Title: Many A January Dawn Author: Sofabear a.k.a. Sam (toxicsofabear@hotmail.com) Rating: PG Keywords: VRA (Vignette/Romance/Angst) Reyes, Reyes, and more Reyes. a bit of angst too. oh, and some DRR as well (I just can't seem to help myself!) Summary: Reyes character study. Musings on a chilly January morning... Spoilers: none, unless you don't watch the show at all... Disclaimer: these characters belong to Fox and an array of other folks, but not me. damn. Feedback: constructive criticism welcome, and greatly appreciated! Archive: sure! but please let me know beforehand. Author's Note: well, this is definitely not as much of a DRR as first intended, but I'm actually pretty pleased with it. however, it is 1:53am, and I'm a little fuzzy at noon on the best of days so...well, I'll let you form your own opinion. Acknowledgements: many thanks to my wonderful beta-reader Karen! much chocolate cake and cherry pies to you! *grinz* ---------- the winter here's cold, and bitter it's chilled us to the bone we haven't seen the sun for weeks too long, too far from home - Full of Grace, Sarah Mclachlan ---------- Many A January Dawn ---------- A crisp-bare branch of oak swings errantly in the wind on a January morning, the biting frost-breath urging the withered arm into the fogged apartment window. The almost rhythmical thud of it pierces the gentle silence of the apartment to which that window belongs, but fails to break the woman's reverie. This woman stands at that same window, a steaming mug of hot-chocolate warm in her palms, looking vacantly past that branch which scratches insistently at the glass, as though pleading for entrance. Her brown eyes are distant, and her blue-grey striped pyjamas are sleep-rumpled. The chilled wood beneath her bare feet would cause her to shiver and curl in her toes, should she notice it. But Monica Reyes is far away. Her mind is blank, but thoughts of far-off family and past January mornings, not unlike this one, tug almost playfully at her consciousness, like children pulling at their parents' terry robes on Christmas morning, before padding swiftly on un-socked feet toward the tree, cries of glee and joyous laughter slowly filling the air. But, with the memories held at bay, only the feelings remain; the emotions which linger, but that she refuses to attach to any specific person, place, or time. Loneliness. Nostalgia. Hope. Pain. Contentment. An amalgamation of feelings from an array of different January mornings, kneading, of their own volition, this newly dawning January morn, like freshly mixed dough, only just beginning to gain substance. Monica brings the still warm mug to her mouth, her lips parting to receive the sweet coca liquid that both singes and pleases her tongue. Her vacant brown eyes do not relent their absent gaze, even as she swallows, the sound quite audible in the quiet room, almost harmonizing with the insistent branch which continues to scratch tunelessly at the window before her. The bottom of the mug lowers to rest warmly on her palm once more, and a soft sigh escapes her ribcage. Only then does she allow the memories to surface. -- Loneliness. -- She sat alone on a park bench. The January wind blew fiercely, nipping Monica's cheeks to rose. She pulled on her new soft pink, hand-knit mittens, a gift from her grandmother, in honour of her eighth birthday, and the family's visit. The dry coldness of the air easily pierced her exposed skin, so accustomed it was to the gentle caress of the Mexican sun. Children laughed and shouted as they tobogganed down the steep hill, a few yards from where she sat, their brightly coloured snowsuits and scarves standing out starkly against the virgin snow. Her wind-bright brown eyes followed their movements; her warmly booted feet longed to run lopingly toward that inviting slope. But her youthful eyes lowered. She turned to the backpack beside her and, with clumsy mitted hands, extracted a paperback. With a sigh, she brought her legs up, and crossed them beneath her on that hard bench. The wind sang as she quietly opened the book, the shrill, distant laughter still ringing in her ears. -- Nostalgia. -- In a foreign University dorm in a foreign state, Monica sat on the bed which would be hers for the next year of her life, the stark linen crisp and unused beneath her. An array of equally new textbooks clumped beside her on the hard mattress, and the duffle containing all of her worldly goods gaped dumbly at her feet. A cool draft brushed her skin, goosebumps instantly arising. Her head rose, and her eyes settled on a small, but serviceable window, shaded by a tall tree, now barren of leaves in this late winter season. "Monica?" A familiar voice in an unfamiliar place. She turned her head, and felt her lips stretching into a relieved smile as she met her friend's eyes. "Lucy." "Homesick already?" Monica grinned sheepishly and shrugged, although the weighted feeling did not leave her shoulders. Having dreamt of independence for so long, as all do in their youth, she had not expected to be missing her family, her friends, so much, so soon. Her sheepish grin widened slightly, but she averted her eyes, which sang of longing. Instead, she gazed down at the cool off-white of the bed sheet, idly twisting a crease in the tough material between two fingers. Her friend smiled sympathetically and moved to touch her shoulder in comfort. "Yeah, I know." She paused, then suddenly became overcome with an idea, her grin widening in excitement, "C'mon, let's get your mind off it. I'll introduce you to the girls..." Monica considered it momentarily, and felt a grin creep onto her lips as she temporarily crumpled the homesickness to a dull ache. Smiling, she nodded and rose. -- Hope. -- Proudly pinning the FBI identification card onto the lapel of her long, black jacket, Monica shivered slightly as the January breeze whipped the chilled leather about her ankles. Her fingers trailed admiringly over the card's smooth plastic, cataloguing the texture along side the shiny fourth-grade spelling bee trophy, and the stiff Brown University mortarboard with the loopy red tassel, in the mental file marked ACHIEVEMENT. She raised her head to gaze at the rather foreboding building that loomed before her, the cool glass of the exterior reflecting the frosty state of the parking lot, which lay adrift in neatly ploughed mountains of snow. A sudden wave of anxiety washed over her as she stood, gazing at the heavy doors which would soon open to reveal her destiny. Staring directly at the entrance, Monica Reyes inhaled deeply, and resolutely squared her shoulders. A distinct glint of determination replaced the apprehension in her eyes as her feet began the journey toward her first case, her career, and her future. -- Pain. -- Crumpled blue jeans on frozen flesh, patterned with skeleton leaves and crimson decals. Sharp clicks of cameras flashing. A broken body, not yet mature, lay twisted on the dampened soil. Slick squish of loose mud beneath regulation boots. A father's barely uttered cry of disbelief, trailing into a silence of inconsolable pain. January wind whistles. -- Contentment. -- Flames crackled merrily as they welcomed Monica back to consciousness from their station within the fireplace at the foot of the bed. Her eyes slipped lazily open, slowly taking in her surroundings. First, she became aware of the soft pillow cradling her head. The duvet's weighty embrace warmed her body, clad only in a pale blue tank top and matching underwear. She felt the callused fingers trailing lightly up her arm, the whisper of a caress easily heating her flesh. A smile curled her lips as she turned her head, her soft brown hair rustling upon the pillow with the movement. John Doggett gazed back at her, his mouth curved into an almost mischievous smile, ocean-blue eyes sparkling, the edges crinkling slightly. His intense gaze found hers, and she felt her grin widen. He lay on his side, leaning heavily on the bent elbow which dug deeply into his pillow. The duvet had slipped to his waist, revealing the lean, muscular build of his well-defined torso. The cloud-bare caress continued to warm her arm. She shifted slightly, then with one hand, reached up to trace his angled jawline. Her fingertips glided feather-steps across his skin, moving to lightly brush the crows-feet beside his eyes, before she turned her hand over to slide the backs of her knuckles down his stubble-rough cheek. His eyes slid closed. She cupped his jaw gently in her palm, her thumb extending to trail across the soft expanse of his bottom lip. A gentle sigh escaped him, his breath tickling the fingers which rested so near. Slowly, his shut-eyed smile blossomed, and hers grew in reflection. The warmth of the fire warded away the frost. ---------- The floor is cold. Her bare toes curl, and she shivers involuntarily, drawing into herself in an unconscious effort to conserve heat. Her pyjamas rustle, the sound echoing in the large, empty room, before it settles once again into the accustomed silence. She sighs as the memories are once again brushed aside like aged cobwebs, thick with time, replaced by shapeless feelings and lurking shadows. Bringing the almost forgotten mug to her lips, she takes a sip of cold hot-chocolate as she absently gazes out the fogged apartment window. Solitude wraps itself around her like a worn blanket, and the January wind screams on the opposite side of the pane. A branch scratches insistently at the glass, as though pleading for entrance. ---------- END. ---------- how you like? please send comments/questions/critizim/etcetc to toxicsofabear@hotmail.com and, to be honest, I really don't think that Monica and John were, *ahem* "intimate" *snicker* before the show, but, heck, everyone's gotta have a lapse now and then!