"Hey." 
"Hey what?" 
Doggett leaned against his desk and repeatedly tossed a 
baseball from one hand to the other.  "Wanna have dinner 
tonight?" 
Reyes slowly looked up from the tops of her reading glasses 
and quirked a dark eyebrow at her partner.  "Dinner?" 
His eyes widened as he nodded and looked around the office, 
somewhat puzzled by her reaction.  "Uh-huh." 
"Why?" she nearly snorted her question before she reread the 
autopsy report before her.  It wasn't like John to suggest 
things like that, unless they were out somewhere on a case.  
Sure, he bought her food from the cafeteria once in a while, 
hotdogs every time he went by that stand on M Street, but 
this-- 
"Y'mean, you don't know?" 
"Don't know what?" She flipped over a page and continued 
distractedly.  "John?  What don't I know?" 
Reyes could hear the shuffling of feet, the sound of a drawer 
being opened.  She closed the file folder, removed her 
glasses and slid them onto her desk.  She saw Doggett 
walking around his own desk, meandering his way over to 
where she was sitting.  He was holding something behind 
his back. 
"What--" 
"I can't believe you don't remem'er," he said with an 
incredulous grin before he stood up straight and looked down 
at her.  "Close your eyes." 
She sighed, leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms 
over chest.  "What are you doing?" 
"Close your eyes, Monica.  C'mon," he coaxed her, this time 
more forcefully. 
With another sigh, she did as she was told.  She heard a 
slight thump as something made contact with the surface of 
her desk.  She fought the urge to peek by squeezing her 
eyes shut and pursing her lips. 
After what seemed like an eternity, Doggett cleared his 
throat.  "`Kay.  Open `em." 
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. 
There was a bright pink envelope propped upright on her 
desk, with 'Monica' scrawled crookedly in the middle.  She 
bit her lip, unsure of the reason for her sudden amusement. 
John. 
The image of him obsessively picking out just the right 
card to give her. 
John. 
Writes uphill whenever there are no lines to guide him. 
John. 
Isn't insecure about buying cards with a bright pink 
envelope. 
"Happy Anniversary, partner.  Two years together an' 
counting." 
"John, I--" she began to speak, as her hands plucked the 
envelope from off her desk.  With the card unopened and 
still held in mid-air, she suddenly found herself staring 
at the thing that had held the envelope upright.  "A cactus 
plant?" 
"Yeah," Doggett leaned forward and placed his palms along 
the edge of her desk, all the while smiling down at his 
anniversary gift.  "Y'like it?" he asked, allowing his eyes 
to study her face with unguarded affection. 
She stared. 
The small, but plump, miniature cactus sat motionless in 
the equally small pot that served as its home.  Like any 
other cactus, it was prickly. 
She looked up at him, lips slightly parted in befuddlement.  
She arched an eyebrow at him.  "Thanks, John." 
He straightened up, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, 
indicating the rest of the office.  "Well, `knew you're a 
plant person, Monica.  And I figured since we get pretty 
busy `round here, a cactus is low maintenance an' all--" 
She smiled, immediately catching on and suddenly feeling 
as though the floor had disappeared beneath her. 
Leave it to John to notice. 
Leave it to John to think of things like that. 
Thoughtful, yet practical. 
Practical, but awfully sweet. 
His ex-wife definitely had been a very lucky woman. 
"Thanks," Monica said sincerely as she carefully picked up 
the small pot and examined the cactus more closely.  "Thank 
you, John.  It's perfect." 
"So are we up for tonight?" 
"Hmm?"  She was busy touching her fingertips to random 
needles that caught her attention. 
"Dinner." 
Reyes looked up and noticed that Doggett was back behind 
his desk, clearing up papers and placing them in various 
folders.  "You're not busy tonight, John...?" 
He chuckled at her hesitant reply.  "You're talkin' to the 
wrong person `bout bein' busy after work." 
She shrugged and slid the cactus behind her nameplate.  
Unsatisfied, she moved it again, this time next to her 
pencil holder.  "Only if you're not busy.  I wouldn't want 
you to--" 
"I'm not." 
Reyes smiled at the cactus, gave the small pot what seemed 
like a welcoming and reassuring pat, before she looked up 
at her partner again.  "So we're on.  Where are we--" 
"`Was thinkin' `bout this place in Falls Church, actually.  
Guy who runs the joint's a friend of mine.  He needs some 
customers, so I figured we should give the poor bastard 
some business..." 
She grinned.  "What time do you want me to come over, 
John?" 
Doggett grabbed his suit jacket and proceeded to put it on.  
"Who said it was my house?" 
His partner laughed.  Melodically, gleefully, unabashedly.  
He had to smile at that. 
"Seven's good, Monica." 
She nodded and watched him turn off his computer monitor.  
"I'll be there." 
He walked to the door and looked over his shoulder at her, 
still clutching the bright pink envelope in her hand.  "You 
better.  I gotta go, pick up a few more things at the store.  
See ya seven." 
"John?" 
Doggett turned around and faced her squarely, his trench 
coat rustling as it brushed against the door. 
"Happy Anniversary, too.  I," she waved her free hand in the 
air and shrugged.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't get you anything..." 
He shrugged, and slowly smirked at her.  "Always next year."  
He briefly looked down at the floor before his smirk 
disappeared and he regarded her seriously, pensively.  "An' 
havin' you here every day's more than enough, Monica." 
She nodded, and watched him walk through the threshold. 
The cactus sat, motionless and prickly, in the small pot 
that served as its home. 
Reyes smiled at it again, before she turned off her desk 
lamp. 
--- 
"I didn't know you were a good cook." 
"I'm not." 
"Are you kidding me?  John, dinner was great.  I probably 
gained about three pounds, just--" 
Doggett scoffed to himself and brought the wineglass up to 
his lips.  "You were just hungry," he mumbled with a small 
smile before taking a sip of his wine.  He had splurged with 
the red wine, he knew, but it wasn't often these days that 
he had cause to celebrate anything. 
And an anniversary? 
Hell, it was no wedding anniversary, for sure, but he never 
expected this-- 
This partnership with Monica to last. 
Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, he had always 
doubted that she would stay. 
For good. 
After the hell she'd been through, the first three, four 
months settling in...  Follmer checking her at every point, 
Kersh keeping them down...  The secrets that managed to come 
up, rear their ugly heads.  The nagging, inconstant threats 
to William.  And Mulder.  And Agent Scully. 
Somewhere in there, Monica had somehow managed to implicate 
herself, construct her own personal hell and sympathize 
with him. 
And, yes.  He wasn't stupid enough not to admit it. 
He played a major part in that personal hell of hers.  Here, 
in Washington.  After all, he brought her into this whole 
thing.  Dragged her down with him, knowing she wouldn't and 
couldn't resist the urge to be there for him.  The urge to 
leave a comfortable life and satisfying career in New 
Orleans just to be there for him, and to land what she 
called, 'her dream job.' 
Never once had he thanked her.  Never once had he taken the 
time to appreciate her help, her strength, her support.  Of 
course, there were the little things.  The gestures, the 
relaxed confidence between them.  Of course, she knew he was 
grateful.  There was no need for words; never had been, 
never will be. 
But that wasn't the point.  It never was. 
Never thanking her.  Never once.  Never enough.  Never in 
the way she needed to be thanked. Deserved to be thanked.  
Now, that-- 
That was the whole damn point. 
He wouldn't be sitting here, at home, feeling surprisingly, 
reasonably content with his life right now if it hadn't been 
for her. 
Hell, he wouldn't be sitting here at all if it hadn't been 
for her.  That something about her.  Made him feel okay.  
All right.  Made him feel that he could stop, for once, for 
just a little while and rest.  Stop running.  Stop running 
away.  Catch your breath and stop.  Just-- 
Stop. 
Looking for him. 
And blaming yourself. 
And thinking you didn't do everything in your power to find 
him, to bring him home, safe. 
No one--not his mother, his sister, his brother, his 
ex-wife--no one else, could do that for him.  To him. 
She was the only one.  Always had been.  Always will be. 
He tore his gaze away from the fireplace and caught her 
staring.  "`S rude to stare, y'know." 
"I wasn't staring." 
"No?" 
"Just watching." 
Doggett finished off his wine and studied the bottom of his 
glass.  "Why're you watchin'?" 
Reyes tucked her legs beneath her on the couch and crossed 
her arms over her chest.  "You looked sad.  I'm not sure 
what's wrong; I'm not sure if you want to talk about it." 
"Read my mind, then." 
Her slight intake of breath told him immediately that his 
sarcastic words had inadvertently hurt her.  "Monica--" 
"I didn't mean to stare, John.  I was just worried--" 
He sighed wearily, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge 
of his nose.  "You're always worried." 
She looked down at her lap and swallowed hard.  This was not 
what she expected, after seeing him so relaxed and talkative 
over dinner.  Never one to be deterred, she looked up again 
and smiled feebly at him--a fruitless gesture, since he still 
had his eyes closed.  "My worrying's paid off, hasn't it?  
We're still partners, both of us still alive..." 
He nodded in silent agreement and lowered the glass onto the 
coffee table.  Rubbing his hands together, he stared at the 
floor and cleared his throat.  "Yeah.  Monica," he raised 
his gaze to meet hers before he cleared his throat a second 
time and continued more quietly.  "All this time..." Doggett 
raised his eyebrows, and she in turn, apprehensively raised 
hers, waiting for him to finish.  "I never thanked you.  
For everything.  Bein' there.  Helpin' me." 
She began to shake her head, to dismiss him, his words, his 
gratitude, his-- 
"Don't." 
"John, I wanted to--" 
"Don't do that.  Don't act like it's nothin'.  Don't act 
like what you've done for me doesn't matter much.  It does.  
Monica, I--" he shut his mouth abruptly, obviously frustrated 
with himself, and the way he was handling things. 
"It's okay, John.  You're welcome." 
Her attempt to help with his words did little to satisfy him.  
Doggett furrowed his eyebrows, shook his head and cradled his 
forehead in his left hand.  "I owe you my sanity, Monica.  
Y'know that?" 
Even Reyes could not find an appropriate response to what 
he just said.  And so she did the only thing that came to 
mind: she openly, unabashedly stared at him, not caring 
whether it was rude or not. 
He didn't care either; he simply allowed her to watch him. 
Neither of them was sure how long they sat there, motionless 
and unsure of what to do or say next.  Could have been 
minutes, could have been hours.  Only the sound of the fire 
crackling and popping occasionally, fading in and out, 
intruding once in a while in that space between them, 
served as a reminder that time was passing, moving on, 
wasting away, quickly becoming lost and, equally quickly, 
becoming impossible to recover. 
Do something... 
Anything. 
Everything. 
Finally, Doggett lowered his hand and rested his elbows on 
his knees.  "Some anniversary party, huh?" he quipped with 
the slightest of smirks playing across his lips. 
His companion responded with a sheepish smile, before she 
reached over and squeezed his forearm reassuringly.  "I 
promise I'll never tell what a real bore you are, John.  
We'll keep your party animal image intact." 
He bowed and closed his eyes serenely, tiredly for a few 
seconds.  "`Ppreciate it, Monica." 
Reyes nodded once, retracted her hand and looked down at 
her watch.  "It's getting late.  I should be heading home." 
"Okay." 
She rose and stretched slightly.  "Thanks for dinner." 
He nodded, then looked up at her.  "Any time.  I mean it." 
"Happy Anniversary, John." 
"Yeah.  You, too." 
She turned towards the hallway by the front door, with the 
intention of getting her coat as quietly and as quickly as 
possible.  Halfway to her destination, she heard Doggett 
rise from his seat and follow her. 
"So what are your plans for the weekend?" Reyes managed to 
ask conversationally as she, with a slightly trembling hand, 
awkwardly slid her coat off the hanger. 
"Monica." 
She half-turned, and was surprised to find him standing 
right behind her, his blue eyes looking directly at her, 
into her. 
His eyes.  They've stopped flickering.  Over and around her, 
but never quite settling on her.  They've stopped running 
around her, doing that infuriating dance around her. 
She simply stared at him, and, as was customary of their 
complex relationship, she waited. 
He looked over his shoulder briefly, remembering the sound 
of the fire crackling with the wood.  The peace he felt, 
the contentment, just having her there, watching him.  He 
remembered something more-- 
That sound the fire made. 
Reminding him of all the time he'd lost.  All the time he 
was wasting. 
Two years was a long time. 
Was he going to wait for two more? 
He looked back at her.  She was clutching her coat limply, 
the ends of the sleeves brushing the hardwood beneath her 
feet.  Her eyes were big, and hazel.  If he tilted his head 
a certain way, he could see that spot where her dimples 
would show up every time she smiled at him.  Her hair framed 
her face perfectly, the way the fireplace framed the heat, 
the beauty, and the life of the fire, without drawing 
attention to itself. 
He remembered a night, not long ago, when he drove her home 
from the airport. 
Soaking wet, carrying her heavy luggage, struggling to make 
it to her apartment door without slipping, or dropping a 
bag on his foot... 
He hadn't been that happy in a long time. 
God, three weeks without you around, Monica. 
I missed you. 
What the hell am I sayin'? 
I miss you. 
Still... 
"John?" 
"Stay here tonight." 
She had 'what?!' written all over her face, and 'I can't 
believe I'm hearing this from you' dancing in her big eyes, 
but she dared not articulate these words.  "Do you know what 
you just said to me?"  The smallest of smiles was forming, 
hurriedly, desperately trying to hide the surprise and 
uneasiness she suddenly felt. 
He nodded once, slowly, never taking his eyes off of her. 
She remembered a night, long ago.  A night that didn't 
happen.  At least, not for him. 
She remembered it like the dial tone humming in her ears, 
the dial tone that sounded like a funeral dirge, a death 
bell, a requiem for her beloved.  Her beloved, who never 
knew and perhaps never will know who he is in her life, 
and how much he means to her. 
I would do anything for you. 
Pull the plug. 
Anything but that. 
Do U Believe? 
Yes. 
Prove it. 
Sometimes, at night, if she closed her eyes and thought back 
on that memory that never existed, that memory that should 
not have been... 
She could still feel it.  The life being drained slowly from 
him.  The weight of his hand, his fingers.  The warmth of his 
skin against hers.  A fingertip, caressing her palm before 
the vestiges of life in him began to fade away.  It was a 
small gesture, but it was enough. 
Thanking her for everything.  Everything she had ever done 
for him. 
Luke. 
Agent Mulder. 
Agent Scully. 
The X-Files. 
Him. 
That night that didn't happen... 
He was wrong.  He had thanked her before, for everything. 
He just had no memory of doing it. 
She stared at him again, her weak smile faltering with 
every second he stood there, motionless and waiting for her 
to react. 
Was he challenging her again, for real, this time around?  
Toying with her, her emotions, her affection for him, 
jerking her chain?  They'd been through things like this 
before, but this--it had never been this direct.  HE had 
never been this forward with her.  Besides... 
Wasn't he in love with Dana?  With Agent Scully?  What was 
she talking about?  He wasn't in love with Scully; he still 
is.  Always will be.  No matter what.  He'd do for Scully 
what she--Monica Reyes, his friend and current partner--
would do for him.  And perhaps, he would do maybe more for 
Dana, so much more. 
"Bad joke," she whispered under her breath, not caring 
whether he heard her or not. 
"You think I'm jokin' with you?"  His face immediately 
contorted into an angry scowl, and his eyes darkened with 
genuine hurt.  "The hell d'you take me for, Monica?  I 
meant what I said." 
"You didn't say anything, John.  You told me to--" 
"Well what d'you want me to say?  You think this is easy 
for me?  Huh?  You think I--" 
"'Stay here tonight?'  I'm supposed to understand that and 
just say yes?  What do _you_ take me for, John?" 
He looked at her, obviously stung by her words.  All this 
time, he had known there was a chance that she didn't feel 
that way anymore, the way she did all those years ago.  Hell, 
that vet friend of hers proved that.  But, still, at the back 
of his mind, he always assumed he was wrong, always refused 
to accept the concept that Monica could ever share with 
someone else what he knows she feels, or, for that 
matter--felt--for him. 
"`M sorry.  I--" 
She shook her head and chewed her bottom lip nervously.  
"It's okay, John." 
"No, it's not.  Look, I--" he paused and ran a hand through 
his hair.  "I dunno what got into me.  That was outta line, 
Monica, I--" 
"I should go," she said to herself as she proceeded to put 
her coat on.  Her trembling fingers hovered unsteadily above 
the third button, when his hands came up and fastened them 
for her. 
She sighed, bowed her head and watched him button up the 
rest of her coat.  When he was finished, he lowered his 
hands to his sides and shifted his weight from one foot to 
the other.  "Listen, Monica--" 
"Thanks again for dinner, John." 
Doggett waited for a few seconds for her to say something 
more.  When she didn't, he sucked in his non-existent beer 
gut and nodded curtly.  "Yeah.  No problem." 
"Goodnight," she made a move for the doorknob, but was 
stopped by a hand on her arm.  She swallowed hard and 
looked at him.  His fingers gently squeezed her elbow, and 
pulled her closer. 
Blue towels, blue eyes... 
Taking her in, drawing her in. 
Where to? 
Her own eyes fluttered shut, the very second she felt his 
warm breath against her face. 
This is not happening... 
The hand on her elbow deftly found its way against the 
small of her back, pressing her nearer to his own body. 
Is this not happening? 
His lean frame felt like it had absorbed the fire from the 
fireplace, leaving a hollow, flaming replica behind to 
dance and crackle and pop and burn with the wood in the 
living room... 
Tell me this is happening... 
He bowed his head ever so slightly and breathed in the scent 
of her hair.  She could feel the softness of his mouth 
against her temple, smell the faint scent of soap and 
aftershave. 
"Monica, don't..." 
"Don't what..." 
Doggett pulled back a few inches and tilted her chin upward 
with an index finger, while his thumb slid across her lower 
lip, gently, but firmly prodding her mouth open.  "Don't 
go home." 
She stared at him, almost mesmerized.  Normally, with 
everyone else, every body else, she would pull back and 
regroup, think things over, slow down. 
But this-- 
This-- 
This was not everyone else, not every body else.  She could 
feel him.  What he was feeling, what was going on inside him.  
It was electric, visceral, intense, real, dangerous. 
She smirked inwardly.  John Doggett, the ignorant, reluctant 
psychic.  Giving himself away without knowing it, giving his 
body and soul away just by looking and staring at her.  
That gift he shares with her, whatever it is-- 
He should learn to control it, or else it could get her in 
trouble, any time, any day. 
There was a tempest brewing inside him, and she was not about 
to head indoors for this one. 
"I won't."