January 3, 5:23 A.M.
John was awoken by the sound of a crying infant. And not just any infant. It was a cry that was very familiar to his ears. He recognized it immediately and feeling that he was waking up, refused to open his eyes for fear the dream would dissipate before he could fall back asleep.
"John, please, for the love of God, would you go get him? I was up with him from 1 till 3."
He sat up very suddenly.
"Jesus, do you have to shake the whole bed? I just want to get another hour of sleep."
"Barbara?" he asked incredulously.
"What, John, what?" she was obviously stressed.
"I..."
"Will you please go get Luke? Please? I'm begging you." She rolled over to plead with him, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears of exhaustion.
"I... yeah... sorry... was sleeping real deep..."
His chest was tight as he followed the sound of the cries. And when he walked into the nursery and found his infant son red-faced and angry, he too began to cry. He picked up his son delicately and then held him close, kissing the squirming infant with joy. "Luke, Luke, Luke," he repeated over and over again, treasuring the moment, too afraid to question it for fear that it would all go away.
Luke did not quit his crying and John began to fear that Barbara would come stalking in there to take over. There was also the smell of a dirty diaper to be dealt with. He tenderly undressed his son, marveling over how tiny his hands and feet were, crying again over the fact that he was looking at his boy again. He still did not question, instead choosing to concentrate on memorizing all the features that had escaped his memory over time. He picked up his newly diapered son, amazed that the boy was about a year old, and took him to the kitchen for a new bottle.
The kitchen, the house, his wife, his infant son... these things started to raise questions with the silence that ensued the moment Luke had his bottle in his mouth. What was going on? Why was it suddenly 1987 again? What had happened? He didn't feel like he was asleep. Luke felt very warm and very real in his arms. He could smell his slightly sour, milky smell, and could hear the gentle sucking sounds. Nothing looked out of place. Time wasn't lagging or skipping. It felt very much like reality, not a dream.
Had he instead dreamed the last 15 years? That too seemed all very real, but memories pale in comparison to reality. Besides, John Doggett was a man who preferred to believe what he saw rather than what he remembered. Unless he knew for damn sure that he was right. And he just couldn't shake the feeling that his memories were very vivid, very real, and very much to be believed. He wondered if there was an X-file on the subject, but quickly realized that he didn't join the X-files until 2000... not for another 13 years. In fact, he was pretty sure Mulder hadn't even started them up again. And Monica...god, Monica. He remembered now that that was the real dream he'd been woken from. Something about Monica. Where was Monica now in all this? If he'd truly woken up fifteen years earlier than when he'd gone to bed, then Monica must be...just a kid, really. He wondered if she remembered the last – or next – fifteen years. He wondered if anyone remembered.
His reverie came to an end when Luke finished his bottle. Again he was taken with the wonderment that was his second chance with his son. He couldn't put him down, couldn't separate himself. He dressed him in clothes he'd forced himself to forget – the little race car onesie with the matching socks. He played tickle and peek-a-boo and talked to him. When the phone rang, he carried the boy with him, rather than leaving him in his playpen.
"John Doggett."
"Doggett, what the hell are you doing at home? Shift started 10 minutes ago."
"O'Reilly?" he asked with great confusion.
"Get your ass over here, I can't keep covering for you."
"Uh, yeah, sure. Sorry, rough night with Luke. He's got some new teeth coming in and he's running a slight fever."
"You used that excuse yesterday. I used that excuse for you yesterday. Hurry it up!"
The phone conversation over, John had no choice but to return Luke to his crib. He remembered feeling this heavy-hearted feeling fifteen years ago, but this time it actually brought him to tears again. He feared never seeing Luke again.
"Baby, what's wrong? Who was that on the phone?" Barbara came up to him and wrapped her arms around him.
"I... sorry... was just thinking about how perfect our son is. Didn't know you were up."
She smiled at him and kissed him in appreciation. "That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard you say." She looked at her watch. "You know you're late for work again?"
"Yeah, that was... O'Reilly. I gotta get going."
In the bathroom, though he'd suspected it, he still found it a shock to look into the mirror and see himself 15 years younger. It was pleasing but disconcerting. Twenty-seven. He couldn't believe it. There were no signs whatsoever of middle age. His face was still young and fresh, his hair darker and fuller, his body thinner and more chiseled. There wasn't time to appreciate the changes though... he was running late.