Title: Terra Firma
Author: Carolina
Disclaimer: They're not mine... yet. cue thunder sound
Rating: R for language and violent situations.
Category: XRA, D/R UST, DSF….. CBS, SNL, UPS, (alright, minus those 3 last ones ;)
Archive: Sure, just let me know where before you do.
Author's notes: Well, this is the result of sitting in traffic... in Los Angeles... in the middle of the heat... you day dream... and because you don't have a life... you write fanfic. By the way, everything in this story is made up, all the cases and the mumbo jumbo. I'm lazy. I don't do research. You have been warned. This is my first x-files fanfic, so please be gentle.
Spoilers: Hm, right after William, before Release.
Feedback: sure. E-mail me at super_carolina1@yahoo.com
Summary: "Maybe he should have gone home. Maybe if he would have tried to divert the course of time, things would have ended differently."

Enjoy.

-TERRA FIRMA-

It all started the day his alarm never went off. A fluke, maybe. A mistake even, but it escalated into a series of ridiculously unlucky events that made him want to put his fist through a wall. His truck wouldn't start, the security guard made him go through the metal detector five times, the vending machine wouldn't take his wrinkled money, and a hot cup of coffee spilled on his desk, traveled down the oak wood surface, and burned his lap before he had a chance to move out of the way.

"Son of a…!"

He hissed at no one, standing up in time to save the files on his desk. The burn wasn't as bad as he had expected it to be, but infuriated, he looked up to observe his partners' reactions.

Unnoticed.

A lot of normally eyebrow-raising events had gone unnoticed nowadays. Unlike the usual chaos, alien chasing, and conspiracy uncovering cases running amok the bureau, things had been unusually calmed. Well, replace "unusually" with "awkwardly", and "calmed" with "depressing". Agent Scully had decided not long ago to give her baby up for adoption, and understandably so, her spirits had been anything but up. It was a decision she seemed to have made in a second, but the consequences had washed the entire bureau with a wave of melancholy. She had kept quiet, withdrawn. Folks around were not the most sensitive people, so everyone opted for staying quiet, instead of bringing something up that might make it worse, make her even more depressed. In a way, he could understand her pain. It wasn't long ago when he himself had lost his son. True, William was alive, and perfectly within the reach of Scully's grasp. But he knew what it was like to lose a part of you, that essence that makes you who you are. He missed parenthood, coming home after a long day to be received with shrieks of "Daddy!" and bombardments of hugs and kisses. Scully would probably never know how that feels. He probably would never even know himself.

Shaking his head to try and get rid of this frustration, he sat back down on his chair, pants still wet from the coffee.

No one noticed that either.

He ran a rag over the desk, and tried to get back to work. Impossible. For the last hour he had been trying to read the file on his hands. But as soon as he got to the second word, the first one disappeared from his memory and he would have to start from scratch. Maybe he should have gone home. Maybe if he would have tried to divert the course of time, things would have ended differently. But that was not John Doggett. Unlike his partner's coo quack idealisms, he didn't believe in destiny, or fate, or any of that garbage. No use in trying to change things, just get up, go to work, do your best to have a nice day, and go to bed. Unfortunately, today hadn't been a good day, at all. If there was such a thing as luck, which he didn't believe, then he must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed and stepped knee deep in horse crap.

Trying to play discreet, he looked up to throw a glance at Scully. She kept staring ahead, concentrating on a picture of baby William on the desk in front of her. Why won't she go home? Why does she torture herself by staring at his picture? Why is this affecting everyone so badly? Of course, there's an exception to every rule, and he had found out a long time ago, nine years to be exact, that Monica was the exception to every single rule he had ever learned.

He looked up towards her desk to find her trying to balance a pencil on the calendar that rested under her arms. The pencil fell down with every attempt, but still, she kept picking it up and trying to make it stand on its own. Pencil goes up, rocks and loses its balance because the eraser was round, and down it went again. He looked up at Monica's determined face and shook his head. That was Monica, tenacious, but in the most awkward sense.

Finally, she let the pencil rest on the desk when Scully snapped out of her trance and stood up, reaching for her jacket.

"I'm going home," she announced almost in an inaudible tone.

"Do you need anything?" Monica suddenly asked, and then looked reprimanded when she realized the stupidity of the question.

But Scully smiled nonetheless, and simply shook her head. "No. But thank you." Reaching for her briefcase, she gave both agents an insincere smile before she wished them goodnight and walked out the door, almost somber.

John watched as Monica let out a small sigh and sat on her chair again, trying to go back to work. Monica had devoted almost all her time to being there for Scully, try to distract her from thoughts of her son. They had gone shopping, on walks, on coffee breaks, on lunches... In a way, it made John feel like a third wheel, sometimes useless, but he understood that under the circumstances, maybe it was the right thing for Monica to do. Still, he knew how Scully felt, and he knew that at the moment, she probably wanted to be alone. Hell, she probably wanted to be alone all the time but didn't have the heart to tell Monica to scram. Looking back at those years after Luke's death, he was glad Monica had been as aggressive as she was being with Scully at the moment. If it wasn't for her constant smothering, he probably would have gone crazy the second his eyes rested on his dead son's body. He admired that part of her. If he was an open man, he would have been able to realize he loved that part of her.

Yet at the same time, she made him incredibly mad. Sometimes when he was hurting, all he wanted to do was walk, leave, be alone. But whenever he turned around, there was Monica, asking if he was okay. She could be a little bit of a bundle sometimes, especially for a man who detests confronting his emotions. He liked things to be traditional, and she always debunked his thoughts with her New Age crap. She reminded him of that song, "I've got a new age girl..."

But even within the conventionalisms of her own beliefs, she didn't fit very well. But. That was the best word to describe Monica. She believes, but keeps herself at bay. She is open minded, yet stubborn when she wants to be. She's passive, but has a hidden air of aggressiveness. Don't eat meat, but she sure like the bone.

"Should we go and keep her company?" Monica asked all of a sudden, interrupting John's train of thought.

John shook his head. "Leave her alone, Monica, will 'ya?" he answered as he returned his attention to that file, still stuck on that first sentence. Monica didn't say anything else, and once in a while he'd find her with his peripheral vision to see what she was doing. She sat there motionless, staring straight ahead at a fixed spot on a wall.

He knew she was thinking of William. She was thinking of Luke as well.

"You're not a therapist," he said, almost scolding.

"I know that, John," she said simply, and stood up, grabbing her jacket with her.

"So stop playing one."

John looked up as he said that, suddenly aware about the fact that his statement had been a little harsh. But before he could apologize, she announced she was going home as well.

"It's pouring outside. Did you bring an umbrella?" she asked as she reached for her own.

Typical Monica. Even when she's being ripped apart, she still thinks of the other person fist.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

Monica nodded a couple of times, expecting him to say something else. He didn't. "Okay. Good night."

"G'night," John said, and when she turned her back, he watched her go, and shook his head again.

Finally, some peace and quiet. Maybe now he could concentrate on this frickin' file.

But before he had a chance to start all over again, guilt tore at his insides. He was about to stand up and follow her, apologize for being such a prick, but she was probably gone now. So he decided to wait, maybe call her in the morning, or say he was sorry when they both met at work again. Hell, Monica's strong, she'd get over it. For now, he had to at least make a report of this file.

64 year old woman, attacked by a giant half man, half cat.

"Oh, crap."

~*~

Drum, drum, drum.

Monica's fingers tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel to an imaginary tune in her head. Looking around her neighborhood, she made sure there were no cars behind her before she paralleled parked in a spot a little too far away from her building for her liking. After she turned off the engine, she sat there for a moment, closing her eyes and mentally making her muscles relax, a ritual she performed every night. John thought it was crazy, of course, as he thought many, if not all, of her rituals were. 'How is sittin' on a car goin' to make you relax, Monica? A woman shouldn' sit in the dark inside her car alone, Monica. One of these days you're gonna get carjacked, Monica.' She smiled to herself, though, remembering that time when she found him trying to relax using her technique as well.

Yet almost immediately, she frowned, remembering the increasing amount of stress John had been under lately. With William gone, he had been one of those who had decided to keep his distance from Scully. She knew he must be hurting, probably thinking about Luke, about now matter how much danger his son was in, he would never let him go. He had really never let him go in 9 years. Truth was she hadn't let go either. Luke's death affected her in ways she never knew possible. And like John, she had also been waiting for that day when they could both breathe again, learn to forgive themselves and move on.

After around two minutes, she finally took a deep breath and opened her eyes. It had finally stopped raining, and in its place there was a light fog embracing the air. Reaching for her purse, she made sure her gun was accessible and checked her rear view mirror before opening the door. The cold air of the crisp night sent chills down her spine and made her skin break out in goose bumps. Rubbing her arms quickly, she threw the door close and turned to head home.

Suddenly her body jumped, and a cold breath of air escaped her lungs in a loud gasp. The figure in front of her, face covered, raised his fist in the air and swung at her face. Her body twisted back, and the last thing she felt was a strong bolt as her head hit her own car. Keys first, then her purse, and her body followed to the ground, not for long, before the man picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, disappearing out of the scene as mysteriously as he had appeared.

~*~

Hours later, the sun half out, John's phone began to ring and he moaned on his bed, opening his eye briefly to look at the clock. Too damn early.

But he let out a sigh and rolled on his side, picking it up from the receiver.

"Hello?"

"John?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to wake himself up. "Agent Scully? D'you know what time it is?"

"John..."

She let out a sigh of... he didn't know. Frustration? Tension? Anger? Fear?

"What's wrong?" he asked, thinking something might have happened to William, but then remembered William was gone and so he just sat, scratching the back of his head.

"You better get down here," she said.

"Down where?"

He could tell she didn't want to say anything over the phone. But whatever this was, it didn't sound like a case. It sounded personal.

"Are you alright, Dana?" he asked again, getting a little irritated at her game. If it wasn't William, was it Mulder?

"John, I don't want you to get upset," she drew in a deep breath and continued. "It's about Monica."

He'd never really know how, but he blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was at the bureau. Scully and Skinner were waiting for him and he approached them hurriedly, confusion distorting the features of his face.

"Where is she?" he asked as if he was out of breath, looking from Scully to Skinner.

"We don't know," Skinner said.

"You don't know?" John asked sharply.

"John, let's not jump to conclusions, we still don't know what happened," Scully said, trying to make the situation less stressing than it already was, but failing miserably.

"We already have a crew at the scene, and--"

"Wait," John raised his hands in the air, interrupting Skinner. "Can you please tell me what's goin' on? Without all this bullshit?"

Scully drew in a breath. "There was a call from a man in Monica's neighborhood. He said there was a car parked outside, with blood on the side window. He also found a purse on the ground. The wallet is still inside with the ID, John. It's Monica's purse."

"That doesn' mean it's Monica's blood," John said, adamant.

Scully nodded, looking from Skinner to John.

"It is her blood," John exhaled.

"We already have the best team out there working on this case," Skinner repeated, giving John's upper hand a pat. "We're gonna find her, don't worry."

"Don't worry?" John asked. "You call me at 5 in the mornin' telling me someone smashed Monica's head against her car and she's nowhere to be found. But you don't want me to worry?"

"John--" Scully began again, but before she could inject some reason into him, he let out a small, irritated grunt, turned around and headed outside. She gave Skinner an exasperated look, and followed John.

Minutes later, they arrived at Monica's apartment building. John stepped out of the car and approached the crew that surrounded Monica's car. There was a 'do not cross' tape around it, and the evidence team was trying to find finger prints, taking pictures of the surroundings, running a fluorescent light all around and inside Monica's car. A small crowd was gathering, and people walking by would stop and ask what was happening. 'What happened? What's going on? Did they kill someone? Is there a body inside the car?'

John ignored the whispers and continued to walk. He wasn't really sure what he was doing there. Maybe he just needed to see this for himself. He needed to make sure that Skinner and Scully weren't yanking his chain. He had to know if this was real, or some sick, twisted nightmare. The more he tried to wake up, snap himself back to lucidity, the more he got lost in this torturing dream.

He stopped on his tracks suddenly when none other then Brad Follmer turned around and saw him standing there. John resumed his walking, until he was finally face to face with the AD.

"Agent," Brad said formally, as if this was just another case, just another woman, just another situation.

It occurred to John that he really didn't know what to say. There were so many questions whirling in his mind, that they left his head empty, painful, hollow. A quick glance towards Monica's car, and the nightmare was over. It wasn't a dream. It was suddenly too real.

"Don't worry, I'm taking care of this," Brad added.

John ran his hand through his hair, staring at one of the men scraping a small portion of the dried blood on the side window of her car. Why the hell does everyone keep telling him not to worry? Were they aware that this was Monica Reyes? One of their own? His partner? Did they know she had been taken by some man? Did they know that the more time passed, the less of a chance they had of finding her? Did they know that this man, whoever he was, did not mean well? How could he? What kind of a man hits a woman and takes her away? Not an honorable man, that was for sure. Not a man who would treat her well, feed her, keep her warm, safe. No. Probably the exact opposite. Probably nothing good, nothing honorable. Probably...

A powerful surge of energy sprinted from his toes to his head at the thought. It still left him confused, completely dumbfounded, and afraid, for Monica's life and for his own sanity. He hadn't noticed Scully was standing next to him, already into agent mode.

"Do you have any leads? Any witnesses?" she asked

"No, no one seemed to be around when it happened," Brad said, fixing his stare on Scully to avoid John's probing eyes.

"What about this man who called? Did you track him down?" John finally asked, fixing his composure.

"It was an anonymous call," Brad said.

"You can still track it, right? Maybe this guy knows something--"

"We have it all under control, Agent Doggett," Brad interrupted him.

"You do? Then where is she? You don't have any leads, you don't have any suspects, no witnesses," John said cynically. "Yeah, looks like you have it under control, alright."

"John," Scully repeated for the hundredth time that day, but again, in vain.

Brad ignored her as well, concentrating on Doggett, who kept daring him with his eyes, challenging Brad. All of a sudden John looked towards the scene, and his body moved forward, until Brad stopped him with his hands.

"John, let me handle this," Brad whispered, his face inches away from John's.

"I want in on this," John said.

"Agent Doggett, this is my case," Follmer said.

"This is my partner!" John snapped suddenly, his face turning into a cold and hard mask of anger.

"Which is why I'm going to ask you to stay away from this investigation," Brad said in a strong but controlled voice. He watched John's eyes intensely, blue but burning like fire. All of a sudden the man pushed Brad away, and walked towards the scene of the crime.

Brad looked at Scully, who gave him a defeating look. Both knew that no matter how much they tried to keep John away from the case, he'd find a way to let himself in. So they allowed him to linger. Brad knew that most likely, John would find nothing. He hadn't found anything himself. God knows they had combed that area at least five times, and the only prints they had been able to find were Monica's. Without turning back to the scene, he began to walk to Monica's building again.

John approached Monica's car in sprints, trying to make sense of the scene thrown in a sea of cops, agents, and onlookers that surrounded the area. He knew the exaggerated amount of help was Skinner's doing and for once, he was grateful for that.

But once there, he found himself lost. The car looked fine. Her umbrella rested on the passenger's seat, untouched; the umbrella she had offered him. He couldn't see her purse anywhere and he figured it had been taken away as evidence. Other than that, there were no clues, except for the spot of dried blood on the side window. He watched as Scully joined the crew and he could overhear them talking. No profile, no suspects, no witnesses. Whoever Monica's kidnaper was, he or she didn't seem to want her purse, her money, or her car. So what the hell did he want?

He knew he must have been working to answer that question. He knew he must have been talking to the crew, looking for prints, doing something. But somehow his body refused to move. He had lived this scene a long time ago. A time when a little boy was taken from his home while his mother sat on the porch and his father was at work. He had been witness of this scene once upon a time, when his sanity had somehow disappeared and left him in the middle of nowhere with nothing but his torturing thoughts and an overwhelming fear. He was reliving that again, only this time the person who had kept him sane back then, was the same person riding behind this question.

Weary eyes watched as Scully put on some gloves and began to work the scene with the other agents. Time passed. He wasn't sure how long. He wasn't sure his watch was even counting the seconds of this nightmare. He just stood there, hands resting on his waist, questions chasing each other in his mind, eyes fixed on that blood stained window. People still gathered behind the 'do not cross' line. It seemed like when one person walked away, two joined the crow. He could hear them behind him talking, moving, trying to take a peek. None one had the brilliant idea to send them off, so they stood there, adding more fuel to his fire.

'I heard a woman was raped.'

'I heard someone was murdered.'

'No, a woman was kidnapped.'

'Do you know her? She just moved into our building.'

'Wow, she was so young.'

'What a waste.'

'What is wrong with this country?'

"Lose something?"

John's face turned into a frown, echoing the question in his mind. It had somehow been louder than the rest of the whispers, a very low tone. He turned around only to see mostly women standing there, looking at him. His eyes searched the area, looking for... he didn't know.

"John," Scully interrupted his search and he watched her, still with a frowned face. "They're trying to build a profile. Since they used force to take her, it's probably male."

The words ran through his mind, un-scanned. Once more, he looked around, eyes flinching at a black trench coat walking away from the scene.

"What is it?" Scully asked, trying to find with her eyes what he was watching.

"Nothing," John mumbled, suddenly walking away from the scene.

"Where are you going?" Scully followed.

"I'm goin' to find her."

To be continued…