Title: Esperanza contra esperanza (Hope against hope)
Author: Cyclone
Rating: K+
Summary: She was a trained professional, and besides; how hard could it be to track down one man with all the FBI's numerous resources?
Disclaimer: CC still retains ownership, even though he treats them terribly and won't let them out of the house.
Spoilers: John Doe, general season 9.
Notes: I've taken a little creative licence here with the timelines. Also, as the story is essentially Monica's journey in finding John, there are no mentions of Luke or Barbara.
Thanks: To Kate, who despite not liking the pairing made the ultimate sacrifice and read through my story anyway. Cheers, SF. You rock.
XxX
She'd left the room shaking. Not because she'd been worried or frustrated or running on less than 3 hours of disturbed sleep, even though she'd been all of those things, but because she'd been angry. Furious. Molina had lied to her. He had kept her waiting for two damn weeks while the trail grew colder and her hope grew smaller, and when she'd finally managed to get an interview with him, he'd lied. She hadn't really expected much else, not after so long a time. But to have him sit across from her, knowing that she knew that he'd had something to do with John's disappearance, knowing that his high-priced lawyer would fend off any questions that cut too close to the bone, well, that had really pissed her off.
So she'd threatened the man. In front of his lawyer, no less. Your only personal hope for the future is that I find him alive. And she'd meant every single word.
The first few days she had remained optimistic. She was a trained professional, and besides; how hard could it be to track down one man with all the FBI's numerous resources? So she'd followed leads, made enquiries, set up a task force and tried not to let her personal feelings compromise her ability to do her job properly.
After the first week had passed and she'd hit the proverbial brick wall her optimism had begun to wane. The fear, which she'd so far managed to control by not allowing it to take hold, began to seep into everything she said and did. Then the second week began and her anxiety and worry had intensified tenfold, because she knew all too well that the more time elapsed the slimmer their chances of finding him alive were.
A new lead had taken her to Mexico with nothing more than a hunch, gritty determination and renewed hope. Kersh may have thought the investigation was dead, but there was no way that he was going to shut her down. Not while she still had breath in her body. So she'd packed her bags, caught a flight into Mexico and started her search afresh.
Skinner had done what he could and Scully continued to support her, but the frustration that no one really seemed to care that an agent was missing, that John was missing, pushed her closer to the edge than she felt comfortable with. She'd tried to remain stoic, but she wasn't yet used to quashing her feelings and projecting an air of detached professionalism. She'd always been the type to wear her heart on her sleeve, so to speak, but John had been trying to reign in this aspect of her temperament.
"I just don't want people to be able to read you and use your emotions against you," he'd said. "Especially in this job, with the vultures we work with."
He'd had a point and she'd made an effort to try, but it certainly wasn't easy, especially when she was so very much invested in the matter at hand. She just wanted to scream at the irony of it. They'd only recently found each other and come to an understanding, and she was not ready to give up on that. So as difficult as it was, she ignored the panic and desire to run and hide in a corner and cry, and plodded on. She would not give up on him, because he would never give up on her. That thought comforted her somewhat as images of John injured, lost and alone (but not dead, no, never that) and calling for her assaulted her mind. She would not fail him. She would find him, and they would have the life together that they'd tentatively started planning.
Her mind drifted back to the conversation they'd had just a few short weeks ago.
"Why don't you just move all your things in here and be done with it?" John had asked with amusement as he watched her carefully fold her clothes and then throw them haphazardly onto the chair.
"Because I'm not ready yet," she'd replied, climbing into bed that was quickly becoming as familiar as her own.
"You spend most of your time here," John had noted. "You've taken over half of my closet space, I have girly stuff in the bathroom and whale songs mixed in with my Springsteen cds. What exactly aren't you ready for?"
"It's just too soon," she'd said, snuggling into his side as he curled his arm around her. "Besides, you know it's not that easy."
"Monica, I want you here all the time."
"I am here all the time," she'd replied, smiling at him.
"You know what I mean. I want you here officially."
"Officially?" she'd asked. "That would fall into the 'not that easy and probably frowned upon according to the FBI's rules and regulations' category."
"There are ways around that. Besides, it's only as hard as you make it."
"John," she'd warned.
"I don't understand what the problem is," he'd pressed. "Don't you get tired of pretending that we haven't woken up together, or leaving work in different cars to keep up the pretence that we lead separate lives? I'm getting a little tired of hiding how I feel about you from people."
She'd tried not to let his admission sway her, even though all she wanted to do was get up and move all her things over immediately. "It's not a problem. It's just that I like having my own space. I like knowing that it's there if I need it. And the issue of us being partners is not one that can be glossed over so easily. And nor should it be."
It was an old argument and John chose to ignore it for the time being. "Do you foresee any particular problems that would cause you to need it?"
"No."
"So. . . it's like your safety net? If we don't work out or if things get too hard you know that you can just up and move back to your own apartment? Is that it? No harm, no foul?"
"You know me better than that."
"I don't know anything. All I know is that I want you with me, and for some reason you don't want to make that commitment."
"John, we agreed that when we started this we'd take things slow."
"It's been three months, Monica. Three months. We both know that we're in this thing for the long haul. But you keep sidestepping the issue and making excuses."
"I'm not. I'm just . . . I need to be sure that you're sure."
"Monica. I'm sure."
"You say you are, but. . ."
"But what?"
"I don't know. I just know that if we rush into this and you decide that it's not what you want after all, then I'm the one who'll have to deal with that."
"Sweetheart, there's a far greater chance that you'll come to your senses and leave me than there is of me ever leaving you."
Her breath had caught in her throat at both the endearment and the realisation of what he was saying. "Just give me a little more time, okay? Please?"
He'd agreed, because there was really nothing else he could have done, but she'd regretted her refusal every single day since she'd given it. She knew that there was only so much time he would give her though, and she'd vowed that the next time he asked her to move in with him that she'd say yes.
"There will be a next time," she said to herself. There had to be. She would find him, and he would be just fine, and she would take him home and show him exactly how much she loved him. She wouldn't accept anything less.
It had been two weeks though. And as much as she hated to admit it, things weren't looking good. It was hard enough just having John missing, let alone dealing with all the added setbacks and sabotage by the people who most probably had him, or at the very least knew where he was. Now, with each passing minute, as even Scully's belief that they'd find him wavered, it was becoming harder and harder to swallow the anger that came from having to deal with people who were prepared to give up and go home.
Monica chewed the bottom of her lip and frowned. She was bone tired and needed sleep, but she couldn't bring herself to rest. She'd just decided to have a quick shower to refresh herself before heading back out to the streets again, and her phone rang.
"Reyes. What? Are you sure? I'll be right there." Shower and sleep forgotten, she grabbed her keys and headed for the morgue. A body had turned up that matched John's description.
XxX
It wasn't him. It couldn't be him.
She entered the morgue, eyes locked on the white sheet. So pristine. So bright.
It wasn't him.
All her hopes for the future were bound up with the formless shape under that sheet, and suddenly she was terrified of finding out what lay underneath.
It wasn't him.
Her hand wavered; shaking, above the table.
Her heart pounded.
She wanted to throw up.
It couldn't be him.
Could it?
End.