look at him.  "Monica
Reyes."

"Monica, hi.  It's Dana Scully.  I have that autopsy report
ready for you and Agent Doggett.  I'm sorry you didn't get
it back sooner, but--"

"Oh, Dana, it's okay.  Really.  We..." I turn slightly, look
over my shoulder and see John from the corner of my eye.
He's looking up at me again, this time with what seems like
renewed and genuine interest.

Probably hanging on every word...

And he's not looking at me; he's looking at the phone.

Probably wishing Agent Scully were right here, standing in
front of him and talking to us in person...

"...were going to drop by your office this afternoon, and--"

"Well I called in time, then, Agent Reyes.  I'll save you
and Agent Doggett the trouble and fax it right now."

"Thanks, Dana.  That would be great."  I had the momentary
urge to insist that we pick up the report from her office,
for John's sake, for his momentary happiness, even--anything
to cheer him up--but I hold back and bite my tongue.

If he's in love with her, he should tell her himself.  You
can't help him like that.

A few more friendly and pleasant exchanges with Agent
Scully, and then I hang up and grab my purse.

"That Agent Scully?"

As if he didn't know.

I nod and open the office door.  "She said she's faxing the
autopsy report to us.  Give her about ten minutes.  I'm
going out.  Do you want anything?"

"Where you goin'?"

Out for lunch, you idiot.  If you were listening earlier,
you would have known that...

I stand in the doorway and suppress a frustrated sigh.
'You're very sexy, John, but not when you're acting like
this...'  I shrug and wave a hand in the air.  "Just out;
I haven't decided yet.  Do you want to come with me?"

He looks around the office, momentarily lost.  Helpless,
all of a sudden.  Like one of those lost or abandoned
puppies Tanner handles every day at the animal shelter...
"John?"

He nods and shrugs.  "Okay.  I'd like that."

Moody, I say--moody.  But it doesn't stop me from worrying
about him right away.

"Are you--"

He sighs and shrugs into his suit jacket before he joins me
at the doorway and switches off the lights.  "I'm fine,
Monica.  Just tired.  Didn't get any sleep last night."

"How come?"

He holds the elevator door open for me and allows me to walk
in first.  "I dunno.  Just get like this sometimes."

His voice is hoarse and tired, and now, looking more closely
at him, I notice that his eyes are a little watery, too.
"Maybe you're getting sick, John.  Do you think you're
coming down with something?"

"Yeah.  Maybe."

"Orange juice."

That gets a slight reaction from him, as I knew it would.
"Huh?"

I grin knowingly as we step off the elevator and walk
through the lobby.  "Orange juice.  Vitamin C.  Or... If
you're feeling adventurous, you can try Echinacea.  It
helps--"

"Oh.  Yeah.  Thanks, Monica.  I'll keep that in mind."

There's something more, isn't there?

Deep down, I can sense something's not quite right with him.

"Do you want to talk about it?"  I remind myself not to pry,
not to push and prod and make him feel uncomfortable.  It's
taken me months to keep my curiosity and my concern in check.
Now it's become second nature for me to back off at the
subtlest of gestures.  But this...  I've never known John
to act like this--so down in the dumps--before.  It just
wasn't his style.  Now, brooding--that was more his
expertise...

He doesn't sigh.  He doesn't roll his eyes or grumble or
grunt, the way he usually does when I start asking and
probing him for answers he doesn't really want to volunteer.
To my surprise, he simply shakes his head and gives me an
honest answer.

"No."  He shrugs to himself as he looks straight ahead and
squints in the bright sunlight.  "Not really."

---

"So..."

John looks up from the Xerox machine and raises his eyebrows
at me.  "So...?"

Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the wall and
watch him carefully shuffling papers into a neat stack.
"Will you behave yourself while I'm gone?"

He chuckles briefly before he nods and picks up more papers
from the plastic tray.  "And if I don't...?"

I can't help but smile.  That smirk of his always has that
effect on me.  "If you don't, then-"

"Where you off to, anyway?"

I swallow, no...  I gulp nervously at him, as though I'd
been caught doing something I shouldn't be doing.  "I'm on
holidays.  Three weeks.  Personal time.  Why?"

He pouts at the pages in his hands, frowns at me, then looks
away as he walks down the hall and back into the office.
"Knew that.  I was askin' where, Monica."

"Oh."

John lowers the papers onto the top of a filing cabinet and
looks over his shoulder at me.  "Oh?  That a place I never
heard of 'til now?"

"No, sorry, I'm..." I consciously straighten up and square
my shoulders, as if the former Marine Sergeant standing
before me is about to bark out some staunch order I can't
disobey.  "Taking a trip, John."  A deep, calming intake of
breath, before I smile shakily and start again.  "I'm going
somewhere with Tanner."

"Huh," he returns his attention to the filing cabinet before
he continues in a more subdued and distracted voice, "Thought
you were gonna go to Mexico, see your folks."

"I'm not."

"Huh."

"I'm sure Tanner wouldn't mind that, though.  He likes
Mexico."

A pause looms heavily between us.  I shift my weight from
one foot to the other, cringing inwardly to myself when I
hear the linoleum squeak gleefully beneath the soles of my
shoes.

"John?"

"`M sure your folks'll like him, huh?"

There's nothing for me to do but nod.

Yes.  It really does feel like I'm cheating on you, John.
Or is it just me?  Probably.  Just me.

Cheating on him, and he couldn't even care less...  So maybe
I'm not really cheating, because he doesn't even look at me
that way, doesn't even think of me in those terms.  He never
will.  Why should he, when he's in love with a woman more
suited to his tastes, his lifestyle, his conservative
attitudes?

Right.  John.  In love.

Not with you, Mon.

He's in love with her, not with you.

He never was in love with you.

He never will be in love with you.

Never.

I nod, with a confidence I don't even feel.  "They probably
will.  I'm sure my mother would be-"

"Yeah.  She would be."

"John?"

"Uh-huh?"

Do you know how rude you are, how rude you can be?  I'm
standing here, talking to you, trying to tell you something,
anything, everything, nothing...

And all you can do is turn your back and distract yourself
with work.

I know you don't feel that way.  About me.  But I never knew,
never would have guessed-

That you don't or can't or won't even respect me at times.

"Monica.  What is it?"

I shake my head and look up at him.  He's abandoned the
photocopies and is now facing me, his hands placed
demandingly, authoritatively on his hips.  "Sorry, John.
What were you...?"

He shrugs, before he sits down and straightens his tie.
"You were sayin' somethin', or you wanted to say somethin'?"

Again, I shake my head.  I'm tired of this.  Tired of
pretending, and hiding, and telling myself to wait and hold
and keep everything together.  Inside, bottled up.  That's
not my style.  That was never my style.  Never has been,
never will be.

But...

Well.  Here it goes.  Here it goes again.  And again and
again.  And, yes...

Again.

But--

For his sake, I'll wait.  And hold and keep everything
together.  Inside, bottled up.  Where he can't ever know,
or find out.

He doesn't need that from me, he never has.

I'm a friend.  A colleague.  A helper.

That woman in his life.  A woman in his life.  Who happened
to be there when his life fell to pieces, when his own life
broke his own heart.

How could I even think he would see me in a different light?

He looks at me, and he sees nothing but Hell on Earth, waiting
for him.  A Hell that has no Luke, no wife, no family.  He
looks at me, and he's reminded of everything he's lost.  And
everything he's losing, too.

His partner.

His real partner.  Down here.  In the dark, quiet, musty
basement of the Hoover Building.

He's losing her.  And every day, when he walks into this
office, I'm a reminder of that painful fact.

At least, when she was still here, he could pretend and
make-believe that maybe, just maybe there was still a
glimmer of hope.

He fell in love with her, and I can't hold that against him.
It's only natural, and understandable, really.

It just hurts.

It hurts me.

"Mon...?"

A warm jolt of electricity suddenly shoots up my arm, and I
am forced to look up at him in confusion.

"Where were you just now?" His deep voice lowers to an
impossibly soft whisper as he allows his fingertips to dig
into my shoulder.  Like his voice, his blue eyes soften with
concern and worry.  "Hey--you alright?"

I'm his friend; he should, of course, be worried about me.
But, something... Somewhere in there, in those eyes,
there's something...

Something I always assumed or thought would look at me
differently...  Someday.

But I'm tired.  And hurt.  And waiting.

Tanner's waiting for me, too.

He may not be you, John, but...

He loves me.

I think he loves me.

I think, that when he looks at me, he isn't reminded of
those things.

Hell on Earth, waiting for him.

Death.

Loss.

A partner you love.

A partner who won't love you back.  Not the way you want
her to, not the way you rightly deserve to be loved in
return.

For some reason, I gently shrug away from his grip and take
a step back.  "I've gotta go, John.  I'll be late for my
flight."

His hand quickly drops to his side, and he gives me a curt,
and almost professional nod.  The tips of his ears redden
slightly, for some reason.  "Yeah.  Okay."

I'm disoriented.  I can still feel the warmth of his touch
on my arm, my shoulder, still feel those eyes I know so well
looking me over with worry and concern...  "I-"

He's turned his back on me again, his concern and worry for
me apparently forgotten.  "Have a good time."

"Yeah."

John returns to the papers on the filing cabinet.  He clears
his throat and resumes shuffling the pages.

Purse and coat in tow, I stand at the doorway and watch him.

It's like I've already left the office, and he didn't even
notice.

And doesn't even care.  That I've left.  That he didn't
notice I've left.

"I'll see you, John."

Another glance over his shoulder.  His eyes don't even
connect with mine; instead, they flicker restlessly over
and around the space my body occupies.

"Yeah.  Safe trip, Monica.  Wherever you're goin'."

One final look--difficult to describe in the way it
simultaneously pulls me closer and pushes me away--and
then he turns his back on me for the last time.

I can't explain it, but that one gesture actually gave
me the strength to walk out the door with a confidence
I couldn't genuinely feel.

John and I...

We're friends.  Partners.

John and I...

I was thinking...  Maybe.  Someday.

I close my eyes and listen to the elevator doors slide
shut.

Someday.

Maybe, just maybe--

I'm getting tired of waiting for it.

---

-Love-

Rain falling from the heavens never sounded like this
before: pounding on the concrete sidewalk like artillery
fire on a battered fortress.

Heavy splashing of puddles from cars driving in haste
through the wet curtain of raindrops-

They, too, added to the tattoo of the hustle and bustle
of water, and vapors, and thunder and lightning.  All
working and playing together to form a chaotic, but
paradoxically harmonious symphony.

The electric dryness of lightning.  Setting off the warning
grumble of thunder, which in turn summons the heavy storm
clouds.

And then-

Rain.  Nothing but rain.

Everywhere.

The rain blanketed the atmosphere, until it became one big,
wet Nothing.

It was amidst this loud and imposing blanket of Nothing that
he drove up, right in front of her apartment, and as close
to the half-flooded sidewalk as possible.

He looked quickly over his right shoulder to verify his
suspicions.  The smallest of grins played across his sharp,
flinty features before he sighed under his breath and
looked at her.

"Forgot my umbrella."

She groaned briefly, then shook her head and returned his
grin.  "I'm close enough.  I'll run."

"Okay.  Your stuff's in the back.  See ya tomorrow."

Her grin disappeared, only to be replaced by a mockingly
reproachful scowl.  "I'm not going out there alone.  You're
coming with me.  You said you'll help me, remember?"

"_Did_ I say that?  `Cause I don't remember anythin' `bout
me goin' out in that rain-"

Her sudden burst of laughter was quickly drowned out by the
storm outside.  She swung the door open and hopped off the
pickup truck.  "Hurry up, John!  I'm gonna catch pneumonia!!"

"I can't park here!  Monica-"  His protest was cut off as
soon as she slammed the door shut and scurried over to the
sidewalk.

Less than five seconds out in the rain, and she already
looked like a drowned rat.

He shrugged, released the brake and drove a few meters down
the street to an empty parking stall.  "Five more seconds
can't kill her," he muttered to himself with a smile as he
looked at her through the side view mirror.  Her drenched,
huddled figure was still waiting for him in front of her
apartment doors, trying to keep warm by stomping her feet
on the ground.  "What's she doin'?"  He asked no one in
particular as he climbed out and immediately scowled at the
raindrops beating down on him.  "C'mere, Monica!"

His loud holler took a few seconds to reach her.  He watched
almost impatiently, all the while fumbling with the tailgate
of the pickup.

"Why're you yelling at me, John?"

Doggett looked up from the suitcases before him and squinted
at his approaching partner.  "You're yellin' at me, too.
Here, take this," he returned brusquely as he handed her an
overstuffed carry-all bag.  "God, I hate rain," he yelled
again before he closed the tailgate and swung another
carry-all onto his shoulder.  "What the hell d'you put in
this thing-anvils?!"

She smiled serenely and tossed her head to the side in an
attempt to keep the damp wisps of dark hair from hanging
limply over her eyes.  "Yeah, maybe."

His grunt was drowned out by the incessant pounding of
the rain.

---

"How long were you gone for, Monica?  Two-three-weeks?"

"Yeah.  Three weeks, why?"

Doggett heaved a sigh and re-adjusted the bag on his
shoulder for the fifth time since they reached her
apartment building.  "Coulda sworn you're just movin'
in now."

"Be thankful you missed the movers when you did."

"Huh."

"Thanks for doing this, though, John.  I know it's a lot
of trouble on your part, living in Falls Church and the
weather being this bad..."

He nodded to himself, still lost in thought.  "`S'nothin'.
You know that.  So d'you have a good time, good vacation?"

"With Tanner's parents in Cincinnati?  It was great, John.
They're wonderful people."

The two of them stopped in front of her door while Reyes dug
out the keys to her apartment.

"Cincinnati, huh?  Meetin' the doc's parents.  Wow," Doggett
quickly shrugged and shook his head, and allowed his eyes to
widen slightly.  "Didn't know that's where you were goin'.
Where you went off to.  `M sure they liked you."

At this, Monica smiled lazily at him and rolled her eyes.
"What's not to like, right?"  Thankfully for him, she seemed
only to have heard the last part of his remark.

Doggett gave her a one-shouldered shrug and opened the door
wider for her luggage to fit through.  "Hey, I'm just sayin'.
I mean-"

"Well, Tanner was there to straighten things out, in case
there were any misunderstandings, John."

"So what gives, huh?"

Reyes placed her bags on the floor by her bedroom and looked
at him quizzically.  "What gives what, John?  I don't know
what you mean."

"I dunno," he said with another shrug of his shoulder.  "I
just thought maybe, y'know...  How're things lookin' between
the two of you?  Any..." he sniffed slightly and lowered his
share of her luggage onto the floor by his feet.  "Long-term
plans yet?"

A small chuckle escaped from the bedroom, where Reyes had
disappeared to in order to get some towels.  "I don't have
an engagement ring on my finger, if that's what you're
asking, John."

"Not yet," he shot back more boldly than he had intended.
"Hey, forget it.  None of my business, right?  I should-"

"I think it's perfectly understandable that you'd be
curious," she said before she emerged from the door to her
dimly-lit bedroom.

Doggett nodded meekly, at a sudden loss for words.

She looked good tonight.  Changed quickly out of her wet
clothes into sweatpants and a t-shirt, drying her hair like
that with that yellow towel in her hand, her make-up and
messy mascara wiped clean from her face...

Yeah.

She looked really good tonight.

"John?" A hint of amusement was evident in her voice.

Doggett shook his head once and squinted at her.  "What?"

She opened her mouth to say something, but she changed her
mind and smiled instead.  "Let me get you a towel and put
mine away."

"Thanks."  He looked down, suddenly startled by the large
puddle his shoes and clothes were forming just outside the
entrance to her kitchen.  'Shit...'  "Makin' a mess out
here, Monica..."

"Don't worry about it."

He sighed and studied his surroundings motionlessly.  The
rain was still atrocious outside.  Her apartment was
slightly cold.  Then again, it could just be his wet
clothes.  'Bring an umbrella next time, stupid idiot...'

"Here."

A large blue beach towel hit him square in the face.  "Ow."

Monica's vainly suppressed laughter immediately wafted
across the room and lingered in his ears.  "Sorry.  Guess I
missed."

He chuckled, despite the stinging sensation on his face.
"What were you aimin' for?"

Her silence caused him to look up and drag the towel down
his chin.  She was staring at him.

"What?"

"I missed you, John."

"Really?"

She nodded and walked towards him.  "Really."  Another smile,
before she reached over and picked up the bags he had
lowered onto the floor.  "I wanted to call you, but I
figured you might have been busy."

He bundled the towel in his hands thoughtfully, then rolled
it over before unfurling it again.  "You should've," he said
before he rubbed the towel against his damp hair.  "Called,
I mean."

She nodded and turned to carry the bags into her bedroom.

"Missed you, too."

She glanced over her shoulder and allowed one corner of her
mouth to quirk upwards.  She turned her back on him again
and resumed moving the bags.

Do something, you son-of-a-bitch.  After the way you acted
in the office three weeks ago, before she left...

She probably thinks you're still mad at her for somethin'.

You gonna let her think that tonight, too?

Maybe it's not too damn late.  Yet.

Who cares?

Just do something.

Now.  You son-of-a--

"Monica?"

She emerged from the bedroom again, arched an eyebrow at
him, before she busied herself by turning on a lamp in the
living room.  "Hmm?"

"You an' your... boyfriend-"

"He's got a name, John."

"Fine.  You an' Tanner-"

"What about us?"

"Well, just...  It's a big thing...  Goin' all the way to
Cincinnati for three weeks to meet an' get to know his
parents..."

"He wanted me to meet them.  They wanted to meet me, and I
guess I wanted to meet them, too.  We didn't stay with them
that long, actually."

"You sure `bout this guy?"

"John."

"No, seriously.  I mean, you really thinkin' of-"

"Why are we talking about this?  Why are you talking about
this?"

"Nothin'.  I just...  I mean..."

"You're stuttering, John--it's not like you.  What--"

"He's that important to you.  Huh?"

She suddenly looked away, and shuffled through the mail her
next-door neighbor was gracious enough to collect for her.
"We've been together for a while, John.  Of course he is."

"You gonna marry this guy, when he asks you?"

Her head snapped up and her hazel eyes danced with an uneven
mixture of surprise, confusion and amusement.  "If, John.
You're jumping to conclusions here."

"_Are_ you?"

She bowed her head for a moment or two, and he wasn't sure
whether to leave now or push her any further than he already
had.

God.  Three weeks.  Three weeks without you around.

I missed you, Monica.

The hell am I sayin'?

I miss you.

Still.

Don't ask me to explain it, alright?

I just do.

"Monica?"

"What do you care, John?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me.  Really--what does it matter to you if I do
or if I don't?"

His eyes flickered over and around her, but refused to look
directly at her all of a sudden.  'The hell was this?  Is
she kidding or not?  Havin' that fun she always has at my
expense, tryin' to get me to lighten up, or what?  Maybe
she's just--'  "We're partners-"

"And that's going to change how?"

'Funny, I didn't know this was an interrogation room...'
"I dunno, I just-"

"He asked me, actually.  Already.  On the way to his parents'.
To Cincinnati."

"So how come?"

"How come?  How come what?"

Another shrug on Doggett's part, before he gulped inaudibly
and looked at her from under his eyebrows.  "How come you
said no, turned him down?  `Mean, I thought you were--"

A weary sigh escaped her slightly parted lips.  "You make
it sound like capital punishment, turning him down, John."

"Sorry.  Didn't mean for it to."  He watched cautiously as
his partner squared her shoulders, abandoned her mail and
perched on the arm of a nearby sofa.  "Monica.  I'm sorry."

To his surprise, she looked up and smiled at him.  "It's
okay, John.  Really.  I mean, I'm just..." She waved a hand
in the air before she laughed lightly and lowered it to her
lap.  "Emotional."  She paused, sighed and started again.
"More emotional than usual."

Doggett rubbed the back of his neck with the towel, all the
while watching her every move discreetly.  "Wanna talk about
it?  You need to talk about it?"

"With you?"

He squinted and cocked his head to the side, not hearing her
mumbled words.  "Huh?"

Reyes shook her head and slid down from the arm of the sofa.
With legs tucked beneath her, she closed her eyes and
inclined her head where he was still standing motionlessly.
"What was it like for you?"

"For me what?"

"You know..." Her eyes fluttered open and immediately
connected with his intense, steel-blue gaze.  "Asking your
wife.  Proposing."  She watched his body stiffen, as if
caught and cornered by a rabid creature, before she exhaled
and shook her head again.  "If you don't mind my asking."

Doggett shrugged and jammed a hand in his pocket.  "I was..."
A faint, wistful smile crept up to his face, as he slowly,
gradually remembered.  "Scared shitless, to tell you the
truth.  Didn't think she was gonna say yes."

"How come?"

He shrugged again, all the while cringing at the chill
running up his spine.  He was cold, and soaked to the skin
with rain.  Now she's asking about this, of all things?  At
the same time, his skin felt prickly, too, with heat, sweat
and a sudden attack of irrational nervousness.  But, all the
same, all in all...  He still felt cold.  Colder than ever
before.  "I dunno.  Just thought she'd turn me down."

"She didn't."

He shook his head and barely stopped himself from shivering.
"No.  She didn't."

Monica nodded back and stared at the rain pounding against
the large windows of her apartment.  "You think I did the
right thing, John?"

Ouch.  He was the right person to ask, wasn't he?  He really
had to shiver at that.  Good thing she wasn't looking...

"Turnin' him down, you mean?  Sayin' no?"

Her doe-eyed gaze re-focused on him again before she blinked
and closed her eyes.  A long, uncomfortably heavy pause hung
in the air, waiting for her to say something, anything,
everything.  "No.  Calling it off with him."

"You what?"

"You heard me."

"Why d'you do that?"

His partner simply stared at him, and he was forced to nod
to himself and look away.  None of his business.  None.
"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah.  I know."

Doggett cleared his throat, and watched her rise from the
couch and walk across the living room.  He couldn't help but
smile slightly at her bare feet, padding noiselessly first
on the rug, and then on the worn hardwood floor.  He was on
the verge of saying something when she spoke up once again,
this time with a distant voice that seemed to blend in with
the rain.

"But the thing of it is, I'm not."

"You're not sorry?" Doggett squinted at her figure, all of
a sudden so small and frail-looking against the large windows
and the backdrop of lightning and thunder.  He didn't know
what else to do, but repeat her words.  He didn't know what
else to say, but echo back her very own sentiments.

She shook her head, her damp hair swinging heavily like a
big, wet paintbrush against her shirt, leaving faint
watermarks on the fabric and on her back.  "It wasn't
right."

He fought the urge to prod her, to ask and inquire as to
the meaning behind her words.  What wasn't right?  How come?
Why not?  What happened?

"Look at you, John, you're soaked."

Doggett re-focused his gaze on her again, and noticed that
she was now looking over her shoulder and studying him
quietly, with her arms crossed over her chest.  "`S nothin'.
I'm okay."

Reyes smiled faintly and walked slowly back to the sofa.
"So how have you been?"

Curious.  Curious why you don't want to tell me, why you
don't want to talk about it any more.  Why you never said
anything about this, or about him and his parents, or about
the two of you, before you left three weeks ago.

He shrugged, before he folded and re-folded the wet towel
in his hands.  "Good.  Busy.  You wouldn't believe it,
Monica.  I've been swamped with paperwork for a while now,
I've-"

"How's Dana?"

Funny she should ask, at a time like this.  His eyebrows
furrowed in confusion, and he shrugged again.  "Fine, I
guess.  I haven't seen her."

"You've spoken, though, haven't you?"

"No.  Not lately.  Like I said, I've been real busy."

Doggett watched her lips protrude slightly in a thoughtful
pout, her eyes drift off to a spot just left of the coffee
table in front of her.  "Monica-"

"It's nothing, John.  Don't worry about it.  Really.  I'm
okay; I'm good, it's... Okay."  As if to prove her point,
she shook her head and allowed one of her winning smiles to
reclaim her face slowly.  She stood, glanced at her watch
and tugged at her T-shirt before she grinned gratefully at
him.  "It's getting late, John.  I've kept you long enough.
Sorry; I know you still have quite a drive--"

"Don't worry 'bout it; it's nothin'."

She craned her neck and indicated the storm with her chin.
"Rain's pretty much stopped."

Seeing that he didn't have much of a choice, he looked out
the window and nodded in agreement.  "Yeah.  Guess I should
get goin'.  Before it starts up again."

"Are you sure?  I mean, you're pretty drenched-"

"Just my jacket.  I'll take it off in the truck and blast
the heat.  Be tropical in no time," he lied smoothly,
easily.  As though he were merely reading from a script
that either he or she had written for the other person to
act out.

Mechanical.  Routine.  Expected.  He bit down on his tongue
and nodded at her again, for no reason at all.

She wordlessly followed him to the door and watched him
crumple the towel in his large hands.  "Thanks for picking
me up, John.  I-"

"No problem," his voice practically rumbled from somewhere
deep in his chest.  "Wanted you here; least I coulda done
was take you home."  His left hand offered her the blue
towel, and she took it without looking at him.  "Welcome
back, partner."

She stood at the doorway, staring absently at the gray
sweater under his jacket, waiting for him as he waited for
her to say something, anything, everything...

She really should say something.  She should tell him.  She
should talk, and speak, and say those things that kept her
from agreeing to do something lifelong with someone else.
With Tanner.  Someone who truly, shamelessly cared about her.
Someone who made it a point to say so.

She didn't owe John anything, she knew that.  But, still...
It wasn't right for her to shut him out.  It was rude.  He
was trying, and she was thankful for that.

Partner.  He had called her his partner.

He missed her, too.

Wanted her here.

Took her home.  Despite the rain, and the storm, and the
fact that his suede jacket was ruined because of her and her
habit of toting anvils in her luggage.

All anvils aside-

He welcomed her back.

Called her in the nick of time at the airport, right before
she herself was about to phone for a taxi.

It was funny; he didn't know when exactly she would be
coming home, didn't know exactly which flight she was taking,
on which plane, and at what time.  She had been that
secretive, that mysterious, that worried about what he might
think of her, should he have found out before she went away.

But he had called her at the airport, in the nick of time.
It was uncanny, strange, freaky--dare she say it?  Yes.
Paranormal.

Thought you'd be comin' back tonight.  Figured I'd try and
call, see if you needed a ride?

I'm sure you told me, before you left.  An' before you ask,
no, I didn't go trackin' you down.  I sorta remember you
tellin' me three weeks ago which flight...  Anyway...
You're there already.

Pick you up or not?

John Doggett, the ignorant, reluctant psychic.  She had to
smile at that, had to feel the weight of the past three weeks
temporarily lifted off her shoulders as she raised her eyes
to meet his.

He had said something to her.

Welcome back, partner.

"Hey, there's no place like home," she grinned and tilted
her head to the side.  "Partner."

His small frown faded, and he smiled back.  "Call if you
wanna talk, Monica.  I mean it."

She nodded.  "I will.  I know.  Thanks, John."

"Yeah," his gaze quickly flickered over and around her,
for some reason never entirely settling on anything.
"G`night."

"`Night," she replied, and watched him walk down the
deserted hallway and out the front entrance of her
apartment building.  After a few seconds, the glass doors
clattered shut, and total, utter silence permeated her
surroundings.

You think I did the right thing, John?

Turnin' him down, you mean, sayin' no?

No.  Calling it off with him.

I'm sorry to hear that.

I know.  But the thing of it is...

I'm not.

It wasn't right.

She closed the door.

Long night.  Long three weeks.

You're home.  Where you belong.

She unfurled the towel before her and allowed the blueness
of the fabric to take her in.

If she could stand close enough to him, she could look into
his eyes and be taken in, too.

She sighed, snorted at her cheaply poetic musing and turned
off the lights in the living room.

Makin' a mess out here, Monica...

Don't worry about it.

Ow.

Sorry.  Guess I missed.

What were you aimin' for?

She sat on the sofa and thought.

Of something.  Anything.  Everything.

I don't know what I'm aiming for any more, John.

Her hands and arms absently draped the towel over her
shoulders, allowing it to hug her together, keep her
whole.

Welcome back, partner.

She fell asleep in the dark, with nothing but the memory of
blue eyes and blue towels to keep her company.

---

"Hey."

"Hey what?"

Doggett leaned against his desk and repeatedly tossed a
baseball from one hand to the other.  "Wanna have dinner
tonight?"

Reyes slowly looked up from the tops of her reading glasses
and quirked a dark eyebrow at her partner.  "Dinner?"

His eyes widened as he nodded and looked around the office,
somewhat puzzled by her reaction.  "Uh-huh."

"Why?" she nearly snorted her question before she reread the
autopsy report before her.  It wasn't like John to suggest
things like that, unless they were out somewhere on a case.
Sure, he bought her food from the cafeteria once in a while,
hotdogs every time he went by that stand on M Street, but
this--

"Y'mean, you don't know?"

"Don't know what?" She flipped over a page and continued
distractedly.  "John?  What don't I know?"

Reyes could hear the shuffling of feet, the sound of a drawer
being opened.  She closed the file folder, removed her
glasses and slid them onto her desk.  She saw Doggett
walking around his own desk, meandering his way over to
where she was sitting.  He was holding something behind
his back.

"What--"

"I can't believe you don't remem'er," he said with an
incredulous grin before he stood up straight and looked down
at her.  "Close your eyes."

She sighed, leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms
over chest.  "What are you doing?"

"Close your eyes, Monica.  C'mon," he coaxed her, this time
more forcefully.

With another sigh, she did as she was told.  She heard a
slight thump as something made contact with the surface of
her desk.  She fought the urge to peek by squeezing her
eyes shut and pursing her lips.

After what seemed like an eternity, Doggett cleared his
throat.  "`Kay.  Open `em."

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

There was a bright pink envelope propped upright on her
desk, with 'Monica' scrawled crookedly in the middle.  She
bit her lip, unsure of the reason for her sudden amusement.

John.

The image of him obsessively picking out just the right
card to give her.

John.

Writes uphill whenever there are no lines to guide him.

John.

Isn't insecure about buying cards with a bright pink
envelope.

"Happy Anniversary, partner.  Two years together an'
counting."

"John, I--" she began to speak, as her hands plucked the
envelope from off her desk.  With the card unopened and
still held in mid-air, she suddenly found herself staring
at the thing that had held the envelope upright.  "A cactus
plant?"

"Yeah," Doggett leaned forward and placed his palms along
the edge of her desk, all the while smiling down at his
anniversary gift.  "Y'like it?" he asked, allowing his eyes
to study her face with unguarded affection.

She stared.

The small, but plump, miniature cactus sat motionless in
the equally small pot that served as its home.  Like any
other cactus, it was prickly.

She looked up at him, lips slightly parted in befuddlement.
She arched an eyebrow at him.  "Thanks, John."

He straightened up, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder,
indicating the rest of the office.  "Well, `knew you're a
plant person, Monica.  And I figured since we get pretty
busy `round here, a cactus is low maintenance an' all--"

She smiled, immediately catching on and suddenly feeling
as though the floor had disappeared beneath her.

Leave it to John to notice.

Leave it to John to think of things like that.

Thoughtful, yet practical.

Practical, but awfully sweet.

His ex-wife definitely had been a very lucky woman.

"Thanks," Monica said sincerely as she carefully picked up
the small pot and examined the cactus more closely.  "Thank
you, John.  It's perfect."

"So are we up for tonight?"

"Hmm?"  She was busy touching her fingertips to random
needles that caught her attention.

"Dinner."

Reyes looked up and noticed that Doggett was back behind
his desk, clearing up papers and placing them in various
folders.  "You're not busy tonight, John...?"

He chuckled at her hesitant reply.  "You're talkin' to the
wrong person `bout bein' busy after work."

She shrugged and slid the cactus behind her nameplate.
Unsatisfied, she moved it again, this time next to her
pencil holder.  "Only if you're not busy.  I wouldn't want
you to--"

"I'm not."

Reyes smiled at the cactus, gave the small pot what seemed
like a welcoming and reassuring pat, before she looked up
at her partner again.  "So we're on.  Where are we--"

"`Was thinkin' `bout this place in Falls Church, actually.
Guy who runs the joint's a friend of mine.  He needs some
customers, so I figured we should give the poor bastard
some business..."

She grinned.  "What time do you want me to come over,
John?"

Doggett grabbed his suit jacket and proceeded to put it on.
"Who said it was my house?"

His partner laughed.  Melodically, gleefully, unabashedly.
He had to smile at that.

"Seven's good, Monica."

She nodded and watched him turn off his computer monitor.
"I'll be there."

He walked to the door and looked over his shoulder at her,
still clutching the bright pink envelope in her hand.  "You
better.  I gotta go, pick up a few more things at the store.
See ya seven."

"John?"

Doggett turned around and faced her squarely, his trench
coat rustling as it brushed against the door.

"Happy Anniversary, too.  I," she waved her free hand in the
air and shrugged.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't get you anything..."

He shrugged, and slowly smirked at her.  "Always next year."
He briefly looked down at the floor before his smirk
disappeared and he regarded her seriously, pensively.  "An'
havin' you here every day's more than enough, Monica."

She nodded, and watched him walk through the threshold.

The cactus sat, motionless and prickly, in the small pot
that served as its home.

Reyes smiled at it again, before she turned off her desk
lamp.

---

"I didn't know you were a good cook."

"I'm not."

"Are you kidding me?  John, dinner was great.  I probably
gained about three pounds, just--"

Doggett scoffed to himself and brought the wineglass up to
his lips.  "You were just hungry," he mumbled with a small
smile before taking a sip of his wine.  He had splurged with
the red wine, he knew, but it wasn't often these days that
he had cause to celebrate anything.

And an anniversary?

Hell, it was no wedding anniversary, for sure, but he never
expected this--

This partnership with Monica to last.

Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, he had always
doubted that she would stay.

For good.

After the hell she'd been through, the first three, four
months settling in...  Follmer checking her at every point,
Kersh keeping them down...  The secrets that managed to come
up, rear their ugly heads.  The nagging, inconstant threats
to William.  And Mulder.  And Agent Scully.

Somewhere in there, Monica had somehow managed to implicate
herself, construct her own personal hell and sympathize
with him.

And, yes.  He wasn't stupid enough not to admit it.

He played a major part in that personal hell of hers.  Here,
in Washington.  After all, he brought her into this whole
thing.  Dragged her down with him, knowing she wouldn't and
couldn't resist the urge to be there for him.  The urge to
leave a comfortable life and satisfying career in New
Orleans just to be there for him, and to land what she
called, 'her dream job.'

Never once had he thanked her.  Never once had he taken the
time to appreciate her help, her strength, her support.  Of
course, there were the little things.  The gestures, the
relaxed confidence between them.  Of course, she knew he was
grateful.  There was no need for words; never had been,
never will be.

But that wasn't the point.  It never was.

Never thanking her.  Never once.  Never enough.  Never in
the way she needed to be thanked. Deserved to be thanked.
Now, that--

That was the whole damn point.

He wouldn't be sitting here, at home, feeling surprisingly,
reasonably content with his life right now if it hadn't been
for her.

Hell, he wouldn't be sitting here at all if it hadn't been
for her.  That something about her.  Made him feel okay.
All right.  Made him feel that he could stop, for once, for
just a little while and rest.  Stop running.  Stop running
away.  Catch your breath and stop.  Just--

Stop.

Looking for him.

And blaming yourself.

And thinking you didn't do everything in your power to find
him, to bring him home, safe.

No one--not his mother, his sister, his brother, his
ex-wife--no one else, could do that for him.  To him.

She was the only one.  Always had been.  Always will be.

He tore his gaze away from the fireplace and caught her
staring.  "`S rude to stare, y'know."

"I wasn't staring."

"No?"

"Just watching."

Doggett finished off his wine and studied the bottom of his
glass.  "Why're you watchin'?"

Reyes tucked her legs beneath her on the couch and crossed
her arms over her chest.  "You looked sad.  I'm not sure
what's wrong; I'm not sure if you want to talk about it."

"Read my mind, then."

Her slight intake of breath told him immediately that his
sarcastic words had inadvertently hurt her.  "Monica--"

"I didn't mean to stare, John.  I was just worried--"

He sighed wearily, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge
of his nose.  "You're always worried."

She looked down at her lap and swallowed hard.  This was not
what she expected, after seeing him so relaxed and talkative
over dinner.  Never one to be deterred, she looked up again
and smiled feebly at him--a fruitless gesture, since he still
had his eyes closed.  "My worrying's paid off, hasn't it?
We're still partners, both of us still alive..."

He nodded in silent agreement and lowered the glass onto the
coffee table.  Rubbing his hands together, he stared at the
floor and cleared his throat.  "Yeah.  Monica," he raised
his gaze to meet hers before he cleared his throat a second
time and continued more quietly.  "All this time..." Doggett
raised his eyebrows, and she in turn, apprehensively raised
hers, waiting for him to finish.  "I never thanked you.
For everything.  Bein' there.  Helpin' me."

She began to shake her head, to dismiss him, his words, his
gratitude, his--

"Don't."

"John, I wanted to--"

"Don't do that.  Don't act like it's nothin'.  Don't act
like what you've done for me doesn't matter much.  It does.
Monica, I--" he shut his mouth abruptly, obviously frustrated
with himself, and the way he was handling things.

"It's okay, John.  You're welcome."

Her attempt to help with his words did little to satisfy him.
Doggett furrowed his eyebrows, shook his head and cradled his
forehead in his left hand.  "I owe you my sanity, Monica.
Y'know that?"

Even Reyes could not find an appropriate response to what
he just said.  And so she did the only thing that came to
mind: she openly, unabashedly stared at him, not caring
whether it was rude or not.

He didn't care either; he simply allowed her to watch him.

Neither of them was sure how long they sat there, motionless
and unsure of what to do or say next.  Could have been
minutes, could have been hours.  Only the sound of the fire
crackling and popping occasionally, fading in and out,
intruding once in a while in that space between them,
served as a reminder that time was passing, moving on,
wasting away, quickly becoming lost and, equally quickly,
becoming impossible to recover.

Do something...

Anything.

Everything.

Finally, Doggett lowered his hand and rested his elbows on
his knees.  "Some anniversary party, huh?" he quipped with
the slightest of smirks playing across his lips.

His companion responded with a sheepish smile, before she
reached over and squeezed his forearm reassuringly.  "I
promise I'll never tell what a real bore you are, John.
We'll keep your party animal image intact."

He bowed and closed his eyes serenely, tiredly for a few
seconds.  "`Ppreciate it, Monica."

Reyes nodded once, retracted her hand and looked down at
her watch.  "It's getting late.  I should be heading home."

"Okay."

She rose and stretched slightly.  "Thanks for dinner."

He nodded, then looked up at her.  "Any time.  I mean it."

"Happy Anniversary, John."

"Yeah.  You, too."

She turned towards the hallway by the front door, with the
intention of getting her coat as quietly and as quickly as
possible.  Halfway to her destination, she heard Doggett
rise from his seat and follow her.

"So what are your plans for the weekend?" Reyes managed to
ask conversationally as she, with a slightly trembling hand,
awkwardly slid her coat off the hanger.

"Monica."

She half-turned, and was surprised to find him standing
right behind her, his blue eyes looking directly at her,
into her.

His eyes.  They've stopped flickering.  Over and around her,
but never quite settling on her.  They've stopped running
around her, doing that infuriating dance around her.

She simply stared at him, and, as was customary of their
complex relationship, she waited.

He looked over his shoulder briefly, remembering the sound
of the fire crackling with the wood.  The peace he felt,
the contentment, just having her there, watching him.  He
remembered something more--

That sound the fire made.

Reminding him of all the time he'd lost.  All the time he
was wasting.

Two years was a long time.

Was he going to wait for two more?

He looked back at her.  She was clutching her coat limply,
the ends of the sleeves brushing the hardwood beneath her
feet.  Her eyes were big, and hazel.  If he tilted his head
a certain way, he could see that spot where her dimples
would show up every time she smiled at him.  Her hair framed
her face perfectly, the way the fireplace framed the heat,
the beauty, and the life of the fire, without drawing
attention to itself.

He remembered a night, not long ago, when he drove her home
from the airport.

Soaking wet, carrying her heavy luggage, struggling to make
it to her apartment door without slipping, or dropping a
bag on his foot...

He hadn't been that happy in a long time.

God, three weeks without you around, Monica.

I missed you.

What the hell am I sayin'?

I miss you.

Still...

"John?"

"Stay here tonight."

She had 'what?!' written all over her face, and 'I can't
believe I'm hearing this from you' dancing in her big eyes,
but she dared not articulate these words.  "Do you know what
you just said to me?"  The smallest of smiles was forming,
hurriedly, desperately trying to hide the surprise and
uneasiness she suddenly felt.

He nodded once, slowly, never taking his eyes off of her.

She remembered a night, long ago.  A night that didn't
happen.  At least, not for him.

She remembered it like the dial tone humming in her ears,
the dial tone that sounded like a funeral dirge, a death
bell, a requiem for her beloved.  Her beloved, who never
knew and perhaps never will know who he is in her life,
and how much he means to her.

I would do anything for you.

Pull the plug.

Anything but that.

Do U Believe?

Yes.

Prove it.

Sometimes, at night, if she closed her eyes and thought back
on that memory that never existed, that memory that should
not have been...

She could still feel it.  The life being drained slowly from
him.  The weight of his hand, his fingers.  The warmth of his
skin against hers.  A fingertip, caressing her palm before
the vestiges of life in him began to fade away.  It was a
small gesture, but it was enough.

Thanking her for everything.  Everything she had ever done
for him.

Luke.

Agent Mulder.

Agent Scully.

The X-Files.

Him.

That night that didn't happen...

He was wrong.  He had thanked her before, for everything.

He just had no memory of doing it.

She stared at him again, her weak smile faltering with
every second he stood there, motionless and waiting for her
to react.

Was he challenging her again, for real, this time around?
Toying with her, her emotions, her affection for him,
jerking her chain?  They'd been through things like this
before, but this--it had never been this direct.  HE had
never been this forward with her.  Besides...

Wasn't he in love with Dana?  With Agent Scully?  What was
she talking about?  He wasn't in love with Scully; he still
is.  Always will be.  No matter what.  He'd do for Scully
what she--Monica Reyes, his friend and current partner--
would do for him.  And perhaps, he would do maybe more for
Dana, so much more.

"Bad joke," she whispered under her breath, not caring
whether he heard her or not.

"You think I'm jokin' with you?"  His face immediately
contorted into an angry scowl, and his eyes darkened with
genuine hurt.  "The hell d'you take me for, Monica?  I
meant what I said."

"You didn't say anything, John.  You told me to--"

"Well what d'you want me to say?  You think this is easy
for me?  Huh?  You think I--"

"'Stay here tonight?'  I'm supposed to understand that and
just say yes?  What do _you_ take me for, John?"

He looked at her, obviously stung by her words.  All this
time, he had known there was a chance that she didn't feel
that way anymore, the way she did all those years ago.  Hell,
that vet friend of hers proved that.  But, still, at the back
of his mind, he always assumed he was wrong, always refused
to accept the concept that Monica could ever share with
someone else what he knows she feels, or, for that
matter--felt--for him.

"`M sorry.  I--"

She shook her head and chewed her bottom lip nervously.
"It's okay, John."

"No, it's not.  Look, I--" he paused and ran a hand through
his hair.  "I dunno what got into me.  That was outta line,
Monica, I--"

"I should go," she said to herself as she proceeded to put
her coat on.  Her trembling fingers hovered unsteadily above
the third button, when his hands came up and fastened them
for her.

She sighed, bowed her head and watched him button up the
rest of her coat.  When he was finished, he lowered his
hands to his sides and shifted his weight from one foot to
the other.  "Listen, Monica--"

"Thanks again for dinner, John."

Doggett waited for a few seconds for her to say something
more.  When she didn't, he sucked in his non-existent beer
gut and nodded curtly.  "Yeah.  No problem."

"Goodnight," she made a move for the doorknob, but was
stopped by a hand on her arm.  She swallowed hard and
looked at him.  His fingers gently squeezed her elbow, and
pulled her closer.

Blue towels, blue eyes...

Taking her in, drawing her in.

Where to?

Her own eyes fluttered shut, the very second she felt his
warm breath against her face.

This is not happening...

The hand on her elbow deftly found its way against the
small of her back, pressing her nearer to his own body.

Is this not happening?

His lean frame felt like it had absorbed the fire from the
fireplace, leaving a hollow, flaming replica behind to
dance and crackle and pop and burn with the wood in the
living room...

Tell me this is happening...

He bowed his head ever so slightly and breathed in the scent
of her hair.  She could feel the softness of his mouth
against her temple, smell the faint scent of soap and
aftershave.

"Monica, don't..."

"Don't what..."

Doggett pulled back a few inches and tilted her chin upward
with an index finger, while his thumb slid across her lower
lip, gently, but firmly prodding her mouth open.  "Don't
go home."

She stared at him, almost mesmerized.  Normally, with
everyone else, every body else, she would pull back and
regroup, think things over, slow down.

But this--

This--

This was not everyone else, not every body else.  She could
feel him.  What he was feeling, what was going on inside him.
It was electric, visceral, intense, real, dangerous.

She smirked inwardly.  John Doggett, the ignorant, reluctant
psychic.  Giving himself away without knowing it, giving his
body and soul away just by looking and staring at her.
That gift he shares with her, whatever it is--

He should learn to control it, or else it could get her in
trouble, any time, any day.

There was a tempest brewing inside him, and she was not about
to head indoors for this one.

"I won't."

---

She lay on her side, intently watching the flames flicker
inside the fireplace.  She could feel the heat on her face,
her skin.  She could hear the firewood crackling and popping
rhythmically, as if having a lively, animated conversation
with itself.  The brightness of the glow made her drowsy,
made her want to close her eyes and enjoy the orange-tinted
darkness that engulfed her as she neared that hazy, half-way
point between wakefulness and sleep.

Beside her, his body stirred and shifted under the heavy
blanket he had brought down from his bedroom.  A hair-
roughened leg brushed suggestively against her bare thigh,
draped downwards from her kneecap, and stayed there
indefinitely.  Seconds later, an equally hair-roughened
forearm snaked its way around her waist and pulled her closer.

She smiled languidly and studied the flames once again.
"John?"

"Hm?"

A shiver ran down her spine when he nuzzled her neck and
lightly kissed the tip of her ear.

"You're okay?  I mean, with this--"

"`Course I am."  The large hand attached to the arm around
her waist suddenly decided to spread its long fingers.
Like an octopus clamoring for something, anything,
everything...  It wasn't long before his thumb moved up to
rest just beneath her right breast.  "You?"

She looked over her shoulder and simply stared at him.  He
lifted his head, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged.  "Just
askin'."

Sighing, she rested once again on his other arm and closed
her eyes.  "Isn't this wrong?"

"Why d'you say that?"

"I don't know.  I mean, it's just..."

"Bein' that we're partners, right?" he mumbled groggily
before his arm loosened its grip on her by a fraction of
an inch.

"That's not all, John, and you know it."

It was his turn to sigh.  He released her abruptly and
stretched out on his back, his well-muscled arms cradling
his head.  "You're gonna go home now?"

"I didn't say that."  Almost instantly, she could feel the
tears welling up in her eyes.  The hurt that washed over
him as he asked his question almost physically blasted her,
and he didn't even know, wasn't even aware of what he could
do to her with his emotions, and that connection they share.
If he did know, and if he was aware, then at the very least,
he didn't believe any of it; that any of it was possible.

"Hey," gently, carefully, he secured her body in his arms
and rolled her over on top of him.  He grimaced slightly at
the tightness with which she held him, the urgent
possessiveness and fright with which she clung to his body.
"Did I do somethin'?  Monica, you okay?  Sorry--"

She nodded, like a frightened child, under the tender
stroking of his hand against her hair.  "I'm just not used
to this.  Not used to you like this, John.  I never
thought--"

"Want me to stop?" his deep voice rumbled and resonated
comfortingly against her chest, temporarily calming her.
"Monica?"

Shaking her head, she sat up, allowing the blanket to slide
off her shoulders and rest in a bundle around her hips, and
looked at him.  His hair was ruffled.  She could see small
traces of gray near his temples, contrasting with the sandy
brown she was used to.  His eyes were a darker shade of
blue; they sparkled in the firelight, and seemed to dance
when they gazed at her nakedness before making contact with
her own eyes.  Her hands slid, unbidden, up his ribcage,
and stopped at his well-defined chest.  "I just don't want
you to regret."

His thumb and forefinger reached up and brushed a lock of
dark hair behind her ear.  "I don't," he allowed his palm
and fingertips to caress the line of her throat, the ridges
of her collarbone, the warm valley between her breasts.
"I won't."

Reyes watched his hand move down her abdomen, squeeze one of
her thighs, and start their descent once again, from her neck
to her leg.

"I don't want you to regret, either."

She shook her head and concentrated on the feel of his rough
hand against her skin.  To her left, the fire continued to
crackle and debate with itself.  "I don't regret a thing,
John.  Never.  Not with you."

"That's good to hear," he drawled, all the while stroking
both her thighs with the palms of his hands.  "Wanna know
somethin'?"

"Sure."  She shifted her weight slightly and nodded, before
she slid down the length of his body and bowed her head
between his legs.  "What?" she breathed, before she took
him in her hands and mouth.

A heavy groan rolled out between Doggett's lips as his
hands gently grasped her hair and the back of her head.
"Mon...  Whatcha think you're doin'...?"

In and out, back and forth; she used the rhythmic popping
and crackling of the fire and wood to pace herself, and
him, to let him know exactly what she was doing.

For his part, he was going mad, wasn't he?  Stretched out
on his living room floor, tangled in nothing but blankets
and Monica--her hands, arms, legs, mouth, hard as a rock,
hornier than when he was seventeen...  He sighed and closed
his eyes, letting the feel of her tongue and teeth lull him
to a state of euphoria that he had felt only once before,
a few hours ago.

Christ.  If this was what she meant by a connection between
them, then hell, yes.  He was a believer, alright.  An out
and out convert, if anything...

He felt himself groaning, felt himself quivering beneath
her as her mouth became less and less gentle, more and more
ferocious.  His hands grasped messily at her hair, fighting
so hard to regain some semblance of self-control, but
gloriously, splendidly losing the battle.  His neck lolled
to the side, against the pillow on the floor, and his back
repeatedly arched upwards to meet her.

He had never felt more alive, never felt more sane...

And he had her to thank for that, for everything.

His hands glided down to her shoulders, and began to pull
her up.  Obediently, she released him and sat up, resting
on his thighs.

"No," he whispered urgently as he grasped her hips and sat
up himself.  "Right here."  Slowly, carefully, he guided
her onto his erection, all the while reveling in the way
her eyes seemed to roll back in their sockets at the
sensation of his entering her body.  Once fully inside her,
he began to rock upwards, in response to the downward
thrust of her hips and thighs.

Monica, arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, pressed
her forehead against his and nuzzled the tip of his nose
with her own.  "John," she exhaled loudly, repetitively,
and moaned under her breath.

"Huh?"

"Nothing," she smiled, tightened her grip on him and watched
his face contort in a mixture of pleasure and pain.  "You
were saying...?"

He kissed her slowly, deeply, mimicking their actions from
the waist down.  He could do this all night, and he knew,
from hours ago, that she could, too.

---

The fire had died down gradually, and he didn't bother to
get up and rekindle it again.  She lay on her side, watching
her reflection on the protective glass of the fireplace.
She could see him hovering just above her waist, the rumpled
blanket barely covering his backside.  One of his hands was
on her leg, the other was propped up behind her to support
his upper body.  The morning sun shone off his skin, making
the tiny hairs more golden than usual.  Her breath caught
in her throat as his mouth gently, wetly made contact with
her hip bone, and stayed there indefinitely.

"John?"

"Mm?" his hand moved up between her thighs and stroked her
incessantly, just as his teeth sank down into her hip.

Oy.  Dios.  Holy shit.

Had his ex-wife been a lucky woman, or what?

"What is it?"

She sighed and closed her eyes, trying vainly not to react
to the gentle probing of his fingers.  "Do you love me?"

He pulled back from her hip and looked up at her.  "You
gotta ask?"

She opened her eyes, grasped the hand that had imposed
itself between her legs, and nodded.

"I love you."  Doggett resumed what he was doing and then
stopped once again.  "I'm in love with you.  Crazy `bout
you.  What else d'you wanna know?"

"Agent Scully?"

"Huh?"  His sleep-disheveled hair stood at attention.
"What's she gotta do with--"

"It doesn't take someone like me to notice..."

He was quiet for a while, before he pulled away and sat up
behind her.  "Forget that, alright?  It's over.  It was
stupid.  It was me tryin' to get somethin' I'd lost back,
and..." he sighed and stared at the blanket, a deep frown
furrowing his eyebrows.  "It was...  I dunno what it was."

"You love her, John.  Admit it."

He looked down at her, studying the serious expression on
her face.  "I'm not gonna lie to you, y'know that."

"I know.  I wouldn't want you to.  I know you wouldn't."

"That's all."

"You love her."

"I can't help the way I feel."

"I'm not judging you."

"That's as far as it goes.  Now.  I care about her.  I can't
help it.  That's it.  Nothin' more than that."

"You're not--"

"No.  I'm not.  Just... Sometimes," Doggett squinted at
something in the kitchen and sighed wearily.  "I get this
crazy idea in my head.  Y'know, pregnant woman, little boy,
a son.  Makes me remember him.  Makes me wanna do somethin'
to get him back again."

"I know."

"Don't think that way anymore, Monica, alright?  This is
between you an' me.  No one else."

She nodded meekly.  "Okay."

He lay back down reluctantly and drew the blanket up to his
waist.  She, in turn, propped herself up on an elbow and
peered down at him.  "'M sorry."

"Hey," Reyes slid a slender hand from his chest to his
stomach, before slipping in under the blanket with him.
"Don't-"

"That musta hurt you.  Huh?  Knowin' how I felt..."

She arched an eyebrow and leaned in closer.  "What about
Tanner?"

Doggett stroked her back slowly, futilely feigning innocence.
"What about him?"

"John."

"What?"

A reproachful, knowing smile found its way across her lips,
as she reached under the blanket and stroked him gently.
"Jealous," she mumbled against his chest, all the while
enjoying the rapid change in his breathing pattern.
"Weren't we?"

"I dunno what you're talkin' 'bout..."

"Hm?" She asked before she pressed her warm tongue against
his right nipple.

"Okay-yeah-a-little..."

She stopped her teasing and sat up, holding the blanket
against her chest.  "One more thing?"

"Anything," he answered, while he reached up and tried to
pry the blanket from her grasp.

"The cactus?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Why-"

"I already told you."

"Really?"

Doggett shrugged and sat up again to face her.  "Reminded
me of you."

"Prickly."

"No-"

"Plump?"

"No-"

"Dry?"

"Let me finish."

"Go ahead."

He smiled to himself and straightened his hair as he
attempted to compose his words.  "It reminded me of you.
How you're never...  How you never...  You were never
about flowers, Mon."

"What?"

Doggett rolled his eyes and shook his head.  "Christ.  You
just won't take my word for it, huh?"

She shrugged and gave him a placating smile.  "If you want
me to, I will.  You want breakfast?"

"I should be asking you that."

"Feels like I'm taking over your house, huh?"

He watched her put on her underwear, and pull his button-down
shirt over her shoulders.  "You're more than welcome to."

"Feel like pancakes?"

"Uh..." he scratched his head and stifled a yawn.  "Sure.
Sounds good."  He hadn't had pancakes in a really long time,
and he found himself wondering what they tasted like again.
His stomach half-growled and half-grumbled at the thought.
"Actually, that sounds really good."

Monica was already in the kitchen, puttering about, randomly
opening cupboards and cabinets, acquainting herself with the
setup of his bowls, plates and cutlery.

He was still on the living room floor, watching her; how
the muscles of her long legs flexed and unflexed every time
she tiptoed to reach for something on the topmost shelf.

"`Bout that cactus..."

"I was never about flowers, I know.  Whatever that means,
John," she replied in a loud voice as she busied herself
with the batter.

Slowly, reluctantly, he got up and put on his boxers and
jeans.  He looked down at the blanket, and the mess of
pillows and stray clothing by the fireplace.  The coffee
table needed to be moved back to its usual spot, and the
TV cart had to be swung around just a bit to face the couch.

To hell with it, he'll move it later.

"Monica, you want coffee?"

She nodded, and concentrated once again on making pancakes.

Slowly, he walked over and stood behind her, wrapping an arm
around her waist.  "`Bout that cactus..."

"I've already heard this one..."

Doggett kissed her cheek and placed his hand on top of hers,
helping her stir the contents of the bowl.  "You'd go for
the cactus, not the flower," he said in a low voice.
"Prickly an' all, you still got the patience to take care
of it.  `Mean, most of the time," he paused and tasted the
batter.  "Most of the time, cactus can't give you anythin'
back in return.  You touch it, it pricks you.  You water
it, won't give you flowers.  Thing of it is, you don't care.
You still keep it in the office, still smile at it, still
name it, prob'ly.  Lord knows you're gonna talk to it.
That's why."  With that, he kissed the side of her neck,
stepped back and grabbed the coffee pot.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I've got three words for you."

"Yeah, whassat?"

"Cactus stays here."

He looked at her, half-understanding the implications of
those three words.  "Okay by me."

"Good."  She smiled once more, before she turned her back
on him and spooned some batter into a pan.

He watched her, and he remembered.

A pink and green welcome mat by the door of her apartment.

Polish sausages on M Street.

Bare feet in running shoes.  Faded sweatshirt over a white
T-shirt.

Messy ponytail.  Smiling at the clouds in the sky.

That fist she made when she punched his arm.

The excess mustard on her thumb.

The three words that started everything.

For him.

For her.

Three words, huh?

Cactus stays here.

Happy Anniversary, partner.

I don't regret.

I won't regret.

You love me?

You gotta ask?

Read my mind.

This is between-

You an' me.

No one else.

Three words, huh?

Who woulda thought?

That it all starts again, with three words.

END
(yeesh, finally!)
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