Title: "Minor Variation"

Author: Feretopia@aol.com (or, Gina) 

Feedback: Yes, pretty please with Doggett on top...

Rating: PG 

Category: DSR, UST, RST, A, MSR (not necessarily all at once, lol)

Spoilers: Small ones for "The Unnatural", "Per Manum", "Without", "Via 
Negativa", "Roadrunners", "This Is Not Happening"; Season 8 in general

Summary: In the wake of Mulder's funeral, Scully and Doggett come to 
a tentative understanding.  Part 1 of 5.

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

Disclaimer: Doggett and Scully are not mine.  Neither is Mulder or 
Mulder Jr.  They and all other XF characters belong purely to CC, 10-
13 and FOX.  I'm making no money off of this (I'm getting only a 
pathetic rush of satisfaction), so don't sue.

Author's Note: There is a window of three months between Mulder's 
death and his resurrection.  Don't you want to know what happened 
during those twelve little weeks?

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

"You wanna get a bite to eat somewhere?" he asked her.  She looked up 
at him with questioning eyes, and her lips met in the smallest of 
smiles as she dipped her head forward in silent affirmation.

*****

Half an hour before, John Doggett had been busy, riffling through the 
drawers in the old file cabinet, searching for an elusive folder.  
His partner, Dana Scully, seemed preoccupied; her gaze kept straying 
from her computer screen to flit about the small office, sometimes 
landing on the colorful articles peppering the walls, but never 
stopping to rest on Doggett.

"Here it is," Doggett muttered, pulling a manila folder marked 
"Confirmations of Synchronistical Experiences" from a pile on top of 
the cabinet.  He shook his head.  "Mighta helped if the damn thing'd 
been under 'C.'  Or if it'd even been in the cabinet in the first 
place."  

"Hm?" Scully said, seeming to notice him for the first time in hours.  

"That file on synchronicity.  The one you wanted me to find for you?  
The one that was going to really help with this case?"  He handed it 
to her, then sat down at his desk a few feet from hers.  He kept his 
gaze on her even after she had opened the folder and began reading 
through the information inside.  

Watching her, he realized her hand was resting on her stomach, like it 
always was nowadays.  She had begun showing only a week or two ago, and 
she seemed very self-conscious about it.  He wasn't sure why, but it 
bothered him, somehow, that she was still trying to hide her pregnancy.

Without looking up, Scully murmured, "Yes, this is it, exactly."  She 
stared at the folder for a moment more, seeming deep in thought.  At 
last she shook her head, sighing.  

"What is it?" Doggett asked, making sure to look as if he had been 
busy in the past few moments.  

Scully turned to him, explaining, "Harold Ribeira claims he didn't kill 
those kids, that it was the conspiracy of time and circumstance that 
led to their deaths, and not his own actions.  In other words, 
synchronicity is to blame -- at least in his mind.  But according to 
the information in this folder, synchronicity is a force that always 
works for good, unless the experient of the synchronicity decides to 
use his newfound knowledge evilly.  By his own argument, he's 
completely guilty.  Of course, his argument would never have stood up 
in court anyway, but this way, we can explain his wrongness to him in 
terms he understands."

Doggett blinked.

"You didn't understand a word of that, did you, Agent Doggett."

"Uh --"

"That's all right."  She treated him to a small smile.  "Basically, 
Ribeira can't be innocent, because he claims synchronicity -- 
meaningful coincidence -- is to blame for their deaths.  But synchron-
icity is supposedly a *good* thing; therefore, he's wrong.  He won't 
be able to combat the fact -- or, if you will, idea -- that synchroni-
city's never killed anyone."

"Uh-huh.  Sounds, uh, good to me," Doggett said, completely lost.  He 
rubbed the back of his neck.

Scully, recognizing his confusion, said gently, "Thanks for finding 
that for me."  She began shuffling through the papers within the file, 
her movements quick and businesslike.  A sheet of paper fluttered to 
the ground, landing near Doggett's foot.

He reached down and picked it up.  He had a glimpse of Scully's name, 
written in what looked like Fox Mulder's hand, before the paper was 
wrenched from his grasp.

Doggett looked up in surprise to see Scully half-crouching and 
clutching the paper, her face set, arm outstretched.  "I'll take that, 
Agent Doggett," she said stiffly.

"I was gonna hand it to you, Agent Scully.  So's you wouldn't have to 
get it yourself."  He spoke casually, as if her sudden action hadn't 
unnerved him in the slightest.

She straightened up, returned to her seat.  "Uh -- thank you, but I 
think I can handle it."  Her voice was strained.  She did not return 
the paper to the folder, but rather folded it carefully and placed it 
inside her pocket.  She looked at him steadily, daring him to speak.

Doggett bit his lip.  "If you don't mind me askin' --"

"I do."

His eyes narrowed.  "Well, I'm askin' anyway.  Call me Curious George. 
What's in that paper that's so important that I can't see it?"

"It's . . . personal."  

"It was in a file on synchronicity.  You tellin' me you own the rights 
to synchronicity?  Why won't you just tell me what's goin' on?" 

"I don't need to explain myself to you.  This is mine.  If it concerned 
you, I would tell you."  She was trying to sound cold and harsh, but 
her eyes betrayed her, revealing pain within.

Doggett let out a deep breath.  His partner had gone rigid; her entire 
body was tensed.  He sighed, then said, simply, "Okay."  

He turned to his monitor, determined to show her that he had conceded 
to her.  The very set of his shoulders suggested acquiescence.  He 
resisted looking even the slightest bit in her direction.  If she 
wanted to play such games, he'd play along for as long as she wanted.

Moments slid by in silence.  He could feel the air around him, still 
charged, still filled with potential explosion.  He checked the clock 
at the bottom of the computer screen.  Fifteen minutes until he was 
officially able to go home.  He wished, as he had wished so many times, 
that for once he and his partner would be able to be civil to each 
other.

But no matter what she might say, he knew she hadn't yet gotten over 
the death of her old partner.  Her old lover, for all he knew.  And 
until she did, perhaps she would never be able to treat him kindly.  
The thought saddened him.

He sighed again.

A small noise, something like a sharply indrawn breath, startled him.  
He quickly shot a glance at Dana Scully.

Her lips, red and moist, were parted.  Her face was pale.  A single 
tear slipped from one of her tightly closed eyes, slipping down the 
smooth slope of her cheek to halt at the corner of her mouth.  Her 
head was bowed, her body trembling.

He hesitated.  Should he speak to her?  And what would he say?  "Dana," 
he breathed, the name coming warily, and unbidden, from his mouth.

The transformation that followed was amazing.  Her head jerked upwards; 
her hand flew to her face, wiping her eyes.  Her lips formed themselves 
into a thin, hard line.  The color returned to her face as she said 
quietly, "Yes, Agent?"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm --"  She stopped.  He could tell that she had been about to repeat 
her constant anthem, her "I'm fine" mantra.  But now, now she was 
hesitating; now, perhaps, he could finally get her to realize that he 
meant her no harm.  She closed her eyes.  "No, I'm not all right."  It 
was a whisper, but it was there nonetheless.

He leaned forward in his seat, towards her.  His heart was beating a 
little faster.  "Do you . . . want to talk?"  

"No."

So she wouldn't speak to him, then.  Perhaps, though, he could tell her 
what he had wanted to say for so long.  "Then can I?"  

She raised her head, regarded him defensively.  She said nothing.

"You might hate me for sayin' this, but you can't keep on like this 
for much longer."

He expected an argument, a denial.  But she still said nothing, only 
looked at him with nothing but agreement on her face.

"I can't sit here and watch you -- watch you break down, with no one 
to stand by you an' help you out.  Agent Scully, *Dana*, I'm gonna ask 
you something."  

He had called her Dana twice, and still she had not resisted him.  She 
raised her eyebrows as if to say, "Spill it."

"You wanna get a bite to eat somewhere?"

*****

She followed him to a little Mexican restaurant near his neighborhood. 
They parked next to each other in the small parking lot, getting out of 
their cars at the same time.  They gave each other nervous smiles, and 
headed into the restaurant.  He held the door for her; surprised, she 
let him.

"You don't need to do that," Scully said.  It had been a long time 
since someone she knew at all held a door open for her.  Mulder hadn't, 
not that she could remember.

Doggett shrugged, unembarrassed.  "Force of habit."

The headwaiter was a jovial, dark-skinned Mexican.  He smiled, showing 
bright, white teeth.  "Ah, hello, John, hello!  It has been a long 
time."  He peered closely at Scully, who gave him a flat look.  He 
turned back to Doggett, clearly puzzled.  "You and Angie are not --"

"No.  Not anymore, Enrique," Doggett said shortly.  "This is my 
partner from work.  Dana Scully."  He nodded to her, and Scully forced 
herself to smile at the waiter.

What was she doing, going out to dinner with this man who, at times, 
was completely intolerable?  Yet his kindness half an hour earlier had 
touched her.  No matter how bullheaded he could be at times, he *did* 
worry about her.  And at this time, she wasn't ready to resist kindness 
offered to her by *anyone.*

Last night had been hard.  She closed her eyes, thinking of the dream 
she'd had -- the dream of Mulder, crying out to her in agony.  She had 
woken up weeping, whispering his name, longing to embrace him just 
once more.  She had tried to calm down, tried to compose herself, but 
she could only continue to sob. . . .

She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and discovered the piece of 
paper that had fallen out of the synchronicity file.  Her eyes burned 
beneath her closed lids as she remembered the words written there --

She felt the light, sure touch of masculine fingers on her arm.  She 
opened her eyes to see Doggett, his eyes worried.  "Agen--  Dana?  He 
has a table for us."  He took his hand from her arm, and gestured to 
the waiter, who was still smiling, and now holding a pair of menus.  
She pulled her hands from her pocket and composed herself.

She followed them to a tiny, intimate table tucked away into a softly 
lit corner.  She took a moment to look around, to take in the paintings 
of senoritas with red flowers plaited in their hair, of matadors in 
their finery, of tall dark men atop beautiful horses.  She looked back 
at the table and saw Doggett standing behind one of the chairs.  His 
jacket was already slung over the back of the other chair.  Clearly, 
he was going to be chivalrous again.  Unless she wanted to be extremely 
rude, she had to accept it.

Scully sat down, and he gently pushed her chair in.  "Uh . . . thank 
you," she said.

"You're welcome."  Doggett sat in the other chair, taking one of the 
menus Enrique placed on the table.  He smiled at her.  "This place is 
great.  My Spanish is terrible, but I ain't had a bad dinner here yet."

"How long have you been coming here?"  Though she didn't say it, she 
was really wondering who Angie was, if she was an ex-wife, or if she 
was something else.

"For a year or so, we were comin' here almost every night."

"We?"  The question slipped out before she could stop herself.

A discernable change came over him.  His face went serious; his eyes 
studied the tablecloth.  "Angie an' me.  Angie was -- is -- my ex-
wife."

*So I am not the only one with pain,* she thought.  "I'm sorry," she 
said.

"You don't need to be.  Wasn't your fault."  As always, he was laconic, 
to the point.  He was so different from Mulder, who had often bored
her with his lengthy explanations and speeches.  She gazed at him 
steadily, willing him to say something more.  

He didn't, though.  Enrique had arrived with a basket of thin tortilla 
chips and a bowl of salsa.  They ordered their drinks -- Cokes, both -- 
and turned their attention to their menus.  Enrique stood patiently  
as they gave him their orders.

"The usual," Doggett said, handing Enrique his menu.  

"I'll have a taco salad," Scully told him.  He took her menu and left.
She reached out and took a particularly large chip, dipping it gingerly 
into the salsa.  She smiled after eating it.  "It's been a while since 
I had Mexican."

"I know what you mean," Doggett said.  He reached into the basket just 
as Scully put her hand in for another chip.  Their fingers touched, 
lingered.

They stared at each other.  Scully thought, bizarrely, of Disney's 
"Lady and the Tramp."  She shook the thought away and withdrew with 
another bite to eat.  

Doggett said nothing, but glanced at her and then quickly looked away.

She nibbled on her chip, savoring the flavor of both the tortilla and 
the salsa.  It *had* been a long time since she'd had Mexican; it had 
also been a long time since she had enjoyed food.  First morning 
sickness, then the discovery of Mulder's body, had taken their toll on 
her appetite.  Things had not been well for quite a long time.

Doggett, seeming to read her thoughts, said softly, "How are you . . . 
Dana?"  

Still calling her Dana?  "Is this going to be a permanent thing?"  A
puzzled look took root on his face.  "Calling me Dana, that is."  She 
rested her hands on the table, wondering what he would say.

"Oh."  He seemed uncomfortable.  "I don't want to call you 'Agent 
Scully' when -- when we're not at work.  Feels a little awkward, is 
all.  But if you want, we can go back to 'Agent.'"  He didn't appear 
happy at the prospect.

"Dana is fine when we're not at work."  Although it wasn't.  Mulder 
had rarely called her 'Dana'; Doggett couldn't even call her 'Scully.' 
Now she had given him license to call her by her first name, when 
*nobody* called her by that, save her family.  She closed her eyes.

"So," he said gently.  "I wanna ask you again.  How are you, Dana?"  

A test.  If she said "Fine" he would only persist.  If she told him 
how she really was, she would have to bear his sympathy, his kindness. 
But all at once she didn't want to fight it anymore.  The agonizing 
weeks of loneliness, of pain, of struggling to keep her composure -- 
they had piled up, weighing her down.  Oh, how good it would be to 
release it all, to shed the terrible weights she had been carrying for 
what seemed so long.  Her eyes watered beneath closed lids as she 
wondered what to do.  At last she spoke.

"I'm not so well."  Even that small confession, though it was painful 
at first, was a relief to have made.  "It's . . . it's been hard."

He nodded, slowly, his eyes on her alone.  He didn't say "I know how 
you feel" or "Everything will be all right."  He merely listened.

It was more than enough.  

Scully stared at her glass of water.  Now that she had decided to 
really trust her partner, the words came easier, swifter.  "First I 
learned Mulder was missing; that same day I learned I was pregnant, 
almost miraculously so.  Then I was partnered with someone who, shall 
we say, did not share my views about our work."  She gave him a wan 
smile; he returned it, though more with his eyes than his mouth.  "And 
then, to discover my worst fear was true --  It has been hard."  Her 
voice, calm and steady until then, fell to a whisper at the last word.

Doggett did something then that caused her breath to catch in her 
throat and her eyes to open wide.  He leaned forward and hesitantly, 
like a teenager, placed his hand lightly on hers.

It was only for the space of a few heartbeats, and then he drew his 
hand back and watched her, nervously.  She swallowed -- then remembered 
this wasn't the first time he had touched her.  He had held her while 
she wept; he had rested his hand on her shoulder when she was afraid.  
She had not rebuked him then.  After having laid bare her soul as much 
as she dared tonight, she could let him show her some compassion.

She smiled.

The rest of the evening passed with little incident.  They talked about 
their latest case.  They talked about the excellence of the food.  They 
talked about the upcoming baseball season -- Doggett turned out to be 
a rabid Yankees fan -- and Scully remembered a Fox Mantle giving her a 
very early or very late birthday present.  

"What's wrong?" Doggett asked, the cheerful look on his face fading.  

She hadn't thought she was that obvious.  "Mulder loves -- loved -- 
baseball."  She shrugged, exhaling deeply.

He nodded again, in that same gentle way.  Funny.  He was anything but 
gentle when they were on a case, but now, here, with her. . . .  He 
had become surprisingly tender.

After a short period of silence, they began talking again.  Soon 
Enrique came with their check; Doggett tried to pay for Scully's 
dinner, but she insisted paying her own way.  They made their way back 
out to the parking lot, Doggett holding the door for her again.

Once at their cars, they gave each other one last look.  "See you 
Monday, Da -- Agent Scully," Doggett said, catching himself at the 
last minute.  

She smiled knowingly.  "Goodnight, *John.*"  She got into her car, 
shaking her head, but laughing a little.  Things had changed.

*****

At work they were still Agents Scully and Doggett.  But every week or 
so, they would go someplace to dinner.  He would ask how she was doing. 
She would answer with complete honesty.  She knew he wanted to know how 
she was because he worried for her; he knew that, no matter what she 
said, she did want to talk about it.  A strange new balance had been 
struck.

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

Eight weeks had passed since the discovery of Mulder's body in Montana.  
Scully was now obviously pregnant; her body had rounded, grown, curved. 
She had traded her slim, professional suits for flowing, comfy dresses 
and shirts; had traded her button-up pants for ones with a stretch 
waist.  She was constantly snacking at something at her desk; all 
manners of crackers, cookies, and fruit were endangered.  And, most 
amazing of all: she smiled, every day.

Doggett smiled, too, whenever he thought of her.  He couldn't help it.

*****

Doggett strode into the basement office after a hasty lunch, eager to 
get back to work.  He and Scully were investigating a ring of drug 
dealers; a completely unremarkable case, except for the fact that the 
drug being sold could supposedly grant telekinesis.  He intended to 
prove that the so-called 'miracle drug' was a sham; Scully, on the 
other hand, was being cautious and slow, telling him not to jump to 
conclusions.

Scully hadn't yet returned.  That wasn't unusual; she often took an 
hour for lunch nowadays.  He settled himself down at his desk and began 
reviewing the facts of the case once more.

Some time later, he glanced at his watch and froze.  Scully was an hour 
and a half late.  Something was wrong.  She would have called, would 
have told him if she was going to be so late.  

A urgent sense of disquiet welled within him.  He pulled his cell phone 
out, dialed Scully's number.  

Three rings, and Scully's voice, clipped and cool, came on.  "This is 
Dana Scully.  Please leave a message."  

"It's Joh -- Agent Doggett.  Please call me back."  He ended the call, 
the feeling of disquiet exploding into true fear.

He drummed his fingers against the desk.  He bit his lip and looked 
around.  He tried calling her again, to no avail.  There was nothing 
left for it.  He stood up and hurried out of the office.

He was only a few feet from the elevator when its doors opened, 
revealing Skinner.  

"Have you seen --"

"Agent Doggett, she was taken to the hospital just now."  

Doggett froze.  He stared at Skinner.  "Is she gonna be all right?  Is 
it serious?  Is --"

"I don't know.  All I know is that there's a complication with her 
pregnancy."  Skinner seemed almost as agitated as Doggett felt.  "I 
came down here both to tell you, and to get her things."  

"I'll get 'em," Doggett said shortly.  He was already walking briskly 
toward the office.  "What hospital is she at?"

"Bethesda, but Agent Doggett, you can't just --"

"I can an' I'm goin' to."  He was in the office now; he grabbed her 
jacket and his own.  He looked around for anything else of hers.  
Seeing nothing, he turned off the lights, came out, and locked the 
door.  "Assistant Director Skinner, I *will* be back.  But I'd like to 
make sure she's all right before then."  He swallowed.

Skinner gave him a long, searching look.  He closed his eyes.  "All 
right.  But you'll need to make up whatever time you miss --"  He 
stopped, looked around. 

Doggett was gone.

*****

"I need to see a Dana Scully; she came in here an hour ago, maybe two," 
Doggett said to the receptionist, struggling to keep from sounding 
worried.

The thin woman flipped through some papers.  "And what is your relation 
to Ms. Scully?  She's very ill."

Doggett avoided the woman's question.  "How ill?  I need to be sure 
she's okay."

"What is your relationship to the patient, sir?"  She was getting 
annoyed with him.

"I'm her partner --"

The woman narrowed her eyes, sniffed.  "Would've been too much trouble 
to get married, would it?"

"*What?*"

"No one gets married nowadays.  It's a real shame.  Your name?"

"John Doggett."  She handed him a pass and pointed him down the hall.  
Stunned, he took the pass in one hand, holding Scully's coat in the 
other.  He could hardly believe that the woman had thought he meant 
*that* kind of partner -- but if he could see Scully, he wasn't about 
to argue.  

He stopped in front of room 121.  He looked in the window, but could 
only make out a vague, shadowy form that might have been a person 
sitting on a bed.  He knocked at the door.  

The figure on the bed looked up, and Doggett opened the door.

She sat there on the bed, clothed in a baggy polka-dotted gown.  Her 
feet dangled off the edge of the bed, swinging slowly back and forth.  
Her hair was mussed; her eyes, red.  One hand lay resting on her 
stomach.  Scully whispered, "What are you doing here?"

He closed the door behind him.  "I . . . I had to see if you were all 
right."  The words sounded empty.  "What's wrong?  What's the matter?"

Scully took a deep breath.  "False labor.  It's not uncommon.  All I 
need to do is get plenty of rest.  But . . . this is the third time.  
And for a while I wasn't so sure it was false."  Even from a few feet 
away, he could see the tears still on her face.  She exhaled heavily.  
"I'm afraid for my baby."  

He set her coat on a chair in the corner, then sat next to her on the 
bed.  He wasn't sure what to say, but tried anyway.  "Oh, Dana."

Her eyes closed and she began to tremble.  "I just want my baby to be 
all right," she breathed.  Doggett felt his own eyes prick with tears.  
It wasn't fair that she had to go through this; it wasn't *right.*  

But if she did have to go through it, he knew one thing: she wouldn't 
have to do it alone.

Slowly he slid an arm around her, his hand coming up to take her 
shoulder.  She deferred to his touch, resting her head on his own 
shoulder, her body still shaking slightly.   

"I'm here for you," he murmured.  "I'm here."

*****

The nurse found them like that an hour later, Doggett's arm around 
Scully, her head on his shoulder.  She had fallen asleep there, and 
Doggett had buried his face in her hair and nearly fallen asleep 
himself.  Now, at the intrusion, they raised their heads; but Doggett 
did not remove his arm.  

For a moment Scully nearly had to ask where she was.  Then, feeling the 
itch of the hospital gown against her skin, and the comforting location 
of Doggett's arm around her shoulders, she remembered.

"Nurse?" Scully asked quietly.

"Ms. Scully, I'm afraid your visitor is going to have to leave.  You 
need your rest."  The nurse cast a suspicious eye at Doggett, then 
turned around and busied herself with straightening the room.

Scully sighed.  She knew the nurse was right; she also knew that in 
that hour, when Doggett had soothed her just by being there, that she 
now did not want him to leave.  She looked at him apologetically.    

"It's okay.  If you're still here tomorrow I'll come visit you.  An' if 
you're at home -- I'll visit you there, too."  He pursed his lips, 
thought of something.  "I brought your coat for you."

She smiled.  The idea of needing a coat seemed ludicrous when compared 
with what she had just experienced: first the terrifying false labor, 
then the unexpected solace of Doggett's presence.  "Thank you."  

Scully was still looking at him.  He gave her a tiny, reassuring smile, 
then, nearly before she realized it, he leaned forward.  He pressed a 
soft, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of her mouth, lingering for just 
an instant before pulling away.  His breath was warm and sweet.  

She shivered.

She realized he was studying her face for a reaction.  Without 
hesitation, she reached up and gripped the hand lying on her shoulder. 
She gave it a quick, sure squeeze, then released it.  

"Thank you," she repeated, whispering.

At last, though, he withdrew his arm.  He stood, said gently, "You 
take care of yourself, Dana."  For once, her name rolled off his lips 
without hesitation, and it seemed lovely as it never had before.  He 
left.

The nurse turned back to Scully, having missed Doggett's gentle action, 
and insisted Scully get back into bed.  Scully obeyed, the nurse 
flitting around her and checking her vitals.  At last the nurse, too, 
took her leave.

Scully rested there in bed, hands on her stomach.  She wondered what 
was happening with John Doggett; she wondered what she was allowing to 
happen.  

Mulder's face floated into her mind.  Not the gray, flaccid face of his 
corpse, but rather his face warm and alive and smiling.  She closed her 
eyes, thinking of his laughter, of the sound of his voice.  And then 
she thought of the way the corners of John Doggett's eyes crinkled on 
those rare occasions that he smiled, and the old ache didn't hurt so 
badly.

*****

She went home the next day.  She had no sooner hung her coat up when 
she reached for the phone, dialed a now-familiar number.  "I'm home," 
she whispered.  

He was at her door in what seemed no time at all.  "I'm glad you're 
okay," said Doggett, his voice a comforting rumble.  "You an' your baby 
both."  

"So am I," she breathed, slipping her arms around him in a soft 
embrace.  He returned it, bringing her close to him, just . . . holding 
her.  She thought for a moment of how warm, how secure he was.  She 
had never realized before how thankful she was for him.

*****

A few evenings later they had just finished dinner at a cozy Italian 
restaurant.  They laughed, walking to their cars; and Doggett wished 
suddenly that the evening wouldn't have to end.  He thought of her 
not being there beside him with her newfound smile and her easy grace, 
and he felt a stab of pain.  He frowned, inexplicably frustrated with 
the fact that she would be leaving.

"Goodnight," he heard her say.  He turned his head, startled, and saw 
they were back at their cars.  

"Uh, goodnight," Doggett answered slowly.  She smiled, got into her 
car.  

Doggett stared at his truck, an unconscious scowl on his face.  He 
stood there for a few minutes, vaguely aware of the sound of an engine 
being tried.  He sighed, shaking his head, and unlocked the driverside 
door.  

Just then there was the soft touch of a small hand on his shoulder.  
He whirled.  

"My car won't start," Scully said, obviously upset.  "Do you have any 
jumper cables with you?"

"Lemme check," he replied, and promptly spent the next ten minutes 
searching for them before realizing he had left them in a pile next to 
his bike in the hallway.  He turned back to her sheepishly.  "Left 'em 
at home."  He thought for a moment.  "So, do you want me to give you a 
ride to your place, or do you wanna come over to my house, grab the 
cables, an' come back an' try 'em?"

Scully sighed, rubbing her forehead as if she was getting a headache.  
"How far away is your house?"

"Twenty, twenty-five minutes."  

"Sounds good to me."  She walked around to the passenger side, and 
Doggett realized that he was getting a reprieve.  Despite Scully's grim 
look, he couldn't help but crack a smile.  

They had barely made it onto the freeway when Doggett cursed beneath 
his breath.  "Looks like there was an accident up ahead," he muttered, 
as Scully sighed again.  Ahead of them were countless cars inching 
forward, flashing their lights and sounding their horns.  

"Just our luck," Scully said with a mirthless smirk.  

"Yeah . . . just," Doggett said, almost to himself.  

"What?"

He looked up quickly, recognizing he'd been thinking out loud.  "Uh, 
nothin'."

"No, you said something.  What was it?"  She was getting testy; her 
voice was sharp.

He complied with her query.  "You said 'Just our luck' an' I said 
'Yeah, just.'  As in, maybe it ain't so bad bein' stuck here for 
awhile.  Gives us another chance to talk.  An' that can't be bad."  He 
hoped his reply would cheer her.

It worked.  She granted him a slight smile.  "You're right.  So, what 
do you want to talk about?"  

He shrugged.  "Whatever you want, Dana."  Over the past few weeks, her 
first name had become sweetly familiar.  It had become so familiar, 
in fact, that it was getting hard to call her "Agent Scully" at work.  

His response elicited a sudden change in her demeanor.  She examined 
her nails, her smile disappearing.  "I went to my obstetrician 
yesterday, John."

He nearly said *I woulda gone with you* but instead answered, "Is there 
somethin' wrong?"  

"There's nothing wrong.  That's what I'm worried about."  She bit her 
lip, struggling.  "I have been afraid from the start that my baby -- 
won't be normal."  She took a deep breath.  "I was not supposed to be 
pregnant.  And yet here I am.  All along the way things have been 
difficult, but I can't help feeling that . . . that there's something 
I don't know.  That someone's not telling me something."  She was 
quiet.  Doggett wanted to reach out, take her hand -- but he let her 
finish.

"I wanted to tell you about this, but . . . I was afraid of that, too.  
But I don't know who to tell, who . . . to trust."  Her voice cracked.

Pity overwhelmed him.  He'd known the pregnancy had been difficult, 
had known that she was worried about it.  But he hadn't known of the 
fear she was revealing to him.  "You can trust me," he whispered.

"I know that now."

***** 

He unlocked the door an hour later and flicked on the living room 
light.  "Well, here we are.  My humble home."  

Scully smiled encouragingly, remembering the first -- and last -- time 
she had entered his home.  That had been just after her first instance 
of false labor, when John Doggett was still an adversary and not a 
friend. It seemed an eternity ago. 

Doggett jogged into the hallway, bent over, and retrieved the jumper 
cables that were coiled next to the bike.  He returned.  "Got 'em."  
He paused.  "It seems kinda a shame to jus' c'mere an' then leave right 
away.  You want somethin' to drink?  I got cocoa in the shelf."

She almost laughed -- John Doggett, drinking hot chocolate? -- but 
the earnestness on his face stopped her.  "Cocoa sounds great, John."  

He set the jumper cables on the top of the couch and headed presumably 
towards the kitchen.  Scully followed, surprised to see that it was 
neat and clean.  He opened the cupboard, and she glimpsed Pop-Tarts 
and Cheerios before he brought down the box of cocoa packets and 
closed the door.  

She was relieved to see that the cocoa didn't have little marshmallows 
in it.  If it had, she knew she wouldn't have been able to control her 
laughter.

He turned around, teakettle in hand, a smile on his face.  "I *can* be 
trusted in a kitchen by myself, Dana.  Have a seat on the couch, I'll 
be there in a minute."  

Scully chuckled.  "All right, I get the hint."  She walked back to the 
living room and sat on the couch, looking around.  

A large bookcase stood in one corner, stuffed with a combination of 
thick old books and glossy new ones.  A desk in a small nook was messy 
and disorganized.  The coffee table was bereft of all decoration other 
than a framed photograph.  She picked up the photo, examined it.  

A younger, less-wrinkled Doggett grinned up at her.  His arm was around 
a nice-looking, thirtysomething blonde woman.  Between them stood a 
boy, maybe five years old, with Doggett's ears and smile.

A low, rolling voice spoke behind her, and she turned sharply.  "That's 
Angie.  An' Luke -- my son."  Doggett was leaning on the back of the 
couch, his face sober.  "He was killed almost three years ago."

"Oh my God. . . .  I'm so sorry," she breathed, reaching up, touching 
his arm.  

"Me too," he said softly.  He looked away, blinking rapidly.

A piercing shriek rent the air, and Doggett jerked upwards.  "Water's 
ready."  He hurried off.

Filled with a sudden sorrow, Scully set the picture back onto the 
coffee table.  She decided she would not ask anything more about his 
family.

Idly she put her hands in her coat pockets -- and pulled out a much-
folded sheet of paper.  She opened it, read it.  

"Today I experienced an instance of synchronicity for myself.  I was 
sitting in my apartment longing for a certain redheaded partner of 
mine, and what happens?  She's at the door.  As usual, synchronicity 
is a force working for good . . . or maybe just for romance."  There 
Fox Mulder had signed his name with a flourish.  

It had been a joke between them, during that last year.  Make a 
romantic night into a phony casefile.  Scully hadn't been bold enough 
to slip any of *her* notes into actual case folders, but Mulder had 
hidden a few in his time, always hoping to make her laugh.  She was 
grateful that Doggett hadn't mentioned finding any after reading 
through the files.

She folded it back up and stared at it, then carefully placed it back 
inside her coat.  She made a mental note: as soon as she got home, she 
would remove the paper, and put it away in a safe place.  Because she 
didn't think she needed it anymore. 

*****

Doggett carried out two mugs of steaming hot chocolate.  "Here you 
go.  Careful, it's hot," he warned, passing one cup to Scully, who 
gave him a grateful smile.

He sat down next to her, blowing on his cocoa.  He gingerly took a sip, 
then nearly spat it out -- still too hot.  He forced himself to swallow 
it.  "Good," he managed.  

She laughed -- a bright, airy sound.  It warmed him more than his cocoa 
had, and he gave her a crooked grin.  

"So," she said.  "We'll finish our cocoa and head back to my car, is 
that the plan?"  She looked strangely displeased with the idea.

"If that's all you wanna do, then that's what we'll do.  But I was 
thinkin' maybe we could just sit an' talk awhile. . . ."  His voice 
trailed off.  

"We've been doing a lot of talking tonight," she said wryly.  

"Is there somethin' wrong with that?"

"No, there's nothing wrong with that at all."  She seemed wistful. 
She set her mug down on the coffee table, and he followed suit.  "I 
want to thank you.  For being here for me."  Her eyes glittered -- 
with what?  Tears?

"I'll always be here, long as you want.  Scout's honor," Doggett 
answered, trying to seem cheerful.

Scully nodded, once, then reached forward and put her arms around him.

His heart beat more than a little faster.

She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed out, a deep, 
shuddering breath.  He brought his arms up, embraced her.  His hands 
rested on her back, drawing her as closely to him as her pregnant belly 
would allow.  She was warm and light in his arms, and he thought of 
how long it had been since he had truly held a woman -- and she had 
held him back.

Scully pulled back, and he looked at her, gazed at her.  Her eyes, a 
clear, luminous blue, looked into his.  Their faces were inches away.

His hand crept up to trace the line of her cheek, sliding down to take 
her chin as gently as he knew how.  Her skin was incredibly smooth.  
"Dana," he whispered.  

And then he couldn't restrain himself any longer, and he placed his 
mouth on hers, softly, softly.  She didn't freeze, didn't flinch.  
Instead, she kissed him in return, her lips so sweet and fresh and 
delicate that he nearly gasped.  The blood roared in his ears, drowning 
out all rational thought.  There was only here, only now, only *her*.

At last Doggett pulled away.  His hand still cupped her chin; her arms 
still embraced him.  A half-smile graced his face as he breathed, 
"Oh, holy God."

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

Dana Scully let out a murmur as she turned over, pulling the blanket 
along with her.  She yawned, drawing one hand across her stomach, and
felt an athletic kick beneath her palm.  She took a deep breath, and 
realized the sheets felt . . . different.  

Her eyes flew open and she sat up, noting with an open mouth that she 
was in John Doggett's bed.

She saw she was still wearing the same clothes she had worn to work 
yesterday.  With a sigh, she remembered it was Saturday, and she didn't 
have to be at the office.  Thank God for small favors, she thought.

Doggett was nowhere to be seen.  Tentatively she looked around, running 
a hand through her already-rumpled hair and frowning.  She and Doggett 
had crossed a line last night, crossed it with their kisses and soft 
grateful words, and now --  What would they do?

A knock came at the bedroom door.  "You awake in there?" came Doggett's 
quiet voice.  "It's almost ten."  

"Yeah, I'm awake.  Come on in," she called.  

Doggett eased the door open and slipped inside.  "Hey there, Sleepin' 
Beauty."  His eyes danced with amusement.  He had changed and showered 
-- his hair was still damp -- and there was an eager, almost *happy* 
look on his face.  It seemed out of place.

"Good morning to you, too."  She rubbed at her eyes, not caring if she 
looked a mess.  Doggett had cut a slug out of her neck while she 
screamed.  There was no way he could find her unattractive now.

He laughed, crooking his finger and beckoning her to leave the bed.  
Mystified, she kicked out of the covers and followed him.

He led her down the stairs and through the kitchen to the dining room, 
which she'd only glimpsed.  To her surprise, a plate of pancakes, plus 
elegant settings for two, rested on the table.  "Somebody's been up 
and about, I see."

"Well, I figured you'd want somethin' to eat before headin' home.  An' 
what kinda host would I be if I didn't provide?"  A bright, broad 
smile -- one she had never seen before on him -- lit his face in a way 
most welcome and wonderful.  She smiled back, feeling strangely at 
ease.

He pulled a chair out for her, and she sat down, the feeling of 
rightness, of welcome, growing stronger.  

*****

He closed and locked the door, then turned to smile down at the small 
woman on his doorstep.  "You ready to get that car of yours?"  

She nodded, and before he could say anything, she reached up and laid 
her hand on his cheek. He blinked as she pulled his face down, stood 
up on tiptoe, and kissed him.  

It was ten minutes before they made it to his car. 

*****

Scully closed and locked the front door behind her, then mechanically 
took off her coat and set it on the back of the couch.  She walked 
slowly through the living room, her mind racing, her eyes filling with 
tears.  

What was she doing?

Guilt overwhelmed her.  How disloyal was she, to begin to fall for John 
Doggett a mere eleven weeks after Mulder's funeral?  With that thought 
she saw Mulder's cold, tortured body, lying sad and broken on a 
Montana forest floor.  She remembered her anguished cries that night, 
the way her legs had finally refused to bear her, the hot tears that 
had escaped her closed eyes. . . .  She remembered the pained, pitying 
look on Doggett's face when he found her on her knees.  She had known 
then, even through the fierce misery, that he cared deeply for her; 
that he had cared for a long time.

Maybe that was why she was letting this happen.  Doggett had been there 
from the beginning of Mulder's absence, and though things were at first
uncomfortable between them, they came to an understanding, and even 
formed an uneasy friendship.  But always she refused to get close to 
him, to let him get close to her.  And yet he'd done it anyway, and 
when at last they found that chill gray body of the man she loved, she 
finally stopped resisting.  She found out that Doggett would do 
anything to ease her pain -- and she was drowning in more agony than 
she had ever known before.

Scully rested her hand on her abdomen.  Her child -- and Mulder's -- 
grew there within her.  The thought hurt.  But it was not so painful 
when thoughts of Doggett crept into her mind.  His voice, rough but 
also impossibly tender.  His eyes, sometimes conveying such emotion 
that it was all she could do not to gasp.  His hands, soft, gentle, 
kind.  His mouth, so sweet, so fresh, so . . . delicious.  

At that moment she made a decision.  If ever what had sprung up 
between Doggett and herself became truly serious, she knew she would 
not say no to John Doggett becoming the father of her baby.

*****

Doggett smiled warmly up at his partner as she walked into the office. 
"Good mornin', Agent Scully," he offered.

Scully smiled in return, hanging up her coat.  "Good morning, Agent 
Doggett."  It was still a habit to call each other "Agent" in the 
office or on a case -- they hesitated even now to use first names, 
fearing . . . fearing something.

But the winter sunlight streaming through the windows was bright and 
clear, and they said "Agent" willingly, knowing the evening was their 
own.

The day passed with little incident.  Doggett had the nerve to make  
steady beeping noises when Scully backed away from the filing cabinet; 
Scully smirked and playfully hit him with the folder she had retrieved.  
It was a blissfully slow day, and at the end of it, Doggett walked 
Scully to her car.  They chatted about nothing important, nothing 
particular, as their voices and footsteps echoed in the empty parking 
garage.

Once at her car, they stopped talking as if at some intangible signal. 
With great care Doggett took her into his arms and they kissed deeply, 
leisurely, lovingly.  Pulling away, she gazed at him with her lips 
curving in a tiny smile and her eyes sparkling sweetly, like sapphires. 
Scully rested her head against his chest as his hand stroked her hair, 
and he closed his eyes in gratitude.

*****

The next day, Doggett was strolling towards the elevator to go down to 
his office when behind him he heard a crisp "Agent Doggett."  He 
turned and saw Assistant Director Skinner behind him.

"Good morning, Assistant Director," Doggett said, wondering what 
Skinner wanted with him.

"Deputy Director Kersh wants to see us, Agent," Skinner told him, 
looking about as pleased as Doggett felt.  

Doggett resisted the urge to say, "What now?" and instead followed 
Skinner to Kersh's office, more curious than ever.

*****

Scully made no sign that she heard Doggett enter.  She waited for him 
to speak before she turned around.

"Hey, good mornin', Agent Scully.  How you feelin' today?" he asked.  
Scully noted, uncomfortably, that "Agent Scully" was getting harder and 
harder to answer to.

She turned, now standing behind Mulder's desk, and answered.  "I'm 
fine.  How are you feeling?"  

"Me?" he asked, in mock-surprise.  "Good.  But then I ain't got a 
little J. Edgar to lug around."  He sat down and began to examine the 
folder on his desk.

Scully could tell he was pleased with his little joke, and so chose not 
to respond.  Instead she said, almost accusingly, "A.D. Skinner just 
called.  He told me about your meeting with Kersh."

Doggett looked up and smirked.  "Well, whatever he told you, I'm still 
gonna be here to drive you crazy with questions and naggin' doubt."

Scully frowned.  He was treating this as if it was nothing, when in 
reality it was the opportunity to climb out of the proverbial gutter 
and get a second chance.  She knew that four or five months ago he 
would've jumped at the possibility of a promotion away from the 
X-Files.

Tiredly, she replied, "You'd be crazy to stay, Agent Doggett.  This is 
a huge career opportunity for you."  She didn't want him to go.  She 
knew *he* didn't want to go.  But this dance of words was one that had 
to be played out to the end.  She would pretend she wanted him to 
leave for his own good.  He would pretend he wanted to stay . . . for 
what?  What would be his reason?

"It's not my career he's got in mind," Doggett said patiently.

"What do you mean?" Scully asked, slightly puzzled.  Here was a new
wrinkle in the game.

Doggett nodded his head in the direction of her belly, then explained, 
"In six weeks you go on maternity leave.  Kersh transfers me out, guess 
what?  He gets to lock that door over there for good."

Ah.  His reasoning was that her quest had become his.  Nice.  "You 
don't owe me anything, Agent Doggett."  Silently she completed the 
statement: *I owe you everything.*  A mental glimpse of Mulder in a 
familiar hallway flashed by, then was gone.

"They put me down here to find Mulder.  I found him.  So what?" Doggett 
asked reasonably.  "We still got an open file on this case, and I got 
big questions."

Scully smiled.  Doggett knew how to play the game very well, it 
seemed.  She laughed, quietly.

Doggett seemed genuinely surprised.  "What?"

"I heard the same speech come out of my mouth seven years ago," she 
admitted.  Carefully she sat in the chair at Mulder's desk, determined 
to have the last word.  "Get out while you can, Agent Doggett. . . .  
Or you may never get out at all."

*****

"Get Coast Guard on the radio!  Tell them to send a chopper out!" the 
deck hand shouted, struggling for his voice to be heard above the wind 
and rain of a rollicking storm.  The little fishing ship bucked on the 
waves as skilled fishermen hauled up a stiff bloated pile of limbs.  

Hours later, a coroner and his assistant drew back in horror as the 
body drawn from the sea twitched once, twice, three times.

*****

The phone rang shrilly.  Doggett jerked awake, flicked on the lamp, 
then grabbed for the phone.  Probably Scully, he figured.  But why 
would she be calling so late?  "Yeah," he muttered.

It was Skinner.  Doggett blinked at that, then listened as Skinner told 
him about the body of a young man named Billy Miles, who had been 
abducted at the same time as Mulder.  A young man named Billy Miles 
who was somehow alive.

Within half an hour Doggett was sitting in Skinner's car, wondering 
what on earth was going on.  Billy Miles was alive even though he 
seemed dead as a doornail; therefore, by the same token, Mulder might 
be alive.  Doggett sighed and looked to Skinner.  "You told Agent 
Scully any of what you've told me?"

"No."

So Scully didn't know, then, that her hopes and dreams of Mulder coming 
back could still be answered.  At the thought his stomach twisted, and 
he said, as steadily as he could, "My strong recommendation, sir: 
Don't.  This thing pans out or not, you're going to reopen wounds that 
still need a lot of healin'.  Not to mention the fact that she's had a 
difficult pregnancy.  You know that as well as anybody."  Would that be 
enough to dissuade him?

Skinner looked at him strangely.  "I appreciate your concern, Agent 
Doggett, but I wouldn't have told her anyway.  Certainly not where 
we're going."

"Where *are* we going?" Doggett asked, an unpleasant feeling of 
wariness growing in the pit of his stomach.

Skinner didn't answer.

*****

Scully awoke.  She wasn't sure what had startled her; all she knew was 
that she had been sleeping uneasily and that her dreams were filled 
with dark, painful images.

Mulder, his face flaccid and gray, dried blood pocking his cheeks.  
Doggett, unconscious and bleeding.  A woman screaming as her newborn 
child was taken from her.  

She rubbed at her eyes, disturbed.  Taking a look at her watch, she 
saw she still had hours until she needed to get up for work.  She 
closed her eyes, Mulder's destroyed face floating back into her mind.  
She grimaced, one hand unconsciously on her pregnant belly.  

The grisly picture of her dead partner would not leave.  Scully lay in 
bed, tears filling her eyes.  Her lips began to move, and she mouthed 
John Doggett's name.

*****

Doggett stared into the open grave, his hands stuffed into his coat 
pockets.  It was bitterly cold, and he couldn't help shivering.  Next 
to him, Skinner watched eagerly as Fox Mulder's coffin was pulled up 
onto the frozen, snow-covered ground.

Skinner turned to Doggett.  "This could be a miracle."

Doggett closed his eyes and nodded tightly.  "I know, sir, I know.  
But I still don't think it's the right thing to do . . . or even that 
it's possible."

Skinner shook his head, then pulled out his cell phone.  Within a 
minute he was talking to the county coroner, asking for a Dr. Francis 
Orovetz.

Doggett winced, watching men move the coffin.  How could this be that 
he was standing here?  Two nights ago he had held Scully in his arms 
and kissed her because he knew Mulder was gone, Mulder was dead, Mulder 
was now nothing more than a troubling memory.  Now Mulder was being 
dug up, and by some strange terrible miracle, he just might possibly 
be alive.

He let out a deep breath, and hoped to God that Scully never got wind 
of this -- and never needed to.

*****

Scully settled down in front of the television, yawning.  The painful 
image of Mulder's decaying face had continued to plague her, and so at 
last she decided some television might take her mind off her dead 
lover.  

She turned the TV on and set the remote down, her eyes feeling 
incredibly heavy.  As a man named Dimitri blathered on about skin-care 
products in a boring infomercial, she at last slid back into sleep.

*****

The examining room was filled with reporters, cameramen, doctors, and 
possibly strangers off the street.  Doggett gaped at the menagerie 
before him.  "What the hell is this?" he asked, as a white-coated man 
approached Skinner and himself.

"Assistant Director Skinner?" the white-coated man asked.

"Yes," Skinner answered.

"Arthur Gaffin, County Coroner."  Gaffin and Skinner proceeded to have 
a quick, tense conversation about unwanted publicity.

Angrily, Doggett announced, " All right, listen up, ladies an' 
gentlemen.  As much as you're here to see the horror show I'm not 
letting that casket open up until we get some privacy.  It's a private 
matter."  He glared at the people surrounding him, and they began to 
clear out.  "Thank you."

A doctor turned to Skinner.  "Agent Skinner, so no one's confused, 
this is a completely different scenario.  I'm only here 'cause you 
asked for me.  I don't expect to find anything in this box but a dead 
man.  It's not going to be Curse of the Mummy, okay?  No claw marks on 
the lid of the coffin."

Doggett looked at Skinner, and said, voice deathly quiet, "I'll say it 
again: insanity."  

He longed for this night to be over.  Skinner would look inside that 
casket, the doctor would pronounce Mulder dead, and then they could all 
go back to their regularly scheduled lives.  That was what he hoped.

Skinner watched as the coffin was opened.  Doggett felt a pang of fear 
as he saw Mulder's face -- it seemed remarkably well-preserved.  Could 
Skinner's insane tale be true?  He could only pray it wasn't.

*****

Scully's eyes opened.  The TV was too loud -- that was what had woken 
her.  

The news was on.  Scully watched disinterestedly, nearly falling back 
to sleep.  

Suddenly, though, the perky newscaster was talking about an incredible 
story.  "At four a.m. this morning a man was admitted to the US Naval 
Hospital in Annapolis after being buried for three months.  The man, 
Fox Mulder, is an agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation -- "

"Oh my God," Scully breathed.  Tears formed in her eyes, and her 
heart seemed to have stopped.  Hoarsely, incredulously, she whispered, 
"Mulder?"

*****

A different doctor was telling Doggett about Mulder.  Doggett could 
scarcely hear the man through his shock.  He could only look down at 
Fox Mulder's ill-looking body, attached to countless life-support 
systems.  

Mulder was alive.

The doctor was speaking.  "It's so improbable . . . and I would have 
said impossible before this.  The clinical fact that he's alive when 
effectively this man, his tissue, and I presume his nueral and vascular 
systems, are all in a state of decomposition."

Dully, Doggett asked, "What does that mean?"

The doctor bore an expression of mild confusion.  "That effectively 
he's dead."

Doggett sighed.  So Mulder was alive -- and at the same time, decaying.  
Good Lord.  How cruel was it?  To show that yes, he was living, when 
it was certain that he could not survive?

He opened the hospital door, and saw something that nearly took his 
breath away.

Scully.  Standing with Skinner, with one hand splayed across her belly.  
Her eyes -- oh, God, her eyes.  The pain shown in them was enough to 
make him want to hold her, hold her tightly.  But Skinner was there.  
And Mulder had returned.

She took a few slow steps forward.  In a voice he'd never heard her 
use, she whispered, "What did they say?"

He couldn't say anything.  If he did, he knew her fragile hopes would 
die as quickly as they had sprung up.

"I need to see him."  That voice seemed to be slicing his heart into 
thin tattered ribbons.  Her eyes brimmed with tears.

Softly, pleadingly, he said, "I know."  He knew, that as soon as she 
stepped into that hospital room, the frail semblance of love that had 
blossomed between them would be changed.  Or destroyed.  "But I wish 
you wouldn't," he breathed, knowing she would not, could not, obey him.

She bit her lip.  The hesitation did not last long, though, and she 
shuffled past him, the determination in her tiny frame wounding him 
further.  He closed his eyes.

*****

Scully closed the door, her breath catching in her throat.  Oh God.  
Oh God.  Mulder lay before her, his chest rising and falling as he 
breathed.  He was *alive*.

As if in a trance, she moved forward.  Carefully she laid her hand on 
his chest, and felt, faint but unmistakable, a heartbeat.

She leaned down, tears threatening to blind her.  She placed her arms 
around him as best she could, gasping at the warm, living body she 
now embraced.  

It was a miracle.  *He* was a miracle.

Scully pressed her face into the chest of the man come to life, and 
she wept.

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

Doggett closed his eyes, leaning backward in the driver's seat and 
sighing heavily.  Yesterday Kersh commended him for his work in finding 
Mulder.  Today Kersh was telling him to "drop this . . . Mulder thing."  

But how could he drop it?  Mulder had been the focal point of Scully's 
life, and losing him had been unbearably hard for her.  Doggett was 
fairly sure that only his own presence had kept Scully from sinking 
into despair.

And he couldn't abandon her now, when her dream had come true.  

Even if the reality of her dream meant the death of his own.

He started the car, smiling grimly.  He would not, *could* not, leave 
her to deal with Mulder alone.  No matter what happened, Doggett knew 
he would do anything to keep her from feeling pain.  For only a moment 
he thought of himself, of how much he still longed for her, of how he 
wished so badly that Mulder had stayed buried -- and then he was 
turning the car towards Annapolis.

*****

Scully slipped into Billy Miles' hospital room, fighting disgust as her 
eyes roved over Miles' bloated imitation of a body.  This was the boy 
-- no, a man now -- whom she and Mulder had met on their first case.  
He had been a sweet, innocent young man.  Now he seemed to be decaying 
even as she watched him.

The same thought could be applied to Mulder, she realized.  She shook 
it away, then picked up Miles' medical chart.  She examined it, 
searching for a sign, any sign, that he was recovering.

Suddenly the monitors began to beep.  Scully looked up.  Billy Miles 
was convulsing on the bed, his destroyed body lurching upwards.  She 
quickly glanced at the heart monitor -- there were *two* heartbeats.  
She stared at it, then looked back to Miles.  He twitched a few more 
times, then stilled.  

Scully turned as somebody walked into the room.  A nurse.  She 
stammered an explanation to the nurse, rebuking herself for sounding 
so insecure.  But Billy Miles' convulsions had unnerved her, especially 
because it might be Mulder slamming up and down on a hospital bed.  
When she had convinced the nurse she was not doing any harm to Miles, 
she exited the hospital room, and hurried down the now-familiar 
hallway to where Fox Mulder lay as one dead.

***** 

Doggett shuffled down the hall, unaware of how slowly he was walking 
to Mulder's hospital room.  He was too busy thinking about how much he 
dreaded walking into that room and finding Mulder dead, or maybe
alive and awake.  Which would be worse, he wondered.  

At last he came to Mulder's room.  He stopped, peered in the window.  
Mulder wasn't awake; nor was he dead.  And Scully was with him.  

Doggett grit his teeth and grabbed the doorknob.  He knew Scully needed 
his help, knew it in the ache in his chest and the fluttering in his 
gut.  But did she know it?

*****

At the quiet sound of the door opening and closing, Scully awoke.  She 
was momentarily disoriented, then realized it was Mulder's hand she was 
holding and her own pregnant belly she was caressing.  She looked up.

Doggett stood at the foot of Mulder's bed, pity scrawled on his face, 
filling his eyes.  He nervously looked into her eyes and spoke, the 
statement soft and tender.  "You can't do this to yourself."  

She took a deep breath.  Her control over her emotions right now was 
tenuous; couldn't he see that?  Couldn't he see that and realize that 
she didn't want him here?  If he stayed, his gentle, heartfelt words 
would destroy that last shred of control.  This man with his slumped 
shoulders and his worried blue eyes could send her back into pain by 
way of the very pity he offered so sweetly.

As coldly as she could, she said, "You asked me not to come in here, 
Agent Doggett.  I hope you're not asking me to leave."  Desperately, 
she hoped the "Agent" would get through to him, that he would leave 
before she could lose her hold.

He winced.  Or did she imagine that?  But she forced herself to lower 
her gaze so that she couldn't see his discouraged eyes.

"Concern's for your well-bein', Agent Scully," Doggett sighed.  He 
understood, then, that she had revoked the usage of their first 
names in an attempt to distance herself.  So why didn't he let her be? 

His next words were quiet, truthful, kind.  They hurt.  "That's all 
it's ever for."

Oh, God.  What was this mess she was in?  Even as she gripped Mulder's 
hand, she knew the man standing before her was injured too.  She had 
kissed Doggett, held him, smiled and laughed with him.  And now what 
would happen to all of that?  She closed her eyes, and realized he 
hadn't finished speaking.  She watched him.

Uncertainly, he admitted, "I felt this was a bad idea from the start.  
I told the Assistant Director so.  Worryin' --"  His eyes searched her 
face.  "About the effect it might have on you."

With incredulity she queried, "You mean finding Mulder alive?"  

A part of her knew what Doggett meant.  That she hadn't yet healed 
from Mulder's *first* death.  That if Mulder didn't make it, she didn't 
know how she would bear it.  

But another part of her was seething, furious with Doggett simply 
because he cared.  The two thoughts battled as she listened for his 
response.

It was mild and kind.  Of course.  "I know you came in here with the 
doctors.  I'm sure you must have asked them what his chances are."

The anger won.  Scully stood as quickly as she could and glared at 
Doggett.  "Agent Doggett," she fairly snapped.  "However I felt about 
you when we first met, you changed my opinion with the quality of your 
character and of your work.  Now, I am thankful to know you and I am 
thankful for your concern.  But no matter what Mulder's chances are, 
the choice not to open up that grave was *wrong*.  And not because 
of me personally but as my partner on the X-Files.  Now, the truth may 
hurt, but it's all that matters."  She exhaled heavily, letting her 
eyes fall shut for just an instant.  What had she done?

Doggett blinked away the pain that had flitted across his face, and 
asked, "What truth?"

Nearly trembling with the words she had just spit, she grated, "About 
what caused this."

They stared at each other.  Scully felt tears fighting to reach her 
eyes; she longed to rush forward and throw her arms around him, and 
she could see in the set of his face that he longed for it too.  

The door opened before they could move.  A nurse cried something about 
Billy Miles.  Scully followed the nurse out, Doggett trailing along 
behind her.  She looked down the hallway to see --

A naked, wet, and perfectly normal Billy Miles, standing at the end 
of the hallway, and looking very, very confused.

*****

"Well, that's great news.  I'm goin' to let you two talk," Doggett 
smirked.  He walked out of the hospital room, leaving behind the woman 
who suddenly seemed to delight in his heartaches, and the young man 
who was blissfully predicting the salvation of the human race as 
propagated by aliens.

But Scully followed him, and he was suddenly angry.  Minutes ago she 
had practically told him to get out and stay out.  Now she wouldn't 
leave him alone.  "Agent Doggett.  Where are you going?"

He nearly shook his head.  Just a few days ago they were calling each 
other "Dana" and "John" and kissing at her car.  Fighting to keep the 
exasperation out of his voice, he turned around and told her, "Back 
to the real world.  Why?"

She glowered.  "You just won't believe it, will you?  Not even for a 
minute.  Not even with it staring you right in the face."

"Is that so important to you?  What I believe or don't believe?"  

He had her.  For a moment there was pain in her face, and he dared to 
hope that she, too, remembered the tender moments they had just begun 
to share.  

She sighed, and he knew she had forgotten again.

Doggett took a deep breath.  "I'm really not up to this assignment 
anyway, as you so gently put it."  He tried to leave, but her voice 
stopped him.

"Agent Doggett, you spoke with his doctors.  He was lying on his 
deathbed."

He very nearly growled, "My name is John, and you know it."  But he 
refrained, and tiredly replied instead, "I'm with you, Agent Scully.  
It's a medical mystery, for sure.  But don't ask me to take a load of 
horse crap for the gospel truth."  No matter how much he might care 
for her, he drew the line at believing in alien salvation.

She looked stunned.  "I underestimated you, Agent Doggett.  I thought 
this was just simple. . . ."  She struggled to find the right word.  
" --resistance to extreme possibilities . . . when, in fact, you're 
just downright bullheaded."  She had no trouble delivering that 
sentiment.  

He wanted to take her small hand in his and tell her to please stop it, 
to please stop her painfully cold game.  He wanted to stroke her cheek 
and let her know that no matter what was going on with Mulder, that 
he would be there for her.  He wanted to map out her mouth with his 
own, because it was still unexplored territory. . . .

Instead he bitterly asked, "Do you believe it, Agent Scully?  I mean 
that stuff he said about aliens comin' to save the world."

She couldn't answer.  Doggett turned around and walked away, and 
wished to God and all the other deities he'd ever heard of that Fox 
Mulder had remained six feet under.

*****

Scully gathered the charts and test results on Billy Miles into her 
arms and thanked the technician, exhaling heavily as she did so.  
Though she was trying to focus on Billy's miraculous recovery and a 
possible chance that Mulder could be cured, too, it was difficult.  
Doggett haunted her agonized mind unrelentingly, and it was getting 
harder to concentrate on Mulder's imminent doom.

She found a deserted room in which to examine the information in 
peace.  She set the papers and transparencies on a table behind her 
and held up an X-ray to the light.  

Instead of Miles' suddenly perfect bone structure, she saw a lined, 
worried face that was unbearably kind in its concern.  Its blue eyes 
flashed with something so like love that she nearly gasped.  Quickly, 
she set the X-ray down and ran a trembling hand across her face.  

It was all too much.  Mulder had been dead; she had at last learned 
how to limp along without him and then he returned, more dead than 
alive.  Now, though, there was John Doggett to deal with, his feelings 
to think of, his charity to remember.

She wasn't sure she would be able to do the right thing.  She wasn't 
sure there *was* a right thing.

*****

"Thanks," Doggett told the guard, shaking his head.  He gave one last 
glance backward to see Absalom, the supposed prophet, sitting calmly 
with a serene smile.  The guard slid the door shut and Doggett made 
his way down the hall, not noticing when he passed the threshold 
between the prison's front doors and the outside world.  

He realized he was standing in front of his car, and he couldn't 
remember how he'd gotten there.  He rubbed his chin, blinking.  It 
occurred to him that he was getting very, very tired.  He had become 
used to short nights since joining the X-Files; however, today was 
different.  Most days he didn't have to deal with resurrections and 
crazies proclaiming the coming of aliens.

He also didn't have to deal with an intelligent, lovely, pregnant woman 
trying to shove him out of her life with every weapon at her disposal.

He mouthed Dana Scully's name and got inside the car.

*****

As Scully exited the bright little room, she looked up to see Doggett 
walking tiredly towards her.  For a moment she was tempted to flee, to 
tell him she needed to go back to Mulder, that he should just go home.  
She was amazed at her callousness, but justified the thought by 
reminding herself of the conversation she and Skinner had just shared. 
If Skinner was right, there *could* be a vaccine for Mulder to protect 
him from whatever it was that had taken over Billy Miles.  And Doggett 
would not be able to help her in that area.

Doggett stopped a few feet away and asked where she was going.

Stiffly she replied, "Look, I don't have time to waste debating our 
differences, Agent Doggett.  I strongly believe that Agent Mulder is 
infected with a virus."

"A virus?"

"A virus that seems to keep the body just alive enough to take it 
through a transformation --"

"Into -- lemme guess -- an alien."  

Scully's eyes narrowed.  "Agent Doggett, I don't have time to argue."

"I'm not arguing --"  Scully raised an eyebrow as Doggett continued.  
"-- and for what it's worth that's this guy that first found Mulder 
told me.  This man we put in prison -- Absalom?"

"He told you this was a virus?"

Doggett told her that Absalom believed that the dead abductees were 
being resurrected as aliens, that it was all supposedly an alien 
takeover.  Basically, it was what Billy Miles had told them.

And then it hit her.  The double heartbeat on the monitor -- Billy's 
transformation and strange story -- Absalom was *right* --

"That's it," she breathed, filled suddenly with terror.  If she didn't 
act quickly, Mulder could be snatched from her again, this time right 
in front of her.  She could deal with Doggett later.  But right now, 
Mulder took precedence.

"What's it?" Doggett asked, obviously confused.  

Impatiently she tried to explain.  "How Billy Miles came back so 
perfectly.  I stood there and watched his body go into seizure just 
moments before this happened.  On the monitor, there were two 
heartbeats and I told the nurse that it was just a mechanical error."

His eyes filled with disbelief.  "You think this kid has sloughed his 
skin an' come back as an alien?"

Stiffly, she stated, "And it'll happen to Mulder if we don't stop it 
soon."

Time was running out.  She began to walk back down the hall.

Doggett stopped her, though, again asking where she was going.

"I need a surgical bay, a team of doctors.  I have to keep Mulder's 
body stabilized in order to administer the vaccine."

"What vaccine?"

"The one I asked AD Skinner to get me."  She could not bear to wait 
any longer.  She left Doggett standing in the middle of the hallway.  A 
nagging voice in the back of her mind told her to at least tell him 
goodbye -- but it was easy to ignore.

*****

Doggett loped down the hall, vaguely thinking he would look in on 
Mulder one more time before leaving for home.  He needed to sleep.  For 
that matter, so did Scully.  But he doubted he would be able to 
persuade her of that -- she was driven now, her eyes blazing with a 
determination so fierce it cut him to the quick.  She would not leave 
Mulder's side for a good long time.

A few feet from Mulder's room, Doggett looked up to see Mulder's door 
stealthily being pulled closed.  Its lock clicked just as Doggett 
reached it.  He tried the doorknob; nothing.  He looked into the small 
window, surprised to see Skinner's shadowed face.

"Assistant Director?"  Why on earth would Skinner lock the door?  He 
slammed his hand against the door.  "Open up.  It's John Doggett."

Doggett became aware of an ominous beeping.  With a jolt, he realized 
it had to be from Mulder's monitors.  Something was wrong with Mulder, 
he was *dying* --  And still Skinner said nothing.

Doggett stepped back, and in one fluid motion pulled his leg up and 
kicked the door in.

Skinner was standing over Mulder, various tubes and contraptions in 
his hands.  Doggett gaped at him.  "What the hell are you doin'?"

Skinner turned.  His face was set, serious.  "You don't understand."

Doggett grabbed Skinner by the shoulders and whirled him around, then 
slammed him into the wall.  "You're killin' him!"  He didn't want 
Mulder alive, but he sure wasn't going to stand by and let him die.  
However, he had never imagined Skinner would be the one trying to end 
Mulder's life.

Skinner gasped, "I had no choice.  He was going to kill Scully's baby."

"Who?" Doggett yelled.

His superior's face was pale, apprehensive.  "Alex Krycek.  For the 
vaccine.  It's the only way he'd give it to me . . . but I couldn't 
trust him.  I couldn't do that to her," he said desperately.  

Doggett's voice was a growl.  "Where is he?"

*****

Scully's head jerked upward as a loud beeping filled the nurses' 
station she had just entered, looking for the head nurse.  The beeping 
caused her to stop immediately.  She knew what that sound meant -- 
someone's life support had just done all it could.  Her voice a 
whisper, she breathed to the nearest nurse, "Who is it?"

An anxious pause.  "It's Agent Mulder."

Scully closed her eyes.  

*****

Chest heaving, Doggett stared at the reddish-brown liquid and broken 
glass that adorned the pavement.  His face throbbed painfully as he 
heard the sound of a car leaving the parking garage.  Alex Krycek was 
gone, and Doggett didn't have the vaccine.  

Or did he?  He scrambled for a handkerchief, slipping his fingers into 
his pockets, patting himself down.  Maybe he would be able to soak the 
stuff up with a cloth, and the doctors would be able to replicate the 
cure.  He pulled out a rumpled napkin from his pants pocket.  

He stretched out the hand with the napkin toward the liquid, then let 
his mouth fall open.

The liquid began to sputter, looking as if it was boiling.  In a 
shocking transformation, it went from red-brown to a bright, poisonous 
orange.  Doggett watched in horror as the vaccine, emitting a sizzling 
sound, actually ate into the pavement.  After a few seconds it petered 
out, but the air was filled with a nauseating stench, and the road was 
now pitted and scored everywhere the liquid had touched.  

"This is *not* happenin'," Doggett gasped.  "It was poison all the 
time. . . ."  His mind reeled with the thought of what would have 
happened if Mulder had received his "vaccine."  

He shoved the napkin back into his pocket, wincing as the fabric 
grazed the back of his hand.  He took his hand out, saw that the skin 
on his knuckles was split, cracked, bleeding.  Krycek's face was 
apparently harder than it looked.

Doggett sighed, the action making his cheek protest in pain.  He closed 
his eyes.  And then he remembered Scully.  

No matter that the vaccine was poisonous, that it had reacted like 
napalm when exposed to the air.  Doggett hadn't gotten the cure for 
Mulder, and he knew, with a terrible certainty, that Scully would never 
be able to forget that.  Or forgive it.

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

"I can't believe it," Scully whispered.  She put her hand over her 
mouth, watching the monitors as Mulder's vital signs stabilized.  It 
was beyond credibility, but despite Mulder having been taken off of 
life support, he was living.  Not only that, but he could make a full 
recovery.  

She allowed herself to smile a little at Mulder's prone form, then 
turned around, deciding to walk around the room a little and ease her 
aching back.  She looked up, and saw Doggett quietly closing the door 
behind him.  She went to him.

"He's going to make it?" Doggett asked.  He looked haggard, exhausted. 
She stared at him -- he hadn't looked that way half an hour ago.

Scully sighed.  "I don't know.  I . . . I really don't know how we 
could've known."

"What?"

She swallowed.  "That by keeping him on life support we were incubating 
the virus.  We were hastening it along."

Doggett's eyes widened.  "How'd you figure it out?"

Scully bit her lip.  "When Skinner pulled Mulder off of the machines, 
his temperature dropped rapidly . . . without affecting his vital 
signs."

Doggett, amazed:  "You mean Skinner saved 'im."

She nodded, not having the energy to speak.  Suddenly she felt sapped 
and tired, fatigued a way she hadn't been for months, maybe years.  She 
fought the urge to close her eyes.

Doggett looked nervous.  "What about the vaccine?"  

"If we can stabilize him and his temperature, we can give him courses 
of antivirals.  I think it could work," she said softly.

A shrill ring echoed throughout the room.  Doggett dug a hand into his 
suit jacket, pulled out the phone.  He looked at it and stepped out of 
the room.

Scully exhaled heavily, a fuzziness encroaching on the borders of her 
mind.  She wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep -- but only if 
she knew Mulder would be all right.  

Doggett slipped back inside the operating room, his eyes dark.  "It's 
Kersh.  Wants to see me right away.  But, uh, I'll be back." 

She nodded again, starting to turn back to the operating table.  But 
Doggett reached out before she could, and laid a large hand on her 
shoulder.  She looked up at him, wondering.

"Get some sleep," he breathed.  "I . . . I hate seein' you run so 
ragged.  An' --"  He hesitated, then finished clumsily, " -- I'm sure
Muldah would hate it too."  He withdrew his hand and turned away, 
exiting the room without a backwards look.

Scully stared at the floor, the blandly patterned tiles blurring as 
tears came to her eyes.  "Oh, God. . . ."

One of the doctors looked up.  "Doctor Scully?"

Scully blinked away her tears and forced a smile to her face.  "Never 
mind."

*****

Apprehensively Doggett walked through the doorway into Deputy Director 
Kersh's office.  

Kersh raised his head.  "John."

"Sir."  He reflected momentarily on how much it chafed to call this 
man "Sir."  He shook the thought away.  "Mornin' rush hour.  I got here 
as quickly as I could."

"Missed the sunrise," Kersh said lazily.

Doggett suppressed a smirk.  "I was with Agent Scully."  He knew he was 
signing his death warrant here, but he didn't, couldn't care.

"I know.  It's going to be awful crowded down in that X-Files office."
Kersh put his glasses on, picking up a file and examining it.  Doggett 
remained where he was.  Seemingly annoyed, Kersh looked up.  "Maybe you 
didn't hear me.  I said, you're on the wrong floor."

He hadn't thought it would sting this much, being sentenced to that 
basement indefinitely.  Maybe the reason it hurt so badly was because
Mulder might now be joining him.

"Yes, sir."

*****

Scully tiredly reached out and took Mulder's hand in hers.  He was 
looking better than he had for a long time, since Montana, but he was 
still pale, and half-healed wounds still glared angrily from his face.
He was breathing on his own now, though, thankfully.

His hand twitched.

Stunned, she watched as his head moved ever so slightly.  Tears filled 
her eyes.  "Mulder," she gasped.  This was it -- the moment when all 
the fears and worries and cold lonely nights could be erased.  

His eyes opened, and Fox Mulder looked upon Dana Scully for the first 
time in seven months.

Scully could barely contain her emotion.  She wanted to laugh, or cry, 
or do maybe a mixture of both.  He was *back*!  Mulder had been buried 
and yet he had returned. . . .  Her lips trembled into a smile, and 
she said the first thing that came to mind.  "Hi."

Mulder stared at her blankly.  In a voice scratchy from disuse, he 
whispered, "Who are you?"

Oh God, oh God, no.  This couldn't be happening.  It was so cruel, so 
unfair, for him to not remember her.  Her joy faded, and she stared 
at him, heart aching.  Her mouth moved as she tried to find something 
to say, the pain nearly overwhelming her.

Mulder smiled.

"Oh my God, don't do that to me. . . ."  She let out a short and 
disbelieving laugh, and ignored the tears now streaming down her face.  
Softly, she asked, "Do you know. . . .  Do you have any idea what 
you've been through?"

He looked mildly confused and shook his head a little.  "Only what I 
see in your face."

Scully extended a shaky hand and stroked his hair, marveling at its 
softness.  She had never imagined that she would be able to do that 
again after that day in Raleigh when she said goodbye.  

She smiled broadly, tears still blurring her vision, and pressed her 
face to his chest, laying her head on his shoulder and draping her arms 
around him.  Oh, how good it felt to hold him again, to feel him alive 
and warm within her arms. . . .

"Anybody miss me?" Mulder croaked.  She laughed -- it was so wonderful 
to laugh because of Mulder again -- and kissed his shoulder, relishing 
the moment.  It was such a Mulder thing to say.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement.  She looked upwards, and 
saw Doggett opening the door and slipping silently inside.  Their eyes 
met, and she could tell he was taking in the scene before him -- 
Scully lying on Mulder's chest, her head on his shoulder, tears of joy 
in her eyes.  

Doggett's mouth moved soundlessly as if he was about to speak, but he 
closed it without saying anything.  He looked away, nodding a little, 
and let himself back out before she could say a single word.  He didn't 
look back.

*****  

Doggett shambled down the hall, his steps uneven, halting.  So it was 
official, then.  Mulder had recovered, and Scully couldn't be happier.  
And there was no room for Doggett inside her new and joyous world.

When he had walked some distance from Mulder's hospital room, he 
stopped at a water fountain.  He leaned over and drank, then splashed 
some water on his face, grimacing.  His face now ached with every 
expression, due to the fresh bruises Krycek had inflicted.  

Resting his hands on the fountain's sink, he realized his knuckles 
were dotted with dried blood.  He scrubbed the spots from his hands, 
rubbing harshly, angrily, reopening the wounds.  Fresh blood turned 
the water a reddish tint, and, indifferent, he watched it swirl down 
the drain.

Abruptly he jerked himself away from the fountain, wheeling around to 
slump against the wall.  Doggett closed his eyes and stood there, 
letting the wall support him, his hands clenching and unclenching.  He 
was surprised to realize he was breathing heavily.

He had held her in his arms, and yet she still slipped away.  It was a 
medical impossibility, a *miracle*, that Mulder was alive; a complete 
fluke.  If not for the scarred grayish man in the hospital bed, Dana 
Scully might well be standing here with Doggett, her soft little hand 
clasped in his.  

But no.  He had thought maybe that she and Mulder were just close 
friends; he had hoped it, anyway.  And he had hoped that the sweet and 
young love that had sprung up between himself and Scully in the past 
few weeks would remain, even through Mulder's resurrection.  

He seemed to be proved wrong, however; the kisses and embraces he had 
offered to her freely were not important after all, and in the end, 
his pain, his longing, and his love had all become the most minor of
variations in the course of this woman's life.  

"Sir?" a voice asked, echoing oddly as if it came from a great 
distance.  Slowly, Doggett opened his eyes.

"Sir?  Are you all right?" a nurse asked, taking in Doggett's bruises, 
his wearied appearance.  She looked worried.

"Yeah, I'm fine.  Never better," he rasped.  The nurse shook her head, 
then continued on her way.  

Doggett let his eyes fall shut again and resumed his sagging position 
against the wall.  He would stand here for a while, regain his 
strength.  He was too drained, too despondent, to move right now, let 
alone drive home.  He checked his watch lazily, realizing he had been 
standing there for fifteen minutes.  

A warm, kind hand took his own, and Doggett snapped to attention.

Scully was standing in front of him, holding his hand.  Her eyes 
glistened; she appeared unhappy.  Deeply so.  "John."

He straightened as she released his hand.  The light must have caught 
his face, because her eyes widened and she gasped.  "What did you do 
to yourself?"

The bruises.  He touched his face gingerly.  "There, uh, was a fight.  
I didn't win."  He hadn't wanted to tell her this, to let her know he'd 
failed.  

"A fight?" she asked in disbelief.  "With whom?  Over what?"

He looked at the floor.  "A man named Krycek.  For Muldah's vaccine." 

"Krycek?"  The shock in her voice drew his head upwards, and he stared 
at her.  She was livid.  "He was *here*?  *He* was the one with the 
vaccine?"  She swore, using words Doggett had heard only in the 
Marines.  His stare became a flat-out gape -- he couldn't remember her 
*ever* cursing.  

Scully shook her head.  "I'm sorry.  It doesn't matter now. . . .  But 
you --"  Her voice faltered.  "You make sure you get some ice on those 
bruises.  You'll want to bring any swelling down.  And that's an 
order."  She managed a half-smile, and Doggett tried to smile back.  
His face didn't quite comply.

They were silent for a moment, then he asked softly, "Why don't it 
matter anymore . . . Agent Scully?  Did -- did Muldah wake up?"  He 
knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it breathed through her lips.  
No, strike that.  He *needed* it.

Scully didn't answer him right away, and he wasn't surprised to see 
tears brimming in her eyes.  He *was* surprised, though, by what she 
said.  "You, of all people, should know you don't need to call me 
that."

"I should know?"  It was his turn to be incredulous.  "I thought that's 
what you wanted, Agen -- Dana."

She closed her eyes.  "I don't know what I want."  Tearfully she looked 
at him.  "And yes, Mulder did wake up.  He's going to make a full 
recovery."

"So . . . what do you want me to do?" he whispered.  "Whaddaya need me 
for now?"

Scully bit her lip, her fight not to break down apparent in the 
contortions of her face.  "Don't you do this, John, *don't you do 
this*. . . ."

Doggett was completely confused.  She'd been trying to throw him out 
this whole time -- hadn't she?  "What is it?"

She laid a hand across her eyes, drew it down over her face, pulled it 
away.  "It's changed."  Before he could ask, she continued, "Between 
Mulder and I.  It -- it isn't what it was.  He doesn't know what I've 
gone through, he doesn't know what *he's* gone through."  A tear slid 
down her cheek.  "I asked him what he remembers before the abduction.  
The last thing he remembers is a case involving a supposed alien 
artifact."  

He tried to ask her what was so terrible about that, but she held up 
her hand.

Scully's face was twisted, her cheeks now streaked with tears.  She was 
trembling.  "John, that case was more than a year ago."  She took a 
deep, shuddering breath.  Shyly, painfully, she sighed, "That was 
before -- before we ever became --"

"Involved," he breathed.  "Oh, Dana."  He reached out and put his arms 
around her, but she pulled awkwardly away.  

"I'm fine," she said, wiping her eyes, struggling to keep her voice 
steady.  "I just don't know what to do."  She rested a hand on her 
pregnant belly, and Doggett's breath was nearly taken away.  She just 
looked so beautiful, rounded as she was with another man's child, 
her eyes tear-filled, her mouth open in her pain.  *Why* did this 
woman have to be tortured so?

He placed a hand on her arm and looked into her eyes, his heart aching 
at the misery he saw there.  With his other hand he reached up and 
wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb.  Her cheek was 
unbearably smooth and silken, and he swallowed.  "No matter what," he 
confided, his voice as soft as he could make it, "I ain't goin' 
nowhere.  Not unless you're the one who's tellin' me to leave."  He 
paused, admitted quietly, "I thought that's what you came out here to 
do."  He gave her a sad smile.

Scully let out a hoarse little laugh.  "Wrong as usual, John Doggett."

He cracked a tentative grin, forcing it past his aching face.  "Well, 
what *did* you come out here to do?"  He waited, suddenly tense, for 
the answer, and slid his hand off her arm.

"To say this -- I don't know what will happen now that Mulder is 
recovering."  Her voice, her eyes, her face were completely serious.  
"What I *do* know is that *you* are the reason I'm here.  You helped 
me even when I told myself I didn't need you.  John, Mulder's going to 
make it."  She searched his face with her gaze.  "But that doesn't 
mean that *we* aren't."

Scully stretched upward, standing on tiptoe, and grazed his mouth with 
her lips.  Impulsively, and before she could pull away, he slid his 
arms around her, his hands coming to rest on her lower back as he 
kissed her.  She didn't shrink away, but instead deepened the kiss and 
embraced him in return.  

She pulled backwards far too soon, though, and stared at him.  But this 
time there were no tears in those blue eyes, just a sense of peace.  
She smiled, her lips curving in such a way it was all he could do not 
to kiss them.  "Remember, make sure you ice that."  She stroked his 
face gently with one light hand, her touch sure and kind.

"Yes ma'am," he murmured.  "Whatever you say."  She turned to leave, 
but he spoke before she could, watching her.  "Always."

"Oh, John."  She smiled one last time, then bowed her head and began 
the long walk back to room 115. 

*****

He watched her go, grinning for all he was worth.  The throbbing pain 
in his face seemed to fade as he remembered the deliciousness of her 
sweet and perfect mouth.

So it wasn't just a minor variation, after all.

~FIN

Feedback will be cherished at: feretopia@aol.com

~*~Gina~*~

"Concern's for your well-bein', Agent Scully.  That's all it's ever 
for."~Doggett, "DeadAlive."  Awww...  I'm tellin' ya, he loves her!!!  =)  

"You stay out of my life!  You stay out of my business!  You wanna get 
somethin' on me you *ask* for it!  I don't wanna get calls about you goin' 
behind my back!  *You got that straight?!?*"~Doggett, "Empedocles".  Hoo boy.  
Would ya look at that INTENSITY (TM)?  Go Robert Patrick!

"I gotta believe that I did everything I could to find him -- my son.  I 
gotta believe that I did everything I could to save him.  To get him back 
safe.  To not let him down.  I gotta believe that I did everything humanly 
possible, 'cause if I can't believe that, if these possibilities that you 
talk about, that Muldah talks about, that Agent Scully talks about, if 
they're real -- if they're real, then... that's somethin' else I could've 
done to save my son."~Doggett, "Empedocles".  Poor Doggett... ::sniffles::

"You're not gone five minutes, Agent Scully, and already I'm startin' to feel 
like a stranger in my own off --"~Doggett, "Alone".  Don't you love that 
whole scene?  =)

"What's the name of my son?  It -- it's weird, but that's the only thing I 
can rememba, is that I have a son.  I can see his face -- but I can't rememba 
his name.  ... Luke.  How old is Luke?  I can't even rememba that.  ...  Oh 
God.  Oh God, no.  He's dead.  He was murdered.  Is that right?  Is that 
right?  He was kidnapped... he was just a little boy, and. . . .  Oh. . . 
."~Doggett, "John Doe".  ::sobs::