From: "Agent Toad" <agent_toad@hotmail.com>
Date: Wed, 16 Jan 2002 08:16:58 -0500
Subject: No Subject Provided
Source: direct

Title: Reclaiming the Pain
Author: Agent Toad
Email: Agent_Toad@hotmail.com
(This is my first fanfic...feedback
greatly
welcomed!!)
Category: Post-ep: John Doe; DRR, Doggett
Angst
Rating: PG (just to be safe)
Spoilers: John Doe, Empedocles, 4-D.  Do me
a favor: Assume TrustNo1 never happened.
That episode was character assassination at
its worst.
Keywords: Reyes/Doggett romance, angst
Archiving: Sure, just let me know!
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement
intended.  The characters belong to CC,
1013, and Fox.  Don't sue.  No beta reader
used; all mistakes are mine (or Microsoft
Word's)
Feedback: Please, please, please!!!
Summary: A follow-up to the events of John
Doe.


     "Come on, John.  We'll get you home."
Monica Reyes gestured toward one of the
waiting SUVs of the Mexican Federal
Authorities.  "Do you want to stop somewhere
and get cleaned up first?"
     "If it's all the same to you, Monica, I
just wanna get the hell outta dodge."
     Reyes smiled in spite of herself.
"Come on.  We'll be on the first plane back
to DC."
     AD Skinner emerged from the dusty
cantina and approached Reyes.  "I'm going to
stay on here and tie up some loose ends.
How's John?"
     Monica looked up from the ground.
Skinner saw unmasked sorrow in her deep
brown eyes.  "He'll be okay," she responded
hopefully.  "I'm going to get him home."

     After the silent car ride and arrival
at the airport, John excused himself to go
to the restroom.  Monica fought her concerns
about leaving him alone and threw him a weak
smile, telling him she'd be waiting right
outside.
     John Doggett stared at his mangled,
dust-covered face in the mirror.  He was
reminded of that night a week earlier when
he saw himself for what seemed like the
first time in the mirror of that seedy
Mexican boarding room.  He splashed cold
water up over his face, cringing at the
stinging it caused.  He ran a wet hand
through his hair.  How the hell had he ended
up here?  It's not that he didn't remember;
it's that he couldn't understand.  He had
lived like a stranger within his own skin
for the better part of two weeks, and now
that everything had come rushing back to him
in a torrent of sorrow and pain, he was just
struggling to truly understand who he was,
his place in all of this.  He felt the pain
threatening to overwhelm him, and he gripped
the sink to steady himself.  Luke was dead,
his memory the only thing that had kept him
going, and he was dead.  He remembered it
all now: the frantic search, the sense of
helplessness, and finally, the hopelessness
and numbing pain.  His eyes began to well up
with fresh tears; he swallowed hard and
splashed his face again.  He was sure Monica
was starting to worry.
     As he stepped outside into the
concourse, he saw her standing against the
far wall, her eyes to the floor.  She looked
exhausted.
     "Mon, you ready to go?"  She jumped at
the sound of his voice.  He noticed she
avoided meeting his eyes.  He wondered if
she had been crying.
     "Sure, John.  I think we're leaving
from Gate Seven."  Monica had to resist the
urge to take his hand, to lead him through
the airport as she would a small child.  She
wasn't sure how he'd react to her touch, and
was afraid to overstep her boundaries.  She
wanted to be as supportive as possible, and
decided to let him take the first step.
     They sat at the gate in silence.  It
was not an uncomfortable silence, and Monica
hoped that John was allowing himself to
process the events of the past two weeks,
and the memories his experience had invoked.
Their plane began boarding, and they rose
quietly, careful not to disturb the thoughts
of the other.  They sat down and put their
seatbelts on, and within moments John was
fast asleep.
     Monica studied his face.  It was
bruised, battered, and cut, but in sleep it
looked at if he had found some peace.  The
lines had softened, and his thin lips were
no longer drawn into a line of concern.  She
rested her head back against the seat, and
sleep found her before the plane left the
ground.

     Monica was awakened by a moan.  As her
eyes adjusted and her brain struggled to
remember where she was, she heard another
noise.  She looked over at John.  He seemed
to be asleep, yet he was restless.  He was
shifting in his seat, and his brow was
creased with worry lines.  He was dreaming,
she realized, and she was sure it wasn't
pleasant.  Monica was torn.  She wanted to
wake him up, to hold him in her arms and
whisper that everything would be okay, but
she would be kidding herself, and him.
Things had not been okay in John Doggett's
life since his son was taken away.  It was
important that he remember, that he move
through the pain.  She decided not to wake
him.  Instead, she took his hand in hers,
slowly moving her thumb back and forth
across the back of his hand in a soothing
motion.  He seemed to calm down.
     John Doggett was back in that field,
looking at Monica's sad eyes as she turned
to face him.  He knew what all of the people
were looking at, and an unbidden urge
compelled him to approach, to look upon the
body of the little boy who was once his
vibrant son, Luke.  As he approached, the
circle opened to allow him entry.  He looked
down toward the ground...
     John's eyes sprang open.  "John?"
Monica started quietly.  "John?  Are you
okay?"
     He turned slowly to face her, and as he
met her eyes Monica saw raw pain.  The
crystal blue seemed to have turned to white
heat.  He nodded suddenly, a delayed
reaction answer to her question.  John
looked down to where their hands met.
     "Thanks, Mon," he choked.  He seemed
defeated.  He slumped down in his seat, and,
squeezing her hand, he rested his head on
her shoulder.  Monica fought to keep the
look of surprise from leaping to her face,
and instead reached over and stroked his
hair with her free hand.  Within moments,
John had fallen back into a restful sleep.

     The ride from BWI Airport to Falls
Church was a quiet one, with Monica
reluctantly asking John directions every
once in a while.  They eventually pulled up
in front of his small white house, and John
took his time getting out of the car.
Monica followed him inside after he
retrieved the spare key from the back of the
house.
     "Uh, I'm going to shower.  You don't
have to stay, Monica.  I'll be fine."  His
tone was less than convincing.
     "That's okay, John.  I could use a good
cup of coffee before getting on the road
anyway."  It wasn't a total lie, and it
seemed to satisfy him.  He wasn't sure he
wanted her to go, anyway.
     As John made his way upstairs, Monica
sunk onto his couch.  The house was clean
and neatly kept.  She felt strange, like she
was invading his sacred space, but made up
her mind to stick around for a while.  He
was not fine, not by a long shot.

     John stood motionless under the
showerhead.  His hot tears mingled with the
warm water flowing over his shoulders.  He
had to regain control somehow, but felt too
broken to even think about starting to pick
up the pieces.  He hadn't felt this lost
since...the tears flowed harder now, and he
stood sobbing until there was no hot water
left.

     Monica sat on John's couch and sipped
her coffee.  It seemed like John had been in
the shower for hours.  She once again fought
the urge to go to him, and instead laid her
head back on the cushions.  It has been a
hellish two weeks, and she had finally
admitted to herself about a week after John
disappeared that she was in love with him.
It came to her as a slow revelation: she
began to have trouble sleeping almost
immediately, then she developed a sudden
lack of appetite and an overwhelming urge to
run at top speed from Washington to San
Antonio.  When she finally got a whiff of
Doggett's trail, she pursued it like a
frantic bloodhound, going for the throat of
anyone who got in her way.  Her relief at
having found him quickly went to fear as he
pinned her against the bus.  She knew he was
a strong man, and scared for his life.  She
should have been better prepared for that
reaction.  When he asked about his son, her
heart broke, right there in front of him.
They were surrounded by a band of gun-toting
corrupt cops, and as he lost control it was
all she could do to keep from breaking down
herself.  One of them had to be strong, and
John was in no shape to shoot his way out of
the garage.
     When she finally heard the water go off
upstairs, she made her way to the kitchen
and poured a second cup of coffee for
herself, and one for John.  She had a
feeling it would be a long night.

     John sat on the edge of his bed in his
USMC t-shirt and flannel pants, his head in
his hands.  His red-rimmed eyes told a story
that he knew he couldn't manage to put into
words.  He was in the midst of a breakdown,
and at that moment, he wasn't sure he had
the strength to walk down those stairs
again.  He would have been perfectly content
to curl up into a ball and stay there until
the Apocalypse.

     This was getting ridiculous.  Monica
had waited on John's couch for over an hour
and a half, and she decided it had been too
long.  She began her ascent up the stairs,
making enough noise to alert him to her
intentions.  She wanted to give him a chance
to escape if that was what he needed.
     "John?"  She peeked into his bedroom
and found him perched as he had been for the
last half hour, his elbows on his knees, his
face in his hands.  "John?"  Monica sat down
gingerly next to him.  "John, do you want to
talk?"
     He slowly shook his head.  "Mon, I
don't think I *can* talk right now," he
said, hands muffling his voice.
     Monica cautiously put her arm around
his shoulders, and her efforts were rewarded
when he leaned into her.  She encircled him
in her arms and held him close, stroking his
back.  She began to receive unwelcome
flashbacks to those nights four years ago,
when John had been almost inconsolable after
they found his son.  If she hadn't taken his
gun...
     John tightened his grip on her, but no
tears fell.  He was tired, too tired to cry.
After what seemed like an eternity, Monica
loosened her grip on him and, reaching over,
cupped his ragged face in her hands.  It had
to be sometime in the wee hours of the
morning, and there were decisions to be
made.
     "John?  I don't want to overstep my
bounds here.  You know what you need, and if
you want me to stay, I will.  If you want to
be alone, I'll respect that, too.  You tell
me what you need."
     He stared into her deep brown eyes and
saw her kindness, her devotion,
and...something else.  The words came tumbling
out.  "Stay, Mon."
     She smiled, and lightly caressed his
cheek.  He found himself nuzzling her hand,
and quickly decided he had truly had a
breakdown.  This behavior was very unlike
John Doggett.
     Monica reached down and took his hand.
"Do you have any food around here?  I'll
make us something to eat."

     After a couple of peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches, John seemed to be feeling
better.  "Thanks, Monica," he said, leaning
back on the couch.  "Geez, I seem to be
saying that a lot nowadays, huh?"  He turned
to her, and looked at her as if seeing her
for the first time.  "You've always been
there, haven't you?  Whenever I've needed
you, there you are."  The realization hit
him hard.  She loved him.  Maybe she always
had.
     Monica, seeing the distant look in his
eyes, moved closer and silently wrapped her
arms around him once again.  He returned the
gesture, but there was something different
in his embrace, something more urgent.
Monica misinterpreted the gesture, and
believed he was losing it again.  She held
him tighter, emotion flooding her...finding
that innocent child, lifeless in that
field...watching John die as she switched off
the life support machines in the hospital,
then seeing him alive in her apartment,
oblivious to the pain she had experienced at
losing him.  She tried to control herself,
but despite her efforts, a sob hitched in
her throat.  John pulled back slightly to
look up into her eyes.
     "Mon?"  He reached up and lightly
brushed away a tear that rolled down her
cheek.  "Monica, are you okay?"
     She laughed bitterly.  "John, I'm just
being selfish.  Forget about it."
     "No, Monica, I won't.  Talk to me, will
ya?"  He reached up and cupped her cheek
with his hand.  She cast her gaze from his
eyes and down into her lap.
     "It's just, well, I was scared, John.
Scared I had lost you.  I-I've had that
feeling before, and, well..." She drifted off,
unable to explain what it was she was
feeling.  They were getting into dangerous
territory, and she was worried about
overwhelming him.
     John put his hand under her chin and
forced her to meet his eyes.  The steel blue
seemed to be on fire.  He gently brushed his
lips against hers, pulling back to gauge her
reaction.  Monica's eyes were closed, her
lips slightly parted.  She was scared to
open her eyes, scared she would awake from
whatever wonderful dream she was having.
She felt his lips descend on hers again, and
this time she answered his kiss.  Her hand
snaked up his back and played with the hair
at the nape of his neck.  She pulled his
head closer and deepened the kiss, never
wanting it to end.  They had been through so
much together in the last four years, and
the pain and frustration poured out in the
increasingly frantic kiss.  Against her
body's wishes, she pulled back, gasping.
     "John, we can't do this.  Not like
this."
     He nodded, licking his moist lips.  He
started to lie back, stretching his body
over the length of the couch.  He pulled
Monica with him, and she buried her face in
his neck, her arms wrapped around him.  They
held each other tight, and soon were both
asleep.  They would get through this
together; they always had.