She lay on her side, intently watching the flames flicker 
inside the fireplace.  She could feel the heat on her face, 
her skin.  She could hear the firewood crackling and popping 
rhythmically, as if having a lively, animated conversation 
with itself.  The brightness of the glow made her drowsy, 
made her want to close her eyes and enjoy the orange-tinted 
darkness that engulfed her as she neared that hazy, half-way 
point between wakefulness and sleep. 
Beside her, his body stirred and shifted under the heavy 
blanket he had brought down from his bedroom.  A hair-
roughened leg brushed suggestively against her bare thigh, 
draped downwards from her kneecap, and stayed there 
indefinitely.  Seconds later, an equally hair-roughened 
forearm snaked its way around her waist and pulled her closer. 
She smiled languidly and studied the flames once again.  
"John?" 
"Hm?" 
A shiver ran down her spine when he nuzzled her neck and 
lightly kissed the tip of her ear. 
"You're okay?  I mean, with this--" 
"`Course I am."  The large hand attached to the arm around 
her waist suddenly decided to spread its long fingers.  
Like an octopus clamoring for something, anything, 
everything...  It wasn't long before his thumb moved up to 
rest just beneath her right breast.  "You?" 
She looked over her shoulder and simply stared at him.  He 
lifted his head, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged.  "Just 
askin'." 
Sighing, she rested once again on his other arm and closed 
her eyes.  "Isn't this wrong?" 
"Why d'you say that?" 
"I don't know.  I mean, it's just..." 
"Bein' that we're partners, right?" he mumbled groggily 
before his arm loosened its grip on her by a fraction of 
an inch. 
"That's not all, John, and you know it." 
It was his turn to sigh.  He released her abruptly and 
stretched out on his back, his well-muscled arms cradling 
his head.  "You're gonna go home now?" 
"I didn't say that."  Almost instantly, she could feel the 
tears welling up in her eyes.  The hurt that washed over 
him as he asked his question almost physically blasted her, 
and he didn't even know, wasn't even aware of what he could 
do to her with his emotions, and that connection they share.  
If he did know, and if he was aware, then at the very least, 
he didn't believe any of it; that any of it was possible. 
"Hey," gently, carefully, he secured her body in his arms 
and rolled her over on top of him.  He grimaced slightly at 
the tightness with which she held him, the urgent 
possessiveness and fright with which she clung to his body.  
"Did I do somethin'?  Monica, you okay?  Sorry--" 
She nodded, like a frightened child, under the tender 
stroking of his hand against her hair.  "I'm just not used 
to this.  Not used to you like this, John.  I never 
thought--" 
"Want me to stop?" his deep voice rumbled and resonated 
comfortingly against her chest, temporarily calming her.  
"Monica?" 
Shaking her head, she sat up, allowing the blanket to slide 
off her shoulders and rest in a bundle around her hips, and 
looked at him.  His hair was ruffled.  She could see small 
traces of gray near his temples, contrasting with the sandy 
brown she was used to.  His eyes were a darker shade of 
blue; they sparkled in the firelight, and seemed to dance 
when they gazed at her nakedness before making contact with 
her own eyes.  Her hands slid, unbidden, up his ribcage, 
and stopped at his well-defined chest.  "I just don't want 
you to regret." 
His thumb and forefinger reached up and brushed a lock of 
dark hair behind her ear.  "I don't," he allowed his palm 
and fingertips to caress the line of her throat, the ridges 
of her collarbone, the warm valley between her breasts.  
"I won't." 
Reyes watched his hand move down her abdomen, squeeze one of 
her thighs, and start their descent once again, from her neck 
to her leg. 
"I don't want you to regret, either." 
She shook her head and concentrated on the feel of his rough 
hand against her skin.  To her left, the fire continued to 
crackle and debate with itself.  "I don't regret a thing, 
John.  Never.  Not with you." 
"That's good to hear," he drawled, all the while stroking 
both her thighs with the palms of his hands.  "Wanna know 
somethin'?" 
"Sure."  She shifted her weight slightly and nodded, before 
she slid down the length of his body and bowed her head 
between his legs.  "What?" she breathed, before she took 
him in her hands and mouth. 
A heavy groan rolled out between Doggett's lips as his 
hands gently grasped her hair and the back of her head.  
"Mon...  Whatcha think you're doin'...?" 
In and out, back and forth; she used the rhythmic popping 
and crackling of the fire and wood to pace herself, and 
him, to let him know exactly what she was doing. 
For his part, he was going mad, wasn't he?  Stretched out 
on his living room floor, tangled in nothing but blankets 
and Monica--her hands, arms, legs, mouth, hard as a rock, 
hornier than when he was seventeen...  He sighed and closed 
his eyes, letting the feel of her tongue and teeth lull him 
to a state of euphoria that he had felt only once before, 
a few hours ago. 
Christ.  If this was what she meant by a connection between 
them, then hell, yes.  He was a believer, alright.  An out 
and out convert, if anything... 
He felt himself groaning, felt himself quivering beneath 
her as her mouth became less and less gentle, more and more 
ferocious.  His hands grasped messily at her hair, fighting 
so hard to regain some semblance of self-control, but 
gloriously, splendidly losing the battle.  His neck lolled 
to the side, against the pillow on the floor, and his back 
repeatedly arched upwards to meet her. 
He had never felt more alive, never felt more sane... 
And he had her to thank for that, for everything. 
His hands glided down to her shoulders, and began to pull 
her up.  Obediently, she released him and sat up, resting 
on his thighs. 
"No," he whispered urgently as he grasped her hips and sat 
up himself.  "Right here."  Slowly, carefully, he guided 
her onto his erection, all the while reveling in the way 
her eyes seemed to roll back in their sockets at the 
sensation of his entering her body.  Once fully inside her, 
he began to rock upwards, in response to the downward 
thrust of her hips and thighs. 
Monica, arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, pressed 
her forehead against his and nuzzled the tip of his nose 
with her own.  "John," she exhaled loudly, repetitively, 
and moaned under her breath. 
"Huh?" 
"Nothing," she smiled, tightened her grip on him and watched 
his face contort in a mixture of pleasure and pain.  "You 
were saying...?" 
He kissed her slowly, deeply, mimicking their actions from 
the waist down.  He could do this all night, and he knew, 
from hours ago, that she could, too. 
--- 
The fire had died down gradually, and he didn't bother to 
get up and rekindle it again.  She lay on her side, watching 
her reflection on the protective glass of the fireplace.  
She could see him hovering just above her waist, the rumpled 
blanket barely covering his backside.  One of his hands was 
on her leg, the other was propped up behind her to support 
his upper body.  The morning sun shone off his skin, making 
the tiny hairs more golden than usual.  Her breath caught 
in her throat as his mouth gently, wetly made contact with 
her hip bone, and stayed there indefinitely. 
"John?" 
"Mm?" his hand moved up between her thighs and stroked her 
incessantly, just as his teeth sank down into her hip. 
Oy.  Dios.  Holy shit. 
Had his ex-wife been a lucky woman, or what? 
"What is it?" 
She sighed and closed her eyes, trying vainly not to react 
to the gentle probing of his fingers.  "Do you love me?" 
He pulled back from her hip and looked up at her.  "You 
gotta ask?" 
She opened her eyes, grasped the hand that had imposed 
itself between her legs, and nodded. 
"I love you."  Doggett resumed what he was doing and then 
stopped once again.  "I'm in love with you.  Crazy `bout 
you.  What else d'you wanna know?" 
"Agent Scully?" 
"Huh?"  His sleep-disheveled hair stood at attention.  
"What's she gotta do with--" 
"It doesn't take someone like me to notice..." 
He was quiet for a while, before he pulled away and sat up 
behind her.  "Forget that, alright?  It's over.  It was 
stupid.  It was me tryin' to get somethin' I'd lost back, 
and..." he sighed and stared at the blanket, a deep frown 
furrowing his eyebrows.  "It was...  I dunno what it was." 
"You love her, John.  Admit it." 
He looked down at her, studying the serious _expression on 
her face.  "I'm not gonna lie to you, y'know that." 
"I know.  I wouldn't want you to.  I know you wouldn't." 
"That's all." 
"You love her." 
"I can't help the way I feel." 
"I'm not judging you." 
"That's as far as it goes.  Now.  I care about her.  I can't 
help it.  That's it.  Nothin' more than that." 
"You're not--" 
"No.  I'm not.  Just... Sometimes," Doggett squinted at 
something in the kitchen and sighed wearily.  "I get this 
crazy idea in my head.  Y'know, pregnant woman, little boy, 
a son.  Makes me remember him.  Makes me wanna do somethin' 
to get him back again." 
"I know." 
"Don't think that way anymore, Monica, alright?  This is 
between you an' me.  No one else." 
She nodded meekly.  "Okay." 
He lay back down reluctantly and drew the blanket up to his 
waist.  She, in turn, propped herself up on an elbow and 
peered down at him.  "'M sorry." 
"Hey," Reyes slid a slender hand from his chest to his 
stomach, before slipping in under the blanket with him.  
"Don't-" 
"That musta hurt you.  Huh?  Knowin' how I felt..." 
She arched an eyebrow and leaned in closer.  "What about 
Tanner?" 
Doggett stroked her back slowly, futilely feigning innocence.  
"What about him?" 
"John." 
"What?" 
A reproachful, knowing smile found its way across her lips, 
as she reached under the blanket and stroked him gently.  
"Jealous," she mumbled against his chest, all the while 
enjoying the rapid change in his breathing pattern.  
"Weren't we?" 
"I dunno what you're talkin' 'bout..." 
"Hm?" She asked before she pressed her warm tongue against 
his right nipple. 
"Okay-yeah-a-little..." 
She stopped her teasing and sat up, holding the blanket 
against her chest.  "One more thing?" 
"Anything," he answered, while he reached up and tried to 
pry the blanket from her grasp. 
"The cactus?" 
"Uh-huh?" 
"Why-" 
"I already told you." 
"Really?" 
Doggett shrugged and sat up again to face her.  "Reminded 
me of you." 
"Prickly." 
"No-" 
"Plump?" 
"No-" 
"Dry?" 
"Let me finish." 
"Go ahead." 
He smiled to himself and straightened his hair as he 
attempted to compose his words.  "It reminded me of you.  
How you're never...  How you never...  You were never 
about flowers, Mon." 
"What?" 
Doggett rolled his eyes and shook his head.  "Christ.  You 
just won't take my word for it, huh?" 
She shrugged and gave him a placating smile.  "If you want 
me to, I will.  You want breakfast?" 
"I should be asking you that." 
"Feels like I'm taking over your house, huh?" 
He watched her put on her underwear, and pull his button-down 
shirt over her shoulders.  "You're more than welcome to." 
"Feel like pancakes?" 
"Uh..." he scratched his head and stifled a yawn.  "Sure.  
Sounds good."  He hadn't had pancakes in a really long time, 
and he found himself wondering what they tasted like again.  
His stomach half-growled and half-grumbled at the thought.  
"Actually, that sounds really good." 
Monica was already in the kitchen, puttering about, randomly 
opening cupboards and cabinets, acquainting herself with the 
setup of his bowls, plates and cutlery. 
He was still on the living room floor, watching her; how 
the muscles of her long legs flexed and unflexed every time 
she tiptoed to reach for something on the topmost shelf. 
"`Bout that cactus..." 
"I was never about flowers, I know.  Whatever that means, 
John," she replied in a loud voice as she busied herself 
with the batter. 
Slowly, reluctantly, he got up and put on his boxers and 
jeans.  He looked down at the blanket, and the mess of 
pillows and stray clothing by the fireplace.  The coffee 
table needed to be moved back to its usual spot, and the 
TV cart had to be swung around just a bit to face the couch. 
To hell with it, he'll move it later. 
"Monica, you want coffee?" 
She nodded, and concentrated once again on making pancakes. 
Slowly, he walked over and stood behind her, wrapping an arm 
around her waist.  "`Bout that cactus..." 
"I've already heard this one..." 
Doggett kissed her cheek and placed his hand on top of hers, 
helping her stir the contents of the bowl.  "You'd go for 
the cactus, not the flower," he said in a low voice.  
"Prickly an' all, you still got the patience to take care 
of it.  `Mean, most of the time," he paused and tasted the 
batter.  "Most of the time, cactus can't give you anythin' 
back in return.  You touch it, it pricks you.  You water 
it, won't give you flowers.  Thing of it is, you don't care.  
You still keep it in the office, still smile at it, still 
name it, prob'ly.  Lord knows you're gonna talk to it.  
That's why."  With that, he kissed the side of her neck, 
stepped back and grabbed the coffee pot. 
"John?" 
"Yeah?" 
"I've got three words for you." 
"Yeah, whassat?" 
"Cactus stays here." 
He looked at her, half-understanding the implications of 
those three words.  "Okay by me." 
"Good."  She smiled once more, before she turned her back 
on him and spooned some batter into a pan. 
He watched her, and he remembered. 
A pink and green welcome mat by the door of her apartment. 
Polish sausages on M Street. 
Bare feet in running shoes.  Faded sweatshirt over a white 
T-shirt. 
Messy ponytail.  Smiling at the clouds in the sky. 
That fist she made when she punched his arm. 
The excess mustard on her thumb. 
The three words that started everything. 
For him. 
For her. 
Three words, huh? 
Cactus stays here. 
Happy Anniversary, partner. 
I don't regret. 
I won't regret. 
You love me? 
You gotta ask? 
Read my mind. 
This is between- 
You an' me. 
No one else. 
Three words, huh? 
Who woulda thought? 
That it all starts again, with three words. 
END 
(yeesh, finally!) 
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