Title: "Avowal"  

Author: Gina (feretopia@aol.com)

Date: March 1, 2001 

Feedback: GIMME GIMME GIMME! 

Rating: PG 

Category: UST, DSR (kind of), DA, some SA, implied MSR

Spoilers: "This Is Not Happening," "Invocation", "A Christmas
Carol"/"Emily" 

Summary: Doggett has a confession to make to Scully.  Make that a 
double confession.  *g*

Archive: Anywhere, just please tell me first and give me some credit. 

Disclaimer: Doggett, Scully, Mulder, Skinner, Mulder Jr., and anyone
else I may have mentioned do NOT belong to me (DUH) but to the 
surfer-god CC and his company, 10-13.  And of course I’m NOT making 
any money.

Author's Note: This takes place a few days after the events of "This 
Is Not Happening".  Enjoy!  And this was written pre-"Empedocles".

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


The small redheaded figure curled up in the blanket on the couch awoke
with a cry.  "Oh God," she sobbed, "Mulder. . . ."  Her fingers 
clutched at the well-worn blanket as if she was trying to reach the man 
whose name she had just uttered.  She leaned back against the couch, 
her face drawn in agony.  Tears slid from her eyes and she drew in a 
hoarse, rattling breath.  "Oh, Mulder. . . ."

Dana Scully buried her face in the blanket and cried.

Her partner’s death still came as a complete shock to her even days 
after the discovery of his body.  She had been wandering around 
in a haze of pain and disbelief for several days now, alternating 
between telling herself that he wasn’t dead and telling herself that 
her entire life had been destroyed.  Huge pieces of her soul seemed to 
have completely disappeared with the sight of his cold, gray body.  She
had cried more during the past few days than she had in her entire 
life, and though she wanted to be ashamed, all she could do was wipe 
her tears and begin the weeping anew.

Even the thought of something trivial, like his fish, was enough to 
bring her carefully structured resolve crashing down around her, and 
she would be practically helpless, overcome with grief.  She could 
scarcely look at her FBI badge without dissolving into tears.  Thinking 
of the gray t-shirt of his that she brought home and had put in a 
drawer could keep her despondent for hours.

She glanced at the clock.  11:42 a.m.  Shuddering, she wiped at her 
eyes and stood up to go the bathroom, feeling vaguely that she ought to 
try and act in a normal fashion by doing such things as dressing and 
eating.

Scully had just finished splashing water on her face and was reaching 
for a towel when there was a knock at the front door.  She quickly 
dried her face.  "I'm coming!" she shouted, hoping her voice didn’t 
sound too raw.

Scully hurried to the door and opened it.  Standing in front of her, 
holding a dish swathed in tinfoil, looking incredibly nervous, was 
someone she would never have expected --

John Doggett.

"Uh, hi," he said, not meeting her reddened eyes.  She looked at the 
foil-covered dish in his hands and raised questioning eyebrows.  "I 
ain't much of a cook, but . . . I thought I'd try and whip somethin' 
up.  I figured you wouldn't be eatin' much, because of everythin'. . . 
."  He looked away, quickly, then continued.  "But you have to eat 
somethin' for that baby."  His gaze landed on her stomach, which was 
just starting to gently swell.  "May I come in?"

"Oh.  Yes."  Scully looked down at the dish of unidentified food, then 
took it carefully from her new partner’s hands.  "Thank you.  I --"  
Something occurred to her and she looked at him almost distrustfully.  
Her face was guarded.  "Why are you here?  Why didn't you just call?"

Doggett stepped inside, his pale eyes taking in everything around him.  
The half-empty box of tissues on the coffee table.  The rumpled 
blanket sitting forlornly on the couch.  The wrinkled state of 
Scully’s clothes.  The way her eyes were still red and swollen.  "I 
wanted to talk to you . . . and I thought it would be best if this was 
in person."  His eyes gravitated back towards the couch.  "Can I sit 
down?"

Scully nodded, her throat tightening.  She took the food into the 
kitchen, setting it on the counter, and called, "Do you want some 
coffee?"  God knew *she* needed it. 

"Oh, that’s all right.  I don’t think this’ll take too long," Doggett 
answered.  He sat down, carefully pushing aside the blanket, and 
stared at his hands as if they were the most interesting things in the 
world.  

Scully came in, a large mug of steaming coffee in her hands.  She 
sipped it gingerly, her eyes closed tightly as if to ward off tears.  
She breathed deeply and set the mug down on the table, as she sat on 
the very end of the couch, as far away from Doggett as was possible.  
"So.  Um . . . what did you want to talk with me about?"  She tried to 
control her voice, but it rose on the very last word,  and she turned 
her head slightly so he couldn’t see her choking back tears.  Doggett’s 
presence was more than enough to remind her of Mulder.

"I just wanted to tell you that you can talk to me.  About . . . this. 
An' I'll understand."  He swallowed, a sudden anxious expression of 
dread appearing on his face.  He looked straight at her.  "I've been 
there."

Scully avoided his eyes and made it a point to watch some invisible 
spot on the wall in front of her.  Doggett looked hard at the floor, 
then reached behind him and into his back pocket, withdrawing his 
wallet.  He removed something out of the billfold, a small piece of 
paper, and handed it to her, leaning forward across the couch.  "I 
want you to see this," he said, choosing his words carefully.

It was a picture of a young boy, seven or eight years old.  It looked 
like a school picture.  On the back were the words "For Daddy", 
written in faint pencil, in big, sloppy letters.  She raised her eyes 
and saw that Doggett was sitting literally on the edge of the couch 
with a closed sort of face, having somehow drawn into himself.  His 
interlacing fingers made a platform on which he rested his chin.  He 
stared straight ahead, looking as if something painful was happening 
deep inside of him.

"That's Luke.  My boy," Doggett said softly, deliberately.  He 
swallowed, spoke, and Scully was strongly reminded of when he had held 
her away from Mulder's body --  He was bearing bad news again.  "He 
was murdered two weeks after that picture was taken."

"Oh my God," Scully murmured, shocked.  Her eyes filled with tears, 
seeing the innocent, unknowing smile on the little boy’s face, the 
bright eyes sparkling with happiness.

Doggett continued to speak.  "He was kidnapped.  We put together the 
best damn investigative team the FBI could give us.  For three days we 
looked for him."  His voice was quiet.  "It didn't feel like no three 
days, believe me."

Scully’s hand unconsciously went to her abdomen and she stared at the 
photo, her face twisted.

"That was the case we called Monica Reyes in.  For her expertise."  
His voice now sounded vacant, almost dead.

"Oh God."  Scully remembered that Monica Reyes’s expertise had been in 
ritualistic murders.

"An' when we found him --" Doggett’s voice rose unnaturally as he said 
this in a rush, and he was forced to turn his face away and take a deep 
breath.  "When we found him --" He gestured helplessly with his hands, 
raising them and then letting them fall.  His eyes shone painfully with 
unshed tears.  "He was such a . . . *little* . . . boy.  Seven years 
old.  Just a little boy startin' first grade.  An' what they did to 
him -- to my *son* --"

Doggett was overcome with emotion.  He put his head down and brought 
his hands up, so that they shielded his face from Scully’s stunned 
gaze.

"I felt so guilty.  Like it was all my fault.  Like I should’ve 
watched him closer or picked him up from school that day instead of 
lettin' him ride the school bus.  My fault."  He paused, his shoulders 
shaking almost imperceptibly.

"Luke's . . . death. . . ."  The word hadn’t wanted to come out.  "It 
tore my marriage apart.  An' it tore me apart.  I didn't know . . . I 
didn't know if I could ever get whole again."  

Doggett closed his eyes tightly for several moments.  Then, in a 
broken, halting voice, he said heavily, "I want you to know . . . that 
you can talk to me.  Because . . . I know what it's like.  I know what 
you’re goin' through."

Looking up into her face, he reached out a trembling hand for the 
photo of the little boy that looked so happy.  Scully pressed it into 
his palm, a tear sliding down her face.  "I'm so sorry," she whispered.
She had lost Emily, yes, but she had barely known of Emily’s 
existence before the little girl was taken from her.  To lose a child 
you had raised from the very beginning --  She rubbed her hand across 
her stomach.

"Yeah."  With a degree of something akin to reverence, Doggett slipped 
the picture back into his wallet and into his pocket.  He nodded, 
looking away from her.  "Yeah." 
                                   
Doggett stood up, his arms hanging limply at his sides in emotional 
exhaustion.  "I have to go," he said abruptly, eyes on the floor.

Scully nodded, swallowing as she stood and followed him to the door.  
He had his hand on the doorknob when he turned around, wearing a 
distressed look.  His eyes, tight with feeling, searched Scully’s 
face.  She tried to look away, tears sliding down her cheeks.  But 
suddenly Doggett had reached out, put his arms around her, drawn her 
close to him.  She understood, instantly, that it was not so much for 
her benefit and comfort as it was for his.

Awkwardly, Scully raised her arms and hugged him back, burying her 
face in his shoulder for a moment.  She breathed deeply, the ache for 
this man in her embrace superseding, for just a moment, the pain of 
Mulder's death.

*****

Doggett savored the feel of the woman in his arms.  She was so warm, 
so soft. . . .  What would it be like, he wondered, to hold her like 
this every day of his life?

Doggett turned his head in towards Scully, the scent of her hair 
engulfing him, his lips dangerously close to brushing her cheek.  
Indecision danced across his face and through his eyes, making him 
swallow with hesitation.  His eyes squeezed shut.  With a great effort 
he forced himself to turn his head, his lips, away from hers.

They said nothing.  Grief was an emotion not easily expressed, and 
they both realized it.  But at last she raised her head from his 
slightly quivering shoulder, and Doggett loosened his embrace.

"I wanted so bad to find him for you," Doggett said in a near-whisper, 
his hand taking Scully's chin and tilting her face upward so that she 
was looking at him.  "To find him alive. . . .  Because I knew how much 
you felt for him."  He let his hand fall.  Almost against his better 
judgement he finished, "And . . . I knew how much I was startin' to 
feel for you."  

Scully stiffened slightly and backed away, a look of shock and dismay 
spreading across her face, as he had known it would.  Her mouth moved 
once as she tried to find something to say; failing, she could only 
resume gaping at him.

Doggett looked down at the ground, then put up a hand to tell her to 
calm down, a plaintive, regretful half-smile on his face.  "This ain’t 
a marriage proposal."  He put his hand down, still gazing at the floor. 
The smile faded.  "It doesn’t affect anythin', Agent Scully."  

The use of the title "Agent" seemed to snap Scully back to her usual 
crisp, cool self.  She drew herself up and started looking at him with 
some semblance of normality, regarding him with a defensive look in her 
eyes.

"Look.  All I'm sayin' here is that . . . that I'd like to be here for 
you.  As a friend, as whatever.  If you'll let me, that is."  

Scully crossed her arms, the tears coming back again.  Her throat 
tightening, her eyes stinging, she nodded at him quickly, almost 
begging him to leave.

"Okay then," Doggett whispered.  He shrugged, but he knew his voice 
revealed that he was far more upset than he sounded.  He turned, 
giving her one last look of longing that she was completely unaware of, 
due to the fact that she was standing with her head down.  Quietly he 
let himself out.  "Goodbye, Agent Scully."

Doggett closed the front door behind him, then concentrated on 
breathing slowly and deeply.  He was vaguely aware of the slight sounds 
of sobs that were coming from behind the door.  Doggett swallowed hard, 
then ran a hand down over his face, blinking rapidly.  With the back of 
his hand he wiped at his eyes and then walked away, his shoulders 
slumped, his hands in his pocket, his head down.

*****

John Doggett sat on his couch four hours later, wearing black sweat 
pants and a white t-shirt, watching television.  A TV dinner sat in 
his lap.  He hadn’t been lying -- he really wasn’t much of a cook.  
But he had tried.  For her.  

Of course, it had turned out horribly.  He had ended up running out to 
the store for something and then wrapping it up in foil like it was 
actually something he'd cooked -- 

His cell phone rang.  Absently he picked up the phone, answered it.  
"Doggett."

For a second there was nothing on the other line but breath.  But then 
a warm, trembling voice answered him, causing him to sit up straight, 
run a hand through his hair.  "Hi . . . John.  It, ah . . . it's me.  
Scu --" She swallowed.  "Dana."

~FIN

Like it?  Hate it?  Give me feedback at: feretopia@aol.com