A Matter of Trust
Author:  BlueDevil - dsizemore@rivercto.net 
Spoilers: post Hellbound fic 
Rating:  R 
Category:  DRR 
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em, just wish I did! 
Author's notes:  I enjoyed this ep, as disgusting as 
it was, and wanted to explore Reyes's depression and 
anxiety which was so evident at the end.  Come on, 
Doggett and Scully can't be the only ones with angst!


AGENT JOHN DOGGETT'S HOUSE, FALLS CHURCH, 2 AM 

Dana Scully eased her car up to the curb in front of 
her passenger's modest two-story home. She shifted the 
car's gear into 'park' and let the engine idle as she 
watched John Doggett unbuckle his seatbelt.  He glanced 
over at her with tired blue eyes which mirrored her own. 

"Thanks for the ride, Agent Scully.  I don't know where 
Monica took off to."  He hoped his tone of voice didn't 
give away his concern for his partner. 

Scully's proverbial frown left her face for a quick 
moment as she smiled slightly at Doggett's use of his 
partner's first name--a dead giveaway of how truly 
concerned he was and how much he cared for Reyes. 

"It was no problem, Agent Doggett.  I think Agent Reyes 
has had a tough time these past few days.  She probably 
just needs some time alone to sort things out." 

John sighed and turned his gaze from her to his home.  
"Maybe....but that's not like Monica.  She usually 
shares what's goin' on with her.  She likes to 'talk 
things through' and some other crap like you'd see on 
'Oprah'.  But this time, Scully, she shut me out from 
the very beginning." 

Scully reached out and placed her hand on his arm, 
causing John to refocus his gaze on her.  "I think you 
can understand why she chose to do that, considering 
what we know now." 

John stared at her.  "You mean that stuff about Van 
Allen and her knowin' each other in past lives and 
their ties to the victims?!  I know *she* believes 
that but..."  He looked away from his former partner 
and shook his head.  "I don't know...I don't know what 
to think." 

Scully stared straight ahead at the dark houses that 
lined John's quiet, immaculate street.  She sympathized 
with his feelings about what had occurred over the past 
few days and Monica's involvement in it. 

"When I spoke to Monica at the hospital, I told her that 
her theory was quite a leap for you---for all of us."  
She sighed thoughtfully.  "John, I'm a scientist.  I 
would like to think there is a practical, scientific 
explanation for everything but in the years I worked 
with Mulder...the things I saw...the things I have 
experienced firsthand..." 

"So what are you sayin'?  You believe her and Van Allen 
find each other every 50 or 60 years to fight over 
these people's lives, their souls?  That's nuts!" 

John watched the moonlight dance on her pale face as 
she pondered how to answer his outburst  "I'm simply 
saying, John, don't discount your partner, her feelings 
or her experiences.  She reminds me a great deal of 
Mulder sometimes.  I didn't always agree with him or 
his theories but I learned to listen to him and to 
trust his instincts." 

"I *do* trust Monica." 

"Does *she* know that?" 

John started to respond but quickly closed his mouth.  
'She has to know,' he reasoned silently.  But the 
realization that he couldn't answer Scully's question 
with a definitive, positive answer bothered him 
immensely. 


AGENT MONICA REYES'S APARTMENT, 3 AM 

Shortly after Van Allen's death, Monica found herself 
in her car, driving with no particular destination.  
She didn't recall where she went or even how she got 
home.  The car seemed to find the way of its own 
volition.  The only thing Monica did remember was 
hearing the words of a dead man playing over and over 
in her head---'You always fail'. 

Arriving home shortly after 3 am, she kicked off her 
shoes and shucked her leather jacket as she entered 
her apartment.  She removed her holster from her belt, 
removed the gun from the holster, unloaded the magazine 
and removed the remaining round from the gun's chamber.  
With that task completed, Monica placed the weapon and 
ammo in a desk drawer. 

She headed into her kitchen, opened the fridge and 
grabbed a beer.  After a few sips, she felt the need 
for something a little harder.  She knew that drinking 
to excess wouldn't solve anything but just for one 
night, Monica wanted to forget.  She grabbed a bottle 
of tequila and a shot glass and padded back to the 
living room. 

She switched on a small lamp as she sank down to the 
floor, placing her means of escape on her coffee 
table. 

By 3:30 am, Monica found herself properly blitzed but 
still unable to shake the images of the last few days.  
Suddenly she heard someone knocking on her door. 

"Monica?  Open the door.  I know you're in there!  
Your car's out front and your light is on." 

"John..." she whispered.  She sat and listened to him 
continue to pound on her door.  She couldn't deal with 
him, with anyone, at the moment. 

But John Doggett was not leaving.  Monica heard her 
lock click and realized he had used the key she'd given 
him for emergencies.   

John entered the apartment slowly.  "Monica?  It's 
John.  I'm comin' in." 

He noticed her sitting in the living room and almost 
laughed at the fact that she chose to sit on the floor 
despite having a couch and two chairs around her.  Then 
he noticed the half-empty bottle of tequila and his 
mood grew somber again. 

"Monica?" 

"John, go home," she said in a forceful but slurred 
voice. 

"Whadya doin' Monica?"  She had him worried now.  The 
Monica Reyes he knew didn't handle stress this way.  
She meditated, she listened to stupid whale music and 
she practiced turning herself into a pretzel with 
yoga....getting plastered was *not* how she handled 
her problems. 

"Throwin' a tupperware party.  What the hell does it 
look like I'm doing?" 

John ignored her sarcasm and removed his jacket, 
placing it on the back of the sofa.  He watched as 
Monica poured another shot, spilling some tequila on 
the table.  He walked around the sofa and opted to 
sit in the chair to Monica's right than next to her 
on the hardwood floor. 

"How much have ya had, Mon?" 

He watched as she gave careful thought to the 
question.  She turned her face to look up at him, 
her eyes filled with tears. 

"Too much," she whispered as a solitary tear slid 
down her face. 

John knew she wasn't referring to how much she'd had 
to drink.  The case and Van Allen's death had 
obviously taken its toll. 

"Talk to me." 

Her gaze strayed from his face back to the shot 
glass.  "Why are you here, John?" 

"I"m here to make sure you're okay.  You haven't 
seemed yourself lately.  Then with shootin' Van 
Allen...and stuff." 

Monica chortled slightly. "And stuff.  'Stuff' 
*you* don't believe."  She sighed heavily.  "You 
can go home, I'm fine." 

"Yeah, you're fine, all right.  Sittin' here on the 
floor, drinkin' away your sorrows.  Yeah, you're the 
epitome of fine." 

Monica ignored him and brought the glass up to her lips.  
John leaned over and grabbed the glass from her hand, 
spilling the amber liquid.  He grabbed the bottle off 
the table and stood.  "You've had enough.  I'll put 
some coffee on and we'll talk." 

"No.  Go home." 

John ignored her order and walked to the kitchen.  He 
rummaged around for a few seconds until he found the 
coffee and the filters.   After putting the coffee on 
to brew, John re-entered the living room to find 
Monica sitting on the sofa, her head in her hands.  
He sat down next to her. 

"I see you didn't get too far." 

"The room won't stop spinning." 

He chuckled slightly and leaned back.  "I've got the 
coffee brewin' so start talkin'." 

"There's nothing to talk about." 

"'Nothin' to talk about'," he repeated.  "You know, 
if this situation was reversed, you wouldn't let me 
off that easy.  You sure as hell didn't after we 
found...Luke.  You didn't leave me alone...you were 
the only one who could get through to me...you were 
the only one I trusted, that I still trust, Monica." 

But his confession of total trust in her fell on 
deaf ears.  *You always fail. You always fail*  Van 
Allen's voice floated through her head at the 
mention of John's poor deceased son, disorienting 
her even further.  "Yes, I do," she whispered. 

John leaned forward and placed his hand on her back.  
"You do what?" 

"Fail. I fail.  It's my lot in life and it's caused 
so much pain, your pain." 

John drew in a sharp breath as it dawned on him to 
what she was referring. 

"Monica, listen to me.  Van Allen was screwin' with 
your mind, okay?  I know you believe you have some 
connection with him.  Fine, but you are *not* a 
failure.  When Luke was...you were the only 
investigator who never gave up hope.  And when we 
found him, *you* didn't pack up and leave.  You 
stayed and grieved with us...with me.  You didn't 
fail then and you didn't fail tonight, Monica.  
Hold on to *that*, not Van Allen." 

She ran her hands through her dark hair and leaned 
back into the sofa.  John followed suit.   

"I know you're right, John, but..." 

"It's just hard to let go.  I know." 

Her sherry eyes found his warm blue eyes.  "I know 
you do." 

He cleared his throat slightly, breaking their 
connection.  "Um, coffee should be done."  He stood 
and walked into the kitchen.  He found two mugs and 
placed them on the counter.  "You know, Monica," he 
began as he poured the steaming beverage.  "I don't 
believe in that past life junk but that doesn't 
mean that I don't believe *you*, you know?" 

He picked up the mugs and started back to the living 
room.  "I hope you know that even when I disagree 
with ya..." 

John stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Monica 
curled up on the couch, fast asleep.  He placed the 
mugs on the coffee table and grabbed the quilt from 
the back of one of the chairs. He gently draped it 
over her and began stroking her hair.  John leaned 
over and placed a light kiss on her forehead. 

"I trust you Monica.  I always have.  I always will."