Title: Triangle of Three Words 
Author: Karen (snarky_freak@hotmail.com) 
Rating: Oh, heck.  Let's say strong R to 'mild' NC-17 
Keywords: DRR.  Blatant DRR.  Doggettfic/Reyesfic 
Summary: 'It all started with three words.' 
Spoilers: Empedocles, 4-D, mainly.  All other spoilers are 
very minor. 
Disclaimer: Again, Doggett, Reyes, and the rest of the XF 
peeps are not mine.  So, again, quit lookin' at me like 
that, `kay?  On a side note, Tanner Lawson, D.V.M., is mine, 
though.  In his case, I guess you can look at me like that... 
Archive: All are more than welcome, just PLEASE notify me 
via e-mail... 
Author's Notes: Okay.  First off, for Chloe and Sarah, who 
commissioned me to write a DRR fic wherein Reyes believes 
Doggett's interested in Scully, but in reality, Doggett's 
really interested in her.  I must admit that this was quite 
a challenge for me, particularly because I wanted to explore 
a great deal of the two characters' conflicted feelings for 
one another.  So, yes, I apologize now for the length of 
this baby!  I hope you do enjoy it...  Thanks again, C & S 
for the rockin' challenge (just bring it, baby, just bring 
it!)!  Also, this takes place about one and a half, to two 
years after S9, with the episodes that have aired so far 
serving (I'd say right up to TN1) as background stuff.  
Lastly, if the rating hasn't scared you away yet, here goes: 
BUG OFF KIDDIES!  THIS AIN'T FOR YOUs!!!  I'm doin' you a 
favor by shoo-ing you away! ;o)  There, my conscience is 
clear... 
--- 
-Isosceles- 
It all started with three words. 
We were on M Street.  I dragged her to that stand I keep 
talkin' about.  Not two blocks from her apartment, so we 
walked to it. 
Was it a Saturday--a Sunday?  I can't even remember.  But 
still-- 
Still, I remember it. 
Three words.  Who woulda thought? 
I had nothin' to do that day--what else was new? 
Alarm went off, got out of bed and thought of her, for some 
reason. 
Thought she probably had nothin' to do, either.  Seein' as 
she'd just moved here, I figured she had nothin' to do.  No 
one to talk to. 
That sounded familiar, `cause that was me, too.  Nothin' to 
do, no one to talk to. 
Hell, we're partners.  Friends, even.  Good friends.  She's 
seen me at my worst.  Least I could do was cheer her up...  
So I drove there without calling first, knocked on her 
door...  Well, I didn't really knock on her door, `cause it 
was open, and she was standing right there, in the hall, with 
her back to me. 
She was arrangin' and re-arrangin' somethin'. 
A welcome mat.  With green leaves and pink flowers. 
I bit down on my tongue and fought off a nasty grin.  She 
looked so pleased with it, how it went well with the color 
of the wall, or somethin' like that...  Couldn't stand to 
tell her it'll probably be gone the next morning. 
Stolen.  Looted.  God knows why, but still--it happens.  
All the time. 
Three words.  Wow. 
It didn't take much to convince her to walk to M Street. 
What do I remember most? 
The bare feet she slipped into those shoes, or the sweatshirt 
she pulled over her white T-shirt? 
Nice running shoes.  Faded sweatshirt. 
Couldn't be those two things. 
The messy ponytail?  The way she kept lookin' up for no reason 
at all, just to smile at the clouds in the sky? 
Her hair was too wispy to stay neat.  Her eyes were big and 
hazel. 
Couldn't be those, either. 
That fist she made when she punched my arm, when I said 
somethin' that made her laugh? 
I couldn't take her fist seriously.  Monica was a peacemaker 
to the end, and fists just weren't her style. 
Couldn't be. 
Three words. 
Could be. 
Maybe. 
Possibly. 
Probably. 
"I met someone." 
I remember leaning closer, and wordlessly offering her the 
mustard.  "Huh?" 
"I...  That's enough, John, thanks." she blocked the mustard 
bottle and sucked the tip of her thumb, getting rid of the 
excess I had accidentally squeezed onto her hand.  Typical 
Monica.  No napkin, no problem--nothing she can't adapt to 
and work around. 
"Wha'd'you say?" 
"I said," she took a small bite and chewed slowly.  "Met 
someone." 
The grease and smoke from the grill felt too hot and too 
suffocating all of a sudden.  "Huh.  Yeah?" 
She nodded as she walked to a bench and sat down.  "You're 
right.  This is really good.  I'll probably--" 
Met someone?  Who?  So what?  Why's she tellin' me this, 
anyway? 
"Where'd you meet him?" 
Her slow smile worked its way to the corners of her mouth.  
She held the bun in mid-air and looked at me from under her 
brows.  "What makes you think it's a 'him,' John?" 
"Fine.  Where'd'you meet?"  I looked away then, not sure 
why, and stared at a store window across the street.  I could 
see our reflection--Monica, happily chewing away at her food, 
and me.  Starin' at nothing and everything all at once, and 
not really knowing why. 
I remember suddenly thinkin' about the welcome mat by her 
front door.  I remember wanting to tell her that it'll be 
gone the next morning, that there was no point putting it 
there, no point trying to-- 
"The shelter.  He works there.  He just graduated from med 
school and he--" 
"Didn't know homeless shelters had their own doctors." 
Another smile for me.  The kind that used to make me forgive 
her for her freakiness sometimes, the kind that used to make 
me feel that things would be fine, even when Hell was on 
Earth and waiting for me. 
The trademark Monica smile.  It was becoming infuriating, 
all of a sudden. 
"What's so funny?" 
"Tanner's a vet, John.  He works at the animal shelter." 
I shrugged, nodded, squinted and did just about everything 
else but talk.  I know.  I probably had 'rude-son-of-a-bitch' 
stamped all over my face then, but hey, you try sittin' there, 
listenin' to that and watching her face light up. 
Tanner.  Dr. Tanner whatever, D.V.M. 
Tanner and Monica. 
Monica and Tanner. 
Sounded alright. 
I guess. 
What the hell kind of a name is Tanner, anyway? 
It's a nice name, really.  And I'm just lonely.  I should 
be glad for her, that she's not like me. 
Lonely.  Miserable.  Alone. 
Really. 
I'm glad she met someone.  Glad to know she's makin' 
friends around here. 
Guess I should stop droppin' by for no reason at all on 
Saturdays, or Sundays... 
Right.  I should be happy.  Monica's my partner.  Monica's 
my friend.  Monica deserves to be happy. 
What am I talkin' like this for? 
As if I had a say in anything.  As if it mattered to me, 
really made a difference to me... 
Why should I?  Why should it? 
She's a free woman. 
She's young. 
Pretty. 
Unattached. 
Beautiful. 
Those eyes of hers can get any guy in trouble, any time, 
any day. 
Attractive.  Yeah.  Very. 
Hey, I'm a guy, and I'm straight, alright?  There'd be 
somethin' wrong with me if I didn't think those kinds of 
things. 
Any red-blooded, straight guy would look at her and think, 
'Yeah.  That's nice.  I like that.' 
Hell, dollars to donuts, those green-blooded aliens Mulder 
keeps talkin' about... If they're straight--God, Monica's 
made me so politically correct these days--they'd probably 
have second thoughts, before they try anything around 
her...  Like kill her.  They'd think twice, look her over, 
and maybe... 
Yeah. 
Sexy.  Monica was--is... 
I remember clearing my throat and frowning at my polish 
sausage sandwich. 
What in hell am I doin,' thinking about her like this?  
She helped me find Luke, for cryin' out loud.  She was 
there at the funeral.  She was crying for me.  Me and 
my wife. 
Ex-wife. 
For god's sakes, she knows my ex-wife. 
Hell.  I'm just bein' honest, aren't I? 
I wasn't afraid, not that-- 
Her smile widened and she nodded at the food in my hands.  
"Since when did you stop inhaling these, John?  I thought 
they were the best in the city." 
Shut up, John.  Stop thinkin' like this--whatever this is, 
John.  Just shut the hell up and talk to her, John. 
I cleared my throat again and shrugged.  "They still are.  
Guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought." 
"You want to walk back?" 
"If you wanna." 
I couldn't care less, Monica. 
Yeah. 
Right. 
"Are you okay?" 
She was looking at me again. 
Big, hazel eyes.  So worried all of a sudden.  For me.  
About me. 
She's not sexy, you bastard. 
She's your partner, you bastard. 
She's your friend. 
And it's too damn late. 
You bastard. 
"Fine," I managed to breathe out.  A few steps away from her, 
and she can't see my face any more.  I toss the sandwich in 
the trash.  The waste.  The garbage. 
You've got a dirty mind, John-boy. 
That was all I kept saying to myself, the rest of the way 
back to her apartment and my pickup. 
She didn't bother trying to talk to me.  She's like that--
she knows me too well, knows the way my stupidities get the 
better of me at times. 
Best to stay quiet. 
"See ya Monday." 
Three words, spoken by me. 
She nodded, smiled and half-waved as I unlocked the door on 
the driver's side.  "Have a good weekend, John.  Thanks." 
Typical Monica.  Never lets on that I've hurt her.  Her 
feelings.  Just... Her. 
I nodded, and watched her walk all the way up the stairs and 
disappear.  She didn't even look back to see if I'd gone. 
Guess she wanted to see if her welcome mat was still there, 
where she left it. 
I remember thinking up of an excuse to follow her.  It would 
be so easy-- 
About that case last Tuesday... 
I forgot to ask about those lab results you checked out 
Friday. 
You were at the animal shelter?  What for?  You gonna get 
a cat, a dog-- 
A boyfriend? 
She met someone. 
That's nice. 
I'm happy for her, really.  `Cause she deserves it, more 
than anyone else. 
After everything I've put her through, she more than 
deserves it. 
As if I had a say in anything. 
She met someone. 
Really, that was nice. 
Monica. 
Tanner. 
It sounded okay, really. 
I remember slamming the door shut and driving home. 
I felt lonelier than ever, and found myself wishing I'd 
never dropped by in the first place. 
That welcome mat was for Dr. Tanner whatever, D.V.M. 
Not me. 
And I didn't know why, but I went home, crawled under the 
covers and pretty much slept the rest of the weekend away. 
Seemed every time I woke up, or got outta bed, I kept 
thinkin' `bout nothing but three words. 
She met someone. 
--- 
It's been what? 
A week, two weeks, maybe? 
Feels like months, years--even. 
I'm reading an autopsy report, and I'm staring at her. 
She's got her glasses on.  Her eyes are scanning the file 
in front of her for something. 
"You lookin' for somethin'?" 
She smiles and looks up at me, before she shifts her gaze 
to the clock on the wall.  "I was," she says as she removes 
her glasses, closes the file and stands up.  "Not any more." 
I watch her walk to the coat rack and pull her silk scarf 
off the hook.  "Where you goin'?" 
"Home, John.  It's almost six.  You should go, too." 
"I'm still readin' this." 
She shrugs and grins at me.  "If you're trying to make me 
feel guilty, it's not working.  I have to go.  Actually, 
I'm running late already." 
Her arms slide into the sleeves of her coat, before she 
gathers her hair up in one hand and pulls it over her collar. 
"Yeah?" I look down and squint at the autopsy report.  None 
of your business what she does after work, John.  None of 
your business.  "Got a date tonight?" 
Monica laughs under her breath.  "You can say that." 
"How is Tanner, by the way?"  None of your-- 
"He's..." she pauses and smiles, searching for the right 
words, and thinking about Tanner, too, no doubt.  "Fine, 
John.  I'm surprised you even remember his name." 
I can only nod at her. 
Not like I have a say in anything, right? 
"He's taking me to the opera tonight." 
My head snaps up and I can feel myself frowning at her in 
confusion.  "Since when d'you like the opera?" 
Another laugh for me.  She buttons up her coat and picks up 
her bag from a nearby chair.  "I don't; he does.  He thinks 
I'll like it, so, hey--I'll give it a try." 
Open-minded. 
Carefree. 
Typical Monica. 
It's a love-hate relationship that I have with that side of 
her. 
I hate it.  How that side of her pushes me to dredge up 
things I'd rather forget or ignore. 
But, all the same-- 
I love it.  How that side of her makes me stop and think 
twice about rules, and limits, and things I can and can't, 
or should and shouldn't do. 
I shrug and smooth out my hair, taking the pencil in my hand 
along for the ride.  "Have fun tonight, Monica." 
She grins, rolls her eyes and turns to leave.  One last look 
over her shoulders, and she'll be gone in a few seconds. 
"I will, or at least, I'll try...  John?" 
"Yeah?" 
Her face turns serious, but only for a second or two.  A look 
of concern wipes away the cheerful glint in her eyes. 
"What is it--what's the matter?" I couldn't help but ask.  
Maybe, just maybe, there was something she wanted... 
"Nothing, really.  I just worry about you.  Go home, okay?" 
The _expression on her face tugs at something pounding under 
my ribcage, and my voice momentarily fails me.  "Yeah.  
`Course I will.  Thanks, but don't worry about me, Monica.  
Really--I'm fine." 
She nods--apparently understanding what the hell it was I 
just said--then turns on her heels and walks down the hallway. 
The sound of her footsteps fading little by little into the 
background suddenly makes me wish we were still out on a 
case somewhere, in the middle of nowhere. 
No opera music. 
No dinner dates. 
No Tanner. 
Whatever. 
--- 
She smiles as if her life is perfect. 
Maybe it is.  Or maybe it's close to perfect, at least. 
"What's on your mind?" 
I cast a glance at the rearview mirror and catch my own 
eyes staring at me. 
"Nothin'," I answer her bluntly.  'Nothin' you'd wanna 
hear, that's for sure...' 
"Come on, John.  You've had that look on your face for 
an hour now.  What is it?" 
"It's nothin', alright?" 
I can see her jaw clenching just a little bit.  Her hair 
moves around slightly--a clear indication that she's 
shaking her head at me.  "Suit yourself..." 
"When d'you say this guy we're investigatin' was born?" 
Sure, John-boy, go ahead.  Ask the stupidest, most irrelevant 
question in the world, why don't you? 
As stupid as my question sounded, she humors me and starts 
rummaging through the papers in the file folder resting on 
her lap.  "September...  23rd... 1952." 
She doesn't even ask me why.  She knows me that well. 
How come I don't know her like that?  How come I don't-- 
"Any plans for the weekend?" 
I shrug and frown at the road before me.  Must she ask that 
question?  I mean, really...  Of all people, she oughta 
know...  Unless-- 
"You know, there's a NASCAR race tomorrow afternoon." 
I nod at the windshield.  '`Course I'd know; that's the 
highlight of my weekend, right there...'  "Yeah.  You're 
right.  Heard some guys talkin' about it earlier.  Maybe 
I'll watch it..." 
"What time do you want to come over?" 
I turn my head and regard her blankly. 
What about your weekend? 
Don't you see enough of me already?  Aren't you sick of me 
yet? 
What about your boyfriend? 
Are you still seeing him?  Does he know about me? 
Does he look at you the way I look at you now? 
It's too damn late... 
Isn't it? 
"Huh?" 
Wow.  You've got a Ph.D., dumbass, and that's all you 
can come up with? 
"The race.  I was thinking we could..." Monica tucks a 
lock of hair behind her ear and shrugs a shoulder at me.  
"Watch it together.  I mean, I don't see you over the 
weekend any more, John.  You haven't dropped by lately, 
and...  I mean, you're probably busy, but..."  She sighs 
and smiles at her own mess of words before she takes a 
quick breath and tries again.  "We can get hotdogs..." 
"You mean, polish sausage."  I look ahead at the road, 
thinking it over. 
"So...?" 
"Don't you got somethin' or somewhere else to--" 
"Well, no, I just thought--" 
I can practically feel her blushing beside me.  I don't 
blame her.  Hell, if I were in her shoes, I'd probably 
punch me for bein' such a Grade A asshole.  But I'm not in 
her shoes, and she's not like that. 
"Be there at two." 
"John?" 
"Yeah?" 
"Did I do something?" 
"Huh?" 
Monica shakes her head and folds her hands neatly on her 
lap.  God, she looks like a little girl when she does that.  
How could I do that to her?  Talk about feelin' like 
somethin' I'd scrape off the sole of my shoe... 
"`M sorry--" 
"--just lately, it feels like you're mad at me for 
something, John." 
"No, it's nothin'.  Not that.  I'm not mad, Monica, I'm 
just--" 
Pissed off. 
Annoyed. 
Irritated. 
A little upset. 
Not myself. 
"--havin' a bad day's all.  I'm sorry." 
We drive the rest of the way in silence.  Monica dozes off, 
while I mentally kick myself for bein' the guy she knows so 
well. 
--- 
"Excuse me..." 
I turn around from the filing cabinet and look for the source 
of the voice behind me. 
Let me guess? 
Dr. Tanner whatever, D.V.M., right? 
"Can I help you?" 
"Is...  Agent Reyes around?  I--" 
"She's upstairs.  She'll be back in a few minutes.  Come on 
in." 
"Thanks.  Sorry, I didn't introduce myself, I'm Tanner 
Lawson--" 
"John Doggett--Agent Reyes's partner.  _Doctor_ Lawson, 
right?"  I ask as I shake his hand. 
"Yes, it is.  Well, it doesn't really--" 
"Sorry," I wave a hand to dismiss his modesty and gesture 
to the visitor's chair in front of Monica's desk.  "Please.  
Have a seat.  She'll be here soon." 
He thanks me again before he straightens his trench coat 
and looks around the office, with somethin' like awe lighting 
up his face.  He's takin' in the freak show, apparently.  
Those alien-faces pictures.  Those yellow clippings from old 
newspapers.  That poster, that screams MULDER IS STILL HERE, 
SOMEWHERE, `CAUSE I WANT TO BELIEVE... 
He probably never expected FBI Agents to work in basements, 
and look into urban legends, and on and on and on. 
'Tell you what, Doc, I never expected--never saw--this comin' 
to me, either...' 
Yeah. 
Monica's type, definitely. 
Dark brown--almost black--hair.  Slightly wavy hair.  Not 
long, but not short, either. 
Green eyes, or some color like that. 
A Roman nose. 
Face shaved religiously, and scrubbed clean every morning 
and every night.  Doesn't look like it, though, `cause his 
hair's so dark.  Always looks like he's got a five o'clock 
shadow, even at ten in the morning.  Sorta looks like an 
artist.  Or poet.  Mysterious, misunderstood.  Or somethin' 
like that. 
Monica's type. 
Opera-lovin'. 
Animal-lovin'. 
`S it just me, or's there a pattern here, somewhere? 
Tanner Lawson clears his throat and turns in his seat to 
look at me.  "Agent...  Doggett?" 
I look up from my desk and arch an eyebrow at him. 
He doesn't look like a vet.  Not to my mind, at least.  
Like I said, mysterious, misunderstood...  Monica's type. 
"You know Monica really well, don't you?" 
I try not to clench my jaw at this.  'Don't tell me, he'll 
`fess up to me, her trusted, reliable, loyal and benevolent 
partner, and say he wants to--' 
"Why d'you ask?" 
He shrugs and smiles down at the floor.  "It's like this, 
see...  I want to--" 
"Tanner?  What're you doing here?" 
Speak of the She-Devil.  Monica breezes through the door 
and almost floats over to her desk, obviously surprised 
and pleased to see her vet-friend sitting in the office and 
paying her a visit. 
Tanner Lawson stands up immediately and turns his back on 
me.  She's got his full and undivided attention, I take it, 
and I can't say I blame him.  I wonder if he's seen her-- 
None of your business, John-boy.  None.  And you're a sick 
bastard for wonderin' that about your partner... 
Not really thinking, I push my chair back and head over to 
the door. 
"Monica.  Gonna check on those ballistics, `kay?  See if 
they found somethin'..." 
I'm about to step into the hallway when her vet-friend calls 
after me.  I look over my shoulder and nod at him.  "Nice to 
meet ya, too, Dr. Lawson.  `xcuse me." 
I don't want a part in this.  I don't want to sit here, and 
pretend I can't hear them, or see them, or... 
I know what it looks like, but hey-- 
Jealous?  Me? 
Come on.  It's Monica; why should I be jealous? 
She's single and she's free to do whatever she wants. 
Besides, I'm not.  I'm not even remotely interested in her; 
she's a friend is all, and nothin' more. 
And the two of them look good together, anyhow. 
I should be happy for her.  Hell, I _am_ happy for her. 
Not like I've ever made her smile like that before, the way 
he does; the way he just did. 
And why is that? 
A year and a half, goin' on two years workin' together, and 
she still looks at me that way.  The one and only way she 
looks at me. 
She smiles. 
And her eyes try to tell me that everything's gonna be okay.  
That I'll be okay.  That she'll do everything she can to 
make sure I'm okay. 
Is that all there is between us? 
How come I never thought this before? 
How come now, after seein' this guy--this Tanner Lawson, 
D.V.M.--how come now, after all this time... 
I think about her and say to myself, 'Why not?  How come 
nothing--not a thing--has happened to change whatever's 
between the two of us?' 
I'm not gonna kid myself, here.  I know the answer, known 
it all along. 
I'm that pig-headed. 
I've known all along how she felt about me. 
All this time I've ignored her--that change in her.  That 
tiny change in her that's been tryin' to tell me that yeah, 
she wants me to be okay.  That yeah, I would be much better 
than okay if I just let her in, just once, just for a 
little bit.  That tiny change in her.  Made her think I 
could make things okay for her, too.  Better than okay for 
her.  Hell, she thinks I can make her real happy. 
And what if I can?  Doesn't seem like she thinks that way 
any more, anyway.  She's got her good-lookin' vet, now, 
charmin' the...  pants off of her. 
Christ.  Why on earth am I thinkin' these things? 
Because. 
Just because. 
Face it, you sick bastard--she _thought_ you could make her 
real happy. 
She had that much faith in you, and you just shrugged it 
off and looked the other way. 
And now...? 
Well, John-boy, I only got one thing to say-- 
You're too damn late, you son-of-a-bitch. 
Too damn late. 
You were too busy, with your head in your ass, tryin' to 
put your life back together, to the way it was, with a 
woman you truthfully don't know at all.  A woman who's 
never thought twice about the man she really loves, a woman 
who has no qualms lying and hiding and keeping secrets from 
you for the sake of that man she loves; the man she'd die 
for, and cry over, and sacrifice her health for...  Need I 
say more?  Okay, I'm up for it now--insult to injury 
time--let's have it: a woman who never would and never will 
think of you the way you think--thought--think of her. 
Leave the past in the past. 
Stick it, John.  Stick it and just shut the hell up, `cause 
practicin' what you preach has never been your style.  Leave 
the past, but don't leave the past.  Believe it, but don't 
believe it.  Feel it, but don't ever admit to it.  And the 
ultimate kicker: fight for somethin' you don't believe in, 
fight for the things you mock.  Somethin', anythin', 
nothin'--just fight.  `Cause fightin' gives you a glimmer 
of hope that next time around, you just might win Luke back, 
from that place you don't believe exists, from that God 
you've stopped talkin' to since that time you found Luke... 
There a word for this delusion?  Yeah--Bullshit.  With a 
capital B.  That's all you're good at; that's all you got 
left. 
And you wonder why you're miserable? 
Agent Scully.  Dana.  Your wife.  Ex-wife. 
William.  Will.  Luke John.  Luke. 
They've never been one and the same. 
You did that.  You made them one and the same.  Your own 
stupid fault. 
Face it, pal-- 
Everyone's moved on. 
Even _she_ has moved on. 
That one person you counted on and still count on, but never 
really, properly, truthfully thanked--and probably never 
will--she's moved on, too. 
She got your stupid, self-destructive hints.  Took a while, 
a long while, but hey-- 
She's in that basement office right now, and she's moving on, 
like everyone else. 
Everyone. 
Everyone but you. 
Christ. 
Coffee sounds real good right about now. 
--- 
-Equilateral- 
He sleeps so peacefully.  Like a lamb. 
If I tell him that when he wakes up later, I know he'll 
laugh. 
He'll laugh in that way of his, and he'll touch me--my face, 
my shoulder, my arm. 
For some reason, watching him sleep reminds me of the first 
time I did this with Brad. 
That was years ago, back in New York. 
I had no idea where to go from there, from that night. 
Thinking about it now, I can't help but smile, because I 
still don't know how exactly things turned out the way they 
did, all those years ago. 
He sighs and rolls over on his stomach.  His pillow falls 
over the edge of the bed and lands on the pile of clothes 
on the floor. 
"Tanner..." 
I know he can't hear me, but I can't help trying. 
"Tanner."  I reach across the bed and grasp one of his 
shoulders gently. 
Gradually, he raises his head from the covers and looks 
around in the dark.  "Mon?  What is it?  Somethin' wrong?" 
Actually, yeah-- 
Something's wrong. 
For one-- 
I feel guilty; like I'm cheating on *him*, somehow.  Tanner, 
is that normal? 
No, Monica, it's not.  It's obsessive, and it's extremely 
unhealthy and you should stop it right now... 
I shake my head and try to smile.  "Nothing's wrong.  You 
just lost your pillow." 
He nods groggily, reaches for the pillow and clears his 
throat.  "Thanks...  What're you doing up anyway?" 
"Nothing, really.  I can't sleep.  Don't worry about it, 
I'll be okay," I pause and drag the bed sheet over his back, 
helping him to settle in again.  "I'm just thinking." 
"Okay.  Happy thinking," he grins, winks affectionately at 
me from under his eyebrows and closes his eyes.  "G'night." 
"`Night."  I watch him again.  His body's relaxed, his 
breathing has slowed to a quiet, contented snore, and I'm 
left wondering one thing-- 
Does John sleep like that, too? 
--- 
I thought women were supposed to be moodier than men.  I 
thought women were always more emotional than men.  
Apparently, I thought wrong. 
He's frowning. 
He's been frowning, on and off, since this morning. 
"John?" 
He furrows his eyebrows and squints at me.  "What?" 
"It's almost lunch time.  Do you--" 
"Go on ahead, Monica.  I'm not hungry yet." 
No use arguing, then, if he's in that kind of mood.  I put 
away the report I've been working on and stand up behind 
my desk.  Just as I was about to grab my purse, the phone 
rings. 
John looks over at me, then looks back at his computer 
screen again. 
Get it, or don't get it--doesn't seem like it really 
matters to him either way. 
With a shrug, I pick up the phone and look at him.  "Monica 
Reyes." 
"Monica, hi.  It's Dana Scully.  I have that autopsy report 
ready for you and Agent Doggett.  I'm sorry you didn't get 
it back sooner, but--" 
"Oh, Dana, it's okay.  Really.  We..." I turn slightly, look 
over my shoulder and see John from the corner of my eye.  
He's looking up at me again, this time with what seems like 
renewed and genuine interest. 
Probably hanging on every word... 
And he's not looking at me; he's looking at the phone. 
Probably wishing Agent Scully were right here, standing in 
front of him and talking to us in person... 
"...were going to drop by your office this afternoon, and--" 
"Well I called in time, then, Agent Reyes.  I'll save you 
and Agent Doggett the trouble and fax it right now." 
"Thanks, Dana.  That would be great."  I had the momentary 
urge to insist that we pick up the report from her office, 
for John's sake, for his momentary happiness, even--anything 
to cheer him up--but I hold back and bite my tongue. 
If he's in love with her, he should tell her himself.  You 
can't help him like that. 
A few more friendly and pleasant exchanges with Agent 
Scully, and then I hang up and grab my purse. 
"That Agent Scully?" 
As if he didn't know. 
I nod and open the office door.  "She said she's faxing the 
autopsy report to us.  Give her about ten minutes.  I'm 
going out.  Do you want anything?" 
"Where you goin'?" 
Out for lunch, you idiot.  If you were listening earlier, 
you would have known that... 
I stand in the doorway and suppress a frustrated sigh.  
'You're very sexy, John, but not when you're acting like 
this...'  I shrug and wave a hand in the air.  "Just out; 
I haven't decided yet.  Do you want to come with me?" 
He looks around the office, momentarily lost.  Helpless, 
all of a sudden.  Like one of those lost or abandoned 
puppies Tanner handles every day at the animal shelter...  
"John?" 
He nods and shrugs.  "Okay.  I'd like that." 
Moody, I say--moody.  But it doesn't stop me from worrying 
about him right away. 
"Are you--" 
He sighs and shrugs into his suit jacket before he joins me 
at the doorway and switches off the lights.  "I'm fine, 
Monica.  Just tired.  Didn't get any sleep last night." 
"How come?" 
He holds the elevator door open for me and allows me to walk 
in first.  "I dunno.  Just get like this sometimes." 
His voice is hoarse and tired, and now, looking more closely 
at him, I notice that his eyes are a little watery, too.  
"Maybe you're getting sick, John.  Do you think you're 
coming down with something?" 
"Yeah.  Maybe." 
"Orange juice." 
That gets a slight reaction from him, as I knew it would.  
"Huh?" 
I grin knowingly as we step off the elevator and walk 
through the lobby.  "Orange juice.  Vitamin C.  Or... If 
you're feeling adventurous, you can try Echinacea.  It 
helps--" 
"Oh.  Yeah.  Thanks, Monica.  I'll keep that in mind." 
There's something more, isn't there? 
Deep down, I can sense something's not quite right with him. 
"Do you want to talk about it?"  I remind myself not to pry, 
not to push and prod and make him feel uncomfortable.  It's 
taken me months to keep my curiosity and my concern in check.  
Now it's become second nature for me to back off at the 
subtlest of gestures.  But this...  I've never known John 
to act like this--so down in the dumps--before.  It just 
wasn't his style.  Now, brooding--that was more his 
expertise... 
He doesn't sigh.  He doesn't roll his eyes or grumble or 
grunt, the way he usually does when I start asking and 
probing him for answers he doesn't really want to volunteer.  
To my surprise, he simply shakes his head and gives me an 
honest answer. 
"No."  He shrugs to himself as he looks straight ahead and 
squints in the bright sunlight.  "Not really." 
---