Thanks for the kind reviews. Here's chapter two!

Fairmount Motor Lodge

Fairmount, Indiana

Wednesday, 10:33 p.m.

"So what do you think, Mon? Are we playin' Ghostbusters again, or what?" Doggett asked sarcastically in his trademark New York clip. He got up from his chair and reached for another slice of carry-out pizza. Monica was sitting cross-legged smack in the middle of Doggett's bed, her fingers flying across the keys of her laptop computer.

Doggett envied those damn computer keys. He wondered what else Monica could do with those long, beautiful fingers of hers. He couldn't help but watch her in awe as she concentrated on the computer screen, her reading glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose. Monica looked perfectly at home sitting there on his bed in her tank top and flannel pajama bottoms, her hair bound up in a loose ponytail.

Monica was a beautiful woman; there was no getting around that. Doggett saw the way men looked at her. Any one of them would give their right arm to spend time in her magnetic presence. He remembered one occasion not long after Monica joined him on the X-Files: he was in the men's room at work, and he overheard the conversation of two other male agents. They were talking about Monica, or the "new blood" as they referred to her, like she was a piece of meat. Doggett nearly went through the roof, slamming one of them up against the sink when he heard the asshole speculating on how good she was in the sack. Doggett warned the guy that if he ever spoke about Agent Reyes in that manner again, he would live to regret it. The guy was so freaked out that he hadn't been able to look Doggett in the eye since.

Doggett didn't think of her like that. Sure, he had frequent sexual thoughts about her–he was a healthy guy, after all. His mind sometimes drifted off as he daydreamed about what she would feel like lying underneath him. He fantasized about feeling her warm body pressed up against him as they lay together in post-coital bliss. Did she taste as good as she looked?

But there was so much more to his feelings for Monica, so much more than he could ever hope to quantify. For a precious few seconds, Doggett closed his eyes and pretended that she was in his bed back in Falls Church, sharing the Sunday edition of the Washington Times with him. He wanted to wake up next to this woman every morning for the rest of his life. He wanted her good days and her bad days, her highs and her lows. He simply wanted her. All of her.

These kinds of thoughts had been occurring to him more and more frequently these days, Doggett thought wistfully. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he was in love with Monica, but he was at a loss over what to do about it.

Sure as hell can't tell her how I feel. That'd ruin everything. Wouldn't it?

Doggett used to think that she returned his feelings, but now he wasn't so sure. Sure, she was still the same Monica when they worked their cases together, but lately she seemed to jump every time he touched her. Even something as innocuous as his hand on the small of her back seemed to make her uncomfortable these days.

She used to touch him, too, and he missed that. Monica would touch him gingerly on the arm when she was trying to make a point. Sometimes she would reach over and straighten his tie just as they were about go into Skinner's office for a meeting. He longed for those moments of contact, however brief.

Thankfully, Monica interrupted John's thoughts. "John, this is pretty interesting stuff. You should take a look at this." She motioned for John to sit next to her.

Doggett blinked and considered her request. The thought of being that close to her was intoxicating. Earlier that day in the car, he had reached over to open the glove compartment, and his hand brushed up against her knee. It had made him feel almost giddy. He wanted nothing more than to be near her, to touch her, to . . . However, he didn't know if he'd be able to focus if he was sitting next to her at that particular moment. These thoughts he had been having about his partner were not exactly conducive to a professional working relationship.

He stuffed a mouthful of pizza into his face and put his feet up on the bed. "I don't feel like getting up, Monica. Why don't you just read it to me?"

Doggett cursed himself. Nice diversionary tactic, dumbass.

For a minute he thought he saw a hint of disappointment in her eyes. Nah, had to be my imagination.

"Okay, suit yourself, lazy butt," Monica huffed. "This is a James Dean website. Did you know that there is an urban legend floating around out there about his car being cursed?"

"Okay, I'll bite." Doggett sighed. "What kind of curse?"

"Says here that Dean loved fast cars and bought a Porsche Spyder in 1955. A couple of his friends warned him not to buy the car because they got negative vibes from it. It was like they knew that car was bad news."

Doggett raised a skeptical eyebrow. "C'mon, Monica. Please don't tell me the phrase 'negative vibes' is actually used in that article. I'll have to question how legit your information is."

Monica smiled that Mona Lisa smile of hers, the one that always twisted Doggett's heart into a pretzel. "Okay, so I embellished a little," she continued. "Anyway, Dean brushed it off and told one friend that he was destined to die by way of a speeding car. In September of 1955 he was on his way to a race in Salinas, California when the Porsche collided with another car. He died instantly.

"Afterwards, a friend of his, George Barris, bought the remnants of the Porsche so he could use it for its rare parts. As it was being unloaded from the truck, the car slipped and broke both of the mechanic's legs."

"An unfortunate accident," Doggett suggested.

Monica's eyes never left the computer screen. "Just hang on a minute, John. There's more. The Porsche's engine and drive train were sold to two men who put them into their race cars. In October of 1956, they raced the cars using these parts for the first time. One was killed and the other was seriously injured in separate accidents.

"Barris sold the tires to two different people, both of whom later reported that their tires had blown out simultaneously, nearly causing serious accidents."

"Coincidences, to be sure . . . " he offered helpfully.

Monica ignored him and continued. "A few fans looking for some kind of macabre souvenir suffered serious injuries when they tried to steal parts from the car. In 1959, the California Highway Patrol decided to use the remains of the Porsche as part of a safety exhibit. During one of the exhibits, the garage used to store Dean's car went up in flames. Mysteriously, all of the vehicles inside were destroyed except the Porsche. And later, while the car was being transported to another exhibit near Salinas, the truck that was hauling it was involved in a serious accident. The driver was thrown from the cab and the Porsche rolled on top of him, crushing him to death."

"No shit," Doggett said, now slightly more intrigued.

"I shit you not, John. Not long after that, the car was again being transported when it broke into two pieces and slid from the flatbed of the truck, ultimately causing another fatal accident.

"Finally, in 1960, Barris had enough and decided to have the car shipped back to California so he could get it out of circulation. So the car was loaded into a boxcar in Florida and the door was carefully sealed shut. But, when the train got to L.A., Porsche was nowhere to be found."

"Well that's an easy one, " Doggett snorted. "The car was stolen by some crazy fan while it was en route to California."

Monica rubbed her hands together conspiratorially. "Ah, but the seal on the boxcar door was still intact, John. Creepy, huh?"

"I'll say. I feel like I'm stuck in the Twilight Zone." Doggett stood up and stretched. "Okay, Mon, I admit it: that stuff is damn weird, but come on. Do you honestly think it has anything to do with a so-called 'curse'?"

"I don't know, John," Monica replied thoughtfully. "But it doesn't hurt to keep an open mind." She paused a moment before asking, "So what do you think?"

Doggett shrugged. "I think a curse is something that people use to try and explain how bad things happen to people when there is no other way of explaining it."

Exasperated, Monica rolled her eyes, as if she was expecting such a response from him. "John, how can you automatically discount the possibility that there may be some kind of paranormal force at work here?"

Doggett could see the telltale signs of Monica's frustration with him. This was an ongoing scenario whenever they worked a case that could not immediately be explained: Monica would propose an alternative theory, and more often than not, he would chide her for jumping to far-out conclusions. He reminded himself that he needed to stop doing that: to stop putting Monica on the defensive. She was an excellent agent and he needed to show her more often that he respected her.

He made a point to soften the tone of his voice when he spoke. "Monica," he said gently, "all I'm saying is that we should get the facts and do some investigatin' of our own before we start theorizing. Fair enough?"

Monica nodded warily in agreement. Crisis averted, Doggett thought to himself. The last thing he wanted right now was to pick a fight with her. He decided to change the subject.

"Anyway, all of this James Dean stuff reminds me of that song: 'Too fast to live, too young to die'," Doggett said. Monica looked at him quizzically.

"Tell me you've heard that song by the Eagles," he pleaded, but Monica merely shrugged.

"My older brother was a big Eagles fan, but that was a bit before my time," she answered. "I've always been more of a U2 fan. You have heard of U2, haven't you, John?" He smirked at the teasing tone in her voice.

"You tryin' to suggest that I'm an old man, Agent Reyes?" Doggett picked up a pillow and tossed it at her.

"You're not old, John," she giggled, ducking to avoid a direct hit. "You're just distinguished."

She was smiling at him again, and Doggett couldn't help but smile back. He wanted to grab her and kiss that smile right off her pretty face. He was momentarily frozen in place as an awkward silence fell over them.

Monica must have sensed it, too. Grabbing her laptop and snapping it shut, she got off the bed and walked to the door. "Well, I'd better get going. We have an early meeting with Sheriff Brunell tomorrow morning."

Suddenly, the thought of Monica leaving him alone and going back to her own room filled Doggett with sadness. "Are you sure you wanna leave? It's not even 11:00. We could look for a James Dean movie on TV or something," he suggested feebly as he studied the carpet.

"I'll take a rain check, okay?" She put her hand on the door. "A girl needs her beauty rest, you know."

"You don't need that, Monica. You're already beautiful." The words had popped out of Doggett's mouth before he even realized what he had said. Monica spun around quickly and self-consciously put a hand to her face in an effort to hide the blush that was rising to her cheeks.

"I think that's one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me," she said quietly. Their eyes met for just a moment, and neither one of them seemed to know what to do next. Doggett knew if they stayed in this position much longer, he would be unable to stop himself from taking her into his arms and laying her down on his bed. And as much as he wanted to make love to her, he held back, telling himself he shouldn't be feeling this way about his partner. So, he took the easier, less complicated way out. Yet again.

"Guess we should say goodnight then," he said regretfully.

A wan smile crossed her face as she turned back toward the door. "Yeah, guess so. Goodnight, John."

And then she was gone. Doggett leaned his forehead on the closed door and sighed, wondering what could have happened, if only he had let it. He had no way of knowing that at that very moment, Monica was wondering the very same thing.