Title: "Patch Me Up" 
Author: Gina (feretopia@a...) 
Date finished: April 24, 2002 
Feedback: ...is good for the soul! 
Rating: PG-13 
Category: D/S UST, DSR, A, DoggettTorture, post-ep 
Spoilers: "Underneath," "Via Negativa," Season 9 in general 
Summary: What do you get when you mix together a wounded Doggett, Dr. 
Scully, nightmares and 3 AM? Read and find out. 
Archive: Anywhere, just please tell me first and give me some credit. 
Disclaimer: Doggett, Scully, Mulder, Reyes, and any other XF character I may 
mention belong not to me but to Chris Carter and 10-13. No copyright 
infringement is intended; no profit is being made. Obviously. 
Author's Note: To continue with the fun D/S UST seen in "Underneath," I 
wondered what would happen if Doggett's injury started acting up. (Despite a 
lack of blood, he *was* injured . . . because otherwise this story makes no 
sense.) ;) Also, this story starts out a bit dark, but after "Jump the Shark" I just 
had to turn it around. Heh heh. Enjoy, and see what I mean! :)

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

Doggett woke up with a start, a pain in his right shoulder stabbing through him. 
He realized he was panting; he realized he had broken out in a cold sweat. 

A nightmare, it'd been. A nightmare of a man's hand clenching around a 
screwdriver, plunging the tool into unresistant flesh, blood flying, splashing, 
everywhere. . . . 

He closed his eyes, shook his head, tried to rid himself of the violent image. 

"Holy God," he muttered. He switched on the lamp, looked at his watch. Three 
in the morning. 

Doggett winced. His shoulder was throbbing; hesitantly he snaked a hand 
backwards and swiped at the dressing on his shoulder, trying to feel it. A warm 
trickle greeted his fingers, and he swore. He'd got the thing bleeding again. 

He lurched out of bed and padded into the bathroom, groaning. He tried to see 
his back in the mirror and succeeded in catching only a small glimpse of blood-
smeared skin. He cursed again. 

There was nothing for it; he needed some help. Grimly he reached for his coat. 

***** 

Scully was jerked from sleep by a smart rapping at her motel door. For a 
moment she forgot where she was, then remembered: Brooklyn. Doggett. The 
Screwdriver Killer. 

But the killer was dead, and tonight was their last night in New York. Who 
would be at the door? 

"Who is it?" she called, getting out of bed and reaching unconsciously for her 
gun. 

"It's me," a faint voice returned. "Agent Doggett. I'm sorry, but I . . . I need some 
help 'ere. . . ." 

She shrugged into a bathrobe, yawning, and left the gun on the bedside table. 
She stumbled to the door, unlocking and opening it, and switched on the lights. 

John Doggett stood in the doorway, his hair tousled, his face pale. He'd thrown 
his trenchcoat on, but his feet were bare. She looked at his hands and saw blood 
on his fingertips. His mouth was open; he was breathing heavily as if he'd just 
run a marathon. He swallowed and looked away, and she knew he needed no 
"Agent Doggett" tonight. 

"John?" she queried, touching his arm. "Are you all right?" 

Emboldened, he slipped inside, shivering a little. He turned to face her and 
admitted, "It's my shoulder. I guess I was tossin' an' turnin' more than I should've 
been, 'cause it's bleedin' again. I, uh, was hopin' you could patch me up, but if 
you're too tired --" 

Surprised, she shook her head. Why he thought she would refuse to help him, 
she didn't know. "Of course I'm not too tired. Let me see it," she said gently, 
closing the door.

He obediently walked to the bed and slipped off his coat, revealing a bare, 
glistening back. Biting her lip, she took in the bandage hanging loosely from his 
right shoulderblade, the angry wound glaring from the pale skin, the splash of 
half-dried blood drawn across his back like a great comma. 

"John. . . ." 

"That good, huh?" he asked weakly, craning his head to see her from the corner 
of his eye. 

Scully sighed. How had he managed to do that? "Lie down," she instructed. "It'll 
be easier for me to clean you up that way." He turned to give her a grateful but 
uneasy half-smile, then did what he was told, stretching out on his stomach in 
the middle of the unmade bed. He folded his arms and brought his fists together, 
resting his chin on them and waiting expectantly. 

"Any time you're ready, Dr. Scully," he mumbled. She smiled a little, but her 
concern was growing. 

She looked at him curiously. Something was wrong. This was not the John 
Doggett she saw day in and day out.

She went to her suitcase and rummaged for some gauze. Returning, she perched 
herself beside him on the right edge of the bed, leaning over him. She began to 
swath his back with the stuff, frowning when she realized the entire back was 
slick with sweat. Had he had a nightmare? His skin was clammy, and she ran her 
hand along the firm muscles there, hoping to warm them. 

***** 

He shivered again, feeling her small warm fingers trace their way across his 
back. He could tell she was worried about him, and he closed his eyes, hoping 
she wouldn't inquire too deeply into his current state. A feeling of disquiet 
brewed within him, and he squeezed his eyes more tightly closed.

 An involuntary tremor washed over him as he felt something cool and wet on 
his skin. "Cold," he commented, trying to smile and failing. 

"You do want to be clean, don't you?" Scully asked playfully. But there was a 
note of uncertainty in her voice, as if she sensed the disturbance he was feeling. 
She swiped the cool rag -- for that was what it was -- across his skin. His 
muscles crawled beneath her touch. He gritted his teeth. 

She felt his discomfort and stopped. She laid a hand on the back of his neck, 
soothing him wordlessly with only the comforting weight of her touch. He 
relaxed. She yawned, and pulled her hand away. 

Doggett was suddenly guilty. Here it was three in the morning, a time when no 
one should be up, and he'd dragged Scully out of bed because of his own 
foolishness in not being more careful. He hesitated. "I hope I'm not puttin' you 
out any . . . Dana. I mean, wakin' you up an' all." 

He'd always been afraid to call her by her given name. Some days she welcomed 
it; others he knew she would slap him if he tried it. But she'd called him John 
tonight. 

"Don't worry about it," was her reply, and he felt a little better at the hint of 
tenderness he heard. Her touch on his back was soft but sure as he felt her fix a 
fresh dressing over the wound on his shoulder. "Why do you think I'd be upset if 
you needed some help?" 

"I . . . I don't know." He was dismayed to realize how upset he sounded. What 
was wrong with him? "I just keep thinkin' I'm puttin' you out, an'. . . ." 

She laid her hand on his shoulder, just above the wound. He tried not to react, 
but couldn't help letting his tensed muscles relax beneath her hand. The feel of 
her skin against his was far sweeter than it should have been. He took a deep 
breath. 

Her question was firm. "What's wrong?" 

***** 

Doggett lifted his head, turning it toward her, and she saw his face. It was pale 
and set. Scully kept her hand on his shoulder, reassuring him. 

"It's just . . . just this dream," he said slowly, as if confused. "Wouldn't leave me 
alone tonight -- couldn't get the past coupla days outta my head. Saw terrible, 
violent things. . . ." His voice trailed off, and she had a strong sense of deja-vu; 
this was similar to when they had first become partners, and she'd woken him up 
in his own house from a different nightmare. 

"Is that all?" Scully asked quietly. There was something he was still reluctant to 
talk about, but she was determined to discover it. 

She watched his eyes, and was surprised to see they were strangely trusting. Her 
heart suddenly went out to the man lying next to her, and impulsively she moved 
her hand to the back of his neck. She stroked it with the softest touch she could 
muster, marveling at the flash of almost pitiful gratitude that eclipsed the 
grimness of his face. It was gone in an instant, but it was enough. She continued 
stroking the back of his neck, letting her fingers traverse the border of his close-
cropped brown hair. She tried not to realize that she was enjoying it. 

"Uh. . . ." Still reluctant. Wariness registered in every line on his face. 

She moved her hand a little further to the right, and as delicately as she could, 
she slid her fingers up onto the very beginning of his jawline. Hints of 
tomorrow's stubble grazed her fingertips, and a delicious shiver went through 
her. 

His eyes widened. He let out the tiniest sigh; she saw it, and wondered. 

He nibbled at his lower lip, trying not to meet her gaze as he spoke. "He was 
attackin' someone right in front of me. I couldn't do a thing to stop 'im . . . had to 
watch it all. Had to watch 'im murder -- this person. An' I -- I couldn't stop 'im. . 
. ." he repeated. His voice was thick, his eyes unfocused. Slowly he turned his 
head and rested it back on his fists. 

She stared at him, pulling her hand from his face. There was something else he 
was still not telling her, but she knew, she *knew*, that he had to tell somebody. 
She placed her hand back on his neck, rubbing it soothingly before withdrawing 
again. "It's all right," she whispered. 

"You don't understand!" In one smooth, quick motion, he rolled over and sat up 
before his back hit the bed, and she stood to get out of his way. He was now 
putting the weight of his upper body on his arms, his hands gripping the bedding 
behind him. She was shocked to see that those surprisingly well-muscled arms 
were trembling. She remained standing. 

"John . . . it was only a dream." She remembered it had only been weeks since 
he'd come out of his coma; perhaps he was more susceptible right now to 
nightmares than he would've been normally. She bit her lip, looking around, and 
pulled a chair up to the bedside. She sat down, now only a foot away from his 
wild-eyed stare. 

He shifted his weight to his right arm -- wincing a little as he moved his 
shoulder -- and mimicked her earlier gesture, placing his left hand on her 
shoulder. The weight of it was gentle, light. She realized with a start that there 
were gray-purple bags beneath his eyes, that his lips were parted as he panted. 

Doggett's mouth twisted into an expression of half-frantic frustration. "You don't 
understand, Dana! I couldn't do *anythin'* to stop 'im, I couldn't keep 'im from 
that screwdriver of his -- " His voice was rising and his grip tightened on her 
shoulder. "I couldn't stop 'im hurtin' *you*!" 

Of course. Of *course* he'd been dreaming about her -- that explained his 
reluctance to confide in her. But *why was he so distraught?* 

Gently she repeated, "It was only a dream." 

He ripped his hand from her shoulder and stared at her, taking rapid, gasping 
breaths. 

"John -- " 

His voice was a desperate growl, and she drew back as he spoke. "You still don't 
get it, do you." 

"I don't know what you're getting at -- " 

"I couldn't help you. I couldn't keep you *safe.*" He drew in a deep, rattling 
breath. "I couldn't save you." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Like always." 

***** 

Doggett watched the confusion grow in Scully's eyes, and inwardly cursed 
himself. What on earth had he been thinking, telling her he dreamed of her 
death? 

"What?" was all she could manage. He tried it again, now determined to see this 
to the end. 

"You remember that day last year when you woke me up, an' I told you you 
saved my life?" She nodded, and he continued. "I said that because in my dream, 
I was gonna kill myself. Because, if I didn't do that, I woulda killed *you.* I've 
been havin' dreams like that ever since, an' you know why? 'Cause the thought 
of you gettin' hurt . . . it scares the hell outta me." He had calmed down now; his 
heart had ceased racing. Reflecting, he said softly, "Guess it has for a long 
time." 

"Oh, John," she breathed. "Oh, John." But she averted her eyes and swallowed, 
and silence hung between them. 

Neither of them moved for several minutes; Doggett stared at a spot on the wall, 
licking his lips in nervousness and wondering what he had just done. He made 
certain not to look over at Scully, afraid of what she might do or say. 

At last he roused himself and said dully, "I've kept you up long enough. I should 
be gettin' back to bed." He turned away from her and scooted to the opposite 
edge of the bed. He stood, wobbling a little when a black curtain flitted across 
his vision. He shook his head, reached for his coat. As he grabbed it, the 
blackness returned again. He sat clumsily back down, suddenly weak. 

"Stay there," Scully said sharply. Somehow she'd gotten in front of him, and he 
stared up at her. Her hands rested firmly on her hips; her lips were pursed. 
"You're in no condition to go anywhere." 

Though he half-agreed, he protested meekly, "But I'm only one door down. I 
think I can make it, Dana." 

Scully reached forward and pulled his coat from his hand. She dropped it on the 
ground and placed her hands on his shoulders. She leaned forward, her face 
serious, until their noses nearly touched. Her voice was pure steel. "Not buying 
it. I know you want to stay, John. And I'm going to let you." 

"But --" he objected. That was as far as he got, however; he was interrupted mid-
sentence when she kissed him.

 ***** 

Oh God, what was she doing? 

She tried to tell herself that she was wrong, out of line. But John Doggett's lips 
were marvelously soft, and all she knew was that she wanted -- no, *needed* -- 
his mouth on hers. She slid her hands to the back of his neck, drawing him 
nearer. He went willingly. 

He had recovered from the initial shock of her kiss, and now he fought fire with 
fire, kissing her long, hard, deep. It was electrifying; it was all she could do not 
to let her fingers run down his chest. She nearly jerked away, suddenly ticklish 
when he slipped his hands onto either side of her waist. The tickling sensation 
soon vanished, but the steady pressure of his touch did not. 

But to her horror he pulled away, ducking his head and removing his hands. His 
chest heaved. She stared at him, her hands still on his neck, as he sat there with 
bowed head and hands on the bed. "Dana," he gasped. "Are -- what -- you sure?" 

Quickly she stepped backward, releasing him. She crossed her arms, looked at 
him steadily until he hesitantly raised his head. His eyes -- wonderfully blue, she 
realized -- were wide with hope. She was absurdly pleased to notice that his face 
was flushed. 

"As sure as I'll ever be, John." She looked down, swallowing a little. "If there's 
one thing Mulder taught me, it was to seize the day . . . or the moment. Because 
there may never be another such moment again." 

Quietly, "You okay?" 

She closed her eyes, reflecting. It was time, she knew -- time to understand that 
Mulder could no longer be the man she'd fallen in love with years ago, that 
things between them were no longer the same, that she had to let him go. That 
she had to recognize what she had in front of her. 

Her eyes opened and she grinned, replying in a teasing voice, "I'm all right. How 
are you?" 

His lips worked themselves painstakingly into a nervous smile. But then the 
corners of his eyes crinkled, and his entire face brightened in a genuine laugh, 
making him appear ten years younger. He flashed a broad grin she'd never seen, 
making her stomach flutter and her heart leap. "Better than I've been in a long 
time," he confessed, his eyes twinkling, his mouth still in a smile. 

And then she found herself sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, leaning up 
and kissing him sweetly and slowly. His fingers were on her face, playing with 
her hair. She devoted herself to doing what she wanted to do a few minutes ago, 
running her hands up and down his chest. She had never known in what good 
shape he was. She had never known how tender he could be. She had never 
known what she'd been missing. 

It all seemed a dream -- the loveliest dream she'd had in years. 

***** 

The phone trilled, and Doggett jerked awake. Then he winced, for an ache in his 
back reminded him not to move too quickly. He looked around blearily, realized 
that Scully's head was resting against his chest, that her arms were curled under 
and over him, holding him even as she slept. He realized he'd been doing the 
same thing, and formed a crooked smile. God this felt good. 

Sunlight streamed in, blinding him as the phone continued to ring. He reached 
out, rolling from his position on his side to a new one lying on his stomach, and 
grabbed the receiver from the bedside table. The covers slipped off them both 
with the movement. "John Doggett," he said, before remembering that it wasn't 
his room. 

Too late. "John?" Monica Reyes' confused voice asked. "You weren't in your 
room, so I called Dana. . . ." 

"Um --" His mind raced. "I got that wound bleedin' again. Scully fixed me up." 
It was the truth -- part of it, anyway. 

"Where is she?" 

"Uh . . . sleepin'." 

She didn't buy it; he could tell by the hanging silence, then, when she spoke, by 
the flatness of her voice. She sighed, said, "Are you coming back to DC with 
me, or are you two catching a later flight? Because I'm leaving in ten minutes." 

Doggett blinked. "I, uh, don't think we'll be able to make it. We're gonna have to 
catch up," he said softly, hoping her feelings wouldn't be too hurt. She'd had her 
eye on him for a long time, but he had never truly wanted to reciprocate. Now he 
would probably never have the chance. He was a little sorry. She was a good 
woman -- just not the woman for him. 

"Okay. I'll see you." She was terse, and he knew she'd been hurt. He frowned as 
a click met his ears. 

Doggett hung up, sighing -- things would be awkward for the next few days, 
down in that basement office. He checked the clock, unsurprised that it showed 
it was half-past seven. He yawned, wished he'd gotten more sleep. 

He looked at the small redhaired woman still embracing him, lying against him . 
. . skin to skin. What a night last night had been! Even with his back injury he'd 
discovered he was still up to exerting himself. He grinned. 

He leaned toward her, taking a whiff of her hair. Oh, how good it was to breathe 
in the scent of a woman's hair, to have a woman's arms tangled up around him, 
to have a woman sleeping there beside him again! 

Especially *this* woman. 

She sighed, murmured something. Her lips moved against the skin on his chest, 
and he tried not to gasp at the sensation. A sense of wonder stirred within him, 
and he marveled at the closeness of her. He leaned down, kissed the crown of 
her head. 

She raised her head, looked at him through sleep-encrusted eyes. She smiled. 
"Good morning." 

"Good mornin'," he whispered back, his voice a rumble in his throat. He smiled 
back. The smile became a grin; the grin, a laugh. And suddenly the two of them 
were giggling, laughing long and hard, gasping for breath, dropping quick 
sloppy kisses on noses, ears, necks, lips. Her laughter was bright and clear, 
ringing throughout the room; his laughter was all howls and gasping chuckles. 
They made no move to stop, however, laughing at a joke known just to them, 
kissing each other all over in places they would never have dared explore before 
last night. 

Doggett, on his hands and knees above Scully, panted. She lay between his 
arms, still giggling. He flashed a wicked grin. "Ticklish?" he queried. He 
suddenly ducked down towards her navel. He planted a raspberry right in her 
bellybutton, and she squealed, kicking out. She reached around and slapped him 
on the back near his wound. He winced, and instantly she was repentant. 

"Oh John," she gasped. "I'm sorry. Come here, come here." She pulled herself 
up to a sitting position, held out her arms. He sank against her, breathing 
heavily. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close to her, as a 
mother with a child. He relaxed, draped atop her as he was. Their breathing 
slowed. 

Doggett kissed the hollow beneath her collarbone, then rested his head against 
her shoulder, putting his arms around her. "Ah, Dana, I forgive you." 

"Mm, I'm glad." She traced aimless patterns on his back, staying well away from 
the bandaged wound. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. Somehow, on a 
night when everything seemed to be going wrong, the world had turned in his 
favor, and now everything was all he could have hoped for. He sighed into her 
skin, kissing it again. He could not get enough of her, of her taste. 

The sunlight filtering in through the blinds was warm on his back, while Scully 
was warm against him. He felt her bend, felt her kiss the top of his head. He 
repositioned himself so that his head was a little lower. Ah. Yes. That was good. 

With Dana Scully's heartbeat singing in his ears, John Doggett fell into the best 
sleep he could remember for a long, long time. 

~FIN