Title: Long Time No See
Author:  Scifinerdgrl
Rating: PG
Classification: SA
Spoilers:  Release
Keywords: Pre-XF story, Doggett, Doggett/Reyes Friendship
Summary: Doggett seeks the help of a therapist on Valentine's Day
Note: I based the dating of this story on the date given for
Luke's disappearance in "Empedocles."  In "Release" the date is
four years earlier, and Doggett's OS biography changed after I
wrote this story, too.  Grrrr!
Feedback: scifinerdgrl@mail.ev1.net or scifinerdgrl@hotmail.com


Feb 14, 1999

Police lieutenant John Doggett seemed a little surprised and
almost frightened when the tall dark-haired woman opened the door. 
"Come in, John," she said.  "Long time no see."

She ushered him to a firm yet friendly sofa covered in a woven
fabric then sat opposite him in a modernistic chair, covered in
worn but elegant brown leather.  She smiled placidly and picked up
a hefty mug.  "Want some coffee?" she asked.

He nodded, and she went to her coffeemaker, poured another mug,
and brought it to him. "Black, right?" she asked.  He nodded
gratefully and took the mug in both hands.  She returned to her
chair and watched him stare into his coffee, obviously tense.

She broke the silence, "So, John, what brings you back to
therapy?"

*****

John fidgeted with his coffee mug but didn't answer.  They sat in
awkward silence for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the window to
his left, her eyes fixed on him.  Finally she said, "You know,
John, I get paid the same amount whether you answer me or not." 
He drew his eyes to hers but still remained silent.  "You made
this appointment," she reminded him.  He took a deep breath, and
she could see a slight pink tinge start to invade the whites of
his eyes.

She sighed in response to his sigh and shifted in her seat. 
"Okay," she said somewhat sternly.  "If you don't want to talk,
then I guess it's up to me."  His eyes widened but he remained
silent.  She continued, "Today's Valentine's Day, and if I
remember correctly, last Valentine's Day was not a very happy one
for you."  

His eyes misted up and he scratched the side of his nose.  In a
gravelly voice he answered "Yeah, that's right."

She waited for a moment then added, "And you called this morning 
because..."  She waited a long moment, showing him her most
determined face.

He swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his throat.  "I'm
not really sure why."

They sat in silence for a moment.  Finally he said, "The reason
I'm here... I've decided to quit the force."  She raised her
eyebrows but said nothing.  He continued, "I've been accepted to
the FBI Academy.  I have to give them my answer by the 21st."

"So you're sure you want to leave?  What are you waiting for?"

"I'm not sure WHY I want to leave.  I don't want to be doing this
for the wrong reasons."

He thought back to the day he filled out the application.  He'd
invited Monica over to help him.  

It was a Saturday, and he had cleared the whole day.  He awoke
extra early, and went through the house cleaning what he could,
then took an extra long shower and shaved especially close.  He
agonized over his choice of shirt as if he were a teenage girl
going to his prom.  This was silly, he thought, as he stood in 
his underwear in front of his closet. It's just Monica...  
Just thinking her name sent a tingle up his spine. Just Monica...

"Yes," he admitted to his therapist as well as to himself.  "I
have mixed feelings about this."

She nodded her encouragement for him to continue.

"And, today is probably not the right day to be making a decision. 
Last Valentine's Day I was so miserable...  I just want to get
away...  Not to be reminded..."

February 14, 1998

As John Doggett was knotting his tie, he heard an urgent knock at
the door.  He ran down the stairs, somehow continuing to knot his
tie as he ran, and opened the door.  "John Doggett?" A tall, beefy
red-faced man asked.  

Doggett's first instinct was that this man was a fellow police
officer.  "Yes," he answered, a little guardedly.

The man pulled an envelope from his suit pocked and shoved it in
Doggett's direction. Instinctively, Doggett took it from him.  His
forehead wrinkled into an unspoken question.

"Consider yourself served, Mr. Doggett.  Happy Valentine's Day." 
Doggett watched, his body frozen in place by the cold envelop, as
the man turned and walked briskly away, opened his car door and
sped off.  As a cop, Doggett had frequently appeared in court, but
he had a bad feeling about this summons.  Finally, he walked to
his kitchen and pulled out a knife.  He opened the envelope and
saw what he'd both dreaded and expected: divorce papers.

He went to work as usual, his leaden limbs barely going through
the motions as he drove the familiar route from Long Island to his
Brooklyn Precinct.  His supervisor, fellow officers, and even the
secretaries, could see that he was different today, and they had
some inkling why.  It was Valentine's Day, and their co-worker,
who had been through so much, had recently separated from his
wife.  Fortunately, Doggett couldn't bring himself to look them in
the eye.  He was spared the looks of pity and helpless concern
that followed him throughout the precinct.

The squad commander called him to his office as soon as he saw
him.  "Officer Doggett, is there something on your mind?"

"No sir," Doggett answered woodenly.  "Why, should there be?"

The commander looked into Doggett's usually fiery blue eyes, and
was almost frightened by the vacant look he found.  "No reason,
John."  

At this use of his first name, Doggett's instinctive defenses
raised, and he tightened his lips.  "Is that all, sir?" he
challenged his commander.

"No, John.  I have a special assignment for you today.  You're
going to spend the day at the courthouse.  They're short-handed."

Doggett recognized the purpose of this assignment immediately  
keep a troubled officer off the streets.  He was insulted, yet he
knew that his superior was right.  He didn't belong on the streets
today.

He spent the morning standing guard outside a sequestered jury,
his mind alternating between complete blankness and repetitive
replaying of the morning's events.  He stood at ease,
marine-style, silent, motionless, and frustrated.  He wanted to
punch something.  He wanted to go to the firing range and shoot a
hundred paper targets.  He wanted to cry...  He wanted to talk...

As the courtrooms emptied for lunch, he watched the crowds empty
into the hallways, their chatter echoing from the tile floors to
the vaulted ceiling, eventually buzzing from the wall behind him. 
"Go away," he mentally barked.  "Just go away.  All of you."  And
as if obeying his commands, they filed into stairwells and boarded
the elevators and disappeared, restoring peace until the next
courtroom emptied.

Just as he'd started wishing for his own lunch break, another
courtroom emptied.  Men and women in business suits brushed past
him as if he were invisible, their chatter again filling the
hallway and assaulting his ears.  Suddenly he felt a hand on his
arm.  "John?" a familiar voice asked.

He twitched and looked in the direction of the voice.  "Monica?"

"Long time no see!"  She said, obviously delighted to see him
again.  "How have you been?" He looked into her eyes, and she
could see her answer in his.  "Not good," she assessed.  "You know
you can call me, anytime."  She squeezed his arm gently.  "Even
though it's been awhile since..."  She could see him wince at the
direction she was heading, and she interrupted herself.  "John, if
you need to talk, I'll be there for you.  I hope you know that."

He nodded and tried to smile.  "Thank you," he said softly, his
voice cracking.

Suddenly a tall, thin man appeared behind Monica.  "Monica," he
said with authority, his eyes on Doggett's face.

She seemed startled, and pulled her hand off Doggett's arm. 
"Brad," she said, a little flustered.  "You remember John
Doggett?"

"Yes, of course," Brad Follmer's syrupy sweetness telegraphed his
displeasure at meeting Doggett again.  "It was a real shame about
your son," he started, oblivious to Monica's accusative glance. "I
hope you're coping with it now that some time has passed."

Doggett ground his teeth and said, "Yes, I'm fine.  Thank you for
your concern."

The hallway was now empty except for the three of them.  Follmer
put his hand on Monica's shoulder, somewhat possessively in
Doggett's opinion.  "Monica," Brad started.  When her eyes met his
he finished, "We'd better be going, or we'll miss our
appointment."

Monica flushed and said, "Yes, of course."  She allowed Brad to
escort her to the elevator, their steps quickening as they heard
the bell.  Doggett watched them the whole way, and as the pair
turned around in the elevator he could swear he saw Follmer reach
down and grab Monica's ass.

His heart sank.  He knew immediately what their "appointment" was.

When another officer relieved him for lunch, he called in sick,
then went in search of the sanctuary he knew he needed: the
Employee Assistance Program.  It was time to return to therapy.

*********************
(February 14, 1999, continued)

"Lieutenant Doggett," the therapist started.  "When you came back
to therapy a year ago, you said you mainly wanted to talk about
your divorce." Doggett nodded.

"And, if I recall correctly, that loss recalled some of the
feelings you had about your son's death."  She paused and looked
closely at his face, gauging  his reaction.  "Now you have two
losses to grieve.  Quitting the force will be a third."  She
watched as he swallowed slowly, as if something were caught in his
throat.  "So, the question is, which loss are you grieving today?"

Doggett's face crumpled and he started to cry.  "I had no idea I'd
miss her this much!" he said, his voice rising.

"Your wife," the therapist said compassionately.

He shook his head.  "Not her," he said.

"Who?"  the therapist asked, puzzled but thinking she could guess.

He couldn't say the name, even after several attempts. He leapt to
his feet and went to the door, then turned around and walked back
to the sofa.  He kicked the base of the sofa, hard, several times,
while his voice, which had lost it's ability to use language,
combined a growl and a yell into a frightening, animalistic series
of shouts.  Finally, he kicked hard enough to jamb his toe and
shouted in pain instead.  He flopped down on the sofa and put his
head in his hands.  He sobbed, "this is NOT happening..."

The therapist got up and went to the door, cracked it open, and
said, "Tina..."

"Consider it done," Tina answered efficiently.

The therapist waited patiently for him to regain his composure. 
She had been through this phase many times with many clients, and
many times with him as well.  The truism around the EAP office was
"Cops don't vent, they explode."  And the unspoken corollary was,
"and better they should do it here where they can't get into
trouble."  She'd seen the damage from unresolved issues, and John
Doggett had been a near-miss in her casefiles.  After his son's
death he was a
police brutality case waiting to happen.

July 14, 1997

She sat at her desk, going through old casefiles, correcting her
notes, adding to them occasionally... just killing time until her
next appointment.  After several years of working in the Employee
Assistance Program, she had learned to count on at least one
cancellation per day. Cops didn't like to talk to therapists, and
even when they had good intentions of keeping their appointments,
something often came up.  Almost none of her clients had confided
to their fellow cops that they were availing themselves of her
services, and they sometimes had trouble getting away.

She sighed and went to the coffeemaker.  As she was emptying the
grounds from her last pot, her intercom sounded.  "Yes?" she
answered.

The voice on the other end said, "Can you take an emergency case?"

"Sure" she answered.  She strode to the door and pulled it open. 
At first she thought her new client might be physically ill, not
emotionally needy.  He was hunched over, his arms crossed in
front of his stomach.  He was shaking and looking downward as his
feet shuffled spastically.  A tall, dark-haired woman was
supporting him, one arm around his back to grasp his far shoulder,
the other crossed over her chest to support him from the other
side.  Her expression was both compassionate and stern.

"John," the woman said.  "You HAVE to talk to somebody.  Please
get it off your chest.  You can't live like this."  As they neared
the door, she turned him around to and put her hand under his
chin.  She brought his face up until he couldn't help looking at
her.  "I'll be right here.  I'll wait for you."  He stared blankly
back at her but nodded.  He broke from her grasp and shuffled
toward the doorway.  The two women exchanged concerned glances,
then the therapist followed John into her office.

He stood in the middle of the room, unable to decide on a course
of action.  Chair?  Sofa?  Window?

The therapist touched his shoulder and he jumped, a frightened
look sweeping over his face.  "I'm sorry to startle you," she said
soothingly.  "Most people prefer to sit on the sofa, but you can
sit
anywhere you like."  She saw just enough relief in his face to
give her hope that she could get through to him.  She strode to
her intercom and pressed the button "Tina " she started.  Tina's
voice responded.  "Already done."  With her next appointment now
cancelled she turned her attention to her new client.

He perched uncomfortably on the sofa, his spine rigidly upright,
his eyes staring blankly at the window on the opposite wall. 
"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, trying to be as
businesslike as she could.  "I was just making some."

He looked toward the coffeemaker and saw the unassembled 
accoutrements waiting for her attention.  He looked back to her
face and nodded.  "Thanks," he croaked.

She turned her back on him and started making the coffee.  With
trained casualness, she looked over her shoulder and said, "So,
what brings you here?"  Immediately his eyes teared up and his
lips came together, pulling inward as if to hold his emotions
inside.  She waited a minute, then said, "It's okay.  Take your
time.  The coffee will take a few minutes anyway."

She went to her desk and pulled out a clipboard holding a pad of
paper, and a felt-tipped pen.  She gave them to John and said
"Here, can you at least write down your name and badge number so I
can start a file?  It's just for my files, okay?" He took the
items and nodded.  "And while you're doing that, do you mind if I
ask your friend to join us briefly?"  She could tell he wasn't
sure and when he didn't answer, she sat down opposite him and
added, "Whatever it is, it's
obviously going to be difficult for you to talk about.  I just
want some background so I can spare you having to fill me in."  He
took a deep breath and nodded his assent.

She walked out of her office, leaving the door ajar, and went to
the anxious woman flipping through a magazine in the outer office. 
"Hi," she said gently.  "You're a friend of this officer John?"  

The other woman looked up, a little startled.  "Yes, I guess I'm a
friend."  She stood held out her hand and the two women shook
hands.  "I'm Monica Reyes, with the FBI.  We've been working on a
case together."  

At the mention of the case, Monica's eyes misted up, and the 
therapist sized up the situation instantly.  Monica was too
involved with this case, but she was being strong for John's sake. 
And, to John's credit, perhaps he was not buying her act.  She
smiled kindly.  "Thank you for bringing him in.  I'd like to ask
you to join us for a few minutes.  It might help."

Before Monica could answer, they heard a loud series of anguished
screams, and a loud but unidentifiable thudding.  They ran to the
office and saw John Doggett kicking the sofa and shouting out.  He
didn't notice them, and continued for a few moments until kicking
seemed not to satisfy him.  Then he crumpled to the floor and
banged the sofa seat with his fists.  "It's not fair!" he shouted. 
"This isn't supposed to happen!"

It was the low point of his life, and as difficult as the journey
back upward to sanity was, he would remember that moment as his
turning point, and these two women as the ones who saved his life.

***********
She put on her "I'm listening intently" therapeutic mask, but
inwardly she was smiling. These were all good signs. Although it
would certainly be painful for him, he needed to move on, to find
someone new... And she had secret wishes about his next choice. As
a therapist, she tried not to have an opinion on her clients'
choices, but as a human being she couldn't help it sometimes.
"John," she said gently. "You don't miss your wife?" 
He shook his head. "Did I ever tell you about what she did on
Valentine's Day the year Luke died?" 
February 14, 1997 He gazed at the trappings carefully set in the
footwell of the passenger seat: red roses with baby's breath, a
bottle of sparkling grape juice, a tiny box wrapped with silver
wrapping paper and tied with a red ribbon. Tonight would be a
Valentine's date to remember. Luke would be at his grandma's, they
had reservations for Pierre's... He smiled, thinking about the
dessert he had planned back at home. Things had been looking up,
and she seemed as eager for a special date as he was. As he turned
onto his street, a child on a bicycle darted in front of the car.
HIS child... He slammed on the brakes and the startled child
looked into his eyes, then fell over sideways. John threw open the
door and ran to Luke's side. Without thinking, he started yelling,
"What the hell are you doing riding around in the street? And what
are you doing on this end of the block? You know your boundaries.
What were you thinking?" 
Luke looked into his father's face, and started crying
immediately. John instantly regretted his anger, and swept Luke
into his arms. "I'm sorry, Luke," he said into his ear. "I'm so
sorry. You scared me, is all." Luke pulled away and sniffed. 
"It's okay, Daddy," he said resolutely. "It was my fault. I'm
sorry." 
Doggett sighed. His boy was almost too good sometimes. He grasped
Luke by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. "No, I'm sorry.
It's just that I worry about you. Sometimes bad things happen to
little boys, and it's Daddy's job to find out about it. I just
don't want anything bad to happen to you. Understand?" Luke
nodded. "C'mon," John said. "Let's go home." He put the bike in
the back seat and strapped Luke into the passenger seat. "Be
careful of the flowers," he warned. "They have thorns." As if the
warning were instead an invitation, Luke stuck his hand inside the
cellophane wrapping, and as Doggett opened the driver's door for
himself, he saw Luke quickly retracting his hand. He smiled to
himself. That was more like it. 
As they drove down the street Luke fingered the cellophane of the
roses and said, "Are these for Mommy?" "Yes, Luke. Today's
Valentine's Day. Remember? You're going to Grandma's and Mommy and
Daddy have a date." 
"Is that why Mommy's taking a nap?" Luke asked. Doggett's stomach
dropped and his hands started trembling slightly. 
"A nap?" he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage. 
"Yeah," Luke said. "Like she used to do before she went away." 
Dammit, John thought. She promised this time it would work, and he
mentally kicked himself for buying it again. And of all days for
her to pick! This day was supposed to be a celebration of her
newfound sobriety, and a renewal of their love for each other. How
could she do this, and today of all days? By the time he pulled
into the driveway he was raging inside, but still maintaining his
composure for Luke's sake. They entered the kitchen, and he saw
the tell-tale signs he'd hoped he would never see again: empty
bottles. 
He set the flowers and the grape juice on the kitchen table and
smiled at Luke. "Okay, slugger. Let's go pack your bag for
grandma's." As Luke ran to his room, John followed slowly.  As he
approached the master bedroom he felt older and more tired with
each step. The door was open, and he saw the familiar sight: she
was passed out, lying crossways across the bed, a pool of vomit
under her mouth. "I'll be there in a minute, Luke" he shouted, and
went to check on her. He put his fingers against her neck and felt
her pulse, then ran them around the inside of her mouth checking
for more vomit. He almost wished she'd aspirated her vomit, the
way she had when he took her to the hospital three months earlier.
She almost died that night, and he half hoped she'd have finished
herself off this time. He wiped his fingers on her blouse then
turned around in disgust. 
Later, at his mother's, Luke played happily in the living room as
he and his mother discussed his options. He wanted so much to give
Barbara another chance, but his mother was adamant: for Luke's
sake, he needed to leave her.  He never took his mother's advice,
and he never stopped wondering whether he should have.
**********
The therapist sighed when he'd finished his story. He'd told her
several similar stories, but this one was different. It was a key
story, one that she wished he'd shared earlier. "For Luke's sake,"
she repeated. "Not your own?" 
This question took him by surprise, "No, of course not. I still
loved her," he said, his answer surprising him as much as her
question had. "But my mom felt she wasn't watching Luke the way
she should have. Now I realize she had a point. Luke was a very
independent kid, and it didn't occur to me that he was too
independent, that he was raising himself when I wasn't there." 
"Then later, you blamed yourself for his death, not her," she
said, a little puzzled. "Why?" 
His emotions idled as his mind searched for an answer. He didn't
know, and the magnitude of the question started to overwhelm his
thought process. He looked at his trusted therapist with honest
dismay. "I really don't know. It never occurred to me." 
"Yet it occurred to her to blame you. Why was that?" He started
reliving some of the anger from that time, and he heard his wife's
accusations in his mind's ear. 'You were his father. You were
supposed to protect him!' He repeated them aloud, "I was his
father. I was supposed to protect him." And as soon as he'd said
this, he heard Monica's voice saying, "You did everything you
could, John. It wasn't your fault." He didn't repeat Monica's
words, but the therapist could see a change in his face. He seemed
to have comforted himself instantly. 
"What else, John?" she prodded, instinctively knowing she was
getting close to the underlying truths he was bringing to this
session. John's eyes teared up, and his pride told him to make
something up. But a deeper instinct took over, a survival
instinct, and he knew it was time to be honest. Finally he said,
"Monica. She believed in me. Too much, maybe." 
"Your wife knew you better. Why didn't she believe in you?" 
"Because everything was my fault." 
"Including her drinking," the therapist offered. They'd been over
this ground before. 
"Yes," he said softly. "I couldn't take care of her. And I
couldn't take care of Luke." 
"And in the end, would it have mattered if you had been the
perfect family?" she challenged him. He shook his head. "So why do
you think Monica believed in you too much?" 
His lip started to quiver and he said huskily, "I really don't
know what she sees in me." 
"And?" she continued probing, sensing the answer to her first
question was almost at hand. 
"And..." he sniffled, then cleared his throat. He maintained his
calm but sighed deeply. "And I miss her. She moved to New Orleans
two weeks ago." 
He swallowed back his tears and looked at her with resolve. "It's
probably best that she moved..." he offered. 
Her eyebrows jumped a half-inch. "You miss her, but you're glad
she's gone? I'm confused," she lied. 
"Well, yeah," he said, a little defensively. "We were spending too
much time together." 
She bit back a smile. "How much is 'too much' time?" 
He squirmed and realized she was watching his body language. "It's
not what you think. I mean, maybe a little... but..." As he
searched for the words his forehead broke out in a sweat and he
wiped it with his sleeve before he realized what he'd done. 
She looked at him expectantly, and finally said with exasperation,
"Well, what is it then?" 
Obviously embarrassed, he finally started, "Well, sometimes when
she looks at me, it seems like... I don't want to sound conceited
or anything... but sometimes it seems like she wants to be more
than friends." 
"And you don't..." she said, nodding her understanding. 
"Don't get me wrong, she's a wonderful person, but..." He paused
as his throat closed up again. He swallowed a dry hard lump and
said, "I can't." 
She was disappointed, but not surprised. "Can't what?" "Can't ...
anything. Just can't go there. Not yet." As he fumbled for the
words his hands gravitated to the tops of his thighs, and he
rubbed their tops, trying in vain to dry their palms with downward
sweeps. "I don't want to lead her on. She doesn't deserve that." 
"Is that why she moved?" She was truly curious now. She knew how
much Monica's friendship had helped John, and she had secretly
hoped something would develop between them. It hadn't occurred to
her that Monica would bolt. 
"She needed to get away from her supervisor." He struggled with
his conscious and finally confessed, "She was having a
relationship with him. I convinced her she deserved better, and
she put in for a transfer." 
************

"So..." she started.  She shifted in her seat and found herself
struggling for words now.  "You're missing Monica?" she said
slowly.  He nodded and blinked back a thin layer of tears.  They
stared at each other for a long moment, then she asked, "And it
was your idea for her to move?"

"Why is that so surprising?" he challenged.

"It's just that..." she laughed inwardly that he'd taken her so
off guard.  "It's such a generous thing for you to do...  not that
you're not generous... but..."  He stared at her defiantly, and
she felt a little foolish.  "Okay, I'm sorry, yes I was
surprised."

"That's okay," he said weakly.

"So, did you suggest New Orleans to her before or after you
decided to apply for the FBI Academy?"

"During.  And New Orleans wasn't my idea," he said a little
bitterly.  "She's being punished."

*********

After standing at his closet door for over five minutes, Doggett
still hadn't chosen a shirt.  C'mon, THINK, he scolded himself. 
What would someone wear on a Saturday afternoon?  Suddenly he had
a moment of inspiration -- wear what he always wore on Saturday
afternoons!  He pulled a gray T-shirt from his drawer and  held it
in front of him.  It looked wrong.  Didn't look Saturday.   He
balled it up and then held it out again.  It looked a little more
wrinkly, a little more manly...  Suddenly the doorbell rang.  He
grabbed his jeans and the T-shirt and ran to the top of the
stairs.  "Be right there!" he yelled as loudly as he could.   He
sat on the top step and pulled both legs of his pants up, laid
back to zipper, then hopped up and ran down the stairs pulling his
T-shirt over his head.

He slid to the door and pulled it open.  "Hi," a somewhat startled
Monica said.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "I'm a little early...  I
didn't mean to..." she continued awkwardly.

"C'mon in!" he interrupted.  His enthusiasm instantly put her at
ease.  "I'm glad you're here."  She smiled, and he felt the
proverbial butterflies in his stomach.  STOP IT! he commanded
himself.  It's just Monica...

They sat at his kitchen table, drinking coffee and talking, the
FBI application sitting unopened for almost an hour when the chime
in the living room clock went off.  He glanced at his watch and
realized how much time had passed, and Monica watched with
concern.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "We haven't gotten to your
application yet."

"No, don't apologize!  You're doing me a favor here.  I shouldn't
be keeping you..." he said, putting a hand on his application.  
His genuine concern touched her and she put her hand over his.  He
pulled his hand back instinctively, and she followed suit.  He
could see that she was biting her tongue, possibly literally. 
"I'm sorry," he offered, knowing she wanted to apologize.  "That
wasn't personal.  Just a reflex."

"No problem," she answered.  She smiled, but he could tell she was
hurt.  They looked at each other, both embarrassed, until she
said, "well, let's get to it," and reached for the envelope.

He put his hand on the edge of the envelope and pulled it toward
himself.  "What I really needed your help with is the essay.  Can
I ask your advice?"

She nodded and said, "Sure.  What about?"

"Well, I've been researching the bureau, and I just need to figure
out a way to say why I want to join the FBI.  I mean, I know, but
I don't want it to seem ....  I dunno... I don't want them to hold
it against me."

"Luke," she said.  "I can see why you're concerned.  They want to
know you'll keep your head."

"Exactly," he responded, grateful for her understanding.  "I mean,
it's not just about Luke, is it?"

"I don't think so, John.  Luke's death could have made you want to
do a hundred other things.  Joining the bureau isn't the
inevitable outcome."  She studied his face, and she could see he
wasn't impressed with her analysis.  "Well, you asked!"

"I know.  I'm sorry.  It's just... It's become like an obsession. 
I can't imagine doing anything else now, and I don't know why it's
taken me this long."

"John," she started.  "When I first started on your case, you
resented us.  We're used to that, you know," she added quickly. 
"The local PD doesn't like us poking around in their turf..."

"Yeah, sorry about that," he said sincerely.  "It wasn't fair to
you."

"No, it's not, but we expect it.  My point is..." she looked at
him intently.  "We solved the case, and you seemed to appreciate
that -- us."

He nodded.  "I did.  I do," he said seriously.  He felt that
butterfly feeling again and squeezed his eyes in silent prayer
against unwelcome thoughts.  

Suddenly her cellphone rang and she grimaced.  "I should get
this," she said nervously.  She pulled the phone out of her purse
and said "Hello," in a neutral voice.  Then, in a high-pitched,
nervous voice, she said, "Oh, Hi."  She stood up and walked to the
other side of the room.  She kept her face away from John and
paced from side to side.  He could tell she was keeping her part
of the conversation to a discreet minimum, but he gathered what
the call was about.  Her voice rose as she said, "Well, sure I
understand.  The bad guys don't exactly have schedules...  Uh, no,
I'm not at home right now..."  After a long silence he heard, "He
asked for my help.  What could I do?"  and a series of hmmm-mmm's. 
"Call me in the morning, then," she said finally, obviously
exasperated. She pounded a button on the phone then put it into
her pocket. She put a hand on the counter and took deep breaths,
her eyes closed, her head bowed, still facing away from John.

He watched her ribcage expand and contract, and felt a compulsion
to try to talk some sense into her one last time.  He padded
silently to her side and put a hand on her shoulder.  She jumped
but he left his hand where it was.  "Mon," he said gently.  "I
wish you'd break this off.  He's obviously not good enough for
you."

She turned and looked into his eyes, and her tearful smile melted
his heart.  "You know I can't, John."

"Dammit, Monica," he said, more frustrated than forceful, "You
deserve better."

She looked at him, the tears in her eyes getting thicker but not
yet falling.  "You know I can't," she repeated.  "You don't know
him...  He likes to be in control...  There's nothing I can do,"
As her voice rose, the tears started to fall.

He put his arms around her and pulled her to him.  She buried her
face in the soft cotton of his T-shirt, and he could feel the
wetness of her tears on his shoulder.  He forced himself to focus
on those tears, to forget the feeling of her body under his hands,
or the scent of her shampoo next to his nose...  or the feelings
rushing through his body...  

He pulled away suddenly and put his hands on either side of her
face, tilting her head slightly to face him.  She seemed startled,
confused, and vulnerable, and he'd never seen her that way before. 
He looked into her moist eyes and felt an overwhelming urge to
kiss her.  As if reading his mind, her eyes widened, and her mouth
opened slightly.

He let his hands drop to his sides, and he took a step backwards. 
"Monica, I think I've found a solution for you."

"No, John," she sighed.  "Please don't ask me to report him.  You
know how it would backfire..."

"That's not what I was thinking," he interrupted.  He started
walking to the kitchen table, and nodded for her to follow him. 
As he crossed the room he added, "You do have a good case against
him.  I'd testify for you...  But I think I have a better idea."

They resumed their seats, and she looked at him expectantly, not
knowing whether to be amused or offended that he'd been making
plans on her behalf.  He opened the manilla envelope that held his
FBI application and pulled out the sheaf of papers.  He fanned the
pages, looking intently through them until he found the one he
wanted.  She looked at him with some confusion as he held it out
in front of her, too far away for her to read it.  He pursed his
lips and studied her face.  By now her tears had dried, and a
smile was sneaking onto her face.  "What?" she demanded, almost
teasingly.  "Let me see it!"

"I was doing some research, looking into what the FBI does and
doesn't do, where the field offices are, what areas I could
specialize in... "  He laid the paper flat on the table and slid
it across to her.

She took in the title instantly.  "A transfer application?"

"Not for me, for you," he said excitedly.  "There's an office in
D.C. that's right up your alley.  It's called the X-Files."  He
paused to check her reaction.  Her face showed confusion so he
continued.  "They investigate paranormal cases!" he announced. 
"It's perfect for you!"

She pulled the page toward her and looked into his eyes.  "But you
think that's all crap.  Why are you suggesting it?"

"YOU don't think it's crap.  That's all that matters."  His hands
became animated and his eyes lit up.  "It's perfect for you,
and..." he stared into her eyes and hunched his shoulders slightly
as if to buttress his argument.  "And it's in D.C.  You could get
out of New York, get away from HIM..."

The thought hung in the air and seemed to have landed on the page. 
He watched as gratitude and admiration spread over her face.  She
shook her head and said, "I can't believe this.  I can't believe
you went to this trouble..."

"It gets better!" he added enthusiastically.  "I asked around, and
one of the agents in that office absolutely HATES it there!  She's
a doctor, and she doesn't believe any of that crap.  She's had
some health problems, too.  I bet she'd jump at the chance to get
out."

Monica pulled the paper towards her.  "It does sound good..." she
started.  "But I don't know...  Maybe it's too good to be true."

"You won't know unless you try," he suggested.

"Good point," she said, smiling. She looked happier than he'd ever
seen her, and he had every reason to think her life would be
turning around now.

*****

"So, you are attracted to her?" Doggett's therapist probed.

He shook his head vigorously.  "It was just a momentary..."

"Now, wait a minute," she challenged.  "It sounds to me like you
really care for her."

"I care ABOUT her," he said defensively.  "There's a difference."

"In other words," she offered.  "You're friends."

"Yes," he said firmly.  "Nothing more."

"So getting her away from her boss was..."

"Just what I would do for any female friend in a bad situation."

"And the fact that you suggested a transfer to Washington at the
same time you were filling out your application to go there for
FBI training ... ?"

*******

They spent the rest of the afternoon together, talking over
coffee, then over dinner, long after John's FBI application had
been filled out.   Before she left she promised to consider asking
for the transfer, but he could tell she'd decided to do it.  She
was beaming all afternoon and seemed to move more gracefully,
breathe more easily, speak with a lighter voice...  If he had to
think of one word to describe her state it would be "freedom."

Two weeks later, she called him at work and asked him to meet her
for dinner.  He wasn't sure what to think of this invitation, but
he was sure he wanted to see her.  Since that afternoon in his
kitchen his house had seemed even emptier than it had before, and
he was never eager to go home at the end of the day.

They met in a nice, but not upscale, restaurant in Southern
Brooklyn.  After ordering dinner he said, "Well?  What's the
occasion?"

She smiled weakly and her eyebrows raised in exasperation.  "I
found out about my transfer today."

"So, we're celebrating?  That's great!" he said, a little too
enthusiastically.

Her lips closed tightly, she shook her head gently.  "Brad called
me into his office,"  He felt a knot start to form in the pit of
his stomach at the mention of Brad Follmer's name.  She continued
painfully, "And he accused me of wanting to go to D.C. to be near
you.  He knows you've applied for the academy."  Her eyes teared a
bit and his heart went out to her.

"I'm sorry, Mon.  It never occurred to me that..."

She interrupted him, "He's very jealous.  He always has been."

"Fits the profile," Doggett appraised.  When her eyebrows raised
he answered her unspoken question, "Controlling, dominating,
jealous... Typical harrassment profile."  They each sipped their
water and shared an awkward silence, which he broke by saying,
"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to be so cold...  So he turned your
request down?"

She shook her head.  "It's not up to him, but he did make a strong
recommendation that I NOT go to D.C.  He told the A.D., well he
told me that he told him this," she said haltingly.  "He told him
that I had great potential and should be sent to a field office in
an area with a high crime rate.  Then he told me that the X-Files
would be a terrible move for me.  That it would ruin my career."

He sighed.  "I've seen the way your colleagues react to your...
when you talk about..."

She smiled broadly.  "It's okay.  I know they don't take me
seriously.  But I can't be dishonest with myself.  I see what I
see.  I believe what I believe.  And, to Brad's credit, if it
weren't for him I think they would have made my life a living
hell."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. "So what did you hear about
your transfer?" he asked finally.

"I leave for New Orleans in six weeks," she said simply.

*****

"Okay, so coming back to why you came in today..." the therapist 
started, trying to be tactful.  "Are you having second thoughts
about going to D.C. now that you know she won't be there?"

He fought the instinct to become defensive, but wanting to be
honest wasn't helping him find an answer.  Finally, he said, "I
don't know."  He watched her purse her lips, studying him studying
her.  "Really, I'm not sure.  I'd just assumed she'd be there, and
now..." his voice trailed off and he took a minute to find it
again.  "If I go, am I going because I want to be there, or to
prove to myself that I wasn't going just to be near her?  I have a
lotta years in here, and I don't want to leave for the wrong
reason..."

"You do have other options, you know."  She often felt as if her
job title should be Option-finder instead of therapist.  Many of
her patients just needed her help remembering to look for
alternatives.  His wrinkled forehead told her it was time to talk
about options.  "There are other jobs besides the NYPD and the
FBI..."

He looked confused and finally said, "It never occurred to me."

"I know," she smiled.  "Let's assume neither option is acceptable,
what would you want to do?"

"I dunno," he stared at the ceiling, squinting at the acoustic
tiles as if the answers were written there.  "Coast guard, maybe? 
Port Authority Police?"  He paused and looked out the window for
the answers that might be there.  "Security work, maybe Wall
Street or the parks department, somewhere that might be a target
for terrorists...."  He looked to her for approval.  "Like those
maybe?"

"Yes, like those.  You wouldn't even consider something outside of
law enforcement?"

He shook his head as he thought about it.  "I can't imagine it. 
The whole point is...  My frustration with the force, has been,
that I couldn't do more.  The NYPD can't cross the Hudson River. 
The FBI can," he said.  "And, after Luke's death, I realized how
important that is."

"So the FBI really is your top choice?" she confirmed.  He nodded. 
"And after the academy, do you want to come back to New York?"

He inhaled deeply and as he exhaled his shoulders relaxed into his
chest.  "Not really.  I want to make a fresh start somewhere new."

"Anyplace specific?"

"No, not really," he said thoughtfully.  "A big city, I suppose,
but..."  He paused and thought.  "Not New Orleans, if that's what
you're wondering."

"That's what I'm wondering," she confessed.  "Have you answered
your question yet?"

He grinned, appreciating the magic she had helped him find for
himself once again.  "Yeah, I guess I have.  I really do want to
join the FBI.  Even though Monica was there, helping me write my
essay, it has nothing to do with her."

"But you do miss her."

"Yes, I do.  She's a good friend," his said, his grin turning more
wistful.

"And you really want to talk to her?"  He nodded.  "Okay, so she's
in New Orleans.  Do they have phones there?"

"Yes," he laughed. "And e-mail."

*****

As he drove away from the building that housed the EAP office, he
looked at the FBI's letter sitting on the passenger's seat.  He
pulled to the curb, hastily signed the letter, sealed it in its
envelope, checked that it had a stamp, then drove on until he
found a mailbox.

Back on the road, he suddenly felt relieved, and didn't want to go
home.  He drove down Coney Island Avenue, all the way to the
beach.  He parked and pulled his coat around his neck as he walked
to the boardwalk.  The sun was low, casting long shadows on the
sand.  He leaned his forearms on the railing and looked out at the
ocean, its waves lulling him into a meditative state.  His mind
emptied, and his newfound thoughts and feelings started to take
root in ground tilled by earlier confusion and anguish.  Yes, he
thought.  D.C.  The FBI.  Monica...  They all felt right to him. 
His eyes moved from the horizon, to the whitecaps breaking far
from shore, to the water lapping against the beach, and finally to
the shadows undulating over the ragged surface of the sand.  

He followed one shadow toward its source... Up, down, up, down, up
down...  Would he have expected to feel such peace a year ago, two
years ago?  His eyes found the source -- his favorite Brooklyn
attraction, The Cyclone.  He smiled and walked toward it.  Nobody
was riding, but in his mind's ear he could hear jubilant screams,
and his mind's eye traced the path of the cars.  He'd ridden it
with Barbara on one of their early dates, and they rode it again
when Luke was finally tall enough to ride it...  He felt a sudden
desire to ride it once more, to feel the rickety ride to the top,
to take that first long, exhilirating drop, to feel his body
flying from side to side through the tight curves of the classic
wooden coaster...  And then to arrive at the end, an involuntary
smile on his own and everyone else's faces as they left their cars
and stepped onto the platform with newfound appreciation for terra
firma.  After his mental ride on The Cyclone, he sighed and found
himself shivering in the cold.  He turned a 360 degree turn,
taking in the other sights nearby, thinking that he was saying his
first goodbye to New York, then he looked past the horizon, toward
the South, toward Washington.

Back at home after a long drive, Doggett fixed himself a frozen
dinner, put on a jazz CD that reminded him of New York, and booted
up his computer.  He opened his e-mail, then clicked on her name: 
Monica.  No matter where she went in the FBI she would have the
same e-mail address...  He would always be able to reach out to
her.

"Dear Monica," he typed, then deleted it.  "Hey Mon--" he started,
then deleted that too.  He settled on "Hi Monica--"  After
struggling for thirty minutes to write a message, he finally hit
[send] after typing:

Hi Monica--
How's New Orleans?  Guess what?  I got accepted to the academy. 
I'll be in the next class at Quantico.

Stay in touch, okay?
--John

He felt silly for fussing so long to come up with such a simple
message, but he was determined to send her a message.  No matter
how difficult it would be to find the right balance, he would
persevere to keep her as a friend.  He shut down his computer and
went to the kitchen to toss out his uneaten dinner.  As he threw
his fork into the sink he was startled by the sound of the
telephone.

"Hello?" he answered, a little cautiously.

"Hi John.  I just got your e-mail," said the familiar, very
cheerful and very welcome voice.

And they talked for three hours, as they would at least once a
week for the next year.

*******

EPILOGUE
February 14, 2000
Dear John,
This has been the hardest year of my life, and I don't know how I
would have stood it without your support.  Thank you for inviting
me to your graduation.  I'd love to come!

--Monica
p.s. Happy Valentine's Day

Monica--
This has been a hard year for me, too.  The academy is even harder
than grad school and everybody's so much younger than me.  I
couldn't have done it without your support.   Happy Valentine's
Day to you too.  I'll call you tomorrow.  :-)

****

Februrary 14, 2001

Dear Monica,
Great news!  Dana Scully is pregnant!  I just found out!   The
A.D. seems worried about her, and I may be able to bring you in to
help with some cases -- are you interested?

She's not going to want to stay in this office after her baby
comes, I'm sure of it!  Keep your fingers crossed!  This could be
your ticket out of New Orleans!

Love, John
p.s. Happy Valentine's Day


Dear John,
Am I interested?!?!?!?!  Just say the word, I'll be there!  You've
made my day, John.  Things are getting so bad here...  Even a
false hope is better than no hope!  Thank you!

Love, Monica
p.s. Happy Valentine's Day to you too

Feb 14, 2002 -- ?

THE END