Title: Cereal and Salinger 
Author: effectively absent 
Classification: DRR, Doggett POV, quasi-fluff. 
Rating: a high PG-13 or a low R, only for swearing though, an 
abundance of F words.  Sorry to anybody that offends, it's not 
really gratuitous though.  (Well, to the extent that swearing as a 
whole cannot be considered gratuitous) 
Spoilers: through the end of Season 9, specifically 'Audrey 
Pauley.' 
Summary: Breakfast cereal, and a fictional adolescent get 
Doggett's butt in gear.  
Archival: Ephemeral, Gossamer.  Anywhere else that wants it.  
Shoot me a note letting me know where it's at.   
Disclaimer: Doggett and Reyes don't belong to me.  They belong 
to persons other than me.  Cinnamon Toast Crunch presumably 
belongs to General Mills and 'The Catcher in the Rye' belongs to 
J.D. Salinger.
Feedback: would definitely be appreciated at 
effectivelyabsent@yahoo.com.  I just moved from Las Vegas to 
Fresno.  I'm in a little bit of culture shock here, c'mon, brighten 
my day. 
Author's Note:  I fear my Doggett characterization may be a little 
off, I've got a Mulder fic bouncing around in my head in addition 
to my own wacky thoughts and I think they may have tainted this 
particular fic a bit.  Whoops.  
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I'm not gonna lie.  I know she likes me.  

And not likes me in the way that I like a good steak or the way that 
I like the old lady that lives on my block.

No.  To quote Luke, she *like* likes me.  

I'm by no means a stupid man.  I see the way she looks at me.  

Wipes mustard off of my chin.  

Showers me with compliments under the guise of a conversation 
about pets.  

She always wears the same face when she does stuff like that.  It's 
coy and cheerful, sure, but right under the surface there's 
something.- I can't put my finger on it.  It's almost like smugness, 
or self-assuredness.  Like it's only a matter of time before I wise 
up and start returning her sentiments.  

It's annoying only cause she's right.  

I don't know what the hell is stopping me.  

Contrary to what she must think, it's not my past, *our* past, that's 
holding me back.  It's not Luke.  Sure, for a while, that was part of 
it.  I've made my peace with that though.  Well, as much peace as 
I'm ever gonna make.  Hell, she bore witness to it.  Barbara's even 
rootin' for her.  For us.  

I guess what it comes down to is my tendency to be a moron in 
situations that I can't think my way out of.  Situations that have 
absolutely nothing to do with my head.  Well, not the one above 
my shoulders anyway.  

I should've kissed her in the car.  If not after the dog person 
thing, 
definitely after her stay in the hospital.  For Christ's sake, I 
almost 
lost her and I still can't bring myself to do what Lisa Mahoney did 
to me everyday behind the gym in the sixth grade.  Just grab her 
and kiss her.  But, no.  I didn't.  I balked.  I shot her a look, 
trying 
to convey that I was on to her and then I just got out of the car.  
Just like that.  Meaningful look, followed by another more telling 
look, groping for the door handle, and out.  I'm on the pavement.  
"See ya Monday," I'd said.  Smooth.  Clearly, this beautiful 
woman wants something more from me than a beer and all I can do 
is manipulate my face and leave her to go home.  Alone.  If the 
guys on the football team could see me now.  

And THEN, after the terrifying incident in the hospital, I drive her 
home, am once presented with a golden opportunity, and choose a 
"G'night," in lieu of all the things I should be doing, could be 
doing.  I decide on weighted looks again.  She seems to accept it.  
We're getting way too good at it actually. 

So here we are now.  Mulder's gone again, this time with Scully in 
tow, we've got who knows what out to get us, everything seems to 
be moving, changing, and I've got our relationship placed firmly in 
limbo.  And apparently, my head firmly up my ass.

Less abstractly, here we are now, here being a hotel room in East 
Bumblefuck.  Monica's sitting indian-style on the bed, playing 
solitaire on her laptop while I pace the room, trying to solve the 
world's problems.  Focusing on everything but what I should be 
focusing on- the woman on the bed.  MY bed.  Her bed is 
somewhere on the other side of the hotel, abandoned for the time 
being for want of pizza and warm cans of pop.

"John, sit down before you wear a hole in your socks."

She's right, my socks would wear before the carpet.  It looks 
indestructible.  Wonder what it's made of?  I stop and kick gruffly 
at it with my toe.

"Really John, sit down, you're making me nervous."

I'm making you nervous?  I'M making YOU nervous?!  Ha. 

Before, I could just push it down, not acknowledge this "thing" 
between us.  There were things that needed my attention.  Efforts 
to be made.  But now, now there's just…nothing.  Nothing but her 
and I and a whole helluva lot of time.  

What am I waiting for?

I can see her eyes asking the same question.  If I were her, I'd have 
given up on me.  I was never one of those guys that mooned after a 
girl, waiting for her to do something, I'd make my move, see how 
it turned out and be done with it.  Truth be told, I didn't have any 
real emotional attachment to any of those girls, save for Barbara, 
but still.  She seems content to just wait.  Wait while I sort out 
all 
the shit tumbling around my head, shit I don't even have words for.   

I'm beginning to think since I can't articulate the problem, then 
there must not be a problem.  I've tried to trick myself into it.  It 
works for a little bit, I get myself to stroke her hair or hold her 
hand, but then I just bail.  Something in me flinches and retreats.  

It's absolutely fucking ridiculous.  

I watch her reach back to the bedside table and grab her Pepsi.  No 
diet sodas for her.  It's refreshing.  A nice change after all those 
meals with Barbara or more recently, Scully.  She tries to 
simultaneously drink her pop and play the game, she must be 
playing Vegas style or something where her time counts.  I cross 
the room to see if I can help, I've become quite the computer 
solitaire expert, and she starts, spilling some Pepsi on her bent, 
denim-clad knee.  

Here.  Now.  This is an opportunity.  I could reach out with my 
hand, snag the napkin off the bed corner and wipe it off for her. 

What do I do instead?  Stare dumbly at her.  

Jackass.

She looks back at me and gives me that look, the one where she 
conveys a slow shake of her head and a, "John, John, John, what 
am I going to do with you?" all through her eyes.  

Maybe it's best if I leave the room to think about this.  I spot my 
running shoes in the corner and stride over to them.  I'm not much 
of a runner, in fact, I hate it, I'm a bike-riding kind of guy, but 
my 
bike is miles away and I've gotta take what I can get.  

She picks up on my intent and starts cleaning up the mess from 
dinner, getting ready to leave.

"I'm just gonna go for a run," I manage, pulling some suitable 
clothes out of my bag.

"Ok, have fun, see you tomorrow, John," she calls, her form 
retreating through the door. 

It's only 7:00, apparently she thinks we're done for the night.    

That's fine, it'll give me more time to attempt to knock some sense 
into myself.  

I dress, and head out the door, past the hotel lounge, the pool, the 
concierge desk, until I'm at the street.  This hotel is pretty nice.  
They have one of those continental breakfast things in the 
mornings.  I had Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast.  That's 
probably my favorite cereal, but I never buy it at home.  Something 
always stops me, be it memories of Luke or the idea that it's a 
kid's cereal, I don't know.  All I know is I never buy it.  Opting 
instead for Raisin Bran or something more sensible.  I can't even 
bring myself to buy the goddamn cereal I want, how am I gonna 
get myself to fess up to the woman I want?

Marine, NYPD cop, FBI agent, fucking coward.  That's me in a 
nutshell.  Just a scared little kid.  All men are little boys at 
heart.  
Some more than others-ahem-Mulder-ahem.  Although, if I got the 
response out of women he gets out of Scully with that little boy 
act, I'd gladly perfect my "caught-with-a-hand-in-the-cookie-jar" 
look.  Who am I kidding?  Women?  Try woman.  Singular.  

Before I even realize I was running, I'm bent over, panting, sweat 
soaking through the back of my shirt. 

God, I hate running.  

With that thought, I turn back to toward the hotel, I'm walking 
back, screw it.
  
Ok, well, now I guess I've got room to think.  The only thing to be 
said for running is that when I do it, I don't think about anything 
else.  My head clears, I just stare at the road or the horizon and 
zone out.  Walking and bike-riding don't always offer that same 
refuge.

So.  Monica.  Yeah.  

Aw, hell, I pick up my running again and dash to the hotel.

Once more, I'm panting and bent over, but this time I'm standing 
in the hotel lounge.  Thank God no one else is in here.  I help 
myself to a complimentary beverage and flop down on the 
overstuffed armchair in the corner.  This is a nice little set up 
they 
got here.  There's a TV off to one side and a bookcase full of 
outdated magazines and well-worn novels.  Not quite our standard 
fare as far as hotels go, but, hey, I'm not complaining.  I spot a 
copy of 'The Catcher in the Rye' laying discarded on the table 
nearest me.  I used to love that book in high school.  Probably 
haven't read it since then though.  I pick it up and thumb through 
it, stopping on a random page closer to the end and start reading.

I must've read for only about 10 minutes when I stumble on 
something that makes me pause.-

"You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there 
isn't any. You may think that there is, but once you get there, when 
you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write 'Fuck You' 
right under your nose."  

Maybe that's my problem.  Every 'nice place' I've been so far has 
been defaced.  Who's to say that a relationship with Monica 
wouldn't be the same?  Things could be going great and then 
BAM!, sucked into a government conspiracy, 'Fuck You,' or 
BAM!, near death experience, 'Fuck You.'  Or maybe she'd 
discover that I'm not who she thought I was, not what she wants, 
and then BAM!, the biggest 'Fuck You' of all, she'd leave.  Which 
might just break me.  I don't want to find out for sure.

Not to sound so self-pitying, I mean, I guess I haven't had that 
many 'Fuck Yous,' it's just the ones I've had are huge.  Big, red, 
scorching, capital letters, emblazoned on my brain.  FUCK YOU.

Aw, hell.

I set the book down and head back to my room.  Great.  I've 
ostensibly figured out my problem.  I AM a coward.  That makes 
me feel better.  Sure.  Suspicions confirmed, John Doggett is just a 
big chicken.  Too afraid of getting hurt to take chances.  

When did this happen?

It wasn't always like this.  Or at least I don't think so.  No, it 
definitely wasn't, I used to put myself out there all the time.  But 
Barbara took up a spray paint can.  And then Luke was gone and 
there was more graffiti.   And Scully having to hide William away 
only served to tarnish another nice place.  

Still though, I shouldn't be so hesitant.  I have a lotta living left 
to 
do.  Isn't that a song?  Never mind.  And I mean, maybe I should 
give Mon more credit, maybe she'd help me wipe away the words. 

Something else from the book jumps back to me- 

"If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even 
half the 'Fuck you' signs in the world. It's impossible."

Maybe I don't need to rid myself of them.  Maybe I just need to 
rub them out as best I can.  If some smears remain, who's to say 
that's trouble?  And who's to say that a dirty word is the be all, 
end 
all of a relationship?  We've already worked through several.  We 
could probably handle more.  

I've been standing in the hallway this entire time.  I about face and 
head the other way, towards Monica's room.  It occurs to me that I 
probably smell and I turn around again, intent on taking a shower 
and then finally going to talk to Monica.  Reward her for efforts.  
Let her know the feeling's mutual.  

I think I broke some sort of record for showering.  I was in and out 
in about a third of my normal time.  Dressed in seconds.

I beeline for Monica's room and not more than ten minutes since I 
was reacquainting myself with Holden Caulfield, I'm knocking on 
Monica's door.  She opens it and looks at me expectantly, wearing 
the same button down and jeans she had on when I last saw her.  

"Uh, hey, can I come in?"

"Sure, definitely, what's up?  What's on your mind?"

I decide to ease into this.  I can't just jump right in.  I'm a 
little 
rusty.

"Nothing really, I'm bored in my room, there's not a game on or 
anything."

That is a lie.  The Super Bowl could be on right now for all I know.

"Oh.  All right."

"So what have you been doing?"

"Not much of anything I played some more solitaire, which I swear 
is more addicting than nicotine, and I started writing out a grocery 
list.  I wasn't sure how long we'd be out of town and I thought we 
could use some rations.  Do you want to see if you have anything 
to add?"

"Yeah, sure."  

I take the list from off the table and scan it bottom to top.  
Bananas, ginger ale, pretzels…and there it is.  The first item on
the 
list- Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I do not believe in signs, but if I did, I'd take that as a pretty 
colossal one.

"Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Mon?"  

She chuckles and looks down.  "Yep, it's sort of a indulgement of 
mine, none of the 'grown-up' cereal taste as good."

"Yeah, I agree with that."  I stare at my shoe as if it were 
revealing 
the secrets of the world.

"Really John, is there something bothering you?"

"No.  Yes.  I don't know.  Listen, Mon, there's something I 
probably shoulda done a while ago, but for whatever reason I 
couldn't find the guts to and that brings me here.  I'm trying to 
make it right."  

"Ok…"

Do I need to preamble this with anything else?  I hadn't really 
gotten past knocking on the door.  I guess, truth be told, I'm a man 
of action and not a man of words.  I carefully step closer to her, 
holding her gaze.  Oh man, I feel like that awkward teenager that 
read 'The Catcher in the Rye' for the first time, years ago.  I think 
she works out my intent because her lips part in what I think is an 
unconscious gesture.  I follow suit and raise my hand to cup the 
side of her head, my thumb grazing her ear, and my fingers 
tangling in her hair.  I tug slightly and she leans in.  

Whoo boy, here goes nothing.  

I duck my head and lower my lips to hers.  The first touch is a 
shock.  My mouth opens further out of surprise and my tongue 
seems to have developed a mind of its own as it snakes out to find 
hers.  Thankfully, she responds in kind, I feel her hands slide up 
my chest to twine around my neck, the hair there still near damp 
from my recent shower and her tongue seems to hold no issues 
about playing with mine.  My free hand slips out to snare around 
her waist and I pull her closer.  

This is amazing.  I can't believe I waited so long.  I'm a jackass.  

She pulls back slightly and my lips unwittingly chase after hers 
before I catch myself.  

Her voice is throaty as she inquires, "John…?" 

"Yeah, Mon?" 

"Not to push the issue or anything, by why the sudden change of 
heart?  I mean, let's face it, I've been sending signals for a while 
here.  Why now?"

"Did you ever read 'The Catcher in the Rye?'"

"Maybe once, in high school, why?"  Her face shows just how 
confused she is, she doesn't see how this is relevant at all.

"Never mind then, suffice to say, I, with the help of J.D. Salinger, 
managed to talk some sense into myself."

She half-grins, still not completely understanding, but content to 
let it go for now, she tilts her head up invitingly and I don't leave 
her side again till it's time for us to go seek out that Cinnamon 
Toast Crunch breakfast.

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That's all folks.  Thanks for reading!  

-- ea

effectivelyabsent@yahoo.com