Title: All or Nothing Author: spookycc Classification: V *A* DSF, DRF. Safe for Dippers and DRippers alike. Spoilers: John Doe. Assumes general knowledge of S8 and S9 thus far. Summary: Scully and Reyes help Doggett deal with a serious illness. Written in response to DTA's fanfic challenge 4: "Write a story where Doggett develops a fatal disease." Timeline: Sometime after "John Doe", US S9. Disclaimer: Yeah, they're CC's. But 1013 can't write Scully worth a damn anymore. In this fic, you'll find the old "Scully", not the new "Dana". I think you'll remember her, and I think you'll like her. Dedication: To Doggett's Bitch. Best friend, mentor, beta, soulmate. Captain of my former Ship . To Girlassassin, true survivor and dear friend. And to the Sisters of SHODDS and the Holy Sisters of OBSDS. ;-) Archival: I'll take care of Gossamer, XFMU, DTA and Ephemeral. Anyone else who wants it is welcome to it. Just let me know where it's going. OBSDS and SHODDS member sites, it's yours if you want it, no notification needed. Feedback: Love it. spookycc@earthlink.net > **** We chase the perp down the alley, but in the darkness, he eludes us, familiar with his own turf. I turn to my partner – and he is not there. Puzzled, I retrace my steps, and find Agent Doggett leaning over, one hand braced against a warehouse wall. "John?" He raises only his head. Even in the semi-darkness, I can see that he is pale. I rush to his side. "John, what's wrong?" I flash back to the injuries he received in Mexico – could they be causing him problems again? It's been weeks... He shakes his head. "I dunno." "C'mon, let's get you checked out." "No," he shakes his head more vehemently. "I'm ok." He straightens up, one hand resting protectively over his stomach. "Probably just the flu. Or mebbe somethin' I ate." "Have you been hanging around that damned Polish sausage stand again?" I allow a smile to creep onto my face, to try to reassure him. He smiles, too, but it looks more like a ghostly grimace to me, in the dim light. "C'mon, you can sack out on my couch for the night," I offer. He raises an eyebrow. "It's a much closer drive than your house." He nods, and lets me slide a hand under his arm. He's lost some weight, I notice with alarm. But he *has* been fighting a cold or the flu for a week or more, so I suppose that could be the cause. He certainly hasn't complained at all, but that's just John. We drive the short distance to my apartment, and he is already asleep when I pull the car to the curb. I wake him gently, and help him into my apartment. Settling him on the couch, I get him a glass of cold water. I'm not giving him anything yet, for the pain. I feel badly, but I have my reason and it's a sound one. In the master bath, I pull a washcloth and run cool water over it, wringing it out before I take it back out to John. I feel his forehead – he doesn't *feel* feverish – and lay the cloth gently above his eyes. He smiles a tired, thankful smile up at me. He's already pulled the comforter from the back of the couch, and he shivers slightly underneath it. "Do you want another blanket?" "Yeah – thanks." I grab an extra blanket from the linen closet, lay it over the comforter, and tuck them both around him. He looks so vulnerable when he's not feeling well – and it seems to be happening too much of late. He huddles within the blankets, and I hear a warm snuffling sound, before I leave him to head to the kitchen – and the phone. "Dana Scully." "Dana? It's Monica." I begin. "What's wrong?" And people say *I'm* perceptive. She could tell something was up after hearing only three words. "John isn't feeling well..." "Still? Hasn't he been sick all week?" "Yes. And I thought it was the flu, but he doesn't seem to have a fever, and he's been having stomach pains tonight." "Are you at home?" "Yes - John doesn't want to get it checked out, but I'm worried about him." I can tell by Dana's voice that she is, too. "I'll be right over – if that's ok." The little pause is always there when she knows John and I are together. "Yes, please, Dana. I'd feel a lot better if we knew what was going on." "I'll be there soon." She disconnects her cell. I hear John's soft snores in the next room, and I almost feel like I betrayed him, calling Dana. He doesn't want to be questioned about his health. I remind myself it's for his own good... > **** I hear soft knocking at the door. I open the door and nod towards the living room. "Dana, thanks for coming." I follow her to the couch, and hover while she gently shakes his shoulder, waking him up. His eyes light up when he sees her face before him. It's a more intense look than the comfortable, easy gaze he shares with me. I shake off unhelpful thoughts, and listen as she speaks to him. "John, I want to make sure you're not *really* sick – is that ok?" He throws me a look – this one not even *comfortable* – and then glances back at Scully. "Do I have a choice in this?" "Not really, no," Dana replies, as she slips off the washcloth and lays a hand on his forehead. "Then why the hell didja ask?" He grumbles. Dana turns to me and almost smiles. John thinks he's invincible, and it really pisses him off when anything – or anyone – slows him down. She slides a thermometer under his tongue, and he sighs, allowing himself to relax under her ministrations. We wait until the thermometer beeps. "Temp's normal," she puts the thermometer down. "Where is the pain, John?" John exhales a little huff of air, at his privacy being invaded, I guess. But before he can answer her, the pain hits him again, hard. He bolts upright and folds over his abdomen as much as he can. I watch helplessly as Dana holds him, her arm behind his back, supporting him, helping him ride out the pain. The fact that I wish it was me right there is not relevant, nor appropriate, and I dismiss it. This is about John, not me. He holds onto her other hand so tightly that she bites her own lip just a bit. She holds him tightly as the wave of pain dissipates, and his tense body relaxes in her arms. She eases him back to the couch pillow, supporting the back of his neck as she lays his head down gently. She throws me a worried look, and pulls the blankets down to his waist. She palpates his abdomen, pushing gently, watching his face for any reaction. I know she has found something when she stops moving her hand to different areas, and concentrates on one, specifically. She turns towards me again, and I see her swallow a lump in her throat. God, no... "John, have you had any blood in your urine?" She does not flinch at the potentially embarrassing question she asks. John lowers his eyes, in a silent answer of yes. "We need to get you to a hospital, right now." She leaves no room for argument, and John offers none, still heaving huge breaths. > **** I sit in the waiting room at Washington Memorial, hoping for the best, anticipating the worst. We followed the ambulance here, and Dana told me what she fears. When she palpated his abdomen, she found a mass, or at least an inflammation, on one of his kidneys. Now, while I sit waiting, she pushes the E.R. techs and the doctors to hurry, not in the frantic way I would, but as a fellow medical professional who knows what's at stake. I let my head rock back against the painted concrete wall, and wait for her to return. I feel helpless, worried, frustrated. I look at the wall clock. We've been here for *hours* already... Dana taps me on the shoulder, thinking I'm asleep. "How is he?" I stand up immediately. She gently pushes my shoulder. "Sit down, Monica." I feel my heart in my throat. "What? What is it?!" She sits beside me, and speaks softly, and mostly in laymen's terms. It doesn't lessen the impact. "John has a tumor on one of his kidneys. It's malignant." If she hadn't just sat me back down, I would have fallen into this chair. Not John. He's always been so strong. "Can't they remove the tumor?" I ask hopefully. Dana shakes her head. "It's too large." "Can they remove the kidney, then?" I'm grasping at straws, and wondering if I would be a compatible donor. "They will, yes, but that's only part of the problem." Jesus, no, not more. She sits in the chair beside me, and leans in, her voice even quieter, as if that will make the news more bearable. "They did an ultrasound and a CT scan to check both kidneys, and they found a mass on the liver, as well." She pauses, and I wait for her to voice the unspeakable. "Monica, the cancer has already metastasized in his liver." I sit numbly, shaking my head, almost unable – certainly unwilling – to process the information. It can't be true. I turn to Dana. Her clinical detachment is gone, and tears flow down her cheeks. They mirror my own. We share a sad and silent hug, each knowing what his loss will do to the other. I pull my voice from wherever it has been hiding. "Can we see him?" Dana nods. "They're moving him to a room in ICU." > **** He lies motionless, with more tubes and monitors than I've seen in his many previous hospital stays. I walk to him unhesitatingly, as I always do. I can *feel* him relax when I visit him, and I hope I'm helping, in that small way. "Hey..." I brush the back of my hand against the side of his face. "John..." His eyes open, just barely, but they're alert – he meets my gaze immediately. I take one of his hands in mine. "Bad case of the flu, huh?" he jokes. The doctors have already told John exactly what's wrong. I smile anyway. "Yeah. You never do *anything* halfway, do you?" "Nope. All or nothin'. You know me." He squeezes my hand a little, and almost smiles, before sleep reclaims him. > **** Dana and I meet in the ICU lounge. Both fatigued, both needing sleep, neither wanting to be anywhere else than right here. We're discussing John's illness. Or, rather, I'm asking and she's answering. "Can they do chemo? Radiation?" John wouldn't give up on me; I can't give up on him. "Those are both normal treatment options, Monica." Dana knows all too well about the treatment options. We have spoken about her cancer, and I feel her experience, filling in all the bleak particulars, coloring this situation even darker than it already is. She knows exactly how John will feel under treatment. She continues. "But this particular cancer is often resistant to radiation. Chemotherapy has been used, but in advanced cases like his..." She leaves the rest unsaid. There's nothing *to* be done? "I can't accept that! We can't just sit here and watch John d-." I can't even say the word. Scully's hand finds my arm. "Monica, they're doing all they can. There are several new drugs that they've had some success with, and we're talking about those, after they remove the kidney." We sit in silence for a long moment. "What's it called?" I ask. "Pardon?" "What John has. What's it called?" Scully lowers her voice, as if in deference to the killing disease. "Renal cell carcinoma." "Renal cell carcinoma," I repeat. The medical term for the devil that wrestles my dearest friend from me. "Can I tell you something, Dana?" She nods, her eyes tired. "When we found Luke..." I pause, and Dana urges me on. "...John didn't want to live. It was the only time I've ever seen him like that." Except on a ventilator in another dimension, and I don't bring that up. "I don't know how to face that again." Scully smiles a sad smile. "We'll handle it together, ok?" I nod, heartened for the first time since our arrival here. > **** It's been three weeks since that dreadful day when we first learned of John's cancer. Since then, I've watched his steely resolve struggle to sustain itself in the face of surgery, chemo, radiation and experimental cancer drugs. I sit beside his hospital bed, my hand resting on his. He sleeps so often now. I want to talk to him, to encourage him, but I know sleep is the only time he has that is not painful, not depressing. In sleep, he can once more be Special Agent John Doggett- strong, healthy, always in charge. He is still determined. Even now, even after all he's been through. I gaze down at his too-lean form. Never a man to carry extra weight, he is now but a shadow of his former physical self. His eyes are not as steely, his gaze not as intense. But when he awakes, I know I will still see, burning within his eyes, the will to go on. I suppose that will be the last thing we lose. His short, spiky hair is slicked back, but seemingly unaffected by his bouts with chemo. I lower my head, as tears slowly etch their way down my face. I feel his hand tighten around my own. "Hey," he says weakly. I lift my head and try to paste a smile on my face. He sees through it, of course. "Monica, don't." My eyes question him. "Please don't cry for me." "I'm sorry, John." I've tried to be strong, for him, for Dana, for me. I can't do it right now. It's just too much. Too much… He reaches over with his other hand, and holds my own within his still-strong grasp. "I can't do this to you." I wipe my eyes and replace my pasted smile with a real one. All he's been through, and he still worries about me. "We'll be fine, John." He almost smiles himself, but it changes to a grimace in a moment's time, and his hands leave mine, to clutch at his stomach. In a movement that is by now a ritual, I pull the pan from beside the bed, and hold it in front of him. I rub my hand in small, slow circles on his back, as the sickness and the chemo eat away at him, and he retches into the pan. The coughs come from deep within - horrible rasping sounds that wrack his body and leave him breathless and weak. He remains leaning over with his head bowed, even after his coughing stops. I run my hand through his hair. "You ok, John? Do you need the pan anymore?" He doesn't answer, but I hear soft sobs pulled from him. I lay the pan aside, and reach in to gently wipe his face with a damp washcloth. He does not raise his head even as I do this. I take a deep breath, a huge swallow, trying to push my own feelings back inside. I need to help John, not to make him feel worse. I start rubbing small circles on his back once more. "John, please talk to me." He shakes his head back and forth, almost violently, and I catch it, one hand on either side, and turn his face toward mine. "Listen to me, John." His sad eyes stare into mine, and smaller sobs still catch in his throat. "I don't want you worrying about *me*, John." He tries to pull away, but I will not allow it, not this time. "I know you don't like to, but you need to worry about *yourself* right now." He shakes his head again, still within my grasp. His voice is soft but coarse. "I don't want you and Dana to go through this. It's too much." "It's *not* too much. We love you, John. We don't want to be anywhere else. We want to be here with you. We want to help." He lowers his face again, and I sit beside him. I cradle his head against my shoulder, as his tears come once more. This time, he opens himself completely to me; I can almost feel his self-imposed walls crumbling from between us. I hold him in my arms, my own tears mixing with his. Sometime later, his crying slows, and his breathing starts to even out. He raises his eyes, his head still resting on my shoulder. He licks his lips, and cracks the tiniest of smiles. "Thank you." I smile in return. "We're here for you, John. Until you beat this thing. You're not going to do this alone." He snuffles groggily, and within minutes, he is asleep in my arms… > **** Two months later... We stand in John's room, Dana on one side of his bed, and me on the other. He is weak, but lucid and alert, and complaining about the incarceration. This is the John I know. This is remission. "Whatever time I've got left, I want to live it like a real person. None of this crap." He looks around his bed. "Hooked-up to machines. That ain't life." Dana nods. "They can do the rest of the chemo and interleukin on an outpatient basis. But it won't be easy." "Nothin's easy. What are the percentages, Dana? What are we up against here?" John asks. Dana does not attempt to delude John. "In cases as..." She's having trouble with her clinical detachment. Tears cloud her eyes, and trace paths down her cheeks. John brushes away one of her tears with a gentle finger. "In cases as 'what'?" She takes a huge breath. "In advanced cases, when the cancer has spread to other organs, the probability of five-year survival is less than five percent." She spits the information out as though it left a taste in her mouth. I know that bitter taste. "Five years, huh?" He nods, and turns his attention to me. I should feel like an intruder here, but I don't. John knows we both care deeply for him. "Think you guys can put up with me for at *least* that long?" He reaches out to me with his free hand. I take it in both of mine. "We can damn sure try, John." ~fini~ Author's Notes: OK, so I didn't kill him. Sue me. ;-) I'm not hooked on kidney diseases and injuries, honest. I just studied the types of cancer (not involving body parts I'm too embarrassed to write about ) that a man Doggett's age is most susceptible to. Shameless plugs: You can find all my Doggettfic (most of it is DSF/DSR) here: http://www.geocities.com/spookycc/ My egroup Order of the Blessed Saint Doggett the Selfless is at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/OBSDS/