The way he looked at me made me want to cry. Knowing that I couldn't take away his pain or lessen it at all drove me crazy. He opened the box and I saw Luke Doggett's ashes scatter in the breeze across the Atlantic. I could feel my partner's anguish from where I watched, high up on the shore. His son's murder was finally solved, but the answer had been nearly as unbearable as the question. How hard must it be for a parent to accept that the death of their child had no 'silver lining', no salvageable meaning at all? Now instead of seeking out the killer, John had to face the reality that his son was in the wrong place at the wrong time and fell victim to a Mob minion afraid of being identified.
I watched him hug Barbara, and he and his ex-wife parted ways. She went to her car and John trudged up the sandy grade toward the Blazer, where I waited my turn. The look in his eyes was unbearable, but there was an odd tilt to his head. If we had been any place other than where we were, I would've sworn John wanted to kiss me, and I would've given in easily. I knew, though, it wasn't the time or the place, so I slid my arms around his waist and leaned my head on his shoulder. I held him tightly, trying to convey my sympathy through the hug. We stood there for a few moments, and I listened to his breathing, soft and hitched as he tried to hold back tears. Wordlessly, I pulled away and offered a gentle smile. Tugging at his hand, I opened the passenger side door and walked around the driver's side. We climbed in and rode in silence back to my apartment. I knew John would want to be alone tonight but also knew he shouldn't be. Grief does terrible things to people and no one should suffer alone.
I let us in to my apartment, the silence clinging to us in the car following us in. John immediately sank to the couch and leaned his elbows on his knees. Resting his head on his palms, he stared at the wall, his blank expression making it near impossible to read his face as I usually could. Lowering myself to the couch next to him, I laid a hand on his back. "John, it's okay," I said softly. "You put your son to rest today, it's all right to cry."
He didn't move for a minute, but he finally turned his face toward me and I saw the tears forming in the depths of his blue eyes. Moving closer, I wrapped my arm around his waist and squeezed gently. "John," I murmured sympathetically, unable to do more than be a shoulder for him to cry on.
All of a sudden, John turned and his arms went around my neck. I felt his body start to shake as he cried quietly with his face pressed into my shoulder. I fought my own tears and lost; my heart was breaking for him. "It's okay," I repeated softly. "You can let it go. That's it." John cried for a few more minutes, hardly making a sound, and I kept holding him. Then he pulled away and covered his face, scrubbing at the tear-streaks on his cheeks. My hand returned to his back and I patted it gently, unsure again. "Are you all right?" Nodding, John looked up at me again from his hunched position. I offered another reassuring little smile. "Do you want some lunch?"
"No, thanks. I should go."
"You're not leaving," I said firmly.
"Monica..."
"Don't 'Monica' me.
You're staying here and we're getting drunk."
* * *
Two hours and a bottle of good Scotch later, we were both adequately numbed as "Free Bird" played quietly. The guitar crying forlornly in the background was an appropriate soundtrack to our cathartic slumber party.
He hadn't smiled all night, but I was still working at it. "Come on, that was funny," I protested. "The nun and the bartender is my best joke."
"Don't quit your day job," John teased me, the beginning of a smile curling the corners of his mouth.
"There we go!" I smiled broadly, standing up. "That's the John Doggett I know and love." I turned toward the kitchen. "I'm starving. You still like meatloaf, right?"
"Love?"
I glanced back over my shoulder, confused. "You love meatloaf?"
"You said love. You called me 'the John Doggett you love'."
Taking a deep breath, I smiled. "It's an expression, John."
"You've never used it before, Monica." He put his glass down and stood in the middle of my living room, those passionate blue eyes boring into me. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
"Where is this coming from?" I asked, waving one hand to indicate the conversation, as if it were a physical entity. "It's just a slang phrase."
John took a step toward me, his eyes darkening imperceptibly. Imperceptibly, that is, unless you spent every day looking into them and every night dreaming about them. "Every morning for the past nine years, I got out of bed with the hope - no, the certainty - that *this* day would be the one that led me to Luke's killer. Now, in less than three days, I found the guy who did it, got the story behind what happened the day he died, and lost the chance to see justice done because Brad Fulmer took it from me." His voice was fraught with rage at the mention of the Assistant Director who'd shot his son's murderer mere moments after John had learned the truth. "So now," his voice softened as he went on, "I need something else to keep me going, Mon."
"You have your work," I offered, suddenly afraid of where this was going.
"And I love working on the X-Files, but it's not enough. I need to know that something good will come out of the past nine years. I need to know that I didn't waste all that time." He was inching toward me. "Did you mean what you said?"
"Of course I meant it." I walked around the coffee table and sat back on the couch, putting myself as far from John as possible. "You know I care about you, you're my partner and my friend."
I watched as a change swept over John's face. He had turned to face me again but made no move toward the couch. "Do you love me?" I was able to see his thoughts in his eyes, more easily now than ever before. It was like watching the steam on a mirror suddenly dissipate, leaving in its place a perfectly clear image.
"John..."
"Do you love me?" he asked again. "Because I love you." I sat in stunned silence as he continued. In classic Doggett style, John's body language was unreadable and at odds with his words. His arms were at his sides, his mouth unsmiling. "That night, when you dropped me off, I hesitated, just for a second. I thought how perfect that moment was to kiss you. Then I figured I should think about it some more, think about the implications to our careers and everythin'." John's New York accent grew thicker as he struggled with the unfamiliar territory of his emotions. "I told myself there would be another perfect time." His voice lowered to a gravelly near-whisper. "And then I got the call that you'd been in an accident and the thought flashed through my mind that there might never be another time. I sat in the hallway in the hospital, and all I could think about was why I didn't kiss you, why had I been such an asshole, why I couldn't let you in." He took a breath, and I could tell he was trying to compose himself. "That whole time you were in the hospital, I kept thinkin' what I'd do if...if you died. I still don't know what I would've done. You're my sanity."
I couldn't help the smile that brushed my lips at the sight of my stoic friend pouring out his heart to me. My hand went to my mouth to try to hide my grin. "You're mine," I said, so softly that I thought John must've missed it. Now I couldn't have moved from that couch if I had tried. My mind was reeling with thoughts and my heart was clenched in anticipation. "But John, that was three months ago. Why didn't you say something before now?"
"I couldn't," he replied simply, his baby blues never wavering from my face. "All my energy was still focused on Luke then, I had nothing left to give you, no matter how I felt. But now, maybe I do."
"Maybe you do," I echoed.
John moved for the first time since he'd started to speak. Crossing the room, he settled on the edge of the coffee table, letting just our knees touch. "Monica," he said softly, and I looked up at him, "if you don't feel the same way I do, tell me and I'll drop it." His face was steeled against my answer.
"I do."
"Yeah?"
I laughed, grinning widely. "Yeah. I love you, okay?"
"Okay." John folded his hands, and our eyes were locked, but he didn't move.
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"I think we've waited long enough. You can kiss me now."
John smiled, a real smile I had never really seen before. He leaned forward and I closed my eyes as I felt his lips touch mine. Warm and tender, I recognized his kiss from thousands of daydreams, and his hand on my cheek made me light-headed. When I felt John's other hand on my knee, I couldn't stifle the tiny moan that slipped through my parted lips and shivered against his mouth. I heard my own voice, unfamiliar and husky, murmuring his name as my arms went around his neck. He devoured me slowly, heart and soul, in a delicious waltz of kisses and gentle touching that fulfilled my every fantasy and surpassed them all. Afterwards, we lay together in my bed, my head on his shoulder and his breath ruffling my hair. It was the most peaceful moment I'd had in years.
We didn't make love that night, or any night for a long time. After having wasted so much time being apart, I think we are both determined to fill every spare moment with long-deserved kisses, hugs and murmured endearments. John is and always will be my safe place. Now, I am his.
THE END
