From: effectively absent Date: 20 Jun 2002 23:34:13 -0700 Subject: NEW: Cereal and Salinger DRR *PG-13/R* Source: atxc Title: Cereal and Salinger Author: effectively absent Classification: DRR, Doggett POV, quasi-fluff. Rating: a high PG-13 or a low R, only for swearing though, an abundance of F words. Sorry to anybody that offends, it's not really gratuitous though. (Well, to the extent that swearing as a whole cannot be considered gratuitous) Spoilers: through the end of Season 9, specifically 'Audrey Pauley.' Summary: Breakfast cereal, and a fictional adolescent get Doggett's butt in gear. Archival: Ephemeral, Gossamer. Anywhere else that wants it. Shoot me a note letting me know where it's at. Disclaimer: Doggett and Reyes don't belong to me. They belong to persons other than me. Cinnamon Toast Crunch presumably belongs to General Mills and 'The Catcher in the Rye' belongs to J.D. Salinger. Feedback: would definitely be appreciated at effectivelyabsent@yahoo.com. I just moved from Las Vegas to Fresno. I'm in a little bit of culture shock here, c'mon, brighten my day. Author's Note: I fear my Doggett characterization may be a little off, I've got a Mulder fic bouncing around in my head in addition to my own wacky thoughts and I think they may have tainted this particular fic a bit. Whoops. -------------------- I'm not gonna lie. I know she likes me. And not likes me in the way that I like a good steak or the way that I like the old lady that lives on my block. No. To quote Luke, she *like* likes me. I'm by no means a stupid man. I see the way she looks at me. Wipes mustard off of my chin. Showers me with compliments under the guise of a conversation about pets. She always wears the same face when she does stuff like that. It's coy and cheerful, sure, but right under the surface there's something.- I can't put my finger on it. It's almost like smugness, or self-assuredness. Like it's only a matter of time before I wise up and start returning her sentiments. It's annoying only cause she's right. I don't know what the hell is stopping me. Contrary to what she must think, it's not my past, *our* past, that's holding me back. It's not Luke. Sure, for a while, that was part of it. I've made my peace with that though. Well, as much peace as I'm ever gonna make. Hell, she bore witness to it. Barbara's even rootin' for her. For us. I guess what it comes down to is my tendency to be a moron in situations that I can't think my way out of. Situations that have absolutely nothing to do with my head. Well, not the one above my shoulders anyway. I should've kissed her in the car. If not after the dog person thing, definitely after her stay in the hospital. For Christ's sake, I almost lost her and I still can't bring myself to do what Lisa Mahoney did to me everyday behind the gym in the sixth grade. Just grab her and kiss her. But, no. I didn't. I balked. I shot her a look, trying to convey that I was on to her and then I just got out of the car. Just like that. Meaningful look, followed by another more telling look, groping for the door handle, and out. I'm on the pavement. "See ya Monday," I'd said. Smooth. Clearly, this beautiful woman wants something more from me than a beer and all I can do is manipulate my face and leave her to go home. Alone. If the guys on the football team could see me now. And THEN, after the terrifying incident in the hospital, I drive her home, am once presented with a golden opportunity, and choose a "G'night," in lieu of all the things I should be doing, could be doing. I decide on weighted looks again. She seems to accept it. We're getting way too good at it actually. So here we are now. Mulder's gone again, this time with Scully in tow, we've got who knows what out to get us, everything seems to be moving, changing, and I've got our relationship placed firmly in limbo. And apparently, my head firmly up my ass. Less abstractly, here we are now, here being a hotel room in East Bumblefuck. Monica's sitting indian-style on the bed, playing solitaire on her laptop while I pace the room, trying to solve the world's problems. Focusing on everything but what I should be focusing on- the woman on the bed. MY bed. Her bed is somewhere on the other side of the hotel, abandoned for the time being for want of pizza and warm cans of pop. "John, sit down before you wear a hole in your socks." She's right, my socks would wear before the carpet. It looks indestructible. Wonder what it's made of? I stop and kick gruffly at it with my toe. "Really John, sit down, you're making me nervous." I'm making you nervous? I'M making YOU nervous?! Ha. Before, I could just push it down, not acknowledge this "thing" between us. There were things that needed my attention. Efforts to be made. But now, now there's just…nothing. Nothing but her and I and a whole helluva lot of time. What am I waiting for? I can see her eyes asking the same question. If I were her, I'd have given up on me. I was never one of those guys that mooned after a girl, waiting for her to do something, I'd make my move, see how it turned out and be done with it. Truth be told, I didn't have any real emotional attachment to any of those girls, save for Barbara, but still. She seems content to just wait. Wait while I sort out all the shit tumbling around my head, shit I don't even have words for. I'm beginning to think since I can't articulate the problem, then there must not be a problem. I've tried to trick myself into it. It works for a little bit, I get myself to stroke her hair or hold her hand, but then I just bail. Something in me flinches and retreats. It's absolutely fucking ridiculous. I watch her reach back to the bedside table and grab her Pepsi. No diet sodas for her. It's refreshing. A nice change after all those meals with Barbara or more recently, Scully. She tries to simultaneously drink her pop and play the game, she must be playing Vegas style or something where her time counts. I cross the room to see if I can help, I've become quite the computer solitaire expert, and she starts, spilling some Pepsi on her bent, denim-clad knee. Here. Now. This is an opportunity. I could reach out with my hand, snag the napkin off the bed corner and wipe it off for her. What do I do instead? Stare dumbly at her. Jackass. She looks back at me and gives me that look, the one where she conveys a slow shake of her head and a, "John, John, John, what am I going to do with you?" all through her eyes. Maybe it's best if I leave the room to think about this. I spot my running shoes in the corner and stride over to them. I'm not much of a runner, in fact, I hate it, I'm a bike-riding kind of guy, but my bike is miles away and I've gotta take what I can get. She picks up on my intent and starts cleaning up the mess from dinner, getting ready to leave. "I'm just gonna go for a run," I manage, pulling some suitable clothes out of my bag. "Ok, have fun, see you tomorrow, John," she calls, her form retreating through the door. It's only 7:00, apparently she thinks we're done for the night. That's fine, it'll give me more time to attempt to knock some sense into myself. I dress, and head out the door, past the hotel lounge, the pool, the concierge desk, until I'm at the street. This hotel is pretty nice. They have one of those continental breakfast things in the mornings. I had Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast. That's probably my favorite cereal, but I never buy it at home. Something always stops me, be it memories of Luke or the idea that it's a kid's cereal, I don't know. All I know is I never buy it. Opting instead for Raisin Bran or something more sensible. I can't even bring myself to buy the goddamn cereal I want, how am I gonna get myself to fess up to the woman I want? Marine, NYPD cop, FBI agent, fucking coward. That's me in a nutshell. Just a scared little kid. All men are little boys at heart. Some more than others-ahem-Mulder-ahem. Although, if I got the response out of women he gets out of Scully with that little boy act, I'd gladly perfect my "caught-with-a-hand-in-the-cookie-jar" look. Who am I kidding? Women? Try woman. Singular. Before I even realize I was running, I'm bent over, panting, sweat soaking through the back of my shirt. God, I hate running. With that thought, I turn back to toward the hotel, I'm walking back, screw it. Ok, well, now I guess I've got room to think. The only thing to be said for running is that when I do it, I don't think about anything else. My head clears, I just stare at the road or the horizon and zone out. Walking and bike-riding don't always offer that same refuge. So. Monica. Yeah. Aw, hell, I pick up my running again and dash to the hotel. Once more, I'm panting and bent over, but this time I'm standing in the hotel lounge. Thank God no one else is in here. I help myself to a complimentary beverage and flop down on the overstuffed armchair in the corner. This is a nice little set up they got here. There's a TV off to one side and a bookcase full of outdated magazines and well-worn novels. Not quite our standard fare as far as hotels go, but, hey, I'm not complaining. I spot a copy of 'The Catcher in the Rye' laying discarded on the table nearest me. I used to love that book in high school. Probably haven't read it since then though. I pick it up and thumb through it, stopping on a random page closer to the end and start reading. I must've read for only about 10 minutes when I stumble on something that makes me pause.- "You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think that there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write 'Fuck You' right under your nose." Maybe that's my problem. Every 'nice place' I've been so far has been defaced. Who's to say that a relationship with Monica wouldn't be the same? Things could be going great and then BAM!, sucked into a government conspiracy, 'Fuck You,' or BAM!, near death experience, 'Fuck You.' Or maybe she'd discover that I'm not who she thought I was, not what she wants, and then BAM!, the biggest 'Fuck You' of all, she'd leave. Which might just break me. I don't want to find out for sure. Not to sound so self-pitying, I mean, I guess I haven't had that many 'Fuck Yous,' it's just the ones I've had are huge. Big, red, scorching, capital letters, emblazoned on my brain. FUCK YOU. Aw, hell. I set the book down and head back to my room. Great. I've ostensibly figured out my problem. I AM a coward. That makes me feel better. Sure. Suspicions confirmed, John Doggett is just a big chicken. Too afraid of getting hurt to take chances. When did this happen? It wasn't always like this. Or at least I don't think so. No, it definitely wasn't, I used to put myself out there all the time. But Barbara took up a spray paint can. And then Luke was gone and there was more graffiti. And Scully having to hide William away only served to tarnish another nice place. Still though, I shouldn't be so hesitant. I have a lotta living left to do. Isn't that a song? Never mind. And I mean, maybe I should give Mon more credit, maybe she'd help me wipe away the words. Something else from the book jumps back to me- "If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the 'Fuck you' signs in the world. It's impossible." Maybe I don't need to rid myself of them. Maybe I just need to rub them out as best I can. If some smears remain, who's to say that's trouble? And who's to say that a dirty word is the be all, end all of a relationship? We've already worked through several. We could probably handle more. I've been standing in the hallway this entire time. I about face and head the other way, towards Monica's room. It occurs to me that I probably smell and I turn around again, intent on taking a shower and then finally going to talk to Monica. Reward her for efforts. Let her know the feeling's mutual. I think I broke some sort of record for showering. I was in and out in about a third of my normal time. Dressed in seconds. I beeline for Monica's room and not more than ten minutes since I was reacquainting myself with Holden Caulfield, I'm knocking on Monica's door. She opens it and looks at me expectantly, wearing the same button down and jeans she had on when I last saw her. "Uh, hey, can I come in?" "Sure, definitely, what's up? What's on your mind?" I decide to ease into this. I can't just jump right in. I'm a little rusty. "Nothing really, I'm bored in my room, there's not a game on or anything." That is a lie. The Super Bowl could be on right now for all I know. "Oh. All right." "So what have you been doing?" "Not much of anything I played some more solitaire, which I swear is more addicting than nicotine, and I started writing out a grocery list. I wasn't sure how long we'd be out of town and I thought we could use some rations. Do you want to see if you have anything to add?" "Yeah, sure." I take the list from off the table and scan it bottom to top. Bananas, ginger ale, pretzels…and there it is. The first item on the list- Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I do not believe in signs, but if I did, I'd take that as a pretty colossal one. "Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Mon?" She chuckles and looks down. "Yep, it's sort of a indulgement of mine, none of the 'grown-up' cereal taste as good." "Yeah, I agree with that." I stare at my shoe as if it were revealing the secrets of the world. "Really John, is there something bothering you?" "No. Yes. I don't know. Listen, Mon, there's something I probably shoulda done a while ago, but for whatever reason I couldn't find the guts to and that brings me here. I'm trying to make it right." "Ok…" Do I need to preamble this with anything else? I hadn't really gotten past knocking on the door. I guess, truth be told, I'm a man of action and not a man of words. I carefully step closer to her, holding her gaze. Oh man, I feel like that awkward teenager that read 'The Catcher in the Rye' for the first time, years ago. I think she works out my intent because her lips part in what I think is an unconscious gesture. I follow suit and raise my hand to cup the side of her head, my thumb grazing her ear, and my fingers tangling in her hair. I tug slightly and she leans in. Whoo boy, here goes nothing. I duck my head and lower my lips to hers. The first touch is a shock. My mouth opens further out of surprise and my tongue seems to have developed a mind of its own as it snakes out to find hers. Thankfully, she responds in kind, I feel her hands slide up my chest to twine around my neck, the hair there still near damp from my recent shower and her tongue seems to hold no issues about playing with mine. My free hand slips out to snare around her waist and I pull her closer. This is amazing. I can't believe I waited so long. I'm a jackass. She pulls back slightly and my lips unwittingly chase after hers before I catch myself. Her voice is throaty as she inquires, "John…?" "Yeah, Mon?" "Not to push the issue or anything, by why the sudden change of heart? I mean, let's face it, I've been sending signals for a while here. Why now?" "Did you ever read 'The Catcher in the Rye?'" "Maybe once, in high school, why?" Her face shows just how confused she is, she doesn't see how this is relevant at all. "Never mind then, suffice to say, I, with the help of J.D. Salinger, managed to talk some sense into myself." She half-grins, still not completely understanding, but content to let it go for now, she tilts her head up invitingly and I don't leave her side again till it's time for us to go seek out that Cinnamon Toast Crunch breakfast. -------------------- That's all folks. Thanks for reading! -- ea effectivelyabsent@yahoo.com