Title:  An Evening at Chez Doggett
Author:  Scifinerdgrl
Rating:  PG
Category:  S/R
Keywords:  Doggett/Reyes Romance, Post-Ep ("Release")
Summary:  Sequel to my story, "An Evening at Chez Pierre."  Monica and John
reach a turning point in their relationship after she says goodbye to Brad
Follmer.
Archive:  Please ask, please tell
Feedback:  scifinerdgrl@yahoo.com or scifinerdgrl@hotmail.com


John Doggett stood at his living room window, peering through the blinds at 
the limosine double-parked and idling in front of his house.  Ever the 
investigator, he speculated on the possibilities, from the coincidental to 
the conspiratorial for several minutes until finally deciding he didn't care 
who it was.  He would spend his Saturday night as he spent most Saturday 
nights:  sipping a beer and watching an old black-and-white movie.  But just 
in case, he checked his gun then set it on the coffee table before picking up 
the remote.

Resting her cheek against the darkly tinted windows Monica Reyes sighed.  She 
wasn't aware that she had sighed, nor that she'd sighed several times since 
the limo had stopped.  Her hand resting on the door handle, she had paused 
mid-exit, her mind aswirl and quite possibly circling the drain.  "What am I 
doing here?" she asked aloud, forgetting that she was not alone.

"I was wondering the same thing, Mademoiselle," Pierre answered.  The famous 
restauranteur had accepted a generous, no an extremely generous, tip to set 
up a meeting between this mysterious femme fatale and her former beau, Brad 
Follmer.  But by the time Monica had asked her question Pierre had become 
intrigued by the leggy beauty who'd inspired such devotion in Follmer.

"Huh?" Monica asked, startled to hear anything but her scrambled thoughts.

Pierre reached over the back of the driver's seat and offered her a cell 
phone.  "Perhaps you should call him," he suggested.

"Thank you, Pierre," Monica said, hoping he couldn't see her blush in the 
darkness.  "I have my own."  She reached for her phone then thought better of 
it and put her hands in her lap.  "I'm sorry, Pierre.  I've been wasting your 
time."

"Take all the time you need, Mademoiselle," Pierre said soothingly.  "Love is 
like wine.  It can't be rushed."

"Thank you," she sighed, sitting back to ponder her evening with Brad.  "Was 
it a good champagne?" She asked.  "I didn't drink any."

"Very good," Pierre answered.  "Monsieur Follmer has excellent taste."

Monica blushed at the dual meaning in Pierre's expression.  "He knows a lot 
about wine," she said shyly.

"But not enough about love, n'est pas?" Pierre asked.

"C'est vrai," Monica answered automatically.  "Moi aussi."

Pierre turned to face her more directly.  "You know what they say," he said 
with a wink.  "If you want to know about amour, ask a French man.

Monica smiled wistfully.  "Is it possible to fall in love with someone you've 
known nine years?" she asked, but before he could answer she said, "Yes, of 
course it's possible."  With sudden urgency, she searched Pierre's face for 
answers.  "But what if it isn't really love?  What if it's really wanting to 
feel safe in a dangerous world?  What if it's wanting to be able to trust in 
a world where everything's a lie?" She sighed, leaning heavily against the 
back of the seat.  "What if it's just wanting someone to talk to at the end 
of a long day?"

"Want to know what I told Mr. Follmer?" Pierre asked.

"I'm not sure I do," Monica objected, wringing her hands.

"Perhaps I should tell you, and then afterward you can ask me not to tell 
you?" Pierre winked.  Monica laughed then nodded for him to continue.  "I 
told him to kiss you.  And afterward he would know."

"I'm not sure I gave him a clear answer," Monica said, remembering the tender 
kiss that made her wish he could stay.

"Ah," Pierre corrected.  "But did he get a clear answer from himself?"

Monica's breath caught as she realized what Pierre was saying.  For three 
years, she'd always known she could go back to Brad, that by not explaining 
herself when she broke off their relationship she had left the door open just 
a crack.  Her feeling was confirmed by his many lovestruck looks over the 
past year, from puppy-like adoration, to knight-in-shining-armor 
protectiveness, to intensely burning lust.  They had all told her she had a 
place to come home to if she wanted.  And now, he had moved on, going into 
the Witness Protection Program and a new life.  The door was now closed 
completely, and he had closed it.  Not her.

Monica nodded slightly in answer to Pierre's question.  "He was right," she 
sighed.  "He was right not to ask me to come with him."

"He wasn't sure it was over for him," Pierre explained.  "And for you."

"Brad, Brad, Brad," Monica sighed.  "He knows me too well."

"And him?" Pierre nodded toward Doggett's house.  "He knows we're here.  He's 
been watching."

"I know," she sniffled.  "Maybe I should just go home..."

"Perhaps you already *are* home," Pierre suggested.  "Perhaps you should find 
out."

Even in the dimness of the night Pierre could see the flash of Monica's 
smile.  "Go on," he urged.

"Kiss him?" she asked giddily.

"I'll wait," he assured her.  "Go on."

With newfound courage, Monica smiled and pulled on the door handle.  "You 
promise you'll wait?" she asked as the door swung open.

"Je promets," Pierre answered, his hand over his heart.

Monica took a few tentative steps toward Doggett's picket fence, then, 
emboldened by the lack of lightning bolts or earthquakes or any other bad 
omens, she quickened the pace.

"Well, I'll be..." Doggett said to himself as he spied a familiar form 
through his blinds.  In an instant he was out the door, meeting his partner 
halfway to the gate.  "Monica!" he said joyfully.  "That was you?  What were 
you doing in that limo all this time?"

"Working up the nerve to get out," she smiled.

John wasn't sure what to make of this situation.  He fidgeted a moment as he 
studied her face.  "Wanna come in?  Have a beer?" he asked uncertainly.

"A beer," Monica said, turning the word over in her mind.  "Beer is good.  
Yes, I'll have a beer."

John smiled and turned toward the house, then turned back when she failed to 
join him.  She was grinning, an odd yet appealing grin that made him want to 
sweep her into his arms.  Instead, he said, "Monica?  Are you okay?  You 
don't have to..."

"Just one thing," she said, grabbing his head and pulling it toward her.  
This is easier than I expected, she couldn't help thinking, noting the total 
lack of resistance on John's part, and when his lips turned up in a smile, it 
wasn't just easy to kiss them, it was inescapable.

"So this is what is going on," John thought briefly, and it would be the only 
thought his mind eked out before his lips commanded his entire consciousness.  
His arms floated up from his sides, enveloping Monica, radiating warmth, 
oblivious to the violent backward motions of Monica's hand.

But Pierre saw them, and his French couer swelled with pride to see his 
protege wave him off.  And when he turned the corner he could still see the 
silhouetted couple, joined in a deep, very French, kiss.

THE END