TITLE: His Secret, With Indians
AUTHOR: XRae
EMAIL: feedback welcome at XRae1013@webtv.net

RATED: R for "salty language"
KEYWORDS: Doggett POV, D/S friendship...and a weeeeeeee bit of UST, MSR
SPOILERS: "Roadrunners"
DISCLAIMER: Never had'em! Never will!
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, yes. Gossamer, yes. Anywhere else just let me know so I can visit...

NOTES: I admit I have no clue as to how and where Doggett grew up other than the fact that he was born in Georgia. I take extreme creative license here. Beeeeee afraid. Beeeee veeeery afraid!

Thanks big time to the folks over on the RP boards at Haven, particularly Isabel X and RPddfan...'Who let the DOGG out? You! You! YOU,You!' La la laaaaa... (more notes follow the story's end)

SUMMARY: Where our loyalties lie is what defines us.



HIS SECRET, WITH INDIANS by XRae ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm a patient man. God's honest truth. They say it's a virtue, and if it is then I'm one virtuous son of a bitch. And nothing --I mean NOTHING-- illustrates this better than baseball. And the sad, sorry fact that my whole life I've been a Cleveland Indians fan.

Yeah, that's right, I said the *fucking* Cleveland *fucking* Indians. And right off I ought to make a few things crystal clear. Number One: I know all about the statistics. Number Two: I know all about the curse. And Number Three: I am well aware they've started just about every season for as long as I can remember as the underdog. None of this matters. Oh no, cause John Doggett ain't just a patient man, he's also a loyal one, by God. And when he commits to something, he's in it for the long haul, baby.

It's not so hard to understand. I mean, not really. Any Joe-Shmoe off the street wearing a team cap for reasons other than a fashion statement can explain it to you. There just comes a point when your team becomes a part of who you are and no matter what, you just can't separate from them. It's ingrained. And even if you know deep down you're rooting for a bunch of dumb-fucks, it don't stop you.

I'm one of the more pathetic examples of this. Oh yeah, I stand by this team even when they manage to trade every decent pitcher they ever get. I agonize and suffer over injuries, over ballstrikes, over rained-out games, for Christ's sake. I memorize batting averages. I can recite the current lineup. Hell, I wouldn't openly admit this to anyone, but I even collect their god-damn baseball cards.

And every season it's the same thing. I start off hopeful, convinced that *this* will be the one when they take us all the way. I even begin preparing my "told-ya-so" gloating speech that I intend to give all those Yankee loving assholes back in my old precinct.

Yeah, yeah... wishful thinking. If you follow the game at all, then you most certainly know that by mid-season, I'm plotting the revenge I'm sure to get *next* season. It's a vicious cycle. But that still don't stop me. Call me crazy, but I honestly do think at some point all this patience is gonna be rewarded. Three generations of Doggett fueled penance just has to be helping to tip the cosmic scales on some level, right? This belief is all that sustains me through the games. And if by some miracle they do make it to the playoffs, it's the only thing that keeps me from going postal when they choke.

So, it should come as no surprise that here I am again. Ready once more to put my patience to the test. Ready to push the boundaries of my apparent unwavering loyalty. Ready, in short, to watch these ya-yas defy the odds and win a god-damn game!

Everything is copacetic. Got on my Indians jersey and my lucky underwear. A sixer of MGD longnecks to my right, bowl of cool ranch Doritos to my left. Suround sound is on, volume up. I parted my hair in the opposite direction, put on the Game Cologne ("Old Spice". I hate the shit but can't bring myself to break with these pre-game rituals. My Gran-daddy started this one and he can't be blamed for the lack of Drakkar Noir in his time, now can he?) and I shaved only the underside of my chin (don't ask). I'm all set. I feel good. I feel pumped. I feel confident. I feel...

I feel nervous. I hate these mid-season games. You know, the ones that determine if there's any hope left for some playoff possibilities. I just ain't ready to write them off yet, which makes games like this one even harder to watch.

I need them to stay alive this year. Truth be told, I need the distraction. Once this game starts, I don't have to think about A.D. Kersh, aliens, my career in the pisser, or God help me, the fact that my partner fills out her suit in all the right places. Jesus, I can't even recognize my own life right now. But, by God, I can still recognize *this*. And I need the normality of a good season of ball. So sue me, I'd like it to consist of my team finally kicking some ass. And, I'd like said ass kicking to start with this game.

I take a deep breath and get ready to face the barrel. And a one... And a two... And away we go!

I get through the pregame commentary without throwing a single chip at the smart ass announcers. I do, however, curse at them just for being smart ass announcers. It's a home game so those Chicago fucks come prancin' out first so I take the next few minutes to curse at every single one of them bastards. My boys follow. I feel the usual sense of pride puffin' out my chest before memories of their last less than stellar performance against the Sox, of all God-forsaken teams, reminds me of who it is I'm rooting for. So I curse them too, just for good measure. I get up for the National Anthem and curse at anybody not standin'. Then I curse at the commercials.

God, I love this game.

...

The first half goes pretty much as predicted. The boys start out strong but lose their focus two innings in and it ain't long before those Chicago fucks have a solid three run lead. I'm trying my best to put a cap on my blood pressure, knowing if I don't chill out a bit I won't make it through the rest of the game without kicking a hole in my wall or throwing the set out the window.

I'm given an all too brief reprieve when we score another run top of the fourth and manage to hold the score tight when those Chicago fucks take their ups next.

But I know goin' into the fifth that if we don't bring some runs in, it'll all be over.

It ain't long before we got a runner on first and second. The ballsy shit steals third, but the prospects of bringin' either of them home get mighty dim after our next two boys strike out. Our best hitter is up next, but I know better than to let this matter too much.

I tilt my beer up and start a long pull, certain ol' Thome is gonna choke despite his batting average and needing something to dull the pain. Sure enough the son of a bitch has the count at 0-2 before I can even set the bottle back down.

I'm about to begin my normal rant, complete with some pretty vivid descriptions of where I'd like to shove that god damn bat and fairly indecent insults directed toward the bastard's mother, when two things happen at once...

First, to my utter astonishment, Thome connects with the next pitch and that ball flies up like it's gonna defy gravity and never come back down. And wouldn't ya know it, right in the middle of the blessed "WHACK!", there's a hard knock on my front door.

Now, I've been waiting the whole game for a hit like this one, and I ain't about to taper my enthusiasm for anybody, let alone the pizza delivery guy from Dominoes. I get up and make my way to the door, not once takin' my eyes off the TV. I turn the knob just as that ball sails into the stands and a televised crowd of desperate Indians fans erupt into a frenzy of cheers. And naturally, I'm bellowing with them. In fact, I'm right in the middle of "Home Run! I love you, you sorry sack of shit!" when I finally tear my eyes from the set to confront the schmuck in the hallway that's had the audacity to disrupt my moment of glory.

And, holy shit, I find myself face to face with a rather stunned Dana Scully, one eyebrow raised, an uncertain smirk playing on her lips...

I have half a mind to be embarrassed. I mean, what a picture I must present. Here I am in faded, ripped up jeans, barefeet, and my well worn fifteen year old Indians jersey, whoopin' and hollerin' like a kid. Not to mention the fact that my hair's got serious issues, I'm a third shaved, and I smell like an eighty year old man at a senior citizen's social.

Yeah, let me stress here: I have *half a mind*.

You gotta understand, this play just got us three runs. We're up by one! So, in my defense, let's just say I'm riding the high of the moment enough to do something really stupid. Before she has the chance to even open her mouth, I grab her by the hand, pull her to me, and dance her into my apartment.

And if this weren't bad enough, I do it while crooning a very baaaaad rendition of Queen's "We Are The Champions". I swear to God!

I'm twirling her around, steppin' on her feet, singin' off key, but I'm just too pumped to care. I dip her with a flourish and this... sound... escapes from her.

A giggle.

Dana Scully giggles?!

I can count on one hand how many times I've seen this woman smile and my idiotic fumbling actually got a giggle outta her! I laugh out loud, ridiculously pleased with myself, and bring her up quick.

Too quick.

I practically propel her into me. Her body is suddenly flush against me and as soon as she registers the contact, her smile fades. I panic a little and try to step back, but it's too late. I watch as that cool, hard mask slides into place and her arms immediately leave my shoulders.

She tries to move away from me, then fixes me with a look that effectively shrinks my balls. I stand there like a dumbfuck until I realize I still got my hands locked on her waist, which of course, is why she hasn't moved.

I snatch them back and mutter a lame apology. For a long moment she just stands there assessin' me with those cool eyes. And naturally, embarrassment finally shows up but too late now to have kept me from makin' an ass of myself.

Nobody, and I mean nobody, does silences like Dana Scully.

Aw geez, what the hell was I thinkin' grabbin' her and dancin' her around like that? As if our relationship ain't strained enough without me acting like a jackass.

I try to apologize again, uncertain of how to make this better. "Agent Scully, I'm sorry... I just... I was..." I'm stammerin' like some pimple faced fourteen year old tryin' to score a date with the head cheerleader. Finally, I get the presence of mind to just shut my yap, and point helplessly to the TV, like somehow *this* is gonna explain everything.

Her eyes flicker to the set, then back to me. She glances down to my shirt, then back to the screen. And that eyebrow shoots up again.

I'm in for it now.

"The Indians, Agent Doggett?" She can't hide the astonishment in her voice and when she turns back to me, she's shakin' her head.

I grin sheepishly. "Thome hit a homer."

I literally see the tension drain outta her. "Mmmmm, so *that's* the reason for your little impromptu dance party?" She smiles indulgently at me.

"We're up by one, Agent Scully," I say with mock indignation.

"You mean the Indians are actually winning this game?" She folds her arms in front of her and looks back to the set. "Well, in that case, all is forgiven. I mean the chances of this happening again are so remote, I no longer feel threatened by the possibility of you breaking out in song and forcing me to do the hustle."

I snicker, but am still compelled to defend my team. "Don't take those dancin' shoes off yet, they may just surprise us both."

"I'll take my chances."

What was that supposed to mean?

While I'm internally debating about her voice inflection, she really shocks the hell outta me by stepping around to the couch and then firmly planting herself on it, like she stops by my place everyday unannounced just to yuk it up over a b-ball game. I know my mouth has dropped and I hope she ain't noticed

Now, I haven't known this woman all that long, but one thing I figured out right from the get-go was ya sure as hell better not push her. That water in my face the first time I thought I could mess with her buttons taught me that lesson real quick.

She's come here for a reason, she just ain't ready to tell me about it yet.

So, I take her unspoken cue and walk to join her on the couch, like it's the most natural thing in the world to do. Nevermind the fact that my knees are knockin'. She looks up to me and our eyes meet for just a second as I sit down. The expression on her face just about floors me and I'm grateful as all hell that I got the cushions under me for support.

She looked downright scared. Oh, she covered it real well and turned back to the game to avoid any further scrutiny on my part. But I know what I saw. Little warning bells start goin' off in my head. There *is* something goin' on with her. Something big. Something big enough to warrant a house call from the good doctor herself.

I ease back against the pillows and attempt nonchalance. She reaches forward to the bowl of chips on the coffee table and grabs a healthy handful. Her hair falls away from her neck and it's then that I notice the bandage still covering it.

My stomach takes a fast dive down to my toes and I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath. The vivid sensation of slicing through her skin hits me with such force my blood runs cold.

I steady myself enough to open my eyes and see she's leaned back and is watchin' me carefully. We haven't talked about what happened since she left the hospital and I ain't all that sure I wanna talk about it now.

"It's not as bad as you think," she says quietly.

"Does it still hurt?" I stupidly ask.

"No," she lies.

"Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't know---"

"Stop." She says this so sternly my mouth obeys instantly, snappin' shut so quick and fast my teeth rattle. "You saved my life," she says firmly. "Don't apologize for doing what had to be done, Agent Doggett. I'd be dead if it weren't for you. The cut is nothing compared to its alternative."

She looks away from me then, the subject dropped.

I turn back to the game but of course now my brain ain't on it. I mean, is this why she's here? For the opportunity to thank me again for savin' her life? It just doesn't feel right. Whether she wants me there or not, I got her back. If not for any other reason, it's my duty to be there. And she's right. I did what had to be done to save my partner.

I guess I'm a little shocked by how frank she's bein'. With partners, savin' each other's ass at some point or another is expected and it ain't dwelled upon too much when it does happen. Acknowledging how close you can get to the edge is like steppin' on a crack, it'll jinx you.

And regardless of any of this, it's ground we covered the day she was discharged. I can't imagine she'd make a special trip all the way here just to cover it again. But what the hell do I know? For comin' across so rigid, she's gotta be the most unpredictable woman I've ever met.

Which brings me to my real issue with her close call in Utah...

She ditched me.

I mean, I know she thinks she was playin' the part of the dutiful partner that day she was released, vowing to never take off on me again, but let's face facts. Everything she said was meant to placate me and I wasn't born yesterday.

Nothing is more dangerous or more stupid than going into an unknown situation without your backup. I got this stern lecture all rehearsed that I plan on givin' to her when she comes back to work on Monday. Probably nothin' she didn't say to Mulder a hundred different times those first couple of years they were partners.

I've read the reports. And it doesn't take a genius to read between the lines. The files are riddled with statements like "Agent Mulder then left to pursue..." and "At such time Agent Mulder and I were separated..." She covered his ass well. And often.

Which, if truth be told, is the main reason I'm as pissed as I am about the whole thing. She *knows* better than anyone how screwy it is to go runnin' off all half cocked. She *knows* what it's like to be the one left behind, left wondering what the hell is goin' on.

And god damn it, she didn't think twice about doin' it to me.

I don't know... Maybe I'm expectin' too much, too soon. It doesn't excuse what happened, but jeez, I shouldn't let myself get too worked up. Not really. She's been through too much and been fucked over too many times to trust anyone too quick. Even yours truly. I ought to cut her a little slack. She'll come around once she sees I ain't Kersh's bitch on a ballchain.

"I can hear the wheels turning from here, Agent Doggett. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?" She says this like she's already well aware of what I've been thinkin', like she's picked up my brainwaves, or read my mind or something. And even though I don't really believe in any of that shit, I feel exposed all of a sudden. And I don't like it.

I lean forward and pick up my beer. It's bottom of the seventh and those Chicago fucks are up. I take a swig. Now if the outfield can keep their heads outta their asses, we might just hold on to the game...

"Agent Doggett?"

Well damn, so much for avoidance. I change tactics. "Ya want a beer?"

"No thank you," she says with a strange look on her face. Whatever she's thought about doesn't divert her for long. "I get the feeling you're not sure if you want to talk to me about it."

"No, I'm just not sure you wanna hear it. And plus, this probably isn't the best time to bring it up. We can go over it on Monday."

"Or we can go over it now and get it over with. Would it help if I said I was sorry again?"

I can't help but smile ruefully. She *does* know exactly what I was thinkin' about. Jeez, and he's the one they call 'Spooky'. "It might," I say honestly. "Just as long as you stick another 'I'll never do it again' in there somewhere and really mean it this time."

Our eyes meet again and I can see her struggling with her answer. "I am sorry, please believe that. And not just because it became dangerous for me. I didn't stop to think..." She leans forward a bit for emphasis. "And I promise, I *will* try to do that next time."

"Next time?" I balk.

She gives me a sly smile and I chuckle a bit. But I know she's being sincere and I guess that's the most I can hope for.

The air between us is lighter. She feels it too, I think.

After a brief second, she turns back to the game. "So..."

"You follow the game much?" I ask her.

"Not really."

"Ever play?"

Her head goes down. "When I was young. I have brothers and I tried my best not to throw like a girl. I wasn't all that sucessful." She looks to me then and I'm taken aback by the amount of sadness in her eyes. "And Mulder tried to teach me to bat once," she says quietly.

Jesus, her pain is thick enough to cut through. "I know you miss him." I put a clumsy hand on her shoulder. "We'll find him, Agent Scully. We won't stop until we do, I promise."

She smiles at me, her gaze watery. "I just... I *need* to find him."

"We will." I tuck her hair behind her ear and she starts. I've overstepped my bounds again. I move to pull my hand away but she surprises me by taking hold of it. She grips it tightly.

"Tell me that again."

I hold her eyes and say with complete conviction, "We. Will. Find. Him."

And by God, I mean it.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and drops my hand. "I'm sorry." She looks away from me, her cheeks pink. "I should go."

She starts to stand up when there's another knock at the door.

"No listen, stay. That's the pizza guy. Finish out the game and help me eat it." I don't want her leavin' like this and somethin' is telling me that she doesn't really want to go.

She stands there, uncertain.

There's another loud knock. "Hold yer canollies!" I bark out and she smothers a grin. I sense an opportunity and seize it. I soften my voice. "Come on, sit back down."

After a beat, she nods wordlessly and takes her place back on the couch.

I go to the door, pay the guy, and give him a healthy tip so I don't have to wait around on him fumblin' with my change. I take the box over to the coffee table, briefly check the status of the game (unchanged, knock on wood), grin at my guest, then motor to get some napkins. "How 'bout a soda?" I ask from the kitchen

"Is it caffeinated?"

"Ah no, it's Sprite."

"Sounds good, thank you."

Doctors are serious kill-joys.

I forego another MGD and pick up two cans of pop. I've only had two beers but I don't wanna get too buzzed and risk exposing Scully to a weepy drunk if my boys end up losin'. Comin' back into the living room with my bounty, I see she's already cracked open the box and has a slice in hand.

"Sorry," she says around a mouthful, "it smelled really good."

"Hey come on, game manners are in full effect. Feel free to burp, fart, and gorge."

She coughs on her sip of soda and laughs. "I feel so at home."

"Good." It's slipped out before I can stop it.

She smiles a little self consciously and gestures at the pizza box. "Better get going. I'm already up by one."

"Yes, ma'am." I reach for a slice and we settle in to watch the rest of the game...

The final two innings go pretty quick. Or seem to. I have to admit, I'm havin' a good time. Agent Scully has been gracious enough to indulge me as I spout off stats, belch, cuss at the set, and generally make a fool outta myself.

It feels good. I feel normal. When was the last time I kicked back and took in a game with somebody?

I can hardly believe it, but they actually held on to their one point lead. It got a little hairy bottom of the eighth when those Chicago fucks scored two more runs. But we came right back and scored another two top of the ninth and then struck'em out in a mean triple play that just ended the game.

I naturally get up to do my victory butt shake, but have enough sense this time not to force my wayward guest into joining me. She's content to sit back and laugh at me. I'm content to let her.

Once the moment dies down, I reluctantly sit back down. We watch the post game interviews in silence. Once they've ended and the 'returnin' to regularly scheduled broadcast' comes on, I turn off the set. I've been stallin', I guess. I'm a little disappointed the game is over, but begin to prepare for her inevitable departure.

She shocks me again, turning to face me on the couch, tucking her legs up on the cushions. When did she take her shoes off? Hot-damn, she's makin' herself comfortable again. I mimic her actions and for a minute we just sit there lookin' at each other.

"What? No gloating?" she asks with a smile.

"Ain't my style." I can feel the corner of my mouth twitch up.

"You know what's coming don't you?" she asks cryptically.

"Are you about to confess to bein' an alien high queen?"

"You're not ready to come to terms with that yet," she smirks. Her look grows serious again. "No, now I'm giving you the opportunity to come clean with me."

Come clean...?

Come clean??? With what???

Oh for Christ's sake, so *this* is what the whole night has been about? All the pleasant conversation has been just a buffer for some far-fetched accusation she planned all along to throw at me? God damn it, I'm so sick and tired of all this cloak and dagger bullshit. Is it just plain impossible for this woman to accept that some people lay all their cards on the table and don't have ulterior motives or agendas?

You know all that crap I said before about cuting her some slack? Forget it. Enough is enough.

I open my mouth ready to launch into on hell of a hissy fit when she puts up her hand to stop me. "Oh my God, whatever you're thinking, you're way off base." She's smiling. "I was talking about your Indians obsession. You didn't really think I was just going to let that go without some kind of explanation, did you?"

Oh. I see. Well, I guess it's a good thing I had my mouth open. I can just go ahead and put my foot in it.

I expel a nervous breath and try to smile back at her, embarrassed that I was so quick to jump to conclusions. "Sorry. I, uh, I thought maybe you were about to accuse me of secretly working with Kersh to overthrow the government so we can establish him as Supreme Overlord." My attempt at humor falls flat.

She just looks at me for a moment and then sighs. "Have I made you that defensive? Do you still honestly think that I question your integrity?"

I think I've hurt her feelings. And I feel like... oh, big shocker, I feel like an ass. Which seems to be the ongoing theme of this evening for me. "No. Jesus, no. I just--"

"I know I've been difficult."

"Agent Scully--"

"I know you're a honest man, I've just--"

"Stop. Please. You have no reason to explain yourself. I jumped to a stupid conclusion. And you're right, I'm bein' defensive. Mostly because I feel like I deserve your trust without having to earn it. It's just my ego asserting itself and I know it's selfish."

"Trust is very sacred to me. It takes me time..."

"I know. And I understand. I really do."

She shakes her head. "No, I don't think you do. Mulder has been the only person I've trusted completely for a very long time. I think I tend to forget that there are indeed other individuals out there that *can* be trusted. I do feel as though you're one of them, but... I've spent so much time and energy keeping up my guard. Even when I know I *should* lower it, even when I really *want* to, it's just so, so hard for me..."

We are silent for a long minute. I get the feeling she's letting her words sink in for me. For the first time I realize how blind I am when it comes to seein' this woman for who she really is. This whole time, she's *wanted* to trust me, she's *needed* to.

My God, how alone she must feel without Mulder.

And then, it hits me. That's why she's here. She's lonely. It's as simple and as complicated as that. With him gone, she's got no one to talk to, to confide in, to just *be* with... I mean, I know the tie runs deep, and I admit she may miss him for a whole lotta other reasons that ain't none of my beeswax. But those things aren't what drove her here tonight.

She needed a friend. And she needed to feel safe with the person she chose.

I feel a lump the size of a watermelon take up residence in my throat. She studies me carefully and I see understanding flicker in her eyes. I've hit the nail right on the ol' proverbial head. *That's* why she was so afraid when she first came here. She was afraid I wouldn't accept her offer of friendship, that I'd turn her away.

I swallow. Hard.

She smiles shyly, uncertain. "So... don't you owe me a story?"

I look her straight in the eye and grin, tryin' like hell to put her at ease. "That I do. Are you settled? It's a long tale of woe and misfortune."

She smirks. "Yeah, I gathered that from the subject matter."

I try to glare at her but the smile tuggin' at the corners of my mouth gives me away. "Alright, enough outta you. Ya wanna hear this or not?"

"I do. I do." She settles back.

I take a deep breath. "OK... My Gran-Dad was a coal miner in a little one horse town in Ohio--"

"I thought all towns in Ohio were one horse towns."

"ANYWAY, he worked hard. Long, long hours. My father once told me he can't remember ever seein' him without soot under his nails. Needless to say, they didn't get to spend a lot of time together, but they did get to share one thing..."

"Baseball."

"Not just baseball, *Indians* baseball. No matter what, he was home to listen to those games with my dad. They'd drink pop and he'd teach the finer points of cussin' with color to his son--an ability my father would later pass down to me, mind you."

"Mmmm, yes, I've noticed."

"In 1948, they listened to the Indians win their second World Series, a feat the team hadn't achieved since 1920, when at the end of the final game, Bill Wambsganss made the first and only unassisted triple-play in the history of the game. Little bit of trivia there for ya." I waggle my eyebrows. "But anyway, the day they took it in '48, my dad told me it was one of the only times he ever saw his father so excited. For just a little while, he didn't have to think about the mines, feeding his family, the ache in his lungs... He was like a kid again, and the memory of this day became one the best my dad has of his childhood. On my Granfather's deathbed, he made my dad vow to keep track of their team, to see them through to another Series..."

I stop for a second to collect my thoughts. "He kept that promise. He never missed a game if he could help it. When he turned 18 he joined the service and married my mom. I was born a year later while he was stationed in Georgia. Some of my earliest memories are of sharing those games with him. The Indians became a Doggett tradition. Through all the bullshit and conflicts of growing up, this was one constant me and my dad always had, waitin' for those bastards to win another series. Hell, we're *still* waitin'... I used to tell Luke it was bound to happen in his... lifetime. I took him to a game once. About a year before..."

I can't continue. Those cottony memories of that day float to the surface... The two of us munchin' on hotdogs. Listening to him shout "Hey, no batter, no batter!" till his voice was hoarse. His soft little hand in mine, "Don't worry Dad, we'll take'em next year."

But, God... God... There was no next year. Not for him.

Her gentle voice breaks through my haze, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

I know my eyes are moist, but I don't feel the need to hide it. "Nah, it was a real good day. I'm glad I got to share it with him."

"I'm sure it meant alot to him, John."

I visibly flinch at her use of my first name, it's so unexpected.

She smiles. "Is that alright?"

I grin back and swipe at my eyes. "You bet, Dana. You bet."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh brother. Don't get all mushy on me."

We both chuckle. Then she grows serious all of a sudden. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you ever think about... having another child?"

I look away from her. "Sometimes." It's a difficult and layered question. "When I think about how he was, I feel like I could have a hundred of 'em. But... to bring another child into a world so fucked up that an 8 year old kid can't go for a bike ride and live through it..." I shudder. "It ain't right. I almost died with Luke, a part of me *did* die. There's no way I'd make it through something like that again. And kids don't come with guarantees..."

I turn back to her and am surprised to find tears rolling down her cheeks. "Dana..."

"No, you're right, they don't. You've read the files, you know about Emily."

I reach out and take her hand tentatively. "Yeah, I do. And I know you went through hell. Did losing her... I mean, do you ever think about having another one?" I let my question hang in the air. She looks at me with the most heartbreaking expression and I instinctively grip her hand tighter. "What? What is it?"

She casts her eyes to the floor. "I'm afraid, of course I am. And... I have more at risk now, but sometimes our choices are made for us..."

I feel my stomach knot. Fuck, that's right. The file alluded to this. I don't think she *can* have anymore kids. And God knows, she'd never want to put another one through what her poor little girl endured.

She looks back up to me and there's this... fire... in her eyes, mingled with something else I just can't put my finger on. "John, I can't allow myself to be ruled by my fears of the unknown. Not now. If Mulder has taught me anything, he's taught me that."

"I admire the hell outta you, I really do." I say honestly.

"Don't."

"No, you're right. I tend to only think about what it was like to *lose* Luke, not about what it meant just to have had him. In eight years he taught me more about life than I'd learned on my own up to that point. He lived everyday like all kids do, full of spit and vinegar and wonder, but watching him discover the world was a daily revelation."

My sweet, sweet boy... I miss you so much, buddy.

I let go of her hand and think for a minute. "You know what it is? I think a piece of me just shut off after we lost him. Did you feel like that?"

She shakes her head in agreement. "Absolutely. I couldn't bare to feel too much for a long time after that."

"But that's changed for you?"

She licks her lips and hesitates. She's so intensely private, I can see she's really struggling with this. "I... I've come to learn that..." She sets her jaw and looks me dead in the eye. "Yes. Yes, it's changed."

She doesn't elaborate, and she don't need to. Anyone who listens to her talk about Mulder can't help but know.

Her voice softens. "It'll come to you too... It just takes the right... circumstances to open you back up."

I fidgit. "We ain't talkin' about kids anymore are we?" I feel kinda... shy all of a sudden, but I bite the bullet. Truth deserves truth, don't it? "It's hard to accept... intimacy back into your life when you've shut yourself off from it for such a long time. Barbara was the last--"

"Oh, *that's* what you're worried about? It's like riding a bike, John", she giggles.

I practically choke on my shock. "Aw for jeez sake, I wasn't talkin' about... about..." I squirm.

"Sex, Agent Doggett. It's called sex."

"Cut it out."

That sets her off laughin' even harder and I can feel my cheeks burnin'. "This is really starting to conflict with the tough guy image I have of you," she says around her hoots.

"Hey, you're the one with your mind in the gutter!"

"What?!"

"You heard me!" I'm laughin' now, too. "You're offending my delicate nature."

"*You* have a delicate nature? If you start with the 'oh my virgin ears' crap, I may have to smack you."

I put my hands to my ears and we both lose it. "For your information, I *do* have a delicate nature. I need to work up to kissin' again before I can let the Dogg out." I throw in a few barks for good measure and am laughing at how clever I am for a good thirty seconds before I realize what I've just blurted out.

It takes about two seconds longer for her to realize it, too.

"Close your mouth, Agent Scully."

"I... I..." She's stammering. This is classic. She's faced down mutants, serial killers, Agent Mulder, and cancer, yet put her face to face with a 40 year old man that hasn't kissed a woman in almost eight years and she loses her cool. This would be funny if I weren't so mortified by what I've just inadvertantly told her.

I turn away from her. I'm so fucking embarrassed. I haven't admitted this to *anyone*. I just wanna crawl in a hole. Jesus Christ.

I feel the cushion dip as she scoots closer to me. "John...?"

I can't even look at her. Jeez, I don't know if I'll ever be able to look her in the eye again.

"Why are you so embarrassed by this?"

"Are you kiddin' me?"

"It's not as abnormal as you've obviously convinced yourself it is. You said it yourself, the longer you live without intimacy, the more difficult it is to let it back into your life."

I take a shaky breath. "I can't... I don't talk like this with... people," I say lamely.

"Neither do I. And look at us. Walking on eggshells even when we finally have the opportunity for it. *This*," she gestures between us, "this is intimate, too."

I feel myself flush at her words. I lean back against the cushion and close my eyes. "It ain't that."

"Then what is it?"

"It's cause... cause..."

"I'm a woman."

This finally gets me to face her. I'd be offended if it weren't for the fact that she's right. "No!" I try to lie.

"Bullshit, John Doggett. You think by sharing this part of yourself with me, it will make you seem like less of a macho man."

"Give me a little credit, Dana."

"Give me a little honesty."

I sigh. "Fine. Yeah. Maybe that is part of it."

I can tell by the look she gives me that I ain't off the hook yet. "So what's the other part?"

I avoid her gaze and take a deep breath. "I guess, I don't know... it's turned into this albatross around my neck. The more time goes by, the more it feels like a character defect. And... and... Christ, Dana, what the hell do you want from me? It's really personal."

"You don't trust me?" she says with a gentle smile on her lips.

I manage a grin. "Point taken... I guess I just ain't all that ready to discuss my dry spell. Can you accept that?"

"Of course I can."

We are silent again for a long moment.

"Hey," she says suddenly. "One time, Mulder took me full-fledge ghostbusting."

I smile at her, grateful that she understands. "No shit?"

She grins and then settles in to tell me a strange story of Christmas ghosts and lover's pacts...

---

And that's the way the rest of the evening progresses, the two of us swappin' stories till the wee hours. Most of hers center around Mulder. Most of mine center around Luke.

The inevitable finally happens and she tries real hard to stifle a yawn, but we both know that's our cue to call it a night.

I walk her to the door, feeling lighter than I have in ages.

I wanna tell her how much this night's meant to me, but know the words ain't gonna come. I settle for puttin' my hand on her shoulder and muttering "Thanks for comin' by."

It's an understatement. But I think she knows this.

We feel like allies now. And the significance of this ain't lost on either of us.

She turns back to me at the door and regards me with a strange look.

"What?" I ask.

"Don't take this out of context..." she says before doing the most unexpected thing of the entire evening.

She reaches behind my neck and pulls me down to her soft mouth.

It's not a kiss of passion. I know where her heart lies... which makes this all the more amazing to me. And as her lips open against mine, I can't help but marvel at the selflessness of this remarkable woman.

This is safe. I have nothing to fear.

Life has to go on, John Doggett.

When she gently pulls away, she looks up to me with tender eyes and places her hand on my cheek. "There. Your dry spell is officially over. Where you allow yourself to go from here is up to you."

And with that, she walks into the hallway and leaves without looking back.

I close the door and lean my forehead against the smooth surface.

I smile.

And for the first time in a long, long time... I can feel it.



END


"Never tell me the odds."--Han Solo


*AUTHOR NOTES*
Just in case anyone out there thought I was making it up: Indians fans believe there *really* is a curse on the team and it happened because of this...

One of the theories in Cleveland is that a certain trade in 1960 doomed the Indians to decades of decadence. Cleveland general manager Frank Lane traded the Indians' most popular player, Rocky Colavito, to Detroit for Harvey Kuenn. From 1960-93, the Indians finished as high as third only once.

 Indians fans say the only trade that compares to the first one involving Colavito was the second one that involved him. The Indians got him back in 1965 for pitcher Tommy John -- who won 286 games after leaving Cleveland.

 The list of misfortunes was so stunning that Akron Beacon Journal columnist Terry Pluto wrote a book about it: "The Curse of Rocky Colavito, A Loving Look at a 30-year Slump."


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and THANKS to my Mom: the 'Brave-est' lady I know! ;) For putting up with my endless pestering for Indians info and a first class proof read...as Barry would say "This one's for you." Teeeee Hee!