ALONE, TOGETHER
By Mare (MareZX@aol.com)
4/24 - 9/14/01

The thing in that room killed my son.

Not that poor woman tied to the bed. She has to be as confused as I am; probably a lot more. Some part of me wants to hate her for what she’s harboring; needs to hate her, but I know I can’t. It’s not her fault, any more than my son’s death is her fault. She’s just another unwitting link in the chain of evil.

Somehow, the theory that it was pure evil that took my Luke makes it that much harder to bear. It seems so random, even more pointless than if it had been a man. It means I have no closure. I can’t say his killer is behind bars or dead. I can’t say his killer won’t kill again. I want so badly to go in there and close my hands around Katha Dukes’ throat, squeeze the evil out of her, take revenge for my son’s life, but I can’t. All I can do is stand here, as helpless as I was the day I held my little boy’s lifeless body in my arms.

If traumatic experiences make a person vulnerable to evil, as Mulder said, why didn’t it touch me that day? Or maybe it did. Maybe it’s behind this almost overwhelming need I feel to hurt something or somebody. So what’s stopping me?

"John?"

I don’t have to turn around to know that Monica Reyes is standing behind me. She’s been a pretty good friend over the last six years, but every time I see her, that horrible time comes rushing back, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep burying it. It’s not her fault; it’s just her bad luck that she found Luke, and that she was there when I saw him. Something in my brain associates her with those awful days, and though that may not be fair, I can’t deal with her right now. The memories are still too raw.

"What are you doing?"

Her voice is closer now. She’s standing right beside me, but it’s almost as though she’s not there at all. She’s not, really. My little world of pain and guilt is a private one, and the only other person ever permitted entry is dead. Dead, just like her son.

"Keep staring like that and they’ll lock you up too."

Now I turn and see the smile on her face. She thinks the comment is a joke, but it sure as hell isn’t funny. The way I feel right now, maybe somebody should lock me up, at least until I can bury the memories again.

"John, are you in there?"

She’s not taking the hint. I want to tell her to get the hell away from me, but knowing her, that won’t work either. She won’t go away until she’s good and ready, whether I like it or not. I turn back to the window. "Thought you were in the hospital."

"They released me." She pauses, like she’s waiting for me to ask how she is, but right this minute I’m having trouble caring about anybody else’s welfare. "I feel pretty good," she goes on. "I don’t even have much of a headache."

I can feel her eyes on me as I look through the window. I’m not even seeing Katha Dukes in there anymore. All I can see is my little boy’s body lying in the dirt; sometimes charred, sometimes not. It doesn’t seem fair that I’m the only one left who’s paying for what happened to him.

"For what it’s worth, your colleagues had the right instincts about Bob Harvey," Monica says. "I spoke to the New Orleans police, and they did some more background work. They’re pretty confident that Harvey killed at least eleven other children over the last six years." She pauses, then, softer, "Luke may have been one of his first."

That’s supposed to make me feel better?

"He apparently escalated over the years," Monica continues. "He did terrible, inhuman things to them. At least your son escaped a good part of that."

"Couldn’t escape gettin’ killed, could he?"

"At least you know who killed him now."

I can only shake my head. "Wasn’t him."

She follows my gaze through the glass. "John, staring won’t bring him back and it won’t make you feel any better. That poor woman didn’t do it."

"The thing in that room did." I can feel my hands curling into fists, which Monica can’t help but see. She takes my arm and drags me away from the window.

"It’s time to get you out of here," she says, restraining me from going back. "I’ll drive you home, okay?"

"You just got out of the hospital."

"I’m still in better shape than you are right now." She holds up an object I didn’t even feel her lift from my pocket. "Besides, I have the keys."

The woman just won’t take no for an answer. I know she’s only trying to help, but it’s hard not to lash out at her. "If it’s all the same to you, Agent Reyes, I want to be alone."

She shakes her head. "You shouldn’t be alone. Not in the state you’re in. Now, you’re either going to get a drink with me or let me take you home, but you’re not staying here."

"Monica --"

"No arguments," she says firmly, pushing me toward the exit over my protests. "We’re leaving. Now."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Home seems especially empty and lonely right now.

I can still remember when coming home used to mean being greeted at the door with a kiss from my wife; when my young son used to come bounding down the hall pleading to play catch with his dad before supper. That’s never happened in this house, and the way things are going, it probably never will.

All I want to do right now is numb my brain -- maybe park in front of the television with a beer or six or twenty, watching something completely mindless. Or maybe I should just go to bed and hopefully lose the memories in sleep. That’s never worked before, but maybe with enough beer, it might this time.

Not that I’ll get a chance to find out. Monica was going to drive me home and then call a cab for herself, but she makes no move toward any phone, land line or cell. The last thing I need is her presence, but she’s obviously not going to leave me alone. "You said the thing in that room killed your son," she says. "Does that mean you’re starting to believe what you see?"

She just never stops. "I can accept your explanation, and Mulder’s, for what happened without relying on hallucinations that weren’t real."

"What makes you so sure they weren’t real?"

I really can’t deal with her right now. She’s so determined to make me admit that what I saw all those years ago was real. To what purpose? "What’s it to you, anyway?" I snap at her, not even caring what I sound like. "You want me to feel more guilty than I already do?"

"John, it wasn’t your fault. Why should acknowledging what you saw make you feel guilty?"

I fall heavily onto the couch, resigned to another interrogation if it’ll make her shut up and go away. "Didn’t we go through this already? It would mean that I didn’t do everything I could’ve to save my son."

"What could you have done?" she counters. "Tell me what you could possibly have done differently if you’d believed. What didn’t you already do?"

"I could’ve saved him!" My head drops into my hands as the guilt comes over me yet again. "I could’ve saved him."

"How? Even if you believed the visions, you didn’t know who had him. How could you know? How do you think you were going to save him?"

Now she’s just pissing me off. "If I couldn’t save him anyway, why are you so hell-bent on makin’ me admit to what you think I saw?"

"It’s not what I think, John. You saw it."

Without realizing I’m doing it, I’m on my feet and grabbing her arm. "Why? Why is it so damn important to you?"

She makes no move to shake my hand off. "I’m trying to help you! I’m trying to get it through your head that you did everything you could."

Maybe it’s because of the muddle in my own head, but she’s not making sense at all. "Then why can’t you give it a rest about these so-called visions?"

"They led you to Luke’s killer, didn’t they?"

"No, you did! Or you think you did. It was an accident that you found Jeb Dukes in the first place, and you just jumped to conclusions. We still don’t know if Harvey -- or whatever he may or may not have been haborin’ -- did it!"

"We’re ninety-five percent sure," she says calmly.

"Are you ninety-five percent sure you can keep the killer from killin’ again?"

She bristles. "You know I can’t answer that."

"Then what the hell is this all about?"

"It’s about you, John. Can’t you see that? You believe, but you can’t admit it. Why? What are you so scared of?"

"I can’t admit it because I don’t believe it! Why can’t you see that?" I realize I’m shaking her and immediately step back. "Look, just leave me alone, would ya?"

She steps forward, closing the space I just put between us. "You’re in no shape to be left alone. Come on, sit. Let’s just calm down and talk, okay?"

I can’t tell if she’s really clueless or just pigheaded. Either way, it hasn’t cut through her thick head that I don’t want to talk, and even if I did, I sure as hell don’t want to talk to her. "Weren’t you going to call a cab? There’s the phone. Call one and go back to your hotel."

Monica crosses her arms over her chest. "And leave you alone here to brood and bury all this without dealing with it? Not a chance."

We both stand our ground for a long moment, but I don’t have the energy for this fight. I can’t take this crap anymore. I have to get away from her. "Fine, if you won’t leave, I will." I start up the stairs. "Turn the lock on your way out, will ya?"

One thing I can thank Monica for... if she hadn’t come home with me, if we hadn’t had that argument, the quiet stillness of my bedroom would’ve been oppressive and unbearable. As it is, the silence is a welcome respite. I don’t really care if Monica leaves or not. She can stay all night on the couch for all I care, just so long as she doesn’t bother me anymore.

A few minutes later, I’m just about ready for bed when my eyes fall on the photos on the dresser. I see them every day, and most of the time they’re just kind of in the background; a visible reminder of the images I carry in my head. But tonight they stand out. I can’t help but look at them; look closely and study them. There’s the wedding picture, the photo taken in Central Park, Luke’s last school picture. I pick up the Central Park photo, studying the faces. Christine and Luke look so happy; so unaware of what fate has in store for them. I barely recognize the smiling man with them as myself. It’s been so long since I felt like that, it might as well have been another lifetime.

It comes as a shock to realize that I’ve almost forgotten how beautiful Chrissy was. The pain I felt the night she died suddenly comes rushing back; so sharp I feel sick. My chest hurts, there’s a lump in my throat, I can’t breathe. My legs won’t hold me up anymore, and I sink onto the bed, my head in my hands. Will I ever get over losing them?

"You can’t just run away from your feelings, John. It doesn’t work that way."

The voice jolts me right out of my thoughts, and I spin around to find Monica standing beside the bed. She reaches toward me, but I jerk back and stand up. "What are you doin’? Get the hell outta here!"

"I know what you’re afraid of," she says calmly. "It’s not the visions, is it? It’s not what you believe or don’t believe."

The thing I don’t believe right now is her nerve. "Are you deaf, Agent Reyes? I said get the hell out!"

"You’re scared of your own feelings," she continues, as if she doesn’t hear me. "That’s why you keep everything bottled up inside. You started doing it the day your son died, and you’re still doing it now."

"Monica, don’t --"

"I was around for a pretty long time after we found the body," she interrupts, "and you know, the only time I ever saw you cry was when we told your wife that we found him. I cried my eyes out every night on that case, and it wasn’t even my child! But you... nothing."

"Monica --"

"How could you do it, John? I was there. I know how devastated you were. How did you manage to bury it? How could you keep all that pain inside for so long?"

"That’s none of your damn business! Just get outta here, will you?"

But she won’t. She continues to stand there by the bed, arms crossed. "You couldn’t even show it at the funerals. Okay, I can understand it at your son’s -- you were trying to keep it together for your wife. But I expected at least a little emotion at her funeral. How could you just stand there like a zombie?"

Jesus H. Christ, can’t she just shut up? "Some things are private, Monica. You do know what that word means, don’t you?"

"The grief is private, but not the guilt? Is that how it works?"

"Monica --"

"You know, I can’t quite figure out why you feel guilty at all."

Is it possible that she’s that stupid? "Maybe if you ever have kids you’ll figure it out."

"I don’t mean your son. I’m talking about your wife." She moves closer until she’s standing right in front of me. "It wasn’t your fault, John."

Who else’s fault could it be? "I wasn’t there when she needed me."

"Was she there when you needed her?" she counters quickly. "Did she offer you any comfort during that time? Did she ever try to help you at all? No, she took the selfish, cowardly way out..."

She didn’t just draw blood with that; she violently twisted the knife that was stuck in my heart six years ago. I’ve never in my life hit a woman, but if there was ever a time I could, it’s now. "Don’t you dare --"

"Don’t dare what? Speak the truth? Like it or not, it is the truth."

"How the hell do you know what the truth is?" Barely noticing that I’m doing it, I move closer to her, so close we’re practically touching. "You weren’t there! How the hell would you know anything?"

She nods. "Anger. Anger’s good, John. You should be angry." She grips my upper arms and I try to shake her off, but she won’t let go. "If I were you and she hurt me like that, I’d be so unbelievably mad at her --"

"You’re not me," I shout at her, "and I’m not mad at her; I’m mad at you! You’ve got a hell of a lotta nerve makin’ judgments like that about somethin’ you don’t know anything about!"

"She couldn’t stand the pain of losing her only child and she killed herself, with no thought for anyone but herself. What else is there to know?"

"Swear to God, Monica, if you don’t shut up --"

I never get to finish the thought. Without warning, suddenly her lips are on mine, her tongue traces my lower lip... she’s kissing me. Instinct takes over and I act without thinking. By the time my dazed mind processes what’s going on, I’m kissing her back. No, not kissing -- devouring. It’s hot, it’s intense, it sends a burst of long-buried feelings rushing through me, and it’s... wrong. Very, very wrong.

Once I realize what I’m doing I push her violently away from me. Suddenly I’m really confused. The last woman I kissed like that -- kissed at all -- was Chrissy. "What the hell...?"

"Now that I’ve got your attention..." Monica moves in close again, breathing hard, as am I. "We’ve uncovered feelings, and I’m not going to let you bury them again. This time you’re going to address them." She’s got an arm around my waist and suddenly her hand is... "You’re going to work out some of that anger. Relieve some tension..."

Her hand really is inside my pants, and God help me, my body responds. Surprise and shock quickly give way to the need to... do something; something I haven’t done in a really long time. That need is overwhelming. It merges with all the anger and pain I’ve held in check throughout this case and in ninety seconds flat, we’re naked on my bed and I’m driving into her. Not just driving; I’m slamming into her -- fucking her -- so hard she’ll probably break, but I feel nothing. It doesn’t even seem like it’s me doing this. It’s like watching somebody else, somebody I don’t know.

After my wife died, I closed off the sexual side of myself; put it in cold storage right alongside my heart. Maybe it’s just to punish myself for my part in her death, but for whatever reason, I’ve pretty much avoided the social scene. Maybe because I miss her so much, or maybe because one-nighters have never been my thing, I haven’t touched another woman; have barely even thought about sex since then. Assuming there would ever be a next sexual encounter in my future, I never saw it going down like this. This isn’t me. I don’t want to do this; sure as hell don’t want to do it with Monica Reyes. But apparently on some level I need to do it; no way in hell I could stop even if I tried.

I don’t know how long the act lasts, but it’s probably not long. My orgasm brings me no pleasure at all; it’s just a tension release and the second it’s over I’m as far away from Monica as I can get.

As I sit at the edge of the bed, head in hands, getting my bearings back, the only face I see in my mind is Chrissy’s. I just betrayed her memory. I’ve spent the last couple days thinking about her and Luke, missing them like hell, and what do I do? Go out and have sex with... no, fuck... the first woman I see. The last woman I ever wanted to fuck, too. Hell of a tribute to the woman I loved.

If this is what dealing with feelings is like, I think I’ll leave the rest of mine buried forever. Did Monica actually think this would help me? All she did was pile a fresh shovelful of guilt on top of the load I’m already carrying.

I used her. The thought is completely sickening, but it’s the truth. It hardly matters that she let me, even encouraged me, to use her. Sure, it was all her idea, but that doesn’t make me feel any less like a shitheel.

The sound of her slowly-easing breathing seems so loud in the quiet of the room. She’s otherwise silent, but I can feel her eyes on my back. What the hell was I thinking, letting myself get in a position like this? I guess I wasn’t thinking... but she was, and now I need to know what was going through her head. The question is out almost before I know I’m going to ask it. "Why?"

She has to know what I mean, but she asks anyway. "Why what?"

"Why’d you do it? Did you plan this?"

"No!" She sounds almost indignant enough to make me believe her. "All I wanted to do was snap you out of that fog you’ve been in for the last few days. This just sort of... happened."

Yeah, sure, it just happened, but I suppose how it came about doesn’t really matter right now. "Congratulations," I tell her. "You just made it worse."

"I know what you’re thinking," she says after a long moment. "She’s dead, John. She’s been dead for six years. You didn’t betray her."

The anger that had faded after sex flares up again, and now I turn around to face her. "Haven’t you said enough about my wife already?"

Monica reaches out and strokes my arm, but I yank it away from her. "The point is, you haven’t said enough about her," she says quietly. "You don’t talk about your wife, you don’t talk about your son, and you need to. If you ever want to be able to heal the wounds and move on with your life, you have to face what you feel and deal with it. Talk about it. Stop burying it. Believe that you did everything you could for both of them, and let it go."

"Let it go? I’m supposed to just let go of the woman I spent twelve years of my life with? I’m supposed to just let go of my only child?"

She meets my eyes and remains silent for a long moment before taking a deep breath. "That’s not quite what I meant, but if that’s what you have to do to heal, then, yes."

For a minute I can only gape at her. She’s lying back against the pillow, half-covered with the sheet. Staring at a half-naked woman ought to do something to a guy who hasn’t had sex in six years, but I feel absolutely nothing. All I want is to get her the hell out of my bed... and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I turn away, shaking my head. "Can’t believe you just said that."

"I’m only trying to help --"

"I don’t want your help!"

"You need someone’s help." Her hand now lightly strokes my back. I can barely stand her touch, but I don’t have the energy anymore to pull away. "You hide it very well most of the time," she continues, "but I’d really hate to see what happens when you work cases involving kidnapped or murdered kids."

She has a point there. The last few months, cases involving children have hit me a lot harder than they used to. Memories and old feelings come bubbling to the surface much more easily lately, and I haven’t been able to figure out why.

Monica moves closer and starts rubbing my shoulders. "Did you ever consider grief counseling?" she asks softly.

I don’t want her touching me, but after the tension of the last few days, I could probably use the massage. "After all this time? What good would it do?"

"I think it could do a lot of good." Her hands begin lightly stroking my neck. "There’s no statute of limitations on grief, or guilt, or pain. You’re hurting, John, and you shouldn’t have to handle it by yourself."

The only thing I can’t handle right now is her. It was bad enough when we were just arguing, but after the sex and now this, I can’t take it anymore. I shrug her hands off my shoulders, and this time she takes the hint. She doesn’t move away -- I can feel her breath on the back of my neck -- but at least she’s quiet.

Somehow her silence is almost as unbearable as her touch. It’s like she’s waiting for something and I have no idea what it is. The quiet is too heavy; one of us has to say something. "Before..." I venture.

"Hmm?"

"I didn’t hurt you, did I?"

"It was pretty rough," she says, starting to massage my shoulders again, "but nothing I can’t handle."

It’s not worth the effort to make her stop her massage. I’ve hinted, suggested, and flat-out yelled at her to leave me the hell alone, but she hasn’t, which probably means she wants something and won’t leave until she gets it. I don’t give a rat’s ass what she wants or if she gets it, but at this point the path of least resistance is probably just giving it to her.

She moves closer, now kneading my neck. I can feel her breath in my ear and her breasts gently pushing into my back. An old memory comes to mind: Chrissy in a little red lace teddy, cinnamon massage oil on her hands...

I shake the memory out of my head. I’d give anything to turn around now and see Chrissy behind me, but unfortunately I’ll just see Monica Reyes. Time to cut to the chase. "Monica, what the hell do you want?"

"I just want to help you, John. That’s all. If before was any indication, I’d say you haven’t allowed yourself much intimate contact since you lost your family. Touch can be very therapeutic." Suddenly her arms snake around me and she’s stroking my chest. "There can be a lot of comfort in the human touch..."

Comfort? Not from her and not like this. Now I try to shake her off, but she’s not budging. "C’mon, Monica, knock it off."

"Let me help you, John." One hand drops into my lap and starts stroking, and dammit, my body takes notice again. With the frame of mind I’m in, have been in for days, there should be no way in hell this could happen, but it’s happening. Again. Even though it’s the last thing in the world I want. "I can help you forget," she whispers. "Even if it’s only for a little while..."

At least now it’s clear what she wants. She thinks my wife wasn’t thinking of anyone else but herself? What does she call this? It sure as hell isn’t helping me -- she’s gotta know that. If I could I’d push her away, make her leave this time, but I can’t seem to move. Not that it would really matter. Monica gets what Monica wants, and my own need for release is growing again. Path of least resistance, I remind myself. Best to just go with the flow and pretend it’s Chrissy I’m with, or... or...

Or Dana Scully.

Yeah, that’s it. It’s Dana Scully guiding me back against the pillows, Dana Scully kissing my neck and chest. My eyes close as the fantasy takes hold; strong, powerful, and demanding.

After my wife’s funeral, I put my heart on ice along with my libido, but sometime during the last few months, it apparently thawed. By the time Mulder came back from the dead, I was finally able to admit to myself something I’ve known for some time but kept buried -- that somewhere along the line I fell in love with my partner. Completely, totally, head over heels in love... just like I did with Chrissy so many years ago. Loving Scully should make me feel like I’m betraying my first love, but it doesn’t. I’ve thought about her, dreamed about her a few times, but I’ve never had a sexual fantasy about her... until now.

I’m practically upright against the pillows; more than close enough to tease her nipples to hard peaks with my fingers. Even with my eyes closed I can see her -- head thrown back, beautiful blue eyes half-closed -- when I take one nipple between my teeth. Her sighs and moans spark something inside me, and suddenly I’m not just having a fantasy. I’m living it.

Scully lowers herself slowly, taking me into her body bit by bit. I want to get inside her as fast as I can, stay there for as long as I can, but she’s in control and that’s just fine. It’s different with her -- I feel something this time; maybe too much. She’s not moving much, just rocking gently back and forth, but it’s enough to make me want a whole lot more. It’s hard not to take control back, but I can find other uses for that energy. The body now united with mine needs exploring, which I eagerly get to with hands and mouth. She must have the same idea -- I feel her hands stroking my chest as she nibbles at my ear and kisses my neck. We find each other’s mouths; the kiss is long, deep, and passionate.

What feels like ages later, we’re still kissing when she starts moving faster and with more purpose. She’s close now, I can feel it. I don’t have to open my eyes to see her face; see that look of pure pleasure and wild abandon that’s partly my doing. My hands move to the spot where we’re joined. I want to make her come, but she doesn’t need my help. She changes position a little, pulling closer to me, and it’s just a minute or so later when she cries out in pleasure; cries lost in our kisses. As she’s riding out her orgasm she bites my lower lip; the sudden pain serving as a wake-up call of sorts.

Now I take control back, instinct immediately taking over. I don’t even know anymore what I’m doing, what she’s doing... don’t know much of anything. All I know is we’re still kissing, still moving somehow, and she cries out again, right before my own climax hits. Release comes deep inside her; Scully sighs softly and kisses my chin and neck until we’re both sure it’s over.

She rolls onto her back next to me, gasping for breath just like I am. We stay like that for a while; it feels like a long time later when she speaks. "You probably don’t want to hear this," she says, still breathing hard, "but damn, that was good."

Dana Scully speaks in Monica Reyes’ voice.

Shit.

"Better than good," she goes on. "That was great... no, fabulous."

Shit shit shit.

Now I open my eyes and see her in my peripheral vision. Yeah, it’s Monica, and I just... I can’t even think it. How the hell did I so thoroughly convince myself I was making love to Scully? That’s what it was, too; not fucking, like the first time.

It doesn’t even bother me anymore that I used her. She used me just as much, and all I feel is... emptiness. Not anger, not frustration, just... nothing.

I wish I could feel something. Before Scully, it was such a long time since I did.

A hand touches my arm. "John?"

I jerk away from her. "Happy now?" I snap, suddenly realizing that I am angry. "Got what you wanted?"

"John, I only wanted to help --"

"The hell you did!"

She sits up now and faces me, but I can’t meet her eyes. "I only wanted to help you," she repeats. "I wanted to help you forget, and you did forget, didn’t you?"

If only it were that easy.

I can feel her eyes on me for a long moment before she speaks again. "You were thinking of someone else, weren’t you?"

Damn right I was. No other way I could get through sex with her. "Yeah, but like you keep reminding me, she’s dead."

"No..." She shakes her head slowly. "Not your wife. Someone living."

The last thing I need now is another interrogation. "Finished now? Get out."

"John --"

"Dammit, get out! What do I have to do to make you leave me the hell alone?"

Monica’s still for a moment, then nods slightly. "Okay, if that’s what you want." She gets up and pads to the bathroom, still stark naked. When she comes out she gets dressed, then approaches my side of the bed. I still haven’t moved. Not sure if I even can anymore.

She stands there for what feels like a long time; long enough for me to wonder what the hell she’s up to. Finally she sighs and says, "I hope you find your peace, John." She bends and, before I can stop her, lightly kisses my forehead.

Then she’s finally gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t even realize where I’m going until I’m at the door. I raise my hand to knock, but a thought stops me. He’ll be with her. He always is, but right now I don’t care. I don’t belong here any more than I belong in that basement office, but I’m drawn here anyway, Mulder or no Mulder. I knock before I can really think better of it.

Mulder answers the door, as surprised to see me as I am to be here. We stand in awkward silence for a moment until Scully rescues us. "Agent Doggett," she says from the couch. "Please come in."

Mulder glances from her to me, then back to her before reaching for his jacket. "I, um... promised Frohike I’d drop in on their poker game tonight. See you tomorrow, Scully?"

"Good night, Mulder," she says quietly. She waits until the door closes behind him, then pats the couch next to her. "Have a seat."

I do, and there’s another awkward silence which she again breaks. "Might I ask what brings you by?"

After what happened this evening there’s a lot of things I could say to her, but it’s best to go with something safe. "Just wanted to see how you and little J. Edgar are doin’."

"We’re doing just fine. Feeling much better, thank you." She smiles and lightly rubs her belly, and I have to turn away. Every time she does that it reminds me of when Christine was pregnant with Luke, and I can’t handle that right now. I don’t even want to think about how much more it’ll hurt to see her holding her baby.

"Agent Doggett, how are you doing?"

I look up to see concern in her eyes. She continues, "Mulder told me what happened, and about your son. This case must’ve been terribly hard on you. Are you all right?"

"I’m..." It’s suddenly very clear why I’m drawn to her. Monica tried to help, but she didn’t know how and only ended up making me feel worse. Scully knows the right questions to ask, the right things to say. Monica wanted to talk; wanted to get across whatever her point was... wanted something completely unrelated to helping me. I may be off base, but I just feel that Scully will listen. "It was hard. Stirred up a lot of bad memories, and..." I take a deep breath, the familiar pang of guilt stabbing me yet again. "...and I can’t get ’em out of my head. Can’t help thinkin’ there was something else I could’ve done, some other lead I could’ve followed..."

"What could you possibly have done that you didn’t already do?" she asks softly.

Monica asked the same question, but it sounds so different coming from Scully. Why? "I don’t know; something, anything. My little boy was missing. I was supposed to save him."

"Sometimes we do everything we possibly can, and we still don’t succeed. It’s tragic, but it’s not your fault. I know that doesn’t make you feel any better, but it’s true."

Damn right, it doesn’t make me feel any better. "Few days before he went missing, I took Luke to his first Yankees game." The memory comes flooding back with amazing detail: the awe and wonder in my young son’s face as he saw in person the idols he’d only seen on television; his fierce determination to catch the home run ball that fell in our section. It was a completely perfect day... that was completely ruined less than a week later. "You know I can hardly stand to watch baseball anymore?"

Scully nods. "Isn’t there anyone you can talk to? What about Luke’s mother?"

She naturally assumes I’m divorced, probably because that’s what often happens to couples who lose a child. "My wife died not long after Luke did." I close my eyes as that memory comes back, unfortunately just as clear but not nearly as happy as the baseball memory. "Pills. They said it could’ve been accidental..."

"Oh, John, I’m so sorry." Her hand skims down my arm and comes to rest on top of my hand on the couch. "I didn’t know."

Her touch on my hand feels so much more intimate than Monica’s touch anywhere on my body. I’ve craved this for months, and it has the intended effect. Where I felt nothing from Monica’s touch, Scully’s touch soothes.

But I can’t think about that now. Scully doesn’t need any more problems. I shouldn’t even be here. "I’m sorry, too, Agent Scully. Didn’t mean to dump all this in your lap."

"It’s Dana, and it’s all right. If you need to talk, I’m here to listen if you want me to."

Could I possibly fall any more in love with this woman? I think I just did. She’s gone through enough crap lately to last a lifetime, but she’s concerned about me. I don’t even know what to say; the words come haltingly from God knows where. "I just... can’t... stop thinkin’ about my boy lying there like that..."

She squeezes my hand. "Have you ever thought about grief counseling?"

Again, the question sounds much different coming from Scully... Dana. "Y’know, you’re the second person today who said that."

There’s more comfort in her warm smile than there was in all of Monica’s sexual caresses combined. "Then maybe there’s something to it," she says quietly. "Maybe it’ll help you."

Monica would’ve asked who else had said it.

"Maybe it would," I find myself admitting, "but it’s not like it’s on my mind all the time..."

"That doesn’t mean you’re not still grieving," she says. "I know how that goes. It hits you in the quiet moments, when you’re alone, or when something reminds you of what happened, like this case did."

If anyone knows what I’m feeling, it’s her. The grief and anguish I watched Dana go through when Mulder was first missing, then presumed dead, was a microcosm of what I’ve been feeling for the last six years. She’s stronger than me, though. She handled her situation with a lot more grace than I’ve been handling mine.

Before I can say anything, she gently turns my hand palm-up and laces her fingers through mine. My dazed mind is still processing this when she speaks. "You must miss them terribly."

My hand instinctively closes around hers. "I don’t think there’ll ever be a day when I don’t, but I can’t let it take over my life. That was... a damn hard lesson to learn."

"I can imagine."

"Y’know, I still don’t know what stopped me from..." I take a deep breath, surprised at the words I’m about to say. This is something I’ve never told anybody, and swore I never would. "... from eatin’ my gun after they were gone..."

Dana takes a measured breath and grasps my hand tighter. "You thought about it?"

I thought about it like a man trapped in the desert thinks about water, but she doesn’t need to know that. "I did. For about five or six months after we found Luke’s body, it was a very real possibility. Don’t know what I was thinkin’... that my wife had the right idea, that we’d all be together again, whatever... but somethin’ always got in the way. That’s when I started to realize that if I wasn’t going to do it, I couldn’t keep livin’ like that. I realized that Luke and Christine’ll always have their place, but I have to move on."

She smiles. "I’m glad you found your way through all that." We sit in comfortable silence for a moment before she again breaks it. "This may not be the right time to bring this up, but... if you think you can handle it," she says softly, "I have a favor to ask."

If I can handle it? I’d do anything for this woman. Absolutely anything, whether I think I can handle it or not. "Ask away."

She takes a deep breath and shifts a little next to me. "Well... to tell you the truth, the prospect of parenthood is a little daunting. I’ve never done this before, and I’m not sure what to expect."

I can’t help but smile. "Chrissy and I felt exactly the same way when she was pregnant."

"But you had each other to help and to lean on. You shared the burdens and the joys, and you learned together." She’s silent for a moment, then adds softly, "As a single mother, I don’t have that luxury."

Single mother? What about the guy who’s here all the time? Isn’t he the kid’s father? Doesn’t she want him to be? I want to ask all these questions, but all that comes out is one word. "Mulder?"

"Mulder will be a part of my child’s life," she assures me, and I can’t help but notice her choice of possessives. "But he’s just gone through a terrible ordeal. He’s still trying to cope with what happened to him, and I don’t feel he’s ready to share in the responsibility of raising a child, even if he wants to."

Here’s a development that would wreck the Bureau baby pool if it ever got out. Mulder’s not the father, and Dana doesn’t want him around for the tough stuff. "So what are you saying? And what’s the favor you wanted to ask?"

"I’m getting to that." She squeezes my hand again. "While I do have help available, chiefly my mother, I’m looking for a little more than that. I’d like for my child to have a male influence in his or her life. Mulder’s not up to the job, my brothers aren’t around, and, while I’m sure Frohike, Langly and Byers would be a unique influence on the baby, they’re not exactly surrogate parent material. That leaves me few options."

This is getting less and less comfortable by the minute. I’m not sure where she’s going with this, and she still hasn’t gotten to the favor.

"That brings me to what I want to ask." She takes a deep breath and meets my eyes. "I know nothing can ever make up for the tragic loss you’ve suffered, but until such time as you have a family of your own again, I’m hoping that you can find it in yourself to... well, help me. Guide me. Teach me. Show me how to be a good parent."

I can only sit here, stunned. Does she know that she just threw a drowning man a life preserver? Does she have any idea how much I want a family? How much I need this? It sounds much too good to be true. "You... you’re asking me to... to help you raise your baby?"

"I know it’s a great deal to ask," she says quickly, "and if you don’t want to or don’t think you can, I’ll understand completely. It’s just that I could really use your experience to draw on. I’d like to learn from someone who was a good parent."

I can’t meet her eyes anymore, but she won’t let me pull my hand out of hers. "Good parents don’t let their kids get kidnapped and killed."

"It wasn’t your fault, John." With her other hand she lifts my chin until I’m looking in her eyes again. "It wasn’t. You were a good father. You loved him."

The old familiar ache settles in my chest again, and it’s a moment before I trust myself to speak. "Still do and always will."

"Which is exactly what I’d expect of you." She smiles. "As I said, I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’d really be doing me a huge favor. It would be a great help to me. Will you at least think about it?"

She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows I’ll get a hell of a lot more out of this arrangement than she will, but she’s making the offer anyway. If I wasn’t already completely in love with her, I sure would be after this. How I could miss my wife and son so much, yet still fall in love with Dana and her unborn baby at the same time, I’ll never know, but it’s happened... and there can be only one answer to her request. I have no choice. "No, I --"

"No?" Dana speaks too quickly, nervously.

I take a deep breath. "No, I don’t need to think about it. Of course I’ll do it, if you’re sure you want me to."

She finally lets go of my hand and pulls me into a surprise hug instead. "I’m sure," she whispers. "Thank you so much."

Nice words, even if we both know I need this deal more than she does. "Thanks for asking."

Having her in my arms feels so right and I could stay like this forever, but she pulls back much too soon and settles again in her previous position. She offers a small smile; an acknowledgment of the sudden awkwardness between us.

This time I break the ice. "Mulder’s not gonna get all territorial when he hears this, is he?"

Dana’s warm smile returns. "Don’t worry, I can keep Mulder properly leashed. Even if I couldn’t, once I explain it, I’m sure he’ll understand."

I’m not so sure, but I nod anyway. "Hope so."

She takes my hand in hers again. "Would you like to meet little J. Edgar?" She places my hand, with hers over it, on her belly, and within seconds I feel the strong movements of the life within her. It reminds me again of my own son, the kind of reminder that would normally tear out another little piece of my heart, but I can’t help but smile. "Feels like you got the Redskins’ next punter in there."

"Or the next star of the women’s Olympic soccer team," she says with a soft laugh.

"Or that."

We sit in silence, at ease with each other, comfortable with our new arrangement. I know they’re not purely mine, but Dana and her baby seem to be my new family... and for now it’s enough.

Deep down I have a feeling that Chrissy and Luke would approve.

~ Fin ~

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