Title: _ Tertium _ Author: Karen (snarky_freak@hotmail.com) Rating: PG-13 Keywords: Reyes. Doggett. Doggettfic/Reyesfic. Doggett! Doggett! Doggett! Reyes! Reyes! Reyes! Summary: 'An eerie tranquility surrounds us... We're in the Eye of the Storm.' Spoilers: 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... Author's Note: The title is Latin for 'a third'. Part 3, and the last installment in the "Three Days" Series, Part 1 being "Fateful" and Part 2 being "5 Minutes, 45 Seconds"; Pre-X-Files; Can be a prequel to my story, "And the Other"; actually, this can be a prequel to most of my D/R stories. Can also stand alone, like the rest. ;0) --- Isaac spoke up and said to his father Abraham, "Father?" "Yes, my son?" Abraham replied. "The fire and wood are here," Isaac said, "but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?" Abraham answered, "God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son." And the two of them went on together. -Genesis 22:7-8, New International Versiion --- Fog. Nothing but fog. That's all we've had these past two days. It looks like that's all we'll be having for a while. The phone is ringing. I have to bite my tongue and clench my hands into tight fists to keep myself from hanging up, from screaming, from tearing my hair out, from running away, from jumping into my car, from driving off, from hopping on a plane, from going home, from locking the door and hiding under the warm covers in my apartment... New Orleans. Think about Mardi Gras, Monica. Fat Tuesday. The French Quarter's beautiful around that time. Non-stop parties. No one knows you, no one recognizes you behind the mask you're wearing. Think drinks. Think laughter. Think good vibes, sensuous wavelengths of energies... Think. Just... Think. I clear my throat. It seems the fog has gotten the better of me. Cool weather never did agree with my-- "Yeah?" A rumble of thunder. A calm before the storm. I've forgotten... Which comes first--the lightning or the thunder? "John--" It doesn't sound like me. That voice coming from inside me... It sounds like someone else. Someone who's on the verge of insanity. Someone who's on the verge of murdering another. He knows. Silence on the other end of the line. A calm before the storm. "John, I've--" The thunderclouds are beginning to mobilize. I can hear bedsheets and bedcovers and pillows and feet moving around, shuffling, rustling... "Where are you?" The storm will be coming this way very soon. "I've sent a squad car to come and get--" "Where are you?" "John--your partner's on his way. Just--" "Damn it, Monica, where--" I can't do this. I can't stand this. His heart is shattering; the shards and pieces are falling right into my ears, into my mind, my memory... And farther down. The jagged fragments of his heart are working their way down, down, down... The storm has reached me, even before its much-anticipated arrival. "I'm so sorry..." I begin, as though whatever I say can be used as a balm for his gaping wounds. Silence. It is no longer the calm before the storm. It _is_ The Storm. "John--" The dial tone replaces the silence, and I am left with nothing but shards and pieces. Of his heart. Of his son. I look down. Cute kid. Nice eyes. A sweet smile. A lost soul. A feeling. An energy. I blink. He's still the same Cute Kid. But things have changed. Minor changes, really. His eyes are closed. His smile has vanished. Feelings... Energies... His soul... What about his soul? "Too bad about the kid, huh?" I turn to my left and regard the uniform standing beside me. I raise my eyebrows. He shrugs and points to the boy's body with his clipboard. "I saw him playin' T-ball, once. Looks a lot like his dad, that one. God. If this ever happened to me, I'd..." His gesture disgusts me beyond words. Quit pointing at him like that. The boy is not a museum display. The boy's body is not a piece of evidence you just point at, you son of a-- I look down. I look back up. The bastard in the uniform is still pointing at Luke's body, and going on and on about something having to do with his own two kids. That if This had happened to Him, then He would do This, and if That ever happened to Him, then He would... He didn't see it. I look around me, desperately seeking out another face. A face that has the same shock mirrored in them. In the midst of all these police officers... There isn't a face I see that has that look of bewilderment, of surprise, of fear... I am the only one. Ashes. For a split second, I expect Luke to get up and rise from the dead. A kid-sized Lazarus, maybe. A modern-day Phoenix, even. Ashes, and nothing more. I blink. He's back. Cute Kid. Looks a lot like his dad, this one... --- "Uh-oh..." The bastard in the uniform has raised his head, and is now looking at something behind him. I follow his gaze. I wish I hadn't. Tempestuous blue eyes pin me against the condensed fog--if that were at all possible--and hold me there. We've found him. That's what we were both afraid of, right from the start. I feel seasick. His face, his eyes--everything about and around him--are swaying. It takes me a while to realize that I am the one swaying, the one trying to maintain my balance on this patch of damp grass... Tempestuous blue eyes travel downward. He swallows. He takes a deep breath. He swallows again. I try to stand still, but I can't. I always fidget. It's too bad my gaze doesn't fidget. It remains focused on one thing, and one thing only. Tempestuous blue eyes. Eyes that never seem to blink. Eyes that never seem to-- It's my turn to swallow. He's staring at me. Again. I don't want to say hello. I don't want to answer the question in those tempestuous blue eyes. Why? I can't answer that, Detective. I won't. That's not what I claim to be an expert on. So don't ask me. "Give him some space, will ya?" I look away quickly, relieved that the bastard in the uniform has broken the deafening silence between us. The other uniforms are beginning to disperse. Some of them are shaking their heads. Some are briskly walking away. Quite a few are casting surreptitious glances over their shoulders. At me. They are wondering why I haven't moved yet. They are wondering why I want to stay and suffer the wrath of The Storm. The grass behind me has started hissing. Luke? I feel something familiar. Luke, but not quite Luke. I shut my eyes and try to concentrate. It's the wind, Monica. It's nothing. Nothing but the wind. I open my eyes slowly. Click the heels of my regulation shoes x-number of times, and I'll be back in New Orleans again...? "Thanks for getting me a car." Luke, but not quite Luke. I glance at him obliquely, as he stands next to me, and nod. "Yeah..." "Thanks for callin'." I nod once again. "Mmhm..." My hands are shaking. I fight the urge to claw my eyes out, to keep my tears from streaming down my face. I want to cry. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. The 'I' in FBI frowns upon crying. That's not part of your job, Monica. It never was. It never will be. It never should be. I should go. I should leave. Like those superheroes in comic books, I should say, 'My work here is done.' I force my feet to move. I begin to turn away. But something stops me. "Monica." I look over my shoulder at him. I can feel my eyes questioning the blank expression on his face. "Don't let me." A haggard whisper. World-weary, but with an edge. A plea. One last, desperate entreaty. My urge to frown and ask 'what?' is instantly quelled by a flash of something metallic in his left hand. I bow my head slightly and regard him unobtrusively. The gun in his left hand is drawn. Upon his arrival here, he thought there was something more he could do. For his son. For his family. He thought he could _still_ protect them... Don't let me. I clear my throat silently--if that were at all possible--and wonder whether I _can_ give him that much. Whether I can do the least for him... He simultaneously does, and does not want to follow his son. Pull the trigger, John. That's all it takes. Don't let me. Please. Don't let me. The blank expression on his face is begging me. For something. For nothing. For everything. I nod and half-close my eyes as I look back at him. I won't. I won't let you let him down by doing this to yourself. I won't let you. I slowly bridge the gap between us, so as not to startle or upset him. I watch dumbly as my right hand touches his forearm. I blink--only for a split-second. Apparently, that is all the time my left hand needs to wrestle the gun from his weak grasp. "I've got you. It's okay." All I can muster is a slur of mumbles. The slur of mumbles is enough for him. He bows his head and allows his arms to hang limply at his sides. Silence. An eerie tranquility surrounds us. We're in the Eye of the Storm. "When... What..." He begins unsteadily before giving up and staring intently at me. Tell Me. "Just this morning. One of the uniforms thought he saw something. He--" He nods, and cuts me off brusquely. "Yeah. Okay." He looks away, off to the horizon. We've both worked cases like this before. Now shouldn't be any different. He nods again, more to himself than to me. It isn't meant to make me feel better. It's not okay; it never will be, because Now is different. "John--" That voice again. That voice coming from inside me, but not really coming from me... Move the body? Remove the body? Grieve in private? Autopsy? Funeral arrangements? What about your wife? Get out of here...? Can I help you? Sorry? I can say a million things, but none of them are worth the effort. He is no longer listening. Seconds pass before I realize that he's slowly hunkering down to the ground, closer to his son. His son's body. His son. Both. Large hands. The hands of an NYC cop. Of an NYC detective. Of New York's finest. Large hands. A father's hands. A husband's hands. Grasping something they can no longer reach. Luke, but not quite Luke. He balances on the balls of his feet. He crouches down, closer to the figure lying prone on the wet grass. His large hands extend tentatively towards the boy's T-shirt. His fingertips graze his son's skin, just above the elbow. Luke's skin. Now cold and wet. No longer warm and firm with life. A sharp intake of breath. Is it really him? Is he really dead? Maybe he's playing possum. Is that what the FBI thinks is goin' on here? For all we know, he just got it in his head to take off without telling anybody. There's nothing Satanic goin' on here. I need to find my son. Alive. I need to find him. Help me find him. I shake my head to clear my mind, if that were at all possible. I watch him. He isn't crying. Not tears, anyway. His large hands have hefted Luke's limp body tightly against his chest. His white dress shirt is stained crimson red. He's crying blood. His blood. His wife's blood. Luke's blood. Son. I'm so sorry, my son. Forgive me, Luke. Forgive me. A millennia passes in a minute, and I seem to be the only one who notices. He shifts slightly and grasps the boy's body even tighter. Both of their eyes are closed. Another millennia passes. I wait patiently for him. I cannot look--much less walk--away from him. Not now. Not yet. Half a millennia... And then it's over. He gently releases the body. The body he helped create. He is placing his son's lifeless body back on the altar that is the damp grass beneath our feet. He stands up slowly, with effort, with pain, with everything else bearing down on him. He has said his goodbye, apparently. He stands and looks down at his son. Like a god whose loving benevolence is and forever will be futile. Useless. Ineffectual. Impotent. Love can't move mountains. Love can't do a damn thing. I watch as his tempestuous blue eyes caress the lifeless body for the last time. I can see the apology in them. The apology that Luke will neither see, nor hear. I'm sorry, son. Forgive me? This man has lost his Isaac. That single thought suffocates the essence of my very being. Everything in me clenches. My eyelids. My fists. My heart. My beliefs. My faith. Damn you, God. For giving him a son, a Cute Kid with nice eyes and a sweet smile... Damn you. For taking him away like this. For leaving his father like this. My modern-day Abraham suddenly looks up at me. His gaze is sharp, penetrating, almost reproachful. He opens his mouth. "I..." His words die instantly, the second they register in his mind. 'I' what? I felt that. I _really_ felt that, Agent Reyes. Anathema. Consigning to perdition. You're sending God to Hell. That place He helped create. You're telling God to stick it. I shake my head. You could not have felt that. I don't care about what I experienced earlier. With you. In that kitchen, in front of the microwave. I don't want to feel connected to you somehow. I no longer want to feel what you're feeling. No more. Please, leave me alone. You'll hurt me if I do feel it--that connection between us. "Did you see that?" His rough whisper grates my ears all of a sudden. His pain trickles through his voice, and twists my insides like a-- "Did you see it?" That look. That look of bewilderment, of surprise, of fear... We are the only ones, it seems. Ashes. He sees it, too. He saw it, too. "What did you--" He answers my question even before I finish asking it. "That. He-- My son-- Luke..." He furrows his eyebrows and tackles me with an ice-cold stare. "Ash. Ashes. He..." His eyes travel downward once again. "What's goin' on..." He's back. Cute Kid. Looks like his father, this one... His confusion is as tangible as mine. I reach out and try to touch his arm. He staggers back and glares at me like a wild animal. Feral. Upset. Ferocious. "What--" "I see--I saw it, too, John." "What was that?" "Ashes." I examine his facial expression. I note the scowl of disbelief shrouding his face, shrouding that brief moment of recognition in his eyes... "His body turned into ashes... Didn't it?" My voice is reduced to a whisper, so as not to attract the attention of the uniforms nearby. "The hell's goin' on..." I can swear I felt a jolt of electricity the very second my fingertips brushed his hand. "Listen to me--" "What's happening--what have they done to him?" Panic. Or the telltale signs of insanity? It's hard to say. The stoic composure with which he used to pride himself is gone, only to be replaced by this frantic display of helplessness and utter terror. "John--" I begin again as I shake his forearm like a petulant little child begging for attention. "John, why don't we--" He stops wriggling out of my grip and fixes me with an angry glare. "I know what I saw. I'm not goin' crazy, alright? I _know_ what I saw. I mean--" He pauses, looks around him, behind him, in front of him--anywhere but down, anywhere but down... "John." The tears in my eyes have taken control of me. These are the tears that do not heed professionalism, decorum, modesty... These are the tears I am crying for the boy on the ground. These are the tears I am crying for the man in front of me. The one with the tempestuous blue eyes. The one with the broken heart. The one waging war against himself. "You saw it, too." He looks down at me and leans in close, as though he is about to share with me some sordid little secret of his. "You said you did. Didn't you?" I can only chew my bottom lip and nod at him. "I don't know what it could mean--" A thousand and one replies seem to pour forth from his eyes, but none of them are articulated. He forces himself to look away from me. He forces himself to look down. At his son. At his own dead body. One last, sharp intake of breath. And then it's over. "Doesn't have to mean anything," he sighs wearily. "I'm not even sure I saw anything. At least not what _you_ saw." His tempestuous blue eyes pin me against the fog once again. I fight the urge to laugh. With everything that's happened, with everything that did not and never will happen... I feel a strong urge to laugh. At this god-forsaken mess, at this horrific turn of events. At him. At me. Panic, or the telltale signs of insanity? Hard to say... "Thank you for everything, Agent Reyes..." Another quick turnaround. His honesty, his rudeness, his sincerity and his sorrow are having their way with him this morning. His blue eyes--stoic and icy only two days ago--are now practically drowning in his unshed tears. The urge to laugh out loud is gone. I tilt my head to the side and regard him seriously. "John--" "I--" He swallows, sniffs and faces me squarely. "I `ppreciate everything you've done. Everything you tried to... I mean--" "Don't." I stop and squeeze his elbow. "You don't have to. I understand." "Thank you." Another slur of mumbles. That particular slur of mumbles is enough for me. I nod slightly and retract my hand from his arm. A heavy sigh is accompanied by a jerk of the thumb. "I need to--" His son. His Isaac. He needs to clean up after the sacrifice. He needs to clean up the mess God left behind. For him, and for no one else. I nod once again and step back, thus allowing him space to move. I can't help him with this. I can't help him anymore. I watch as he turns on his heels and kneels down beside his son's still body. His large hand reaches out to stroke the boy's hair. He bows his head, as though praying to the same God who took Luke from his family. The sound of an approaching vehicle forces me to look up. The coroner is here. Never before have I hated this job with a passion. Never before have I hated God with a passion. Never before have I hated myself with a passion. I shake my head and return my gaze to the scene before me. It's like the Nativity gone wrong. Mary--that blessed Virgin--is not here. There are no stars out. Nothing to illuminate this Big Event. And the only one to pay their respects is a coroner who couldn't give a damn about the who, the where, the why and the how surrounding the father and the boy. Abraham and Isaac. That Cute Kid, with the nice eyes and the sweet smile. Looks a lot like his father, that one... I tear my eyes away from the scene before me--the Nativity gone terribly, awfully wrong--and look around. Fog. Nothing but fog. That's all we've had these past two days. It looks like that's all we'll be having for a while. END Send comments to: snarky_freak@hotmail.com