TITLE   Die Standing Up
AUTHOR  phileandforget
DATEJanuary 25, 2002
ARCHIVE Yes, but please inform me
RATING  R (violence, cussing and sexual situations)
KEYWORDSPost-episode, John Doe (con un poco de espanol), DRR
SUMMARY In the aftermath of the Cartel's arrest, something 
goes terribly wrong.
MESSAGE Hi everyone!  Here's my latest effort, a post-episode 
from John Doe.  Thanks for reading, and hope you like it!  As 
usual, any comments can be directed to webmaster@withinrach.com, 
where they will be very much appreciated!  Alternately, you can 
read more of my stories at http://www.withinrach.com
DEDICATION  For Bobbi, with apologies for that missing sex scene!
(FYI, she asked: "What else do dirty and tired people do?" ;)


Die Standing Up
phileandforget

PART I

Today I begged John Doggett for my life.

My partner, my friend of several years – my killer?  I should 
have had more faith in him, but for a moment there, I was truly 
scared for my life.  He swung a crowbar at my head, with the 
intent of braining me – and failing that, he wrestled my gun off 
me and shoved it in my back.

To save myself, I had to plead with him, beg him to believe me.  
I never thought there would come a day that I would have to do 
that.  Nor did I count on there being a day that I would look 
into his face and see nothing but total unfamiliarity.  He 
didn't know who I was.  That stung.  He didn't trust me, either.  
Like a beaten dog, his eyes stared out from his poor ruined 
face, cold with suspicion.  Expecting another blow, expecting it 
to come from the barrel of my gun.  And even when I'd dropped my 
weapon – an instinctive response to seeing him – he didn't trust 
me not to use it against him.  He had to take it off me, use it 
against me.

It all happened so suddenly – as I drove up towards the building 
(actually, it was more of a falling – ha ha), I noticed a shadow 
beside the door.  That was my saving grace, I think.  I entered 
standing tall, weapon poised, but tensed, ready to drop.  I was 
lucky – damn lucky – to have anticipated it.  I was lucky, too, 
that he didn't swing any lower.  What would he have cared if he 
brained me with it?  The thought chills me.  To him, in that 
moment, I was just another enemy, another person out to get him 
– he would have left me there, bloody and broken, as he ran to 
save his own ass.  I try not to dwell on that thought.  Or the 
worse thought, that instead of leaving me a stranger, he would 
have remembered.  John's had enough pain in his life – he 
doesn't need my blood on his hands.  So all I can say is, lucky 
I ducked.

And then he grabbed my weapon off me and shoved me up against 
that wall.  I still have splinters in my left cheek from the 
rough wood, and when I lean back a little against the bed, I can 
feel my own gun in my back.  Most of all, though, I feel his 
body pressed up against mine, the hard muscles of his arms on 
either side of me, and his chest like a rock wall behind me.  I 
can feel the muscles aching in my arms and shoulders from where 
I pushed back against him, retaliating furiously and without 
success.  When I think about that, I feel his breath on my 
cheek, like stale coffee and something else, and smelling that, 
I can smell the earthy scent of the dirt-encrusted wall, the 
acrid, animal scent of his sweat, as well as more familiar and 
unfamiliar scents than I could possibly name.  I can feel him 
pulling my hair.

The recollections are overwhelming me.  I can feel it now, my 
own desperation, and that of my partner.  I recall the relief – 
almost to the point of elation – I feel when he accepts my 
protest that I'm no stranger to him, that we're in fact partners 
at the FBI.  And the curious sensation of telling him about us, 
about how long we've been partners, and friends, and how we met.  
And about Luke – Oh, God – dios mio...  The one thing he 
remembered.  When he asked me how old Luke was, I didn't know 
what to say.  Luke was his one tie to his former life, buried so 
deeply in his conscious – deeper than the Marines, the Bureau, 
deeper than me – that the Cartel couldn't reach it.  Who was I 
to tell him the truth, then, take away that passion in his 
voice, and replace it with his old, aching grief?  La verdad no 
es simpre mio – ese verdad de John, y el solo.  No es mio.

At first, I couldn't face him.  I didn't know what to tell him, 
how to answer such a seemingly simple question.  But when I 
finally turned around, my inner struggle must have surfaced in 
my eyes, because all it took was a look.  It strikes me that he 
must have seen so much in that look.  It felt the same, to me, 
as the look I gave him when we'd found Luke's body, face down in 
that damp field.  The same emotions had overcome me, and then 
some.  I couldn't stand to break the news to him twice.

The first time should have been enough for a lifetime.

I will admit this to no one but myself: I have seen John Doggett 
cry.  Twice.  Once was this afternoon, and the other was that 
desperate, hauntingly unforgettable day of so many years ago.  
That night, John broke down in my arms, and I held him for 
hours.  He cried until he had nothing left to feel, but the 
emptiness left by his child and his own tears.  I would never 
mention it – would rather forget it ever happened – but I was 
crying too.  Crying for him.

This afternoon, though, I had no such indulgence as tears.  As 
much as I wanted to share his pain, as much as I regretted his 
having to relive it, there were more immediate concerns, such as 
our lives.  And so I got angry.  Furious.  He'd already had the 
chance to grieve; I wasn't taking anything away from him.  He 
was grieving then as he'd grieved a thousand nights since it 
happened – the pain was fresher, perhaps, but it wasn't new.  
And it damn well wasn't helping!

I recall yelling at him, shouting in his face, "If you're gonna 
die, you'll die standing up!"  I was pretty sure we *were* going 
to die; it wasn't looking too optimistic.  I mean, after all, 
our backup hadn't arrived, we were trapped in a crumbling old 
building and smoke was billowing around us.  Bullets were 
spraying in through the windows, accompanied by the violent 
shattering of dirty glass and the only relief I felt was each 
time they didn't hit us.  A useless relief.  It was only a 
matter of time until one of them did – and I knew it would be me 
first, the one who was moving around, and because they got me, 
they'd be able to get him.  John was an emotional, not to 
mention physical, wreck.  I've seen my share of standoffs – ever 
wonder why I left Mexico?  Why I joined the FBI?  I knew our 
chances were slim to none.

But then John came through for us.  I really don't mean to be 
condescending when I say that I hadn't expected anything of him 
– anything heroic, that is.  I expected to find him weak and 
tired, and found him to be not only that, but also badly beaten 
and bruised, confused and disoriented.  He was running on 
autopilot, and I thought that the news of Luke had caused him to 
crash.  Despite that, the thought never occurred to me to leave 
him.  It never occurred to me, either, that we might be able to 
use the old bus.  Had he not rallied, I doubt either of us would 
have made it.

PART II

The thing is, so much could have gone differently out there 
today.  I find it hard to thank any one person – though deity, I 
can manage.  Gracias, dios mio.  Gracias, destino.  Gracias, 
thank you, gracias para su proteccion.  For getting us through 
this alive.  Gracias para de apoyo.  Especially the backup.  And 
A.D. Skinner.  While I'm mired in gratitude, I can't forget them 
– late though they were, they still saved our asses.

When the bus tipped, I felt this rush of panic and 
disappointment, this sense of having come so close only to fail 
at the last minute.  I knew John felt it, too.  Lying there 
together, watching the men approach, he was gripping me so 
tightly I thought he'd cause a bruise.  (He didn't, but the 
crash itself generously overcompensated for that, as I've since 
discovered.)  And then, seeing our backup, and Skinner, I felt 
John relax against me, and drop his head into my shoulder in a 
silent sigh of relief.  I leaned back against him, too, just 
revelling in the feeling of holding him so close, feeling safe.  
Triumphant.

I don't feel quite so triumphant now.

Mind you, I'm feeling good about the operation – and as I 
already mentioned, infinitely grateful.  I'm also feeling dirty 
and exhausted, aching with cuts and bruises.  Wishing John would 
hurry the hell up and get out of the shower.  We're at the old 
hotel now, while Skinner and the others stay with the Cartel.  
They transported them back in the vans, an uncomfortable trip, 
no doubt, and are waiting here for the Mexican feds to arrive.

The room we're in is tiny, dingy and probably infested with all 
kinds of interesting bugs (not to mention rodents).  It 
resembles the decrepit old structure in which we took shelter 
this afternoon – but regardless, I'm *very* glad to be here.  
Skinner sent me up with John, no doubt to keep an eye on him.  
He looks like death.

There's a lot of activity outside these walls, and every so 
often an argument or isolated shout will waft up through the 
open window.  If I had the energy, I'd drag myself up to make 
sure it's all under control.  But I trust Skinner, and figure we 
have enough manpower (not to mention weapons) to maintain some 
semblance of control over the situation.  It shouldn't be too 
much longer until the feds arrive, and then we'll be shipping 
out, either tonight or in the morning.

In short, John and I are standing by – or, he's recuperating, 
and I'm playing nursemaid.

And before you paint me spoiled, I'm not complaining in the 
least.  Instead of being down there in the midst of it all, I've 
been granted permission to remove my weary self and collapse on 
this wonderful, though single and probably filthy, bed.  I'm 
leaning against the headboard now, with my knees tucked up to my 
chest, resisting the urge to lie down.  I know I'll be down for 
the count if I do that.  And I *really* need a shower.

Besides which, of all the bruises I've watched appear and darken 
ominously in the half-hour or so since we've been up here, I 
suspect there are several more in places currently obscured by 
my underwear.  And although I have no problem sitting here in my 
underwear, I'd rather wait for John to get out of the bathroom 
before I strip off completely.  Call me old-fashioned.

Finally!

The bathroom door opens, and John emerges from a cloud of steam, 
a towel wrapped around his waist.  He steps – or rather, 
staggers – clear of the steam and it's all I can do not to 
scream.  I hope he doesn't see the look on my face, because I'm 
sure it would reflect my shock.  He looks worse than I'd 
originally thought.  Much worse.  I thought his face was a mess, 
but the rest of him?  Large dark bruises obscure most of his 
arms, chest and stomach, some older than others, but most of 
them looking pretty fresh.  They make me think of silty 
footprints across his body.  Or perhaps more accurately, 
bootprints.

He sees me staring at him with what can only be a look of 
horror.  My eyes reach his, and he stares back at me, tired and 
haunted.  "Does it hurt?" I whisper, afraid for some reason I 
can't quite articulate.

Of course he shakes his head.  "Nah.  I'll be all right."  He 
goes to my bag and retrieves a spare tee shirt, one of A.D. 
Skinner's, actually.  The crisp white covers the bruises on his 
chest, but contrasts sharply against the ones on his arms. 

"What did they *do* to you?"  He just shrugs.  I try another 
tactic.  "Turn around."

When he turns around, I see that his back was just about as 
unlucky as his front.  "They kicked you," I finally surmise.  
"Did you get in a fight?"

He moves towards the bed, and sits down painfully, beside me.  
He leans against the wall and closes his eyes.  "I killed a 
man."  His voice is flat and dead, quiet.  I don't know how to 
respond to that.

I try to nod, then realised he couldn't see me.  So I reached 
out and took his hand in mine.

He elaborates, "He was working for the Cartel.  He tried to kill 
me."

"So it was self-defence."

"He was only takin' orders."

"Don't give me that crap," I mutter softly.  That is so typical 
of John, to save his ass and live to regret it.  "You did what 
you had to do.  It was the right thing."

"Ya think?"  One eye – his black eye – opens and regards me 
seriously.

I lean forward and reply truthfully, "You did just what I would 
have done, if someone was trying to kill you."

He closes his eyes, but on his lips I see a hint of a smirk.  
"Some reassurance, partner."

"Hey, you asked."  There's a moment of silence, then I add, 
"Seriously, John – you can't beat yourself up over it."  A beat, 
then I add, "Anyway, it looks like somebody else got to you 
first."

"Do I really look that bad?" he asks, sounding curious.  He 
examines his arms and legs.

I smile grimly, nodding.  "Yeah."

He grins, then gives me the once-over.  "*You* look okay," he 
says, and I could swear there's an edge to his voice, a certain 
tone...  I blush furiously before I realise he's doing it on 
purpose.  Tease.  But I guess I had it coming (though he really 
does look "that bad").

I'm suddenly very aware of my state of undress.  I glance at 
him, and reply lightly, "Yeah, well I smell like a sewer, so 
don't go getting any ideas."

He gives me an indecipherable look.  After a moment, he tilts 
his head towards the space in front of us, indicating for me to 
get up.  "Lemme see you," he says, and I don't think he's joking 
this time.  I'm just a little alarmed.

"What?"

"Your bruises, not your body – I mean – I'm not..."  He stammers, 
and it's kind of cute.  I roll my eyes, and swing my legs over 
the bed, rising painfully.  My thigh is aching like a bitch.  
Instead of turning around for his benefit, though, I walk into 
the bathroom, to the dirty little mirror in there.

It's about as bad as I thought.  It's certainly not the worst 
beating I've ever taken, but it's still not pretty.  My right 
thigh looks especially bad – it took the fall in the bus crash.  
Otherwise, it's just my knees and elbows, for the most part.

I call over my shoulder, "If by 'okay' you mean better than 
yourself, I think I look okay, too."  I hear his chuckle, then 
add, "I'm gonna have a quick shower."

"Take all the time you want."

Yeah, right – that just means he wants the bed.

PART III

Actually, that wasn't entirely true.  He probably did want the 
bed, but what it *really* meant was that he'd run the water 
cold.  So I had a nice, refreshingly "luke-warm" shower.  
Quickly.  Even in this steaming Mexican heat, I can't take cold 
showers.  Never could.

It's strange to be back here again.  Returning to one's home 
country is a strange sensation, as though every city is, in a 
way, your home town, filled with people you know, people you've 
grown up with, people who know *you.*

My thoughts return to the man I spoke with earlier, the one who 
helped me find John.  He sounded so surprised to learn that I 
was Mexican.  It made me wonder why, too – what it was that I'd 
lost.  Having said that, whatever it was – my accent, my 
attitude – it was probably deliberate.  I tried very hard to 
assimilate when I moved to the States.  I didn't want my 
heritage to count against me.  I didn't want anything to.  And 
yet, when I told that man, it was as though he accepted me 
without question.  As though he knew me, knew my "type," knew 
plenty of women whose no-good American husbands had run out on 
them and their children.  And the thing is, he probably did.  
For all I know, that might have been my story, too, if I'd taken 
a different path.

Instead, though, I chose the Bureau.  I chose Americanisation.  
I haven't quite accepted the American Dream yet, but I haven't 
exactly discounted it, either.  Still, when it's all said and 
done, I really am content with my life the way it is.  I've made 
a lot of choices throughout it, and some better than others.  I 
love the Bureau – despite all the bureaucracy and bullshit, the 
job's what keeps me going.  And, of course, the people, my 
colleagues, the friends I've made along the way.  If I'd stayed 
down here, I would be married with kids by now, and I never 
would have known what I was missing out on.  But instead, I 
chose university.  I chose the Bureau.

And right now, I was choosing to get out of the shower and wrap 
myself in a threadbare cream towel.  Despite the temperature 
outside, I was shivering.  "Thanks for nothing, John," I mutter, 
stepping out into the room, where he's asleep facedown on the 
bed.

"I heard that," he mumbles from his rather enviable position.  
Okay, so maybe not asleep.

"It was *cold,*" I reply, with clenched teeth.  Yes, my teeth 
are chattering.  And I'm in Mexico.  Suddenly, I yawn.  Hugely.

Have you ever noticed that yawning is contagious?  That as soon 
as you see someone yawn, you're fighting one back yourself?  
John must have heard me or something, because then he's yawning 
and sitting up.  I bet he feels like hell.

"Good for bruises," he replies smugly.

"Good-for-nothing," I grumble, not really mad, but not too 
pleased about it either.  I start rummaging through my duffle 
bag for a change of clothes.  Please, God, tell me I have some 
fresh underwear in here.

"Hey."

At the sound of his voice, I turn and look at him.  "What?"

"Is that a bruise or a shadow?" he says, his brow furrowed 
deeply as he looks at my leg.  I make a futile attempt to pull 
the towel down a little lower, without exposing any more 
cleavage than necessary.  (Wait, did I say 'cleavage'?  I'm 
flattering myself – I meant 'flat chest.')

"C'mere."

I look at him dubiously for a moment, then cross the room.  
"Yeah?"

He reaches out and touches my leg.  I shiver violently.  He runs 
his hand around the circumference of the bruise, which spans 
from about my mid-thigh to my hip, examining it.  I wince.  
"Quit it."

"That hurt?"

I give him a look.  "That aside, John, it's not very... 
professional."  

He looks up at me then, with a gleam in his eye that suddenly 
strikes me as very dangerous.  He pokes me and I slap his hand 
away.  "Ow!  That *hurt*!" I shriek, jumping back.  "John?"  If 
you can imbue a word with anger, frustration, indignation and a 
question about someone's sanity and motives, I think I just did.

"Sorry," he grins, clearly not, "just had to see if you were 
still my partner.  You were sounding a bit..."

"Like I had a stick up my ass?  Thanks, John."  Grumpily, I turn 
away from him but before I can move back to my duffle bag, he 
reaches out and tugs the edge of my towel, just where it comes 
over the bruise.

"Hey," he says softly.  I glance at him over my shoulder.  
"Didn't mean to piss you off."

I've already forgiven him, but if there were any doubts at all, 
his hand on my thigh is starting to make a very strong case for 
itself.  Too strong.  Unprofessionally strong.  So I pinch it, 
that piece of skin between the forefinger and thumb.  Right 
where it hurts.  Then I smile sweetly as he swears loudly and 
snatches his hand back.

He looks up at me angrily, "Jesus Monica!  Whadja hafta-"  He 
sees my grin, and stops short.  "You little..."  Suddenly, he 
grabs my waist, pulling me down onto the bed with him.  I 
shriek, landing heavily, and clenching the towel around me.  He 
pulls me close, and I feel a rush of arousal.  "Is this 
professional enough for ya, Monica?"

I shake my head, afraid to speak.  Then, with a coyness that 
alarms me, "No, I don't think that's what I'd call it..."

"Does it hurt, then?"  His fingers are splayed over my sensitive 
bruise, careful not to press too hard.

"Ummm...  No..." I'm starting to panic, just a little.  "John, 
what's gotten into you?"

His hands come up to either side of my face, and he runs his 
fingers through my hair, twisting it back.  Then they return to 
cup my face.  "You just don't know whatcha do to me, Monica, do 
ya?  You don't have a damn clue."

Absurdly, the thought occurs to me that he's obviously made a 
full recovery of his memory in the past hour or so.  It's only 
then that his words come back to me: "I'd keep the bad – as long 
as I could remember the good."  Oh yeah, John.  They were the 
best times.  They were also the very worst.

"Uh huh," I murmur in reply.  "I drive you crazy, John – this 
could never work.  Haven't we...  ohhh-" he shifts position, 
sending a wave of desire through me "-had this conversation 
before?"

"Yeah." He looks me in the eye.  "And I thought we agreed that, 
under other circumstances..."

"Are you on drugs?" It's a serious question.

He grins suddenly.  "No.  Are you?"

"No!  No.  But I'm tired and aching and bruised all over.  As 
you've noticed.  And this is kind of coming out of nowhere, 
don't you think?  Besides which, John, things *have* changed, 
we're working together now, and we-  John?"

His eyes have dropped to my lips and I don't think he's 
listening anymore.  I roll my eyes and sigh loudly at his 
single-mindedness – and am interrupted halfway through my little 
show by the sensation of his lips against mine.  And the 
stunning realisation that he's kissing me.

Oh my God.  John's kissing me.  Monica.  Again.  And again, and 
again, and again.  Softly at first, as though he's afraid of me 
pulling away to sock him one.  Of course, he should know that's 
out of the question – firstly, because I'm paralysed with shock 
(okay, maybe not *entirely* paralysed), and secondly, because I 
could no more hit him than I could a sleeping kitten with a 
broken leg.

But then his kisses get deeper – emboldened, no doubt, by the 
fact that I don't move away or find a particularly nasty bruise 
to slap.  And against my better judgement, I find my arms 
curling around his neck, pulling him closer, and his hands doing 
likewise with my ass.  I think I'm supposed to be very angry 
about this, and yet...  It's bringing back all sorts of good 
memories – memories I've tried so hard not to think about, not 
to dwell on.  If only out of respect for our partnership.

Which reminds me – what the hell does he think he's doing?

I pull away from him, gasping.  Words just aren't coming to me, 
so I stare at him, thinking them all into the one sentence: 
"You're crazy."

As though he read my mind, John chuckles.  "You, Monica.  You 
*drive* me crazy."

"Well, believe me," I huff, "I certainly don't mean to."  
Downstairs, it sounds like there's  the beginnings of a bar 
brawl – voices raised, the occasional crash.  I can't tell 
whether it's outside or inside, but if it's outside...  But I'm 
sure it's all under control.

"No?" John's look is patently skeptical.   I'm torn between 
kissing him again and locking myself in the bathroom.  His hands 
come back up to my waist, although as he speaks, I can feel one 
start to wander in the vicinity of my breast.  "You hunt me down 
to the ends of the earth, tell me my name when I don't even know 
it myself, and save my ass from a Cartel of angry motherf-" I 
press my thumb to his lips.  I hate gratuitous cussing (John's 
favourite type).  When I remove it, he continues, as though it's 
the final insult, "And you walk around in your underwear.  Is 
that enough for you?"  His voice has dropped to a whisper.  I 
give in to my impulse to kiss him, and when I pull away, he 
adds, "Or do I gotta tell ya how you've never, not once, let me 
down, in all the years I've known you – how you've never let me 
get too wrapped up in myself – how I trust you like a partner, 
talk to you like a friend, and want to-"

"John!" The shouting downstairs is getting louder.  I have a 
feeling we should be down there.  I'm worried about Assistant 
Director Skinner.  And I'll be honest, if only with myself: I 
don't think I can take much more of this before I break down.  I 
want this so bad it hurts.  But I also want our partnership, and 
I thought he understood how important that is to me.  I've never 
had an assignment like the X-Files.  And forgive me, but I don't 
know if I can give it up that easily.

I feel like a traitor – to myself, to him, to us – but I tell 
him firmly, "You and I, John – we have... circumstances.  We can't 
– it wouldn't be right."

He pins me with his ice-blue eyes.  "Are you tellin' me you 
don't want this, Monica?"

I am saved from having to answer truthfully by the sound of 
rapid gunfire downstairs.

PART IV

Dios mio, no lo comprendo...  The shots are loud and furious, 
accompanied by the sounds of chairs and tables being upturned, 
plates and glasses smashing, and a whole lot of shouting.

Alarmed, John and I exchange a look of horror and immediately 
start scrambling for our clothes.  Outside and below us, the 
shouting has taken on an edge of alarm, panic, and I know this 
is more than just some bar brawl.  My guess is that there was a 
rebellion outside, and the Cartel has managed to turn it into a 
riot.  From the look in his eyes, I can tell that John suspects 
it too.  Regardless, though, it doesn't matter who's doing the 
shooting.  The fact that there is shooting at all is enough to 
show we've lost control, that Skinner and his team are in over 
their heads.

Within minutes – probably closer to seconds – we've bolted out 
the door and are heading down the narrow yellow hallway.  As we 
get closer to the top of the stairs, I am struck by an obvious 
realisation – the fighting is not only outside, but inside as 
well.  It's moved into the bar downstairs, it's moved beyond the 
Cartel to the patrons of this fine establishment.  Bar brawl?  I 
don't know.  "Dammit," I mutter.  "I *knew* we should have 
stayed down there."

"And achieved what?" John replies scornfully, though I didn't 
intend for him to hear.  Suddenly, he stops short and grabs my 
arm, pulling me back.  "Hey.  Where ya going?  There's fighting 
down there!"

I give him a withering look.  Of course there's fighting down 
there, that's why we're *going* down there.  "Are you nuts?  Of 
course I know what's going on down there!"  I pull away from him 
and head down the stairs.  He lunges for me and pulls me back 
again.  "John, what are you doing?  We've gotta get down there!  
You know and I know we've gotta help Sk-"

"Then know this: we've got one weapon between us.  Yours.  With 
how many rounds in it?"

"Four."

"Four?  That's it?"  I nod resentfully, having spent the rest in 
our little shoot-out this afternoon.  John seems to take it in 
stride though, and I realise that that only supports whatever 
point he's getting to.  A point I can already foresee and don't 
think I'm gonna like.  "We don't know who's in control down 
there, but chances are, nobody is.  Not us, that's for damn 
sure."  He lets that sink in for all of one heartbeat, then 
adds, "We've gotta get outta here."

"WHAT?"  He claps a hand over my mouth, and I pull it off 
angrily.  "John, Skinner's down there!  The backup!"  My voice 
is now a loud, frustrated whisper.  I'm tugging him down the 
stairs, but he's standing firm.

"I know that, Monica!  That's the point!  What, do ya really 
think we can get 'em all outta here – pull off some major rescue 
op or something?  You're dreamin'!"

"We can't just-"

"Walk in there and get our heads blown off?  Damn straight we 
can't!"

"John-"  I don't know what to say.  I know he's right, but 
everything in me is rejecting the very notion.  I'm not about go 
stranding our boss and colleagues out there, and it quite 
frankly shocks me that he'd even suggest it.  John, of all 
people, is a man of his word.  An honourable man.  What he's 
suggesting is-

"Lissen, hear me out."  He drops my hand and starts heading back 
upstairs.  It suddenly occurs to me that the hallway is 
remarkably empty for so full a hotel.  What, is everyone 
downstairs?  Or are they cowering under their beds?  Either way, 
it gives me the distinct feeling that we should *not* be 
standing where we are.  John points me towards the fire escape.  
"Look out there," he says, pushing me towards the little window.  
"D'ya see that?"

"See what?"  It's pretty dark out there – all I can see is a 
couple of the Bureau vans, the moon lighting them up like Toyota 
ghosts.  I can't make out any people at all – where was all the 
fighting?

"Exactly.  Look, there's nobody out there – and they're damn 
well supposed to be.  Now I figure they're either on the other 
side of this building, or they're downstairs.  This is my plan."  
I give him a skeptical look, and he ignores it deliberately.  
"When we open this door, the fire alarm's going to go off.  
That'll give us about – what? – a minute, maybe two, to get down 
the stairs and over to one of those trucks.  From there, we can 
A) call for backup, then B) pick up as many as we can and get 
the hell outta here."

"But what about everybody else?"

He shrugs.  "Whaddaya want me to say?  I don't know – it's a 
gamble.  We do what we can.  I'm not sayin' it's great, but I 
think it's the best plan of action."

"Or we send me downstairs to give the head's up – get word to 
Skinner and whoever else I can find."

"Or I'll kill you if you make it outta there alive – no way, 
Mon, too dangerous."

"How else will they know it's us?"  This has become an outright 
face-off.

"They won't.  But I can't have you going off down there, and – 
no, look, I'll go."

"You'll go?  Forget it!  Look at yourself!"

"Look at *your*self, Monica!"

"What about me?"  I glare at him.

"You're a woman!  Of course they're gonna see you!"

"John, you are SUCH a-"

"-realist!  Forget it!"

"I'm going!  You can't stop me, John," I tell him angrily.  
"Give me five minutes, I'll do what I can then come back.  And 
if I'm not back in five, get yourself down that fire escape and 
out to the vans.  I'll meet you there."

I think he's about to have a go at me again, so I pull away from 
him and move toward the stairs.  Too slow, though – he grabs my 
arm and yanks me back.  I cry out and suddenly he's kissing me 
again, hard and fast, and pushing me off towards the stairs.  I 
stumble a little, reeling, then find my feet and hope to God I'm 
not about to die.

PART V

Downstairs, it's worse than I'd schooled myself to expect.  
There are bodies lying everywhere, some Mexican, some American.  
Some injured, some dead.  Some I recognise.

There is also a much bigger crowd than I'd expected to find, it 
seems like the whole *town* must be here – or maybe the bar just 
isn't that big.  At any rate, it's packed – I can hardly move.  
On the bright side, that makes me less conspicuous.  It's also 
making it more difficult to avoid catching a blow or two, with 
all the pushing and shoving, wrestling and occasional rounds of 
gunfire.  The bodies at the foot of the staircase had been 
killed by a machine gun, it seemed, some kind of semi-automatic 
weapon.  Whoever had killed them didn't seem to be firing 
anymore, for whatever reason, and I'm grateful for that.

Head down, weapon down, security off, I make my way around the 
bar.  Every time I see a familiar face, I pass on the message – 
get out to the vans.  All together, I think I must have found 
about six people.  Not including the two at the stairs.

Not including Skinner.

I know I've been down here a good ten minutes, possibly fifteen, 
but I can't leave until I find Skinner.  No matter what I 
promised John.  It just wouldn't be right.  For starters, Scully 
would kill me if anything had happened to him.  But my own 
safety aside, I'm desperately worried for his.  After all he did 
to help me find John, I can't leave him without at least a 
warning.

Finally, having circled the room at leave five times and having 
found no sign of him, I start checking the other, small rooms 
coming off from the main bar.  Nothing.  If I have to be honest 
with myself, I'll admit that I'm starting to get a little 
panicked.  This is very strange.  Also, John will be getting 
worried – he'll leave soon, too, if I don't show up in the next 
few minutes.

NO!

The alarm is screaming in my ears and people are rushing past 
me, through doors, through windows – just getting the hell out.  
I suppose a fire alarm in a building like this really means 
something.

Fighting against the current of people, I move towards the 
stairs, on the off-chance that John is still waiting for me.  I 
step gingerly over the bodies, then literally sprint up the 
stairs, taking them three at a time.  Reaching the hallway, 
though, I see the emergency exit hanging wide open, and knew he 
must have left.  Shit!  I started pounding on the doors, 
screaming, "Americans, FBI, make for the van!"

Suddenly, a door flies open behind me, slamming against the 
wall.  The noise startles me and as I whirl around, somebody 
grabs me from behind.  God dammit!  I start fighting him with 
everything I've got, kicking, scratching and generally thrashing 
wildly.  I can't lose any more time, John will be driving off 
any second now!  He must be so worried, he must be furious, he 
must be-

In the recesses of my consciousness, I suddenly hear my name.  
Someone is repeating it over and over again.  As it started to 
register, I stop fighting and my assailant releases me.  
Breathing heavily, I raise my eyes to his face and see-

Skinner?

"Damn you!" I shout, suddenly furious.  "What are you doing 
here?  Get in the van!"

To his credit, he looks genuinely confused.  "What?  Agent 
Reyes, what the hell is going on here – have you got –"

"Yeah, he's in the van, we've put out the message to as many 
people as we can – he's gonna leave without us, he's-"  Only 
then do I notice the bodies lying in the room Skinner has just 
come out of.  Three of them, all face down.  Four chairs.  
Broken duct tape.

Following my line of sight – and hence, thought, Skinner says, 
"They were the leaders of the Cartel.  They knocked me out, and 
I woke up here.  They were asking me questions, wanting to know 
things about me, I felt like – it doesn't matter what it felt 
like."  I indicate to the fire escape, 'Tell me on the run.'  He 
nods and we head out as he continues, "Then I heard you outside 
and-" we're stomping down the fire escape, making a thunderous 
racket "-it was like something snapped.  They just collapsed – 
dead.  I don't know what happened, I – I can't explain it."

"What did you see?"  I ask him breathlessly, making a beeline to 
the vans.  "Guns, knives, drugs?"

"Their eyes."  He says this ponderously, like he can't believe 
it.  "They went blind.  And then they just – collapsed."

Up ahead I suddenly notice a figure moving towards us.  Behind 
him is are the vans – no, wait.  The van.  Where are the other 
two?  I realise that they must have left without us.  The figure 
looks ready to intercept us but as we near each other he calls 
out, "MONICA!"

At the sound of his voice I break into an even harder sprint, 
getting my second wind, and barrel into his open arms, wrapping 
my own around his neck and hugging him like I never want to let 
go.  The momentum of my body propels him back a few steps, but 
he doesn't fall, he doesn't buckle.  He just catches me.  I 
burst out laughing when he swings me around, but the second he 
puts me down we're running again, heading towards the van.  It 
only takes a few more minutes to reach it.  Initially, I was 
surprised that Skinner had the vans parked at such a distance 
from the hotel and main street, but it didn't take long to view 
the decision as wise and cautious.

When we reach the van, John opens the back and practically 
shoves me in.  From there, I witness an abrupt exchange between 
him and Skinner, before Skinner takes the wheel and John tumbles 
into the back with me.  The van is a standard FBI vehicle, 
equipped with benches in the back area, for the easy and 
theoretically comfortable transport of numbers of agents.  I 
claim one and John claims the other.  It takes me all of three 
seconds to remember that any comfort is only theoretical.

We end up sitting on the floor, however, when our boss finds the 
accelerator.  We peel out at breakneck speed, shooting past the 
old hotel and the rioters outside.  The commotion seems to have 
degenerated into a standard bar brawl, although I shudder to 
think about the media getting a whiff of this sensational 
example of public relations, not to mention international 
relations and cooperation between federal entities.  As we leave 
the town, I listen drowsily while Skinner talks into the radio, 
reinforcing the order for backup, no doubt, and requesting 
emergency medical aid.  I'm sure he's aware that this aid will 
be unnecessary for an unlucky few.  The thought sobers me.

A more immediate thought, though, is that I'm still trying to 
get my breath back and it's just not happening.  Gasping for 
air, I'm seriously apologizing to myself for that cigarette I 
snuck this morning.  And the one at lunch.  Stupid, Monica!  
This is why I've just gotta quit.  My lungs are on fire – I feel 
like I'm breathing blood.  After a while though, I catch my 
breath, and John nudges me.  "I'm okay," I announce pre-
emptively (and with no small measure of chagrin).

"Been working out?"

"Shut up."  I pull my knees up to my chest and close my eyes, 
breathing deeply.  It's gotten late – must be at least eleven, 
maybe midnight – and I'm tired as all hell.  I wish for nothing 
more right now than to be at home in bed, after a nice *hot* 
shower, holding a chamomile tea and good book.  And a cigarette.  
No.  Bad, Monica.  Stop it.

You know how when you think about something you can't have, you 
really start craving it?  Ten minutes go by and I'm still 
thinking about that damn cigarette.  My fingers are positively 
itching for one.

Either John notices this fidgeting, or he's a better mind reader 
than he lets on, because presently he leans over and murmurs in 
my ear, "Wanna smoke?"  Damn.  He nudges me again.  "Yeah?"

I yawn loudly.  "No.  As you know perfectly well, John, I'm 
quitting."

He smirks, clearly thinking he knows better.  "Good for you.  
Keep up the good work."

"Shut up."  All of a sudden, I'm feeling incredibly tired.  I 
yawn again, and drop my head back into my folded arms.  Since 
the adrenaline wore off, my bruises and aches seem to be 
reasserting themselves, too, arguing with each other about which 
one gets to throb the hardest.  I think the one on my thigh is 
winning out.

I wonder how John's feeling right now.

After a while, I feel his arm come across my shoulders, and he 
pulls me to him.  Sleepily, I lean in and get comfortable.  This 
is gonna be a long ride.  "Hey partner," I murmur.  "You okay?"

"Yeah," he replies.  "Just great."

Great?  Here?  "Uhmm."

In response, his arm around me just tightens and I gradually 
drift off to sleep, wonderfully warm and comfortable, thinking 
how glad I was that we got those showers.  Even if mine was 
cold.  Even if I didn't get a change of clothes.  Or a 
cigarette.  At least I got a shower.  And John to fall asleep 
on.  I haven't really had time to process it all yet, but it 
feels like we're in for the long haul now, he and I.

At the very least, we've never been ones to go down without a 
fight.

...End

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