Hello again! I really should get out some more, or perhaps spend some more time on my non-fanfiction stories, but these are just so nice to crank out, and they work excellently to cure writer's block. So here I am again! Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: No. I will not say it again. Fill in the blank yourself.

Special Agent Monica Reyes couldn't sleep. She had been tossing and turning in the unfamiliar hotel bed for the past three hours, futilely trying to find a cool spot that she could settle into and drift off into the peaceful oblivion of sleep. But nothing came of her quest—she was forced to remain restless and full of some kind of hyper anxiety that kept her awake.

Out of all the nights for insomnia to set in! she fumed to herself. This is definitely one of the worst. I have a plane that leaves at eight tomorrow morning—which means that John and I have to be awake by five. And we have a presentation to make to Kersh as soon as we're back in DC!

Monica shot a glance at the clock on her bedside table. 2:47 AM. Damn, she thought, finally giving up and turning on the light. I guess I'll just have to try my hardest to catch up on sleep on the plane.

It had been a series of odd occurrences that had sent Agent Reyes and her partner out to the middle of South Dakota, and even Monica, with her open mind, had been doubtful as to the authenticity of the claims. Floating cattle, while certainly suspicious and out-of-the-ordinary, were not something with any real historical precedent, and Monica was inclined to believe that the farmer's son was either playing a joke that had gotten out of hand, or was just really, really high when he reported the case to the local law enforcement. Finally it had trickled up to Monica and her partner, and they had caught the first flight out to Sioux Falls to try and catch the mysterious cows in action.

Nothing had come of their expedition, and now they were going to have to explain themselves to Kersh. Monica sat up with a disgruntled sigh.

That's why I'm so out of it, she told herself, reaching for the TV remote and beginning to flick through the channels. I'm just stressed about the meeting tomorrow.

Her eyes registered the variety of late-night television shows and re-runs that flickered before her vision—"Friends," some sort of talk show, "Will and Grace," and a newer show that had that guy from "Angel" in it—but none of the information really made it up to her brain. Her mind was focused on the next room over, the room just on the other side of the adjoining plain wooden door, and what its occupant might be doing at that particular moment in time.

And that was the other reason that she couldn't sleep, though Monica was having difficulty admitting it to herself. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw a blue gaze boring into her soul and heard a raspy, gravelly voice that even made her go weak at the knees when she was just imagining it. Monica felt her breath catch in her throat and, furious at herself for letting her mind wander down that particular path (again), she angrily switched off the television and jumped out of bed. Without really realizing it, her feet carried her forward to the adjoining door that she had previously been studying.

She pressed her ear against the splintery, untreated wood and listened for any sign of movement to show that its occupant might, in fact, still be awake. For a moment she didn't hear anything except her own heartbeat, but then the sound of someone at a laptop filtered through the door. She heard the tic-tac of keys being pressed, and briefly, a man clear his throat. Unthinkingly, she gave a brief knock on the door.

The man on the other side paused in his typing, and then Monica heard him begin to approach the door. Oh, shit, she thought to herself desperately. What did I just do? She glanced into the mirror just in time to affirm her belief that she looked like she'd been tossing and turning for the past three hours—messy, tangled hair, bruise-like circles under the eyes, unflattering, rumpled pajamas. In short, she looked like crap.

She gave a mournful wince and then turned back to face the door just as it opened, revealing a tall, broad shouldered man in the frame.

Once more Monica regretted her choice to knock on the door. Special Agent John Doggett looked really good in his plain gray t-shirt. It stretched taut in just the right places to show off his broad chest and muscular shoulders, and accented his sleepy blue eyes in a way that made Monica's mouth suddenly go dry.

"Hey, Mon," he said, rubbing his eyes with one hand while he held the door open with the other. "What's wrong?"

Monica blinked. "Uh…nothing. I just…I couldn't sleep and I heard you up and I….I just…" she trailed off, shrugging helplessly, and John took pity on her.

"You wanna come in?" he asked, standing aside to give Monica a good look at a room just like hers, but with everything reversed. Monica nodded in relief and walked past him into his room.

John followed her, shaking his head. He hadn't been able to sleep either, and this woman was the reason why. He hadn't been able to get his mind to rest—for the past five hours or so, all he'd been able to think about was the woman in the next room. And now she'd appeared at his door, looking far too alluring for John's peace of mind. Her hair tumbled around her face in a wild way that he'd never seen before—but that he really, really liked. Her brown eyes were wide and dark and tired in a pale face, and all John wanted to do was take her in his arms and hold her. And kiss her. And nuzzle her neck. And—

He'd have to stop thinking. It was making the room feel uncomfortably hot and close. Instead, John walked over to the laptop that he'd been sitting before and resumed his seat. Glancing over at the bed, he saw Monica perched on the edge, watching him.

"What are you doing on that thing?" she asked. "You finished your report yesterday morning."

Grateful for a safe topic of conversation, John held up the top folder from a pile of files next to him. "I got the idea when I first started workin' on the X-files," he explained. "When I read through every report. I figured that it would be a lot easier to find similarities, things like that, if we entered them into a database on the computer. Just a search and you've got all the answers you need."

Monica gave a wry smile. "Well—not exactly."

Her partner gave a short bark of laughter that sent shivers up Monica's spine. "Alright, yeah, that's true. But it does make things a bit easier."

"So…you've been carrying the entire X-files around with you this whole trip?" Monica asked, gesturing at the pile of folders by John's hand.

"'Course not," John said, turning his attention back to the computer screen. "Just a couple. And I only had the chance to enter three or four of them. The rest of the time I've either been too busy chasin' those mysterious cows or thinkin' about—or thinkin'," he lamely covered up.

Monica didn't seem to notice. She flopped back on his bed. "I know what you mean," she said to the ceiling. "Sometimes I wonder whether I'll ever be able to have a life to myself. You know. A life without all the complexities of working on the X-files, and especially without all the rules and regulations of the FBI."

"Yeah," John said quietly, watching his partner. "Those rules are…they're restrictin'."

"I mean, look at Scully," Monica continued, seemingly unaware that her partner had spoken. "Nine years—nine years!—on the X-Files, and what has she got to show for it? A baby she doesn't understand, a missing partner, and some pretty damn bad memories. No answers—or at least, very few. And I know that the X-files are my ideal, dream assignment, but I didn't think that it would be so…" she trailed off again, and John supplied the words.

"Government-conspiracy packed," he said jokingly.

"Yeah," Monica agreed. Then she rolled over on her stomach to face him. "I'm sorry. I'm just complaining. I've barged in on your work time to whine at you!"

John grinned. "No…it's not like I would have been doin' that much work anyway. And I don't mind." He stood and walked over to the window. "I've…I've thought about that…some." He took a deep breath and looked Monica straight in the eyes. "Listen…Monica…I've been goin' through these files, and…well, the ones that Mulder and Scully investigated—they've got a kind of special tone, you know? It's like the love that they shared for each other and for their work sort of bled through."

Monica found herself drowning in twin pools of blue, and John's voice came echoing to her as if from a long distance. She wasn't sure what he was saying—she wasn't sure if he knew what he was saying.

"I've been thinkin' about that feelin'," he said, licking his lips nervously. "And at first I kinda envied them because I thought I'd never felt anythin' like it. But then…but I…" he let out a breath with a hissing sound, running his hand through his short-cropped blonde hair and sitting down on the bed next to Monica.

This movement spurred Monica into action. She reached out, as if in a trance, and took hold of her partner's chin, tugging gently so that he met her eyes again. Their faces were too close and it was hard for her to breathe. But somehow she was able to force the words out.

"I feel it," she whispered. "I feel it whenever I'm around you."

A grin broke across John's face, and Monica felt a bubble of happiness rise in her chest. Slowly she brought her face closer to his and their lips met, driving all the might-have-beens and what-ifs away.

Fluff. Pure fluff. I loves it.

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