Title: Syncretism Author: Tautology Rating: R Category: DSR, UST, RST drama/humor/horror (don't ask) Archive: Anywhere, just let me know first. Spoilers: Invocation, Patience, Roadrunners Keywords: Summary: Sent to a remote area of Louisiana to investigate a series of purportedly voodoo-related deaths, Scully and Doggett find themselves up to their eyeballs in mud, alligators, zombies, Godzilla mosquitoes, and Voodooiennes on drugs. They now must escape with both partnership and sanity intact, but they just might learn a few things about each other along the way. Feedback: Stevie_the_Scribbler@hotmail.com Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, making no money off 'em, so please don't sue me--all you'll get is an ancient, wheezing Geo and an even more ancient cat. Timeline: Post-Season 9 AU Author's note: In my happy little universe, there is no baby, Mulder stayed dead, and TLG are still around to harass everyone. Un-beta'd; all typos, etc. are mine and mine alone. Also, as a native of Washington State, I've probably hopelessly buggered up the flora and fauna of a Louisiana swamp, but oh well. 'Syncretism' is a term often used to describe the blending of traditional Vodou beliefs with Catholicism. ^_^ ---- Part One: Commencement It was hot. Damned hot. Far too damned hot to think. Scully sighed, dropping the paper she'd been staring at without seeing, and let her head thud onto her desk. The basement air-conditioning had broken down the day before, and thanks to the sweltering July weather the small office was now hotter than Hell's asphalt. The repairman wasn't due till the end of the week, and though they'd brought in fans, all said fans really did was circulate the air like a Conair blow- dryer. "Fuck," she swore, massaging her temples. "Such language." Scully looked up, bleary eyes fighting for focus. Doggett stood in the doorway, looking crisp and far too cool, trying valiantly to smother a smirk. "Spoken like a true Navy brat," he said, and despite herself Scully laughed. "Yeah, well, I'll say worse to that repairman, if he ever shows up." She nodded to the manila folder in his hand. "Tell me you've got something new--if I stay down here another hour, I'll hunt down the head of Janitorial and bludgeon him with his own mop." Now it was Doggett who laughed, setting the folder on her desk. "I do, but it's probably not anything you're going to like," he said. "Monica passed this on to me--said it was more our department than hers." Scully opened the file, fanning herself with a legal pad. It contained newspaper clippings, police reports, and--most gruesomely--a series of crime-scene photos. She'd already heard of the case, peripherally, and she groaned. "Voodoo?" she asked, giving Doggett a pained glance. "I think Monica's trying to scam us--this is ritualistic cult garbage if I've ever seen it." Doggett sat on the edge of her desk, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. "There's more to it than that, which is why I think she passed it on to us," he said, lifting a sheet of paper from the back of the file. "Local residents are insistin' someone's been raisin' zombies to kill them off. So far six people have been killed, and whoever's doin' it is bein' damn clever about it--no prints, no forensic evidence, nothin'." He pointed out the coroner's reports. "That, and from what they can tell, each of the victims has been…eaten. Local law enforcement's pretty superstitious itself, so they passed the whole thing up to Monica, who gave it to us." "That still doesn't sound like much of an X-File," Scully said dubiously. "Sounds more like someone's been reading too much Thomas Harris." Doggett didn't disagree with her. "Yeah, well, it'll get us out of the office for a week," he said, glancing around the sweltering little room. "Besides, I grew up in Louisiana, and you haven't lived until you've tasted honest-to-God Creole food." Scully arched an eyebrow at him. She didn't know when it had happened, but at some point over the last two years he'd snuck beneath her radar, establishing himself as an indispensable part of her life. He'd become her *friend*, and how he'd managed it, especially in the face of all her stubborn coldness, she still couldn't figure out. "Agent Doggett, is this all part of an elaborate plan to take me to dinner?" she teased, and as always a small, inner part of her marveled at the fact that she could tease. Teasing was always something that was Not Done, before this last year. He considered this a moment. "Possibly," he said. "But only if you won't hit me for sayin' so." She raised the other eyebrow. "I promise nothing," she said, and thwacked him with the file. "When do we leave?" ----- New Orleans International Airport was, like all airports, a complete zoo. Scully always forgot how much she hated disembarking--her diminutive height put her at a distinct disadvantage in any kind of a crowd setting. A bag in each hand, the shoulder-strap of a third clenched between her teeth, she scanned the crowd for some sign of Doggett, wishing vainly she were about six inches taller. A hand reached out and grabbed the nylon strap, accompanied by the deep, throaty voice of her partner. "You know, you could have gotten a trolley," he said, laughter rumbling deep in his chest. She spat the strap out and glared at him. "Oh, shut up," she said. Once again she was hot, tired, and more than a little cranky, the latter of which was only made worse by her partner's apparent lack of discomfort. He looked cool and controlled as ever, his jeans and T-shirt still smooth and unruffled--he'd warned her to dress sensibly, since they were headed out into deep swampland. She, by contrast, was sweaty and sticky, her hair coming loose from its clasp and plastering itself to her face in damp tendrils. One side of his mouth curled up, but to his credit he didn't laugh. "Yes, ma'am," he said, guiding her through the crowd until they reached the rental agency. They picked up their car without incident, and once ensconced in its air-conditioned interior, Scully relaxed a little. Only a little, however. She had very rarely seen Doggett in casual clothes, and she was more than a little disconcerted by the fact that she liked the effect. They seemed so much more natural on him than his suits, just as he seemed so much more at home here than in D.C. It had finally occurred to her that she was going to be in very close quarters with this man, and while it was far from the first time, some dim instinct told her that this case was going to be much different. It was those eyes, dammit. From the moment she'd met him, Scully had felt as though they were reading her very soul, burning into her with an intensity that threatened to consume her. It had scared the hell out of her, and had in large part contributed to her early efforts to shut him out. Even now, now that they'd moved through working partnership and into fast friendship, she often couldn't meet his eyes for long, lest they knock down what few barriers remained to her. That, and he had a really nice ass. *Shit*. Bad Dana. "So…" she said, dragging her mind forcibly out of the gutter. "What kind of fun wildlife can we expect out here?" It sounded idiotic even to her own ears, but hell, it was conversation. Doggett glanced at her, but if he guessed what was in her mind he gave no sign. "You name it," he said. "Alligators, snakes, crawfish, mosquitoes, piranhas…" She gave him a dubious look. "Piranhas?" she said, treating him to The Eyebrow. "Okay, so maybe not piranhas," he amended with a smile. "But just about everythin' else--this is real backcountry we're headed into, which is why I said to bring good boots." Scully glanced down at her feet. She'd taken his warning seriously, and purchased a pair of steel-toed construction boots--it was hard to believe someone had made them; they looked more like they'd been built. "Okay, I get the boots, but why the Crest toothpaste?" He'd been oddly specific about that, and she hadn't been able to tell if he was joking or not. "Mosquito bites," he said gravely, pulling off the freeway and cruising out along a relatively deserted side-road. "What?" she asked. "Mosquito bites. Makes 'em not itch." He caught her look and laughed. "No, I'm serious. Mom used to keep it on hand when we were kids, especially durin' summer--you look at my family pictures and you'll see us covered in blue dots in half of 'em." Scully tried to picture that, and failed miserably. "John Doggett, you never cease to surprise me," she said. "Any other Southern homeopathies I should know about?" "Peppermint oil," he said. "Mosquito repellent. And…ah…" He trailed off, swallowing uncomfortably. Scully looked at him, and saw that the tips of his ears had gone red. "What?" she prodded, fighting a smile--it wasn't often that she saw the unflappable John Doggett discomfited. "You were saying…?" "Ah…well, my mom always kept a jar of talcum powder on her dressin' table," he said, his eyes glued to the road as though it was inescapably fascinating. "For…you know…" He tugged at the collar of his shirt, the color spreading from his ears and down across his face. Scully bit the inside of her cheek, choking back a laugh. "For…?" she prodded, enjoying the unaccustomed opportunity to make him squirm. He shot her a truly pitiful look. "She'd…put it down her shirt, when it got hot." She gave him an utterly unreadable look. "Ah," she said, and then fell silent. Doggett shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he'd offended her, but a glance told him he needn't have worried--she was only silent because her shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter, one hand pressed to her mouth. "Aw, c'mon, that's not fair," he said, as she gave up and giggled in a most un-Scully-like fashion. "I went and put my foot in it, but you didn't have to spring the trap." "Oh, yes I did," she said, still snickering. "I only wish I'd had a camera." "*Women*," Doggett muttered, shaking his head, which only made her laugh harder. Eventually her mirth subsided, leaving a comfortable silence in its place. Two years ago she'd never have imagined she could be this…this *content*, for lack of a better word. Whatever inappropriate musings had been popping into her head lately, they hadn't been enough to undo the simple, comfortable friendship she'd forged with Doggett--they were more than partners, they were pals, going out for beer and a game of pool on Fridays, or taking turns picking awful movies. It was the sort of comradeship she'd always been denied with Mulder--the nature of the work he did, the people he kept company with, had kept their lives too unpredictable for anything like a normal existence. Mulder. She still winced when she thought of him, of the scabbed wound his passing had left on her soul. She hadn't forgotten him--could never forget him--but several months after his death she'd realized that pining away for him and dying was hardly productive. She refused to let herself feel guilty for her happiness; she knew Mulder would not have wanted her to remain miserable. Hell, he'd probably have come back to haunt her if she'd tried; he wouldn't grudge her moving on. She'd got this far, but up until very recently she'd had absolutely no interest in going any farther, with anyone. Monica had poked her, very gently, saying she knew this or that nice guy, how about Scully let her set her up for dinner…but the idea held no appeal for her. She'd finally learned to be happy on her own; it would be a while yet before she could adapt that happiness to include another person. Or so she'd thought. Maybe she was just on a hormone spike this month, but for the last several weeks she'd been having some extremely inappropriate thoughts about her partner, some of which shocked even *her*. They were always completely random, too--he'd bend over to pick up a pencil and she'd find herself wanting to reach out and grab his ass, or he'd run a hand through his hair and she'd wonder what his hair would feel like. *I need to get out more*, she thought, shaking her head as they headed deeper into the Louisiana countryside. ------ It was dark when they reached their destination, the thick, heavy darkness of the South, muggy and redolent of sassafras and a hint of mildew. Wild honeysuckle hand tangled on the telephone poles, but now that they'd reached the swamp itself it had given way to creepers whose names even Doggett didn't know. There was a town at the swamp's edge, or at least something that was trying desperately to resemble one--it had one gas station, one streetlight, and a single grocery store. The only hotel was actually a boarding house, run by a small, elderly lady who looked like she'd stepped straight out of 1942. It was, Scully had to admit, a good deal nicer than most of the hotels she'd stayed in--apparently their hostess was of the old Southern school, and kept her house immaculate and her bureaus filled with sachets of lavender. Doggett carried her bags up to her room, despite her token protests. Scully had long ago learned that arguing with his sense of chivalry was pointless, and when it came right down to it, she really didn't mind. Had anybody else tried it, she'd probably have clocked them one, but with Doggett it just seemed *natural*. Left alone in her room, she showered, changed, and fell into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. ------ Doggett was not so fortunate. Having grown up in the South, the heat didn't sap his energy as it did Scully's, and he was left to lie awake a while, staring at the white plaster ceiling. He didn't want to admit it to Scully, but the whole idea of voodoo made him uneasy. Hardheaded skeptic though he was, he'd been immersed in tales of the religion since childhood, and several of them had stuck with him. He'd been to Mardi Gras when he was twelve, and had seen the dancers dressed as Baron Saturday, and had occasionally found poppets nailed to the trees outside the cemetery. Though he didn't personally believe in voodoo, the people who practiced it did, and ultimately he knew that was what mattered. If his time on the X-Files had taught him anything, it was that belief was a very powerful thing. Of course, they needn't have come out here--Scully was right, there wasn't much to warrant the attention of the X-Files specifically. But…he'd wanted to show her his home, to let her see some of the things that he still held sacred from his childhood. He could scarcely admit it even to himself, but part of him craved her companionship, much more than it rightly should have. They were partners, friends; surely he shouldn't be feeling a great deal of the things he'd been feeling lately. He shut his eyes, still seeing her as he had at the airport. She'd been searching for him, her blue eyes darting over the crowd, sweat-damp red hair wisping over her face. He'd never let her know how attractive he found her, but in that moment he'd wanted nothing more than to snatch the baggage out of her hands and kiss her. The desire was so strong that he almost did it, coming back to himself only when he took the bag she'd been carrying in her teeth. It was a scarily near miss, and the shock of what he had almost done had followed him for most of their drive. Maybe this trip wasn't such a good idea after all. Doggett knew she liked him, that he was one of the best friends she had, but she'd never given him the slightest hint that she wanted more than that. In the last year she had healed wonderfully from the wound Mulder's death had dealt her, but if Monica's frustration was any evidence, she wasn't yet ready for any kind of romantic attachment. Which sucked. He sighed, turning restlessly, Scully's face haunting him until sleep claimed him. ------ Part Two: The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune Early next morning found them both up and wide awake, thanks to the tar-like coffee provided by their hostess. This early the air was still relatively cool, though it wouldn't be long before the customary sticky humidity set in. Scully had slept like the dead, her dreams for once untroubled, and she had thought that maybe this trip wouldn't be so bad after all. That thought died a small, pitiful death as soon as she got a glimpse of Doggett, in what he apparently considered appropriate swamp-rat wear. *Nobody should look that good in jeans. It shouldn't be allowed*, she thought, and shook herself--now was *not* the time. Still, it was unfortunate for her that he'd dug up a pair of worn jeans that fit like a second skin, and paired them with a black T-shirt that did everything for her knees and nothing for her nerves. Had it been anyone else, she'd swear he'd done it on purpose, but Doggett didn't operate like that. She herself had gone for practical as well--jeans, ancient T-shirt, and a worn brown flannel that she hoped would deter the bugs. Her construction-worker boots clunked heavily on her feet, but at least they would stand up to anything the swamp might throw at them. "Do people really live out there?" she asked, adjusting the straps on her pack. The town cut off abruptly, as solid ground ran out and shifting, murky mud took over. Trees, some of them long dead, leaned drunkenly, festooned with moss and creepers and, if Doggett had been serious, the odd snake. "Oh, yeah," he said, picking up his own pack. "Plenty of people in the rural South still live like they did eighty years ago. You get all kinds out here--some people have had their patches for generations, but others come to get away from civilization, or study the swamp. There's more than a few biologists in there, and an alligator farm." "An alligator farm? Aren't they protected?" she asked, as they crunched across the gravel driveway toward the swamp's edge. "Not if you raise 'em yourself--plenty of people down here consider alligator a delicacy." Doggett grinned at Scully's revolted look--the woman had eaten crickets, but alligator was clearly too much. "That, and there's always the price for the skins." Scully shook her head. "It takes all kinds," she muttered. "There wouldn't be any kind of *roads* in there, would there?" "Well, nothing that could stand up to a vehicle," he said. "Most of the real deep-swamp dwellers keep boats, but there's paths toward the edge." They had reached the beginning of the swamp, and Scully quirked an eyebrow when she spotted Doggett's idea of a 'path'. It was slightly more solid than the rest of the soupy ground, but that was really all that could be said about it. Doggett, however, didn't break stride, marching onto the spongy trail with his usual no-nonsense confidence. "C'mon, the sheriff said he'd meet us at the Matthews' place." "And how far is that?" Scully asked, slapping at an early-morning mosquito. "About two miles." She stifled a groan. "Of course," she muttered. ----- Doggett had to consciously slow his Marine-trained gait, to match Scully's small strides. The path was just wide enough for them to walk side by side, and he found himself stealing surreptitious glances at her. Her hair was still damp from her morning shower (apparently she'd already learned that in the South, twice-daily showers were a necessity), her face for once free of her usual business make-up. She looked even more beautiful without it--it wasn't there to mask the pale delicacy of her face, the faint Irish flush that crept across her cheekbones in the cool air. *Down, Doggett*, he chided himself. Still, it was difficult to distance himself from her presence, to ignore the subtle smell of soap and clean woman that hovered about her like an aura. He'd always liked it that she didn't wear perfume--her own special Scully-scent was much more alluring. He found himself startled out of his reverie when she spoke, swatting at another mosquito. "So what do you know about voodoo?" she asked. He considered this a moment. "Officially? Not a lot. I just know what I heard about growing up. "The popular concept of voodoo's mostly a myth. The whole stickin'- pins-in-people thing comes from the practice of nailin' a doll onto somethin' close to a graveyard--the doll's supposed to act as a messenger to the spirit world. "As for zombies, they're not like the movie ideas, either. The idea of the voodoo zombie is a corpse that's brought back by magic, but is controlled by the person who resurrected them. They're dumb, but they ain't cannibals--that was all George Romero. Even if I did believe in zombies, I'd doubt their hand in these murders--that's just now how they work, not in the mythology." "So it's somebody who's seen the Romero movies, but doesn't know the real story," Scully said. "Not one of the smarter brand of serial killers, then." "Probably. What I can't figure out is why someone would want to kill these people--most of 'em don't have anythin' worth stealin', and a lot of 'em don't go out enough to make any real enemies. Whoever's doin' it must know somethin' about swamps, too--a lot of people who just wander in ignorant don't get out again." Scully looked around nervously, her thoughts plain as day on her face. *I don't know anything about swamps*. He grinned. "Relax," he said. "I grew up runnin' around in places like this. I won't get you lost." She flashed him a brief smile that nevertheless spoke volumes. "I know you wouldn't." ---- It took them an hour and a half to reach what Doggett had called 'the Matthews' place', and it turned out to be not at all what Scully had expected. She'd pictured a rickety shack, raised up on poles, but what she found was a pleasant white A-frame with a large, screened-in porch. It *was* raised on poles, but they were short, thick ones of smooth concrete, sturdy and immovable. The picture was rather spoiled for her by the knowledge that this house had been the scene of the first of the murders. The Matthews had been an elderly couple whose family had held their land for two hundred years, tracing their ancestry back to early French planters. Apparently this patch of land hadn't been a swamp when the family had settled on it; that had come later, and though it had rendered the land useless they'd hung onto it. The boy who delivered their groceries had found them, not more than a day dead, amid one of the goriest messes local law enforcement had ever seen. Scully had seen the coroner's report; they had definitely been partially eaten, and by what looked like more than one human being. That in itself troubled her; killers very rarely worked in groups, but if it were some kind of cannibal cult, it could be very, very difficult to catch them all. She shuddered. Ever since the case she'd worked with Mulder years ago, when the town of cannibals had almost eaten *her*, the very idea gave her the shivers. Doggett instantly picked up on her shudder, as acutely and piercingly as he seemed to pick up all her moods. "You okay?" he asked. "Yeah. I guess the idea just hits too close to home." He nodded--he'd read the case file, and understood her aversion. "Yeah, I guess it would. The sheriff, a portly, balding man in his late forties, stepped out onto the porch. "You all must be the FBI," he said, wiping his already sweaty face on his sleeve. "Mike Hannigan, county sheriff." He offered them each a hand up onto the porch. "I sure am sorry to have to call you out here--I've seen some gruesome stuff, but nothin' that even came close to this mess." "Did the Matthews' have any enemies, Mr. Hannigan?" Scully asked, glancing into the now-clean kitchen. "Anybody who might have a motive?" The sheriff shook his head. "No, ma'am," he said. "They didn't go out much--kept to themselves back here, mostly. I can't think why anybody would want to hurt 'em, let alone…do what they did." His eyes unfocused a moment, as though re-playing what he'd seen, and he shook himself. "I'm afraid I can't lead you 'round out here--coroner wants to see me, an' I've got about four people want to beat my head in for not catchin' this guy yet. Dunno what kind of evidence you'll find out here anyway, but then that's what y'all are trained for." He tipped his hat to them and hopped down onto the squishy path. Doggett frowned after him, but said nothing until the man was out of earshot. "Why'd he bother comin' out here at all, if he just had to leave?" he wondered aloud. Scully shrugged. "Who knows?" ------ They spent some time poking around the small kitchen, but the sheriff had been right--there wasn't much to find. The place had been cleaned once the scene had been documented, and no conveniently-overlooked evidence revealed itself. Scully sat back on her heels, frustrated. She had never liked looking through a house whose occupants were dead/missing/arrested--it always gave her a sense that somehow Life had gotten things horribly, horribly wrong. "Well, I'm not seeing anything worthwhile," she said, snapping off her gloves. "I'm sure the local law enforcement found whatever there was to find." Doggett returned from the living room, nodding. "Yeah, I got nothin'," he said. "Back window was forced, but they already noted that. Guess it's on to the next place." They shut the door carefully behind them, and Doggett hopped down off the porch, into the squishy mud. Scully shook her head, knowing she was going to have to make the most ungraceful jump in the world, but before she could try Doggett reached up, put his hands around her waist, and picked her up as though she were no more than a child. He set her lightly on the ground in front of him, his mouth curling in a half- smirk. Scully's breath froze in her throat, her eyes widening to the size of quarters. There was no real reason his actions should affect her like that--God knew he'd picked her up before--but for some reason the feel of his big hands around her waist sent a jolt of pleasant adrenaline through her. Her face betrayed her only an instant, but betray her it did, and then a blush like a sunset suffused it. "Thanks," she said, her eyes glued to his, unable or unwilling to look away. Something sparked in their electric depths, something that simultaneously excited her and scared the living hell out of her. "Not a problem," he said, reluctantly releasing her. The half-smirk returned. "Gotta watch out for you shorties, you know." With that the tension was abruptly broken, as Scully snorted with laughter, resisting an urge to punch his arm. Whatever he felt-- whatever subtext was trying to write itself into their relationship--it seemed he understood, at least a little, that now was not yet the time. They moved onward, in companionable silence, each apparently lost in their own thoughts. In fact they were surreptitiously studying one another, and Scully felt vaguely ashamed that her thoughts were there rather than on their case--people had died, and would likely continue to die, and all she could think about was the warm firmness of Doggett's hands, the honeyed roughness of his voice. *Concentrate, Dana*, she admonished herself, dragging her brain ruthlessly back to more professional things. She knew the next house had belonged to a bachelor woodsman, killed four days after the Matthews', and forced herself to think only of the details. "Virgil Rowland was the same M.O. as the Matthews', wasn't he?" she asked, knowing the question was inane but needing to speak. Doggett nodded. "Almost exactly, except this time they broke his neck before they started…eating. Apparently they decided dinner was better when it didn't struggle." Scully considered this, and her stomach turned. MD or not, some things were too gruesome for any sane human to regard dispassionately. "Oh," she said. Maybe thinking about Doggett was better after all. "No kiddin'," he agreed. "Poor bastard." ------ The Rowland place proved almost as useless as the Matthews', with one exception: Virgil had apparently fired at his attackers, emptying his handgun, and while there were a few bullets in the walls, the police had mainly found only empty casings. They'd left this scene in tact, waiting for the FBI's opinion, and now Doggett picked up one of the casings, holding it up to the light. "I don't get it," he said. "This many shells, he had to've hit *somethin'*, but if he'd shot anythin' that many times he wouldn'ta been the only corpse in the room." Scully clattered in from the shack's only other room. "Well, there's two possible explanations for that," she said. "Either he shot somebody wearing Kevlar, or his attackers really were zombies." Open-minded as she had become, she still thought the former far more likely--she hadn't yet reached a point where she could wrap her mind around the idea of zombies. "Though I'd like to know how anyone out here could get their hands on Kevlar." "Yeah, well, further mysteries await," Doggett grunted, dropping the casing and standing. The shack's ceiling was low enough that he almost hit his head. "Let's go." ------ The next three houses did nothing save waste their time, and when afternoon rolled around Scully was hot, tired, and more than a little cranky. "John, what are we *doing* out here?" she said, throwing up her hands and sitting on a somewhat slimy log. "The police have already been over all these places--what is there to find?" He walked back and sat down beside her. "Somethin'. Anythin'. Mon' said people who do things like this--who mimic supernatural crime--always slip up sooner or later. You've just got to know what to look for." She sighed, blowing sweat-dampened hair out of her eyes. "So what *are* we looking for?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "We'll know it when we find it, I guess. I don't know--somebody once told me that eighty percent of real police work was lookin' busy and hopin' like hell somebody's nerve'll crack." Scully considered this. "That has to be the most cynical thing I've ever heard you say," she mused. "Unfortunately, I'd say it's also pretty accurate." He stood, grabbing her hands and pulling her to her feet as well. "So let's look, and wait." They started off again, squishing through the soupy muck, and Scully reflected that she wasn't half as cranky as she might have been. Hot and buggy though it was, there was something inescapably comfortable about wandering around with Doggett. He seemed so very at home here, as though the outdoors was his natural habitat, and he didn't seem to mind any of the less savory elements. "So what are you expecting we'll find tonight?" she asked, slapping another mosquito. They'd agreed before they left DC that they would run surveillance on the house projected next by the pattern, and though Scully hadn't realized just what that would *mean*, in the middle of a swamp, she was nevertheless interested to see what would happen. "I don't know, and I'm not sure I want to," he said. "Sheriff wanted to fit us out with a whole squad, but that's damned hard to do out here, and anyway it would probably just scare them all off. If it turns out to be a whole crew of idiots, things might get hairy." "If they even show up," Scully said. All the swamp-dwellers who were willing to go had gone, so the next target was currently empty--if the attackers knew that, maybe they wouldn't bother to show. *One can only hope.* Doggett nodded. "Yeah, if," he said, though by his tone she could tell he was certain they would. They wandered on in silence, proceeding at an easy pace, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Each brief contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to Scully's stomach, where it spread through her every nerve. Surely *nothing* should be able to do that--no caress, no embrace, no calculated stroke had ever affected her like that brief, simple touch. Silence was both curse and blessing, because it meant she had no distraction from her awareness--and around Doggett, she was always very, very aware. *I'm supposed to get through a stake-out--a stake-out that could very well be crashed by serial-killing cannibals--with this man?* she thought. *Right.* Having John Doggett beside her was going to mean she definitely wouldn't be at the top of her game--how was she supposed to concentrate, for God's sake? As it turned out, concentration wasn't going to be the problem.