Title: _And the Other_ Author: Karen (snarky_freak@hotmail.com) Rating: PG-13 Keywords: Reyes. Doggett. Doggettfic. Doggett! Doggett! Doggett! Summary: 'This is wrong. It was wrong right from the start. It will always be wrong, no matter what you feel for me, no matter how I feel about you, no matter how tired we are...' Spoilers: This is Not Happening, Empedocles (very minor, if at all) Disclaimer: Again, they are not mine. So, again, quit lookin' at me like that, `kay? Archive: All are more than welcome, just please notify me... Author's Note: Hmm... This is extremely experimental; quite a departure (I think) from my other stories. I figured I should try and fiddle with Reyes as much as I've fiddled with and messed up Doggett (the poor man)! Pre-X-Files; Can be a prequel to my story, "Comfort for Another", but both stories can also stand alone. --- And the Other --- In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it. -Oscar Wilde, "Lady Windermere's Fan" --- She had been awake for hours, listening to the clock ticking away. The buses driving off down the street. The occasional car door slamming. She even heard her neighbour's infant daughter squealing in the middle of the night. He, on the other hand... Was fast asleep. He had turned on his side two hours ago. Now, he rolled over on his stomach, wrapped his arms around the pillow and sighed softly. He wasn't a snorer. He was a deep breather. His nose had an adorable way of twitching as he slept. She shifted closer to his warm body and regarded him more closely. He looked ten years younger, asleep. There was a softness about his face that the eternal frown he wore when awake always managed to conceal. His nose twitched again. She smiled to herself. He was the only man who stayed over the rest of the night. He was the only man who helped her wash the dishes. He was the only man who never criticized her awkward habits and mannerisms. He was the only man who always made it a point to look her in the eye. He was caring, cautious, careful. He was good to her. He was sensitive. She reached up and traced his chiseled jaw with the tip of her index finger. Instinctively, he leaned closer, into the touch of her hand. She bit her lip. He was much older than she was. She closed her eyes. He was a married man. It wasn't like she hadn't realized it before, but now, this early in the morning... She couldn't help but think about it. What would he do when he wakes up? What should she say? Where should he find her? Beside him? Outside, in the kitchen? Should she pretend she was still asleep? Should she take the opportunity--the advantage of having been the one to wake up first--and politely throw him out? She had to smile at that. Impossible. Not a chance. He wasn't the type you'd ever consider throwing out. Ever. Just one of those people. Rare. Beautiful. Attractive. Intense. Incredible. Infuriatingly complex. Painfully conflicted. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. He had commented on the patterns the previous night. Casually; comfortably, as though he had a right to say something about her bedroom. As though he belonged there. Something about the patterns. How they help keep the light from reflecting too much off the... She couldn't remember the rest of it. She had been too distracted. She couldn't believe what happened between them. She couldn't believe how deep and raspy his voice was, every time he whispered and mumbled something in her hair, against her temple... He allowed this to happen, fully aware of the painfully unwanted history they shared. Were sharing. Are sharing. Will forever be sharing. Had he simply gotten carried away? She turned her head and stared at him. He swallowed in his sleep. His adam's apple bobbed up, then down. He cleared his throat and sighed. His breath was warm against her skin. Adam's apple. She arched an eyebrow. The Fall of Man. Caused by a woman. A temptress woman. She refused to believe that. They were both responsible. Weren't they? "Monica..." Her eyes widened in mild panic before she cautiously looked over at him again. His eyes were closed. Did she really hear that? He shifted on the bed and faced her. The bedsheets rustled and fell in tangled waves and folds around his legs, leaving most of his bare torso uncovered... He shivered slightly and curled up into a tight ball. He had told her once that he rarely slept these days; that he was finding it harder and harder to fall or remain asleep for the night. And now here he was. Like a bear in hibernation. She forcedly looked over her shoulder. Almost 9:30 in the morning. It was a Saturday. He didn't have to leave until he felt like leaving. She stared at the clock on her nightstand. She watched the seconds pass, the hands on the clock ticking away. She could feel her neck stiffening. She wondered, how long she could last, twisted like this--a pretzel, practically--with her body facing him, her face looking over her shoulder. All because she was suddenly afraid. Of him. Of herself. Of them. She shifted slightly and pushed the corner part of the bedcover away from her chin. A few seconds later, she pushed it away again. It laughed lightly at her. She looked away from the clock and turned her head. His eyes seemed much bluer than they were last night. "Hey." He smiled lazily at her offbeat greeting and touched her chin affectionately. So, _he_ had been the pesky bedcover... "Hey, yourself," he blinked several times before he raised his eyebrows at her. "How long you been awake?" She shrugged nervously and flashed him a wide smile. "Not long." He looked at her dubiously from under his eyebrows. "I didn't wake you did I? I sure hope I wasn't snoring..." She shook her head. "Weren't snoring." He nodded and pulled absently at his ear lobe. "You... Okay...?" "Fine." He nodded again and looked away from her. His eyes took in the clothes strewn all over the carpeted floor of her bedroom. He grinned sheepishly. She could see the tips of his ears reddening in embarrassment. She relaxed a little. At least they were both somewhat uncomfortable... "Are _you_ okay?" She mentally cursed herself for asking. Of course, he was okay; he hadn't slept like that in months. In those months, he also probably hadn't-- His grin widened into a smile and his eyes sparkled in amusement. "I'm okay; I'm good," he replied with a nod of his head. Good. He was good. She was not even going to go there. She bit her lip once again. "Listen, Monica--" She'd been through this before. Granted, she had never had to wait until the next morning... But this was pretty much the same nevertheless. She shook her head vehemently and raised a hand between them to silence him. "It's okay. I know. I'm kinda, you know," she shrugged and kept her eye on his collarbone as she rambled on quickly. "...too. So, I know. It's okay. I know." Her nervous mumbling was met with utter silence. Confused, since she was waiting for the customary relieved sigh and the 'you too, huh?' response with which she was altogether too familiar... She looked up. He was regarding her with his jaws clenched and his eyebrows knitted together. His temple throbbed rhythmically. She shrugged again. "Umm..." "Monica--" She hadn't realized her lips were trembling, and that tears were welling up in her eyes until he leaned in closer and regarded her seriously. "Don't." He shook his head slightly, propped himself up on an elbow and cupped her face with his other hand. She bowed her head, but he tilted his hand upward and forced her to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry," he whispered softly as he allowed his thumb to glide languidly across the fullness of her bottom lip. "I didn't want you to think I was just gonna--" She pulled back slightly and averted her gaze from his. "You should. Shouldn't you?" He released her then, and he lay back down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "I should." He cleared his throat and cocked his head to the side. "Why...?" His voice was gravelly, uneven. Just like the ground beneath them. It could hurt, if you happen to fall... "John--" "You keep telling me..." he paused and cradled the back of his head with his well-muscled arms. "You keep telling me you know how I feel. That you can... somehow... sense... me. My feelings..." "It's not about that." She sat up straight, dried her eyes with the bedsheet and drew her knees up to her chin. "It was never about that." "I know. But--" "What about her?" "What about her." He scoffed under his breath; she could feel the sharp emotion stabbing at her insides like a knife. She closed her eyes and waited for him to continue. "You think she ever thinks about me." It wasn't a question. His voice was laced with a dull hint of contempt, of anger, of confusion, of hurt, of resignation. "How long's it been, Monica?" She bowed her head and took a deep breath. He knew very well how long it's been. He kept count. He kept vigil. He knew more than anyone else. "You know..." he kicked the covers away and continued more softly, "She wanted Luke to have a little sister? She always used to tell me that I don't come home early enough for that to happen." She looked at him. He was smiling to himself. Almost sadistically. "Don't do this--" "She's not the same woman anymore. She *hates* me," he paused then, and closed his eyes. "And I can't blame her." "John--" She touched his knee gently, carefully--so as not to startle him. "Don't start this; it's not your fault. Everything that happened isn't all yours to carry, okay? Don't do this to yourself." He didn't reply. He opened his blue eyes and examined the hand she had placed on his knee. "I don't have to do it to myself. It's always there. All these years... I see it, in my head. Everything--you remember?" Of course she did. She had never seen so much blood in her whole life. His blood. His wife's blood. Luke's blood. The deafening silence as he approached. The heart-stopping, murderous silence that came after he neared his son's body and looked down. He didn't cry. He didn't blink. He couldn't believe it. He refused to believe it. His admission of having seen what she saw had died on his lips the second he had articulated it. He refused to believe. He still does. "Sometimes," his deep, rumbling voice interrupted her train of thought. "Sometimes I wake up and I still think I'm looking for him, y'know? Like I'm back in those three days... Just waiting. Wanting to find him so badly, but not wanting to find him anymore..." He furrowed his eyebrows and sat up abruptly behind her. "But she's stuck in the past. Those three days we spent looking for him aren't over for her." His wife had left him even before they found Luke's body. She couldn't take the waiting. She couldn't take the creeping hopelessness. She had packed some clothes. She had gone to her parents'. She had left him to right what she was completely convinced was his wrong. His alone. Not hers. Not theirs. His. 'I promised her I'd bring him back to us.' He had said that then; long ago. His wife was still waiting for him to fulfill his promise. The gun in his hand was drawn. The people around her began to disperse--to get as far away from him and his grief as possible. They didn't want it happening to them. She herself had turned to go. He had looked down at his shoes and called out her name under his ragged breath. "Monica." She had looked at him, somewhat startled. For three days, he had refused to believe that she could help the investigation, the search in any way. Mumbo-jumbo, he had called her work, her theories. We don't have time for this kinda b.s. I need to find my son; you're fucking with people's lives here, saying all that bull. What right do you have? I need to find my son. Alive. I need to find him. Not some proof of this crap you claim to be an expert on. He had extended his arm towards her. "Don't let me..." His remark, as well as his gesture puzzled her at first, but then a flash of metal caught her eye. Wordlessly, she had closed the distance between them and steadied his forearm with her hand. She took the gun with the other. "She won't even look at me anymore." Again, his voice pulled her away from her memories. She tilted her head slightly to indicate that she was still listening. He sighed. He was quiet for several moments. She opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke once more. "You do, though." "I do what?" She craned her neck and stared at him. "You look at me." His hand slowly slid up her back and rested at the base of her neck. His fingers massaged the tense muscles there. "You still see me." Years ago, he didn't seem to notice that she was still there, watching him, as he knelt down and gathered his son's lifeless body in his strong arms. He didn't seem to care that his clothes were soaking wet with blood; that his skin was stained red with his own life's blood. He wasn't crying. Not tears, anyway. It was blood. He was crying blood. Silently. Privately. Secretly. Between father and son. Blood ties... Who knew, as he watched the nurse in the delivery room nine years ago, wiping away the blood from his infant son's face and body... Who knew? That he himself would have to wipe the blood away from that same face... His face. His wife's face. That he would never be the good father, the good father-in-law, the good grandfather... That his son was never meant to be like his father. To be much better than his father. To be alive like his father. He had been capable of killing his own son. Of leaving him to die. Of abandoning him. She shook her head. She could feel all this, coming from him. She always could... And yet... there was something more. Now, more than ever, as he sat with her on her bed... There was clearly something more. He was watching her. He was studying her profile. She looked directly at him. "What is it?" His hand ceased massaging her neck. "Do you really know how I feel right now?" She nodded. "About you?" She looked away. Was that what she couldn't distinguish? Or maybe she didn't want to know, didn't want to feel that one... "Monica--" "We can't, John. This was wrong. It still is." She sounded like a school counsellor. She sounded like a mother. A great-aunt who never married, whose ideals were pure and virtuous. She sounded high and mighty. What had happened to the self-assured university graduate student, on the verge of facing the world with a promising career? Where was she? The girl who loved rave parties. The girl who had many strange but fun-loving friends. The girl who had merely wanted to help out on a child abduction case. The girl who saw the case as an opportunity to apply what she had learned. The girl who had meant well. The girl who had felt the pain and heartache of a bull-headed, fiercely loving father and husband... The girl who still feels that same pain. Where was she now? Wherever she was, she left in the middle of the night. She shook her head slightly and looked down at her arms. "God, this is wrong..." He nodded once, before he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against his chest. "Maybe it is." He bent his head and nuzzled the skin behind her ear. "But aren't you tired?" Of fighting. Of hurting. Of being fine. Of not needing anyone. Of being afraid. Of pretending. Of life. She could feel the tears in her eyes. He held her tighter and brushed his mouth against her bare shoulder. It wasn't worth fighting. It didn't hurt. It wasn't fine. They needed each other. They weren't afraid. They weren't pretending. Was this the same life they had been living for years? She whispered his name. His hand covered her mouth. His thumb parted her lips. His own mouth met hers hungrily. This was wrong. It still is. She began to shake her head. This was wrong. It will always be wrong. She pulled away; she no longer responded to his insistent touch. Her body began to seek refuge beneath the bed sheets. Slowly, he himself drew back and looked down at her. He was out of breath; his chest heaving labouriously, his mouth half-open as he searched her eyes longingly. After a few seconds, he lay back on the bed, beside her, and studied the ceiling intently. He was quiet. As quiet as he had been last night, in that split second during which they stood between sanity and insanity... He was always quiet when something important was about to happen. When something that really, truly mattered was about to happen. Was he thinking of her, or of himself? His wife? His son? Her guts--her instincts--told her to let go; to turn away and struggle to forget him, his pain, his wounds, his voice... But there are times when your guts ask too much of you. She unabashedly allowed her tears to trickle down her face and pillow. Reflexively, she wiped away the cold streaks they left on her skin before she turned on her side, with her back facing him. He should get the hint; he was an intelligent man, a sensitive man. He should know when to walk away. To walk out. To move on. The bed shifted slightly. She closed her eyes. He was leaving. He had come to his senses. He was beginning to regret everything that happened last night. He was doing the right thing. A warm hand on her hip jolted her from the abyss of her thoughts. Startled, she gasped slightly and raised her head from the pillow. His face loomed above her. The eternal frown was back. He wasn't going anywhere. At least, not yet. "I don't..." he began slowly, quietly. His other hand pushed her hair away from her eyes and stroked her high forehead. She simply stared up at him. He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. He looked steadily at the hand he had placed on her hip as he tried to articulate his thoughts. "I _don't_ think this is wrong, Monica. I don't _want_ it to be wrong..." He waited. For an answer. For a slap in the face. For a tear. For her. She simply stared up at him. He leaned down, closer to her, his face mere inches from her own. Push me away. Tell me to leave, and I'll go. Tell me this _is_ wrong. Again. Tell me I'm wrong. For the last time. Bring yourself to say it to me again. Tell me I'm wrong. Again. Push me away. Once more. That's all it will take. One last time. And I'll go. I will. She opened her mouth slightly, but no words risked exposure to the intensity of his gaze. She blinked away the remnants of her tears and felt her hand reaching up. She touched his face. He turned slightly and kissed the palm of her hand, and the inside of her wrist. His eyes never wavered from hers. His own hands resumed the journey they had begun earlier. She closed her eyes, and felt the wave of tangled, conflicted emotions rushing through her. Just like the night before. Only this time it was much clearer. More well-defined. It didn't smother her. This time, she knew what she was getting into. What she would be unable to get out of, should she ever try, somewhere down the road. He was feeling for his wife. For his son. For himself. For his family. For her. 'Excess baggage' was a familiar term to him. Her eyelids fluttered open and she found him once again watching her. The blueness--the utter perfect-day-for-a-picnic, sky-blueness--of his eyes hid the violent storm, the destructive tempest she knew was brewing inside him. It was already in the process of destroying him. And her. The girl who had a new boyfriend every week because she got bored too easily... The girl who had a new boyfriend every week because she was 'too strange,' 'too quirky', 'too out there' for them to stay with her for long... "What are you thinking...?" His voice--gravelly, uneven... Just like the ground beneath them... It _does_ hurt when you fall. 'This is wrong. It was wrong right from the start. It will always be wrong, no matter what you feel for me, no matter how I feel about you, no matter how tired we are...' The girl with the Master's degree in Religious Studies. The girl with the dark hair and the unusually pale skin. The girl who never quite fit in. The black sheep. The quirky one. The oddball. The girl who fell--is falling--for a married man, ten years her senior. A man who had absolutely no definite idea what he was feeling for himself, much less for her. A man who broke down what barriers she had left with a single smile the previous night. He had smiled. At her. He still remembered how to smile. It was almost a miracle--that smile. That smile that charted a path that had once welcomed only tears and frowns of self-blame, self-loathing. It was a hard-earned smile for him. A smile that took years to form. A smile that came with a price. One son... And many more things that have yet to be claimed. She was responsible for that smile. That girl who made the conscious decision to remain 'open'; to keep an open mind... She had caused it. Did she want that girl to come back? She shook her head and stared at his dishevelled hair. "I'm not... thinking," she whispered as she tried to comb her fingers through the tangled spikes above his forehead. They stubbornly refused to be held down. Bull-headed. Obstinate. Conflicted. Like the man himself. He simply allowed his sharp gaze to pin her down. Liar. She lowered her hand and pulled the bedcovers up to her collarbone. "I just--" "I don't know what to do, either." He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He frowned as he tried to compose his thoughts, his words. "But this isn't something I didn't want to happen." The only man in her life who ever accepted responsibility willingly, readily... Was also the only man who should not be taking on any more responsibilities... She nodded dumbly in response. Awkward. She had always been awkward. The polar opposite to his normality. Of course, she was drawn to him. No question; she knew that the moment he had looked at her pleadingly. 'Don't let me...' his voice echoed in the recesses of her mind. What would have happened to her if she _had_ let him? The girl would still be the same girl. She would still be here. She wouldn't have ever known the overwhelming depth of The Afterwards... The domain and the playground of many things. Grief. Blame. Gratitude. Love. Sorrow. Pity. Attraction. Guilt. Pain. The Afterwards. Eternally uneven and gravelly. It hurts when you fall. Not _if_ you fall, for it is a guarantee that you most definitely will fall. It's all just a matter of when. She blinked. The girl was gone. She didn't leave last night; she left a long time ago. She had tried to follow the boy. The boy who lay lifeless, broken, empty in his father's arms. The girl was gone. The boy was gone. "I wanted this to happen." His voice was deep, raspy, but soft. He mumbled something inaudible into her hair before he kissed her temple gently. "It's _not_ wrong. You shouldn't feel--" "Doesn't it hurt for you? Seeing me? Don't I always remind you of--" He gave her a one-shouldered shrug before tightening his arm around her waist. "You used to. You still do, but it's different. I've gotten to know you. It's not just about..." He caught his breath and tore his gaze away from her dark brown eyes. "It isn't just about Luke anymore." She swallowed hard and raised an eyebrow at him. "No?" "It's been a while, Monica. There's more to you than that." "More to me." He nodded slowly. "If he'd met you, he would've liked you." She stared at him. He looked up and gave her a small smile. "I mean it. He's that kinda kid, you know?" "Plays with the new student in the class?" "Shares his crayons." "And his lunch?" He nodded again. "Yeah." "Gives everyone a chance, huh?" "Always. I'm... I'm proud of him. I still am. He was always a sweet kid." His eyelids fluttered closed for a few seconds before he lowered his eyes and studied the golden hairs on his forearm intently. "He'd have been a really good guy." She lifted her hand from the bed sheets and stroked his forearm with her fingertips. "Like his father," she whispered hoarsely. He looked up and held her gaze. She smiled lopsidedly. "I'm sure I would've liked him, too, John." It was his turn to stare. His expression was unfathomable, even for her. She bit her bottom lip and chastely pulled her hand away from his arm. He reached across the bed and stroked her back and shoulders slowly. "I still miss Luke. I still miss my son, Monica." She nodded readily without looking at him. "I know you do," she replied softly as she forced herself to study the rumpled bed sheets before her. "You still blame yourself for everything, too; you shouldn't. You know it's not your fault. You can't let yourself go on like that--" "Hard not to." he lowered his voice to a murmur. He placed his hand gently on her elbow before he continued. "She looks at me every day, and I know she's still waiting for me to do something. Anything to bring him back to us. But I can't. There's nothing I can do. Every day I hope to hell that there's somethin' more I can do... But there isn't." He paused for a few seconds and allowed his fingers to travel up her arm. "She flinches now, y'know? When I touch her. She pushes me away when I get too close." "John--" "I don't know her anymore. I don't want to. I don't wanna see what she sees. She's forgotten everything else about Luke. He's dead; that's all he is to her now. And I can't--" He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He hated losing control like this; he hated feeling vulnerable. He shook his head resolutely, sighed labouriously and looked at her once more. "I can't live like that. I need to remember him when he was fine. Before he was hurt. Before anything else, he was a kid, just like we were, Monica..." His deep voice always seemed to wrap itself around her first name. Like the way she always seemed to wrap herself around his grief. There was a sense of belonging; of harmony there, somehow. His voice and her name, his grief and her very being. Without hesitation, without thinking once--much less twice--she shifted closer and rubbed his broad shoulders with her palms. "John..." The sound of her own voice was muffled against his forehead. He nuzzled the line of her throat and the ridges of her collarbone. He wasn't crying; he wasn't the type to cry. He was the type to shatter silently--like the fortresses little boys like Luke build in the snow. She knew exactly how he wanted to be comforted. He didn't want her tears; he didn't need her pity _or_ her sorrow. And so she bit her lip and suppressed the sob that was threatening to escape her body. Her hand travelled up the ridges of his spine and rested at the nape of his neck, while her fingers raked through his short, sandy brown hair. "I love you," he sighed softly into her shoulder and pressed his mouth against her pale, bare skin. 'No, you don't.' The thought was almost physically painful, physically tangible to her. She bit her lip, remained silent and continued to stroke his hair. It wasn't a lie; of that she was certain. He would never lie to her. He would never deceive her that way, because he knew better. He didn't lie to her when he said that. But he didn't tell her the truth, either. Her unusual reticence made him pull back slightly. "What's wrong?" She smiled to herself. You are. I am. This is. "Nothing." He nodded, and took her dismissive reply in stride. "Okay." He was about to say more when his phone rang. Frowning, he cleared his throat, swung his legs onto the floor and fumbled around for a few seconds. She watched as he activated his phone and dragged a hand through his hair. It was her. She could tell from the way he nodded and spoke into the phone. *She* wanted to talk to her husband. *Hers.* Whatever was going on between them... Whatever was _not_ going on... He was still *hers.* She stared at him--at his back, his hair, the tiny freckles on his shoulders... You don't love me. You _can't_ love me. He deactivated his phone and looked at her. "I have to go," his voice rumbled and seemed to resonate in her ears. She nodded understandingly. "She wants to talk to me." She nodded again. "You sure you're okay with all this?" He asked as he proceeded to dress in front of her. "There's really nothing here, John," she shrugged and immediately regretted the defensive bluntness that trickled through her voice. She closed her eyes and tried again, this time much gentler than before. "Go home." "I meant what I said earlier, Monica. I wanted this--" "And you've wanted to talk to her for a long time, too. So go. I'm okay, John; honestly, I'm fine." "Monica--" "Your wife's waiting for you. She needs you right now. You need her, too." It was his turn to nod. He reached for his watch on the nightstand and snapped it around his right wrist. He leaned down, over the bed, and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "I'll see you later. We'll talk then. I'm..." He looked around the room for a few seconds before he stared intently at her once again. "I'm really sorry about having to do this to you right now; it's not fair." She gave him a dismissive shrug. "It's nothing." With another small nod, he turned on his heels, left the room and headed down the hallway. She heard the door close behind him. She allowed the tears to stream down her cheeks as she lowered her body onto the warm bed. Regardless of what he says and what he does... She rolled over onto her side and buried her face in the pillow he had slept on the previous night. "It's nothing," she whispered. END Send comments to: snarky_freak@hotmail.com