That Scar on Your Face
By: Willow25
Rated: PG/13
Spoilers: Daemonicus
A/N: This post-ep story was written almost two years ago in response to a challenge from a friend, who is a huge DRR Shipper, and insisted that writing her a story would help cure the writer's block I was having on a long MSR I was working on. Well, I finished her story, and still haven't finished mine. So she was wrong, but I hope you all agree that something good came out of it!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, any songs or musical artists, or any locations in the DC metro area which are mentioned in this story. Chris Carter, 1013 productions, and Fox own the characters. The songs and artists mentioned are the only ones profiting from their work, and I mention them only out of respect. Hopefully, any and all locations are public domain. I'm making no money from this, and very little glory. I hope you gain enjoyment as great as I got from writing this.
I gather myself and nod a silent goodbye to Dana before trudging up that long flight of stairs out of the auditorium, towards the hall where I hope John is waiting to drive me home. The last 24 hours weigh heavily on me, and John's show with the chalkboard feels like the last straw. He's been bound and determined to prove me wrong on this case, and he did, his glee making me uneasy. I do believe he felt that same tangible evil I did, and that his refusal to admit it is born more from fear than anything else. Still, part of me feels his unwillingness to believe as rejection, of me.
Before John Doggett landed in my life, I never would have believed a man could put me in this state. I probably would have laughed my ass off at the idea. I'd learned over the years to build defenses against other peoples' emotions, to recognize and deal only with my own feelings. I've never been so wrapped up in a man that I felt what they felt, that their pains and insecurities became mine. I can usually separate myself from that tendency, and be caring and open without intruding into their feelings.
With John I have no such defenses. I can't hope to explain it, this connection between us. All I know is that I feel what he feels, and I can't stop. I'm the singular witness to the emotion behind that steely exterior; not because I want to let him in, but because there's no way I can keep him out.
Emotional connection aside, something else is going on here. He's been uncertain this whole case; disoriented, unstable; and I feel that too. I feel his absence of concern for my feelings; in the way he's been treating me. He can tell I'm hurting, I'm sure, and he doesn't care.
The more I think about it, the more I feel that this isn't about him being afraid; it's about him being unable to stand me. He's surely decided that he regrets asking me to come to DC and work with him. He doesn't want me as a partner, or anything more. He thinks I'm a flake, following anyone with an unusual story down the primrose path…
On second thought, maybe I don't hope he's waiting for me.
I reach the top step and take a deep breath before opening the door. There he is, pacing the hallway, waiting for me. When he sees me he stops pacing, nods, and turns down the hall towards the exit, clearly expecting me to follow. You follow everyone else, Monica, why not follow me?
I sigh and trail after him, feeling woozy. It's not like me to wallow in negativity. I never have to put a lot of effort into being upbeat and positive; it's my natural state. Today, though, my mood seems to be free falling; all I want to do is curl up on my couch with a fuzzy blanket and listen to depressing music. I want to be alone when I'm in a bad mood; negativity lowers my defenses, making it hard to steel myself against other people. I long for the comfy, overstuffed couch in storage in New Orleans, but I guess the couch in my hotel room will do in a pinch.
When we reach the car, John opens my door the way he always does, but rather than holding it for me he continues around the front of the car to his side and gets in. I wince mentally. Yes, today definitely calls for my "Bad Mood Mix" tape. I climb in and close the door, leaning my head against the window; its coolness soothing what is rapidly becoming a pounding headache. I feel John glance at me as he starts the car, and wonder if he's going to ask how I am, or just let it go.
"You okay, Mon?"
Well, maybe he cares after all. Of course he cares, you idiot, you know that. He's just dealing with a lot of internal conflict right now. Great, now I'm talking to myself. I lift my head and answer, "I'm alright, John. I just have a headache."
He nods as though this confirms something and pulls out of the lot. He silently heads for I-395, and evidently there is some genuine concern here, because he leaves the radio off. One of the great joys of driving around with John Doggett is the way we argue over the radio. We both like music and our tastes are varied and often conflicting.
In part to reassure him that I am in fact fine, and in part to spark a conversation of some kind, I flip on the radio. The last thing we'd been listening to was NPR. Earlier it had been the news, now it was some kind of easy listening piano and horn piece, and I leave the station where it is, if only to annoy him into speaking to me.
I sense his confusion, but he remains silent. Although whatever is on the radio is not remotely either of our tastes, I don't reach for the radio again. You're confused, John? Why don't you ask me what's going on. Complain about this awful music. Give me something other than this stony silence where I only have your emotions, flowing over me like the tide, to deal with. In short order I feel anger, worry, fear, and doubt. Well, that makes two of us. I return my head to the window, exhausted.
"This is NPR, National Public Radio. You have been listening to John Tesh, his new album, in its entirety. Next up is track twelve." The announcer's voice fades away, and a new song starts. Yuk, John Tesh. John Doggett is amused, I'm not sure whether it's at my groan, or that we've been listening to John Tesh.
"I'm glad you're in a better mood." I comment without thinking, my relief that he's been cheered up distracting me from the fact that I'm sitting facing away from him with my eyes closed, and therefore shouldn't know he's amused. I feel his mood darken immediately, and wince. Stupid, stupid woman. I'm usually so careful.
"Who said I wasn't in a good mood to begin with? We solved the case, didn't we?" John's voice is tense, and I'm relieved he has chosen to let my slip go, for now.
"You just haven't seemed very happy lately, John. I worry about you." I keep my voice quiet; it's taking a lot of effort not to scream at him right now, to force a confrontation.
His response is quiet. "Don't worry about me, Monica. I always land on my feet." I feel the concern and regret behind his words, and chose not to reassure him. He can't think that telling me not to care is going to have any effect on how I feel. At least, I hope not. God, I'm tired. I flip off the radio, my attempt at sparking conversation having dropped like a lead balloon, and we sit in silence the entire way back to my hotel.