Fairmount Motor Lodge

Friday, 9:05 a.m.

Monica slowly opened her eyes to the light steaming into the room. She was greeted by the delicious feeling of John's warm body spooned up against her. His arms were wound protectively around her waist, and one of his muscular legs was nudged in between hers. Her ears were serenaded by his deep, even breath sounds.

She yawned and sunk down a little deeper into the pillow, thinking back on the beautiful night that she and her partner had shared. They hadn't gotten much sleep, having spent the majority of the night blissfully discovering each other in ways that they had both previously only dreamed about. By 6:00 a.m., they had gone five times. Finally, sated and exhausted, they fell into a restful sleep.

Monica was still lost in her thoughts when John began to stir behind her. He hummed as he kissed the back of her neck, and Monica shivered excitedly at the contact. "Mmm, you taste good," he growled happily, his voice still rough from sleep. A giggle escaped her lips as one of his hands snaked down past her belly and insinuated itself between her legs. He pressed himself against the small of her back, leaving no doubt about what he wanted. "Now kindly turn around so I can give you a proper good morning kiss," he said.

She twisted around to face him, and immediately his mouth enveloped hers. "Good morning," she murmured between slow, unhurried kisses.

"It will be a good morning pretty soon," John said with a naughty grin, as he guided her hand down to his growing erection.

Monica feigned surprise. "Again? Wow, John. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well, what can I tell ya, Mon? I've been saving myself for you." He caught her lower lip between his teeth and gently tugged on it. "All for you," he repeated, only slower this time.

"Me too," she purred happily. "Come to think of it, we do have to make up for lost time, I suppose."

"That's my girl," John said proudly, as he rolled on top of her. Monica moaned in approval as his tongue flitted out and caught her on the ear. Things were just starting to heat up when the phone rang.

"Damn phone," he grumbled. "It's my cell. Shoulda left it in my room last night."

They looked at each other longingly as the phone continued to ring. "Guess you'd better get that, huh?" Monica sighed. John nodded and reluctantly slipped out of bed, muttering a string of obscenities in the process. He began searching for his pants, which had been stripped off in a fit of passion the previous night. He couldn't keep the smile from coming across his lips when he thought back to the memory of it. Forcing himself to focus, he managed to locate his pants and consequently the offending cell phone.

The coroner, Dr. Richter, was calling to inform him that the autopsy report was complete. Doggett told him that he and his partner would be there shortly to pick up a copy. He looked over at Monica as he ended the call. She was already out of bed and on her way into the bathroom. "We're gonna continue this later," he promised her.

She turned around and blew him a kiss. "You can count on it."

International House of Pancakes

10:24 a.m.

"Well, it doesn't look like this is telling us much, as we expected," John said, as he flipped through the report. "Neither one of these kids had enough alcohol in them to be even remotely impaired. Sam Nelson died of massive internal injuries." The waitress had just brought their orders, cheerfully setting down a plate of French toast and bacon in front of John and a Western omelet for Monica.

Monica bit into a slice of wheat toast. "That would make sense, because he was the driver. So the fatal injury probably occurred when his chest was crushed against the steering wheel, right?"

John eyed her with mock suspicion. "Did you get an advance copy of this report, Agent Reyes?" he asked in a lighthearted manner. Monica's face broke out into a Cheshire cat-like grin. A part of her felt guilty for feeling so giddy and in love at the precise time that two families were mourning the loss of their teenage sons, but she couldn't help how she felt. Monica was enjoying seeing this more relaxed, happier side of John, and she made a silent wish that it would continue. Nevertheless, she tried to turn her attention back to the matter at hand.

"What about the other boy: Ethan?"

John's expression became noticeably somber. "He was thrown from the car. Snapped his neck and died instantly."

"That's so horrible." Monica thought for a moment. "You know, that's how James Dean died, too. Broke his neck in the accident." She caught John trying to hide a smirk as he dug into his breakfast. "I know what you're going to say, John. Don't start with me," she warned.

John held up his hands in a motion of surrender. "What? I didn't say anything!" His words were muffled due to the half-chewed French toast in his mouth.

"You didn't have to. I usually know what you're going to say before you say it," Monica said. "And you shouldn't talk with your mouth full," she chided sweetly.

"Geez, Mon. Pretty bossy this morning, aren't you?" He paused. "I kinda like it when you tell me what to do."

Monica looked into his eyes and saw nothing but pure affection in them. She decided to play along. "You sure seemed to like it last night," she flirted.

"Boy, did I. Promise me there's more where that came from." John winked at her, and Monica felt a wonderful tingling sensation all through her body. It was a damn good thing she was sitting down, she thought, because her legs would have given out had she been standing. She grabbed onto her coffee cup to steady her suddenly shaky hands.

"John . . . " Monica looked around the restaurant nervously. "We'd better cut this out or we're never going to finish our work on this case."

He pushed his empty plate away and leaned back into the booth. "All right, all right," he said with a frustrated sigh, "but I just don't know what else we can do, Mon. We haven't gotten any damn answers so far."

Monica slid her hand across the table and touched him on the arm, and it seemed to relax him a bit. "I think we should have that mirror looked at by someone who is more familiar with curses and the like. Maybe there is something we can learn from it," she said evenly.

"Who could we take it to? A 'curse-ologist'? He asked jokingly.

"Well, I don't know about that . . . " Monica said, amused at his attempt at humor. "Any other ideas?"

John thought for a moment. "How about the Lone Gunmen? Maybe they'll have some ideas. Come on, Mon, let's finish up here. We need to get that mirror back."

They arrived back at the Sheriff's Department not long after breakfast. When they reached the front door to the station, Monica turned to John and nudged him gently. "Now, John, promise me you'll be nice to Sheriff Brunell," she pleaded.

"Of course I'll be nice," he snorted, a little indignant at Monica for suggesting that he might do otherwise. He held the door open for her, and as she passed him, their shoulders touched. They both smiled, no longer apprehensive about any accidental physical contact while they were working. "Besides," Doggett whispered once they were inside the station, "I got the girl. If anything, he should be jealous of me." They stood side by side, and Doggett's hand came to rest on the small of her back.

Monica felt the color rise to her face. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and noted that he looked as happy as she felt. "Yes, you certainly did get the girl," she whispered back.

At that moment, Sheriff Brunell came ambling out of the break room, coffee cup in hand. He was eyeing the box of Dunkin' Donuts on his desk when he saw he was not alone. He started slightly when he saw Monica standing so close to John, and then his eyes flickered with realization. "Agents. How are you this morning?" His tone seemed almost formal, a far cry from the flirtatious nature of his behavior the day before.

Monica stepped forward. "Good morning, Tom. You remember that piece of evidence that I left here yesterday? We need it back so we can do some further analysis on it."

"You mean the rearview mirror from James Dean's death car?" Brunell chuckled. "Sure thing. Follow me."

They followed him back into a small room that was not much bigger than the size of a broom closet. It was a tight squeeze for three people, but Doggett was happy to have an excuse to be pressed up close to Monica in a confined space. He furtively leaned toward her, catching a whiff of her shampoo. It was the shampoo that he himself had massaged into her hair this morning as they showered together. As if she was reading his thoughts, Monica turned to him and gave him a knowing smile. He knew that she was thinking about it, too.

Doggett turned his attention back to the Sheriff, watching as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the evidence vault. Brunell gasped in surprise as he peered in to check the vault's contents. "What the . . . ?" he exclaimed.

"What? What is it?" Monica stepped forward to get a closer look. Doggett watched in shock as Brunell pulled out a man's 1950s style red windbreaker jacket from the vault, holding it up as if it were a piece of contaminated evidence. Monica grabbed it from him and held it up for Doggett's inspection. "Where's the mirror?" she asked, as Doggett rifled through the jacket pockets. "You put it in this vault yesterday!"

"Damn right I did!" Brunell replied defensively. He gestured toward Monica. "You saw me do it. And this jacket sure as hell wasn't in there. I've never even seen this before!"

Doggett put his hands on his hips and frowned. "I think someone is having a little fun with you, Sheriff. Someone who knows what Aaron Talbot and Mike Reynolds said they saw the night of the accident."

"That's a nice theory, Agent Doggett, but there's one problem: I'm the only one who has a key to this vault. And I can assure you that I didn't do this."

Doggett exchanged glances with Monica. Now it was his turn to read her mind. "Excuse us," he said to Brunell, as he took her by the arm and gingerly guided her out into the hallway where they could speak privately. She clearly wanted to say something to him, but she waited for him to speak first.

"Monica, I know what you're thinkin'. You think this was the work of a ghost."

"What other explanation makes sense, John?" she asked him earnestly. "We have a cursed mirror piece that mysteriously disappears from a locked evidence vault and is replaced with a red jacket. And, it just so happens that our surviving witnesses say they saw what looked to be the blurry figure of a man wearing a red jacket standing in front of their car, warning them not to get in. Maybe this was the ghost of James Dean talking to us, telling us that the curse has to be broken before anyone else dies." Her eyes bored into his, challenging him. "Tell me how else it can be explained."

Doggett sighed. "Well, what about our friend the sheriff?" he whispered, glancing around to make sure their conversation was not being overheard. "Maybe this is some kind of trick: you know, payback for you not going out to dinner with him last night."

Monica shook her head thoughtfully. "I don't think so. Did you see the look on his face when he opened up the vault? He was just as shocked as we were. And I don't think he's that good of an actor to fake something like that."

There was a brief silence between them as Doggett wracked his brain for another way to explain what had taken place. Trouble was, he couldn't think of one.

"Okay, okay, I give up," he said, resigned to the idea of another unexplainable X-File. Doggett knew that after two years working in the unit founded by "Spooky Mulder," he should be used to cases in which there were no clear findings, no real answers. But he wasn't. It never stopped bothering him.

Sensing his frustration, Monica took his hand and uttered reassurances. "It's not our fault, John. We didn't create the facts. We just have to report them as we find them and come to whatever conclusion we see fit." Her soothing words were music to his ears, and Doggett was amazed once again at the positive effect this woman was having on his attitude.

It took all of his resolve to keep from taking her in his arms right there and planting a big wet one on her. "You're right, Monica. There's only so much we can do, I suppose." This time, there was no frustration in his voice, only acceptance. "Now let's say goodbye to Donut Boy so we can get out of here."

Doggett's mood had brightened considerably after they finished their business at the Sheriff's Department. "No offense to the good people of Fairmount, but I'm ready to go home," he said with relief, as they walked toward their rental car.

"Home? You mean home as in D.C.?" Monica asked.

Doggett put an arm around her and gently squeezed her shoulders. "Nope. I mean home, as in my home. I was hoping I could talk you into spending the weekend with me."

Monica pretended to consider his offer carefully. "Hmm, sounds enticing. What did you have in mind?"

"You'll have to wait and see," he said mysteriously. "But let's just say part of it involves me bringing you breakfast in bed tomorrow morning. Betcha didn't know that I make kick-ass blueberry pancakes. They'll knock your socks off."

"I was kind of hoping you'll knock more than my socks off, Agent Doggett," she grinned.

Doggett opened the passenger door for Monica and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Oh, I will, Agent Reyes. I will. You can count on it."

End

Author's Notes: I have always been fascinated by James Dean. When I was a kid, I read an article about his Porsche and how it was supposedly cursed, and it stuck with me. The mysterious deaths and injuries that Monica cited to John actually did occur, as did the way the car vanished. Whether or not there really is a curse is open to interpretation.