Author: spookycc

Rating: PG 13, maybe mild R for a bit of language

Summary: Doggett investigates a mob murder in Massachusetts, with the help of a Boston Assistant District Attorney.

Timeline: Takes place immediately after "Existence".

Classification: V A The X-Files/The Practice crossover. Implied DSR. First person A.D.A. Helen Gamble POV. Very, very DF (Doggett Friendly).

Spoilers: For US S8.

Disclaimer: No characters, human or canine, are mine. The mob references are real, but please don't "off" me. I find cement shoes *so* constricting. ;-)

Archival: I'll take care of Ephemeral and Gossamer. Anywhere else is fine - please drop me a line to let me know where you're putting it. SHODDSsistahs, if this has enough DSR that you want it for your sites, it's yours, of course. DTA, have at it. :-)

Feedback welcomed at spookycc@earthlink.net

Dedication: As ever, to Doggett's Bitch, my soulmate. Thanks for the beta and the insight. And to girlassassin, a true survivor and dear friend.

Brief Author's Note: Doggett's Bitch and I have been discussing for some time the similarities in character between John Doggett and Helen Gamble. They are both completely selfless, and we wondered what would happen if they met..

Knowledge of the TV series "The Practice" (airs on abc right '*after* TXF on Sunday nights :) is helpful, but not necessary.

****

Practice Imperfect

I've been prosecuting this case since shortly after it fell to our office. I 'm the second to be assigned to it, actually. Richard Bay was the first, but he never even had a chance to read the briefs before that horrible night in the parking garage.

I haven't resolved my feelings about that. I don't suppose I ever truly will. Richard Bay was sometimes a weasel, sometimes infuriating. But always dedicated. Dedicated to the truth, whatever the cost. That cost was eventually his life.

God, how I miss his motivational speeches during quiet dinners. I could use one of those, right about now. I know Boston has always been a mob town, but these latest murder cases are beyond what I'd ever even *read* before.

"Excuse me- Miss?" A deep voice pulls me from my melancholy thoughts. I look up to meet the bluest eyes I've seen up-close since Bobby Donnell and I were "an item". I find myself almost smiling, and I don't even know why.

"Yes?"

"Can you please tell me where the D.A.'s office is?" God, what a voice.

"I work in the D.A.'s office. Can I help you?"

A thin smile graces his lips. "Yeah, I hope so." He flips out a wallet badge. "Special Agent John Doggett. I'm supposed to meet with someone about the Winter Hill case."

"The Winter Hill case," I repeat, nodding. I wish I'd never heard that name before. He looks at me quizzically. "I'm Helen Gamble, Assistant D.A."

I extend a hand, and he takes it firmly in one of his own. "Nice to meet you." A warmer smile now, despite the reason we meet. "If you have time, I'd like you to bring me up-to-speed."

I walk with him to my office. He holds the door open for me, and I raise an eyebrow. I offer him coffee, and he readily accepts. It looks like he could use some sleep.

"You know, the FBI doesn't have the best track record on this particular issue," I begin. I wonder how much he has read up on the case already.

Agent Doggett doesn't disappoint me. He recants the story of the Salvati case, from memory. A retired Boston FBI agent denied in May 2001 that he and his partner helped frame an innocent man for a notorious 1965 murder. But now he admits George Salvati spent years in prison for a crime he didn't commit.

Agent Doggett continues. "A congressman from Indiana, Dan Burton, finally called a hearing on Capitol Hill. And he wasn't exactly brimmin' with praise about the FBI's part in all this. As I recall, he said somethin' to the effect that this case was one of the greatest failures in the history of federal law enforcement."

I can't suppress a little smile. He knows his stuff. And he wanted *me* to bring him up to speed? "So, they sent you here."

"To set it straight. To find the guys who hit the last victims. To bring them up on federal charges." His jaw is set, firm. He truly believes he can take on the mob. And win. He sits pensively, stirring his coffee. He doesn't take cream or sugar, but he stirs it nonetheless. I can tell this is a man who is more used to action than inaction. The mob is a bad target for him to set out against. I can see him, like Don Quixote tilting at windmills. No one is going to overthrow the mob in Boston. They're as much a part of the city as the Red Sox or the Boston Symphony. But somehow I know that this man will try.

"You look tired. And hungry." I offer.

"Yes, ma'am, to both."

"It's 'Helen'. Could I interest you in dinner at a quaint little café down the street, Agent Doggett?"

He smiles again. It lights up his careworn face. "It's 'John'. And that'd be great."

****

We're seated upon our arrival. It's a quiet place, and we spend the time waiting for our food discussing what little about the case he doesn't already know. I'm relieved that we're dispensing with the gorier details of the murders before the meal arrives. I've become sadly accustomed to this type of scenario, but certainly not hardened to it.

We eat accompanied by pleasant conversation - chitchat, mostly. I spend what time I can watching him. I am struck by the chiseled features of his face. The scar across the bridge of his nose. His piercing blue-gray eyes.

After dinner, we sit back, full of information and full of some of the best Italian food this side of Little Italy. A single remaining breadstick sits on a small plate between us, and I slide it toward him.

"No, please. Help yerself." He pushes the plate back toward me.

I sigh, fondly recalling my dinners with Richard. The man whose restaurant language, pep talks aside, consisted mainly of 'Can I have that pickle?' and 'Are you going to finish that?'

John Doggett is so unlike Richard Bay, in more ways than I can count. Lean and sinewy where Richard was short and somewhat stocky. A southern-state-laced-with-New-York accent, and simple language mark John Doggett. Richard's accent was straight Boston, his language articulate and well educated.

But there is an underlying similarity, too, a sameness, if you will. Richard was a good man, and so, I think, is Agent Doggett. I don't have much to base this on, actually, just his straightforward, honest attitude. I think he wants what's right. And so did Richard. It sounds old-fashioned - hell, it '*is* old-fashioned - but it's still true.

"What're you smilin' at?"

I look up to meet his puzzled gaze. I must have let some of my thought train creep into my expression. "Nothing, nothing."

"You're thinkin' about someone, aren't you?"

Damn. This man sees inside me just a bit *too* easily. I smile again, and nod. "An old friend."

His face turns serious once more. It seems to fit him better, somehow. "This old friend. He's gone, isn't he?"

Somehow I know in what context he means that. "Yes. Yes, he is."

He lowers his head and pretends to study the remains of his dinner on his plate. And I feel a sense of loss emanating from him, as well. "You're not a stranger to loss, yourself, Agent Doggett." It's a statement, not a question.

He raises his eyes to meet mine. I ponder his expression - I'd swear that some part of it is guilt. He blinks, and his steel blue eyes seem to pale, just a bit. Then he just shakes his head, slowly. "Too much loss," he almost whispers.

I lean over the table toward him. His face is so close to mine that I could reach out and touch it, soothe his furrowed brow. "If you want to talk about it." I leave the invitation open.

"No. no." his voice is still low. "But thank you."

****

I have no business being here. I visit crime scenes frequently, generally *after* the fact. But all our digging into this case has led us here, and I have to see this through. I can hardly sit still, in Agent Doggett's rental, as we await the arrival of the police. We may have located the ringleaders, the bosses in this family arm of the Boston mafia. And we may have evidence that can put them away.

I glance beside me, taking in the deceptively relaxed-looking man in the driver's seat. He's done this many times before, I'm sure. I'm not used to being involved with cases until much farther down the judicial line.

Backup arrives, silent as ordered. Agent Doggett doesn't want me to go in with them, and I understand - almost appreciate - his concern. It's not the usual "this is *man's* work" macho crap I hear from too many officers around here. He genuinely seems worried about my being injured. In the end, I don't let that change my mind. We're just too close here for me to turn back now. And I need to make sure that every "i" is dotted and every "t" crossed for this case to hold up in court. These sleazebags have the best lawyers that illegally obtained money can buy.

I've worn Kevlar before, and, as usual, the vest feels about five sizes too big. I throw Agent Doggett a hesitant smile, and he places me behind him with his arm, not willing to take any chances. Using standard entry techniques, we infiltrate the building we believe to be one of the mob's drug distribution hubs. We comb the building front to back, floor by floor. There is no one here except us.

It is Agent Doggett who first realizes that something is seriously amiss. Maybe it's cop instinct, I don't know. But I thank God for it. One minute we 're rechecking a storeroom. The next minute, I hear Doggett's strained voice, through the walkie-talkie, and directly in front of me.

"Bomb!"

The next few moments are a blur, at least to me. I feel Agent Doggett's weight forcing me ahead of him, toward the door. I see a flash of bright orange, even as I am pushed away from it. I feel a wave of concussion. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor, safely shielded by his body.

I shake my head a bit, to clear away some of the cobwebs, and try to get up. But Agent Doggett does not move. His head lies over my shoulder, his weight pressing me firmly onto the concrete floor. I roll him gently off me, and scramble to my knees.

Agent Doggett is deathly still. Through the acrid smoke, I see that many others lie injured. But he caught the worst of it. I yell at one of the BPD cops to get some medical help here, fast. And I turn my attention back to the man beside me.

He lies on his back, where I rolled him, one arm splayed at an unnatural angle. The Kevlar vest hangs askew, half on his chest, half off. I can't imagine he could escape without serious internal injuries from a blast in such close proximity, but I'm not a doctor. I pull off my own vest and take my suit jacket from beneath it, covering Agent Doggett as much as I can with it.

Thank God the ambulances arrive quickly. I suppose they might have been placed on alert, given the situation we were walking into. There won't be the same number of us walking *away* from the situation. Some will be on gurneys. I wish Agent Doggett wasn't in that category.

Two EMTs work on him, stabilizing him for transport, I assume. He has not moved of his own volition, since the blast. They already have an oxygen mask on him. The technicians fit him with a neck collar, and prepare to slide a flat board under his back, to move him. As they gently lift him onto the board, and lay the board atop a gurney, he moans a bit, and I see pale blue eyes behind the oxygen mask. His eyes are questioning. Perhaps he doesn't remember what happened.

The EMTs nod at me, and I walk with them to their vehicle, and climb into the back. They pull into traffic and the motion seems to aggravate John's injuries. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly.

"Can you give him something for the pain?" I ask the EMTs. I feel so helpless.

One of them shakes his head. "Not until we determine what kind of internal injuries we're dealing with, and whether or not he suffered a concussion."

They've splinted his right arm, so I take his left hand in mine, heedless of his blood on my hand. "It's ok. We're on the way to the hospital. You're going to be fine." I try to reassure him, even though I have no idea of his condition.

His eyes open, just a bit, and I feel his hand tighten on mine. He tries to talk through the oxygen mask, and I lean my head close to hear him.

"Scu - Scully?"

I swallow, hard. "No, John, it's Helen. Helen Gamble."

His eyes wear a puzzled expression once more. "Helen?" Then his look clears somewhat, and he tries to nod, managing only a grimace. "Boston."

"Yes - You're still in Boston. Hang in there, ok? We're almost there."

He is gone again, probably welcoming blackness as a relief from the pain..

I sit beside him, my hand still intertwined with his. The feelings I have for this man are so strong already, and I don't quite know why. I think part of it stems from the fact that he reminds me so much of Richard Bay. His determination, his honesty, his integrity. And something else I can't put my finger on yet.

We pull into the emergency entrance at Mass. General. This is where they leave me behind, closing the door before I can follow them in. They leave me in a waiting room I know all too well. I see in my mind fleeting images of Lindsay's stabbing, of Rebecca's coma, of a barely coherent Bobby, brought here after he served as a former client's hostage. I shake my head to try to lose the imagery.

They left me with Agent Doggett's FBI badge wallet, so I can notify the proper people at The Bureau. I pull Agent Doggett's emergency info card. The person to be notified is Special Agent Dana K. Scully, M.D. Probably his partner, I muse. I guess that's why I heard her name in the ambulance, instead of my own.

I take the card out into the hall to the pay phone, and dial the number with shaking hands. The voice that answers is firm and female. "Dana Scully."

"Agent Scully? This is Helen Gamble. You don't know me - I work with the D.A.'s office in Boston."

"What's wrong?" She's had these types of calls before. I can tell by her tone of voice.

"It's your partner."

"Mulder?"

I'm taken aback for a moment. "No. Agent Doggett."

A pause, while she gathers her thoughts. "What happened? Is he ok?"

"We're not sure yet. We were searching a building in the warehouse district, and a bomb was detonated."

I hear an intake of breath on the other end of the line. "What hospital is he in? Do you know his condition?"

I try to adopt the professional tone I use with victims' families, and find it totally inadequate. I *share* something with this woman. "He's at Massachusetts General Hospital. They have him in the ER right now. He has a broken arm, probable internal injuries, near as they can figure, and possibly a concussion."

"I'll be there as soon as I can get a flight. Thank you for calling."

And there is silence at the other end of the line. I hang up, and settle into one of the uncomfortable chairs, to wait.

I awaken to my shoulder being shaken lightly. It's a doctor, still in scrubs. "Are you here with Agent Doggett?"

"Yes. Doctor, how is he?"

"No concussion, which is rather a miracle. I've sent him to ICU. He's got a bruised kidney, a couple cracked ribs, a broken arm. It could have been a lot worse."

I nod in agreement, and thank the doctor for his time. Before he leaves, he points at my right arm. "Do you want to have that looked at?"

I follow his gaze, and discover a ripped sleeve, and a nasty bruise already forming on my lower arm. Until this moment, I didn't even know it was there. I shake my head. "No, no, I'm fine."

I check in at the ICU nurses' station, to get Agent Doggett's room number, and I'm not surprised to find him fast asleep when I arrive. I stand for a few moments, taking his appearance in. Had it not been for John, I might very well not be here right now. Unbidden images of Richard flash behind my eyes. Yes, this man is much like him.

Agent Doggett's right eye is swollen shut, and his right arm is in a cast. He looks younger in sleep, and somehow more vulnerable. The creases in his forehead are almost invisible. And the worry, or sadness, or whatever he seems to carry constantly with him is not visible now.

****

I hear a few short taps on the door, and it opens a bit. I look up to see Bobby Donnell in the doorway, a questioning look on his face. I join him in the hall.

"Are you ok?" the concern is evident in his voice. There's something between us that never ended, even when our relationship did. Even when he married Lindsay. He runs a hand gingerly down my arm, avoiding the bruise, which I now notice is even larger than it was the last time I looked, when the doctor pointed it out.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Relief washes over Bobby's face. "The miracles of Kevlar, huh?"

"Yeah, that and-"

"What?"

I nod toward the room we stand outside. "Agent Doggett was right between the bomb and me. He saved my ass, Bobby."

Bobby looks toward the door, and then back at me. I see him forming a positive opinion of John Doggett in his head, never even having met the man. "How's he doing?"

"He'll be ok," I pause, and smile a tiny smile.

This piques Bobby's curiosity. "And.. ?"

"I'd like you to meet him, Bobby, before he heads back to D.C."

Bobby nods, and lets a long look linger over me, assuring himself that I really am ok. "I know Ellenor and Rebecca are planning to come down later. Lindsay too, of course. Do you want to come down to the cafeteria? Have some coffee?"

"No, but thanks. I'd like to be with Agent Doggett when he wakes up. He doesn't know anyone else in Boston, you know?"

"Sure, I understand. I look forward to meeting him."

Bobby runs his hand down my arm, and takes my hand. "Take care of yourself, ok?"

"Sure, ok. Thanks for coming down."

He takes me in his arms, and I welcome the support. He leaves me with a smile.

***

I stand in the deserted hallway a bit longer, lost in my thoughts, and then rejoin Agent Doggett in his room. I slip into the chair beside his bed.

Sometime later, I hear a low moan, and Agent Doggett reaches up with his left hand, to touch his swollen eye. I don't want him making it feel any worse, so I reach in and take his hand gently in my own.

He opens his good eye and meets my gaze. He flashes a tentative smile, intending to reassure me, I imagine. But it is quickly replaced by a grimace, as the pain flares up, and his hand tightens on mine.

"Hang on, I'll see if I can get you something for the pain," I reach toward the call button, but he catches my hand again, and shakes his head.

"No. I'm fine. I don't like feelin' all fuzzy."

I acquiesce to his wishes, at least for now. But I take a moment I'd rather spend here to step to the nurse's station, so they can let his doctor know he's awake. When I re-enter John's room, his eyes find mine immediately. I sit back beside him, and take his left hand in mine, careful not to disturb the IV lines.

"I called Agent Scully for you. She's on her way."

I am unprepared for his response. "You shouldn't have bothered her. She's got a lot goin' on right now." I hear in his tone of voice that he really wants to see her, but feels guilty at the same time.

I see a deeper pain reflected in his eyes at this, and wonder what it tells of. and I decide to push now, now that perhaps he has let his defenses down just a bit.

"Agent Scully is more than your partner, isn't she?"

A sigh? A sob? A quiet breath, and a shaking head. "To me? Yes. In her eyes, I dunno."

I grasp his hand more tightly, feel his grip strengthen. "John." He sighs, a tremulous sound, and looks up slowly into my face. "You spoke before about too much loss. Tell me about the loss."

He shifts uncomfortably.

I try again. "Tell me about Dana Scully."

A long sigh. "I was assigned to her unit to help find her missing partner. She said he was abducted by aliens." He looks in my direction and nods at my upraised eyebrow.

"We looked for months. Leads that went in circles, leads that went nowhere. And then we found him. Mulder."

"Her partner."

"Yeah. He was. he was dead." I feel his hand tighten on mine. ". and then he wasn't dead."

"I don't understand." I'm sure the look on my face tells him that, even if I hadn't spoken.

"Take a number," he continues. "But there ya have it. He was dead and now he isn't."

"You care for her."

"Yeah."

"And after you found her missing partner?"

He pauses, and looks more intently at me. "I'm glad for her that Mulder's back. I'm really glad."

"But it hurts you."

His eyes look down to our hands, joined near his side. "I loved her. I still love her."

"She doesn't see that?" I ask gently.

He shakes his head, and his voice trembles a bit. "She only sees Mulder."

I wonder about Dana Scully's former partner - perhaps her former lover - Fox Mulder. If Agent Scully has made a choice, I hope she knows what she's losing.

I hear a deep sigh, and mistake it for a cleansing breath, until I look more closely at John's face. "There's more, isn't there?"

"There's too much."

"Go on."

He does, then. Haltingly, to be sure. "I was in the Marines a while back. We were part of a UN peacekeeping mission in Lebanon. 1983."

My mind fills in the rest. I remember hearing of the attack on the Marine base in Beirut. I squeeze his hand more tightly, and encourage him to go on.

"A lot of my buddies didn't make it outta there." The words do not flow easily from him. "There were better soldiers than me - better *men* - who *didn't* get out."

My own heart feels the weight of the survivor guilt he obviously fights. He doesn't think he deserves to be one of the ones that made it out. "John, it wasn't yours to say who got out and who didn't. You know that."

He nods slowly. He's heard that argument before, I'm sure. "Wasn't fair."

"I've found that life usually isn't fair, John. It's just what we make of it."

His eyes look at me - through me - and he seems to be looking inward once more.

"There's something else - someone else - isn't there, John?"

He looks a bit surprised that I can read him perhaps a little too readily. Just as he read me. And he nods.

"Tell me. If you want to."

"I was married for ten years. We had a son... Luke." I squeeze his hand, encouraging him to go on. "When Luke was seven years old, he was taken from us. He was."

I see tears threaten at the corners of John's eyes, and feel tears in my own. I wait for him to gather himself and continue. He does.

"He was killed. Murdered." The horrible simplicity of his statement hits me like a physical blow. No wonder this man looks like he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"My wife - it tore us apart. She left me." Each memory is painfully pulled from deep within himself.

"John, I'm so sorry." Words spoken often enough, but I've never meant more than I do right now.

There is silence for a long moment, and I glance down. John's steel blue eyes seem to look nearly through me. "Your turn." His voice is soft, gravelly.

I allow a puzzled look.

"Tell me about your friend."

I tell him instead about Bobby. A loss, to be sure, and one less painful to me right now, and easier to speak of. I tell him about what we had together, and what Bobby has since discovered, with marriage and fatherhood. I'm lost in my own thoughts for a moment, when I feel his hand tighten on mine.

"There's more," he states simply. "Tell me about the friend who's gone."

I nod, already accepting the fact that this man understands me implicitly. "I had a co-worker. He was sometimes so irritating, I'd."

John lets the pause run its course.

"He was probably the most dedicated person I've ever known. I used to ask him, on a particularly difficult case, to give me a pep talk. And he never let me down."

John's now-soft gaze rests comfortably on me, and encourages me to continue. "He was killed last year. Gangland-style, typical "hit". He never had a chance."

I hear a deep sigh from the man beside me. "I'm sorry." I've heard that said so many times since Richard was killed. This is one of the few times it seems to have been said in earnest. And there's more to it than that - I think what I'm hearing from John right now is what I *really* needed to hear when Richard died - a statement that was about *Richard* instead of expressions of sympathy that were just of the "I'm sorry for *your* loss" variety. What I'm hearing from John is an expression of regret that a good man died.

We're interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, and his doctor enters the room. I move away from the bed a bit, and the loss of contact with John is tangible to me in more ways than the loss of his touch on my hand.

"You're a lucky man, Agent Doggett," the doctor begins.

John wears a half-smile. "Ya think?"

The doctor fills us in on the extent of John's injuries, pretty much what he told me initially. By the time he is finished, John's eyes are almost closed again. The doctor nods to me, and lets me know he's ordering the pain meds, despite John's objections. I smile and thank him. As he leaves the room, I lose Agent Doggett once again to sleep.

****

The next morning finds John more awake, more alert, and grumbling about the length of his hospital stay (which by this time is less than a full day). It 's not surprising that this man of action is annoyed by anything that slows him down, let alone stopping him completely.

I sit on the edge of his bed, surprised but somehow pleased at my boldness to make the move from bedside to bed. "You know we've had a forensic unit at the warehouse since the accident," I begin.

"What'd they find?" He is all business already.

I smile. "Prints."

"No way. These are professionals. They'd never be that stupid."

"Actually, it wasn't any of Winter Hill's prints. But the demolitions man they used was sloppy. And he has known ties to the Winter Hill gang."

Now it's Agent Doggett's turn to smile. "No shit."

"No shit, John," I smile back. "It's enough to at least bring them up on charges. And the credit is yours."

"What? Why?"

"*You* found the bomb."

Doggett makes a face. A knock on the door, and his doctor enters the room. He dismisses John into Agent Scully's care - she is on her way - and I see a wry smile tug at the corners of Doggett's mouth.

I help John gather his belongings, and carry his hospital bag, since he's only got one working arm right now.

I am anxious to meet Dana Scully. I feel as though I almost know her. Certainly I know the place of importance she has in this man's life. The woman who could call this man her own.

John and I sit, quietly talking, in the main lobby of the hospital. His heart isn't here, I can tell. It's somewhere else entirely. I lay a hand gently atop one of his. He graces me with a genuine smile, and his eyes hold a softer hint of their normal intensity.

Then his attention is drawn away, his eyes pulled to the main entrance. I know, without looking up, that Scully has arrived. I smile, a bit sadly, at the totally different look John wears than the one he wore only a moment before.

We stand together, and he catches Scully's eye. She hurries over, her face a mixture of concern and relief, and pulls him into her arms.

John hugs her awkwardly, the broken arm making it difficult for him. He beams as if from within, and he looks as though he *is* where he belongs, at this very moment.

I stand, becoming progressively more uncomfortable, until their embrace is broken.

John nods slowly, the contented smile not totally leaving his face. "Dana, this is Helen Gamble."

We shake hands perfunctorily, and I receive neither positive nor negative vibes from John's partner. Her smile certainly seems genuine. "Thank you for taking care of John until I could get here."

Sounds a bit territorial, but I let it pass with an easy smile. "No problem. I owed him one."

Scully's gaze is quizzical, but John smiles in my direction. I feel a need to express my gratitude - I haven't really, not yet. "John - I want to thank you, for - for what you did in that warehouse."

He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm just too slow to get out of the way, is all."

I shake my head and laugh, just a chuckle, but more amusement than I've felt for a long while. In the short time I have known John, I'd have to say that his dismissal of this selfless act is *so* in his natural character.

"Thank *you*," he states simply.

I return his smile. "For what?"

"For everything. For understanding. For bein' here."

"You're welcome."

We hug, all too briefly, and I hand his hospital-issue plastic bag to Scully. "Take care. Call me next time you're in Boston?"

"Will do," he smiles. "As long as I'm above ground."

They share a smile at whatever '*that* meant, and John sits back in the obligatory dismissal wheelchair, with Scully pushing. They leave me standing alone in the hospital lobby..

~fini~