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Interregnum VII
Summary: Scully and Doggett discover that some wounds require more than stitches to heal. Rating: PG-13 (for language) Category: S/D Spoilers: General season 8 through the beginning of DeadAlive. Takes place about a week after Mulder's funeral. Archive: Fine with me! 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. Notes: See Interregnum I: "Secrets" for information on the series. Thanks to Meg for her assistance with D.C. landmarks. ---------------------------------- John Doggett applied the razor in one last stroke to the curve of his chin, then rinsed the lather off and replaced the razor in the shaving mug. Patting on the aftershave, he leaned in to examine his reflection. "You're gettin' old," he accused the man in the mirror, as he noticed new lines on the forehead and around the mouth. "Old and tired." Too much death will do that to you, he thought grimly. As he dried his hands, he stopped to inspect the cuts that criss-crossed the back of his left hand. They were healing well, though there would probably be scarring. Doggett rubbed the scabs absent-mindedly, remembering his first day back at work after the funeral, when he was sporting bandages. He had gone up to the bullpen for coffee, and Agent Dolan had asked him, to the laughter of his companions, "What'd you do, John? Dig Spooky's grave with your bare hands?" Doggett pinned the other agent with a glare until the smirk evaporated from the man's face. "No, Jerry," he said quietly. "I got this from beatin' good manners into assholes like you." He snorted at the memory as he knotted his tie. Downstairs, he pushed the button on the coffee machine and it began to gurgle softly. After all, he continued the thought, that incident was only the latest in a long line of alienating encounters with his old buddies in the Bureau. While the other agents talked of nabbing serial killers, he would imagine describing his own work. "Oh, not much happenin'," he could hear himself saying. "Several reported alien abductions, a guy with X-ray vision, a man who was part bat, and a 200-year-old Indian who ate my death. Just the usual stuff." No, he hadn't talked to his old pals much since he'd been assigned to the X-files. The coffee machine having quieted, he reached up to the cabinet for a cup. As he opened the cupboard door he grimaced at the long, splintered gash running up the middle. Jesus, John, why don't you fix the damn thing? Just go to Home Depot and get a new fucking door, for crying out loud. "Yeah, yeah," Doggett muttered to the voice in his head, and poured his coffee. He spread the Post out on the counter and skimmed the day's headlines. By page 3 his attention had begun to wander from presidential politics and Mideast bombings to the dawn light that was brightening the red faux-brick kitchen floor. The burnished glow reminded him of a certain color of hair when the sun touched it. . . He sipped his coffee. I wonder how she's doing at her mother's, he mused. I wonder when she'll be back. "If she'll be back," he said aloud. Maybe she would ask for a less stressful assignment. He wouldn't blame her if she did. What will it be like if she does return? Will his presence in Mulder's office now be a daily affront, a continual reminder of her loss? Will she resent him, John Doggett, simply for being alive? He wouldn't blame her for that either. Doggett lowered his head to his hands and rubbed his face wearily. Jesus H. Christ, what a hellhole they had fallen into. Then he took a deep breath and, tucking the paper under his arm, headed out for another day alone in the basement. * * * * "I can do this." Dana Scully spoke with quiet determination to the face in the bathroom mirror. As she smoothed a stray hair and moistened lips lightly glossed, she remembered a similar morning several months ago. Then, she had faced the mirror with dripping hair and an unadorned face, suddenly stripped of her beloved companion, bereft and completely alone in the world. She had rested her weight on her arms, momentarily paralyzed. The person who looked back at her this morning was a different woman. Now solitude was her permanent state. Being at her mother's had only served to throw that fact into sharper relief. Scully closed her eyes, remembering the claustrophobia that had irrationally pressed in on her at her mother's house. Yes, she ached with grief, and yes, she faced a difficult road ahead as a single mother. But she was strong. She had become used to being alone. These past three months had taught her how to cope. Scully had thanked her mother profusely for her help, packed her bag, and hurried home. She opened her eyes again and appraised the woman who had learned to cope, who had become used to living with loss. I've been grieving for months, she thought. That should make it easier now. From the medicine cabinet she took out a vitamin pill and swallowed it. Closing the door again, Scully gave her reflection one last look and straightened the collar of her crisp white blouse. "I can do this," she repeated. Then she said a silent prayer, picked up her jacket from the bed and her keys from the dresser, and set forth to work. His work. Her work now. * * * * A short time later she stood before the bulletin board in the basement office, pleased at her self-control. Her eyes remained reassuringly dry. I *can* do this, she affirmed silently. She had entered the empty office this morning unsure just what her reactions would be. Her emotions these days, already unpredictable from the pregnancy hormones, had become insidious in the manner with which they sometimes ambushed her. Two days ago, on her first visit to Mulder's apartment since the funeral--just to survey the task ahead of her, she had told herself, nothing more--she had been impressed by her composure as she assessed the contents of closets, drawers, cupboards. It had been painful, but she had made it through in one piece. Until she saw the dead mollie floating in the tank. The first thought that had rushed into her mind was: Mulder will be so upset. The next thing she was aware of was the sound of her own piteous weeping. And it had dragged on for over an hour, leaving her weak and feeling ill. But this morning her emotions were little different from what they had been every morning for the past three months. She remembered ruefully what she had told Agent Doggett-- oh, so long ago!--that this was her partner's office and they would just be using it for a little while, thank you very much. A little while that was now forever. Hearing the tell-tale sounds of someone approaching in the hallway, she composed her features and turned around. "Agent Scully!" exclaimed Doggett on opening the door. On his face a smile of delight battled with a frown of concern, and Scully found herself rooting for the smile. She had seen so few of them lately, and his always had the power to warm her sad heart. The struggle ended in a draw, as his mouth settled into a serious line while his eyes danced brightly. Scully said evenly, "Good morning, Agent Doggett." Her partner took in her appearance. She was dressed in a dark, slimming suit that gracefully covered any swelling in her abdomen. Not a hair was out of place, her makeup was subtle and perfect. Her chin was high and her posture ruler-straight. She looked, as always, the consummate professional. . .except for the shadows under her eyes and a disturbing gauntness in her face. She hasn't been eating well, Doggett thought. Or sleeping. "You're back sooner than I expected," was what he said. "I thought you were at your mother's." Scully fingered the desktop idly.
"I left after a few days. She was a great help, "Mothering?" he supplied. She nodded. "Something like that." Doggett tossed the newspaper onto his desk and sat down. "But what you've been through. . .Are you sure you're up to this?" "I need to do something constructive, Agent Doggett, something besides stare at the four walls." She paused. "Something normal." They looked at each other, suddenly aware of the absurdity of her last statement. Doggett chuckled softly. "I don't know about this bein' normal. . ." He waved his hand around him. Then he went on more seriously, "But I know what you mean. Sometimes work is the best, what do you call it?" He chewed his lip, trying to fetch the word from his memory. "Analgesic?" "If that means pain reliever, yeah." He looked at her somberly. "On the other hand. . ." Her eyebrows arched in question. "You should take it easy. Don't try to do too much." "I'm fine, really," she said. She caught his pointed look but just as pointedly ignored it. "Well, then," she said with artificial brightness, "do you want to bring me up to speed on the current cases?" Doggett rocked back in his chair and eyed her carefully. "You're sure about this." Her words were measured. "Yes. Agent Doggett. I'm sure." He dropped his eyes to his desk, and Scully immediately regretted her sharp tone. He was only thinking of her welfare. What the hell was the matter with her? Doggett ran his hand through his hair. Shit, she'd just told him why she'd left her mother's. She didn't need another hen clucking around her. "All right," he said, and he began to fill her in on what he'd been working on the past week. As he talked, she sat down at Mulder's--now her--desk. She moved slowly and deliberately, as though having to remind herself how it was done. Doggett concluded, "I'm gonna appreciate having your expertise on a couple of these cases. The forensic data and chemical analysis have me a bit stumped." He sifted through the files on his desk and walked them over to Scully. "If you wouldn't mind looking through these and tellin' me what you think." She took them, hefting their bulk in surprise. "You *have* been busy." Doggett smiled. "Not me; the labs. I think they ran every test devised by man--or woman." He returned to his desk, pleased with himself for finding the perfect thing to occupy his partner's mind without overtiring her: lots and lots of scientific data. * * * * The morning passed quietly. Papers rustled, Doggett's keyboard kept up a gentle patter, and occasionally Scully asked for a clarification, but otherwise little broke the silence. As he worked, Doggett cast surreptitious glances across the room, partly to keep an eye on his partner and partly, he had to admit, just at the pleasure of seeing her again. He had missed her. The last time they'd had any contact was on the flight home from Montana. He had ceded the aisle seat to Scully to accommodate her numerous trips to the lavatory. Each time she returned, the deer-caught-in-headlights look on her face persisted despite apparent efforts to conceal it with splashes of cold water. As the flight wore on Doggett fell into a fretful semi-doze, but he was shortly startled awake by the pressure of her hand on his. He found Scully staring fixedly at the seat-back in front of her and gripping his hand fiercely. He turned his palm upward and returned the pressure, and they had sat that way until her next trip forward. She looked in decidedly better shape now, but he feared what was under the veneer. Partway through the morning he saw her staring, her mouth slack, at the picture of Mulder's sister still propped on the desk. Doggett sighed softly and looked away. Another time he saw her lower her face and rub her forehead as though she had a headache. Dammit, he thought, she shouldn't be here. Finally, his stomach rumbling, Doggett jumped at the opportunity for relief. "Wanna grab some lunch, Agent Scully?" She looked up, startled. She had been staring at the same page for a long time without comprehending it. She didn't seem to be able to concentrate on anything for more than a couple of minutes. "I'm not very hungry," she said. He grabbed his jacket off the coat rack. "You gotta eat. For two, y'know." She gave him the ghost of a smile. "C'mon," he urged. "Do us both good to get out of this dungeon for a little while." "You're very persistent, Agent Doggett," Scully observed. He grinned. "I gotta live up to my name." He was rewarded with a slight chuckle. "Lunch it is, then," she said. * * * * Scully took a bite of her sandwich and made a face. "Sandwich no good?" asked Doggett. "No, it's fine. I'm just getting tired of tuna fish. My nutritionist seems to have an unreasonable predilection for the food." He tossed a bit of crust to the pigeons jostling near their bench. "It's because of the protein." She cocked her eyes his direction. Well, yes, she realized; he'd had a pregnant wife once. As she thought about it, she discovered that it wasn't difficult to imagine Doggett as a husband and father. Much less difficult than imagining Mulder. . . She forced down another bite of her sandwich. Doggett glanced sideways and considered Scully's thin figure. She needs all the protein she can get, he thought. A warm gust sent a strand of hair across her mouth, and he watched as she pulled it away with a perfectly manicured fingernail. Then her hand went up and fingers raked through her hair, and she gave her head a little shake. Doggett realized he was staring, and a warmth was gathering below his belt. He wrenched his gaze away. God almighty, John! He concentrated on the dome of the Capitol in the distance, and to cover his discomposure remarked, "I like to come here. The mall, the trees. It's restful." Scully said, "Mulder and I would sometimes come here if we thought the office was bugged." Doggett stiffened. Damn! How many other ways was he going to remind her of what she'd lost? The thought made him wonder, and not for the first time: What exactly had she lost? A friend and a lover--this much he knew. The father of her child? He thought so, but didn't know it for a fact. Had they planned a future together? He didn't know that either. What Doggett knew could fit on an aspirin tablet. But he would never ask her, and he was as certain as he was of anything on God's earth that she would never tell him. Scully took a sip from her carton of milk and stared into the distance. Why did she say that? She sensed Doggett's discomfort and wanted to say, It's not your fault, you didn't know. But the words would not come. The awkward moment passed. Doggett popped the last bit of ham and Swiss into his mouth and balled up the paper bag, making a neat ringer in a nearby trash can. Scully's eyes followed his movements. "What happened to your hand?" she asked. He cursed himself for practically waving it under her nose. "Just a little accident doin' home repairs," he said. She laid her half-eaten sandwich on the bench. "Let me see," she said, reaching for his hand. He began to pull it away, saying, "It's really nothin'," but she took hold of it anyway. "I noticed it this morning," she murmured. Examining the repairs with professional interest, Dr. Scully observed dryly, "This 'little accident' required stitches, Agent Doggett." "Just a few." Doggett watched her while she turned his hand this way and that. Finally she let it go, and he shoved both his hands into his pockets. "You should be more careful," she said gently. He shifted his eyes to look at her, and felt a different kind of warmth inside him at the softness he saw in her face. "Yeah," he agreed, "I should." Scully wrapped her sandwich carefully and returned it to the sack. "Shall we go back?" "You're not finished," Doggett objected. "I'll finish it later. I'm not very hungry now." He didn't like it, but he kept silent. They stood, took a few steps, and Scully stopped. "Agent Scully?" Doggett said. The color had left her face, and a sheen of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. "Agent Scully!" He was alarmed now. "Are you okay?" She waved a hand. "I just need a minute. I stood up too fast." But her pallor persisted, and Doggett said, "You need to sit down." "I'm fine, Agent Doggett." "No, you're not. Sit down." Scully looked at him in surprise and promptly sat back down on the bench they had just vacated. "Put your head down," he softly commanded her, resuming his seat next to her. She did as he said, and after a few moments, when she raised her head again, her color had returned perceptibly. "Morning sickness?" he asked. She shook her head. "No. That stopped last month. I feel. . .strange. Like lead." "You've tired yourself out. You haven't been sleeping well, have you?" She ignored his question. "I think I'll be all right in a bit." Doggett considered. "I don't think so. I think you should go home." "Really, Agent Doggett, I don't--" He cut off any further objections. "I'll take you home. Do you think you can stand now?" Scully rose unsteadily, supported by his hand on her elbow. "I don't want to go back to the office," she said in a low voice. "I don't want anyone to see--" "We'll go right to the garage," he assured her. Slowly they returned to the Hoover Building, Doggett holding firmly to her arm all the way. Scully was silent on the way home, her eyelids drooping closed once or twice. At her apartment, Doggett took the keys from her shaking hand and unlocked the door. He waited while she stepped inside. Scully stopped at the sofa and braced her hand on it for support. "Agent Doggett?" she said in a voice so small it made his heart lurch. He was beside her in an instant. "Right here, Agent Scully." His arm went around her waist, and he guided her down the hallway and into her bedroom, where she lowered herself in relief onto its softness. "I don't understand what's happening," Scully murmured. "You're probably just overtired. Do you want to call your doctor?" She shook her head. Doggett helped her remove her jacket, and laid it on the foot of the bed. "Here, lie down." Again, she surprised herself at how willingly she obeyed his gentle commands as she lay back on the pillows. Doggett lifted her legs onto the bed and removed her pumps, her nylon-clad feet warm and soft in his hands. He placed the shoes neatly under the bed, then reached across and drew the other half of the comforter over her. "I didn't do anything to get this tired," came Scully's puzzled voice. Doggett tucked the quilt around her shoulders. "The counselors will tell you it's the grieving process, Agent Scully." I knew this, Scully thought. So why did I forget? Is that part of the grieving process, too? Forgetting everything you learned? Doggett was leaning over her, his face close enough that she could see a scar on the bridge of his nose. Something he'd said finally penetrated her poorly-functioning brain. "You went to counseling?" she whispered, as though John Doggett's doing such a thing was an unimaginable phenomenon. He nodded. "Captain's orders." She shuffled her legs aside, making space. He looked over, then back at her, then sat down on the edge of the bed. Scully felt comforted by the pressure against her leg. It reminded her of the firm pressure of his hand on the flight home from Montana. She said, "The counseling was when your son. . .?" but her voice trailed off. "Yeah. I didn't want to go at first, but it probably helped. At least it helps you realize you're not goin' nuts. That a lot of the reactions are normal. Like the fatigue." Her eyes were half closed, so he was surprised when she spoke again. "But you don't believe them, Agent Doggett?" He peered at her, confused. "What?" "That it's the grieving process." "Oh. Yeah, I'm sure they're right, but I don't think that's all it is." Her look asked him what more it was. Finally he said, "It's death." Scully's eyes bore into him intently. "Go on." "It saps your energy, it drains your blood like a vampire." His voice was rough and edged with anger. "It sneaks up on you when you're not lookin' and whacks you over the head. Sometimes I could hardly get out of bed in the morning, to say nothing of puttin' in a full day's work." She noticed that he had slid from the impersonal second person to "I". He went on, "I got to thinkin' of death as a perp out to get me." Scully could have smiled at the thought under different circumstances. "Somehow," he said, "thinking of it as a something, a *someone*, made it easier to deal with. Because he just kept hangin' around like some bully, taunting me. Like he couldn't get enough. Like taking my son wasn't enough, he had to sap the life out of me, too." His mouth made a thin line, and his voice dropped to an almost inaudible rumble. "Which half the time I wanted him to." Scully sighed. "I know what you mean." Doggett regarded the pale face on the pillows. "Anyway, don't be surprised to get laid low like this." Her lids were again drifting shut, fatigue pulling her down, down. "Sleep, Agent Scully," Doggett said softly, and he rose from the bed. "Agent Doggett?" He turned back to her. "Yes?" "How long did he hang around? Death." He blinked, and thought. "I don't remember exactly. I just remember that one day I woke up and told him to get the fuck out of my life." Her lips quivered but didn't quite form a smile. "I can see you doing that." Doggett leaned close to her again. "You will, too, I promise. One day you'll be stronger than him." "I thought I was strong enough now." She exhaled a breath that seemed to come from the soles of her feet. "I've been dealing with this for so long." "You haven't been dealing with Death. It's a whole new ball game, Agent Scully," he said sadly, and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Scully's eyes fluttered, and as she gave way to her fatigue she thought, Maybe this isn't going to be easier after all. Maybe I *can't* do this. Doggett again smoothed the covers around her. "Rest today. Your baby needs you to rest, too." Scully's hand rustled under the quilt, and he had a strong suspicion where it had alighted. "Thanks. . .Agent Doggett," she said sleepily. Her eyes drifted closed, and as Doggett watched her, a weight pulled his shoulders down. Why her? Why the fuck did fate have to pick on her? He waited until her breathing settled into a regular rhythm, then he silently let himself out. * * * * Two days later "You're upset by what happened the other day, Dana. Why is that?" Scully pondered Karen Kosseff's question. The counselor had been a refuge of guidance during other crises, and Scully badly needed her help now. Her near-collapse had unnerved her greatly, and after seeing her doctor and being declared physically fit, she had made an appointment with the therapist. Scully said, "I lost my partner three months ago. I thought I'd mourned long enough, that I was prepared for this eventuality." "You were very close to Agent Mulder." It wasn't a question. Scully dropped her eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Yes." Kosseff said, "There's no way to prepare for the death of a loved one." Scully felt her eyes filling, and willed the tears to subside. "I just thought I would be able to cope better." "You're a strong person," said Karen, "and feelings of weakness are difficult to reconcile. The loss you've suffered has made you feel extremely vulnerable." Kosseff paused. "You mentioned that you were uncomfortable at your mother's. Why do you think that is?" Scully thought for a moment. "Because being there made me feel like a child?" "You felt weak?" "Yes. My mother wanted to take care of me. She only wanted to help, and I was grateful to her, but I needed to feel like I could handle this on my own." "Why do you think that is?" Scully's brows drew together. It was a question she hadn't asked herself. "Maybe I was afraid," she said, her voice wavering. "Afraid that I would never be able to stand on my own." "Feelings of powerlessness following a death are very common. Talking about your loss is a way to confront these feelings. Have you been able to talk with your mother? Or perhaps a friend?" "The nature of the events surrounding Agent Mulder's death were so unusual, and--" Scully's voice caught, but she quickly recovered. "And violent, that it was hard for me to talk about it with my mother. And my work hasn't left much time for friendships." She looked down at her hands. Alone, alone, alone. Karen nodded. "Solitude can make the grieving process more difficult to navigate. In your case it might be helpful to share your stories with someone who was at the scene. Or perhaps someone who has experienced a similar loss." The woman waited a moment, then asked in her soft voice, "Do you know anyone like that, Dana?" Scully raised her head and just stared. Then she huffed lightly. * * * * The weatherman on the 11 o'clock news pointed at a storm system over the Atlantic, his mouth moving soundlessly on the screen. Doggett put his book down on the sofa and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He'd be needing glasses soon. He recalled Agent Scully wearing glasses that morning as she typed at the computer. He paused at that thought for a moment, then heaved himself roughly off the sofa and headed toward the kitchen. A soft knock arrested him. The words tumbled out of his visitor's mouth before he even got the door all the way open. "I'm sorry to bother you, Agent Doggett. I hope I didn't wake you." For a second he gaped at the coincidence of his thought and Scully's appearance on his doorstep. "Agent Scully. No, I was just reading, hopin' it would put me to sleep." Then he remembered his manners. "Come on in. What are you doin' out here this late?" "I was driving," she answered distractedly. "And thinking. I just needed to get out." "Yeah, I understand that," he said. He understood how Death could drive a person out of the house and into the night. He motioned her to sit down. "Can I get you anything? Some juice?" She declined his offer, but he waved it away, saying, "I was just gonna have a nightcap myself, so it's no bother. Orange juice okay? I assume you don't want any alcohol." "Orange juice is fine, Agent Doggett. And you assume correctly." Doggett switched off the TV on the way into the kitchen. Scully watched him from the sofa as anxiety poked needles in her stomach. She had sat in the dark in her car for the past ten minutes, staring at the house across the street. A light glowing behind the downstairs blinds gave evidence that the occupant was still up, but despite that reassurance, her resolve had wavered. Several times she had turned the key partway in the ignition, only to turn it off again. Doggett returned shortly with their drinks. Scully took the tumbler he held out to her, while he set a glass of amber liquor on the table before himself. Settling onto the other end of the sofa he asked quietly, "What can I do for you, Agent Scully?" She swallowed. What the hell was she doing here? This man had feelings for her, and her coming here was probably inappropriate. She should have called, at least. Scully felt herself losing her grip, and it frightened her. Finally she muttered, "I shouldn't have bothered you," and moved to rise. "Whoa!" Doggett reached over and put a hand lightly on her arm. "You just got here. And you're not botherin' me." Scully leaned back against the cushions and breathed in deeply. She heard Doggett saying, "Is there something on your mind?" and the gentleness in his gravelly voice calmed the turbulence within her. She turned her head to look at him. There was nothing in his look to betray any feelings other than simple friendship and concern. His honest face invited honesty in return, and gave her a measure of courage. She nodded. "Would you mind if we talked about that night?" * * * * The clock over the fireplace read one-fifty. That's a whole lotta talking, Doggett thought. He stretched out his legs under the coffee table and leaned his head back. He had long ago abandoned his perch on the sofa and moved to the chair catty-corner to Scully's end of the couch. He was closer to her there. They had relived everything they could remember about that night. The cold body on the cold ground. A Jeremiah Smith found and lost. A mysterious craft and a blinding light. (Shock, thought Doggett. She probably mistook a helicopter for something else.) The startling flashes of the crime photographer's camera, leaves rustling under boots, the snap of the gurney's legs as it was raised with its burden, the long trudge up the hill to the coroner's wagon. The trip to the ER, the vigil at the morgue, the interminable wait for morning and the flight home. And the inevitable what-if's and should-have's. "If we hadn't raided the compound, Mulder might be alive." Doggett remembered how her words had made him start, and sit forward. He'd clasped his hands tightly between his knees. "Agent Scully, no." "Jeremiah Smith was a healer, he was trying to help Mulder when we stormed in." She was leaning forward too, her eyes bright with pain. He swallowed. He didn't want to say the things he had to say. "Agent Mulder was quite dead when I found him. I know death. . .and so do you." She met his look but said nothing. He went on softly. "He wasn't like Teresa Hoese, he wasn't hangin' by a thread. He'd been dead for some time. Maybe days. His flesh. . ." Scully closed her eyes. Doggett remembered the feel of that cold, sloughing skin as his fingers pressed against it, searching in vain for a pulse. He remembered too the whiff of decay, and his stomach gave a little lurch. God, give me a hand here, he begged. He continued, "And even if you believe that Jeremiah Smith could make a dead man stand up and walk-–even if you really believe that, Agent Scully, we still couldn't have done anything differently than we did." Her eyes flew open. "Couldn't we?" she challenged. "No!" Doggett knew the road she was heading down; it was a road to hell, and she didn't need to go there. "We got a lead on a man with a criminal record, we had a dead victim, Gary Cory, we had to move quickly to protect others." He drew a breath. "We did everything by the book based on the information available. We're law enforcement officers," he concluded in his quiet rumble, "not fortune-tellers." The defiance was fading from her face. "I don't know," she murmured. "I just. . ." He nodded his understanding. "I know, but you can't torture yourself. We did everything we could to find Mulder. We did everything we could to *save* him." Doggett was leaning into her space, his knee almost touching hers, the muscles of his neck taut with strain. "We were just. . .too late." Scully searched his face in desperation for a long time. She must have finally found a particle of truth there-– enough to get her through another day, anyway--because she sighed and fell back against the cushions. Doggett looked at her now. Her eyes had drifted closed, and her legs were splayed unashamedly, her fingers entwined over her belly. Warmth stirred inside him again, and again he forced it down. Behind her closed lids Scully felt weariness tug at her, but it was the normal weariness that follows a long day. As she and Doggett had talked, grief had risen in a wave, then had subsided to a gentle lapping at her soul. Telling her stories and hearing his words had quieted the surging tide of sorrow, at least for tonight. And in the deeps below the tide she sensed, for the first time since *that* night, a strength waiting to return. She exhaled and opened her eyes. Doggett's warm gaze was resting on her. "You okay?" he asked. "Yeah." They sat there in stillness for a moment. "This was a great help, Agent Doggett. Thank you." He nodded. "I think it helped both of us." Scully wondered at that, but the late hour and her fatigue drove the question from her mind. She glanced at her watch. "God, I've kept you up long enough." She rose and, picking up the empty glasses, took them into the kitchen. Doggett stood too and watched her. She set the glasses in the sink, and when she looked up she was facing the broken cabinet door. She stared at the splintered wood, her brows knitting together as her mind worked. She turned to look at the man in a Marines tee-shirt and jeans, whose gaze was fixed intently on her. Scully's eyes dropped to his hand, to the cuts, then returned to his face. He looked down and away from her. She turned once more to the broken cupboard, fingered the jagged edges. Suddenly her throat tightened. Scully crossed the room and stood before him, and he raised troubled eyes to her, waiting for her to question him. But she said nothing. He felt the need to explain. "It happened the night I got back from the funeral." It was all the explanation he could muster. He wouldn't tell her any more. Wouldn't tell her how, on returning from the airport, he had downed several shots of scotch in quick succession. How he'd stared at his reflection in the windows and had seen only an impotent, useless bastard staring back at him. How he'd suddenly erupted, his fist connecting with the cabinet, the blows and his curses sounding in unison. How he'd hoped the pain would drive out the swirling images of Mulder's gray corpse, Luke's little body, and Scully weeping over a fresh grave. And how it hadn't. He wouldn't tell her any of these things. He didn't need to, because he saw in her eyes that she understood it all. Doggett lowered his gaze again and rubbed his hand unconsciously. He was ashamed she knew this about him. "I haven't lost it like that in a long time," he said. "Not since. . ." A simple inclination of her head told him she understood since what, and she exhaled a soft sigh. The perp had come back into his life through her, and had taken up his taunting again. Scully could imagine Doggett raging at Death, and at his own powerlessness to help her. The moment lengthened as they regarded one another. Then Doggett put his hand up to her cheek, and with his thumb wiped away a tear. It was the only tear she had shed all night. * * * * The neighborhood slumbered around them as they walked to her car. Doggett had offered his spare room, and wasn't surprised when Scully declined it. He shut the door after her, and she stared at his chest framed in the car window, and the "USMC" emblazoned on it. He'll soldier on, she thought. We'll soldier on together. Two survivors. . .with a third on the way. She lowered the window, and he brought his face down to it. "Try and get some rest this weekend, okay?" he said. "I will." But there was something she had to do. "I think I'll pay a visit to my mother, though." "That's a good idea," he said. "People should always go visit their mothers." Scully smiled at that. "See you Monday, then. . .Agent Doggett," she said softly. "Monday," he repeated, his eyes bright in the darkness. As she drove away, Scully glanced at the rear-view mirror. Next to her own reflection was Doggett's, standing in the circle of the streetlight, watching her. "We can do this," she said to the pair in the mirror. End |
