Title: _ Bound _ Author: Karen (snarky_freak@hotmail.com) Rating: PG Keywords: Reyes POV. Doggettfic/Reyesfic Summary: 'There are times, when we get too comfortable with one another, that it seems as though he's not just John's son, but mine, too.' Spoilers: Hellbound, 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 via e-mail... Author's Note: Post-ep for Hellbound... Hey-there's more to that ep than those hamburger look-alikes, y'know! --- Always. Fail. You. Always. Always. Always. He's on that bed, staring up at the ceiling. He's dead. He knew he would die. He wanted to die, made himself die. Always. Where is he now? Where am I headed, after this life? The next? And the one after that? Whoever I am, whoever I become- Always- Always- I will fail. "Agent Reyes?" "Hmm?" Dana has gotten a hold of my arm. I look down at her, my eyes fixed on only one thing. That picture in her hand. Miners. A dispute. A murder. A cycle, kept alive by him. And he-what does he do? Succeed? Always? Always. It's his lot to succeed. Isn't it? It's not mine, that's for sure. "Monica, you should go home. There's-" "I didn't stop it, did I? I couldn't. It doesn't matter that Lisa's still alive. I failed. Like all the other times in the past, Dana... I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop him." She holds up the picture, looks down at it, examines it, studies it, before she looks up again at the nurses scrambling to remove his body from the gurney. "Maybe you did. Maybe-" Dana looks away and tries to distance herself from my situation. It's hard for her, I know-seeing me experience these things, and not having Mulder explain them to me. To her. "Maybe you changed things, Monica. We can't know for sure. But..." she closes her eyes and sighs under her breath, my frustration somewhat reflected in her own eyes. "Maybe you did." She pats my arm sympathetically, and at the same time, professionally, before she turns on her heels and walks away. I wonder if that always happens. The soul of Agent Scully walking away from mine, unable to tell me why, and how, and why not... They're removing his body. But his soul is still here. I can feel it. Somewhere here, he's still watching me, still feeling that odd sense of familiarity with me. I've killed his body, but killed him? No, never. Always, always- I fail. "Monica?" I watch the nurses on duty, their hands and feet busily scrambling for the next item, the next step, the next thing, the next life... I don't want him here right now. This is probably the only time I have ever said that to myself. Not now, John. A heavy sigh practically lands on my shoulder. I can see his reflection on the window, his eyes looking me over with concern, his hands jammed uneasily in the pockets of his jacket. "He's dead, John." "Yeah. He is. Agent Scully told me. I know." "He got what he wanted." "Hey-" "I gave it to him. I killed him." "You had to." "He knew I had to. He wanted me to. So he could start over, again." "Monica-" "Whatever he meant, whatever he said to me-" "Why don't we-" "Explains your son, too, doesn't it? What happened to him. Why we never found Luke." Destined to fail... His hands, I know, are probably clenching into fists right now inside those pockets. He steps back, a little stung by my words. I watch his reflection looking back over his shoulder. He regrets coming back for me. He knew what was on my mind, and now he regrets his bravery to weather this. My brooding. He hates it when I brood; maybe hates my brooding even more than when I'm too happy for his tastes. He wants me to stop. Brooding. He's trying to change my mind. "I'll be fine, John. It's okay; I'm good. Go home. I'll see you tomorrow." "I'll take you back to your place." "I'm not leaving yet." "Y'should. Nothin' more here for you to do." "Don't tell me you didn't think about-" "Doesn't matter-" "What if it hadn't been me?" "God, don't do this, alright? Not now. `Specially not now." "Maybe you would've found him." "Monica-" I bow my head and nod. Destined to fail... "I'm sorry, John." He ignores my apology, merely shrugs it off and takes a deep breath. "C'mon. Let's get outta here," he whispers as he squeezes my shoulder and leads me out the hospital. --- "Hey." I cross my arms over my chest and take a deep breath before I turn to look at him questioningly. Unabashedly, his hand reaches out, pushes past my messy mass of black hair, and strokes the back of my neck slowly, comfortingly. "Still wanna sit out here some more?" His mumble hangs in the air, just as his warm hand pulls back and rests on his thigh uneasily. "You're half-frozen." "Go home." "Not gonna do that 'til you get inside." I close my eyes and cradle my head in my hands, and massage my temples with my ice-cold fingertips. "I'm sitting in front of my apartment building, John. I'm as good as home. It's okay. I'll see you tomorrow." He sighs heavily once again, and looks straight ahead. Part of me can't believe he's still sitting here on the concrete steps of my building, but another part knows he won't leave until he's sure I'm okay. "You're gonna let Van Allen get to you like this, huh?" "I don't expect you to understand, John." "Oh, I understand. I understand, alright," his voice goes up a notch as he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "You think I don't know what's goin' on in your mind? Nothin' strange 'bout that. I knew you'd be thinkin' 'bout him when this happened..." *him* Luke. There are times, when we get too comfortable with one another, that it seems as though he's not just John's son, but mine, too. He stands for a precious part of me that I lost that day. Faith? Innocence? Determination? Optimism? Certainty? The belief that failures are only failures based on how you look at them? He's much more than that to me. So much more. Luke. I failed you. Your father. Your mother. You. Destined to fail... It's only now that it hits me. Just as Van Allen dies over, and over, and over, and over again to re-enact his anger and hatred and outrage... So Luke dies over, and over, and over, and over again- What of Luke, then? His soul? Is he destined to fail, too? Fail to live? Fail to grow up? Fail to see his father ("Daddy; he'd call me that all the time..."-John told me that once, long ago, who knows in which lifetime?), and mother, and friends again? "How can you sit here like that, John?" His eyes are on me. Studying me, questioning me, asking me... "How can _you_? It's damn cold..." I stare at him. He knows what I'm talking about. He looks away and squints at something in the distance. The toe of his shoe sways a bit as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. His jacket rustles against the concrete steps. His throat makes a deep, scratchy sound as he clears it. "Y'never forgave yourself?" He asks after a while, almost too casually. I turn my head and study his pickup truck, parked a short distance down the street. "I thought I did." "You helped me do that, though." "What?" He gives me a one-shouldered shrug before he squints up at the building across from mine. "Forgive myself. For what happened. To Luke. `Mean..." Another shrug before he continues, this time more quietly, less confidently. "Never thought I'd be able to do it. Never thought I'd be willin' to do it. But I did. You helped me to, Monica." "I always help you to." "Hmm?" "Always." "What're you talkin' 'bout?" "If Van Allen-" "Aw, Christ-forget Van Allen. I'm tryin' to talk some sense into you, here, an'-" "How would _you_ feel, John? How would _you_ feel if someone told you what he told me? I ALWAYS fail? I'm destined to fail? I can't--" "Stop this." His voice is firm, his hand is warm as it grabs my arm and starts to pull me to my feet. "Get inside, and stop-" "Do you know what it's like to be told that I'm destined to fail Luke? To fail you?" "Hey." His hands steady me. His gray-blue eyes pin me down reproachfully. His deep voice tries to hold me in place. "That's NOT what he told you." "Not exactly." I look away, feeling like a stupid little girl squirming in his grip. "But-" "An' you didn't fail me. You never failed me. Y'never will." A shiver runs down my spine. Strange words, coming from a man whose dead son I helped find. Destined to fail...? "Yeah," I nod dumbly, too tired to argue with his stubbornness. "Maybe." His hand moves up my arm, and comes to rest on my shoulder. He's done this before... The hospital. Before he left me there, behind the window, staring at Van Allen. In this lifetime. This one. Perhaps John comforts me in this way, too, in other lifetimes. Perhaps he comforts me- Always. Maybe I'm not destined to fail. Maybe John's right. Maybe Dana's right. Maybe breaking the cycle is all it takes. "So which one you thinkin' 'bout now?" "Hmm?" I frown up at my partner. He gives me a lopsided grin and tilts his head to the side, staring at me knowingly. "C'mon. Stop this. Get some rest." Both his hands come up to steer me into my apartment building. I'm too tired tonight, too tired now, to argue any more. We go up the steps in silence, his hands on my shoulders, his breath warm and comforting behind me. I can see my door from here. I'm as good as home. "John?" I look over at him. He's frowning, pouting-as if trying to make up his mind about something. "What? What is it?" He remains quiet until we're both standing in front of my door. Once there, he fiddles absently with the door knob, all the while clenching and unclenching his jaw. "John, what's-" "Y'know that week I'm takin' in a coupla months for pers'nal time...?" I nod, vaguely remembering him saying something about it. John nods to himself, before he looks up and lets his gaze flicker around the space my body occupies. "I wasn't gonna tell you, Monica, but I figured, after what's happened tonight..." I nod again, wide-eyed, silently imploring him to continue. "I'm goin' to New York for that week." My eyes widen slightly. I'm not sure where exactly this is going... He looks down at his shoes and jams his free hand in the back pocket of his jeans. "'M gonna go visit him..." Him. Meaning Luke, his son. "-an' you're more than welcome to join me..." Me. Meaning him, Luke's father. "What am I sayin'--I want you to come with me," he sighs, smiles apologetically at me before he furrows his eyebrows and looks down at the doorknob more intently. "When I visit him. You can just come down that day an' we-" I place a steadying hand on the one nervously fidgeting with the doorknob. The small, rattling sounds of the doorknob stop as soon as I touch him. He sighs into me, leans a little closer and bows his head, waiting for my reply. "I don't want to intrude." "Y'won't. You're not. He's..." John swallows and makes it a point to look me in the eye before he continues in a low whisper. "Luke. Luke-and what happened to him, Monica... He's yours, too." Always? His eyes search mine, trying desperately to make that connection. Trying desperately to answer my one-word question. Yes. Always. My mouth half-opens, but my words fail me. My eyes half-close, but my tears fail me, as well. "'Call you once I get there." I close my mouth, open my eyes and nod. "'Mean, it's not for a while, but I just wanna let ya-" I nod again, squeeze his hand, and let go. "Thanks." It's his turn to nod. A small, dismissive nod that I almost miss. "Hey, get some rest, okay?" "Yeah," I clear my throat and open my door, momentarily forgetting this whole mess with Van Allen, and the mess Van Allen has made of me. "See you tomorrow, John." "G'night, Mon. Bright an' early tomorrow, okay?" "Yeah," I reply weakly as I step into my apartment. I'm as good as home, aren't I? John gives me a small smile, taps the door jamb with his knuckles and turns to leave. "John?" He looks over his shoulder before he turns around completely and gestures slightly to me with his chin. My door's only a fraction open now, and I peer at him tiredly. "Did you believe any of this?" He readily opens his mouth, poised to make his bull-headed opinion known. But his words fail him. Puzzled with himself, he shakes his head and shrugs at the same time. "...I dunno." Why did you think about your son, then? Why did you know I'd be thinking about your son, too, then? Destined to fail? Always? I think we're both thinking the same things. I think we're both blaming ourselves, still. Always? Always. The words are there, waiting to be said-to him, his fears, his doubts, his skepticism-but my self-control does not fail me this time around. I simply nod and smile at him. "Goodnight, John." "'Night, Monica." I watch him walk out the building. It's only when I hear his pickup drive away down my quiet street that I close my door. Destined to fail? Always? Maybe. I turn off the lights in my apartment and settle in under the covers, too tired to change out of my clothes. The last thing on my mind is my partner's face, guileless, serious, sincere, honest. 'You never failed me. Y'never will.' Destined to fail? Always? Maybe. Maybe not. END Send comments to: snarky_freak@hotmail.com