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Afternoon sun stripes the expanse of Quantico through the buildings and trees as the campus bustles with the latest recruits. Warmth seeps through the dark cotton of his shirt as he crosses the grounds in quick, long strides on his way to grab lunch before another class. The dining hall is just about in sight when his phone rings, and he digs it out of his bag to flip it open and bring it to his ear.
"John Doggett."
"Hi, John."
The sound of her voice stops him in his tracks, and he wavers a little as his feet settle beneath his own body. She pictures his face exactly as it looks—brow furrowing, blue eyes blinking slowly, mouth open just slightly.
"Monica…" His voice trails off like he wants to say something more, but he can't seem to find the words.
She supplies a few of her own instead. "I stopped by the precinct."
"Ah." His hand finds his face, fingers tracing the lines of his forehead.
"You weren't going to tell me you applied to the academy at all, were you?"
He takes a moment, then answers with a shrug. "I didn't wanna jinx it."
A laugh bursts from her then, full and bright and loud in his ear as it blows through the receiver. His chest tightens at the sound, memories of the slivers of light it'd brought to some of his darkest hours flashing through his mind.
"Now that's funny," she says as her breath settles. "You're a model candidate, John. Exactly what the FBI looks for."
He can feel the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. "Yeah, well, I'm here now, ain't I?"
"That's what they tell me…"
His head shakes a little. "'They' bein' Duke."
"Who else? He's proud of you, you know."
He huffs. "Coulda fooled me."
"Can't blame him for wanting to keep his best detective around." He can tell she's smiling on the other end, and he's surprised by the slight ache he feels at the thought that he's missing it. "So, how's it going, trainee?"
"Beats the hell outta boot camp," he starts, pacing in small, slow circles as he speaks. "But I'll tell ya, I feel like an old man joinin' up this late. Feels like everyone else came outta the womb plannin' to apply on their 23rd birthdays."
"Like me?" she says, and she can hear him snort. "You're not old, John, you're experienced. It'll serve you well."
"Yeah, hopefully." He's shrugging again, but this time nodding too. "How 'bout you, Agent Reyes?" He emphasizes the title, respecting and teasing her all at once—but she just hears the way her name sounds on his tongue, the lilt of his accent in each syllable. She'd miss it if it hadn't been lost to the intimacy of her first name instead. "How's the Bureau treatin' you?"
Ever the gentleman—he says the Bureau but she's sure that's not all he means.
"Can't complain," she offers, and of course she could, but—
"Like hell!" It's his turn to laugh now, and she's thrilled to hear it—a deep, throaty sound she'd only just started getting to know as he finally found it within himself again.
"Okaaay fiiine," she relents, drawing out each word for effect. "What can I say, it's tough out here for a ritualistic crimes specialist." A dash of levity with her truth, and she hopes that will be enough to satisfy him for now.
"Yeah, I'll bet." She can tell his words came through one of his crooked smiles, so it will indeed.
There's an irony, she realizes, in wanting to keep it light, when she recalls the question she wants to ask him—the reason she called in the first place. It's dangling somewhere between the tip of her tongue and the back of her throat, waiting for the right moment to drop.
Another trainee runs past him, shouting an apology as they knock him briefly unsteady. Glancing at his watch, he realizes he should be doing the same if he wants to eat. "Sorry Monica, but I gotta—"
"John." She cuts him off, and the words tumble down. "Are you doing this for you, or are you doing this for Luke?"
They land like a pile of bricks, but there's too many miles between them to hear an echo, so all that's left is a long, heavy silence—until finally it's broken by a deep sigh breathed into her ear.
That's all she expects, really, so she's surprised when he mumbles, "What the hell's the difference?" She's not entirely sure whether he means the difference to him or to her, and she doesn't press him to find out. But he surprises her again when he adds an even more quiet truth. "I just—I needed to get out of there."
There has many meanings, she knows. So she lets his honesty breathe for a moment before speaking again, exposing her own through a touch of banter. "I guess New York won't be making the top of your field office rankings then?"
His silence speaks louder than words, spelling out the confirmation she already wishes she didn't ask for.
"Well hey, don't let me keep you," she deflects, before he tries to soften the blow. "I just wanted to see how you're doing down there."
"Yeah." The sun is warm on the back of his neck as he stares at his shoes, scuffing his toes lightly against the path. "Thanks, Monica."
"Anytime, John. Just let me know where you do end up, okay?"
"Okay. I will." He hopes it won't be too far, just far enough, but he doesn't tell her that. Instead, he takes a page out of her book, sprinkling in a pinch of humor. "And if I come across any satanic cults out there I'll give you a call."
That earns him another laugh, sharp in the best way, slicing through the lingering tension between them. "Looking forward to it," she says, her lips pinched in a grin as she holds back the pending Agent Doggett.
Years later, he'll remember his words—and hope that she meant hers—when he calls her for what he thinks might just be something like that.