Title: _Comfort for Another_
Author: Karen (snarky_freak@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG-13
Keywords: Reyes.  Doggett.  Doggettfic.  Doggett!
Doggett!  Doggett!
Summary: "He told her earlier to leave the past in
the past.  She couldn't do that; not when the past was
repeating itself all over again."
Spoilers: "This is Not Happening"
Disclaimer: Again, they are not mine.  So, again, quit
lookin' at me like that, `kay?
Archive: Ephemeral, Gossamer...  All others are more
than welcome, just please notify me...
Author's Note: Hmm...  This is extremely experimental;
quite a departure (I think) from my other stories.  I
figured I should try and fiddle with Reyes as much as
I've fiddled with and messed up Doggett (the poor man)!

-----

Love, forgive me if I wish you grief,
For in your grief
You huddle to my breast,
And for it
Would I pay the price of your grief.

-Stephen Crane, from "Intrigue"

-----

She vividly remembered the last time she held him in
her arms.

Long after those three days.  Long after the painful nights
that followed those three days.

He slept soundly beside her then--that last time.  Her head
resting on his chest.  Her ear listening to his heart.  Her
breath warm against his bare skin.  She had fallen for him,
she knew. She should have walked away then, but she didn't.
He hadn't meant to hurt her, and she knew that.

There was absolutely no need for him then, that last time, to
drape his arm over her; to pull her closer to his own body as he
turned on his side...  All of that had been unnecessary, because
she never saw it as an option to turn away from him.  She went
willingly.  She followed his pain.  She followed his voice.

Monica.  I'm sorry.

He wasn't the type to leave in the middle of the night; he made
it a point to see things through, to make sure she was okay.  It
wasn't guilt that drove him to do this... It was just the way he
was.  He truly cared for her, and maybe, just maybe--for even the
briefest of moments, the briefest of instances...  Maybe he truly
loved her.

Loved.  It hurt to hear the sound of that word in her mind.  It was
too final, too unpromising...  Too dead.

Just like so many things tonight.

She fumbled around in her coat pocket, looking for her cigarettes.
She should quit.  _He_ had quit a long time ago.  He had taken her
advice.  Smoking was unhealthy.  Damn the Marlboro Man.  No
matter how you looked at it, smoking just wasn't very attractive.
Or good.  Who, in their right mind, can stand the taste and smell
of those cigarettes, anyway?  She can't believe it now, that _she_
had said that to him once.

Damn him.  She started smoking after their last night together.
Not his brand, though--it would have been too embarrassing, too
pathetic and self-degrading to do that.  But, still, with each cigarette
she was reminded of the way he squinted his eyes in concentration as
he held the lighter in one hand, shielded the small flame with
the other...

The door swung open unexpectedly.  Well, not exactly.  She had
been standing in front of the door for what seemed like forever.
She had knocked.  She had waited.  Willingly.  She was following
his pain.  She was following the defeat in his voice.  Again.

"What is it?  What's goin' on?"

He frowned at her.  The furrow between his eyebrows was deep
enough to bury him alive.  His hair was in mild disarray.  His
long-sleeved, white dress shirt was untucked.  His tie was hanging
around his neck like a makeshift noose.

It was a familiar sight.  She had seen it years ago.  She blinked
and tried to steel herself against the sharpness of his reproachful
and half-irritated gaze.

She cleared her throat and waved a trembling hand in the general
direction of his motel room.  "Can I come in?"

He leaned heavily against the door with his hands on the threshold.
He looked down at the carpeted floor for a few seconds, his shoulders
and chest rising and falling rhythmically as he took long, measured
breaths.  Finally he nodded once and stepped back, thus allowing
her passage into the dimly lit room.

As she passed him, he turned his head to the side and half-mumbled
her name.  She looked at him and managed a wan smile.  "Yeah?"

"What's goin' on?"

She shrugged nervously.  "I just wanted to make sure--"

"Don't worry about me, Monica.  I'm fine.  I'm okay."

She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him dubiously.
"You're not okay if you _think_ you're okay," she paused and struggled
to find the right words to express what she really wanted to say.  "I
mean, considering the circumstances..."

He simply nodded before he closed the door and practically sank into
the chair next to the television.  "I just can't believe it.  I still can't
believe it."

She knew well enough not to interrupt him, so she stood in the middle
of the room and waited for him to continue.

He leaned forward in the chair and ran both his hands through his
sandy brown hair.  "I promised her.  I told her..."

"She doesn't blame you, John.  If anything..." she shifted her weight
uneasily when he looked up from the floor and practically stared
daggers at her.  The look in his eyes warned her *not* to say anything
she would regret.  *Not* to say anything about *his* partner that she
would regret later.  She averted her gaze from him and shrugged.  "She
blames herself.  For everything that's happened."

"Is that so hard to believe?  Is that so unusual?"

"No, that's not what I meant, I--"

"She blames herself.  Can _you_ blame _her_?" His voice went up a
notch, but she could tell that he wasn't in the mood.  To argue with her.
To get angry with her.  They both knew there was nothing hostile
between them.  He knew she would never say or do anything to hurt
his partner, or damage his partner's reputation; his partner's dignity.
She knew he would never misunderstand her words.

He sighed.  "Look, it's been a long night."

She nodded in agreement and sat down at the foot of the bed, directly
across from him.  "Yeah, it has.  You need to get some rest.  It'll only
get tougher tomorrow.  You should--"

"I can't."  He sniffed slightly and discreetly rubbed the corner of his
eye with his fingertips.  "What about Scully?  Just in case she--"

"Agent Scully wants to be alone.  She needs to be alone right now,
John."  She paused, swallowed uneasily and gently touched his knee.
"_You_ know that."

He told her earlier to leave the past in the past.  She couldn't do that;
not when the past was repeating itself all over again.  Not when the
past was threatening to destroy so many people all over again.

She was surprised by how easily he gave in.  He was too tired.  He
was too confused.  He was too distraught.  And besides, he knew she
was right.  Reality always tackles you and knocks you down the
morning after.  It had been like that with Luke.  It had been like
that with his wife.  It had been like that between the two of them.

He stood gingerly, looked around the room before tilting his head
to the side.  "D'you have dinner yet?"

He always made sure she was okay.  That was just the kind of
person he was.

She nodded.  "How about you?"

"I'm not hungry," he muttered under his breath, as he walked to
the bathroom and turned on the tap.  He was splashing cold
water on his face; it seemed only to make him feel worse.  She
sat and watched him from her perch on the bed.

He looked so much older.  Granted, he was still ruggedly handsome,
but there was clearly something about him now that seemed almost
always...  Ancient.  The furrow between his brows.  The lines across
his forehead.  He looked tired all the time.  Tired of life.  Tired of
himself.  Tired of everything and everyone.

"John?"

He turned off the running water and looked at her.  Wordlessly, she
stood, squeezed into the bathroom and grabbed a fresh towel from the
rack.  He remained motionless as she reached up and dried his face
and neck with the towel in her hands.

"I know what you're going through right now.  I _feel_ what you're
going through right now," she whispered softly after she lowered the
towel and looked up at him.

"No, you don't.  You can't."

She held his gaze.  Neither of them blinked.  He looked away first.  He
knew he was wrong.  He knew she could feel what he was feeeling.  He
knew she could sense his pain, his loss, his regret, his anger, his
frustration...  She knew he was angry with Fox Mulder.  She knew he
saw Luke in Fox Mulder.  His wife in Dana Scully.  His life was falling
apart, all over again.  His mind refused to believe this--that she truly
shared in his grief, his pain--but the rest of him...

He slowly looked back at her.  The dark circles under her eyes reminded
him of one particular night.  The last night.  His fingers tangled in her
hair.  Her arm around his waist.  She was crying.  Her tears were leaving
cold, wet streaks on his bare chest.  They were baptizing his heart with
her pain.  The pain he himself had inflicted upon her.

She tightened her arm around him then.  She blinked several times as she
fought to regain control over her stubborn tears.  She was quickly losing
the battle.  She thought he was asleep.  She didn't think it mattered,
because he wouldn't hear her.

I love you.

He wondered if she ever realized that he heard her utter those words.
He wondered if she felt his heart skip a beat... two, five, ten beats, 
maybe...
He wondered how she must have felt when he closed the door behind him.
He wondered whether she wanted him to hear her.  He wondered why she
didn't say anything more than those words.  He wondered about what he
should have said.  What he could have said.  What he didn't want to say...
He wondered.

All this wondering on his part caused him to forget his manners.  He
stared at her.  She looked away self-consciously and chewed her bottom
lip.  She looked like she could use a cigarette.

"Why don't you quit that shit?"  That wasn't the question he really
wanted to ask...

She shrugged carelessly and smiled in spite of herself.  "Because I
can't."

"I didn't even know, until you lit up in the car when I picked you up at the
airport earlier, that you--"

She couldn't help grinning at his comment.  "It's all your fault."

The smile that was beginning to form on his face immediately vanished.
He looked down and nodded.  "Yeah," his voice was gravelly, raspy,
regretful.  "Yeah, it is."

"Hey--" she held him by the shoulders and forced him to look up at her.
"I was joking.  I did this to myself, John, you know that."

Her hands were warm.  They were comforting.  She was keeping him from
collapsing.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  He could smell
cigarette smoke.  And perfume.  And her.  Her scent.  Her smell.  Until 
then,
he never realized how much he missed her.  Misses her.  Missed her.

He was fighting his own thoughts, fighting his own memories, fighting the
demons that were too powerful for him to look in the eye.

Her tears.  She was crying.  He wasn't asleep.  I love you.

Monica.  I'm sorry.

"Lie down, John.  You look just about ready to topple over, come on."  She
was gently coaxing him to sleep, to rest...  She was turning off the lights 
in
the bathroom, leading him towards the bed, under the covers...  She was
comforting him again.  She was setting herself up for another fall.  The 
same
fall that coaxed those words out from that mouth that he knew and
remembered so well.

"Don't."  He shook his head and pushed her away slightly.  "I can do this.
Don't help me.  Stop helping me."

She ignored his protest and rummaged around in his suitcase.  She pulled
out his faded, green USMC T-shirt and a pair of flannel pyjama pants.
"Here.  Put this on."

"Monica."

"No, look--I'll leave after you change and climb into bed.  Come on,
John--you need to sleep."  She pushed the clothes into his hands and sat
down on the chair he had occupied earlier.  "There's nothing you can do
until tomorrow, and even then..."

He half-listened to what she was saying as he reluctantly changed into his
sleepwear.  He could tell, by the tone of her voice, that she was nervous;
uneasy.  She was uncomfortable sitting here, watching him change.  He
was too exhausted to be uncomfortable.

"...your body can only take so much--you know that.  And besides, how
can you help Agent Scully if you can't even stand on your own two feet...?"
Her mind was racing, desperately trying to keep up with the panic she knew
was creeping up on her.  She averted her gaze from him.  She looked at his
shadow on the carpet.  She could make out the outline of his shoulders, his
waist, his legs...  She looked away from his shadow.  She cleared her 
throat.
"Are you done yet?"

"I'm done."  He couldn't keep the amused lilt out of his voice.  Many people
in the Bureau found her quirkiness strange and irritating; he found it
endearing.  For all his seriousness and business-like approach to things,
it was that aspect of her personality that attracted him to her.

"Okay."  She rose from the chair and looked at him.  He was already in bed,
his eyes drooping as he looked drowsily at her.

"Monica?  Thanks."

She dismissed him with a one-shouldered shrug.  "Go to sleep."  She flashed
him a small smile, switched off the lamp and headed for the door.  "I'll 
wake
you up tomorrow."

He sat up and called after her in the dark.  "Monica."

"Uh-huh?"

He hesitated.  What should he say?  What could he say?  What didn't he
want to say?

"John, you okay?  What is it?"

He could hear her approaching him once again.  He could hear the genuine
worry and concern in her voice.  "I'm not okay," he heard himself say
uneasily.  'I haven't been okay in years.  And what happened tonight has
only made things worse...'

"What do--"

He pulled his hand out from under the bedcovers and touched her forearm.
"I don't want you to go."

She could feel his hand on her arm.  She could feel him pulling her down,
onto the bed, under the covers, next to him.  He leaned above her and
rearranged the pillows to accommodate both of them.  As he lay back down,
he pulled her closer to him, her head resting against his chest, her ear
listening to his heart.  She was unusually quiet; unusually relaxed. He
gently pressed his mouth against her temple and closed his eyes.

"Goodnight, John," she breathed softly before she wrapped a slender arm
around his waist.  She could feel the tears in her eyes.  She vainly blinked
them away.

She always managed to find her way to him when he was like this.  When
the weight he has taken upon himself to carry proved to be too much.  That
first time, she found him amidst his grief.  This time, he sought her out.

She was glad for that, and she knew why.

It was the only way they could ever be together.  It was the only way he 
would
allow himself to be so open with her.  It was the only way he would allow
himself to let her in.

He really was sorry.  He still is.  He really did love her.  Not _loved_ 
her, but
_did_ love her...

And maybe, just maybe--to a certain extent--he still does.

END

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