Reyes:
After dumping my stuff on an armchair by the door, I make a beeline for the shower, shedding clothes in my wake. I emerge feeling marginally better physically, but my mood has not improved enough to snap me out of this funk. I grab the pillow and comforter from my bed and navigate through piles of cardboard boxes filled with things too important to be put in storage while I look for an apartment. I dump the pillow and blanket on the couch in the 'sitting area' near the window, and ponder the boxes. Now, where is that tape? I know it's not in the car; I never put it in the car. My mixed tape of depressing music is strictly for use when curled up on the couch. I rifle through a box labeled 'entertainment center', spotting it in a corner. I rarely play any of my tapes, but I couldn't bring myself to put them in storage; they come in handy sometimes. Good thing.
I pop the tape into a small stereo the hotel has thoughtfully provided, and bypass the couch to grab an open bottle of wine from the mini fridge and a jelly glass from yet another box, before weaving my way over to drop bonelessly onto the couch. Ah, this is what I needed. Soft piano music floats through my room, mimicking the sound of rain. I uncork the wine and fill the little glass. Finding a wine glass in this mess, which I would then have to concentrate on not breaking, was too much like effort at this point.
George Michael's voice floats through the room, a sad song called Cowboys and Angels, off the Listen Without Prejudice Album. I know most people think of George Michael, they think of Wham! and early Eighties pop tunes, but I like this album the best. This album is more mature, deeper and more expressive; and say what you will about the man, he has an amazing voice.
I gulp my wine more than I sip it, pondering this case, the last few days, and generally John's behavior. Since his investigation into Kersh turned up nothing, it's like he's floundering, unsure of himself, and of me. I suspect it has more to do with his own insecurities than anything, that part of him feels like he's failed because Kersh turned up clean as far as we can tell. Although that doesn't seem quite right either. Something is definitely wrong, but I can't put my finger on exactly when or why it might have started.
I frown and take another gulp of my wine as the lyrics roll over me. "…But that scar on your face, that beautiful face of yours…Don't you think that I know, they've hurt you, before?" I picture John, the look on his face as he cradled Luke's body, all those years ago. The pain in his eyes five months later when he announced quietly that his wife had left him. The way he'd nearly begged me to come to Virginia with him while he went through the Academy. The hollow sound of his voice over too many miles of telephone wire when I told him I'd met Brad. Then, the coldness between us when I'd picked him up at LaGuardia for his father's funeral.
It had taken us nearly three years to recover our friendship, and after that I thought that I'd understood the rules. John wasn't ready to give himself emotionally. He'd give friendship, and sex if I wanted him, but not a real relationship. I'd taken him up on the sex once. Over the years, that night had grown to mythical proportions in my mind, both as a high and low point in my life. The sex had been wonderful, yet he was so walled off it was emotionless. After he'd left the next morning I'd spent an hour crying in the tub, feeling stupid and used. The pain of that morning had faded slowly, but as we became close once again, I'd resigned myself to the fact that he just wasn't ready.
After I signed on to the X-Files, I'd thought he might be. He had a fire lit under him when we were investigating Kersh, a spark I'd never seen in him before. I have to admit, it was more than a little attractive, seeing him so passionate about something. I got my hopes up, believing that he was ready to take that giant leap forward, and start living again. Maybe I'm wrong. Either that, or it isn't me he wants. Perhaps he doesn't feel for me what I feel for him.
The lyrics of the song catch my ear again. "Please be stronger than your past. The future may still give you, a chance." The soft voice fades out into a saxophone solo, and I sigh. I hope that one day John can let go of his demons, because if he can't, he is dooming both of us to misery. Even if he never loves me the way I love him, I am connected to him, in some way I cannot fathom. If he is never happy again, if he can never let go of that part of himself still grieving for Luke, I will always feel it, too.
Doggett:
I pull onto the arrivals ramp for Terminal 3, searching for Langly and Byers among the throng of late arriving travelers. Thankfully, I spot them quickly, and pull in as close to them as possible.
"Agent Doggett, good to see you." Byers addresses me, as I hop out to help them with their luggage.
"Where's Reyes?" Langly asks, not bothering with the nicety of a hello.
"Good to see you too." I reply, a little amused at Langly. "She wen' back to the hotel before Agent Scully called me. Figured I'd let her get some rest."
Langly snorted. "What'd you do to piss her off this time, dog breath?" He glared at me, throwing a duffle bag into the trunk and climbing into the back seat.
I blinked mutely at the spot he'd been standing in. What the hell was that about? Did I piss her off that often, that Langly even knew about it? Did she call him and complain about me? When she was in New Orleans, I was the one she called to complain to about her co-workers.
Byers leaned closer to me as he dropped his bag into the trunk. "Don't listen to him. He's just upset because the tip we were following was a bust. Turns out it was just fireflies."
"Fireflies." I repeat, wondering what the hell they'd been looking for in Arizona that fireflies had been mistaken for it.
Byers continues, answering my unasked question. "We heard reports of what appeared to be alien activity around an Army base. Turns out they were installing new high voltage electrical wires, and the electricity attracted swarms of fireflies. Highly unusual, and an interesting story, but not the cover story we were hoping for."
I nodded and closed the hatch, my thoughts returning to Monica as I climbed back into the driver's seat. Byers got into the front passenger seat, and we were on our way. We drove in silence for about five minutes, until Langly started in on me again.
"Seriously, man, what's up with you and Reyes? I know homegirl wouldn't pass up the chance to spend time with you; or me for that matter, so what gives? She mad at you or something?"
Before I can stop them, words come flying out my mouth. "I have no idea what I did, but yes, Langly, she's mad at me. Since I got no idea what I did, I can't apologize. And since I can't apologize, I guess she's just gonna stay mad at me." My mouth closes as abruptly as it opened, and I can feel Langly's eyes boring into the back of my head. I wish like hell I could take back the words, but unless someone invents a rewind button for life, there they are.
Byers clears his throat. "You know, Agent Doggett, maybe you should talk to her about this. If you don't know what you did wrong, it was obviously unintentional…"
"Yeah, Doggett; just go tell her you're sorry for upsetting her, and ask her what you did, so you know not to do it again. She's cool, she'll get that. Besides, she already knows you're clueless, it's not gonna come as much of a shock."
I flinch at Langly's words, even though I know he's just trying to help. That's me, John Doggett, clueless flatfoot. Dana and Monica both had years to study all these weird phenomena we encounter. I'd never seriously considered possession, or aliens, or any of this other crazy shit and here I am, up to my neck in it. Forget for a minute the fact that in all likelihood I was right about this last case. I'd been wrong, or just plain unbelieving about most of the stuff I've seen in the last year.
Monica truly believes in this stuff, I forget that sometimes. I get so wrapped up in the fact that I'm absolutely sure this stuff about possession and whatnot is impossible, I forget that she's spent most of her life studying religion and spirituality. This case was right up her alley; she probably has a hundred reference books documenting this stuff, and I'd dismissed her opinion like she had no idea what she was talking about.
God, I'm a real ass sometimes. Why wouldn't she be upset at me? I treated her like I was the expert, like I had all the answers. To make matters worse, I'd asked Dana what she thought, but I'd never asked Monica. I am a first class jackass. I've gotta make this up to her. As soon as I lose the guys, I'm heading straight to the Hyatt to apologize. Hopefully, she'll let me in. I wouldn't, if I were her.
"Dude, you know what you should do?" Langly continues as though he'd never paused. "Take her out to dinner, and talk to her. She's not some weak chick you have to worry about tiptoeing around. Just open your big mouth and try not to say anything else to piss her off."
Byers added. "Flowers wouldn't hurt, either."
Reyes:
As the tape wears on, I feel marginally better. Of course, the wine may be helping with my mood, too. I decide to put a cork in it, literally, before I end up passed out on this plastic feeling couch and wake up twisted like a pretzel. As I make my way back to the fridge to banish the wine inside, I nearly trip over a box of books. Deciding that a good book is just the thing to take my mind off of John, I begin unloading the box onto my bed. Mostly, it contains non-fiction and reference books. I'd decided to keep those books with me, in case I needed them to research a case.
That's so me. I have all these research books to verify my theories, case studies to base my hunches on, and what do I do? I go off half-cocked, with nothing to back me up, and then I'm furious with John when he doesn't believe me. I groan, and drop to the bed, half sitting on a book on Santeria. Boy, did I screw up. I know John's not a believer; he refuses to go with a hunch to the point of absurdity. He needs facts to back up my theories; I need to be able to present him with a precedent if I can even hope to convince him.
I forget sometimes that he's predisposed not to believe me. I tend to take it for granted that people will give me the benefit of the doubt about my beliefs after two years in New Orleans. Most of the Agents I worked with in the Big Easy were a lot more lax than they are at Headquarters. So many of them were natives of the area, there were a lot of people with a great-Grandmother or Aunt twice removed who had "the gift". It's hard not to believe in the power of the spirits in New Orleans.
Most of the time, John listens to my ideas with an open mind, even if he's not too delicate about telling me when he thinks I'm full of it. He's not too delicate about a lot of things, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Unlike most people, John is very straightforward. He doesn't play head games, in either his personal or professional life. He'd never go speeding towards unnecessary danger without backup. He's blunt almost to the point of making others uncomfortable. That's just who he is. It's what makes him a good partner, and a good friend.
Kobold's words haunt me. When John's denial was not immediate, I did the only thing my heart would let me do at that moment. I ran. I know John and Dana will never get involved; Dana is in love with her Mulder. I've also seen the looks John gives her, and I know what he feels for her is not romantic. It is an intense connection that has developed between them in the last eight months, but it is more the connection of siblings, or close friends, than lovers.
With a huge sigh, I stand and begin to sort through my piles of books for something to read. I'm about to head back towards the couch with a text from my class on Mysticism in Christianity when there is a knock on my door. I groan, knowing it's John, but I can't stop myself from heading towards the door. Sure enough, a peek through the peep-hole reveals my favorite big-eared G-man. I debate not letting him in for a few seconds, but then I spot the flowers he's hiding behind his back.
"Are you going to make a habit of just showing up at my door, now that we live in the same city again? As I remember, you used to call first." I raise my eyebrows at him in imitation of Dana, trying to look cool and unconcerned. I don't think the smile I'm fighting helps.
John looks at me directly, still holding the flowers behind his back. "Believe me, Mon, I would have called first, but someone turned off their cell phone and took the hotel phone off the hook." He smiles, extending the flowers toward me almost hesitantly. "I came to apologize, and to give you these."
My smile breaks free before I can stop it. "Thank you. They're lovely." They are, too. Just a bunch of mixed wildflowers, but I've never been much of a roses girl. I like wildflowers better. "Do you want to come in?" I ask, hoping he'll say yes. I need to sit him down so I can tell him why I've been acting so screwy.
"Actually, I was hoping we could go out. Let me take you to dinner. I want to make up for my rotten behavior." He looks so hopeful. I can't help but wonder what happened in the last three hours, to take him from silent and sullen to wide-eyed and eager. Then again, my mood has improved considerably as well. Maybe we both just needed some rest.
"You want to take me to dinner?" I feel his hesitation and nervousness, although he looks composed. I let his comment about his rotten behavior slide, knowing the situation will get bad again before it gets better. For the moment I just want to enjoy not being pissed off at my best friend.
"Yeah." He shrugs. "Figure it's the least I can do. You've been living in a hotel for three weeks, with most of your life in storage, and I can't be bothered to listen when you talk? Dinner is the least I owe you. If I was you I'd be at National waitin' for the next flight south." His hopeful look is starting to fade, as if any reminder of the way he's been acting will make me slam the door in his face.
I want to stand here and weigh all my options, to find the perfect thing to say to him, to hide how nervous and excited and scared and still a little angry I am. Instead, I open the door wider, and usher him inside. He steps forward hesitantly, as though my hotel room is the Temple of Doom. "Give me one second to change, and then we can go. Good thing for you I haven't eaten." I smile at him, and grab a pile of clothes off the dresser. It's the outfit I set out for tomorrow, so I didn't have to trip over boxes in the morning while I'm barely awake. I can set out another when we get back. As I change, I can hear the faintest whispers of him moving around through the closed door. There is the faint creak of bedsprings just before his voice calls out. "Monica? Why in hell do you have a copy of 'Unsafe At Any Speed'?"
I chuckle, and straighten my blouse before I return to stand before him. He's studying the book intently, flipping through it and actually reading a line here and there. I haven't even opened it since before I met him. It seems like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was.
When I speak, my voice is softer than I'd intended. "I dated this guy in college who was a Communist. He gave me that book to convince me of the ills of a consumerist society that would sacrifice the safety of its people for increased profit. I never really bought into his whole anti-capitalist rhetoric, but it's an interesting book. Handy if you have insomnia at any rate"
John chuckles, weighing the book in his hands. "I had a Corvair, you know." I laugh so abruptly I choke, and he stands up so he can pat my back. In the process of catching my breath, I somehow end up leaning against him. When I've calmed down he continues. "That car was a piece of shit. Never did run right. Thank God I never got into an accident in it."
The idea that John might have died from something as mundane as a car crash, before I ever had the chance to meet him, makes me think about the possibility of Devine Providence. "Come on, Marine. You owe me dinner." I grab his hand, and drag both of us out of the room.