Title: A Brief Exchange
Author: Co-authored by JaneDoh and nuritacobarrubias
Disclaimer: Does anything even need to be said here? I mean, duh, it is FANfiction.
Dedication: This story is dedicated to the episode 4D – who could imagine that so many storylines could branch from a single episode. (Do I hear the word 'obsessed'?)
Author's notes: This is the story of 4D from the POV of John from 'our' world, when he suddenly finds himself in the parallel universe. There are some dream sequences interspersed throughout the story, indicated by the ------------ symbol. Please comment and let us know if the story is easy enough to follow, it is a difficult concept to portray!
This story is a brief glimpse into the lives of the characters from the parallel world as John tries to understand the alternate reality. A more extensive version of this idea is in the story 'A New Perspective', which was our first venture into exploring this world.
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"Monica, forget about the plates, will ya?" Doggett called out as he made his way into the kitchen, but his words soon faded into the emptiness. He hesitated for a moment in anticipation of a reply, but none was forthcoming. He scanned the room cautiously…he was sure that there was only one way into Monica's kitchen, and he was currently occupying it. "Mon?" He called her name out once more, a hint of confusion carried with the word. He twisted on the spot, glancing over his shoulder into the living room, even though he was fully aware how ridiculous the idea was that she had somehow managed to slip by him. And he only dismissed the idea of looking in the cupboards by assuring himself that only someone who had a masters in contortionism could fit in any of the available spaces. The hotdog in his hand remained scrunched within the napkin and dangled by his side, its presence now forgotten. As the seconds ticked by accompanied by an ominous silence, John could feel a nervous heat creeping its way up the back of his neck, the fine hairs sticking out in a silent warning that something was not right.
"Quit foolin' around, Monica." He tried to make the sentence sound as light-hearted as possible, but the lump that was forming in his throat was threatening to betray his demeanour of calmness. He blinked absently a few times, trying to rationalise the insanity of his partner disappearing within the space of a few seconds. A thought crossed his mind, and he pulled out his cell phone, pressing at the buttons with a false sense of control. He could hear the muted ring through the earpiece, blissfully continuing in its looped tone, unaware of how important it was to John for its song to end. After several rings, he heard the characteristic click of the phone switching to message bank, and a frustrated sigh escaped his lips, despite the fact that he knew the chance that she would have answered was remote. He peered down at the bun in his hand, the sauce oozing from the edges and sending thick drops of red sauce falling to the ground; John hadn't realised that he had been unconsciously squeezing his hand so tightly until he saw the whiteness of his knuckles. He made his way to the bin and unceremoniously tossed the bun into its depths then grabbed a cloth, making his way back to the mess and got down on his knees to wipe away the marks now covering the floor, trying diligently to disregard the image of blood droplets staining the floorboards. As his hands automatically moved back and forth over the shiny floor, his mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening and he kept cleaning, more so to give him a feeling that he was doing something constructive.
The minutes dragged on and he ceased scrubbing at the area where the remnants of sauce had long since been removed. He was running out of ideas, and that thought scared him. He decided to check the rest of the house, and possibly go in to the office – at least that was a starting point. He had just left the kitchen when his cell phone began ringing from his pocket. He took a relieved breath before grabbing the phone and pressing the talk button.
"John Doggett."
"Agent Doggett, where the hell are you?" Skinner's voice boomed through the earpiece, a mixture of concern and relief.
"I'm at Monica's apartment." John spoke slowly, caught off-guard at being called by his superior.
"What?" Skinner took a few seconds before continuing, apparently disregarding John's last statement. "Why haven't you been answering the two-way? And have you apprehended the suspect yet?"
"I'm sorry, Sir," John released the words cautiously, his already confused state compounding as the conversation progressed, "I'm not sure what you are talking about."
There was a short pause before Skinner spoke again, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "Does Lukesh have you held hostage? If there is a problem, just say Monica's name again and I can send backup."
"No, Sir, I'm fine." John tried to sound as assured as possible, despite the confusion surrounding him. "Look, I think there is some misunderstanding."
"John, if you have lost the suspect we need you back at the crime scene. We can send another team to apprehend him."
"What is going on? This is crazy. I've been spending the last few minutes looking for Monica and worrying about her and now I get a call from you to come to a crime scene. Nothing is making any sense."
The deeper breath that Skinner took was easily audible. "She is still here, John." There was an unnerving tone of regret lingering amongst the words which John found disconcerting. "We can't do anything until the scene is processed."
John felt the panic rising; he had to get to wherever Monica was. Any other thoughts of the insanity that had occurred throughout the morning were dissipating now that he had a chance to find her. "Where do I have to go?"
"I just told you. Come back to the scene."
"No, I mean where is the scene?" John was getting more desperate and frustrated with each second that passed. "I need the address."
"Brickson Street. I'll meet you outside the apartment in the alley." John was already heading towards the front door before Skinner had finished his sentence. He shoved his hand into his pocket and retrieved his car keys while he made his way out of the apartment. As he reached the street, a bright red convertible caught his eye – not just because of the ostentatious colour – but because it was in the space where he had parked his truck that morning. He did a double-take, decided that he had more important matters to worry about at the present time, and hailed a cab.
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Follmer's shouted words of warning had long since faded in the dark hallway. His thoughts were now racing between despair and desperation as his head dropped down in defeat, his blood soaked hands still caressing Monica's face. A few more moments passed before he cautiously started to move his hands away, realising he couldn't prevent the trembling that began as he broke contact. The previous minutes were already haunting him, burned forever into his memory: he had watched her life simply draining away, slipping through his helpless hands; the beautiful spark of life slowly ebbing as her eyes began to lose focus. And despite his determined words urging her to hold on until help arrived, they both knew what fate had in store as she mercilessly continued to fade away.
And as he sat there in the quiet hallway, the realisation that he had never felt so alone and vulnerable in his whole life engulfed him. Revenge, anger and despair coursed through him in a twisted emotional dance, bound together irreversibly. But despite all he was feeling for what had been lost, he couldn't help but curse his perseverant ambition and unjustifiable jealousy which had ultimately cost Monica her life. He had lost her once before due to his actions, but that time the consequences had not been so ill-fated and cruel.
The sound of heavy boots running closer cut through the silence until three figures entered the stairwell. But the sounds suddenly stopped, only the echo of their presence continuing in the confined space. Three officers, guns held cautiously forward, stared in horror at the sight of a fallen agent, and at the broken figure crouched beside her.
"Oh my God, get the paramedics in here," one of the voices managed to say.
"It's too late," Follmer murmured, half to himself. "Too late." He slowly dragged himself off the ground and stumbled out of the hallway into the alley, a hurried crowd of agents and paramedics rushing to him - filtered in slow motion by his dazed state - trying to find out what had happened after the desperate call for help. He sensed he should try and say something to inform them about the now lifeless body of who had been the love of his life, but as he processed his rambling thoughts he was still lucid enough to understand his body was in a severe state of shock. He struggled to speak, but the dryness in his mouth was making it difficult. Instead, he raised his trembling palms to his waist level to show them, and himself, a macabre indication of what had occurred. Her fresh blood was still soaking his hands, a living metaphor of the consuming guilt he felt inside. "She's…" He couldn't complete the sentence, but he didn't need to.
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Doggett pulled a handful of notes from his wallet as the cab slowed, threw them on the passenger seat and jumped out of the car just as it stopped. He hastily made his way through the maze of emergency vehicles towards Skinner, automatically ducking beneath the crime scene tape. "Where is she?" He shouted the words while still several yards away, ignorant of the bustle of officers, paramedics and other agents crowded into the alley. Skinner looked towards him, the sadness in his eyes accentuated through the lenses of his glasses.
"She's still inside, we haven't been able to move her yet." Doggett tried desperately to ignore the truth that his senses were bombarding him with, assuring himself that all he needed to do was find her and he could fix whatever had gone so terribly wrong. He turned towards the apartment, determined to enter despite the fear that threatened to overtake him. He felt a strong hand grab his shoulder, forcing him to turn.
"Doggett, are you sure you want to do that?" Skinner's voice cracked slightly as he spoke. John held his gaze for a while, before a figure slumped against a wall drew his attention. Follmer sat despondently, staring at the dried blood encasing his hands. John could feel his heartbeat increasing, his head spinning with possibilities. "It won't change what's happened."
"I have to." He broke free and began jogging, pushing past the gathering of people in the hallway, the darkness only broken by several flashlights which threw jagged shadows to creep up the walls.
And it was when he reached the stairwell that his world crashed around him. The young agent who was taking photos of the blood spots surrounding Monica's body took one look at John's face and backed away to give him some room. However, John stood frozen, total incomprehension preventing him from moving. He remained transfixed by the image before him: Monica's pale skin now a deathly white, the colour garishly contrasting with the lines of dark red that tracked down her throat to collect at the rim of her singlet top. He was shaking his head in disbelief and took one cautious step towards her, arms outstretched as though he could resurrect her. And then he saw her eyes; her dark eyes that were still open and staring into nothingness. And he only made it a few steps into the hallway before he collapsed to his knees and vomited.
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John had no idea how much time had passed as he sat motionless with his back against the wall of the hallway, the commotion around him a blur. It wasn't until he felt Skinner's hand clasp around his bicep and help pull him to his feet did the reality of the situation begin to sink in.
"We have to know what happened." Skinner's voice was sympathetic yet firm. "We have to make sure Lukesh doesn't get away with this."
John's breaths were shallow, the taste of bile still burning at his taste buds. He didn't know what to say. He was being asked questions that he had no answers for, and the only person that he had talked to that day was now slumped lifeless on the stairs of an apartment block fourteen miles from where he had last seen her. He couldn't rationalise that such a short time ago they had been sharing one of their rare moments together away from work, her carefree laugh still peppering his memory. He tried to keep his mind's eye focused on the image of her honest happiness when he had arrived at her new apartment, her friendly smile, the warm softness of her hand as it had gently wiped his face; anything to escape the current situation.
"All AD Follmer could tell us was that Lukesh had taken Agent Reyes' gun, and he tried to warn you as you made your way down the hallway. The first officers on the scene saw you in the alley but by the time they had gotten out of their vehicles you were gone." He hesitated slightly when he noticed the blank look on Doggett's face. "How did you manage to get out of the alley? Did Lukesh know some exit we haven't found yet?"
John started to make his way outside, the confinement of the small area exacerbating his feeling of being trapped. He placed his hands over his head as he walked, his fingers digging into his scalp as he murmured his response. "I don't know."
Skinner was shadowing him as they exited the apartment, waiting to gain more useful information. "The longer Lukesh is on the run, the less chance we have of getting him into custody. Anything you can remember to give us his probable location?" he prompted.
The helplessness and fear of not knowing what was happening was making any coherent thought difficult. John's emotions were alternating between despair and frustration and he could no longer contain so many conflicting feelings. "I can't help you because I don't remember any of the things you are talking about. I wasn't here this morning. I was with Monica - in her apartment. I have never heard of Lukesh and I have no idea where he is." He turned towards Skinner, his breath rushing through his nostrils. Skinner kept staring at him for a while, before grabbing his arm once more and leading him towards one of the ambulances.
"You are in shock, Agent Doggett. Once the paramedics check you over we can talk again."
John hastily ripped his arm from Skinner's grip. "Of course I am in shock! I have just seen my partner lying there dead, and I can do nothing to help." Tears stung at his eyes but he continued his tirade. "Do you think I would deliberately be trying to not help an investigation? I wish I could help but I don't know anything."
"You must have blocked what has happened. I am still trying to accept it too. Do you think it is easy for me to put Agent Reyes' death behind me so I can work effectively? To focus on catching Lukesh instead of reflecting on what has been lost?" John could see the distress in Skinner's features as he continued. "I just want to make sure we catch this bastard."
John's vacant expression remained but his mind was trying to choose what to believe: the memories that felt so real, or the surroundings that continually reminded him of a different reality. "I'm sorry," he told Skinner, "but I just can't deal with this at the moment."
As Skinner stared into those broken eyes, he could see the emptiness behind them; he knew that there was nothing more that John was going to be able to tell him, at least until the trauma of what had happened had faded to some extent. "Okay, you are off the case as of now. But as soon as you start to remember anything, I need you to let me know." He indicated with a tilt of his head in the direction of an ambulance. "And get yourself cleared by a paramedic before you leave the scene. I don't want to hear I sent an agent home with concussion."
John gave him a slight nod in response and headed towards the emergency vehicle. The absurdity of the last comment taunted him: as if a concussion was of any importance when his partner was to join the ranks of agents killed in the line of duty. He had only walked a few steps, head hanging in defeat, when he heard Skinner's voice call out to him.
"John, I know how hard this is on you." He stopped walking, but didn't turn around. "We are all going to miss her." John closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing on his way.
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Despite finding no physical injuries, the paramedics were concerned by Doggett's apparent memory loss. They had recommended he be transported to the nearest hospital for more extensive diagnostics, but he assured them he was fine and that he just needed some time alone to recover. However, they insisted he sign a waiver stating he refused further medical treatment before they would let him go, and he hurriedly scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page, wanting to leave the chaotic atmosphere as soon as possible. As he passed the form back, he saw the unmistakable outline of a body encased in a black bag being wheeled towards the coroner's van and he quickly turned his head from the image before the feeling of nausea overtook him again. He had seen the most abhorrent crimes during his career, but nothing was ever going to have been enough to prepare him for the violence that had so unexpectedly ended the life of his partner. His partner. The words echoed in his mind; it was such an insignificant term to describe such an incredible person. It was almost disrespectful to her memory to reduce her existence to that. When he told people that his partner had been killed, it would not be the kind of word that would convey to them how much more she was; the loyal confidante, the compassionate ally, the supportive friend. And it was only now that she had been so cruelly ripped away from him, was he aware of just how strong the bond between them had grown; the bond that had tentatively gathered strength over several years, only to be severed so senselessly.
John realised he had to regain some sense of normality so he could try to process the events that had unfolded; he had to get to a place that felt safe. And regardless of the fact that he was still in disbelief of what was happening, he felt guilty for leaving when the person who had caused all the suffering was apparently still free. But he promised himself that he was not going to be of any help if he stayed, and that if he just had some time to think, he could somehow fix whatever had gone so inexplicably wrong. He made his way out to the street running perpendicular to the alley, hailing the first cab that he saw.
"Where to?" The cab driver glanced in the rear-view mirror, seeing the determined look in his passenger's eyes.
"Bennett Avenue," said Doggett with a tone of finality. "Number sixty-seven."
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John tested the lock on Monica's front door which swung open without protest, and he remembered that in his haste to leave earlier that day he had not locked it. He was relieved that at least one of his memories of the last few hours seemed to hold true. He scanned the living room briefly, unsure what useful information he thought he might gain, even though he was convinced that coming back to where reality first twisted was his best hope. But part of his reasoning was also to find something - anything - that would confirm he hadn't only imagined seeing Monica earlier; back when she was in a bright, cheerful mood, excited about the move to her new abode.
He had only been in Monica's apartment for a short time that morning, and even though his observation skills were noticeably better than the average person, he had not exactly had time to be given the grand tour. Also, he had been more focused on presenting her with the housewarming gift he had taken a good seven minutes to decide on than to focus on her choice of décor. But as he looked around the apartment, he immediately noticed that something just didn't fit even though he couldn't quite work out what. The dark red couch, the wooden coffee table, the twisted bamboo plant towering over a brass rimmed mirror: it all seemed to suit Monica's simple yet classy style. He could almost envision her languidly draped on the couch, soft candle light and rainforest music flowing through the room as she perused through her photos which sat neatly within a colourful box that rested on the coffee table.
He stared more closely, transfixed by the box. And then something clicked in his brain. Boxes. He looked around. Where were all the boxes? He distinctly remembered seeing the large cardboard boxes that sat unpacked around the room. He scanned the area once again; not one of them was visible. The more he looked around, the more homely the apartment appeared, as though the occupant was already well settled. The wooden bookcase was already stacked with books; definitely Monica's, because he recognised some of the titles of various occult and ritualistic reference books that he had seen in the office. He moved from room to room, searching for excess junk that may have been crammed in a corner or boxes with labels scribbled in permanent marker but wherever he looked, everything seemed to be in place. The last part he entered was the kitchen and he hurried over to the bin, almost breaking the lid as he wrenched it open. It was still there: the squashed hotdog bun, exactly where he had left it. He knew it wasn't much to allay his concerns, but it was enough for now. He had been with Monica that morning, so if that part was true, there was at least a glimmer of hope that he could reverse what had happened.
A fragile sense of calmness was tentatively emerging within John, but he still jumped as the shrill ring of his cell phone intruded the peace. Not needing any other surprises, he briefly glanced at the name that appeared on the screen and his mood immediately brightened as he realised it was the one person that might possibly believe his story: Scully. The phone had barely touched his ear and he could already hear her worried voice.
"Are you okay, John? Why aren't you answering your door? I've been knocking for the last few minutes." She was clearly agitated and for a moment John forgot his own worries. "Skinner said he had sent you home."
"I couldn't go straight home. I came to Monica's instead." He paused for a while as her name passed over his lips, and his next words came out accompanied by a disheartened sigh. "There was some stuff I needed to do."
"Stay there. I'm coming over." The phone went dead before he had a chance to respond and he made his way back into the living room, cautiously lowering himself onto the couch. He felt like he was sitting on the set of some macabre play; the surroundings looking too perfect for the tragic story that was taking place. He took a deep breath as he closed his eyes and leant forward, bringing up his hands to support his head, which suddenly felt twice as heavy as it should. When he slowly opened his eyes again, he saw the corner of a photo, provocatively sticking out from the box on the table. He carefully pulled at the corner, his heart rate increasing as more of the image became visible. It wasn't that it depicted a horrible scene, or was a reminder of some terrible incident. In fact, it was simply a photo of Monica and him smiling; but it was a photo he had no recollection of ever being taken.
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Scully arrived at the apartment, opening the door without even knocking. William was held protectively within her arms, sleeping with his head against her shoulder; everything had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that he had been woken from his nap to accompany his mother, and was now catching up on his disrupted routine. Scully quietly closed the door behind her, and as she made her way into the room, she was greeted by the sight of John lying with his head on the back of the couch, staring up at the high ceiling. He made no attempt to move, or even acknowledge the fact that she had arrived. She cautiously walked closer, and it wasn't until she stood beside the couch did she notice a photo clutched in one of his hands that rested in his lap. She couldn't depict what was in the photo from where she was standing, but she assumed it was Monica by the way John was unconsciously running his fingers along one corner.
"Are you okay, John?" She carefully sat down next to him, shifting William until he rested in her lap. "I just can't believe what has happened."
"Neither can I," he told her, unmoving from his position.
She looked at the emptiness in his eyes, an emotion she often saw in her own when she looked into a mirror, ever since Mulder had been away. It still seemed like Monica would burst into the apartment at any moment and come over to them to ask why everyone was in such a sombre mood. Even though they had only known each other for a short time, Monica had overcome Scully's cautious nature with her honesty and loyalty to become a friend, and it seemed so unfair that another person in Scully's life had died before their time.
"This has shaken up everyone pretty badly," she started, averting her eyes from John to the baby sleeping in her arms, as though checking he was still there. "That this has happened to such a good agent." She slowly moved her eyes to face him once again, sympathetic tears balancing on her lower lids. "I am so sorry, John. I know how close you two were." And although she made no sound, she blinked until the tears dispersed amongst her eyelashes, fighting the urge to cry; a feeling which came all too easily lately. She could see him swallow deeply, trying to contain his grief like he did so many times before but he also seemed like he was in denial. She moved her free hand to rest atop his, gently squeezing it in support. After a few moments, she turned his hand over until the photo he was holding was visible. A sad smile emerged as she looked at the image: John and Monica off-centre in a self portrait, the top of his head not quite making it into the photo but Monica's fingers against his ear, as though she was pulling him into frame, slightly tipsy smiles on both their faces. She turned to tell John it was nice that he had a reminder of the good times, but didn't get the chance to speak before he shifted in his seat, sitting up in a more serious manner.
He turned to her with a concerned furrow to his brow and asked her something that caught her off-guard. "When was this taken?" She gave him a questioning look but the seriousness with which he asked prompted her to take the photo which he now held out to her. She looked at it with concentration, searching for anything that she may recollect. John watched her intently, and soon saw a reflective smile appear.
"This must have been two weeks ago, when we went out for drinks after work." She could see the scepticism in his expression as she handed the photo back to him. "I remember commenting on the necklace she was wearing that night," she continued, pointing to the silver clover that dangled at the end of the chain. John's expression remained blank as he stared at the photo. "Surely you didn't have that much to drink." When he didn't respond she looked more closely. She could see the distinctive lamp and mirror in the background. She looked over her shoulder, and her mind processed the evidence. They must have been sitting in the same spot that her and John now were. "You must have taken this when you got back to the apartment." It still didn't seem to be jogging his memory, so she revealed more. "The last time I saw you that night was around eight. Monica said she thought that it was time to go, even though it was still early and of course you nobly offered to walk her home."
John noticed the hidden tone beneath the last statement. "So what is that supposed to mean?"
"It's okay, John. I know what was going on between you two." She lowered her volume slightly, as though unexpected ears may be eavesdropping. "After what Mulder and I went through, I know the signs to look for."
Scully had to admit that the look he gave her did a really convincing job that she must be mistaken. "Monica and I are just friends." It also didn't go unnoticed that he was still speaking of her in the present tense. She knew that traumatic events could lead to short term memory loss, but she also wanted to be sure he wasn't just denying the relationship because of the possible consequences.
"John, you don't need to hide it anymore. I just haven't said anything earlier because I knew it would embarrass both of you." He seemed to be deep in thought then, but about what, she wasn't sure. William stirred in her arms and she rocked him gently until he settled. By the time she turned back to John, she could see the pleading look in his eyes.
"Dana, I need help." Her concern was obvious as he continued. "I don't know what is happenin', but somethin' is not right." He couldn't think of a way to explain everything that he had been through and decided that wording things differently was not going to make what he was about to say sound any less crazy. "I was with Monica this mornin', in this apartment. She just moved in and I was going to help her set a few things up. She went into the kitchen and just…" he hesitated, "disappeared." Dana looked worried as he continued his story. "And then Skinner rang and I saw Monica lyin' in that room and…" He couldn't finish the sentence as he tried to avoid being reminded of what he had seen. "What I'm tryin' to say is that none of this has happened. I'm not working on a murder case at the moment. I didn't lose a suspect…because I was never chasin' him in the first place." He rubbed at his temple, as though attempting to ease the strain his mind was enduring. "It is like the world has turned upside down. This is the sorta thing that should happen in an X-file case, not somethin' that happens in our personal lives."
Dana was starting to worry about how he was convincing himself. It was definitely plausible that what he had experienced had caused some confusion and memory loss, but now he was making up false memories. She didn't know how she could explain it to him without alluding that Monica's death was undeniable. "John, we all wish it wasn't true, but you have to start accepting what has happened. What you are saying doesn't make sense." She tried to think of any supporting evidence. "You did help Monica move in…it was just that it was a few weeks ago, not this morning. And that case…with Lukesh…Monica was talking to me about the surveillance operation two days ago."
John seemed agitated, trying to find more contradicting evidence. "Then tell me how I ended up fourteen miles from the crime scene? When Skinner called me, I was standing in this apartment."
Scully sighed as an obvious question presented itself. "Who else saw you in the apartment, John? You are the only one who remembers being here. When you answered that phone, you may have only been a few blocks away, but everything is confused because of what has happened."
His features dropped slightly, as another avenue was disregarded. He seemed defeated for a moment but then paused before looking at the room opposite. "Hang on, I'll prove it." He got off the couch and headed for the kitchen. He was out of view for a few moments, a rustling sound emanating from the general direction before he emerged, triumphantly holding a bun in his hand. Scully glanced at it briefly then looked at him again, unsure of his point. "It's a hotdog," she stated plainly.
"I know. I brought this for her this mornin'. It proves I was here."
She gave him a sad look and shook her head, not wanting to feed his delusion. "No, it doesn't, John. You are the only one who can confirm your statements. And after all that has happened, your memories can't really be considered reliable." She was concerned for his well being, both as a doctor and as his friend. "I think you need some rest. These sorts of conditions can often abate with time." He nodded in silent agreement when he decided that he wasn't going to convince her. "I can drive you home."
She got up, carrying William with her to the door as John went back into the kitchen to dispose of the bun. He looked at it critically as he dropped it into the bin; the one piece of solid evidence linking him to the truth was going to rot away until he was left with nothing but this distorted reality.
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By the time Doggett arrived home, exhaustion began creeping up on him but he fought the sleepiness as he looked around his house, checking that everything seemed to be in place. He spotted the newspaper on the kitchen counter and hastily grabbed it, feeling like he was in some low budget science fiction movie as he checked the date at the top; he wasn't sure if he was relieved or more frustrated to see it was the correct date. He made his way through the living room, kitchen, dining room; each looking the same as he remembered. He headed into his bedroom, the bed neatly made like it was every morning, after years of marine training had drilled it into him. He opened the cupboard, sorting through the stacks of clothes; all familiar. And then he stopped when he reached a dark brown jacket and pulled it out to inspect more closely. He looked down at the one he was wearing – it was the same jacket. Not just the same style, but the exact same one, complete with the stitching unravelling near the lower right pocket. He quickly shoved it back on its hanger then crouched down to look at the neat line of shoes, and immediately spotted the distinctive pair of boots, clones of the ones he was wearing. He wasn't quite sure what the finding indicated, apart from a definite increase in the weirdness factor.
By now, the lethargy was starting to drain him so he walked into the bathroom, removing his clothing as he went. He turned the shower on as hot as he could bear, letting the forceful flow throw tiny burning spears against his skin. It was strangely comforting: the hot water crashing around and dulling any sounds of the outside world, a place where he could too easily pretend that what had occurred that day was only a dream. He let the water pound against him for a few more minutes, the stinging droplets causing his body to tingle at first before almost going numb. He stepped out of the shower and grabbed the white towel from the rack, briefly rubbing it over his chest and arms before tying it around his waist. He walked over to the sink and was about to open the cupboard behind the mirror, when the hazy image caught his eye. He wiped at the condensation, his reflected image looking blurred as he stared at himself. The strangest feeling swept through him, as though he was looking at his distorted twin who was stuck in a world where everything around him was slightly out of focus; yet it was he who felt like the one who was trapped. It was almost like looking into a parallel dimension. John shook his head slightly at the thought; it was something Monica would have suggested, not his own, usually rational mind. He grabbed the toothpaste and squirted it onto the brush, hoping the strong mint taste could help clear his head.
He climbed into a black pair of boxer shorts and pulled back the covers of his bed, falling into the inviting softness, then unclipped the metal watch that was digging into his wrist and opened the bedside drawer…and then he saw the photo; the same photo he had held at Monica's. He sat up and pulled it from where it was lying, looking at it more closely. It was the one thing so far that was convincing him that he really was in some different reality. He smiled slightly at the thought of the photo being hidden, as though he and Monica had done such a great job of keeping a secret. But it still felt so strange to believe what Scully had told him; that he and Monica had apparently shared certain moments that he had no recollection of ever occurring. And in some ways, he wished what Scully had alluded to was true, because the happiness he saw in the photo was comforting and somehow felt familiar, but the flip side was that this place he now existed in was devoid of that one person who was so important to him. He took one last look at the photo and carefully replaced it in the drawer before laying himself back down against the pillow. Despite the plans he tried running through as to how he could solve his current dilemma, his mental exhaustion soon won out and he drifted into a restless sleep.
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A blinding whiteness flashes in front of my eyes. The intensity of it is almost disorientating, and even as it dissipates, the imprint remains etched into my retinas for several seconds, slowly diminishing with each blink. The slightest tinge of alcohol is making my brain take longer to respond, but as my vision returns, I can see the camera a couple of feet away, tilted at a slight angle and held out purposefully by Monica who is sitting beside me, our bodies squashed closely to try to make sure we both fit in the frame. My arm is firmly wrapped around her shoulder and I can feel her fingers against my ear, pulling our heads together until they rest against each other. She brings the camera back to rest in her lap as her other hand slowly drops from my ear until it rests at the base of my neck and I turn to face her, my posed smile becoming more genuine when I see the honest happiness still lighting up her face.
"Don't look so proud of yourself until you check the photo. I bet it's blurred or you cut the top of our heads off."
"It will be perfect, John. Trust me," she says confidently as she holds the camera between us and clicks the button to review.
I begin looking more closely, squinting my eyes suspiciously. "See, I knew it. You've chopped my hair off."
Monica gives me an indignant pout. "Well it's all your fault. I told you to get closer."
"Closer?" I laugh. "You were practically sitting in my lap."
"Oh, and that is such a terrible thing is it?" She raises one eyebrow to help accentuate the question, but she can no longer stop the pout from breaking into a grin. I smile back, gently squeezing her shoulder in response.
And now she is looking at me. Not just in a physical sense; she is looking straight past my blue eyes into my soul. I can almost feel her inside my mind, perusing through the damage that has collected over the years and promising to repair it. I am transfixed by her dark eyes, unrelentingly willing to accept the offer as I intently watch her gaze change its focus from my eyes to my lips. My own smile fades along with hers, the intensity of the moment overwhelming the previous light-heartedness. I can feel the warmth of her arm beneath my hand that is still holding her; can discern each of her fingertips lazily resting against my neck.
And now she is moving closer. My eyes are struggling to take in as much of the image: her soft lips, her flushed cheeks, her eyelids droopily closing as she edges closer to me with excruciating slowness. Her warm breath is dancing across my lips, and I close my eyes at the sensation, waiting for the inevitable contact. It seems like an eternity; one in which a thousand heartbeats have passed, but not a single breath, as I continue holding it in anticipation. And the next hot breath I feel is accompanied by the most delicate touch of her lips, just barely grazing mine, conveying years of emotion in a moment…
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John's eyes sprung open, stunned by the contrasting darkness of his room. He groggily moved his hand towards his lips, an almost imperceptible tingling sensation still lingering as though a ghostly kiss was trying to leave a physical reminder. It had all felt so real yet his mind was trying to make sense of the illusion. Had he dreamt up the image, prompted by what he had seen in the photo? Or was the photo undeniable proof of a memory he had just relived? And how could he ever know the truth if the one person he had possibly shared the moment with was not there to confirm it? He sighed deeply, torn between the emotion of loneliness that had been haunting him and a certain sense of calmness from what he had just experienced. He rolled over and closed his eyes, hoping that he could escape reality once again, even if it would only be until morning.
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The bright morning sun pierced through the window, splashing across John's face until he could ignore it no longer. He sat up quickly and glanced at the clock; it was already after eight, and he was usually awake no later than six, even before his alarm went off. It took a few more moments for his mind to battle the haziness of sleep until he remembered what had happened. He looked nervously at the drawer next to the bed and gently slid it open. The photo was still there in the same place he had placed it the previous night. His heart sank at the discovery; it was a representation that the chaotic situation he had been thrown into still existed. He replaced the photo then made his way into the kitchen, brewing some coffee in the hope it may activate his brain to a usable level. The aroma calmed him to some extent, its familiar scent a point of normality to start the day with as he pondered over what he should do. Although he understood he was not going to be much help in the investigation, he felt he should be at work, at least to gain information about things he supposedly already knew. He convinced himself that the more facts he had, the more likely it would be that he could ascertain what had happened. He filled his mug with coffee, and walked to the garage, concluding that if he couldn't work out where the truck was by the end of the day, it would need to be reported as stolen. The garage was empty, and he glanced at his watch then dialled Scully's number, hoping he had caught her before she left her apartment.
"Hi, Dana. Would you be able to pick me up on your way to work?"
"Sure. I was just leaving." She paused for a while before continuing with a protective tone. "Are you sure you are okay to come back?"
"I need to help. If we find Lukesh, he might be able to give us some information to help me understand what is going on."
Scully didn't want to argue with him over the phone. "I'll be there in fifteen."
He clicked the phone off and headed back into his room to get changed. He would have been ready to go within ten minutes, but he couldn't find his good pair of black work shoes. He ended up grabbing the old scuffed pair and headed out the door, just as Scully pulled into the curb.
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Scully manoeuvred her car through the parking lot, slowing as she caught sight of Monica's car in the space it had been parked the previous day. Doggett had been blankly staring through the windscreen for most of the trip, but turned his attention to Scully when he heard the slightly louder breath she had released, and saw the sadness in her features. He followed her gaze until he too noticed what had elicited her emotion, and felt that now familiar stabbing sensation in his chest that plagued him whenever he was reminded that Monica was no longer with them. He started to look away, welcoming any distraction that would allow him to think clearly. As his eyes whipped past the line of cars, his brain registered one of significance, and he looked back for confirmation: his truck was there, three spaces along. Before he had time to consider the implications of his finding, Scully had turned into one of the empty spaces and pulled the keys from the ignition.
"You ready to go in?" Her words were accompanied by that tentative tone of concern, the same one he had used on her so many times during the search for Mulder. And although his nod was only slight, it was full of determination. They made their way through the car park and towards the elevators but before Doggett had a chance to press the button for the basement, Scully had intercepted his action, instead pushing the button that would send them in the opposite direction. He gave her a confused glance, but refrained from talking until they entered the elevator. Once the doors had closed she turned to him.
"I rang Skinner this morning after you called me." Her eyes briefly flicked sideways, as though she felt guilty that she had somehow betrayed him. "I told him you were coming back to work, and he said that he wanted to talk to you." She paused only briefly, trying to gauge his reaction but quickly continued in an attempt to justify her reasoning. "It's all unofficial, seeing you are still off the case. Now that you have had some time to think, maybe you will remember some details that might help."
He didn't want to start an argument by reiterating his claim that it wasn't his memory that was the problem, and realistically, any information that Skinner could provide might help him understand where the supposed operation had gone wrong, so he didn't respond. As he looked at her furrowed brow, he decided his best option was to play along for now; if he hadn't been able to convince Scully that he had been with Monica the previous morning, he would have no luck with anyone else. It was one of the moments where Mulder's absence was more obvious than normal; having someone with an open mind would definitely be beneficial. The doors slid open, but Scully didn't follow him into the hallway. She gave him an encouraging smile as she disappeared behind the elevator door and Doggett continued on, past the secretary who waved him through, and into Skinner's office. Doggett gave a small nod of acknowledgement when he saw his superior, but was surprised to see Follmer also seated in the room.
Skinner got straight to the point. "I don't enjoy having to make the two of you relive the events of yesterday. And in a perfect world, we could all be off on bereavement leave. But the fact is that Lukesh has still manage to evade capture, and the two of you were closest to the scene so I want to run through what happened leading up to…" he cleared his throat as the barrier between work and emotion blurred "when Agent Reyes was attacked." Despite years of practice at conversing with subordinates with an air of authority and strength, it was obvious that Skinner was finding it difficult to carry on as normal. Doggett glanced at Follmer, the usual friction between them temporarily alleviated due to the circumstances; Follmer's frequent smug look replaced by one of sadness in his sunken eyes.
"This is off the record," Skinner began, as he removed his glasses and placed them on the desk, "but how did Agent Reyes end up in an area that had not been equipped with surveillance cameras?" Doggett closed his eyes briefly at the thought of Monica being left vulnerable in that stairwell, praying that it was because of circumstances beyond his control. The silence that followed the question was excruciating.
"You are aware of how strong-willed Agent Reyes is," Doggett said quietly, desperate to break the silence. His brain then registered what he had said. "I mean was," he added, hoping that his mistake was interpreted as an indicator that he was still coming to terms with her death, not because he still believed that the Monica he had first been with was still alive. He looked at Follmer then, waiting to see if he would elaborate with something more specific.
Follmer was now wary with the situation. Was Skinner wanting him to justify his reason for urging Monica to keep following Lukesh? His forehead was scrunched in concentration; he already felt guilty that he had told Monica to continue, and that it was probably the most significant decision that had resulted in her death. There were officers waiting in patrol cars around the corner for his signal…he should have told her to abort the mission and called for backup the moment Lukesh left the foyer. But he had noticed the subtle change in Monica over the last couple of weeks – he knew that Doggett and her had progressed from just being FBI partners – and his superior rank had been his opportunity to be in control once again. If only he had followed protocol instead of allowing himself to succumb to jealousy, Monica may still have been alive. But he wasn't exactly able to confess that his ego had been the dominant factor in his decision making process.
"Agent Reyes seemed in control of the situation at the time." Follmer glanced briefly at Doggett, hoping he wouldn't see that same look of disbelief he had seen in the surveillance van, before focusing on Skinner once again. "I would have told her stop if she had given any indication that she was concerned." His voice sounded weak, as though relaying a rehearsed answer without backing it up with belief in what was being said.
Skinner brought his right hand up to his chin, rubbing at it as he thought about the response. There was going to be an official inquiry into the investigation – there always was when the death of an agent was involved – but as he looked at the two broken men before him, he knew that no reprimand would ever be as harsh as the punishment they placed on themselves.
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Doggett despondently made his way into the basement, greeting Scully with a feeble smile as he walked towards his desk and sat down.
"How did it go?"
He gave a weak shrug in response, reluctant to give too many details. "They still don't have any leads on where Lukesh may have disappeared. There are officers on twenty-four hour surveillance of the apartment in case he returns." He looked at Scully's expectant gaze and cleared his throat. "I just wish I could remember what happened."
She could see the defeat in his eyes. "John, just give it some more time. Your memory might recover once the stress decreases. It's probably best for you to give it a few more days." She started making her way towards him then sat down on the desk as she opened the top drawer. She grabbed her keys, and as she removed them, John spotted another pair behind them: his own. He shoved his hand in his jacket pocket; his keys were already in there. His mind was still trying to decipher how there were now two sets of keys when Scully's voice broke his train of thought. "I can give you a lift back home if you like."
"Thanks for the offer," he started absently, "but I'll drive myself." He noticed her questioning expression, so he quickly removed his hand from his pocket and made a grab for the keys in the drawer. "I left my truck here yesterday." He rattled the keys as he brought them towards himself, as though they were proof.
Scully was concerned by John's behaviour, as though he was experiencing a certain detachment from the situation; it was almost as if he was trying to hide from the truth of what was happening around him. "Make sure you get some rest; give your mind a while to recover. You know that this case has top priority," she assured him. "I'll call you if there is any new information."
"Thank you, Dana." Scully could see he was having difficulty concentrating as he made his way to the office door, nervously twisting the keys between his fingers and he halted when he reached the hallway, turning slightly until he faced her again. "There's somethin' else Skinner told Follmer and I just before we left." He took a deep breath, preparing for the significance of the words. "Monica's funeral is in two days."