Title: Marines and Cops
Author: JS Michel
E-mail: jsm25@hotmail.com
Classification: Scully/Doggett friendship. MSR. Mulder-lite.
Spoilers: Season 8. Takes place between "Alone" and "Essence"
Rating: PG-13 for language
Archive: Sure, just let me know and include this header. 
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. 
Feedback: Yes please.
Summary: "...anybody who fit such a perfect Bureau mold couldn't 
possibly understand the X-Files."

--

She pressed the doorbell a second time but didn't wait, 
retreating down the steps instead. Away from the picket fence and 
around back, ducking the rainbow spray of the lawn sprinkler under 
the sweltering noonday sun.  

"Agent Doggett."

He looked up, startled, from the sloped roof of the tool shed, 
hammer mid-swing, a stack of shingles at his side. "Hey, Agent 
Scully. Hang on a second, be right down."

Yard-work.  The damp sweet scent of freshly-cut grass, the manual 
push-mower propped up against the tool shed. The open toolbox and 
tarpaper trimmings and his carpenter's tool belt. She absorbed 
the scene as she watched him climb down the stepladder. A memory 
from her childhood, Dad home from the sea, a hot day in July when 
they'd built the playhouse out back. Her father with a mouthful 
of nails showing her how to wield the hammer. Billy flinging 
shingle scraps Frisbee-style off the roof -- he'd clipped 
Charlie's head with one: Blood, sweat and tears intruding on 
their sunny afternoon. The everyday sort of life she hoped she 
still had time for...

"What's up?" He wiped the side of his face against his T-shirt 
sleeve. This man must have known such a life once, before it was 
swept away, shingles in a hurricane.

"Mulder."  She handed him the Gunmen's printout, feeling tired 
and old.  The baby pushed his toes up against the inside of her 
ribcage. 

He read it silently. She watched him frown, could imagine what 
he was thinking. "He mention this to you at all?" he asked.

"No, he didn't." Probably because he knew she'd object. "I'm 
sorry about the short notice, Agent Doggett, I just received this 
an hour ago. I tried to call you on my way over but your cell 
phone must be off."  

He pulled the phone off his waistband, glanced at it 
distractedly, his attention still on the report. "It's on. I 
probably didn't hear it over my neighbor's damn ridin' mower." He 
looked up from the sheet.  "What's this... about an airshow...?"

"A UFO." No sense beating around the bush.

"Course," he nodded with a sigh. He looked around the backyard, 
at the tools and half-finished roofing job, then over at the 
carry-on she'd dropped at the edge of the walkway, registering it 
for the first time. "Uh uh," he shook his head. "Come on, you 
can't be flyin' now, Agent Scully. A.D. Skinner'll have my ass. 
I'll take care of this. "

She stood her ground. "You might need my help if he's run into 
trouble." Dammit, Mulder. After everything we've been through 
these past months...

These days, much to her consternation, she frequently caught 
herself looking at him through Doggett's eyes. Why had it been so 
much easier to be the believer while he'd been missing...?

Doggett was eyeing her with concern. "I really don't think you 
should be flyin'," he repeated. He frowned and turned towards 
the tool shed. "Lemme put this stuff away first." 

He placed the hammer back in the tool box, closed the lid, slid 
it into the shed. Hung the tool belt on a nail inside the door.  
Carried the lawnmower and stepladder inside, then secured the 
latch with a padlock. Shutting up his attempt at a normal 
week-end in forty-five seconds flat.  

He wiped his face against his arm again. "I got time to shower?" 

He'd weighed his options and come to a decision. She'd discovered 
over the past months that it took a lot for this man to ditch her 
for her own good. His was a different approach to respect.

--

While he got ready she watched for the cab, sipping the orange 
juice he'd poured her and wandering around his living room. She 
wouldn't have pegged him as the bookish type when she'd met him. 
Her own prejudice, or maybe her father's:  Marines and cops 
didn't read.

She scanned the titles with curiosity, her eyes instinctively 
targeting ones familiar to her: The worn hard-cover spine of 
Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird", one of her all-time 
favorites. Benjamin Franklin's "Autobiography and Other 
Writings". On a hunch she tipped Franklin's autobiography out of 
its spot. The telltale creased binding cracked open in her hands.  

"The Death of Infants".  

Her abdomen tightened reflexively around the life within.  

Yet he managed to function. Or seemed to function. Did he, 
really?  His house, his job, his appearance, his dependability, 
his sociability... all suggested Normal. How much of it was a 
good paint job? How much of him was rusted numb inside?  

She placed the book back, gently touched a small pewter frame on 
the adjacent shelf. An innocent smile gazed back at her through 
the dust-free glass.  

She'd honestly had no clue he was a survivor.

Marines and cops didn't read. Fathers of murdered boys didn't 
play Bureau football. Didn't crack jokes with the other agents.  

She'd resented him so much, initially. Because he was a stranger, 
yes.  Because he didn't believe, that too. But also because 
anybody who fit such a perfect Bureau mold couldn't possibly 
understand the X-Files. Pain, grief, guilt, life on hold: this 
was the X-Files. Not Saturday afternoon touchdowns with a bunch 
of male-bonding Bureau jocks.  

So unlike Mulder, whose pain lurked just beneath the skin, 
spurting alarmingly at the slightest scratch. John Doggett's 
pain was buried deep; he seemed to have distilled its essence; 
encapsulated it; swallowed it whole. By the time she'd 
discovered it he'd already earned her trust on his own.  

His football games had now become a thing of the past. Casualty 
Number One.

What next? Conspiracy magazines on his coffee table, trading the 
picket fence for a barren apartment, sweeping for bugs, implants 
in the neck? Was this the irony of his fate? That he'd managed to 
pick himself up after such an unspeakable loss, only to be yanked 
down again by someone else's?

The high price of the X-Files. She knew it intimately. Why did you 
stay, Agent Doggett? Why didn't you get out while you still could?

"Ready to go?" His voice was quiet behind her.

She hadn't heard him come down the stairs. She nodded, carefully 
replacing the boy's picture, wondering how long he'd been standing 
there. His gaze shifted to the photo and for a moment she thought 
he was about to say something. But he simply dropped his black 
duffel bag near the door and turned towards the kitchen.  

Didn't seem resentful that she was nosing through his bookcase, or 
that she'd interrupted his handyman's week-end for something that 
wasn't technically a Bureau matter.

She should apologize, or thank him, or something.

"The cab's on its way," was what came out of her mouth.

He nodded and opened the fridge, poured himself a glass of juice.

His fern was drying out, she noted as she rinsed her glass in the 
sink. It had been green the first time she'd seen it, when she'd 
been taken aback by this bright, tidy kitchen with its California 
shutters. Marines and cops didn't keep houseplants.

How could he not resent the fact that she had stereotyped him so 
completely?

--

"Y'okay?"

She nodded, back from her third trip to the bathroom. Little room 
for that glass of orange juice in her pancake-flat bladder. Ever 
since he'd learned her secret he'd been giving her the aisle seat.  
No stranger to pregnancy, this one.  

She'd had to flash her badge and assert her medical credentials to 
be let onto the plane.  Been made to sign a Release form: I, Dana 
Scully, agree not to Release My Baby aboard your aircraft.

He'd looked concerned, but had backed her up.  

Backed her up. Watched her back. Partners. Three careers, this 
man had had, responsible for someone's back. On the field and in 
the field, trusting another to reciprocate. Outside a night-lit 
diner: //You're supposed to watch my back, Agent Scully...\\  One 
of the few reproaches he'd ever voiced aloud to her. She'd let him 
down, hadn't meant to but -- No, she *had* meant to.  

She regretted it now.  Wondered if he knew that.

"Agent Scully, can I ask you somethin'?"

She looked up.  Watched his face, at least, if not his back.

His eyebrows were knitted in a look she'd learned to appreciate.  
"Why does Mulder pull this stuff?"

"He wants the truth."

He shook his head. "No, I mean, why does he pull this stuff with 
you.  Runnin' off and leaving you to pick up the pieces?"

And suddenly she knew what he was really asking. Not, //why does 
he pull this stuff with you,\\ but rather //why do you *let* him 
pull this stuff with you.\\ Except he was too careful with her to 
say it.  

It was uncharacteristically oblique of him. He was learning to 
tiptoe around her moods, just as she'd learned to tiptoe around 
Mulder's over the years.  

In her mind, Mulder's brilliance and intuition had excused his 
moodiness. What excused hers, in Doggett's mind?

"We've always gotten good results that way," she heard herself 
saying, a tad too curtly. Her defense sounded transparent even to 
her own ears.  

John Doggett nodded unconvincingly. Still frowning. She suspected 
everything was already crystal clear in his mind, had been from the 
moment he'd found her asleep on that bed, Mulder's shirt clutched 
against her cheek. 

He shifted his gaze to look out the plane's thick-glassed window.  
"You started thinkin' of names?" he asked after a minute.

"Names?"

He glanced at her belly, then back up at her almost sheepishly.  
"For the baby."

He was changing the subject for her. "No, not yet."

"A good name's important."  He was reaching under the seat now, 
rummaging through his duffel for something. "So many people just 
pick the dad's name without thinkin' hard enough about it."  

She felt herself flushing with an odd sense of betrayal. He'd 
never mentioned paternity. The whole Bureau had suspicions, she 
knew.  She'd heard rumors of an office pool. But he'd been 
completely decent, never alluding, never hinting. Not once. Why 
now?  

He sat back up, a paper bag in his hand. He must have noticed her 
expression because he paused suddenly, as if replaying what he'd 
just said.  She saw him wince almost imperceptibly. 

He rubbed the back of his close-cropped hair in embarrassment. "I 
uh..." he trailed off. He fiddled uncomfortably with the bag he'd 
retrieved. "I've, been meaning to give this to you, just thought 
you might find it useful. That's all I meant, Agent Scully."

He passed her the bag across the armrest, apology evident on his 
face. She reached in, pulled out a ribbon-bound paperback: The 
Very Best Baby Name Book Ever.

"Oh." He'd been trying to give her a gift. Goddammit, you're a 
paranoid shit, Dana. She took a breath, manged a smile as she 
mentally berated herself. "Thank you, Agent Doggett. This is just 
what I needed."  

She removed the ribbon, thumbed deliberately through the entries,  
felt rather than heard his silent exhale beside her.  

"It lists potential nicknames, too," he pointed out as the tension 
faded. "My dad shoulda read this, mighta avoided his embarrassment 
at my bein' called J.J. for the first eighteen years of my life."

"J.J.?" She glanced up at him in amusement.

"Up until I joined the Marines," he grinned ruefully. "For John 
Jay. My dad was a bit of a history buff."    

John Jay, first chief justice of the Supreme Court. Wasn't he 
burned in effigy? She raised an eyebrow.  

"He was shocked that anybody'd shorten a Founding Father, but you 
know how kids are. I didn't mind, but he sure did. That's why you 
gotta choose carefully," he nodded, good-natured blue eyes 
meeting her gaze.

In that brief moment she was struck with the realization that she 
could very possibly find happiness with someone like him. His no-
bullshit world, so different from Mulder's. A world where he'd 
somehow managed to salvage picket fences and shingle repairs and 
Harper Lee from the hurricane wreck of his former life... 
managing to rebuild something thoroughly decent in the process.

The fleeting feeling was mildly disconcerting. She'd spent the 
last eight years convincing herself she was exactly where she 
was supposed to be, finally felt sure of that.

***Kersh is already burning you in effigy, John Jay Doggett. Why 
didn't you get out while you still could? Why did you stay?***

***Just watchin' your back, Agent Scully. Look out for those 
shingles.***

Blood, sweat and tears on a sunny afternoon. That's what he was 
getting in return.

--

"Sorry, nobody gets through." The young corporal studied 
Doggett's ID case impassively. "This is a restricted military 
zone."

"A military zone?" she asked, leaning forward to see the 
corporal, her belly pressed against the incarcerating seat belt. 
She felt like a beached whale. "This is a national park." 

"A Restricted. Military. Zone." Self explanatory, his tone 
implied. As if he were talking to an idiot. 

"We're tryin' to track down a man named Mulder, former FBI. We 
have reason to believe he was last seen in these woods." 
Doggett's voice held the same military tone she remembered from 
her father. Respectful insistence. He'd basically kept to the 
truth, she noted; she guessed he was no better at deception than 
she was.

The corporal's voice now echoed Doggett's, dropping the Idiot 
Tone he'd used with her. "Sorry, Sir. This is a restricted area. 
If the FBI is conducting an investigation they'll have to go 
through proper military channels. I have to ask you to turn back, 
please."

Three armed soldiers stepped forward. Doggett frowned in 
frustration, then slowly began backing the car away from the 
barricade. "Whaddya think?" he asked her as they turned onto the 
narrow dirt road.

"You don't put up armed guards and barbed-wire in the middle of 
nowhere without a good reason."

"Maybe they're just field-testin' some new piece of equipment," 
he suggested. "We did it in the Marines all the time. Not the 
kinda thing you want civilians stumblin' over, but not exactly a 
UFO."

"When you were in the Marines, how often did you shut down a 
national park to run your field-tests?" Was she Scully the 
Believer again?  Or Scully the Devil's Advocate?

He shrugged. "If you want, I could jury-rig a batterin' ram on 
the front o' the rental car and we could go back and try to 
change the corporal's mind." Straight-faced, eyes fixed on the 
dusty road.

She glanced over at him with poorly-masked amusement."That'd put 
us in Kersh's good book." Like a scene out of The A-Team, she 
envisioned. She knew he was joking, but a small part of her brain 
suspected he might do it if he thought it would please her. She'd 
never quite understood this, his subtle need for her approval. It 
was both flattering and vaguely disturbing.

He chuckled dryly and pulled the car over to the side of the 
road, the barricade now out of sight in the woods behind them. 

He'd left his window down after their encounter with the 
corporal. Now that they'd stopped rolling the steamy air wafted 
in, carrying with it the fragrance of pine trees and the buzz of 
cicadas. The sun was starting to set.  

She leaned back against the head-rest, still nursing a smile over 
his suggestion. Lethargy was washing over her.

"So... whaddya wanna do?" he asked after a minute. 

She turned to look at him, his earnest face. High school: Pulling 
over on a dirt road, Marcus' eyes bright in the setting sun, total 
innocence. //I think the engine's overheating, Dana. Gotta let it 
cool. So... whaddya wanna do...?\\

***Whaddya wanna do, Agent Scully? 'Coz I think we're 
overheating...***

***I...***

***You name it, Agent Scully. I'll jury-rig it for you. On the 
front o' the rental car, if you'd like...***

She blinked, her fleeting sanity reinstated. For crying out loud, 
Dana, hormones or no hormones...    

He was staring back patiently, waiting for her decision. About 
Mulder and that military barricade.  

There was no way to know whether Mulder was just in the woods 
waiting for "The Airshow", or if he'd been caught and was being 
detained somewhere. Another flashback, this one chilling: 
//They erased my memories, Scully...\\ The look on Mulder's face, 
lost and vulnerable, had haunted her for weeks.

She was suddenly so tired. Tired of having to worry about him all 
over again. Having to protect him, rescue him. Over and over 
again, her life caught in an endless loop. How could she ever 
keep this up once the baby was born?

***Might do you some good to spend a night in an army compound, 
Mulder. Give you time to think about pulling these stupid stunts 
again.***

***Think about what, Scully? They've erased my memories...***

The baby shifted inside her, a guilty reminder that she'd ignored 
her growing hunger.  

John Doggett  shifted beside her. In the confined heat of the car 
his musky pheromones mingled with the surrounding pines, reminder 
of a different hunger she'd been ignoring. Her heightened
awareness of him was irritating to her now. She frowned, tried to 
concentrate on the matter at hand.  

He was still watching her silently, still waiting for her to 
decide.  

The sun was disappearing through the trees. Rose and set around 
Fox Mulder. Why do you let him pull this stuff with you, Agent 
Scully?

She had missed him so desperately, her world spinning down into 
oblivion as she prayed for the miracle of his return.

Her prayers had been answered, her world righted. Except it 
always *had* spun in a frustratingly convoluted orbit, hadn't 
it...?  

Goddammit, Mulder.

***Whaddya wanna do, Agent Scully...?*** The crescendo of cicadas 
was deafening.

Focus, Dana. Analyze, organize, prioritize. How *did* cicadas 
make that noise, anyway?

The baby kicked. Her stomach rumbled.

"Let's get something to eat," she decided at last. First things 
first. "It'll be dark soon and we can try another road in."

He pulled the car into gear. "You're the boss."

--

"Piece o' danish?" he offered, pulling a squashy pastry from the 
bag on the darkened dashboard.

She shook her head, watched the danish disappear in three easy 
bites. He crumpled the paper into a tight wad and jammed it into 
their makeshift trash bag on the floor of the back seat.

"Mind tellin' me what we're waitin' for?" he'd asked her two hours 
ago. 

"The Airshow." He'd given her a skeptical look."You'll know it 
if you see it," she'd reassured him.

He'd considered that, then simply nodded. Loosened his tie and 
rolled up his shirt sleeves.

The weather had refused to cool. Even with all the windows 
rolled down the car was stifling in the breezeless starry night. 
More than once she'd been tempted to ask him to run the engine, 
just for a few minutes of air-conditioned bliss. 

The car reeked of stale french fries: a summer holiday smell, the 
four of them crowded into the back seat of the Plymouth. //Billy, 
you jerk! Dad, he ripped my Hamburglar puppet!\\ //Did not, 
tattletale.\\ Greasy fingers, torn paper packets spilling their 
salt on the upholstery, ketchup oozing on the floormats. A quick 
lunch break between Ausable Chasm and Fort Ticonderoga, where 
rusted amputation saws awaited behind glass cases strewn with 
teeth-marked bullets...

"You shouldn't be sittin' for so long in your condition, Agent 
Scully. Aren't you riskin'... blood clots, or some damn thing?"  

She eyed him with amusement."Thank you, Doctor."

He sighed and checked his watch, reaching to the cup-holder for 
his cold black coffee.  

"It's after eleven. You wanna grab some sleep?" he ventured again 
after he'd downed the remains of the cup. "I'll wake you when the 
aliens land, or whatever."

Had he been a wonderfully caring husband, or an annoyingly 
patronizing one? A fine line, no doubt. 

"I'm not tired," she assured him. "But I think I will stretch my 
legs, though." They were starting to cramp, and he was right about 
the risks of venous thrombosis.

"Watch the ditch," he cautioned. She nodded dutifully, maneuvered 
her swollen belly out of the seat with the grace of a penguin.

The moon was nearly full, the dirt road washed in muted silver. 
She contemplated her moon-shadow. The full moon, mother to the 
world.

The barricade was dark in the distance. What *are* we waiting 
for, anyway? The Airshow...? 

She tried her cell phone again without success. Goddammit, 
Mulder, where the hell are you?  

She rolled her shoulders, loosening taut neck muscles, hands 
supporting her lower back. She could feel Doggett's eyes on her.  
***I've got your back, Agent Scully.***

She headed back to the car self-consciously. Tried to keep the 
waddling to a minimum.

"Back in a minute," he announced simply after she'd wedged 
herself into the seat. He got out of the car and crossed the
ditch, wandering off towards the trees. Not, she guessed, to 
thwart venous thrombosis but rather that cola he'd gotten conned 
into Super-Sizing.  

Despite the heat she'd purposely minimized her fluid intake all 
evening, not relishing the prospect of having to bare her 
teetering pregnant butt to the moonlit grass. ***I've got your 
backside, Agent Scully.***

"FBI!  Stop right there!"

His distant shout tore through her. She was out of the passenger 
seat in a flash, gun drawn, peering desperately over the hood of 
the car in the direction she'd last seen him. Dark smudges, 
shadows in military fatigues, disappeared into the trees.

"Agent Doggett!"

No answer.

"Agent Doggett!" Answer, goddammit...

Seconds that felt like hours.

Finally: "Agent Scully! I've got him! It's Mulder!"

His shadow rising from the ground, double-headed, a limp arm 
half-draped over his shoulder.

She didn't remember jumping the ditch.

"He's okay he's alive he's got a pulse!" Doggett called out as 
she reached them. Reassuring her. That's why he'd taken so long 
to answer, she realized. He'd been checking for a pulse before 
calling out to her. Didn't want her rushing over for nothing but 
a cold corpse. Again.

She was wondering vaguely how long he would've waited if he 
*hadn't* found a pulse, when all at once the night sky lit up 
overhead in a twinkle of colors. 

He froze, his gaze turning up towards the heavens. "What the 
fuck," he managed breathlessly. "What the hell is that?"

"The Airshow," she answered softly. "Let's move, Agent Doggett."  
Her hand gripped his free arm now, gently but firmly steering 
him towards the car. He complied without protest, his eyes wide 
with disbelief, arm and shoulders still supporting Mulder's 
unconscious form.

--

She closed the door behind her and spotted Doggett finishing off 
the stack of paperwork at the nursing station. She sank down into 
a chair in the tiny lounge, allowing herself to relax at last. 
He's okay he's okay he's okay. Her mantra of eight years. 
Goddammit, Mulder, it's a good thing you're cute.

She saw Doggett hand back the forms and wander over. His arms 
and face were a deep equatorial red, matching her own, she knew.  

He dropped into the chair beside her. "How's he doin'?"

"He's asleep," she filled him in. "The painkillers have kicked 
in.  Toxicology results won't be back until morning, but 
neurologically he seems okay. Except he doesn't remember the 
last twenty-four hours."

"Judgin' by the severity of his burns, I'd say that might not be 
such a bad thing."

His comment was sincere, lacking any trace of dark humor, and 
though she was fairly certain Mulder wouldn't see it that way 
she knew Doggett meant it kindly. In this man's experience 
perhaps it was sometimes better to forget.    

"Thank you..." she began tentatively, "...for coming out today. 
If you hadn't--" 

"Don't," he cut her off tiredly, shaking his head. "Doesn't take 
a whole lotta detective work to stumble over a body while lookin' 
for a tree with my name on it." He looked drained. "Remind me, 
Agent Scully, next time Mulder goes missin', to just save myself 
a lot of trouble, take a coupla six-packs to the woods and get 
myself piss-drunk. Results'll be the same, screw the NYPD and 
Quantico and their dumb-ass investigative techniques," he 
grumbled.

She studied his face, sensing his frustration, knowing it didn't 
stem solely from tonight's incident but from the long series of 
events that had occurred since he'd joined her in the basement.

"You know," he continued in a more subdued tone, "I still don't 
understand what the hell we saw out there. Some kinda 
stealth-plane prototype?"

She didn't answer.

He glanced at her. "You really believe that was a spaceship, 
don't you..."

She shrugged in gentle sympathy. "You can tell yourself it was a 
plane if it makes you feel better, Agent Doggett."

He sighed, his brow furrowed. He leaned forward in his chair, 
elbows on his knees, clenched jaw against clenched knuckles.  
Apparently fascinated with his shoes.  

They sat in silence for a long time.

"How'd you get over it?" he asked her, very quiet now. "Stuff 
defyin' criminal investigation, blowin' away logic, laughin' in 
the face of your trainin' and your expertise..."

"I'm not sure I've ever really gotten over it," she admitted 
softly. "Not completely."

"Well, you're miles ahead o' me. I've seen how you accept 
things, paranormal, extra-terrestrial, alien healer, 
whatever..." He studied his reddened forearms.  "...goddamned 
sunburns in the middle o' the night. Dead people  --" he 
swallowed visibly, "Dead people comin' back to life, throw away 
the medical books and detective work and goddamned logic, you 
just gotta believe, like frickin' Peter Pan..." 

He stopped to take a breath. Glanced at her sideways.

"I'm sure as hell no philosopher, Agent Scully. But I thought I'd 
gotten a pretty good grip on the world. You know?" She nodded, 
recalling that long-ago feeling herself, as he went on. "Didn't 
particularly like what I saw a lot o' the time, but hey, that's 
life, huh?" She glimpsed muted pain in his eyes. "I just always 
gave it what I believed was my best shot. Thought I did everythin' 
possible, covered all the bases. And now..."

She wanted to reach out to him, squeeze his hand, reassure him.  
Knew there were no words that would comfort him.

"It scares the shit out of me, Agent Scully," he admitted.  
"Nothin's scared me for a long time..."

I'm not afraid of anything, he'd affirmed to her under the starry 
desert sky last spring. She'd taken it as tough-guy talk, 
cop-talk, Marine-talk: Marines and cops aren't afraid of 
anything. Never guessing he meant every word. He'd already faced 
the worst fear he could ever imagine, and emerged. Emerged. Got 
himself out of bed every morning.  What more could anyone have 
asked of him? What bigger act of bravery?

Fathers of murdered boys had no reason to fear anything. There 
was nothing left to fear. Death was, if nothing else, at least 
reassuring in its earthly finality.

And now the X-Files had taken that away from him. Casualty Number 
Two...

He pulled his head away from the wall. "It's after two, Agent 
Scully," he said wearily. "I'm beat, and I think you and little 
J. Edgar here," he glanced at her belly, "should get some sleep 
too."

She nodded, got herself out of the chair, knowing he was speaking 
only out of a sense of responsibility, a sense of concern for her 
and the baby. Cops could sleep. Marines... maybe. But John Jay 
Doggett, she suspected, would spend tonight staring out his motel 
window, searching the sky for answers.

Blood, sweat and tears. That's what he'd get in return for his 
trouble.

--

Author's Comments:
Been six years since I last submitted fanfic. Mulder can be 
fascinating but it was Doggett who brought me back. Scully always 
rocks, of course. Thank-you to JPM for educating this Canuck on the 
John Jay historical reference. Feedback would be great... I'm 
beta-less so grammar/typos appreciated too.

-- JS Michel -- (jsm25@hotmail.com)