Title: Broken
Author: Lilly (Lillystar2001@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG
Keywords: Doggett, Reyes, Reyes POV, Doggett Angst, Slight DRR
Summary: “His heart is breaking. Fear fills the back of his mind and the pit of
his stomach. His eyes look guilty. … This is how I meet John Doggett.”
Spoilers: Slight for Empedocles
Disclaimer: Um, they aren’t mine. They belong to CC and Co. and FOX and have
been beautifully brought to life by the talented Robert Patrick and Annabeth
Gish. Besides, if they were mine, I would have given them their own show (which
the deserve!) and put it on another network. Don’t sue me because I’m poor and
all you would get is my dog and you can’t have him anyway. This is a hobby, a
release from the rigors of real life, not a profit making enterprise.
Archive: Uh cool! Just tell me where and I’ll stop by for a visit.
Feedback: Is always appreciated (even if it is only to tell me the story sucks)
and always replied to!
Author’s notes: I wrote this after writing Relief. It could be viewed as a
prequel but can also stand alone.


His heart is breaking. Fear fills the back of his mind and the pit of his
stomach. His eyes look guilty. His furrowed brow betrays his calm and collected
words to the agent who fills out the initial report. He is worried that his
worst fear has now become realized.

This is how I meet John Doggett. This is what I feel radiating from his person.
If his aura were visible it would be a deep blue, darkened with as much sadness
as a man can endure. My aura turns darker as I take in his pain. My hands are
suddenly cold and I push them in my pockets. I shiver and remember that it is
August in Virginia. This case will leave me with more than cold hands and a
darkened aura. I wonder if he will be able to walk away from this one and have
anything left at all. These are my first thoughts of John Doggett.

I approach cautiously and smack my nicotine gum hard. I have lost count how many
times I have tried to kick this habit. After this case, the gum goes in the
trash and the Morley Lights will be back in my purse. The reporting agent steps
aside and John motions to me with an outstretched hand. “Agent Reyes, thanks so
much for dropping everything and coming to help me bring my son home.” I smile
and that seems awkward to me, yet he seems to appreciate it. “Thank you.” He
repeats this as we shake hands. We are connected now, forever through time and
all of our history together will be born from this day of sorrow. I am sad.

We canvas the neighborhood, asking questions, looking for clues in the
disappearance of his son. I’m not an expert in this field but I am trained as
any good agent would be. I know that our 48-hour window has not passed and that
his son may very well be alive. I know that his son was most likely abducted
from a familiar place by someone he knew or, at least had a fair amount of trust
in. I know that our perpetrator is most likely male, average build and
appearance, single, social and most likely lives in the area. John knows these
things too. Hell, it is his specialization for god’s sake. I feel these things
eat away at him. While he appears to be every bit the FBI agent he was yesterday
to the other members of the task force, I know he is on auto-pilot. I feel the
emptiness inside him. My own heart sinks.

It is late. We sit, drinking coffee, at his kitchen table. The same table where
his son’s breakfast dishes, from almost two weeks ago, still sit. I wonder about
his wife and why she hasn’t come back into this house. Does she blame him? It is
certain he blames himself. As the agent in charge of this investigation, I
ordered him to rest tonight. He hasn’t slept in weeks and his frame looks gaunt.
He agrees only because I tell him that he is not helping find his son by making
himself sick. He drinks his coffee and talks about how his son would drink his
orange juice out of a coffee cup to be like his dad. His eyes well with tears
and all I can do is reach out and take his hand in mine. I am afraid for a
moment that this will seem inappropriate but it just feels like he needs this.
He accepts the gesture and we sit hand in hand, motionless. I feel the pain,
worry, and guilt running through his veins. I want to vomit.

We are in the woods near the schoolyard. I walk a few steps ahead of him. I want
to shield him should we find his son. I want to protect him from the pain. I was
here this morning and somehow I missed it. I am angry with myself for missing
this, making him be a part of this. Several task force agents are gathered in a
clearing of the dense foliage. The air in my lungs burns when I see the body and
I catch my breath, unable to stop myself. I see his son. I see ashes. I can feel
John, the heaviness of his heart weighing him down so that every step he takes
feels like it’s a step taken under water. The other agents clear away and I turn
to face him. His eyes are pools of sadness and disbelief. He sees ashes too. He
falls at his son’s feet and his fatherly hands gingerly reach out to comfort his
child. My heart is crushed like a robin’s egg beneath the weight of the world.

John turns his son over and holds him as if clinging to his son will warm him
back to life. Tears fall from his face and cries of sadness escape from his
throat. I see agents rushing towards us, shaking their heads. They want to
protect the crime scene. I want to protect John. I stand firm and stare down
these men. I raise my weapon to half stance to show them I will not let them
pass. I am surprised at my own presence and the authority I seem to command. I
appear strong yet I am breaking inside.

It has been two months since that day in the woods. I didn’t go to the funeral.
It wouldn’t have been right. I had heard that John took his mandatory two months
leave and went to visit his father in Georgia. I know tonight, he is home. I
know before I even hit the Falls Church turn off the beltway. I feel his misery
as I step onto his porch and ring the bell. I had to come even though it may
seem improper. He opens the door, his face full of grief and wear. He sees me
and smiles. I am relieved. “Agent Reyes.” He says this as a statement as if he
expected me to come. “Monica. Please call me Monica.” He invites me in with
southern hospitality remnant of his upbringing. We sit. He offers coffee and I
accept. I ask him how he is. He replies that he’s “fine, considering.” I know he
is lying.

His heart is breaking. Fear fills the back of his mind and the pit of his
stomach. His eyes look guilty. His furrowed brow betrays the calm and collected
words he speaks as he pours the coffee. He lives in a world where his worst fear
has now become realized.