Title: Horoscope Mornings
Author: Karen (snarky_freak@hotmail.com)
Rating:  R
Summary: 'Let's see what your horoscope says, John...'
Keywords: DRR, Doggettfic, Reyesfic, post-S9, or AU
Spoilers: Nothing specific, just general stuff from S9
Archive:  All are more than welcome, just please 
notify me via e-mail.
Disclaimer:  They're not mine, so quit lookin' at me 
like that, 'kay?
Author's Notes:  What would it take for Doggett to 
believe?
---
It had become part of his routine.  Day in and day out, 
it had managed to work its way between his five o'clock 
shower and his five-thirty breakfast of pop tarts and 
black coffee.
She hated those pop tarts.  She thought they tasted 
god-awful.  He had tried to convert her once, tried to 
get her to take a bite, and taste the 
corrugated-cardboard-goodness that popped out happily 
from the toaster.  Naturally, she obliged.  Obliged, 
bit off a piece, chewed uneasily and swallowed 
reluctantly.
God.  The look on her face when she swallowed what 
little she ate from his proffered hand.  'It's just a 
pop tart, `s'not gonna kill ya, y'know...' he had 
laughed at her then, as she downed her cup of 
chamomile tea like there was no tomorrow.  
He smiled at the memory and folded the newspaper in 
front of him.
It had become part of his routine.
Forget the Sports section, forget the Headlines, with 
a capital 'H.'
The horoscopes awaited him.
It had become part of his routine.  A routine that she 
had worked to alter and, as she said, 'modify' somehow.
When had it happened?  He often wondered that, often 
asked himself that same question every morning, as he 
waited for his pop tarts to heat up, his coffee to brew, 
his newspaper to arrive.
He always came up with only one answer.
Not soon enough.
It nagged at him--that answer.  Nagged at him for 
reasons he was too afraid to face, reasons he was too 
afraid to believe in.
He sighed and perched his reading glasses onto the 
bridge of his nose.
She loved the scar he had there.  Loved it even more 
the very first time he brought those reading glasses 
to bed and scanned an overdue field report 
meticulously.  She had eased herself onto his lap 
then, nuzzled his ear, and--
'You're so cute with those glasses on, John...'
As usual, they had ended up entangled, mussed up, 
bone-tired, happy, and wondering--
When had it happened?  When did it all begin?
They both came up with only one answer.
Not soon enough.
He shook his head and scanned the newspaper in front 
of him.
'Let's see what your horoscope says, John...'
Aries.
Today is a time for change.  Go for it!  Look closely 
at yourself in the mirror and see the real you.  
Scorpio and Pisces play important roles, but don't 
let them get in the way and dictate what you want to 
change about yourself.
He sighed and took a sip of coffee.  They were all 
beginning to sound the same.
Change yourself.
The real you.
Stop hanging around by the sidelines.
Always, always the same--
Ever since--
He bit his lip and furrowed his eyebrows.  He longed 
for the day when he would sit down at this very 
table--her table--with his coffee and pop tarts, and 
read it again.
Those words.
Spoken out loud, accompanied by the rustling of 
newspapers, the clattering of coffee cups, the sound of 
his mouth against her bare skin, the sound she makes 
when she giggles.  Or laughs.  At him.  With him.  
For him.
Those words.
'Let's read your horoscope, John...'
He had looked at her then, rather sleepily, as he 
stretched out on her bed and draped an arm over her 
waist.  'How `bout we do somethin' else?'  The morning 
after their first night together, and he was not about 
to waste any time.  Anymore time.  No more than what 
he had wasted already, all the years he had known her.
The empty coffee cups clattered together when she 
straightened up on the bed and leaned against the 
headboard.  'This won't take long.  I just--'
'There's a million better things we could be doin' 
right `bout now, y'know...' His hand had wandered 
under the covers.  His fingers had strayed up and 
between her thighs.  She had arched her eyebrows 
then, and made a small sound that encouraged him 
beyond words.
'John, just listen.  I'll read it...'
He had nodded wordlessly, had slid further down on the 
bed and had begun re-enacting part of what happened 
the night before.  She let out a deep breath, 
indicating both her frustration and her arousal.  
'Are you listening to me?'
'Uh-huh,' he breathed, more than said, before he 
burrowed himself further against her warmth and 
rumbled against her.  'So's the moon in the seventh 
house...?'
She didn't get to read his horoscope.  Not then.  It 
was only after--when he lay contentedly on his stomach, 
next to her--that she yawned and picked up the creased 
newspaper and began to read once again.
'Listen.  Aries.  Today's the day for big changes.  
You will see the real you reflected in the eyes of 
those who love you most.  Open up and take stock of 
what you have right now, and of what you've been 
missing.  Take the initiative.  Don't be afraid to 
fall in love.'
He had never believed in horoscopes, never believed in 
their power to guide or predict or dictate lives.  
Never, never, never.
Not in a million years.
They were fabricated.
Fake.
For entertainment purposes only.  All disclaimers apply, 
because you can't ever trust the stuff they say about 
you.
Some guy with a hangover, and cheesecake for brains, 
can write those things.
But--
'Don't be afraid to fall in love.'  You hear that, 
John-boy?  Loud an' clear?
They're fabricated, though.
But...
Still--
Still, those words had sounded pretty damned good to 
him, as he lay there next to her, as he felt her 
fingers raking through his short hair, thoughtfully 
tracing the memorial tattoo on his arm...
'Mon?'
'Hmm?'
'That's gotta be yesterday's paper--'
'No, it's not.  I just picked it up outside my door--'
'`Cause I'm good an' done with all that stuff it said 
`bout me...'
She had looked at him, vaguely understanding what he 
meant behind those words.
He had reached up and, before he kissed her, had 
whispered something against her lips.
'`M not afraid any more...'
It had become part of his routine--reading the 
horoscopes.
Forget the Sports section, the Headlines, with a 
capital 'H.'
The horoscopes.
They called to him.
Helped him remember.
Helped him forget.
It had taken him months to work up the courage to ask.
To ask her.  To take the initiative.
It took him months of 'what-should-I-do-Ray?' 
long-distance phone conversations with his kid brother.  
Took him months of turning the sparkling thing over and 
over again in his hands, whenever she was away on a case, 
to work up the courage to ask.  To ask her.  To take the 
initiative.
It wasn't soon enough.
He remembered one morning, long ago, but not soon enough, 
after she fell asleep.  That morning.  It had become part 
of their routine.  Between the early-morning shower and 
the rushed breakfast.
The horoscopes awaited them outside the door of her 
apartment.
She would read, and he would laugh.
It was ironic.  Ever since their first morning together, 
he seemed to believe in them more than she ever did in 
her whole life.  God forbid that he would let on that 
he took the Zodiacs to heart, but still--there it was.
He had become a believer.
Well, not really.
It took more than that to get him to believe.
It took *her* to get him to believe.
When he finally worked up the courage to ask, to take 
the initiative, she was packing her things to visit 
her parents in Mexico.  She was telling him to clean 
the oven.
It was awkward.  It was funny.
It just came out.  Out of the blue.
All those months of exhausting his kid brother's 
creativity over the phone went down the drain.
'Mon...?  You wanna...?'
The sparkling thing couldn't compare to the look on 
her face.
He was proud of himself.  She never saw it coming.  
She had thought nothing of what her horoscope said 
that day, of a life-altering surprise.  A 
life-altering commitment.
He sort of believed in the crap that she reads for 
entertainment purposes only.
Sort of.  Not really.  Not yet.
He always reminds himself that it took *her* to get him 
to believe.
*Her.*
Where is she now?
He comes home every night to her apartment, sleeps in 
her--their--bed, goes through everything that belongs 
to her--clothes, books, notes, pictures of people he 
doesn't even know...
He comes home every night to her apartment.  Their 
apartment.
Every night.
After he visits her.
Her grave.
She slipped away from him some months before the date 
they had set.
He got back from Atlanta.  The flight had been delayed.
He thought, for the longest time, that she was just 
sleeping.
It was only when he was about to turn off the bathroom 
light that a familiar chill ran up and down his spine.
He could see the outline of her body from where he was 
standing, see the black silk of the negligee she was 
wearing--the one she knew he loved.
He could see all this, and yet, there was something 
more.
Ashes.
He saw it.  For a brief moment in time, she had turned 
into ashes right before his very eyes.
He wondered whether she saw it too, before it 
happened...
His mind flashed back to a conversation.  On a field.
Mulder was there, watching the two of them.  Mulder was 
smirking.  Mulder was loving every minute of it.
'What if there's a thread of evil...'
Monica had said something then, while standing on that 
field, about something leading back to him, or 
connecting to him.
He refused to believe it then, and he was refusing to 
believe it still, as he stood there at the foot of 
the bed and stared at the dark hair limply brushing 
against her bare shoulder.  
How could he believe in that thread of evil, as he 
stood there watching her?
She looked so peaceful.  It was hard to imagine that 
evil could--or would--grant her such slumber, such 
rest.
'Monica...'
***
It's been a few years now.
He forcefully flipped the newspaper over and looked 
out the window, his jaws clenched tightly in 
annoyance.
It was getting harder and harder, these horoscope 
mornings.
The first few days, after her funeral, he had found 
that reading the horoscopes comforted him beyond 
words.  He could hear her voice reading them out to 
him, telling him how to start his day.  In a sense, 
she lived on like that.
Lately...
He didn't know why.  Lately, he found himself 
wondering so much.
About her.
About what happened.
They didn't know how, or why.
It was a mystery.  Yet another one to add to her list 
of mysteries.  It was one that would complement the 
mystery of her birth, of who her biological parents 
were.
It was a mystery that would complement the mystery of 
that one night, not so long ago, when she came to him 
as he slept.
At first, it felt like any other night that he had 
spent with her, in her bed, her apartment, her life.
It was different, though.  Different, because she had 
been gone for six months, been buried for six 
months...
'...You're a six...'
He woke up with a start that one night, six months 
after her funeral.  After three hours of holding it 
in, three hours of trying not to cry himself to sleep, 
he sat bolt up-right on her bed and looked around.
The window was open, and the breeze gave him tiny 
goosebumps.  It was a nice night.  A beautiful night.  
If she had been alive, and if she had been there with 
him, she would have smiled in that unmistakably unique 
way of hers and said something romantic, something 
poetic, something... just her.
Just her.
That was it.
That same night, after the second time he woke up with 
a start, it had happened.
No one else in the room.
Just him.
And, and-
God only knows how, or why-
But she was there, too.
Just her.
In that slinky black negligee she knew he loved so much.  
The one she knew he loved to slip off her body almost 
every night, as she lay in bed and looked up at him 
looking down at her, and only her.
Just her.
She was staring at him, gazing at him, smiling at him.
'This is a dream...,' he remembered saying as he watched 
her move closer, and closer still, until she stood at 
the foot of the bed.
So real.  So close, so real, and so painful, to watch 
her standing there, so alive and true and genuine.  So 
her.
He remembered not being able to think straight.  
First, one rational thought telling him to wake up, 
then a stray thought telling him he's dead and with 
her, wherever she is, wherever she's been all those 
six months.
"Monica?"
He closed his eyes.  Damn.  He hadn't said that aloud, 
had he?  Just the thought of her coming back to him 
that night almost always shatters everything for him.
His barriers, his denial, his rejection.  And that wall 
he's built up over the long hard months and years since 
she slipped away from him.
Where was he?
The nightgown, yes.  The negligee.  She looked exactly 
the way she did the last time he saw her.  After he came 
home from Atlanta, after he thought she was merely 
asleep.  After her death, or whatever it was that took 
her away.
All these months, all these years...  And he misses her 
exactly the way he did that very second he realized she 
was gone.
Her adoptive mother never approved of her choice for a 
career.  Her father, though supportive, never stopped 
warning her of the dangers of what she was getting 
herself into.  Her mother disapproved of the FBI.  Her 
father disapproved of The X-Files.  And of him.
He remembered wondering, as he sat there watching her 
spirit, her ghost, her body-whatever it was, whatever 
it had been-whether she had appeared to her parents 
yet.  He remembered wondering, with a sense of jealous 
curiosity, whether her love for them was strong enough 
to make her come back.
Surely, her love for him was strong enough.  Why else 
would she be standin' there, in front of him, in that 
negligee she knew he loved so much, if she didn't feel 
that way?
He remembered calling her name.  He remembered that 
god-incredible smile of hers lighting up her face, at 
the sound of his voice calling her name.
He could still remember his horoscope from that morning.  
The morning of the night she came to him.
Aries.
Circular is the term to describe your life these days.  
Your past, your present, and your future, cannot seem 
to disentangle themselves.  This is not your fault, for 
you are on the verge of a life-altering experience that 
will shatter your illusions about who you are-to 
yourself, as well as to those you love most.  Pisces 
plays a role, but it is ultimately your decision to 
take the initiative.
There it was again.  The initiative.
He remembered taking a deep breath, and saying 
something.
"Y'know what my horoscope said this mornin'?"
He remembered watching motionlessly as she nodded and 
glided closer to him.  So close, that he could breathe 
in the seductive sweetness of her skin, the familiar 
scent of her, and only her...
"Miss you..."
He barely heard his cracked, uneven whisper in the dark, 
but it didn't matter.  She heard him.  Seemed like she 
heard him before he even thought, much less said, those 
two words.
"I know."
"Why-"
Strange.  He had braced himself to feel nothing but the 
empty coolness of her fingertips.  It overwhelmed him 
beyond words to feel instead the welcome warmth of her 
hand caressing his faintly stubbled skin.
"God, it's really you, isn't it?"
Her weak, trembling smile told him that she, too, had 
no idea how or why things happened the way they did.  
Her smile also told him that she, too, feels all these 
things he was and still is, feeling.
***
He lowered the newspaper onto the table and closed his 
eyes, trying desperately to remember everything.
The feel of her silky dark hair spilling in waves 
through his hands and fingers.
That tiny growl she makes under her breath when she's 
about to slip off his boxers.
The nearly unbearable wetness of her tongue, her teeth 
and her lips, every time she takes him hungrily into 
her mouth.
And that thing she does...
That thing she does whenever she straddles him, or 
whenever he enters her.
That thing she does, every time their oneness, their 
compatibility becomes a physical, tangible thing.
She smiles.
That small smile he can't ever describe, but forever 
sees in his mind's eye.
It haunted him.  Haunts him still.
She used to smile like that each time they end up 
entangled, mussed up, bone-tired and happy.
She smiled like that the first time she read him his 
horoscope.
She smiled like that the last time he saw her alive, 
when she kissed him goodbye at Dulles.
She smiled like that, too.  When she first came to him 
that one night.  And even now.  When she comes back 
to him.
Every night.
How long has this been going on?
He couldn't remember, couldn't figure it out any more.  
The only answer he could ever come up with was this:
Not soon enough.
She comes to him at night, and he doesn't sleep, for 
fear of losing her again.
But he does.  Try as he might, he falls asleep 
eventually, and loses her again before the crack of 
dawn.
And so he sits here, every morning.
Every horoscope morning.
And thinks of her.
And looks forward to the nights that follow every 
horoscope morning.
For the first time in a long series of horoscope 
mornings, he finds himself smiling all of a sudden.
Aries.
The real you.  Take the initiative.  Don't be afraid.
He was getting tired of this.
These horoscope mornings.  Standing around on the 
sidelines.
Take the initiative, don't be afraid.
To fall in love.
To fall...
He longed for the day, the morning, when he could see 
her again, and feel his skin against her own, and see 
the sun touching her body, his body.  Their body.
He was getting tired.
Of waiting.
For the nights to come.
He remembered the clattering of empty coffee cups, the 
rustling of newspapers and bed sheets, of skin against 
skin.  He remembered her.
'There's a million better things we could be doin' right 
'bout now, y'know...'
Take the initiative.
Don't be afraid to fall in love.
He really, truly believed in the crap she reads for 
entertainment purposes only.  And it took her-all of 
her-to get him to believe.
Don't be afraid...
He folded the newspaper as neatly as he could, removed 
his reading glasses and climbed back into bed.  He 
closed his eyes.
And waited.
For night to come.
For her to come.
For her to come for him.
He smiled to himself, eyes closed, as he lightly 
fingered the ring on his left hand.
She loves him enough to come back.  He knew that, with 
all his heart.
He wondered whether she knew, with all her heart, that 
he loves her enough to leave everything he's ever known.  
That he loves her enough to take the initiative.  Not 
to be afraid.
He wasn't sure how long he had been lying there, 
motionless, quiet, calm.  He didn't even realize that 
time had passed until he heard something.
The clattering of empty coffee cups, the rustling of 
newspapers, and bed sheets...  Of skin against skin.
He opened his eyes slowly, for fear that he was dreaming.
He looked around.
The sun was shining.  Still.
A dull ache began to flood his heart, his whole body, at 
the mere thought that he might have failed again.
And then he heard it.
"John?"
Her voice sounded so small, so far, so-
He felt a warm hand on his mid-section, a set of palm and 
slender fingers trying so hard to reassure him, and touch 
him, and bring him here, wherever this was.
He looked down.
And into the most welcome pair of hazel eyes he had ever 
seen.
She squinted at the sunlight streaming in from the open 
window, and closed her eyes momentarily as she enjoyed 
the warm breeze flooding in to caress her body, and 
his.  Their body.  
"John?"
He looked at her again, and for the first time noticed 
that she wasn't wearing it.
The black negligee she knew he loved so much.
He looked at her yet again, and for the first time 
noticed that she was wearing only one thing.
That sparkling thing he had turned over, and over, and 
over again in his hands, before he finally worked up 
the courage to ask, to take the initiative and alter 
her life forever.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Yeah," he barely managed to reply, as he tightened an 
arm around her slender waist and marvelled at the feel 
of her.
Warm, genuine, real, true.
Had he simply been dreaming all those wasted, empty, 
lonely years without her?
He couldn't answer that one.  Those empty years, those 
unbearable horoscope mornings, those half-satisfying 
and half-illusory nights (or so he thought them to be 
now, with her in her bed with him)...  They seemed 
real to him.  As real as her touch was now, as real 
as the newspaper in her hands.
"Let's read your horoscope, John..."
All thoughts of the past, or of his dream-whatever 
those lonely years had been-vanished at the sound of 
her words, spoken seductively in his ear.
It didn't matter.
Whatever that had been, it was over.
She was here, and so was he.
He had no right to question it, any of it.  Absolutely 
no right.
For a brief second, the image of Mulder's 'I Want To 
Believe' poster flashed through his mind.  It vanished 
the very second he recognized it.
It took her to get him to believe.  Truly, really, 
genuinely believe, with a capital 'B.'
Pressing his mouth to her hair, and holding her more 
tightly than the last time he saw her alive that 
supposed night, before he left Dulles for Atlanta, he 
closed his eyes and mumbled softly.
"Aries.  Today's the day for big changes.  You will see 
the real you reflected in the eyes of those who love 
you most.  Open up and take stock of what you have 
right now, and of what you've been missing.  Take the 
initiative.  Don't be afraid to fall in love.'
He smiled lazily at the surprised _expression on her 
face.
"John," she shook her head in amazement and turned in 
his embrace to face him completely.  "This has got to 
be yesterday's paper-"
"No it's not," he insisted, all the while taking the 
newspaper from her hands and sliding it onto the night 
table.  Slowly, carefully, he eased her onto her back, 
pinned her against the mattress and grasped her hands 
with his own.  "'M just good an' done with all that 
stuff it said 'bout me, Mon..."
Her left hand wriggled free, and touched the side of 
his face.  Her gesture reminded him of that first 
night, when she came back to him.  For him.
"What's wrong?"
He shook his head.
"Don't do this.  I know when-"
"Would you come back for me if you could?"
"Come back for you...  What does that mean, John?"
He shrugged, lowered all his weight onto her and 
nuzzled the crook of her neck, the skin just above her 
bare breasts.  "Say you die before me-"
"Excuse me?!"
He shook his head once again, simultaneously frustrated 
and angry with himself for asking her such a question.  
"Forget it, Mon.  'M sorry.  It's nothin'."
He had no proof of anything.
It could all have been a dream.
But, still, there was that nagging feeling welling up 
inside of him.
It took *her* to get you to believe.  Why are you 
back-pedalling now?  Do you want to feel all that 
again?
She was quiet for a few moments, absently stroking his 
hair, occasionally sighing to herself.  Finally, she 
breathed in, coaxed him to look directly at her, and 
replied to him in the most peculiar way.  "If I don't 
remember dying, John, it doesn't mean it's not true.  
That whatever you felt, whatever you experienced, 
didn't happen."
He nodded meekly and burrowed his face harder against 
her skin, wanting so desperately to feel her so alive 
once again, and suddenly not caring about what he 
thought to have been his existence, without her in it.  
"Yeah.  Maybe..."
A few more moments, then she wrapped her arms around 
his broad shoulders and rubbed the sole of her right 
foot up and down his calves.  "I'd come back for you, 
John."  She rubbed his scalp briskly and 
affectionately with her fingertips.  "As if there 
were ever any doubt of that."
He closed his eyes and nodded against her.  "Y'know 
I'd go with you no question, right?"
She chuckled and kissed the tip of his nose when he 
looked up at her.  "Yes, I know."
Thinking she had nothing more to say, he lowered his 
head again and listened to her heart beating against 
his ear.
"And I can think of a sure-fire way to get you to do 
whatever I want you to."
"Yeah, whassat?"
Her seductive laugh accompanied the one reply he had 
been expecting.
"That black negligee I know you love so much, John.  
I'll wear it when I come back for you."
END
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