Via Sub Rosa by Scifinerdgrl, part 6
CHAPTER 20

When they arrived at the monastery gate they found Lita waiting
just inside, sitting on a stone bench, her hands clasped in her
lap placidly.  Gibson opened the gate and went to her side.  John
took a few steps toward the gate, but Monica pulled him aside
before they entered.  "Give them a minute," she whispered. 
Gibson sat next to Lita on the bench and they gazed into each
others' eyes.  The last thing Monica saw was Gibson reaching into
his pocket for the locket.     "I'd love to know what they're
thinking to each other," Monica whispered when they were out of
earshot.

"Not me," John whispered.  As they stood by the stone wall John
put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him.  "We want
him to respect our privacy..." he nuzzled her neck sensuously. 
"We should respect his."

Monica put her hands to the back of his neck and looked
admiringly into his eyes.  "How did I get so lucky?" she sighed.

He grinned awkwardly, still not entirely comfortable with her
compliments despite his comfort with her.  "You're just saying
that."  He leaned forward to kiss her, then something caught his
eye and he stepped around her.  "Stay here," he ordered.

He walked a few steps forward, staying close to the wall, hiding
himself in the shadows thrown by its overhang.  Monica appeared
at his side and he whispered in annoyance, "Get back!"  She took
one step backward then followed him silently just the same.  An
SUV pulled to a stop next to the gate, a man and a woman emerging
and leaving the doors open.

"Gibson," John and Monica heard a low voice say sharply.  "Get in
the car."

Gibson and Lita appeared at the gate and peered at the couple
through the bars.  They stood motionless in the starlight, their
impassive faces hiding their psychic dialogue.  The next thing
they heard was a woman's loud, sharp voice ordered, "NOW!"

John and Monica crept forward as the strangers approached the
gate.  Gibson's eyes involuntarily looked in their direction,
making the strange couple turn their heads to see what he saw.

"GUN!" Gibson shouted, then ducked behind the wall next to the
gate.  The couple turned toward Doggett and Reyes, who were still
in the shadows.

John turned to check on Monica and was surprised to see she was
only a few feet away. "Here!" Doggett ordered.  He grabbed her by
the ribcage and started lifting her up against the wall.  She got
the idea then grabbed a handful of ivy to pull herself up.  At
the top she turned around and, lying on the top, reached down to
help her partner.  He looked over his shoulder and saw the woman
pointing a revolver toward Reyes.  "GO!" he cried out, then
pushed against her hands, forcing her to fall to the other side.

"NO!!!" Gibson shouted.  "Mom, Dad... STOP IT!"

Doggett gasped and held his hands up.  "You're his parents?"

"Leave him alone!" Gibson was frantic now.  "I'll come with you!"

The couple turned and started walking toward Gibson.  Doggett
took his opportunity and ran up behind them, trying to force each
one off-balance with his outstretched arms.  To his surprise they
barely budged.  The woman turned and grabbed his arm.  She lifted
him up, and his eyes widened in surprise.  He looked from her to
the man, who continued walking toward the gate, and he noticed a
large lump on the man's neck, just above his shirt collar.  "Oh
sh---" Doggett said just before the woman flung him against the
stone wall.  He hit it with a loud thud then crumpled to the
ground, unconscious.

As Gibson's father approached the gate, Gibson and Lita stood
wide-eyed with horror as he started to shake, his shuddering
growing more violent as he continued to approach.  The pair found
themselves unable to move as the man convulsed then flew through
the air into the gate, smashing against it.  The bars of the gate
cut through his body, throwing chunks of sizzling flesh hurling
toward the teens.

The tall, angular woman stood at a distance, rock-steady with no
trace of shaking, and shouted to Gibson.  "Get in the car,"
Gibson.  "NOW!"

Gibson grabbed Lita around the shoulders and shouted "NO!"

His mother wheeled and pointed the gun at the unconscious
Doggett.  "I said, NOW, Gibson," she repeated in a maternal,
scolding, tone.

"STOP!  Don't shoot!" he yelled.  "I'll go with you."  Gibson's
lower lip quivered and he turned to Lita, then he kissed her
briefly on the lips and reached for the gate handle.  
His mother turned to face him, and just then a shot rang out...
and a bullet found her forehead.

*************
The bullet made a clean entry, but within seconds the skin around
the wound began to sizzle, widening the hole and revealing first
the bone, and then the brain underneath.  Within seconds the
woman's head had dissolved, and she was soon a smoking heap of
goo.

Monica ran to Gibson and pulled him away from the gate, hugging
him tightly to her as she watched his mother dissolve.  Mother
Catherine stood near Lita, her gun still pointing toward the gate
until she was sure she'd seen the last of the enemy.  When she
was satisfied, she lowered her gun and returned it to the holster
Monica never knew was under her habit.  She put her hands on
Lita's shoulders and turned the girl toward her for a
grandmotherly hug.

Mary rushed to the scene with Martha following behind her.  "Oh
my," Mary said.  "Not another one."

Together Mary and Martha pulled the gate open, straining against
the weight of what was left of Gibson's father.  Catherine
stroked Lita's hair and spoke over her head, "Go get John.  Take
him to the infirmary."

At these words, Monica let go of Gibson and rushed through the
gate, frantically searching the shadows for any sign of her
partner.  Her lover's instincts located his form amidst the
shrubs and cactus, and she ran to him.  "John!  John!" she
shouted, kneeling at his side.  "Wake up!"

Mary pulled her aside and soothingly said, "We'll take over from
here.  He'll be fine."

Martha put her hand on John's head, her eyes closed, her face
tense with concentration.  "He'll be fine," she diagnosed.  "Go
be with Gibson," she ordered.  "He needs you more."  Monica
hesitated but Martha insisted, "GO!"

Mary held Monica's shoulders and urged her toward the gate.  "She
knows what she's doing," Mary assured her.  Monica nodded, but
continued looking over her shoulder at the crumpled shadow and
the white-clad woman tending to him.  The image of an angel, its
white wings tucked behind its back, briefly replaced Martha in
Monica's minds-eye, and she felt a sense of peace.  Yes, she
decided.  John was in good hands.

She found Gibson on the stone bench, hunched over, seemingly
studying his hands.  "Gibson?" Monica said soothingly as she sat
next to him.  "Want to talk about it?"  She rested her hand
lightly on his shoulder, and he took that as his cue to turn
toward her.  He threw his arms around her waist and buried his
head on her shoulder.  Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around
him and bent her head toward his.  She rocked him side to side
and cooed softly, saying "It's okay.  Everything will be okay." 
Her eyes closed, she focused her mind on peace and security,
hoping Gibson would sense it too.

After a few minutes, Gibson sighed and pulled away from her. 
"They were my parents," he said, a catch in his voice.

"I know," Monica answered, massaging the back of his neck gently. 
"And you loved them."

He nodded, then sighed, then smiled and looked toward the gate. 
Monica looked too, and in a moment saw John walking through it,
supported by Martha.  She rushed to him and supported him from
the other side.  "John," she breathed.  "Are you okay?"

John nodded, his eyes half open.  "I'm getting there," he
growled.  Monica continued helping him until they reached the
small infirmary.

"I'll take over from here," Martha said, shutting the door behind
them.

Monica turned to see Gibson a few steps behind her.  "He'll be
fine," she assured him.  He nodded to reassure her.  They both
knew that neither was convinced.  Monica forced herself to smile
and said, "Now, let's get you cleaned up."  She looked down at
his shirt and pants, which were smeared with his father's
remains.  Gibson nodded, and they walked hand-in-hand toward the
cottage.

While Gibson showered, Monica tried to meditate, but her thoughts
returned time and again to Gibson and his parents.  Had they been
his natural parents?  How long had they been supersoldiers?  Did
Gibson know what they were?  And what about his foster parents? 
Why didn't he feel safe with them?  Were they supersoldiers too? 
And what about Lita's parents?

She started her breathing routine again, but instead of a
controlled exhale she sighed heavily.  And what about John? Was
his proposal really about Gibson?  He seemed to enjoy having the
boy around.  Was he just trying to live out his fantasy of what
bringing up Luke would have been like?  She inhaled again and
forced herself to breathe correctly, then did it again.  She had
to talk to them both, she decided, and on her third breath she
found her center.  As she descended into her meditative state she
lost track of time and space, going deeper into a peaceful place
of her own creation, going home...  And as her conscious and
subconscious merged silently into a deep, almost under-water
weightlessness, a sudden thought floated to the surface.  'And
what about me?' the thought intruded loudly.  'What do *I* want?' 
She opened her eyes with a start, and that instant John flung
open the door and stood unsteadily before her.


CHAPTER 21

"John!" she sighed, watching as he grinned and limped toward her. 
"Are you okay?" she asked solicitously, patting the seat next to
her.  "Want to sit down?"

He grinned more broadly.  "Remember that cactus?"

"Actually, I'd forgotten," she smiled.  "How is your..."

"I'll live," he cut her off.  "Their little infirmary is quite a
sight. They have everything imaginable there."  He leaned over
the back of the sofa and bent to kiss her upturned face before
announcing, "I think I need a nap," and limping toward their
bedroom.  He flopped belly-down onto the bed and groaned.  Just
as he closed his eyes he felt the bed bounce.  "What?" he cried
out, keeping his eyes closed and hugging his pillow.

Monica gently touched the wound she saw at the back of his head,
making him flinch.  "Do you have a concussion?" she asked.  Her
hand migrated from the back of his head to the small of his back
and traced gentle circles over the muscles.

"I don't think so," John's muffled voice answered from the
comfort of the pillow.

"Because if you do," she continued.  "You shouldn't fall asleep. 
You should stay awake."

"Aw Mon..." he moaned, turning his head to look into her face. 
"Not now... Everything hurts..."

Her hand continued its gentle massage as she lay down to face
him.  "I wasn't thinking of that," she smiled.  "What about our
appointment with Tomas?"

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow.

"John," she crooned.  "We don't know how much time we have here. 
We should make the most of it."

His head raised up off the pillow and he pushed up with his
hands.  "You're right," he said, then turned to his side,
carefully keeping his cactus wounds safe.  "There's a leak
somewhere, and the more we know...  I mean, how many of these
kids are there?  Gibson, Lita, maybe William?"

Monica's face grew somber at the mention of the infant given up
by Scully.  "And how did they find him?  Where was the leak?  Was
it someone here?  Someone in the communication chain? Child
Protective Services?"

"Exactly," John agreed, gingerly rising from the bed.  He held
out his hand to help her up.  "We need to find out what happened. 
If they could find him here..."

"I know," Monica finished, standing at his side.  They walked
slowly into the living room to find Gibson standing thoughtfully
at the fireplace.  "Gibson?" Monica said with more tenderness
than John had heard before.  She walked to the boy and put a hand
on his shoulder.  "Are you ready for your meeting with Martha?"

The boy nodded solemnly then suddenly wrapped his arms around her
waist.  She rubbed his back as John looked on in amazement, and
asked in a low, soothing voice, "Are you afraid that someone else
will come for you now?"  Gibson nodded and squeezed tighter. 
Monica continued rubbing his back and rocking him gently until
she felt his arms relax.  After a final hug she pulled away from
him.  "The next time it happens, we'll be prepared," she assured
him.  "You'll be able to defend yourself."

"After we finish with Tomas and Martha, the three of us should
have a talk, okay?" John added.  "I want to know more about your
parents."

"I want some of Catherine's bullets," he announced.

John smiled and approached him slowly.  Putting his hand on the
boy's shoulder, he said, "Me too.  We could all use some of her
courage, too."

"Tonight has taught us that we have to be prepared," Monica said,
rubbing Gibson's other shoulder.  "There's more to it than magic
bullets."

"I know," Gibson said, looking into Monica's face then John's. 
"I haven't changed my mind.  I'll do whatever it takes."

*******************
On the way to the front gate John and Monica filled each other in
on their parts in the nights' events, and when they arrived at
the gate they found there was no trace of the two supersoldiers
or their SUV.  Monica sighed heavily and looked up at the stars. 
"They're out there," she said thoughtfully.  "Ten light-years
away?  Or maybe closer but just waiting for the right moment?"

John squeezed her hand.  "They've got one helluva fight ahead of
them if they want to invade this planet," he reassured her.  He
watched her face, reading her desire to believe him and her fear
that he may be wrong, sensing her emotions with an accuracy that
been honed for many years.  "I mean, Monica..." he added
brightly.  "If little old ladies are blowing holes in peoples'
heads..."

Monica smiled and returned John's squeeze.  "You're right.  But
what if..."

John grabbed her face in his hands and looked into her eyes.  "No
what if's.  We're going to beat them.  Whatever it takes."  He
took a deep breath as she nodded.  "And even *if* we don't, we'll
go down fighting."  He kissed her lips then added, "Together."

Lights flashed through the bars of the gate, making the pair step
back cautiously, their hands shielding their eyes.

When they heard Tomas at the gate ask, "Are you ready?" they
exhaled together, then followed Tomas to his SUV.  Both were
trying to peek at the back of his neck, but the crucial vertebrae
were concealed by his white collar.  They sat in the rear seat,
hoping for another opportunity as Tomas turned the ignition, when
they saw Mother Catherine come charging out of the gate.

"How did this happen?" she yelled to the Tomas.  "Did you do
this?  Was it you?"  She shook a fist as she neared the SUV.

Tomas' face paled.  He turned the keys in the ignition to "off"
and rolled down his window.  "No, it wasn't me, I swear!" he
yelled plaintively.  "I.. I don't know what happened!"

The elderly woman grabbed him by the front of his vestment and
pulled him partway through his window.  She bent his head forward
forcefully with her elbow, then grabbed his collar and pulled it
away from his neck.  She felt his neck then, satisfied, she threw
him back into the vehicle.  "Well at least you're not one of
them," she hmphed.  "And you don't have any idea?" she quizzed
him.  She sighed and looked into the back seat.  "Okay," she
decided.  "You can continue working with them... but I want them
*here,* understand?"  As if there was no question of his
obedience she opened the gate further.

She led them to the cottage, filling Tomas in on the events of
the evening as they walked.  At the door she pulled a small
bottle from an inner pocket and handed it to Monica.  "Here," she
ordered.  "It's good for cactus wounds."

John blushed and opened the door, turning his back on Catherine
as she finished her instructions to Monica.  He found a
comfortable position on the sofa and sat waiting for the others
to join him.  Tomas entered first, taking the rocker by the
fireplace.  He and John smiled awkwardly at each other as they
waited, but John felt no invasion of his mental space.  He was
relieved, considering his mind was mostly on the pain.  When
Monica still hadn't entered, John felt he had to break the
silence.  "So... How about them Lakers?" he said with forced
casualness.

Tomas leaned forward.  "What do you really want to ask me, Mr.
Doggett?"

"You're going to make me say it?" he said with surprise.

"That's what you want, isn't it?  To have to work up the courage
to say what's really..."

"Okay, okay," Doggett admitted.  He sighed and considered not
saying anything more, but Tomas' crack about courage got to him. 
"I've asked Monica to..."

Just then Monica opened the door, cheerily striding into the
bedroom with her salves, bandages and another packet John didn't
recognize.  Tomas leaned further forward and whispered, "Yes, I'd
be happy to do that for you."  He leaned back and started rocking
the chair nonchalantly while John smiled at him.  "Sometimes it's
best this way, don't you think?" Tomas asked, his smugness not
erasing John's relief at not having to speak.

When Monica returned she sat at the opposite end of the sofa and
smiled serenely at John.  He looked puzzled but resolved to
continue their instructions and ask her later.  Tomas took a
lighter from his pocket and lit the candles around the room, then
turned out the electric lights.  "Today we'll start where we left
off last time," he said in a soft, gentle voice.  "Monica, we'll
repeat the exercise with a visual image from me, then I want to
try having you hold a word in your mind.  Then I'd like John to
try holding that word and allowing me to hear it. Okay?"

They both nodded, Monica enthusiastically crossing her legs and
assuming her meditative pose, John awkwardly shifting his legs
and eyeing Tomas skeptically.  "Let's get this over with,"
Doggett grumbled.

Despite his skepticism, John easily found the mental image in
Monica's mind:  a red rose, the same color as the ones in the
courtyard.  He smiled in spite of himself, and Tomas got the
message.  "Okay," Tomas said.  "Let's try a more difficult
image."  Tomas stared into Monica's eyes, then she turned and
fixed her eyes on John's.  Tomas could see that John was having
trouble.  "Close your eyes.  Both of you," he ordered in a gentle
yet commanding voice.  "Focus only on thoughts.  Not on what you
see."

John shifted painfully then sighed, unsure whether this psychic
stuff was really going to work.  'Focus,' he heard a voice say in
his head.  'You need to be able to do this.'  He took a deep
breath then put all his energy into Monica's mind.  Suddenly the
image of the Pentagon popped into his mind.

"The Pentagon?" he said, like a child guessing on a math
question.

Monica and Tomas beamed at him.  "I think he's getting the hang
of this!" Monica exclaimed.

John smirked, remembering a time not so long ago when she'd said
almost those same words, when she'd taken that first important
step forward in their relationship and he responded in kind.  It
seemed so long ago, but it was only a few months.

"Now, John," Tomas instructed. "Place an image in your mind.  Try
to hold it, and let Monica see it.  I promise I won't peek.  And
Monica, tell us what you see the second you see it."

Tomas watched as John struggled to train his mind on an image,
and Monica struggled to keep her mind blank and receptive. 
Suddenly Monica grinned broadly.  "I think I saw it," she
announced.

"Good!" John grinned impishly.  He pulled something from his
pocket and held it in his outstretched hand for her to see.  "Did
it look something like this."

Monica gasped.  It was a diamond engagement ring.  "Yes," she
sighed, taking it.  "And... yes," she added, leaning forward to
kiss him.

************************
CHAPTER 22

When their session was over, Tomas said, "I can marry you in the
Church.  I *am* a real priest, you know."  Doggett and Reyes
grinned at each other, revealing equal amounts of joy,
excitement, and anxiety.  "But you wouldn't be *legally* married
without a license, and under the circumstances..."

"No, you're right," Reyes sighed.  "But a church wedding...  I'm
not religious, well not in the way you think of it."

"Neither am I," Doggett volunteered.

"Yes, I know," Tomas laughed.  "If that bothered us, would you be
here?"  Chastised, Reyes and Doggett remained silent as Tomas
continued more seriously.  "After tonight's events, might I
suggest sooner rather than later?  We have already started
preparing for your departure..."

"Preparing?  How?" Reyes asked, startled.

Tomas leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.  "We make up
something like care packages for the people we help.  Things to
help you along the road, in case you can't go back home."

Doggett's face wrinkled up with worry.  "What have you heard?"

Tomas sighed.  "Your Skinner?  He replied with one word:  No."

The newly engaged couple looked into each others' eyes,
communicating all that needed to be said.  "So what happens now?"
Reyes asked.

"We'll give you enough information to find your way to another
shelter.  But it will be up to you to actually find it.  We can't
risk another leak.  You'll pick your time.  You'll pick your
place."  Tomas started rocking in the rocker, feigning a more
relaxed attitude than he felt.  "You may decide not to look for
others of the Via.  It's up to you.  We don't want to know."  He
rocked back and forth a few times as the pair before him sat in
silent thought.  "It's better that way," he added.

They sat in silence for a long moment, then heard a tentative
knock on the door.  Monica rose to open the door, and found a
bashful Gibson.  He eyed the diamond on Monica's finger and
waited patiently for her to say something.  "Yes," Monica
answered his silent question.  "We've decided to get married."

"Congratulations," Gibson said, holding out his hand to shake
hers.

Monica ignored his polite gesture and reached around his
shoulders, hugging him tightly.  "Thank you, Gibson," she
murmurs.

Gibson pulled away and smiled, then turned to John. 
"Congratulations," he repeated. John waved an acknowledgment and
smiled awkwardly.

Tomas repeated his own congratulations then excused himself,
leaving the little family together in the candlelight.

"Did you still want to talk to me?" Gibson asked, a little
nervous but steeling himself for the questions.

John tried to suppress a grin.  "Yes, Gibson.  We need to know
more about your parents."

Gibson's eyes reddened but he stood firm and answered, "Ask me
anything.  It's okay."

Monica put a hand on his shoulder and led him toward the rocker,
his favorite seat by now.  "You're sure, Gibson," she asked
soothingly.  "If it's too much..."

"He said it's okay," John interrupted testily.  "Monica, let him
talk.  He wants us to know."

"He's right. I do," Gibson assured her.

"C'mon Mon," John urged.  "Sit down over here.  Let the boy
talk."

Gibson winced at the word "boy" but continued looking Monica in
the eye.  "I'm good," he assured her again.

Reluctantly, she returned to the couch, where John was patting
the seat next to him.  He put his arm around her shoulders and
gave her a little squeeze.  She responded with a proportionately
small smile, then leaned back.

"Now, Gibson," John started, his investigative persona coming to
the fore.  "You were adopted, right?  These were your adoptive
parents?"

"Yes," Gibson replied as he rocked gently, his feet pushing off
from the floor.  "But they seemed different.  Not themselves."

Monica nodded.  "When you were living with them, did you notice
whether they had a bump?"  She put her hand to the back of her
neck.  "Right here? Either of them?"

Gibson shook his head.  "No, but my foster parents did. Both of
them."

***************************

John sighed.  "I'm so sorry, Gibson," he said sincerely.  "I
helped set that up."

"It's okay," Gibson said bravely.  "You couldn't have known. 
They were very good at fooling people."

"But they didn't fool you?" Monica said.  "Why?"

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully, reflecting back on his
short time with them.  "They were just ... different.  They
didn't really think.  They were doing all the right things, but
there was nothing behind it.  Not from within themselves anyway."

"They were being controlled by an outside force?" Monica probed,
her raised eyebrows showing more curiosity than concern.  Gibson
somehow felt comforted by this change in her demeanor.

"Seemed like it," he concluded.  "Like, they would be in the
middle of something, then they would suddenly leave the house. 
As if someone called them, but I couldn't hear anything."

John and Monica exchanged glances.  "Well, this is something
new," John said, sighing.  "And you couldn't sense anything
different when this happened?"

Gibson tried to remember it better, but just shook his head in
frustration.

"Okay," Monica said, keeping a positive yet inquisitive frame of
mind.  "Back to your original parents.  No bumps on the neck...
but did they *seem* different in any way?  Were they controlled
by an outside force?  Did they do anything unusual?  Have unusual
friends?"

He shook his head again.  "They were just like other people,
but..." Gibson paused, hoping not to have to continue, but both
John and Monica looked at him expectantly.  "But this man came to
visit sometimes.  They tried to make me leave the house when he
came, but sometimes I could sneak back in."

"This man," John questioned, feeling his interrogator's muscles
coming back.  "What did he look like?  Taller than me? Shorter? 
How old was he?"

"He was tall," Gibson said, but then he grinned and added, "But I
think everybody is tall."

"You're not too old for a growth spurt," Monica said.  "And I've
been meaning to talk to you about your calcium..."  John shot her
a glance and she said, "What color was his hair?"

"Gray, and his skin was kind of gray too.  He smoked.  A lot,"
Gibson said, noting the pair's instant reaction to this detail. 
"There were always stubs from Moreley's in the ashtray when he'd
been there.

Monica and John looked at each other significantly.

"What?" Gibson asked.

"We think we know something about him," Reyes said calmly.  "But
the last anyone's heard of him he was very ill."

"I don't think we have to worry about him," Doggett said
thoughtfully, leaning forward and putting his hands on his head
and smoothing his hair back.  "But he probably wasn't working
alone."

"There may have been others," Gibson said, rocking faster, his
feet slapping against the paving stones.  "I can't remember.." he
pursed his lips, straining to remember.  "It was a long time
ago..."

"That's okay," Monica said soothingly.  "Take your time."

John looked at her disapprovingly and she mouthed "What?"  He
mouthed back "Later," and turned his attention to Gibson.

"Think of... think of people in suits.  Men in black suits maybe. 
Or pinstripes..." he urged gently.  "They may have had bulges
here," he patted his side.  "Where they would have had their
guns."

Gibson shook his head.  "Sorry.  That one man is all I remember."

"It's okay," Monica cooed.  "As you remember more things be sure
to tell us.  We knew that one man, we may know others."

"If you don't mind," Gibson said, standing and walking to his
room.  "I'm tired."  He opened the door slowly, turning around to
check their expressions.  "Goodnight," he said.

"Well," John said heavily.  "That's our signal.  He eyed her
mischievously and pushed himself up from the sofa.  "Oww!" he
groaned.  "I'm too old for this sh--"

Monica grabbed his arm and helped him right himself.  "Nobody
feels good after being thrown into a wall," she clucked.  "You're
not old."  She grabbed him around the waist and added, "You're
certainly not too old for me."

He grinned and kissed her, softly, tenderly.  Not the kiss of an
old man, she thought.  They worked their way toward the bedroom
slowly, each step separated by several kisses, until Monica
grabbed John by the shoulders and started pushing him onto the
bed.  He fell backward onto the mattress and yelped.

"I have something for that," Monica grinned, pulling at his
pants.  He cooperated, pushing his jeans down, and when she
reached for his underwear he groaned.  "Awww," she sighed.  "I
bet that hurts."

"Hmm mmm," he answered, his voice muffled by his pillow.

"And I bet you could use a massage, too," she said softly, moving
her hands up under his shirt.  She reached for one of the vials
Catherine had given her, and opened it.  A pungent yet oddly
sweet aroma wafted out, making her grimace.  "I have something
for the muscle aches... And something else for this," she said,
poking one of his puncture wounds.

"Ow!" he shouted.

"Just testing," she said, reaching for the other bottle.  "We'll
start here..."  She poured a little of the white fluid onto each
cactus wound then gently rubbed it in. "That's okay?" she asked
tentatively.  He responded with a satisfied moan, and she
continued until they were all treated.  "And now for the fun
part," she said, grabbing the other vial.  She poured some of the
pungent oil into the palm of one hand and rubbed her hands
together.  Starting with his neck, she massaged, him,
replenishing the oil frequently, until she felt his muscles
loosening.

"What was it you were going to tell me later?" she asked, still
massaging his back.  "About Gibson?"

"Mon, don't take this the wrong way, but there's something you
gotta know about teenage boys."  John paused as he chose his
words.  "I know you're not his mother, but you're the closest
thing right now.  And, well..."  He could sense her steeling
herself against hurt feelings, but he felt it needed to be said. 
"He seems to like you.  And that's good.  Just don't..." he took
a deep breath and finished.  "Don't hug him in front of people. 
You're babying him.  Let him have some dignity.  Awright?"

Monica's lips clenched as she nodded.  "Okay.  Anything else?" 
She skipped to his thighs, massaging them with the same oil

"No," he smiled reassuringly.  "You've been doing a great job." 
He sighed as she switched thighs.  "You're a natural." 

"Thanks," she sighed.  "I got to know a lot of traumatized kids
when I worked the Crimes Against Children Division in New York,
but not many were teenaged boys. You'll tell me if I mess up
again?"

He rolled over and smiled up at her.  "By that time he'll feel
comfortable telling you himself," he said reassuringly.  "He's
already opened up to you a lot.  You're good for him."

Monica blushed.  "So are you.  This isn't making you think of
Luke?"  She started massaging his shoulders from the front, her
hair hanging down and swaying as she moved.

"No," he said, watching her hair.  "He's his own person.  He's
not a replacement for Luke, if that's what you mean."  He turned
his eyes toward hers and she looked down on him.

"Yes, that's what I meant," she sighed, moving her hands
downward.  "And I'm glad to hear it.  He deserves that much."

A comforting silence came between them as she worked lower. 
"Thank you, I feel much better," he said huskily, grabbing her
hands, then running his own up the length of her arms.  He pulled
her down and toward him until she was on top of him.  Smiling, he
whispered, "I think I'm ready for that make-up sex now."


"Oh you are?" she smiled coyly and rolled onto her back beside
him.  He rolled with her and assumed a push-up position over her. 
"That back rub was supposed to be relaxing!" she laughed.

"It was," he said, bending to kiss her cheek, then whispering
into her ear, "I'm *all* relaxed except the one place you didn't
massage."

"Maybe I should massage it, then?"

"Gotta be thorough," he said softly, nuzzling her neck.

Monica reached between them, her hands sending involuntary spasms
through his body as they made their way downward.  When they
reached their goal he gasped and buried his face in her hair. 
"Monica..." he growled.  "You're so good to me..."  He gasped
again when she reached still further, gently kneading him as he
began to move against her.

"I can see you have a problem there," she laughed lightly.  She
pushed him onto his back, watching his eyes, their lids
half-open, his glazed pupils fixed deliriously on hers.  She
grinned, mirroring his own expectant grin, then buried her face
in his neck and started a slow trail of kisses downward, over his
chest, his abs, and finally...  

They were soon making love, and as John felt her body writhing he
also *felt* her feelings, her ecstasy, and she in turn sensed his
impending release.  She whispered, "John, I feel your..." then
suddenly threw back her head and squealed from the back of her
throat as her body shuddered underneath him.  Her orgasm reached
deep into his soul, moving to the pit of his stomach then pushing
onward to his own ultimate release, linking their bodies in
inexorable spiritual union.

John collapsed on top of her, then rolled to her side, keeping an
arm over her waist.  "How did you do that?" John asked, when his
breathing approached normal.

"Do what?" Monica asked, pushing sweat-dampened strands of hair
behind her ear.

"I felt you," he sighed.  "I felt what you were feeling."

She stroked his cheek and smiled knowingly.  "You were open to
me," she answered.  "And I felt you too."

After edging closer to her, he shook his head and said in
amazement, "That just shouldn't be possible.  Any of what
happened..."

"I know," she pulled him still closer.  "But why question it?" 
She wrapped her arms around him, kissing him tentatively then
pulling back.  "I want my husband to know what I feel."

A gleeful grin crossed his face.  "And the future Mrs.
Doggett....  I love the feel of her mind inside mine."  He kissed
her tenderly then whispered into her ear, "That part of her mind
anyway."

"They do say the mind is the most important sex organ," she
teased.  "Maybe we should just think about it..."

"Oh no...." he mockingly chided. "Tell me what I think of that
idea...."  And as he held the image in his mind of their bodies
writhing, a smile spread over her face.  With the tip of his
fingers he traced the line of her jaw, stopping at her chin, then
he gently ran his thumb over her smiling lips.  She captured his
thumb and sucked on it seductively, her liquid eyes fixed on him. 
"I think you know, but I hafta tellya, Mon..." he whispered
huskily.  "Making love to you is incredible...  and it keeps
getting better and better."  He pulled his thumb from her mouth
and kissed her tenderly, keeping his mouth on hers as he slid on
top of her and sought entrance to her soul once again.

Monica reached her arms around John's neck, then ran her hands
through his hair as he started thrusting in slow, sensuous
motions that made her whimper.  He pulled her legs up, hooking
them over his shoulders, and her delighted squeals spurred him to
more rigorous pounding below.  Just when she thought she couldn't
take any more, John paused, and Monica could feel what he wanted
to do.  "Yes," she whispered, then pulled away from him and got
on all fours.

Without speaking, they resumed their animalistic dance, each
sensing the other's pleasure until their spirits poured out in
mutual ecstasy.

Later, they lay next to each other, basking in shared comfort and
trust, silent except for their breathing.  John broke the silence
first, saying, "I sure hope Gibson didn't overhear that.  If he
knew what it was like to link minds that way..."

"I'm sure he knows," Monica said nonchalantly, wrapping an arm
around his waist.  "But we don't have to worry about him and
Lita.  They're not ready."

John brought a hand to her hair and cradled her head.  "You're
good for all of us.  Lita included," he said, kissing her cheek
lightly.  "You're a good person, Monica."

"Good has nothing to do with it," she protested.  "I love you,
and I love them.  How could I do otherwise?"  Before he could
answer, she turned around, letting him spoon behind her.

He leaned forward to whisper into her ear, "That's what I mean."


CHAPTER 23

The next morning the future Mrs. Doggett awoke to find herself
alone in bed.  "John?" she called out, expecting to hear his
voice from the bathroom.  When she heard nothing, she threw on
her bathrobe and grabbed her gun from the night stand.  The
living room and Gibson's room were both empty, so she opened the
front door and peered around the doorjamb.

The complex was quiet, and as she scanned the horizon she heard
the unmistakable crack of a gun being fired.  She cocked her gun
and ran toward the ravine, the only direction not blocked by
buildings or adobe walls.  She heard another gunshot as she
approached the garage.  John's garage, she couldn't help
thinking.  She crept alongside the long wall, staying in the
shadow cast by the bright morning sun, and when she neared the
corner, her gun drawn in front of her, she heard another shot.

"That was much better!" she heard John's enthusiastic voice cry
out.

Monica lowered her gun and tiptoed to the front of the garage. 
She saw John standing a few steps behind Gibson, sighting over
the boy's shoulder as Gibson raised a gun and pointed it toward a
line of tin cans atop a wall near the ravine.

"Now, this time, try not to let the recoil..." John started, but
turned around to follow Gibson's eyes.  "Monica!" he jogged
toward her, smiling broadly.  "What're you doing up so early?"

She put the safety on her gun and dropped it into her pocket,
making a point of letting Doggett see that she'd been concerned. 
"I woke up and you weren't there," she said accusingly.  "Then I
heard shots..."

"I'm sorry.  I should have left a note," Doggett said contritely,
holding her by the shoulders and kissing her gently on the lips. 
"You were sleeping so peacefully..."

"It's my fault," Gibson said.  "I wanted to get an early start."

"Well," she said a little reluctantly.  "I'm just glad you're
okay."

Gibson and John exchanged guilty glances, and Monica
instinctively pulled her bathrobe tighter.  After an awkward
silence, she forced a smile and said, "So how many tin cans have
you killed?"

"Four!" Gibson answered excitedly.  "The second one almost didn't
fall, but I nicked it and it twirled, then..."

Monica smiled as Gibson recounted each of his successes, and John
looked on proudly.  When he'd finished, Monica said, "So let me
see you knock another one down."

Gibson flashed an anxious glance at John, who led him to his mark
and calmly whispered, "You know you can do it.  Just remember
what I told you."  John patted Gibson on the shoulder then backed
away and stood next to Monica.

Gibson took aim, sighted his target, and shot the center can
squarely in the middle.  Monica applauded enthusiastically and
shouted, "Yay!  You did it!"  She rushed toward him and grabbed
him from behind, her arms around his shoulders as she pulled him
into a hug.  "That was great, Gibson!" she said.

John watched, admiring both Gibson's shot and Monica's reaction. 
As Monica loosed her hold on Gibson, he turned to look at her, a
broad smile across his usually sullen face.  Then, as if in slow
motion, John saw Gibson lower the gun, its barrel pointed toward
Monica's leg, and he remembered in horror that he hadn't given
Gibson the safety lesson Monica would have wanted.  He knew what
would happen next, and as he rushed forward, shouting
"Gibson...," the gun went off, and Monica crumpled to the ground.

Monica's arm wrapped around her hurt leg as she rolled back and
forth, moaning. Gibson bent forward, looking at the blood soaking
the ground, then to Monica's face. His own face crumpled in
sympathetic anguish, then panic as John rushed forward to be with
Monica. 

"I'm sorry," Gibson said lamely to John. 

John jerked his head upward and glared at Gibson, but John said
nothing, and turned his attention back to Monica. He pulled her
robe away from her leg, then used it to wipe away the blood.
"You'll live," he said to Monica. "But that's gotta hurt." 

She nodded tearfully, mustering her strength. "Help me up," she
said, and John couldn't help feeling a thrill at her implicit
trust in him. Yes, he realized, he would always be there for her
if he could help it. He stood up, then reached for her hands and
pulled her up by stages, until she could stand on her good leg
with his support. 

"Let's get you to the infirmary," he said, smiling with patient
concern. "Gibson... take the other side..." They looked around,
and saw Gibson in the distance, running toward the ravine.



John brought his crippled partner to the infirmary, where they
found Martha and Mary preparing for their arrival.  "We can take
over here," Martha said officiously as she led Monica toward a
bed.  "Go find Gibson!" Martha commanded.  Monica looked over her
shoulder, urging him to obey Martha.  Reluctantly, John left,
guided by Mary's hand on his arm.

Monica winced as Martha cleaned the wound and applied some of her
antibacterial ointment.  Monica recognized the pungent smell and
asked, "Is that good for everything?"

"Puncture wounds," Martha said curtly.  "They get infected if
you're not careful."  She made a final wrap on the bandage then
clasped it.  "We'll take another look just before dinner, but I
think it'll be fine.  I've seen worse."  Martha rose to toss her
gloves in the trash.

"You've seen worse?" Monica repeated.  "How many gunshot wounds
have you seen?"

Martha and Mary exchanged nervous glances before Martha answered,
"Things happen in the desert.  And considering the danger our
guests are in..."

John ran to the edge of the ravine and called out Gibson's name. 
He ran down the wooden stairway, searching the ground below for
footprints but finding none.  When he reached the bottom he heard
faint sounds that could have been human, could have been
something else.  Relieved to hear the sound was not coming from
the magnetite factory, he followed it until he came to a small
cave, obviously carved by human hands, its lower walls jutting
out to form parallel benches.

Gibson sat at one side, his head in his hands, sobbing and
gasping for breath.  John put a hand on the boy's shoulder,
startling him.  "Gibson," John said kindly.  "It wasn't your
fault."

Gibson pulled away from John's hand and put his face close to the
cave wall.  "Go away," he pleaded.

"I mean it," John said to Gibson's shaking shoulders.  "It was my
fault.  I didn't teach you..."

"You don't understand," Gibson sobbed.  "Just go away!"

"Then what?" John asked, pulling on Gibson's shoulders and
turning him around.  "What don't I understand?"

Gibson wiped his nose on the top of his sleeve then removed his
glasses and used the top of his T-shirt to dry his eyes.  "I'm
okay," he said unconvincingly as he replaced his glasses.  "You
don't have to worry about me."

"I don't have to but I do," John sighed.  "I'm responsible for
what happened.  It's my fault Monica got hurt, and it's my fault
you're upset."  He studied Gibson's face, the puffy eyes and
reddened skin belying the boy's claim.  "It's understandable. 
You were holding the gun.  But I forgot to teach you about the
safety.  And Monica knows better than to..."

"You don't get it!" Gibson yelled.  He stood and moved into the
protection of the shaded side of the cave.  "Okay, yes," he
admitted more quietly.  "I feel bad that I hurt Monica.  I wish
it hadn't happened.  But that's not why I came here."  He sat on
the carved bench and put his head in his hands.  "Why do I
bother?  You'll never understand," he sighed.

"Try me," John challenged, sitting down opposite the boy, his
legs spread wide apart, supporting his elbows.  He clasped his
hands and thrust his head forward in a listening posture.  "I'm
all ears, you may have noticed."

Gibson laughed.  "I bet you hear everything."

"I found you, didn't I?"  John smiled.  "So if this isn't about
Monica, what is it about?"

"It's about Monica," Gibson sighed shakily.  "It's about the way
she felt.  And about the way you felt... and feel."  He sighed
again and wiped a tear from one eye.  "It's too much."

"Too much?"  John took a moment to absorb Gibson's meaning, then
said, "Our feelings were too intense?"

In the shadows, Gibson nodded, then pushed his back against the
cave wall.  "She was in so much pain..." Gibson strained to say. 
"It really hurt..."

"Yes, it did," John admitted.  "And me?  Why were my feelings so
upsetting to you?"

"You were so scared... you were afraid for her," Gibson tried to
control his feelings by remembering it objectively.  "You were
afraid how badly she was hurt, and you were feeling, well....
bad!"  He broke off as the memory became too vivid for him.

"Yes, I felt bad," John concurred.  "I still do.  But you must be
used to sensing this kind of feeling.  You've never experienced
this before?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"No," Gibson said, crossing his arms.  "And I don't like it!"

"Bad things happen, it's just part of life," John said, as much
to himself as to Gibson.  "And people feel badly about them, but
they get over it."

Gibson sighed.  "You still don't get it," he declared.  "You just
don't get it."

"Maybe I'm a little dense, Gibson," John said patiently.  "Why
don't you spell it out for me?"

"I've been aware of other peoples' feelings all my life," Gibson
asserted.  "But this is the first time I really CARED."  Gibson
and John sighed simultaneously, and Gibson continued, "I don't
like it."

"Ahhh," John said after a moment of reflection.  "So you weren't
really running from our feelings, you were running from your
own."  It was a statement, not a question, yet it was also a
challenge.  "And coming here?  Did it help?" he asked.

Gibson glared at his surrogate father.  "What do you know?  You
don't know anything about it," he said as he stormed toward the
cave's interior.

"I do know, Gibson," John shouted after him.  "And you know I do. 
That's why you're running away from me, too."  His words made
Gibson pause, and John continued, "When you love someone you
don't have to have special powers to feel their pain.  It's part
of the price you pay.  It's part of being normal."  He could
barely make out Gibson's form as the boy turned and walked toward
him.  Lowering his voice, he added,  "And you can't block one
without blocking the other.  You have to accept both."

"You haven't always done that," Gibson said accusingly, standing
in front of the older man.  "How do you do it now?"

John stood and put an arm around Gibson's shoulder, leading him
toward the mouth of the cave.  "It took time," he admitted.  "But
Monica helped.  She can help you, too."  He patted the boy on the
back then took his hand away.  "Now, let's check on her."

John took a few steps into the ravine, but Gibson stayed behind. 
"This way's faster," he said, motioning toward the cave.