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Interregnum
X Category: DSF, UST, A Summary: Doggett's encounter with an old friend and Scully's with an old enemy produce unexpected results. Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: General season 8 through Mulder's funeral in DeadAlive. Timeline: This story is set about a month and a half after Mulder's funeral. Scully is 5 1/2 months pregnant. Archive: XFMU; anything else, just let me know so I can visit. Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten-Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this endeavor. Acknowledgements: Thanks to Meg and Amanda for their technical assistance. Notes: See Interregnum I: Secrets for information about the series. ------------------------- FBI Headquarters Friday, 5:08 p.m. ------------------------- Scully's steps were brisk in the basement hallway, and she tapped a file folder satisfyingly against her thigh. Her painstaking research and Doggett's laborious "good cop work" had paid off, and it looked like the evidence in their latest case would be airtight. She couldn't wait to tell her partner. "Agent Doggett," she said before the door was all the way open, "this is going to make your--" She halted, and looked around at an empty office. What the hell? Yes, she was a little late; but he said he'd be here the rest of the afternoon. "Hot date, Agent Doggett?" Scully murmured. She found herself frowning at the thought, and wondered why. Why should she be concerned with John Doggett's personal life? She blew her breath out, trying to rein in her confusing emotions. As she crossed to her desk, something rustled under her shoe. Squatting down with difficulty, she retrieved a piece of paper. It was a travel itinerary. Her forehead furrowed in puzzlement as she read its contents: 'Passenger Doggett, John, departing National 8:39 p.m., Northwest flight 239, arriving Detroit 10:20 p.m.' Why hadn't he mentioned this? Ditching wasn't like him. Scully was tempted to reach for her phone, when she saw the yellow legal pad in the middle of her desk. As she read Doggett's angular, hurried scrawl, her frown disappeared: 'I tried calling but couldn't reach you. Forgot to tell you I had to leave early. Going out of town this weekend. Nephew's wedding. See you Monday. D.' The corners of her lips turned up. Imagine that. A note. She didn't think she'd ever gotten a note of explanation before. "Have a safe trip, Agent Doggett," she said softly, and humming contentedly, she packed her briefcase and left the office. --------------------- National Airport 8:51 p.m. --------------------- Doggett ran up to his gate, whose waiting area was empty. "Shit!" The airline agent raised her eyes from her computer in annoyance. "Flight two-thirty-nine?" he panted. "Just departed," the woman said. Doggett bit off another expletive. He had almost exhausted his supply of profanities while sitting in dead-stopped traffic for the past hour. Why tonight of all nights did there have to be an accident on I-66? Leaning tiredly on the counter, he asked the woman when the next flight was. Twenty minutes later he slid onto a bar stool in one of the airport lounges. There being no more flights to Detroit that night, he'd booked himself on a flight at 6:53 the next morning. While the bartender poured him a scotch and soda, Doggett rubbed his face. He was not looking forward to getting in a cab and going all the way back home. He felt suddenly morose and lonely. As the scotch warmed its way down his throat, his mind drifted along a familiar Friday-night path: wondering what Agent Scully was doing this weekend. He pictured her tonight curled up on her sofa, glasses on, reading a professional journal. A smile touched his lips. He was startled out of his reverie by a voice behind him. "John? Is that you?" He swung around. Before him stood a tall bottle-blonde in her mid-30s. "Anna!" Anna Witkowski's desk had faced his in the NYPD Fugitive Division. They'd worked countless cases together, shared an equal number of pizzas, and knew what each liked in their coffee. And Anna had been a friend to him during the darkest days of his life. "The hell are you doin' here?" he said. "Nice to see you, too, you old dog," she said, laughing. Doggett stood up and embraced her warmly. Then he gestured at the empty bar stool next to him. "Join me?" "Gladly." Anna explained that she had been at a seminar at Quantico. "Just saw off one of my classmates. I don't fly back till morning. And you?" "A semi jack-knifed on the interstate and I missed my flight. Thought I'd drown my sorrows before I go home and try to get a few hours sleep. What can I get you?" Anna ordered a Heineken's and he waved for a refill. Anna rested her elbows on the bar. "You're looking good, John. I miss seeing your mug across from my desk. But I don't miss those damn anchovy pizzas." Doggett gave a chuckle. "You gotta develop a taste, Anna." "Over my dead body." Ignoring the glass the bartender had set out for her, she took a swig out of her bottle. "So," she said, changing the subject, "how's life as a Special Agent?" Doggett pursed his lips. "It's been . . . interesting." "How so?" "Well, the short story is, I got assigned to a unit that investigates unexplained cases. A lot of freaky stuff, weird shit." "Sounds fascinating." "There's never a dull moment, all right." He took a long pull on his drink. "And the long story?" Doggett hesitated. "Got a week or two?" Anna's eyebrows quirked up. "I've got all night." Doggett shook his head. He had no desire to get into the labyrinth that was the X-files tonight. "Another time," he said. He asked her about New York and they talked about old times, their reminiscences lasting through another round of drinks. "I haven't seen you since your divorce," Anna said. "Got anyone in your life these days?" "No. Got no time for that sort of thing." He paused, took a sip, and said to his drink, "Besides, I like bein' alone." He wondered if the lie sounded as hollow as it felt. He looked at his watch and frowned. "Speakin' of which, it's late. I should probably get goin'." Anna scrutinized him as she ran her finger down the condensation on her beer bottle. "John," she said, drawing out the word slowly, "do you really want to go all the way home tonight? Just to turn around first thing in the morning?" Doggett raised his head and gave her a puzzled look. "I mean," she said, smiling, "why don't you come and spend the night with me. I'm at the Marriott." Doggett blinked. God almighty, he was dense. He said, "You don't beat around the bush, do ya?" Anna smiled. "I've learned that life is too damn short for that. If you don't want to," she added amiably, "no offense taken." Doggett cleared his throat. "Anna, I'm not lookin' for anything--" "Oh, hell. Me neither." She laid her hand on his arm. "I just thought it might be nice to pass the night with another warm body. And a friend at that." Her eyes rested on him affectionately "I always liked you, John. But no strings, I promise." Doggett licked his lips. He couldn't remember the last time he had been propositioned by a woman. For that matter, he couldn't remember the last time he had propositioned one. It had been a long dry spell, and he felt the blood stirring in him under the warmth of Anna's hand. What the hell. It beat going all the way home. ------------------------- Scully's apartment 11:07 p.m. ------------------------- Scully pushed the drain-stop down, and the bath water began to gurgle out of the tub. Pulling her thick cotton robe tightly around her growing bulk, she padded into the kitchen, and while the TV played the 11 o'clock news, she scooped herself a bowl of ice cream. At the dining room table she put on her glasses and began to turn the pages of Forensic Science International. As she did, she felt a flutter in her abdomen. "Hey, settle down, little one," she said. She stopped her perusal of the magazine and leaned her head on her hand, a smile playing across her lips. "J. Edgar, Junior," she whispered. Doggett had unofficially christened her offspring a couple of weeks ago, and she recalled his mischievous grin at her reaction. Scully took a bite of ice cream, and her thoughts wandered. Flying to Detroit. A nephew's wedding. One of his sisters' sons? He'd mentioned he had sisters. Were they close? Was it a big family? Were his parents still living? There was so much she didn't know about him. Would he mind her asking such questions? She smiled, and swallowed another spoonful of ice cream. She didn't think he'd mind. She'd ask him all about it on Monday. -------------------- Marriott Hotel 11:10 p.m. -------------------- They undressed in silence, and Doggett experienced a fleeting middle-aged moment. Was this old carcass still appealing? Judging by the way Anna's eyes roamed from his chest and down -- stopping for a moment admiringly -- and then back up again, he needn't have worried. Finally she stood naked before him, and it occurred to him that he hadn't kissed her yet. Cupping his hand behind her head, he leaned toward her. His phone rang. "Fuck!" "Any time, John," said Anna, and giggling, she slipped into bed while he fumbled in his jacket for his cell phone. After a brief conversation, he flipped the phone's switch to off and crawled in beside her. "Anything important?" she asked him. "Just my nephew lettin' me know he got my message." They lay there a moment, shoulder to shoulder. Anna said, "You okay?" "Hm?" Doggett turned to face her. "Yeah, I'm fine." "Feeling a little awkward?" A chuckle rolled through his throat. "I think I can get past it." He pulled her body against his, and for a heartbeat, as her hands moved over his back, he wondered what Dana Scully's body would feel like against him, what her hands would feel like on his skin. At the thought he hardened even more. Closing his eyes, he searched and found waiting lips. ----------------------- Scully's apartment Saturday, 2:12 a.m. ----------------------- Scully's eyes opened slowly. As she swam up out of the depths of sleep, she tried to catch the fleeting wisps of a dream. Something had crashed. A spaceship. An alien spaceship had crashed. She groaned. She hadn't had one of the dreams for at least a week. Why tonight? She rolled over onto her back, fully awake now, knowing that sleep would not return for a while. She tried to steer her mind off the track of spaceships, and bounty hunters, and torture . . . but there was something about that spaceship crash that niggled at her. Scully closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting the fugitive images come. She saw flames. A fuselage. Heard the sonorous voice of a television reporter. The pieces of the thought-puzzle swirled, then finally locked together. She bolted upright, her heart a bass drum in her chest. The images were from the TV news, which had flickered at the edge of her awareness while she was scooping ice cream, and had been jumbled up in her dream. The flames, the fuselage -- she was sure there had been a plane crash. What had the reporter said? Detroit. "Oh, my God!" Throwing back the quilt, she shoved her bulk out of bed and careened down the hall. "I heard it wrong," she told herself. In the living room she switched on the TV to CNN. A car bombing in Jerusalem. Heart racing, she rushed over to her computer and clicked on the New York Times. And saw it. 'Jet Crashes in Detroit.' "Omigod, omigod." Panic squeezed her chest. She read frantically and disjointedly: 'Northwest flight 239 . . . departed National at 8:39 . . . collision with a private aircraft . . . snowstorm . . . Detroit . . . all 112 passengers and crew killed.' There must be a mistake, Scully thought. She read it again. And again. "No!" She clapped her hands to her head. It can't be, she thought wildly. It can't be! I'm going to see him on Monday. "I'm going to see him on Monday!" she shouted. But in her mind she saw with horrible clarity the paper she'd picked up from the office floor, her heel print smudging the corner: 'Passenger Doggett, John. Departing National at 8:39 on Northwest flight 239.' "NO!" This is not happening AGAIN! Her stomach rolled, and bile rose in her throat. She leapt up from the chair, sending it to the floor with a crash. Stumbling blindly down the hallway, she banged open the bathroom door and vomited the remains of butter pecan ice cream into the toilet. -------------------- Marriott Hotel 2:15 a.m. -------------------- Doggett lay on his back, his arm folded behind his head. It had been too long since he'd tasted a woman's lips, felt her warm flesh, soft breasts, the sting of fingernails in his back. It had felt good to lose himself in the sensations of sex . . . even if the tastes, the smells, the body interfered with his imagination's ability to conjure another woman in the darkness. He drew in a breath and let it out, resigned. Anna rustled next to him. "You awake?" she whispered. "Yeah." She propped herself on her elbow. He turned to look at her in the darkened room, and could see her eyes darting over his face, searching for something. "So," she said at last, "who is she?" Doggett stared. "Who is who?" "Whoever's been on your mind since we got here." "I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about." "Sure you do. You've only been half here." Doggett exhaled. "Anna, I'm sorry . . ." "Don't worry about it. I know this wasn't anything more than a friendly fuck. Which, by the way," she added with a smile, "didn't disappoint at all. But I'm curious. You said there wasn't anyone." "And there isn't. What makes you think there is?" "I've got a sixth sense for when a man's got another woman on his mind. So, who is she?" "For cryin' out loud, Anna! You're like a friggin' dog with a bone." Doggett pushed back the covers, and grabbing his boxers from the chair, pulled them on. Then he plopped back down on the edge of the bed, suddenly listless. Anna rested a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't mean to upset you." "Nah, it's okay." "C'mon. Lie down. Let's get some sleep." Doggett cast her a glance over his shoulder, sighed, and lay back down. Anna pulled the blanket over them and curled next to his side, but her warmth no longer stirred him. The door of the next room opened and closed. The sound of a TV came muffled through the wall. Anna said, "She must be really something to get under *your* skin." Doggett rubbed a hand over his eyes. "John?" "There isn't anyone," he repeated adamantly. He took a breath. "Just . . . oh, hell. Someone in the Bureau. Someone I work with. Her partner -- and lover -- was murdered." He paused. "And she's five months pregnant." "Jesus." Anna patted Doggett's chest lightly. "You sure know how to pick 'em." Doggett huffed. "Tell me about her," Anna said. He was quiet a moment. "She's a scientist, a doctor. Smart. And tough. Angry. Sad. Proud. Stubborn. Secretive. Complicated." His words were halting at first, then they tumbled out in a rush. His chest moved up and down as though drawing breath was difficult. He added in a whisper, "A beautiful woman." Next door the sounds of the television ceased, and they heard the bed creak as its occupant retired. Doggett closed his eyes. "I'm too old for this kind of shit." "Don't be so hard on yourself, John. How does she feel about you?" "How the fuck should I know?" he growled. Anna ignored his outburst and waited. Doggett was silent. Then, "She tolerates me. I'm nothin' like her old partner. I know that sometimes she looks at me and wishes I would disappear and *he* would appear in my place. Other times, though . . . I think . . . maybe she cares a little." He shook his head. "But as for *feelings* . . . the ones she's got, ain't for me." "It's hard to compete with a dead man. I'm sorry, John." Doggett put his arm across his eyes and exhaled. He felt Anna's lips plant little kisses on his chest, then move down to his stomach, edging under the waistband of his shorts. His body began to respond, but it was another woman's face that filled his mind. ----------------------- Scully's apartment 4:03 a.m. ----------------------- 'The cell phone customer you have dialed is not available. At the tone, please leave a message.' Scully hurled the phone across the room, where it hit the bookcase and clattered to the floor. "DAMN IT!" She buried her face in her hands. She sat in the dark. It hadn't occurred to her to turn on a light. Nothing had occurred to her but the fruitless attempt to raise Doggett on his cell phone. She had worked crash sites before, and her mind was assailed with images of carnage: a bloody finger, part of an ear, a tibia, a piece of skull with a tuft of hair. She thought of Doggett's thick, strong fingers, the lacework of lines on his forehead, the hair that refused to hide his protruding ears, his penetrating blue eyes . . . and stifled a cry. A soft knocking propelled her off the sofa. Throwing open the door, Scully saw Skinner's face register momentary shock, and knew she must look a mess: hair uncombed, eyes quite likely a little wild, dressed only in her pajamas, bare feet. But she didn't give a damn. "Did you get it?" she demanded of him. She had called him shortly after she'd hauled herself off the bathroom floor. He held out a piece of paper. "The FAA didn't get back to me, but the airline faxed me their passenger list. Dana--" he began. But Scully was already snatching the list from him and madly skimming the names. "Oh, God," she moaned, as the fuzzy print only confirmed her worst fears. She moved slowly to the sofa and slumped onto it. Skinner looked around at the dark apartment, and he frowned in concern. His frown deepened when he saw that Scully was shivering. "Where's your robe?" he asked her. She didn't give any sign that she had heard him as she stared sightlessly at the paper in her hands. In her mind she saw a fireball racing through a jet cabin, and charred flesh. Dear God, she prayed, let it have been instantaneous. Her shivering became more violent. Skinner pulled an afghan from the back of the couch and draped it over her shoulders. He switched on a light, and seating himself next to her said, "I've contacted the Detroit field office; they're already on this. But I'm going to fly out there personally. There's a flight out of National around seven." Her eyes were still fixed on the middle distance, hearing John Doggett's voice, seeing his twinkling eyes, his crooked grin, a flash of white teeth. His teeth. "We'll have to find his dentist," Scully said in a strangled voice. "We'll need his dental records." Skinner pushed up his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose hard. He said, "I'll get on it. Will you be all right here? Why don't you call your mother? Have her--" "I'm going with you," Scully announced, and rising, let the blanket fall off her shoulders. Skinner sprang up. "Dana! You shouldn't be going anywhere." "I have to," she shot back. "I can't let you do this," he objected. "Not in your condition. Not again." Again. Scully continued down the hall. Another death. Another friend gone. She thought her head would explode. "And you don't look well," Skinner added. She turned and pinned him with her eyes. "I'm fine," she snapped. "I have to do this. He was my partner. My--" Her voice caught. "I owe it to him." She slammed the door of her bedroom. All she had left was her duty, and she would do it. It was too late for anything else. Too late to ask John Doggett the questions she wanted to ask him. To late to take those tentative, frightening steps toward knowing another person. She had squandered her time and had let something precious slip through her fingers. Tears fell on her shaking hands as she buttoned her shirt. --------------------- National Airport 6:07 a.m. --------------------- At the terminal, Anna kissed Doggett on the cheek. "That was nice last night, John. Thanks for keeping me company." "Thanks for invitin' me." She scribbled on a notepad she'd pulled out of her purse. Tearing off the page, she handed it to him. "If you're ever in New York, give me a call. I'd love to do this again." Doggett took the phone number that she gave him. Maybe he would. He should learn to make do, be satisfied with casual couplings. His marriage was long since over, and what he wanted was out of his reach. Why not accept what was within reach? Wouldn't that be better than the desert of his current solitude? "I'll keep it in mind," he said, folding the paper and putting it in his jacket pocket. Waving and pulling her wheeled suitcase behind her, Anna headed for her gate, while Doggett turned toward his. Partway down the concourse Doggett turned in at a gift shop, scanning the racks for reading material. His eyes fell on the Washington Post headlines. A jet crash. Shit, he thought. What fuckin' great news to start a flight with. He paid the newsstand attendant and began to walk and read. And stopped. The newspaper began to shake in his hands. "God almighty," he breathed. His blood drained down and pooled in his feet, leaving him light-headed. He let go of his bag, which landed on the floor with a thump. The inside sections of the newspaper slid out and fluttered around his feet as he unfolded the front page. He held it in trembling hands and read on, oblivious of the stream of people breaking and flowing around him. Even usually imperturbable travelers stared at him as they passed. His heart somersaulted in his chest. "Jesus Christ!" Dead, dead, dead. He would have been dead if not for that accident on the interstate. He had cursed the obstruction last night till he was blue, but the goddamn wreck had saved his life. Doggett gulped air to quell the light-headedness. Glancing around for a chair or a bench to relieve his shaking knees, his eyes alighted instead on two familiar forms approaching up the concourse. A tall bald man and a small, pregnant, red-haired woman. The sight of them made his head spin even more crazily. "The hell?" he murmured. They didn’t notice him. Scully was looking at her feet, Skinner was watching Scully and supporting her by her elbow. They were trudging along like they were going to a funeral. Doggett stared at them dumbly, utterly bewildered in his current state, unable to process what they might be doing here. * * * * Scully concentrated on putting one foot in front of another. She couldn't let herself think. But then a soldier in camouflage fatigues passed them, and she remembered what Doggett had said when she'd asked him about his experience in Lebanon: "I'll tell you about it someday." Someday. Someday! Didn't he know there were no somedays? What was he thinking? Hadn't he learned that lesson with his son? There's no such thing as "someday." There's only now, and now is just death, and more death. Her nose and eyes began to fill, but she furiously swiped at them with the back of her hand. Suddenly Skinner halted. "What?" she asked him. He didn't answer, only stared ahead, his mouth open. She followed the A.D.'s speechless gaze to the man standing in the middle of the concourse, and she, too, was transfixed by disbelief. For an endless moment the trio was frozen in a rushing torrent of humanity, gaping at one another. As Doggett took in the others' astonishment, it finally dawned on him why they were here. *They thought I was dead. They were going to ID my remains. _She_ was going to ID my remains.* The realization made his stomach do a pirouette. Finally the tableau broke as Skinner and Scully began to hurry forward, Skinner exclaiming, "John! You're all right! This is incredible!" But Doggett wasn't looking at the assistant director. His gaze was riveted on Scully. Her eyes were bloodshot and slightly crazy, her skin pasty. She looked wretched -- and the most beautiful sight he could imagine. It hit him with the force of a sucker punch that he had come *this* close to never seeing that face again, and suddenly he felt like weeping. He held up the newspaper and rasped, "I missed the flight." Scully's pace quickened, and then she was upon him. "Oh, my God!" she cried, grasping his shoulders and piercing him with pupils large and black. Her hands slid down his arms, feeling the flesh and bone under his leather jacket. Squeezed his wrists, hands, knuckles. Moved up his chest, pressed against his breastbone. She made a soft keening sound as she assured herself of the heart beating under her palms. Then her hands glided over his pectorals, around his sides, fingering his ribcage. Moved up to his neck, traced his jawbone, his cheeks, eyebrows. "Oh, my God," she whispered again and again. Doggett stood rooted under her touch, barely breathing, his mouth suddenly dry, his skin afire every place where she had touched him. This was the touch he'd longed for: electric, powerful, rejoicing. And those desperate eyes were seeing *him*. Not Mulder. His heart beat faster. Scully's fingers feather-brushed his hair, his ears, and came to rest back on his shoulders. She was dizzy with relief as she looked into those pale eyes. Her voice when she finally spoke was almost inaudible. Doggett had to lower his head to hear her. "I thought you were body parts," she whispered thickly. She bit her lip until Doggett thought it would bleed. And then her face crumpled. "Oh, Jesus. Dana, Dana," Doggett moaned, forgetting their unspoken rules. He dropped the newspaper and pulled her to him, and she clutched his jacket, pressed her face against his shoulder. His surroundings dissolved while his consciousness narrowed to one point: the pressure of this woman against him. The tremors shaking her body. Her swollen belly pressing against his pelvis. Her breasts against his ribs. Doggett's throat closed up. "Hey, hey," he murmured huskily into her hair. "Hey, hey." Scully heard that voice, felt the puff of his breath on her head, and she gripped his coat more tightly. She would not let him slip through her fingers this time. * * * * Gradually she regained control of her emotions and pulled back, tilting her head to look up at Doggett. His arms still hung loosely around her back. His eyes were dark with concern. "D'ja miss me?" he said. Scully's laugh was choked with tears, and she socked him lightly on his chest. A clean handkerchief materialized before her, and taking it from Doggett's hand she pressed it against her eyes, then dabbed his jacket where her tears had soaked it. "I need to find a restroom," she said. When she emerged from the ladies' room five minutes later, her lipstick and mascara had been reapplied and most traces of her tears were concealed under foundation. Her head erect, graceful in her pregnant figure, she was every inch the proud, complicated, beautiful woman Doggett had described to Anna. He swallowed around a tight place in his throat. "Ready?" he asked her, hoisting both their bags. She looked around. "Where's Skinner?" "He went to wring the neck of whoever gave him the wrong list." Scully nodded sadly, realizing it must have been the ticketed list, not the boarding list. Doggett's face clouded over. "What?" she asked. His voice was rough with self-reproach. "I'm sorry . . . for turnin' my phone off last night." He wished there were a hole he could drop into. "You couldn't have known," she said. "I'm just grateful you're--" She stopped, and dropped her eyes, unable to finish. As she collected herself, she noticed her suitcase in Doggett's hand, and said, "You're not going to the wedding." "No. They'll have to get married without me. I'm not flyin' anywhere today." Scully let out a breath as relief flooded her. In the bathroom she had felt sick with anxiety at the thought of him getting on a plane and leaving her. But she would never have bid him stay. Just as she would never ask him where he was last night. She looked up at him, at the eyes that could be either steel hard, or summer-sky soft as they were now; at the short vertical ridges where his forehead met his nose; at the lacework of lines on his brow. All there. All whole. She tamped down resurgent tears. "I'm glad," she managed. "Thought I'd take you home," said Doggett. "If that's all right." Her smile almost undid his already shaky composure. "Yes," she said softly. "I'd like that." They began to retrace their steps to the main terminal, and as Scully listened to her companion's footfalls, she was painfully conscious of the fragility of this victory over death. There was only Now. "Tell me about this nephew," she said. Doggett felt her hand brush up his arm and stay there, and his heart gave a lurch, as though something had shifted seismically beneath them. "My sister's oldest," he began, and as they passed a trash can, he took the folded notepaper from his pocket and tossed it in.
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