Title: _5 Minutes, 45 Seconds_ Author: Karen (snarky_freak@hotmail.com) Rating: PG Keywords: Reyes. Doggett. Doggettfic/Reyesfic. Doggett! Doggett! Doggett! Reyes! Reyes! Reyes! Summary: '"We'll find him." He stares at the surface of the table. He folds his hands neatly in front of him. "Won't we?"' Spoilers: This is Not Happening, Empedocles 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: Pre-X-Files; Can be a prequel to my story, "And the Other"; actually, this can be a prequel to most of my D/R stories. Can also stand alone, like the rest. ;0) And don't think this will be the last one... --- 5 Minutes, 45 Seconds --- 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" --- I should have thought first. I should have _known_. This wasn't my territory. It was his. For the time being-- I was just a guest. An extremely unwelcomed guest. An interloper. With a large cup of soy latte in one hand... And a half-frozen tray of vegetable lasagna in the other. "You still here?" I glance at him briefly before I look down at the lasagna. It doesn't look too appealing to me anymore. I raise my eyebrows and take a deep breath to compose myself. "Of course, I'm still--" "Go home." I look back up at him. Go home. Home as in New Orleans. Home as in the FBI field office in New Orleans. Home as in anywhere but here. I can feel the beginnings of a frown--a downright bitchy frown--forming on my face. "Why don't _you_ go home?" When will he stop dismissing my presence, my authority on this case? Just because-- He simply closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose slowly. "I'm his father." "And you shouldn't be working this case." Silence. I look over my shoulder. He's still there. Sitting motionless beside the vending machine. The hustle and bustle of the squad room outside seem almost surreal because of him. His silence, his misery, his chilling patience... All seem so tangible. Simultaneously tangible. Suffocating, gripping, heartbreaking... I shake my head and look away. It was probably just me. Maybe another trip to the bathroom, another useless tirade of tears and rhetorical questions would do me some good. Maybe it won't. Maybe packing my bags and abandoning this case would do me even more good. Maybe it won't. Maybe nothing will. "What d'you got there?" "Um--this? Uh..." I raise the lasagna at him, as though offering him a toast (what a stupid, stupid thing to do), and attempt to quirk a smile. I feel like a mannequin. Naked, vulnerable, insincere, artificial. "You eat that all the time?" I nod. Then I shake my head. "Uh, no. I don't. Just..." I shake my head again before I take a few steps towards the microwave. "Just when I'm doing lots of things." "So you eat that all the time." His gruff voice is irritatingly monotonous, like a dial tone that won't erase itself from your memory... "You could say that," I reply distractedly while I try to figure out how to work the primitive-looking microwave for the second time. You'd think, for a police department such as this one, they'd be able to-- "Clear it. Then press time. Then you can--" "Thanks. I think I've--" I do as he says before I tap on the number pad a few times and press the 'start' button. Finally. I look over at him again and smile genuinely for the first time. "Got it from here." "Whatever." Again, silence. I look at the timer on the microwave. 5 minutes, 45 seconds. I have that much time to spend with him, all alone in this makeshift kitchen. Where are the cops and their coffees and donuts when you need them? Where are the uniforms crowding the room, exchanging jokes and gossip and rumours and commentary from last night's basketball game, or wrestling match, or NASCAR race, or-- "How long you been with the Feds?" The Feds. The Fed-Heads. The Grateful Feds. One thing about this job, Detective... You never end up 'grateful.' "Three years?" I nod wordlessly as my eyes focus on a white stripe on his tie. That was a lucky guess, wasn't it? Unless... "You checked my records." A pause. His adam's apple bobs up and down... Like he's having trouble breathing. Like the air's gradually becoming toxic for him, and only him. "You got a problem with that?" "That depends, Detective," I square my shoulders and try to stand still. I can't. I always fidget. I _always_ shift my weight from one foot to the other, and back again. Damn it. "Depends on what?" He looks up from the table and takes a swig from a cup I hadn't noticed he was holding in his left hand. I can't help but shrug. I wince to myself as I do so. Flake. You're a flake. Always have been, always will be... What are you thinking, trying to posture around like some of these beefy, testosterone-cologne-wearing NYC cops, anyway? Okay, they don't exactly _tower_ over you, but come on... You're bordering on pathetic, here... "Agent Reyes?" His deep, rumbling voice seems to resonate throughout my entire body as he pronounces my last name. He can't say it properly. 'How many times do I have to tell you? It's with an 's', bozo, not a 'z',' I almost snap at him... I have the urge to ask him to _mispronounce_ that again--my name--but I realize he's studying me with his eyes... His blue eyes. His clear blue eyes. Blue eyes that don't seem to blink. Ever. "You always like this?" "Like, um, like what, Detective?" It's his turn to shrug. He downs the rest of his black coffee in one gulp before he shrugs once again. His shoulders are nice and broad under his white dress shirt. Really nice and really broad shoulders. Just perfect for shrugging, among other things... "I dunno. Like half of you's always somewhere else." "You don't think I can do this--" "Hey, I didn't say that. You did." "I've worked cases like this for--" "Hey, so have I." "--three years now, and this one isn't any different." He simply stares at me. It _is_ different. No matter how much experience the two of us-- "I'm sorry. I... I didn't mean it that way, Detec--" "'S'okay." His reply is almost a mumble. A reassurance. To himself. It wasn't meant to make _me_ feel better. How typical of me. Now that I've _actually_ put my foot in my mouth... It's only _now_ that I decide to watch what I say to him. Good one. You're supposed to be representing the FBI here, Monica, and what are you doing? Harassing the victim's family. Not getting the work done. Crying your eyes out. Dragging the investigation longer and longer and longer... Falling for the boy's father. "I shouldn't do that, Detective Doggett," I blurt out all of a sudden. I should not do that. I will not do that. I cannot do that. I must not do that. "I mean, I shouldn't have done that--what I said earlier. I shouldn't have..." But I can't help it. "I understand, Agent Reyes," he nods at me to demonstrate the sincerity of his response. "I don't blame you. I mean..." He runs a hand through his dishevelled brown hair and looks at me with a slightly sheepish smile on his haggard-looking--albeit ruggedly handsome--face. "It's not like I welcomed you with open arms yesterday." Another awkward pause between us. Strange; those awkward pauses were becoming more and more comfortable... Don't get _too_ comfortable, Monica. That's not part of your job. "We'll find him." He stares at the surface of the table. He folds his hands neatly in front of him. "Won't we?" I look at him, and I cannot explain what it is I am feeling right now, this very second. For the first time, I cannot tell--I can't decipher, or figure out--where these emotions are coming from. Him? Myself? Both of us? It's like we're feeling the same thing, at the same time, in the same way... I've never felt that way before. Never. Never this sense of connection, this feeling that... We're bound together somehow. That if he only lets himself... He can feel what I'm feeling. See what I'm seeing. Sense what I'm sensing. I've never felt this before. Not with my parents. Not with the rest of my family. Not with my friends... And definitely not with any of my lovers... No one. Until now. Until-- "We'll find him. We will. I promise you. We'll find him, John." I've never called him by his first name, but somehow, after that experience I just had, it feels right to me. I don't regret having done so now, for he seems to relax momentarily at the sound of it. He nods. "Yeah. We will. I _know_ we will." "Yeah." "That's what I'm afraid of." A wave of Something washes over me again. I have to lean against the counter to keep my knees from buckling under the pressure and the dizzying strain of that Something... He's afraid that when we find his son... Luke. Luke John. Luke John Doggett. His son will be dead when we find him... "Don't think like that--" "Why not? You and I have worked cases like this lots of times, Agent Reyes..." He gradually grows quiet as he begins to trace indistinct patterns on the table. "We both know how they end." I look away, feeling stung and beaten. Bruised and battered. Mawled and ripped to pieces by what he's implying. All of this is futile. All of this is useless. All of this is nothing. But it's only the second day. It's only been 48 hours. But half a day is more than enough time to-- I'm not going to think that way. I won't let him think that way, either. "I worked a case a couple of months back, John... Down in Denver. This little girl was taken from a water park. It... doesn't really matter how she was taken and all that..." "Uh-huh." He makes it a point to look me in the eye. He makes it a point to show me that he's listening, that he's no longer ignoring me. He's trying to show me that he's learning to trust me. My insides churn at the thought. Don't be so quick to trust me, John Doggett. I could disappoint you. "Um... We found her in time. Took us four days, but we found her." "That's a rare thing." "Yes, it is. But it happens." "Yeah, it does." Another awkward, but paradoxically comfortable bout of silence passes between us. I turn my back on him and stare out the window at the patrol cars pulling up in front of the station house, picking up and dropping off police officers. Some are beat cops, and some are detectives just like John. I recognize a few faces already, and this is only my second day here. I swallow hard, hoping that one of them will burst through the doors with great news. Hell, not even great news--just... News. "Listen, Monica--" I turn and regard him seriously. Now *that* he can pronounce properly. And beautifully, too. "Mmm?" He pushes his chair back and stands up. He's not that much taller than I am, but he seems damn intimidating, now that he's put his hands on hips. "I'm real sorry about yesterday, when you got here. I was bein' a jerk. I know you just wanna help. I know you _can_ help me. I know you can help my son, too." I take a few steps towards him, and gently place my hand on his elbow. "We'll--" "Find him, I know." He nods to himself before he looks at me again. His eyes seem to be searching my own for answers, for clues, for... help. "I just hope we find him--" "We will." "Yeah. I'm real sorry I checked your records, too. That was damn stupid of me, I--" "It's okay. I understand, John." "Yeah. Thanks. You know--" he backs away and starts heading out of the kitchen. "For everything. For helpin' out. For bein' here. I mean, things haven't been too good with my wife an' all... I'm just glad--I mean--it's nice to have someone I can talk to. Someone I--" I nod quickly as I try to indicate to him that I understand, that he doesn't have to embarrass himself by getting all twisted up in his words... "Yeah, sure." *BEEP* We both look at the microwave. END That's what it says on the little panel. Time's up. Stop it. "I gotta go," he breathes hoarsely. I attempt to smile at him. "Okay." "I gotta go home. Check how my wife's doin'." "You should do that." He nods. "You'll call me... right? If anything--" "I promise." "Thanks." "Okay." "Um... Don't... Eat that all the time... It's not good for you." I can't help but laugh a little. "Neither's smoking." I point at the suit jacket he is putting on, where the pack of cigarettes lay hidden, always at the ready for him. "I oughtta quit, huh?" "Yeah." "I probably will. When this is all..." "You will." "Yeah." He taps the doorjamb with his knuckles before he turns on his heels and walks away. "Get some sleep, Monica," he adds in a forced, lively voice as he makes his hasty exit. "I will, John. You too." He nods awkwardly at me before he turns the corner and disappears. I don't know how I can face him when we find his son. If we find his son. It's been two days. It'll be three days in a few hours, when the sun comes up. When it rises. Why can't people rise continually like the sun? I can't help but sigh. I have to find him. I must find him. I will find him. But can I find him? How? 5 minutes, 45 seconds. He knows we'll find his son. We both know that. He also knows we'll most probably find his son... Dead. Too late. Just a split second too late. Do _I_ know that? We've both worked these cases before, countless of times. But he's right, and I'm wrong. This one really _is_ different. 'I'm his father.' You're falling for the boy's father. There's a connection here, between us, somehow. 5 minutes, 45 seconds. So much can happen. He trusts me now. How can I do this to him? Promising him something I don't even believe in, myself? 5 minutes, 45 seconds. You can do so much. If only I can take back the time, turn back the clock... If I can do that... Then 5 minutes and 45 seconds could be all I need to bring him back. To his father. To his family. To me. *END* Send comments to: snarky_freak@hotmail.com