Title:  Tempo di Mezzo
Author:  Scifinerdgrl
Rating:  PG
Classification: S/R
Spoilers: Audrey Pauley, Release
Keywords: Doggett/Reyes Romance, Post-Ep (Release)
Summary:  Doggett and Reyes reach a turning point in their
relationship
Spoilers:  Audrey Pauley, Release


Their Friday night ritual changed little after her accident. 
John would drive her to a bar in Georgetown, they'd have a few
beers as they talked over the events of the week, then he'd
drop her off at her apartment.  For weeks after her accident,
he could see her hope dying by increments every week, as he
denied her the love he now knew he felt.  Then, after she
accompanied him to the sea with Luke's ashes, he he began to
feel closer to her than ever and wanting to be closer still. 
He had started to think of her as more than a partner, but at
the same time she began to seem more distant.

Maybe he'd been wrong about her, he mused after she'd excused
herself to go to the ladies' room.  Maybe her interest in him
had always been based on pity.  And now that he'd laid to rest
his guilt about Luke, along with the ashes of his beloved boy,
maybe now he wasn't such an interesting project.  He swung his
empty beer bottle by the neck as the waitress passed by.  She
nodded and took the empty along with Monica's.  He tore the
damp napkin into tiny shreds as he pondered his next move with
Monica.  As much as she had encouraged him to talk about his
feelings over the years, she certainly wasn't very forthcoming
with hers.  She'd been there for him all those years, and now
she was drifting away.  What was going on? He hadn't a clue. 
By the time their next two beers arrived, there were two mounds
of shredded paper on the table and still no answers about
Monica. No Monica either, he realized.  What was taking her so
long?  Had she ditched him?

A loud thump on the ladies' room door brought Monica out of her
reverie.  "Monica!" she heard John yell.  "Are you okay in
there?"

"Uh... yeah... be out in a minute," she shouted back.

She stared, unseeing, at the graffiti on the stall door.  Her
mind was on one thing: John, John, John.  He had no clue, no
idea of what she felt.  And now, for the first time, she wasn't
sure she did either.  After her accident he seemed different
somehow.  He was more solicitous, courteous, caring... Yet he
still kept his distance.  It was both flattering and comforting
to be admired at a distance like that.

And then, after he found Luke's killer, that comfortable
distance seemed to be closing.  He was friendlier.  He touched
her more, stroking her hair, taking her arm, putting his hand
on the small of her back...  She loved it, yet ....

"Monica!" he called again.  "You sure you're okay?"

"Almost done!" she yelled, hurriedly finishing her bathroom
tasks.

She paused at the mirror before returning to their booth.  Her
hair.  She hated her hair.  Every few months she tried a new
hairstyle, and it never made her happy, nor did it ever make
him notice her.  Why did she bother?  Lipstick.  Same thing. 
New colors, new styles, flavored, frosted, glossy... none of
them seemed to make a difference.  This week's experiment was a
subtle pink gloss that was almost invisible until caught in
just the right light.  She reapplied her gloss, ran her fingers
through her hair, then hurried back to their booth.

"I hope you don't mind," John said.  "I ordered you a beer.  I
hated to rush you, but I didn't want it to get warm."

She knew it was a lie.  She knew he'd been worried about her. 
And she knew that the reason he'd lied was that she hated being
fussed over.  How could he know her so well, yet be so
oblivious?  "Thanks for the beer," she said, taking her first
sip.  "Sorry I took so long."

"It was time well-spent," he said, gazing appreciatively over
every inch of her face.  "You look great."  She blushed and
became engrossed in reading the label on her beer bottle.  "New
lipstick?" he asked, trying to catch her eye.

She nodded.  For the first time since she was thirteen, she
felt completely incapable of sustaining her end of a
conversation.  She fixed her eyes on the beer bottle, which had
become a crutch of sorts.  She could face serial killers, a
crooked assistant director, and uncooperative witnesses, but
right now she couldn't face her best friend.  She felt like
crying.  She knew she wouldn't, but she felt like crying.

"Monica?" he asked with concern.  "Are you okay?"

Unconsciously, he scratched his stomach as he looked at her. 
Her eyes followed his hands as they moved back and forth over
his shirt.  He'd touched her tummy recently, too, she thought. 
Her stomach twitched as she relived the moment.  After chasing
away the scary monsters created by a little boy's imagination,
he'd run to her, checking on the place where the creatures had
appeared.

He noticed her watching his hand and immediately stopped. 
"What?" he asked, starting to become annoyed.  Her aristocratic
bearing, ivy league education, and self-assurance sometimes
made him feel a little too blue-collar despite his very white
collars and well-tailored suits.

"I think I should go home," she said.  "I'm not feeling well." 
As if to convince him, she shoved the beer away and made a
face.

"Okay," he answered, studying her carefully.  Her poker face,
honed by years of criminal interrogations, stared back at him,
but his investigator's scrutiny found the traces of hurt,
anxiety, and... something he couldn't quite place.  Whatever it
was, it tugged at his heart and made him want to make things
better for her.  "I'll take care of the tab and bring my truck
to the door."

"Thanks," she said, and then he knew something was very, very
wrong.  She should have insisted on walking with him to the
truck, and on paying her half of the tab.  As he walked to the
front of the bar, he looked back toward their booth, and saw
her watching him.  The dim light highlighted her strong
cheekbones and well-defined chin, making her seem stronger,
more like herself, but even in the poor lighting he could see
her wistfulness as she watched him walk away.

On the way to his parking place he jangled his car keys.  This
makes no sense, he thought.  She's never made excuses to get
away from me before.  Why now?  What was different?  Is this
the beginning of the end?  Had he been fooling himself thinking
that this younger, attractive, woman might want to spend her
free time with him?  As he waited for her to appear in the
doorway, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and said
to himself, "Monica, Monica, Monica..."

She couldn't help sighing with satisfaction at the sight of
John's truck.  Just like him, it was solid, forceful,
practical... and a little scary, she realized.  She'd been with
him when he slammed the accelerator, launching the vehicle into
Beltway Traffic, then successfully navigating to the fast lane
within seconds.  Nothing ever scared her, but John's truck
scared her.  And so did John sometimes.  His emotions could go
into overdrive within seconds, and she instinctively knew that
letting him love her would be something she couldn't take back.

They drove the short distance to her apartment in silence, each
wondering whether the Friday ritual had become a mistake. 
Perhaps the accident was an omen, thought Monica.  It could
have been a warning that getting too close to her partner would
spell death for her career, or that it would be the emotional
equivalent of jumping into an abyss.  On his part, John
wondered whether he'd strung her along unfairly.  Maybe instead
of edging closer to her, he should let her go and stop
monopolizing her Friday nights, like the proverbial caged bird
that needed to be released.  He knew now that he loved her --
even Audrey Pauley could see that -- but that didn't give him
the right to possess her.  She needed to find someone worthy of
her love, and he wasn't sure he was that man.  By the time they
arrived at her door he'd come to a decision:  if she wanted to
pull away, he would let her.

He put the truck in "park" and released his seat belt.  "Door
to door service," he said, his smile radiating warmth and care.

She grinned awkwardly and sat watching him as he walked around
the front of the truck to open the door for her.  "Thanks," she
said as he helped her down.  The feel of his hand on hers made
her weak in the knees, which made her need to hold his hand
even tighter.

He could feel a slight tremor in her hand as he helped her out
of the truck, and she seemed a little unsteady on her feet. 
Maybe she really is sick, he thought.  Immediately he forgot
about his own troubles and focused on her well-being.  "Sure
you'll be alright?  Want me to come in with you?"

Panic seized her, and she released her grip on his hand.  "No,
no," she protested.  "I'll be fine.  I just need a little..."
The look of concern on his face made her stop mid-lie.  How can
I lie to him? she thought.  This man without guile, the man who
was everything Brad could never be... the man she loved.  She
swallowed.  Hard.  Then she pursed her lips.  "I need some time
alone," she confessed.

"Okay," he said, nodding, studying her face.  Time alone.  She
was telling him what he'd already concluded.  It was time to
nip things in the bud.  "Goodnight," he said as evenly as he
could.

"Goodnight," she answered, turning to walk up the stairs.

He watched her, remembering a similar evening a few weeks
earlier, before she'd replaced her SUV.  Like that night, he
wanted to run after her, to wrap his arms around her and
promise her she'd never be hurt again.  He wanted to kiss her. 
He wanted to make love to her.  And, just as he'd done that
night, he planted his feet beside his truck, following her only
with his eyes.  She seemed disappointed that night, but he knew
he wasn't able to give her what she needed.  This time the
disappointment was his.  This time he wasn't holding himself
back.  He was letting her go, and she was going.

She reached the top of the stairs then turned to look at his
face one last time before entering her cold, lonely apartment. 
Looking down on him, she was sure she was making the right
decision.  This flirtation, or whatever it was, couldn't
continue.  It could be dangerous.  She'd learned her lesson
about workplace affairs, and she wouldn't make that mistake
again.  She needed to muster her self control and continue
distancing herself from this man until she could look at him
without feeling butterflies in her stomach.  She needed to see
him as a co-worker and nothing more.

Someday she would look back on this infatuation and laugh, she
thought.  But not tonight.  Tonight the butterflies beat
furiously at her stomach walls.  Or perhaps it was the beating
of her heart that she felt.  Either way, she decided, it was
time to put a stop to this dangerous flirtation.  And when she
saw him start to walk around to the driver's side of his truck,
she knew he'd seen the futility of it all too.  He was making
it easy for her.  And she loved him for that.

Suddenly, she found herself flying down the stairs.  When she
caught up to him she put a hand on his arm.  He twirled around
and said, "What is it?  Are you locked out?"

John, John, John, she thought.  So smart.  So clueless.  You're
going to make me say it, aren't you?  "I just want to thank
you," she stammered.  "I forgot to thank you for..."  She
wanted to thank him for everything.  For saving her life.  For
giving her something to look forward to every morning.  For
letting her be herself when everyone else wanted her to change. 
"Thank you for the beer," she said breathily.  "Next time I'll
pick up the tab," she offered, then turned to walk away,
scolding herself for giving in to the urge to run down the
stairs.

And then it happened.  He lost his resolve.  He knew there was
love behind her phony excuses, and he knew she was frightened
by what she felt.  He grabbed her arm, and she turned to face
him.  And with no thought other than to quell her fears, he
kissed her.

It was a brief kiss, but warm and soft and comforting.  For an
instant, the butterflies beat more furiously, but then their
fluttering turned poetic, and they became like ballerinas
moving in graceful and elegant symmetry, lifting her upward on
gentle breezes, pirouetting with playful abandon.

"You're welcome," he said as he pulled away.  He knew he should
feel guilty when he saw the stunned and conflicted look on her
face, but he didn't.  He felt giddy, light-headed, and freer
than he'd ever felt before.

He kissed her again, and this time he didn't surprise her.  She
surprised herself.

THE END