Empty Houses
So... A very long time ago I was obsessed with the X-Files, which for me means that I wrote fanfiction. This is one of those stories, reworked and extensively edited. It's set during S9, just after John Doe.
Empty Houses
Author: enigmaticblue
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters; Chris Carter and 1013 do.
Summary: A character study that takes place after John Doe, and is written in four parts, from four different perspectives.
Doggett
His mind was a maelstrom of memory and pain was his only beacon. Something had been jarred loose; whatever had locked his memories tightly away had been released. Doggett’s head ached, the jagged edges of his splintered recollections making it worse.
He didn’t feel settled; he didn’t understand any of this. Doggett might not have amnesia anymore, but he was having trouble putting the bits and pieces of his life back together. He hadn’t even recognized Skinner when his boss had stepped up to the bus, looking through the front window with puzzled relief.
He remembered having his memories ripped away. Oddly enough, he remembered dying, although he knew no one else was supposed to know. The only good memory he could latch onto for the moment was the one that had sustained him during two weeks in a Mexican hellhole. His son, an early morning, and a bike. He had been relieved to remember anything, more relieved that he’d gotten out of bed, that he’d forgotten being tired for long enough to watch as his son rode his bike in the street. That glimpse had given him hope that he had been a good man, whatever he was currently.
Now he sat in the back seat as Reyes and Skinner drove north to San Antonio, getting him past the border guards with their badges and a hurried explanation that he didn’t quite hear. Reyes was calling someone named Scully (there was a flash of red hair), telling her to meet them at the hospital. He wanted to object, to insist that he was fine, but he was still too busy trying to put together exactly who he was.
He was John Doggett, ex-Marine, ex-cop, ex-husband, ex-father. He was an FBI agent. The lists didn’t compute. It seemed he was defined more by what he wasn’t than by what he was; he wondered if that made him a failure. He was still puzzling over that idea when they arrived at the hospital and a red-haired woman met them in the waiting room.
Seeing her pulled more memories into place. A cup of water dashed in his face, holding her as she sobbed in a hospital room, trying to keep her from seeing the body of a dead man, watching her hold her son.
“Everything is ready,” she said quietly, but her eyes were startled by his condition, and she made a sympathetic face. She touched his arm, telling him that they wanted to do some tests, but that he needed to get cleaned up first.
He took his first shower in he didn’t know how long and obediently put on the scrubs Scully had set aside for him. He let her guide him through the tests: the CAT scan, the MRI, the x-rays to ensure his ribs weren’t broken. He answered the hospital shrink’s questions as to who he was and where he was and what year it was. Each question seemed to pull its corresponding memory into its place.
Scully and the attending doctor pronounced him “rather the worse for wear, but fine.” She was the one who explained that he wouldn’t have to stay overnight, but that because he had a concussion, someone would have to stay with him. Scully looked at Skinner when she said this, and he could tell that there was a silent conversation taking place. In his present state, it went right over his head; Doggett didn’t have the energy to read between the lines.
He could see the worry lines etched on Skinner and Reyes and Scully’s faces, the lines that told him that he hadn’t been the only one wondering what had happened to him.
In the end, he stayed with Skinner. It was the least-awkward option, but because his memories hadn’t quite settled into place, Doggett couldn’t help but wonder what it said that his boss would volunteer to wake him up every two hours to make sure that he did wake up again.
He dressed mechanically; Reyes had found the fresh clothing in his overnight bag, the one he’d left in his abandoned motel room. Skinner drove them to the hotel and told him to get some sleep because he looked like hell.
Doggett slept like the dead but woke feeling little better. Since he had time, he took another shower. The dirt he’d picked up over the last week or two seemed ground in: invisible to the naked eye, but still present.
Doggett stood in the shower and let the water flow down over him, and he let the memories flow over him as well. A million motel rooms spread over fifty states and a few different countries, hot showers taken to wake up on mornings when he hadn’t slept, cold showers taken for other reasons entirely.
He got out of the shower and dragged on the suit pants and dress shirt he’d left in the garment bag. They were the only clean clothes he had left. He stepped out of the bathroom and locked eyes with Skinner who still looked concerned, as though he wasn’t quite sure he’d actually found his missing agent, as though Doggett might still be lost. And then Skinner retreated to the bathroom voicing none of the questions that swam in his eyes.
Knotting his tie in front of the mirror brought back more memories. His father, patiently showing him how to tie the knot, his mother, adjusting his tie on his wedding day, his wife touching it before he headed to work, teaching his son the rhyme his own father had taught him when he’d first learned. How many little memories were connected with each everyday action, each gesture, each smell?
The knock on the door startled him, but he wasn’t surprised to see the two women standing on the other side. He knew who they were this time. “How are you feeling, Agent Doggett?” Scully asked, blue eyes taking on a professional concern.
He remembered the correct response, too. “I’m fine, Agent Scully.”
Scully might have taken his words at face value, but Reyes didn’t look as though she believed him. He wondered if Monica was always so intuitive, or if it was just him. She had seen him in the Mexican barn and had watched him break down, after all. Monica would know that he wasn’t quite “fine.”
His partner said nothing though, not then, not at breakfast at the Denny’s across the parking lot, not in the airport as they waited for their flight. When they landed in D.C., Reyes told the others that she would drive him home. His truck was still in the airport lot, but Doggett had lost his license and other forms of identification, and he wasn’t quite sure he was safe behind the wheel yet.
Skinner clapped him on the shoulder and told him not to come in until he felt like it, at least not to come in until next Monday. Scully smiled at him, told him to get some rest, then allowed Skinner to walk her to the Bureau car they’d left in the lot.
Reyes didn’t speak until after she was behind the wheel and on the way to Falls Church. “Are you okay, John?” she asked finally.
“I’m fine,” he replied. He couldn’t remember any other reply.
Reyes gave him an exasperated look, the kind that said she knew he was brushing off her concern. “Do you want me to stay for a while? Keep you company?” she offered.
He shook his head. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“You sound like Dana,” she said, but she let it go. He thought perhaps she felt guilty for telling him about Luke again. She had been there the first time, when they’d found him, and his son had become the ghost between them. Doggett thought that they had finally begun to move on in their partnership, and now it seemed as though Luke would haunt them forever.
She parked his truck in the driveway, waited as he fished the spare key out of the planter in the front of the house, and followed him inside to call a cab. “You know you can call me if you need anything, right?” she asked. Perhaps she wanted to remind him that they were friends, not just partners.
“Thanks,” he said again. The silence that hung between them was like a living thing, full of what she did not say and what he could not. The cab pulled up outside, and Reyes turned to go. “Monica?” Doggett said, stopping her before she left. “Thanks for coming for me.”
She turned to look at him, amber eyes meeting blue. The look on her face was one he couldn’t read. “You’re my friend,” she said simply, but he knew she left a lot unsaid.
Doggett did little but sleep the first two days he was home. Not that he slept well. The silence in the house was deafening. He wandered from room to room, touching different objects, remembering.
Luke had never lived in Falls Church. He had been killed before Doggett had even thought of applying for the FBI. The house itself had been an attempt to revive a fading marriage. When Luke died, the glue that held him and his wife together had been gone.
He and Barbara had moved most of Luke’s things, unwilling to give them up to strangers. Doggett had set up the smaller bedroom exactly as Luke had had it in New York. It had been a way to keep him close, but six months later they both realized that they couldn’t pull it together.
There had been too much guilt in his eyes, too much blame in hers. He was a cop; he should have been able to save his own son. On some level they both believed that, and so she left before they damaged each other irreparably, if they hadn’t already.
As divorces went, it had been easy. She had simply packed her bags and moved near her family. There was no alimony to pay, no possessions to divide. She simply took what was hers and left the rest to him. He envied her ability to move on, to start over, to leave it all behind. He wished, somehow, that he could do the same.
He wandered into Luke’s room. He still thought of it that way, even though his son had never slept there. Touched the bed, touched the shelves, the toys, the bits and pieces left behind when a life is cut short. He still couldn’t sleep, even though exhaustion filled every bone, every muscle. The house was too empty, his memories too near, too raw, too new. It felt as though he’d lost Luke yesterday, and the house echoed with the silence.
By Thursday, he couldn’t stand it. Doggett headed into the office, even though he knew Skinner would be angry that he hadn’t waited. He found Monica in the office already; it was the first time anyone had arrived before he did.
She looked up in surprise and concern. “You look like hell,” she said, not unkindly.
“I’m alright,” he replied, but not even he believed it this time.
She frowned at him. “I don’t think you should be here, John,” she objected. “You should give yourself more time.”
He shook his head stubbornly. What was he to say to her? His house felt too empty to stay in, and he had nowhere else to go. The words caught in his throat.
Her lips tightened but she didn’t reproach him again. She rose from her desk and moved towards the door. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Do you want some?” she offered. Monica had never been very good at lying. She might bring him a cup of coffee, but she had ulterior motives for leaving the office.
He nodded, said thanks, and let her go. He was not surprised when his phone rang a few minutes later and Skinner’s secretary informed him he was wanted in the AD’s office. He went, of course, passing Reyes in the hallway. She gave him a half-defiant, half-apologetic look that he could appreciate. He’d looked in the mirror that morning. He would have probably done the same thing.
Skinner was waiting for him. He felt slightly guilty for taking up so much of the other man’s time. Skinner had put his career on the line to get him back across the border, and now he was dealing with an agent who refused to stay home.
The AD’s eyes darkened in concern when he saw him. Doggett knew what he was seeing. The bruises were fading, but the lines in his face were as deep and the shadows under his eyes were deeper. Skinner cleared his throat. “Have a seat, Agent Doggett.”
Doggett sat.
“Would you like to tell me why you’re back at work when I told you to take some time off?”
“I’m fine, sir.” It seemed that that was the only response he would ever make again. It was the only one that made sense to him. He had to be fine, otherwise he would fly apart.
Skinner eyed him doubtfully. “I’ve arranged an appointment for you with the Bureau psychologist for 3 this afternoon. You’re behind a desk until she releases you for field duty. Is that understood?” Brown eyes behind round lenses fixed him in place and dared him to argue.
Doggett chose not to. All he had wanted was to get out of the house. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Skinner said. “If that’s all, have Agent Reyes catch you up on what’s going on.” Doggett stood to leave, and was halfway to the door when Skinner spoke again. “John? It’s good to have you back.”
~~~~~
From what the Assistant Director had said, she had expected him to be late. Many agents who were referred to her showed some resistance. A few of those who had been ordered to see her by a superior were hostile. She had expected Agent Doggett to be both.
Instead, he had arrived precisely on time, although she could see tension in every muscle, weariness in every line of his face. She offered him her hand and then a seat. “I’m Dr. Coulibri,” she said.
He accepted her hand, but did not give her his name. He was apparently not one to state the obvious. She had, after all, been expecting him. “Why don’t we get right down to business,” she suggested. “Can you tell me why you’re here?”
There was a glint in Doggett’s eyes that might have been humor, or perhaps anger as he said, “I’m here because the Assistant Director wants to make sure I’m not crazy.”
She smiled. She heard both anger and humor in his tone. Anger because he felt it unfair that they thought him unbalanced, humor because he recognized their need for reassurance, and, on some level, agreed with it. “If the AD were afraid you were nuts,” she said gently, “he wouldn’t have let you keep your gun.”
She saw Doggett relax and met his gaze unflinchingly. “I want to be honest with you,” she told him. “Your partner’s life, as well as yours, depends upon your ability to perform in the field. It’s not a matter of ‘if’ you go back, it’s a matter of when. For your sake as well as hers.”
She knew the right buttons to push. It was, after all, her job. She sensed from his file the innate need to protect those around him from harm. Push that button, and he’d at least listen and would probably cooperate, because he didn’t want his partner’s blood on his conscience. “All right,” he responded evenly. “Fair enough.”
“Tell me about Mexico,” she said, and waited as he began his recital. His voice was dry all the way through, as though he was reciting any other field report. When he got to the end, she asked only one question. “Why didn’t you believe Domingo when he showed you the bulletin?”
He frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“You were alone in a strange country,” she pointed out. “You didn’t even know who you were. What was it that kept you from believing him when he said you were a criminal?”
Doggett blinked, uncertain, and she followed up that question with another one. “How did you know you that were a good man, Agent Doggett, when everyone else was telling you otherwise?”
~~~~~
He felt a surge of panic; the good doctor was getting too near the root of the problem.
Doggett couldn’t claim that he hadn’t thought of that question himself, but then, he still wasn’t sure he knew the answer. The pieces of his life still didn’t quite make sense; he still hadn’t put the puzzle together.
He didn’t want to talk about it, but he also knew that Dr. Coloubri wouldn’t release him for field work until he did. “I had this dream,” he said slowly. He hadn’t told anyone else about it. Only Monica knew about the scene in the barn, of that he was sure.
“Tell me about it.” Then, when he hesitated, she added, “Take me through your dream, step by step.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m laying in bed, next to my wife. Luke, my son, comes in. He wants me to get up and come watch him. It’s early, too early, but he won’t wait, and I can’t stand to disappoint him. So I follow him outside, and he gets on his bike and just starts riding. We told him he couldn’t ride without one of us out there to keep an eye on him, so he gets me up at the crack of dawn to watch. And I didn’t mind. I’m happy.”
“What did that dream tell you about yourself?”
“I had a son,” he replied. “He loved me, wanted to be with me. I wanted to be with him. I got up at 5:30 in the morning to watch him ride his bike. I figured that made me a good dad. I figured him lovin’ me made me a good person.”
She studied him for a moment then said quietly, “AD Skinner informed me that he wanted you to stay out of the office until Monday, but you came back in today. You don’t look as though you’ve been sleeping well, either. Would you like to tell me why you don’t want to be at home?”
Was he that transparent? Doggett wondered.
“How much sleep have you been getting?” she asked, gently.
“Not much,” he admitted hoarsely.
“Does that have anything to do with wanting to come back to work early?”
He shook his head, not denying her question, but unable to give her the answer. “The house is too empty,” he managed.
It was enough. She asked him another question, then. Asked him how he was doing physically, whether he was on any medication, how that made him feel. How was his memory? Was it back completely?
He was too relieved that she had altered her line of questioning to wonder why she had done so, answering what seemed like innocuous questions. He just wanted out. He wanted a drink. He wanted-something he could not even name.
“Well, Agent Doggett, I believe you’re fit for duty, and I’ll tell AD Skinner so,” Dr. Coulibri said after the long list of questions. “I want you to try to sleep tonight and this weekend, and if you’re still having problems with insomnia, I’d like you to come back. It might help if you had a fan going at night, something that makes a little noise.”
Doggett nodded, glad to be done, to be out from under her probing questions and even more probing stare. “Thanks,” he said, rising to go.
“One more thing,” she added. “If you ever need someone to talk to about this, you know you can come to me.”
He nodded, to placate her more than anything else. He’d had a similar offer just a few days ago from his partner and had yet to take her up on it. He knew that it was unlikely he ever would.
~~~~~
Doggett was not terribly surprised when Monica showed up at the bar near the J. Edgar Hoover building. He knew she’d called his cell phone, even though he hadn’t answered. He also knew that she’d been worried ever since they’d gotten back from Mexico. He might not have her powers of intuition, but he knew her. He could read it in her eyes.
He hadn’t answered his phone because he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He’d considered getting drunk briefly, but he’d driven his truck to work and didn’t want to take a cab. But just the fact that he wanted to get drunk made him ration his lone beer carefully. There had been a time in his life when getting drunk had seemed the best way to deal with pain. The morning after a three-day binge had pretty much cured him of that idea. His son had still been dead, and he’d had a splitting headache and a rolling stomach to go with the crushing grief.
Tonight, he’d wanted a place where he could think, where the silence didn’t echo with regret and lost time, and the bar had seemed the best option. So he wasn’t pleased to see Reyes walk in, looking for him, even if he wasn’t surprised.
She made a bee-line for his bar stool and sat down next to him. “Are you all right, John?” she asked.
Doggett turned his head to meet her stare, telling her with a look that he didn’t require her presence. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” he growled. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
Reyes kept her eyes on him, and it was clear that she wasn’t going to take his not-so-subtle hint to leave. She called for a beer from the bartender. “You look like hell, John. Why wouldn’t we be worried about you?”
When he didn’t answer, she went on. “Skinner, Scully, and I put our careers on the line for you, going over the border like that. Kersh wanted to shut down the search for you completely. Do you really think that’s all the further we would take it? That we wouldn’t care how you were when you got back?”
Doggett’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to hear this. He knew all of it already, but he was a master at holding his pain in his own two hands; he didn’t like to share. “I’ll be okay, Monica. The concern’s appreciated, but misplaced.”
“Fine,” she replied. “Then tell me why you came back to work so fast when you’re obviously not recovered and not sleeping. You tell me why and I’ll get off your back.”
He snorted his disbelief, but it was easier to say it again. He’d already spilled his guts once today. Why not a second time? He stood and threw enough money on the bar to cover his tab and hers. “The house is too damn quiet,” he said simply and left.
~~~~~
Doggett got home and threw his keys on the entryway table. He was tired. Bone tired. All he wanted to do was to go to bed and sleep, but he had little hope that he’d actually be able to.
The fridge was empty. He had yet to go to the grocery store, and he shut the door in frustration. He didn’t feel like ordering out, didn’t feel like another canned meal, so he ignored the growling in his stomach and went upstairs. He had just managed to change into jeans and his USMC t-shirt when he heard a knock on the door. Growling a little at the interruption, he answered the door, giving Scully a shocked stare.
Ignoring the look on his face, she handed him Will’s carrier and hefted the diaper bag and a paper sack in her arms. “Are you going to let me in?” she finally asked, amused.
Nonplussed, Doggett stood to one side to let her come in. She was the last person he had expected to see on his doorstep. She’d been to his house only a couple times before, the first after she’d gotten out of the hospital after he’d wrapped up the Tipet case. If you could call what he’d done “wrapping up.” She’d woken him from a nightmare where he’d almost split his own head with an axe.
Even though their partnership had reached an ease he had not thought likely after his first week on the X-Files, Mulder’s disappearance, her refusal to tell him the reasons behind it, and her stubborn deterrence of his efforts to help, had strained their relationship. To be perfectly honest, he hadn’t expected her to come down to Texas to look for him.
Now here she was, standing on his front porch and looking at him with barely concealed amusement. “What can I do for you, Agent Scully?”
Never one to mince words, Scully walked past him towards the kitchen, leaving him to shut the door and follow. “Monica called me,” she explained. “She said you’d been having some trouble sleeping and that you were back at work.”
“You don’t have to check up on me,” Doggett objected, almost angrily. He was fine. He needed to be fine. And the only way he would be fine was if people stopped treating him as though he were about to break.
“No, but I wanted to,” she replied. “Besides, Agent Doggett, you were gone for two weeks, and we haven’t had a chance to celebrate your safe return.” She began pulling items out of the paper sack and laying them on the counter. He quickly recognized the ingredients for a salad. “Monica’s bringing enchiladas. She said you’d had them before.”
Doggett’s mouth started to water despite his annoyance. Monica wasn’t that great in the kitchen, but her mother had a fool-proof recipe for chicken enchiladas that was incredible. He knew she was bribing him, but the prospect of a home-cooked meal was enough to silence his arguments. Will started to fuss inside his carrier, and Doggett quickly set it down on the kitchen table. Scully started for him, but Doggett checked her progress with his eyes. “I got him, unless you mind?”
Scully shook her head wordlessly and watched as he carefully lifted the boy out of the brightly colored carrier, holding him carefully against his chest. “I think he’s wet,” Doggett commented. “I’ll take care of it.”
He grabbed the diaper bag and carried Will into the living room, laying him down on the floor, talking to him softly. He wasn’t sure what he said, some half-forgotten, murmured words he’d used on his son.
It was like riding a bike, he supposed, it was so easy to get back into the rhythm of changing a dirty diaper, of murmuring words sung to a half-remembered tune. “We went to the animal fair. The birds and the bees were there. And the big baboon, by the light of the moon, was combing his auburn hair.” He listened to Will’s baby gabble, his chortles, and felt an overwhelming sense of loss.
He had been John Doggett, family man. His identity had been that of a husband and a father, and its loss was a hole ripped in his chest. He picked Will up again, and the boy gurgled soft, contented baby sounds. There was something soothing about a baby in one’s arms. “You’re good with him,” Scully said from the kitchen.
“I’ve had practice,” he replied shortly.
She made a movement with her head that seemed to indicate an apology. “My mom said that some babies like to be held by men. Mulder was good with him too.”
He glanced down at Will, remembering that Scully was dealing with a recent loss as well. “Feel free to bring him by any time,” he said quietly. “If you need a break. I wouldn’t mind.”
Doggett looked up to meet her eyes. He saw her regret, both for what she had lost, and for what would never be. Acknowledgement of all that might have been in another life passed between them, eliminating the barriers of formality and distance. Doggett had lost the identity it seemed that Mulder would never have, and their loss brought them closer than they had been before.
A knock on the door broke the heavy silence, and the moment passed. Doggett shifted Will in his arms easily, turning the boy so he sat comfortably in the crook of his left arm. “Let’s go see who that is, big guy.”
He walked to the door, opening it to face a sheepish Reyes. “I brought peace offerings,” she said, holding up a six-pack of Corona and hanging onto a glass dish Doggett assumed to be full of the promised enchiladas. He reached out and grabbed the beer from her, then stepped aside to let her in.
“You’re lucky you did,” he growled. “I might have tossed you out otherwise.”
Reyes glanced over at him, and there was relief in her eyes. Doggett knew that she’d seen his temper in action, and had a healthy respect for it. “You’ve got your hands full,” she replied, her tone teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”
Instead of replying directly, he said, “The food better be good, Monica. I’m still not completely against kicking you out.”
“I’m surprised you’d even want Mexican, after two weeks south of the border,” Scully commented.
Doggett pulled a bottle opener from a drawer and popped the lids off three of the bottles one-handed. “I didn’t eat this good,” he replied easily. “Besides, you haven’t tried it yet.”
He watched as Reyes turned the oven on and slid the glass dish onto the rack. “It’ll be a little bit,” she said, turning to Doggett and holding out her arms for Will. “Come on, John. I haven’t had a chance to see him yet.”
Doggett rolled his eyes but handed Will over and went to get the plates and silverware out of the cabinets. An easy camaraderie sprang up, and Doggett felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. There was a feeling of warmth in the room, and the sense was one of people who knew and trusted one another, who had been through the fire together.
He scarfed his meal, listening intently to the women’s conversation without seeming to, and without saying much himself. They spoke of their families, of cases they had been working on recently, of other small details. It was this that Doggett had missed most since his transfer to the basement.
What did you say to friends you had known for years when they talked about hunting down serial killers and kidnappers and bank robbers, which were horrible but understandable monsters? Did you tell them about the man-bat or the metal man? What about the alien bounty hunters or dead men that came back to life?
It hadn’t taken long before his present life had been cut off from his past as cleanly as with one of Scully’s scalpels. It was no wonder she and Mulder were so close, as cut off as the X-Files were from the rest of the world.
Scully made her excuses at about eight, pleading fatigue and the necessity of putting William to bed. Reyes began to clean up as Doggett walked Scully to the door, carrying William. “Do you remember what I told you the day I went on maternity leave?” Scully asked, as they stood by her car.
Doggett nodded. He remembered. It was the last day she had worked on the X-Files, the last day he had been able to call the office hers. The first day he was the senior agent.
“It still goes, John, in more ways than one. You can’t get anywhere in this life alone.” She smiled at him and gave him a brief hug. “Take care of yourself.”
He watched her car pull out and then went into the house to help Reyes clean up. She was wrist deep in soapy water when he walked into the kitchen, and he smiled. “I put the leftovers in the fridge for you,” she said.
“Thanks.”
They worked in silence after that, with Reyes washing and Doggett drying and putting away. It didn’t take long, and then they were left standing there, each hardly knowing what to say to the other and neither wanting the evening to end.
“You wanna watch a movie?” Doggett asked suddenly.
Reyes glanced over at him. “Depends on the movie.”
“I got Spartacus the other day,” he offered.
Her look was measuring and amused. Clearly, she was unsurprised that he owned it. “I’ve never seen it all the way through,” she admitted.
He raised both eyebrows inquiringly. “Now I know you were deprived as a kid.”
They settled back on the couch once he had started the movie. They watched in silence, neither being the type to interrupt the action, both content simply to sit next to one another.
Doggett’s exhaustion was catching up to him, and he leaned back even deeper into the cushions. He was relaxed for the first time in weeks, it seemed, and the sounds of the movie, the warmth of Monica next to him, the whispered sound of her breathing, all conspired to lull him to sleep.
Reyes
She glanced over at him, as the movie wound to a close. He had fallen asleep about halfway through, and she had debated waking him and going home, but he had looked so peaceful, had seemed so comfortable, that she had been reluctant to do so. And, as she had told him, she had never seen the movie all the way through, and she was enjoying it.
She didn’t really want to go home just then, even though she knew she’d hate herself in the morning. While she might have been more of a night owl in college, the working world had changed that considerably. And when six o’clock rolled around, she wasn’t going to be happy getting up with just a few hours sleep.
She watched the rest of the movie anyway, glad that John wasn’t awake when the end came around and she was dabbing tears from her eyes. He would have given her a hard time about that, just to tease a little. At ten years her senior, he seemed to think it was his job, the way an older brother would tease his sister. He would have rolled his eyes and grinned, all the while reaching for a tissue or handkerchief, if he had one handy. His teasing was never without a measure of gentleness.
He had not made fun of her tears when he stood in her kitchen months ago, however, as she clung to him desperately, needing to feel him, needing to know that he was actually real. That he was standing in her kitchen, telling her to forget the plates. That he wasn’t dead. He had been bewildered by her reaction, clearly not knowing what had brought on the storm, but willing to comfort her anyway. She loved that about him. The tenderness he could show, even in the midst of his confusion.
She had had nightmares about that day, about losing him, since then, though the memories had gradually faded. Now her dreams consisted of waking with the utter certainty that John was dead, and she had to fight the impulse to call him, just to hear his voice.
She rewound the tape and turned the TV off, debating on what to do next. She didn’t really want to go home, but she wasn’t certain about how John would react seeing her in the morning. It was certainly against Bureau regs, and he was usually a stickler for regulations, as long as he could see their point. But she was comfortable right where she was, and she told herself five more minutes, then she’d get up to leave.
~~~~~
When Doggett awoke the next morning, he was only half-surprised to find Reyes leaning against his shoulder, asleep. Not that he really minded. He had just gotten the best sleep he’d had in months, possibly years, and for some odd reason, didn’t even have a stiff neck. For a moment he assumed that they had both fallen asleep during the movie, but then he noticed that the TV was off.
He slid out from underneath his partner, careful not to disturb her slumber, and pulled the tape out of the VCR, noting that it was already rewound. He looked at Monica thoughtfully, but decided that he wasn’t disturbed. He moved his shoulders in a gesture of acceptance, and went into the kitchen to start the coffee.
~~~~~
Monica woke slowly, to a wonderful aroma. She inhaled deeply and checked the dial on her watch. 6:30. She was going to be late to the office today. Nothing she could do about it now. She pulled herself of the couch, reflecting that she had slept surprisingly well, and went into the kitchen.
John was pouring a cup of coffee, and he looked over at her as she came into the kitchen. “’Morning,” he greeted her, holding out the cup. “I got milk and sugar if you want. Not much around for breakfast though, I’m afraid.”
She shrugged. “I can get something later.” He looked better, she thought. The circles under his eyes weren’t so large, nor were the lines on his face so deep. In fact, he seemed much more like his usual self. “You look better this morning.”
“I slept good last night,” he replied easily, giving her a glance that seemed to indicate amusement at finding her at his house.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” she said. “I was only going to stay for another five minutes, and then, well…” She trailed off. He still had that smirk on his face.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked.
“Good.”
“Did you cry at the end?”
She made a face at him. He knew her too well sometimes. It seemed he didn’t need to be awake for the end to give her a hard time. “A little.”
He grinned, pleased.
“I should go,” she said. “I’m going to be late enough as it is.” She hesitated. “I’ll meet you at the office?”
“Sure. I’ll see you there.”
He saw her to the door, gentleman that he was, and watched her leave from the doorway, giving her a little wave as she pulled out.
Her apartment was both silent and empty when she arrived, but she didn’t mind the solitude. She had never lived with anyone on a full-time basis, although she had come close. She’d spent enough time at Brad’s that she might as well have been living with him, but she had always maintained a separate residence.
It had been more of a safety blanket than anything else. She had wanted to have a place of her own, just in case.
She could understand why John had had such a hard time going back to his house after what had happened in Mexico. She wondered what it would be like, to get used to sharing a house with a wife and a son, and then to lose both. It was no wonder that his house had felt so empty to him.
As she showered, she reflected on those two weeks spent searching for her partner. She had needed him to be okay, had needed to find him. Perhaps they didn’t share the kind of bond that Mulder and Scully had, but he was a close friend, and they had seen each other through some tough times.
She’d been there when he found his son, had been the first he’d called when his wife left. He had been the first she’d called when she’d broken up with Brad. She hadn’t been specific as to who it was, but he’d listened to her story and had given her what comfort he could.
She wondered sometimes if she loved him, not in the way of friends, but as something more than that, and it frightened her. He was her friend, she trusted him, he trusted her, and she didn’t want to lose that. He was an attractive man, both inside and out, and she cared for him deeply, but wasn’t sure that she wanted it to go further than that.
In many ways, she enjoyed the solitude of her own apartment, enjoyed the company of her own thoughts, enjoyed her own independence too much. She had often wondered if she was cut out for marriage and a family because she did not mind their absence. More than that, she liked her career and enjoyed her freedom. She wasn’t sure that she wanted a permanent relationship with anyone. And John was a permanent kind of guy.
She dried her hair and dressed quickly, grabbed a breakfast bar out of the cupboard, made the decision to grab a cup of coffee at the office since John would probably beat her there and would have a cup waiting for her.
Even if the X-Files had not been her dream job, she reflected, she probably would have come to D.C. if John had asked. He was a great partner, as well as a friend. The kind of guy that watched your back without watching your ass, at least not too noticeably.
He was protective, but expected her to carry her own weight, treated his partners with respect, and gave credit where it was due. She had been around the block enough times to know how rare those qualities were, although she had noticed that Mulder had done similar things for Scully.
Not that John was perfect. He was stubborn, tended to get obsessive and close himself off at times, and he could be too protective. But all in all, she’d take him over most of the other men she’d worked with any day.
Maybe that was just it, though. He was a great partner, a wonderful friend, but she wasn’t sure she could live with him. They were just a little too different, their outlooks on life were completely at odds at times, and while that worked fine on the X-Files, it could backfire in a romantic relationship.
Besides, John Doggett wasn’t the kind of guy to sleep with his partner. He knew as well as she did what kind of problems came from having a romantic relationship at work. Monica had first-hand experience of the difficulties that came from ending a relationship with a co-worker; she didn’t want a repeat.
With that, she shoved the whole thing into the back of her mind, where she kept other perplexing problems, like whether or not God really existed, whether or not Mulder had really been abducted by aliens, and whether or not a random act of kindness was truly random if done on a day set aside for random acts of kindness.
Doggett was waiting for her in the office when she got there, just as she had thought he would be. And he had a cup of coffee waiting for her. She took it from him with a smile of thanks. “Anything new come in today?”
He handed her a case file silently, letting her peruse the contents at her own speed, without comment. Apparently someone had been defiling churches in the D.C. area. Each time it was the same kind of destruction, the same words spray-painted on the wall. “What do you think of this?” she asked.
He shrugged. “They think it’s the same guy, and they’re worried, wondering if he’s going to escalate. Skinner sent it down this way because you’re the expert.”
She made a wry face. “I don’t know if my expertise will help much,” she said. “Anyone could spray paint occult symbols on a church just to defile the building. What do you want to do with it?”
He hesitated, and then said, “They hit one of the churches twice. The latest incident was about a month ago. About the only thing I can think of at this point, other than looking at the physical evidence, is to stake-out the church that was hit next, see if he does the same thing.”
She raised her eyebrows. “He’d have to be pretty stupid to try something like that again.”
“Most criminals are pretty stupid,” he observed. “That’s why they get caught. We can go tonight.”
She nodded, then asked thoughtfully, “When was the last time you went to church, John?”
He looked up at her in surprise, then reflected for a moment. “My wife and I went a couple weeks after Luke died,” he said quietly. “The priest was talking about God being good, you know? I couldn’t understand how God could be so good when he’d just taken my kid. I got up and walked out.”
She met his eyes. There was none of the raw pain she had seen in past days. It seemed that he had learned to live with it again, like a scar you learn to live with, a weak muscle you learn to favor. It didn’t go away, but it got better.
They worked in silence for a while, letting it run past them as they worked on their case reports. John had yet to finish his report on Mexico, and she knew Skinner wanted it on his desk by the end of the day.
They had lunch together; she went to get sandwiches from a nearby deli she liked. John leaned back in his chair, feet on his desk, a book in one hand, sandwich in the other. “Monica?” he said, out of the blue.
“Hm?” she replied around a mouthful of turkey breast and sprouts.
“If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell anybody?”
She looked up at him inquiringly. He had put his feet on the floor and was looking at her seriously. “Of course, John.”
“I cried too, at the end of the movie. Never fails to get me.”
She felt a slow smile spread across her face, knowing both why he told her and why he would cry. A father saying good-bye to his son. John knew all about that, she thought. They sat, smiling foolishly at one another, sharing a secret. Spartacus made them cry.
Monica realized that whatever came, whatever ended up happening between them, it would be enough that he shared his secrets with her.
Scully
Scully entered her apartment cautiously. Since William had been born, she had never completely lost the fear that someone would come for him. She had never lost the hope that someday she would come home and find Mulder waiting for her.
They had had so little time together before he’d had to leave, so little time before she’d had to let him go again, this time voluntarily. He wouldn’t have left her or William if she hadn’t convinced him that she would not be able to live with herself if he was hurt or killed when she might have protected him. If she hadn’t convinced him that she wouldn’t want to live if he died again.
Even though he’d spent only a few weeks in her apartment before the baby was born, and only a couple of weeks afterward, she had gotten used to having him there. Hearing his playful, “Honey, I’m home,” when he walked in the door, watching him channel surf as he lay on the couch, having him next to her when she woke in the middle of the night with the nightmares that never quite went away.
They had not made love since he’d been back, but she had wanted and needed him near her. Part of her did not want to let him out of her sight again. That was the part that flinched every time he walked out the door. She hadn’t thought he would have to leave so soon.
William fussed in his carrier, and she quickly put her things down, including the mail she hadn’t yet had the chance to look through. She picked him up, holding him close, smelling his sweet baby smell. If not for her son, the emptiness of her apartment would be unbearable. If not for her son, she could have been with Mulder right at that moment.
She shook her head, impatient with herself for even thinking it, all the while knowing that it was true. She wouldn’t have given William up for the world, but at the same time, she knew that Mulder might not have needed to leave if their son had not been born. It was William, and what he represented, that put Mulder in danger.
And yet, perhaps Mulder would have been in danger simply because of what he was, of who he was. Maybe he would have had to leave anyway. Maybe she could have gone with him, then. But you didn’t take an infant on the run with you.
It was a paradox, she thought. That the one thing she had wanted most in the world prevented her, in some strange way, from having the other thing she wanted most. She supposed the old saying was true. You couldn’t have your cake and eat it too.
She rocked William, soothing him, singing an old Irish lullaby her mother had sung to her. She frowned slightly, remembering the tune Doggett had been half-humming, half-singing, earlier that evening. She hadn’t recognized it, and she wondered what it was. She was always looking for new songs to sing William to sleep. When he was really fussy, new songs always seemed to work best.
She smiled a little, remembering. Doggett had looked so natural with William, it had torn at her heart. In many ways, it became easier to like and to trust him, after she’d known about his son. It helped her connect with him in a way she had not been able to before, possibly because so much of the X-Files were about loss. It helped to know that pain was something he understood. Seeing him, after he’d gotten back from Mexico, made Scully realize even more that pain was something that he understood too well.
She supposed it had surprised her to learn that he’d had a family at one point, to learn that he knew suffering, possibly because he seemed so normal. He was just your typical FBI agent, although he seemed to be moving up the ladder more quickly than most. He was good at what he did, he got along well with others. Scully imagined that showed up on his report card often when he was growing up. “Plays well with others.”
So unlike Mulder. “Spooky” Mulder, the joke of the FBI. The brilliant profiler who’d thrown away a promising career to chase little green men and swamp monsters. Who believed that there was something out there. Oxford-educated Fox Mulder, whose demons chased him openly, whose pain was there for the world to see. Mulder who held her heart as surely as she held his.
They had been all they needed, down in that little basement office. Together they could deal with the pointed remarks, the name-calling, the winks and nudges. For that reason alone she would have resented Doggett’s presence. He represented all they had fought against for so long. He was impinging on Mulder’s space.
The only one she needed was Mulder, and there Doggett was with his smirk and his New York accent and his skepticism, helping her to carry on Mulder’s work, when all she wanted was to have Mulder back.
He had given her all he had, though. He had given her his loyalty, his respect, his promise, and his protection. She had treated him like dirt, and she had ditched him, and still Doggett had refused to leave. He had found Mulder. And just when he had earned his place, and her respect, Mulder arrived and gave him more of the same disdain.
She hadn’t really thought about it at the time, being so angry that he was even in the basement with her in the first place, but it must have been humiliating for him. To be put in the position of being the junior agent, after leading task forces for the Fugitive Department, to be taken from a job he knew and did so well, and tossed into the deep end of the ocean… Well, it was a wonder he had been as nice as he had.
Oh, but she missed Mulder. She appreciated Doggett, and Monica, and she was glad to have friends, but she wanted Mulder back with her. She looked down at the now-sleeping William, and marveled at how he looked so much like the two of them put together. True, he had her eyes and her coloring, but there was something of Mulder there too, in the cheeks, the shape of the face, in the nose.
She laid him down in his crib carefully, trying not to wake him. When she was sure he was down for the count, at least for the moment, she headed back into her bedroom to change into pajamas and her robe. She still had a few things to go over for her class tomorrow, and she needed to sort through the mail.
She enjoyed teaching at Quantico. The first day had been nerve-wracking as she realized how many of her students had come just to see the woman who had worked on the X-Files for the past eight years, the woman who had been so close to Fox Mulder.
She smiled. Mulder was still famous, more famous than he would have been if he’d just been another brilliant profiler. Somehow that brought her a sense of satisfaction, that no matter what the FBI might have wanted, people knew Mulder’s name, and for that reason alone word of his work was spread whether they took it seriously or not.
It bothered her, sometimes. That no one would ever really know Mulder, would know who he was, what he stood for, how much he did. She wondered if either one of them would ever know peace, if they would be able to settle down somewhere with their work and each other, a puppy, and a picket fence. She wondered if they would want to.
With William asleep, the apartment was silent. It was this time of day she missed him the most. Missed his company, his smart remarks, his arms coming around her from behind. Missed his whispered off-color comments, suggestions of exactly what he wanted to do with her when she was completely recovered from her pregnancy. He hadn’t been able to stay long enough to make good on those whispered promises.
She wandered over to the table and set up her laptop. As she waited for it to boot up, she picked up the pile of mail and flipped through the stack absently, not really expecting anything good. A plain white envelope got her attention. She gave a sharp little “oh,” as she recognized the handwriting. She simply held it for a moment, staring, running her finger over the writing and whispering his name.
She ripped it open and pulled out the letter with trembling fingers.
Dear Scully,
I had to talk to you in some way. It has to be enough right now, knowing that you will hold this letter soon. I miss you. My arms feel empty. The endless stream of hotel rooms feel vacant, knowing that you aren’t next door…
She kept reading, holding in the tears with one hand, hanging onto the letter with the other. A sob caught in her throat. “Oh, Mulder,” she whispered to the letter, wishing he could hear her. “I need you. My arms are empty too.”
Skinner
Walter Skinner sighed as he looked at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. He always had paperwork, but his little side-trip down to Mexico had not only caused him to fall behind, but had also generated more.
Kersh hadn’t been happy with him, to say the least, but this time it had looked good for the FBI. They had their agent back and had caught a bunch of Cartel members. The Mexican government had been happy, the Director had been happy, and Kersh hadn’t been able to say much more than, “I thought I told you not to go across the border, Walter.”
Skinner sighed. He could take getting chewed out with an ending like the one they’d had. He’d pretty much destroyed his career anyway. He didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it to the Director’s chair anymore, if he ever had. Probably wouldn’t make it to Deputy Director either, but it was hard to care. There was more to life than Bureau politics. Doggett was his agent, as well as a friend.
His stomach growled at him, reminding him forcefully that it was getting late, and he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. He frowned, considering. It was tempting just to leave the whole mess on his desk and come back to it tomorrow, but he decided against that option rather quickly.
There would be more paperwork tomorrow, and he would be that much more behind. He reached up and loosened his tie, deciding to go out, get some take-out and come back. If he worked for another couple hours, he could get a good way through the stack, let his food settle, and still have time to visit the gym.
He stood up, stretched, and headed out the door, grabbing his coat from the rack on the way out. The elevator stopped on the third floor on the way down, and Dr. Coulibri got on. She smiled at him warmly in greeting. “You’re here late, Mr. Skinner.”
He moved his heavy shoulders slightly. “Paperwork. I’m sure you know how that is.”
Her smile widened. “I certainly do. Unfortunately, I let myself get behind, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a late night for me.”
Skinner looked at her with interest. “Are you taking it home with you then?” he asked.
She shook her head. “As a matter of fact, I was just going to get a bite to eat and bring it back. If I take it home, I’ll get too comfortable and either end up asleep or distracted.”
He nodded his understanding. Being single, he didn’t have anyone waiting at home for him, so he had a tendency to do the same thing himself. These days, his apartment was simply a place he went to get cleaned up, sleep, and make a cup of coffee before he had to head back into work.
In some ways, he supposed it was a leftover habit from his days of being married. He kept his work at work and his private life at home. It was as easy as that, except that it had driven Sharon crazy because as his work took over more and more of his life, he had shared less and less of himself with her. Now there was little left except work.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he offered. He had too many bad memories of this particular parking garage to feel comfortable about her walking by herself.
Dr. Coulibri looked pleasantly surprised. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.” She glanced at him sharply, and asked, “What about you? Are you heading home?”
Skinner shook his head. “I was going to get some food and come back here. I’m a little behind myself.”
She hesitated, and then said, “Would you want to eat with me? I don’t like to eat by myself, and if we have the same plans, it might be nice.”
Skinner hesitated, and then shook himself. Here was a very attractive woman, asking him to have a friendly dinner with her, and he was hesitating? It had been a long time since he’d been out. “Sure. That sounds…nice.”
A pleased smile spread over her face. “If you don’t mind, we could take my car,” she offered. “I know of a good Chinese place nearby.”
Skinner nodded his amenability. He climbed into the passenger side of her four-door Honda, and pushed back the seat so his legs would fit more comfortably. He settled his bulk into the seat and watched as she pulled out of the slot and drove out of the garage.
“I received your report on Agent Doggett,” Skinner said, breaking the silence. “You feel that he’s fit to go back into the field then?”
She nodded. “You understand I can’t share specific details?” When he indicated his agreement, she went on. “He’s a dedicated agent who has been through quite a bit. I feel that his dedication to the job will outweigh any remaining psychological problems he might have. If not, I believe he will get help before he becomes a danger.”
Skinner nodded. He hadn’t expected anything else. He’d simply been concerned for Doggett’s welfare, since Reyes had seemed so worried when she walked into his office to tell him her partner was back at work, looking little better than he had when they’d found him in Mexico. He’d sent Mulder home when the other agent had looked that bad before, had even banned him from the building once, and he was prepared to do the same for John Doggett. He was glad he didn’t need to.
“I’m not surprised,” Skinner rumbled. “He’s a good agent. I just wanted to be sure he wasn’t being too dedicated.”
Dr. Coulibri eyed him with some amusement. “I don’t suppose you’re ever too dedicated, Mr. Skinner.”
Skinner’s lips twitched into a smile, which would have amazed most of those who knew him. “You’re the psychologist, Doctor. Why don’t you tell me?”
Her serious gaze unnerved him slightly, and for a minute he was afraid she would answer his question. Then she laughed, and he relaxed. “Oh no, Mr. Skinner. I never practice business over dinner, and never on anyone I might want to see again.”
He was surprised at her words and a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. It was a relief to not have to discuss business with someone for a change. Not to have to talk about little green men, alien ships, or unexplainable phenomena that he was going to have to explain to somebody.
It was a relief to be going out to eat with an attractive woman, only a few years younger than he, who seemed to be enjoying his company and who indicated an interest in him. In short, it was nice to feel normal for a change. “I can appreciate that,” was all he said. “And it’s Walter.”
She smiled at him. She seemed to smile a lot, and Skinner liked that too. His life had been pretty serious for a long time now. “Only if you call me Abby,” she replied.
~~~~~
Skinner walked into his empty apartment with a lighter step than usual. He hadn’t gotten much paperwork done, although he had gone to the gym. He and Abby had spent a couple hours just talking, surrounded by Chinese food and paperwork. They had spoken of little things, like where they had grown up, what their parents had been like, what had brought them to the FBI. Skinner had forgotten what it was like to have dinner with someone who didn’t seem to be half-broken.
Of course, he felt as though he was held together by duct tape and little else sometimes, but it was difficult to be strong for someone else when you were worried about flying apart. Abby was no more hurt or scarred than the next person. She hadn’t asked him to cover for her, to protect her, or to tell her everything was going to be fine. She had simply listened to him, asking questions that drew answers, and then she had talked. Of normal things, everyday things, things anyone might talk about.
Skinner didn’t begrudge his shoulder or his protection to Mulder or Scully, or now to Reyes and Doggett. He didn’t regret the steps he’d taken to find Mulder in Oregon, or later to preserve his life in North Carolina. He didn’t regret putting himself on the line for Doggett in Mexico, and he wouldn’t forget or ignore what he’d seen in that Oregon forest, whatever anyone said. Once he got down off the fence, he was a formidable opponent and a valuable ally.
But there had been days when he wished he’d never met Fox Mulder, never heard of an X-File. Days when he wondered what the point of pushing ahead was. He was swimming against the tide, and he knew it. He understood the power of those above him better than Mulder ever had, and in some ways, better than Doggett did now. He knew the fight was hopeless, and it was a mark of his character that he carried on anyway.
Skinner was well aware that in a few years someone would come to him and offer him early retirement. They would couch it in attractive terms, no doubt, and they would tell him they were doing him a favor, but he would know, along with everyone else, that they were simply getting rid of him in the easiest manner possible.
What was worse, he would probably take what they held out to him. He’d find a job as a consultant for a security firm, maybe find someone like Abby, who for whatever reason seemed genuinely interested in him, and settle down. Forget he’d ever heard about the X-Files.
He snorted. Fat chance. Though he supposed there was a possibility. With Mulder gone, and Scully at Quantico, he wondered what his role was in the greater scheme of things besides making sure he didn’t lose an agent south of the border and sending the occasional tidbit of information down to the basement.
The phone rang just as he was stepping out of the shower, and he went to answer it. “Skinner.”
“Walter? This is Abby. I know this is a little odd, but we’re having a neighborhood potluck on Sunday. I thought you might like to come.”
Skinner thought about the weekend that stretched out in front of him, full of paperwork in an empty building or an empty apartment, interspersed with a visit or two to the gym and to the grocery store. He thought about a normal evening with someone who looked as though she enjoyed being with him, who didn’t think of him as a replacement for a lost friend or a pillar of strength. He thought about a chance to have a few moments relief from his life as it was, and said the only thing he could think of to say.
“That sounds good. What time?”
Empty Houses
Author: enigmaticblue
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters; Chris Carter and 1013 do.
Summary: A character study that takes place after John Doe, and is written in four parts, from four different perspectives.
Doggett
His mind was a maelstrom of memory and pain was his only beacon. Something had been jarred loose; whatever had locked his memories tightly away had been released. Doggett’s head ached, the jagged edges of his splintered recollections making it worse.
He didn’t feel settled; he didn’t understand any of this. Doggett might not have amnesia anymore, but he was having trouble putting the bits and pieces of his life back together. He hadn’t even recognized Skinner when his boss had stepped up to the bus, looking through the front window with puzzled relief.
He remembered having his memories ripped away. Oddly enough, he remembered dying, although he knew no one else was supposed to know. The only good memory he could latch onto for the moment was the one that had sustained him during two weeks in a Mexican hellhole. His son, an early morning, and a bike. He had been relieved to remember anything, more relieved that he’d gotten out of bed, that he’d forgotten being tired for long enough to watch as his son rode his bike in the street. That glimpse had given him hope that he had been a good man, whatever he was currently.
Now he sat in the back seat as Reyes and Skinner drove north to San Antonio, getting him past the border guards with their badges and a hurried explanation that he didn’t quite hear. Reyes was calling someone named Scully (there was a flash of red hair), telling her to meet them at the hospital. He wanted to object, to insist that he was fine, but he was still too busy trying to put together exactly who he was.
He was John Doggett, ex-Marine, ex-cop, ex-husband, ex-father. He was an FBI agent. The lists didn’t compute. It seemed he was defined more by what he wasn’t than by what he was; he wondered if that made him a failure. He was still puzzling over that idea when they arrived at the hospital and a red-haired woman met them in the waiting room.
Seeing her pulled more memories into place. A cup of water dashed in his face, holding her as she sobbed in a hospital room, trying to keep her from seeing the body of a dead man, watching her hold her son.
“Everything is ready,” she said quietly, but her eyes were startled by his condition, and she made a sympathetic face. She touched his arm, telling him that they wanted to do some tests, but that he needed to get cleaned up first.
He took his first shower in he didn’t know how long and obediently put on the scrubs Scully had set aside for him. He let her guide him through the tests: the CAT scan, the MRI, the x-rays to ensure his ribs weren’t broken. He answered the hospital shrink’s questions as to who he was and where he was and what year it was. Each question seemed to pull its corresponding memory into its place.
Scully and the attending doctor pronounced him “rather the worse for wear, but fine.” She was the one who explained that he wouldn’t have to stay overnight, but that because he had a concussion, someone would have to stay with him. Scully looked at Skinner when she said this, and he could tell that there was a silent conversation taking place. In his present state, it went right over his head; Doggett didn’t have the energy to read between the lines.
He could see the worry lines etched on Skinner and Reyes and Scully’s faces, the lines that told him that he hadn’t been the only one wondering what had happened to him.
In the end, he stayed with Skinner. It was the least-awkward option, but because his memories hadn’t quite settled into place, Doggett couldn’t help but wonder what it said that his boss would volunteer to wake him up every two hours to make sure that he did wake up again.
He dressed mechanically; Reyes had found the fresh clothing in his overnight bag, the one he’d left in his abandoned motel room. Skinner drove them to the hotel and told him to get some sleep because he looked like hell.
Doggett slept like the dead but woke feeling little better. Since he had time, he took another shower. The dirt he’d picked up over the last week or two seemed ground in: invisible to the naked eye, but still present.
Doggett stood in the shower and let the water flow down over him, and he let the memories flow over him as well. A million motel rooms spread over fifty states and a few different countries, hot showers taken to wake up on mornings when he hadn’t slept, cold showers taken for other reasons entirely.
He got out of the shower and dragged on the suit pants and dress shirt he’d left in the garment bag. They were the only clean clothes he had left. He stepped out of the bathroom and locked eyes with Skinner who still looked concerned, as though he wasn’t quite sure he’d actually found his missing agent, as though Doggett might still be lost. And then Skinner retreated to the bathroom voicing none of the questions that swam in his eyes.
Knotting his tie in front of the mirror brought back more memories. His father, patiently showing him how to tie the knot, his mother, adjusting his tie on his wedding day, his wife touching it before he headed to work, teaching his son the rhyme his own father had taught him when he’d first learned. How many little memories were connected with each everyday action, each gesture, each smell?
The knock on the door startled him, but he wasn’t surprised to see the two women standing on the other side. He knew who they were this time. “How are you feeling, Agent Doggett?” Scully asked, blue eyes taking on a professional concern.
He remembered the correct response, too. “I’m fine, Agent Scully.”
Scully might have taken his words at face value, but Reyes didn’t look as though she believed him. He wondered if Monica was always so intuitive, or if it was just him. She had seen him in the Mexican barn and had watched him break down, after all. Monica would know that he wasn’t quite “fine.”
His partner said nothing though, not then, not at breakfast at the Denny’s across the parking lot, not in the airport as they waited for their flight. When they landed in D.C., Reyes told the others that she would drive him home. His truck was still in the airport lot, but Doggett had lost his license and other forms of identification, and he wasn’t quite sure he was safe behind the wheel yet.
Skinner clapped him on the shoulder and told him not to come in until he felt like it, at least not to come in until next Monday. Scully smiled at him, told him to get some rest, then allowed Skinner to walk her to the Bureau car they’d left in the lot.
Reyes didn’t speak until after she was behind the wheel and on the way to Falls Church. “Are you okay, John?” she asked finally.
“I’m fine,” he replied. He couldn’t remember any other reply.
Reyes gave him an exasperated look, the kind that said she knew he was brushing off her concern. “Do you want me to stay for a while? Keep you company?” she offered.
He shook his head. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“You sound like Dana,” she said, but she let it go. He thought perhaps she felt guilty for telling him about Luke again. She had been there the first time, when they’d found him, and his son had become the ghost between them. Doggett thought that they had finally begun to move on in their partnership, and now it seemed as though Luke would haunt them forever.
She parked his truck in the driveway, waited as he fished the spare key out of the planter in the front of the house, and followed him inside to call a cab. “You know you can call me if you need anything, right?” she asked. Perhaps she wanted to remind him that they were friends, not just partners.
“Thanks,” he said again. The silence that hung between them was like a living thing, full of what she did not say and what he could not. The cab pulled up outside, and Reyes turned to go. “Monica?” Doggett said, stopping her before she left. “Thanks for coming for me.”
She turned to look at him, amber eyes meeting blue. The look on her face was one he couldn’t read. “You’re my friend,” she said simply, but he knew she left a lot unsaid.
Doggett did little but sleep the first two days he was home. Not that he slept well. The silence in the house was deafening. He wandered from room to room, touching different objects, remembering.
Luke had never lived in Falls Church. He had been killed before Doggett had even thought of applying for the FBI. The house itself had been an attempt to revive a fading marriage. When Luke died, the glue that held him and his wife together had been gone.
He and Barbara had moved most of Luke’s things, unwilling to give them up to strangers. Doggett had set up the smaller bedroom exactly as Luke had had it in New York. It had been a way to keep him close, but six months later they both realized that they couldn’t pull it together.
There had been too much guilt in his eyes, too much blame in hers. He was a cop; he should have been able to save his own son. On some level they both believed that, and so she left before they damaged each other irreparably, if they hadn’t already.
As divorces went, it had been easy. She had simply packed her bags and moved near her family. There was no alimony to pay, no possessions to divide. She simply took what was hers and left the rest to him. He envied her ability to move on, to start over, to leave it all behind. He wished, somehow, that he could do the same.
He wandered into Luke’s room. He still thought of it that way, even though his son had never slept there. Touched the bed, touched the shelves, the toys, the bits and pieces left behind when a life is cut short. He still couldn’t sleep, even though exhaustion filled every bone, every muscle. The house was too empty, his memories too near, too raw, too new. It felt as though he’d lost Luke yesterday, and the house echoed with the silence.
By Thursday, he couldn’t stand it. Doggett headed into the office, even though he knew Skinner would be angry that he hadn’t waited. He found Monica in the office already; it was the first time anyone had arrived before he did.
She looked up in surprise and concern. “You look like hell,” she said, not unkindly.
“I’m alright,” he replied, but not even he believed it this time.
She frowned at him. “I don’t think you should be here, John,” she objected. “You should give yourself more time.”
He shook his head stubbornly. What was he to say to her? His house felt too empty to stay in, and he had nowhere else to go. The words caught in his throat.
Her lips tightened but she didn’t reproach him again. She rose from her desk and moved towards the door. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Do you want some?” she offered. Monica had never been very good at lying. She might bring him a cup of coffee, but she had ulterior motives for leaving the office.
He nodded, said thanks, and let her go. He was not surprised when his phone rang a few minutes later and Skinner’s secretary informed him he was wanted in the AD’s office. He went, of course, passing Reyes in the hallway. She gave him a half-defiant, half-apologetic look that he could appreciate. He’d looked in the mirror that morning. He would have probably done the same thing.
Skinner was waiting for him. He felt slightly guilty for taking up so much of the other man’s time. Skinner had put his career on the line to get him back across the border, and now he was dealing with an agent who refused to stay home.
The AD’s eyes darkened in concern when he saw him. Doggett knew what he was seeing. The bruises were fading, but the lines in his face were as deep and the shadows under his eyes were deeper. Skinner cleared his throat. “Have a seat, Agent Doggett.”
Doggett sat.
“Would you like to tell me why you’re back at work when I told you to take some time off?”
“I’m fine, sir.” It seemed that that was the only response he would ever make again. It was the only one that made sense to him. He had to be fine, otherwise he would fly apart.
Skinner eyed him doubtfully. “I’ve arranged an appointment for you with the Bureau psychologist for 3 this afternoon. You’re behind a desk until she releases you for field duty. Is that understood?” Brown eyes behind round lenses fixed him in place and dared him to argue.
Doggett chose not to. All he had wanted was to get out of the house. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Skinner said. “If that’s all, have Agent Reyes catch you up on what’s going on.” Doggett stood to leave, and was halfway to the door when Skinner spoke again. “John? It’s good to have you back.”
~~~~~
From what the Assistant Director had said, she had expected him to be late. Many agents who were referred to her showed some resistance. A few of those who had been ordered to see her by a superior were hostile. She had expected Agent Doggett to be both.
Instead, he had arrived precisely on time, although she could see tension in every muscle, weariness in every line of his face. She offered him her hand and then a seat. “I’m Dr. Coulibri,” she said.
He accepted her hand, but did not give her his name. He was apparently not one to state the obvious. She had, after all, been expecting him. “Why don’t we get right down to business,” she suggested. “Can you tell me why you’re here?”
There was a glint in Doggett’s eyes that might have been humor, or perhaps anger as he said, “I’m here because the Assistant Director wants to make sure I’m not crazy.”
She smiled. She heard both anger and humor in his tone. Anger because he felt it unfair that they thought him unbalanced, humor because he recognized their need for reassurance, and, on some level, agreed with it. “If the AD were afraid you were nuts,” she said gently, “he wouldn’t have let you keep your gun.”
She saw Doggett relax and met his gaze unflinchingly. “I want to be honest with you,” she told him. “Your partner’s life, as well as yours, depends upon your ability to perform in the field. It’s not a matter of ‘if’ you go back, it’s a matter of when. For your sake as well as hers.”
She knew the right buttons to push. It was, after all, her job. She sensed from his file the innate need to protect those around him from harm. Push that button, and he’d at least listen and would probably cooperate, because he didn’t want his partner’s blood on his conscience. “All right,” he responded evenly. “Fair enough.”
“Tell me about Mexico,” she said, and waited as he began his recital. His voice was dry all the way through, as though he was reciting any other field report. When he got to the end, she asked only one question. “Why didn’t you believe Domingo when he showed you the bulletin?”
He frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“You were alone in a strange country,” she pointed out. “You didn’t even know who you were. What was it that kept you from believing him when he said you were a criminal?”
Doggett blinked, uncertain, and she followed up that question with another one. “How did you know you that were a good man, Agent Doggett, when everyone else was telling you otherwise?”
~~~~~
He felt a surge of panic; the good doctor was getting too near the root of the problem.
Doggett couldn’t claim that he hadn’t thought of that question himself, but then, he still wasn’t sure he knew the answer. The pieces of his life still didn’t quite make sense; he still hadn’t put the puzzle together.
He didn’t want to talk about it, but he also knew that Dr. Coloubri wouldn’t release him for field work until he did. “I had this dream,” he said slowly. He hadn’t told anyone else about it. Only Monica knew about the scene in the barn, of that he was sure.
“Tell me about it.” Then, when he hesitated, she added, “Take me through your dream, step by step.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m laying in bed, next to my wife. Luke, my son, comes in. He wants me to get up and come watch him. It’s early, too early, but he won’t wait, and I can’t stand to disappoint him. So I follow him outside, and he gets on his bike and just starts riding. We told him he couldn’t ride without one of us out there to keep an eye on him, so he gets me up at the crack of dawn to watch. And I didn’t mind. I’m happy.”
“What did that dream tell you about yourself?”
“I had a son,” he replied. “He loved me, wanted to be with me. I wanted to be with him. I got up at 5:30 in the morning to watch him ride his bike. I figured that made me a good dad. I figured him lovin’ me made me a good person.”
She studied him for a moment then said quietly, “AD Skinner informed me that he wanted you to stay out of the office until Monday, but you came back in today. You don’t look as though you’ve been sleeping well, either. Would you like to tell me why you don’t want to be at home?”
Was he that transparent? Doggett wondered.
“How much sleep have you been getting?” she asked, gently.
“Not much,” he admitted hoarsely.
“Does that have anything to do with wanting to come back to work early?”
He shook his head, not denying her question, but unable to give her the answer. “The house is too empty,” he managed.
It was enough. She asked him another question, then. Asked him how he was doing physically, whether he was on any medication, how that made him feel. How was his memory? Was it back completely?
He was too relieved that she had altered her line of questioning to wonder why she had done so, answering what seemed like innocuous questions. He just wanted out. He wanted a drink. He wanted-something he could not even name.
“Well, Agent Doggett, I believe you’re fit for duty, and I’ll tell AD Skinner so,” Dr. Coulibri said after the long list of questions. “I want you to try to sleep tonight and this weekend, and if you’re still having problems with insomnia, I’d like you to come back. It might help if you had a fan going at night, something that makes a little noise.”
Doggett nodded, glad to be done, to be out from under her probing questions and even more probing stare. “Thanks,” he said, rising to go.
“One more thing,” she added. “If you ever need someone to talk to about this, you know you can come to me.”
He nodded, to placate her more than anything else. He’d had a similar offer just a few days ago from his partner and had yet to take her up on it. He knew that it was unlikely he ever would.
~~~~~
Doggett was not terribly surprised when Monica showed up at the bar near the J. Edgar Hoover building. He knew she’d called his cell phone, even though he hadn’t answered. He also knew that she’d been worried ever since they’d gotten back from Mexico. He might not have her powers of intuition, but he knew her. He could read it in her eyes.
He hadn’t answered his phone because he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He’d considered getting drunk briefly, but he’d driven his truck to work and didn’t want to take a cab. But just the fact that he wanted to get drunk made him ration his lone beer carefully. There had been a time in his life when getting drunk had seemed the best way to deal with pain. The morning after a three-day binge had pretty much cured him of that idea. His son had still been dead, and he’d had a splitting headache and a rolling stomach to go with the crushing grief.
Tonight, he’d wanted a place where he could think, where the silence didn’t echo with regret and lost time, and the bar had seemed the best option. So he wasn’t pleased to see Reyes walk in, looking for him, even if he wasn’t surprised.
She made a bee-line for his bar stool and sat down next to him. “Are you all right, John?” she asked.
Doggett turned his head to meet her stare, telling her with a look that he didn’t require her presence. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” he growled. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
Reyes kept her eyes on him, and it was clear that she wasn’t going to take his not-so-subtle hint to leave. She called for a beer from the bartender. “You look like hell, John. Why wouldn’t we be worried about you?”
When he didn’t answer, she went on. “Skinner, Scully, and I put our careers on the line for you, going over the border like that. Kersh wanted to shut down the search for you completely. Do you really think that’s all the further we would take it? That we wouldn’t care how you were when you got back?”
Doggett’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to hear this. He knew all of it already, but he was a master at holding his pain in his own two hands; he didn’t like to share. “I’ll be okay, Monica. The concern’s appreciated, but misplaced.”
“Fine,” she replied. “Then tell me why you came back to work so fast when you’re obviously not recovered and not sleeping. You tell me why and I’ll get off your back.”
He snorted his disbelief, but it was easier to say it again. He’d already spilled his guts once today. Why not a second time? He stood and threw enough money on the bar to cover his tab and hers. “The house is too damn quiet,” he said simply and left.
~~~~~
Doggett got home and threw his keys on the entryway table. He was tired. Bone tired. All he wanted to do was to go to bed and sleep, but he had little hope that he’d actually be able to.
The fridge was empty. He had yet to go to the grocery store, and he shut the door in frustration. He didn’t feel like ordering out, didn’t feel like another canned meal, so he ignored the growling in his stomach and went upstairs. He had just managed to change into jeans and his USMC t-shirt when he heard a knock on the door. Growling a little at the interruption, he answered the door, giving Scully a shocked stare.
Ignoring the look on his face, she handed him Will’s carrier and hefted the diaper bag and a paper sack in her arms. “Are you going to let me in?” she finally asked, amused.
Nonplussed, Doggett stood to one side to let her come in. She was the last person he had expected to see on his doorstep. She’d been to his house only a couple times before, the first after she’d gotten out of the hospital after he’d wrapped up the Tipet case. If you could call what he’d done “wrapping up.” She’d woken him from a nightmare where he’d almost split his own head with an axe.
Even though their partnership had reached an ease he had not thought likely after his first week on the X-Files, Mulder’s disappearance, her refusal to tell him the reasons behind it, and her stubborn deterrence of his efforts to help, had strained their relationship. To be perfectly honest, he hadn’t expected her to come down to Texas to look for him.
Now here she was, standing on his front porch and looking at him with barely concealed amusement. “What can I do for you, Agent Scully?”
Never one to mince words, Scully walked past him towards the kitchen, leaving him to shut the door and follow. “Monica called me,” she explained. “She said you’d been having some trouble sleeping and that you were back at work.”
“You don’t have to check up on me,” Doggett objected, almost angrily. He was fine. He needed to be fine. And the only way he would be fine was if people stopped treating him as though he were about to break.
“No, but I wanted to,” she replied. “Besides, Agent Doggett, you were gone for two weeks, and we haven’t had a chance to celebrate your safe return.” She began pulling items out of the paper sack and laying them on the counter. He quickly recognized the ingredients for a salad. “Monica’s bringing enchiladas. She said you’d had them before.”
Doggett’s mouth started to water despite his annoyance. Monica wasn’t that great in the kitchen, but her mother had a fool-proof recipe for chicken enchiladas that was incredible. He knew she was bribing him, but the prospect of a home-cooked meal was enough to silence his arguments. Will started to fuss inside his carrier, and Doggett quickly set it down on the kitchen table. Scully started for him, but Doggett checked her progress with his eyes. “I got him, unless you mind?”
Scully shook her head wordlessly and watched as he carefully lifted the boy out of the brightly colored carrier, holding him carefully against his chest. “I think he’s wet,” Doggett commented. “I’ll take care of it.”
He grabbed the diaper bag and carried Will into the living room, laying him down on the floor, talking to him softly. He wasn’t sure what he said, some half-forgotten, murmured words he’d used on his son.
It was like riding a bike, he supposed, it was so easy to get back into the rhythm of changing a dirty diaper, of murmuring words sung to a half-remembered tune. “We went to the animal fair. The birds and the bees were there. And the big baboon, by the light of the moon, was combing his auburn hair.” He listened to Will’s baby gabble, his chortles, and felt an overwhelming sense of loss.
He had been John Doggett, family man. His identity had been that of a husband and a father, and its loss was a hole ripped in his chest. He picked Will up again, and the boy gurgled soft, contented baby sounds. There was something soothing about a baby in one’s arms. “You’re good with him,” Scully said from the kitchen.
“I’ve had practice,” he replied shortly.
She made a movement with her head that seemed to indicate an apology. “My mom said that some babies like to be held by men. Mulder was good with him too.”
He glanced down at Will, remembering that Scully was dealing with a recent loss as well. “Feel free to bring him by any time,” he said quietly. “If you need a break. I wouldn’t mind.”
Doggett looked up to meet her eyes. He saw her regret, both for what she had lost, and for what would never be. Acknowledgement of all that might have been in another life passed between them, eliminating the barriers of formality and distance. Doggett had lost the identity it seemed that Mulder would never have, and their loss brought them closer than they had been before.
A knock on the door broke the heavy silence, and the moment passed. Doggett shifted Will in his arms easily, turning the boy so he sat comfortably in the crook of his left arm. “Let’s go see who that is, big guy.”
He walked to the door, opening it to face a sheepish Reyes. “I brought peace offerings,” she said, holding up a six-pack of Corona and hanging onto a glass dish Doggett assumed to be full of the promised enchiladas. He reached out and grabbed the beer from her, then stepped aside to let her in.
“You’re lucky you did,” he growled. “I might have tossed you out otherwise.”
Reyes glanced over at him, and there was relief in her eyes. Doggett knew that she’d seen his temper in action, and had a healthy respect for it. “You’ve got your hands full,” she replied, her tone teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”
Instead of replying directly, he said, “The food better be good, Monica. I’m still not completely against kicking you out.”
“I’m surprised you’d even want Mexican, after two weeks south of the border,” Scully commented.
Doggett pulled a bottle opener from a drawer and popped the lids off three of the bottles one-handed. “I didn’t eat this good,” he replied easily. “Besides, you haven’t tried it yet.”
He watched as Reyes turned the oven on and slid the glass dish onto the rack. “It’ll be a little bit,” she said, turning to Doggett and holding out her arms for Will. “Come on, John. I haven’t had a chance to see him yet.”
Doggett rolled his eyes but handed Will over and went to get the plates and silverware out of the cabinets. An easy camaraderie sprang up, and Doggett felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. There was a feeling of warmth in the room, and the sense was one of people who knew and trusted one another, who had been through the fire together.
He scarfed his meal, listening intently to the women’s conversation without seeming to, and without saying much himself. They spoke of their families, of cases they had been working on recently, of other small details. It was this that Doggett had missed most since his transfer to the basement.
What did you say to friends you had known for years when they talked about hunting down serial killers and kidnappers and bank robbers, which were horrible but understandable monsters? Did you tell them about the man-bat or the metal man? What about the alien bounty hunters or dead men that came back to life?
It hadn’t taken long before his present life had been cut off from his past as cleanly as with one of Scully’s scalpels. It was no wonder she and Mulder were so close, as cut off as the X-Files were from the rest of the world.
Scully made her excuses at about eight, pleading fatigue and the necessity of putting William to bed. Reyes began to clean up as Doggett walked Scully to the door, carrying William. “Do you remember what I told you the day I went on maternity leave?” Scully asked, as they stood by her car.
Doggett nodded. He remembered. It was the last day she had worked on the X-Files, the last day he had been able to call the office hers. The first day he was the senior agent.
“It still goes, John, in more ways than one. You can’t get anywhere in this life alone.” She smiled at him and gave him a brief hug. “Take care of yourself.”
He watched her car pull out and then went into the house to help Reyes clean up. She was wrist deep in soapy water when he walked into the kitchen, and he smiled. “I put the leftovers in the fridge for you,” she said.
“Thanks.”
They worked in silence after that, with Reyes washing and Doggett drying and putting away. It didn’t take long, and then they were left standing there, each hardly knowing what to say to the other and neither wanting the evening to end.
“You wanna watch a movie?” Doggett asked suddenly.
Reyes glanced over at him. “Depends on the movie.”
“I got Spartacus the other day,” he offered.
Her look was measuring and amused. Clearly, she was unsurprised that he owned it. “I’ve never seen it all the way through,” she admitted.
He raised both eyebrows inquiringly. “Now I know you were deprived as a kid.”
They settled back on the couch once he had started the movie. They watched in silence, neither being the type to interrupt the action, both content simply to sit next to one another.
Doggett’s exhaustion was catching up to him, and he leaned back even deeper into the cushions. He was relaxed for the first time in weeks, it seemed, and the sounds of the movie, the warmth of Monica next to him, the whispered sound of her breathing, all conspired to lull him to sleep.
Reyes
She glanced over at him, as the movie wound to a close. He had fallen asleep about halfway through, and she had debated waking him and going home, but he had looked so peaceful, had seemed so comfortable, that she had been reluctant to do so. And, as she had told him, she had never seen the movie all the way through, and she was enjoying it.
She didn’t really want to go home just then, even though she knew she’d hate herself in the morning. While she might have been more of a night owl in college, the working world had changed that considerably. And when six o’clock rolled around, she wasn’t going to be happy getting up with just a few hours sleep.
She watched the rest of the movie anyway, glad that John wasn’t awake when the end came around and she was dabbing tears from her eyes. He would have given her a hard time about that, just to tease a little. At ten years her senior, he seemed to think it was his job, the way an older brother would tease his sister. He would have rolled his eyes and grinned, all the while reaching for a tissue or handkerchief, if he had one handy. His teasing was never without a measure of gentleness.
He had not made fun of her tears when he stood in her kitchen months ago, however, as she clung to him desperately, needing to feel him, needing to know that he was actually real. That he was standing in her kitchen, telling her to forget the plates. That he wasn’t dead. He had been bewildered by her reaction, clearly not knowing what had brought on the storm, but willing to comfort her anyway. She loved that about him. The tenderness he could show, even in the midst of his confusion.
She had had nightmares about that day, about losing him, since then, though the memories had gradually faded. Now her dreams consisted of waking with the utter certainty that John was dead, and she had to fight the impulse to call him, just to hear his voice.
She rewound the tape and turned the TV off, debating on what to do next. She didn’t really want to go home, but she wasn’t certain about how John would react seeing her in the morning. It was certainly against Bureau regs, and he was usually a stickler for regulations, as long as he could see their point. But she was comfortable right where she was, and she told herself five more minutes, then she’d get up to leave.
~~~~~
When Doggett awoke the next morning, he was only half-surprised to find Reyes leaning against his shoulder, asleep. Not that he really minded. He had just gotten the best sleep he’d had in months, possibly years, and for some odd reason, didn’t even have a stiff neck. For a moment he assumed that they had both fallen asleep during the movie, but then he noticed that the TV was off.
He slid out from underneath his partner, careful not to disturb her slumber, and pulled the tape out of the VCR, noting that it was already rewound. He looked at Monica thoughtfully, but decided that he wasn’t disturbed. He moved his shoulders in a gesture of acceptance, and went into the kitchen to start the coffee.
~~~~~
Monica woke slowly, to a wonderful aroma. She inhaled deeply and checked the dial on her watch. 6:30. She was going to be late to the office today. Nothing she could do about it now. She pulled herself of the couch, reflecting that she had slept surprisingly well, and went into the kitchen.
John was pouring a cup of coffee, and he looked over at her as she came into the kitchen. “’Morning,” he greeted her, holding out the cup. “I got milk and sugar if you want. Not much around for breakfast though, I’m afraid.”
She shrugged. “I can get something later.” He looked better, she thought. The circles under his eyes weren’t so large, nor were the lines on his face so deep. In fact, he seemed much more like his usual self. “You look better this morning.”
“I slept good last night,” he replied easily, giving her a glance that seemed to indicate amusement at finding her at his house.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” she said. “I was only going to stay for another five minutes, and then, well…” She trailed off. He still had that smirk on his face.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked.
“Good.”
“Did you cry at the end?”
She made a face at him. He knew her too well sometimes. It seemed he didn’t need to be awake for the end to give her a hard time. “A little.”
He grinned, pleased.
“I should go,” she said. “I’m going to be late enough as it is.” She hesitated. “I’ll meet you at the office?”
“Sure. I’ll see you there.”
He saw her to the door, gentleman that he was, and watched her leave from the doorway, giving her a little wave as she pulled out.
Her apartment was both silent and empty when she arrived, but she didn’t mind the solitude. She had never lived with anyone on a full-time basis, although she had come close. She’d spent enough time at Brad’s that she might as well have been living with him, but she had always maintained a separate residence.
It had been more of a safety blanket than anything else. She had wanted to have a place of her own, just in case.
She could understand why John had had such a hard time going back to his house after what had happened in Mexico. She wondered what it would be like, to get used to sharing a house with a wife and a son, and then to lose both. It was no wonder that his house had felt so empty to him.
As she showered, she reflected on those two weeks spent searching for her partner. She had needed him to be okay, had needed to find him. Perhaps they didn’t share the kind of bond that Mulder and Scully had, but he was a close friend, and they had seen each other through some tough times.
She’d been there when he found his son, had been the first he’d called when his wife left. He had been the first she’d called when she’d broken up with Brad. She hadn’t been specific as to who it was, but he’d listened to her story and had given her what comfort he could.
She wondered sometimes if she loved him, not in the way of friends, but as something more than that, and it frightened her. He was her friend, she trusted him, he trusted her, and she didn’t want to lose that. He was an attractive man, both inside and out, and she cared for him deeply, but wasn’t sure that she wanted it to go further than that.
In many ways, she enjoyed the solitude of her own apartment, enjoyed the company of her own thoughts, enjoyed her own independence too much. She had often wondered if she was cut out for marriage and a family because she did not mind their absence. More than that, she liked her career and enjoyed her freedom. She wasn’t sure that she wanted a permanent relationship with anyone. And John was a permanent kind of guy.
She dried her hair and dressed quickly, grabbed a breakfast bar out of the cupboard, made the decision to grab a cup of coffee at the office since John would probably beat her there and would have a cup waiting for her.
Even if the X-Files had not been her dream job, she reflected, she probably would have come to D.C. if John had asked. He was a great partner, as well as a friend. The kind of guy that watched your back without watching your ass, at least not too noticeably.
He was protective, but expected her to carry her own weight, treated his partners with respect, and gave credit where it was due. She had been around the block enough times to know how rare those qualities were, although she had noticed that Mulder had done similar things for Scully.
Not that John was perfect. He was stubborn, tended to get obsessive and close himself off at times, and he could be too protective. But all in all, she’d take him over most of the other men she’d worked with any day.
Maybe that was just it, though. He was a great partner, a wonderful friend, but she wasn’t sure she could live with him. They were just a little too different, their outlooks on life were completely at odds at times, and while that worked fine on the X-Files, it could backfire in a romantic relationship.
Besides, John Doggett wasn’t the kind of guy to sleep with his partner. He knew as well as she did what kind of problems came from having a romantic relationship at work. Monica had first-hand experience of the difficulties that came from ending a relationship with a co-worker; she didn’t want a repeat.
With that, she shoved the whole thing into the back of her mind, where she kept other perplexing problems, like whether or not God really existed, whether or not Mulder had really been abducted by aliens, and whether or not a random act of kindness was truly random if done on a day set aside for random acts of kindness.
Doggett was waiting for her in the office when she got there, just as she had thought he would be. And he had a cup of coffee waiting for her. She took it from him with a smile of thanks. “Anything new come in today?”
He handed her a case file silently, letting her peruse the contents at her own speed, without comment. Apparently someone had been defiling churches in the D.C. area. Each time it was the same kind of destruction, the same words spray-painted on the wall. “What do you think of this?” she asked.
He shrugged. “They think it’s the same guy, and they’re worried, wondering if he’s going to escalate. Skinner sent it down this way because you’re the expert.”
She made a wry face. “I don’t know if my expertise will help much,” she said. “Anyone could spray paint occult symbols on a church just to defile the building. What do you want to do with it?”
He hesitated, and then said, “They hit one of the churches twice. The latest incident was about a month ago. About the only thing I can think of at this point, other than looking at the physical evidence, is to stake-out the church that was hit next, see if he does the same thing.”
She raised her eyebrows. “He’d have to be pretty stupid to try something like that again.”
“Most criminals are pretty stupid,” he observed. “That’s why they get caught. We can go tonight.”
She nodded, then asked thoughtfully, “When was the last time you went to church, John?”
He looked up at her in surprise, then reflected for a moment. “My wife and I went a couple weeks after Luke died,” he said quietly. “The priest was talking about God being good, you know? I couldn’t understand how God could be so good when he’d just taken my kid. I got up and walked out.”
She met his eyes. There was none of the raw pain she had seen in past days. It seemed that he had learned to live with it again, like a scar you learn to live with, a weak muscle you learn to favor. It didn’t go away, but it got better.
They worked in silence for a while, letting it run past them as they worked on their case reports. John had yet to finish his report on Mexico, and she knew Skinner wanted it on his desk by the end of the day.
They had lunch together; she went to get sandwiches from a nearby deli she liked. John leaned back in his chair, feet on his desk, a book in one hand, sandwich in the other. “Monica?” he said, out of the blue.
“Hm?” she replied around a mouthful of turkey breast and sprouts.
“If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell anybody?”
She looked up at him inquiringly. He had put his feet on the floor and was looking at her seriously. “Of course, John.”
“I cried too, at the end of the movie. Never fails to get me.”
She felt a slow smile spread across her face, knowing both why he told her and why he would cry. A father saying good-bye to his son. John knew all about that, she thought. They sat, smiling foolishly at one another, sharing a secret. Spartacus made them cry.
Monica realized that whatever came, whatever ended up happening between them, it would be enough that he shared his secrets with her.
Scully
Scully entered her apartment cautiously. Since William had been born, she had never completely lost the fear that someone would come for him. She had never lost the hope that someday she would come home and find Mulder waiting for her.
They had had so little time together before he’d had to leave, so little time before she’d had to let him go again, this time voluntarily. He wouldn’t have left her or William if she hadn’t convinced him that she would not be able to live with herself if he was hurt or killed when she might have protected him. If she hadn’t convinced him that she wouldn’t want to live if he died again.
Even though he’d spent only a few weeks in her apartment before the baby was born, and only a couple of weeks afterward, she had gotten used to having him there. Hearing his playful, “Honey, I’m home,” when he walked in the door, watching him channel surf as he lay on the couch, having him next to her when she woke in the middle of the night with the nightmares that never quite went away.
They had not made love since he’d been back, but she had wanted and needed him near her. Part of her did not want to let him out of her sight again. That was the part that flinched every time he walked out the door. She hadn’t thought he would have to leave so soon.
William fussed in his carrier, and she quickly put her things down, including the mail she hadn’t yet had the chance to look through. She picked him up, holding him close, smelling his sweet baby smell. If not for her son, the emptiness of her apartment would be unbearable. If not for her son, she could have been with Mulder right at that moment.
She shook her head, impatient with herself for even thinking it, all the while knowing that it was true. She wouldn’t have given William up for the world, but at the same time, she knew that Mulder might not have needed to leave if their son had not been born. It was William, and what he represented, that put Mulder in danger.
And yet, perhaps Mulder would have been in danger simply because of what he was, of who he was. Maybe he would have had to leave anyway. Maybe she could have gone with him, then. But you didn’t take an infant on the run with you.
It was a paradox, she thought. That the one thing she had wanted most in the world prevented her, in some strange way, from having the other thing she wanted most. She supposed the old saying was true. You couldn’t have your cake and eat it too.
She rocked William, soothing him, singing an old Irish lullaby her mother had sung to her. She frowned slightly, remembering the tune Doggett had been half-humming, half-singing, earlier that evening. She hadn’t recognized it, and she wondered what it was. She was always looking for new songs to sing William to sleep. When he was really fussy, new songs always seemed to work best.
She smiled a little, remembering. Doggett had looked so natural with William, it had torn at her heart. In many ways, it became easier to like and to trust him, after she’d known about his son. It helped her connect with him in a way she had not been able to before, possibly because so much of the X-Files were about loss. It helped to know that pain was something he understood. Seeing him, after he’d gotten back from Mexico, made Scully realize even more that pain was something that he understood too well.
She supposed it had surprised her to learn that he’d had a family at one point, to learn that he knew suffering, possibly because he seemed so normal. He was just your typical FBI agent, although he seemed to be moving up the ladder more quickly than most. He was good at what he did, he got along well with others. Scully imagined that showed up on his report card often when he was growing up. “Plays well with others.”
So unlike Mulder. “Spooky” Mulder, the joke of the FBI. The brilliant profiler who’d thrown away a promising career to chase little green men and swamp monsters. Who believed that there was something out there. Oxford-educated Fox Mulder, whose demons chased him openly, whose pain was there for the world to see. Mulder who held her heart as surely as she held his.
They had been all they needed, down in that little basement office. Together they could deal with the pointed remarks, the name-calling, the winks and nudges. For that reason alone she would have resented Doggett’s presence. He represented all they had fought against for so long. He was impinging on Mulder’s space.
The only one she needed was Mulder, and there Doggett was with his smirk and his New York accent and his skepticism, helping her to carry on Mulder’s work, when all she wanted was to have Mulder back.
He had given her all he had, though. He had given her his loyalty, his respect, his promise, and his protection. She had treated him like dirt, and she had ditched him, and still Doggett had refused to leave. He had found Mulder. And just when he had earned his place, and her respect, Mulder arrived and gave him more of the same disdain.
She hadn’t really thought about it at the time, being so angry that he was even in the basement with her in the first place, but it must have been humiliating for him. To be put in the position of being the junior agent, after leading task forces for the Fugitive Department, to be taken from a job he knew and did so well, and tossed into the deep end of the ocean… Well, it was a wonder he had been as nice as he had.
Oh, but she missed Mulder. She appreciated Doggett, and Monica, and she was glad to have friends, but she wanted Mulder back with her. She looked down at the now-sleeping William, and marveled at how he looked so much like the two of them put together. True, he had her eyes and her coloring, but there was something of Mulder there too, in the cheeks, the shape of the face, in the nose.
She laid him down in his crib carefully, trying not to wake him. When she was sure he was down for the count, at least for the moment, she headed back into her bedroom to change into pajamas and her robe. She still had a few things to go over for her class tomorrow, and she needed to sort through the mail.
She enjoyed teaching at Quantico. The first day had been nerve-wracking as she realized how many of her students had come just to see the woman who had worked on the X-Files for the past eight years, the woman who had been so close to Fox Mulder.
She smiled. Mulder was still famous, more famous than he would have been if he’d just been another brilliant profiler. Somehow that brought her a sense of satisfaction, that no matter what the FBI might have wanted, people knew Mulder’s name, and for that reason alone word of his work was spread whether they took it seriously or not.
It bothered her, sometimes. That no one would ever really know Mulder, would know who he was, what he stood for, how much he did. She wondered if either one of them would ever know peace, if they would be able to settle down somewhere with their work and each other, a puppy, and a picket fence. She wondered if they would want to.
With William asleep, the apartment was silent. It was this time of day she missed him the most. Missed his company, his smart remarks, his arms coming around her from behind. Missed his whispered off-color comments, suggestions of exactly what he wanted to do with her when she was completely recovered from her pregnancy. He hadn’t been able to stay long enough to make good on those whispered promises.
She wandered over to the table and set up her laptop. As she waited for it to boot up, she picked up the pile of mail and flipped through the stack absently, not really expecting anything good. A plain white envelope got her attention. She gave a sharp little “oh,” as she recognized the handwriting. She simply held it for a moment, staring, running her finger over the writing and whispering his name.
She ripped it open and pulled out the letter with trembling fingers.
Dear Scully,
I had to talk to you in some way. It has to be enough right now, knowing that you will hold this letter soon. I miss you. My arms feel empty. The endless stream of hotel rooms feel vacant, knowing that you aren’t next door…
She kept reading, holding in the tears with one hand, hanging onto the letter with the other. A sob caught in her throat. “Oh, Mulder,” she whispered to the letter, wishing he could hear her. “I need you. My arms are empty too.”
Skinner
Walter Skinner sighed as he looked at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. He always had paperwork, but his little side-trip down to Mexico had not only caused him to fall behind, but had also generated more.
Kersh hadn’t been happy with him, to say the least, but this time it had looked good for the FBI. They had their agent back and had caught a bunch of Cartel members. The Mexican government had been happy, the Director had been happy, and Kersh hadn’t been able to say much more than, “I thought I told you not to go across the border, Walter.”
Skinner sighed. He could take getting chewed out with an ending like the one they’d had. He’d pretty much destroyed his career anyway. He didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it to the Director’s chair anymore, if he ever had. Probably wouldn’t make it to Deputy Director either, but it was hard to care. There was more to life than Bureau politics. Doggett was his agent, as well as a friend.
His stomach growled at him, reminding him forcefully that it was getting late, and he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. He frowned, considering. It was tempting just to leave the whole mess on his desk and come back to it tomorrow, but he decided against that option rather quickly.
There would be more paperwork tomorrow, and he would be that much more behind. He reached up and loosened his tie, deciding to go out, get some take-out and come back. If he worked for another couple hours, he could get a good way through the stack, let his food settle, and still have time to visit the gym.
He stood up, stretched, and headed out the door, grabbing his coat from the rack on the way out. The elevator stopped on the third floor on the way down, and Dr. Coulibri got on. She smiled at him warmly in greeting. “You’re here late, Mr. Skinner.”
He moved his heavy shoulders slightly. “Paperwork. I’m sure you know how that is.”
Her smile widened. “I certainly do. Unfortunately, I let myself get behind, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a late night for me.”
Skinner looked at her with interest. “Are you taking it home with you then?” he asked.
She shook her head. “As a matter of fact, I was just going to get a bite to eat and bring it back. If I take it home, I’ll get too comfortable and either end up asleep or distracted.”
He nodded his understanding. Being single, he didn’t have anyone waiting at home for him, so he had a tendency to do the same thing himself. These days, his apartment was simply a place he went to get cleaned up, sleep, and make a cup of coffee before he had to head back into work.
In some ways, he supposed it was a leftover habit from his days of being married. He kept his work at work and his private life at home. It was as easy as that, except that it had driven Sharon crazy because as his work took over more and more of his life, he had shared less and less of himself with her. Now there was little left except work.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he offered. He had too many bad memories of this particular parking garage to feel comfortable about her walking by herself.
Dr. Coulibri looked pleasantly surprised. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.” She glanced at him sharply, and asked, “What about you? Are you heading home?”
Skinner shook his head. “I was going to get some food and come back here. I’m a little behind myself.”
She hesitated, and then said, “Would you want to eat with me? I don’t like to eat by myself, and if we have the same plans, it might be nice.”
Skinner hesitated, and then shook himself. Here was a very attractive woman, asking him to have a friendly dinner with her, and he was hesitating? It had been a long time since he’d been out. “Sure. That sounds…nice.”
A pleased smile spread over her face. “If you don’t mind, we could take my car,” she offered. “I know of a good Chinese place nearby.”
Skinner nodded his amenability. He climbed into the passenger side of her four-door Honda, and pushed back the seat so his legs would fit more comfortably. He settled his bulk into the seat and watched as she pulled out of the slot and drove out of the garage.
“I received your report on Agent Doggett,” Skinner said, breaking the silence. “You feel that he’s fit to go back into the field then?”
She nodded. “You understand I can’t share specific details?” When he indicated his agreement, she went on. “He’s a dedicated agent who has been through quite a bit. I feel that his dedication to the job will outweigh any remaining psychological problems he might have. If not, I believe he will get help before he becomes a danger.”
Skinner nodded. He hadn’t expected anything else. He’d simply been concerned for Doggett’s welfare, since Reyes had seemed so worried when she walked into his office to tell him her partner was back at work, looking little better than he had when they’d found him in Mexico. He’d sent Mulder home when the other agent had looked that bad before, had even banned him from the building once, and he was prepared to do the same for John Doggett. He was glad he didn’t need to.
“I’m not surprised,” Skinner rumbled. “He’s a good agent. I just wanted to be sure he wasn’t being too dedicated.”
Dr. Coulibri eyed him with some amusement. “I don’t suppose you’re ever too dedicated, Mr. Skinner.”
Skinner’s lips twitched into a smile, which would have amazed most of those who knew him. “You’re the psychologist, Doctor. Why don’t you tell me?”
Her serious gaze unnerved him slightly, and for a minute he was afraid she would answer his question. Then she laughed, and he relaxed. “Oh no, Mr. Skinner. I never practice business over dinner, and never on anyone I might want to see again.”
He was surprised at her words and a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. It was a relief to not have to discuss business with someone for a change. Not to have to talk about little green men, alien ships, or unexplainable phenomena that he was going to have to explain to somebody.
It was a relief to be going out to eat with an attractive woman, only a few years younger than he, who seemed to be enjoying his company and who indicated an interest in him. In short, it was nice to feel normal for a change. “I can appreciate that,” was all he said. “And it’s Walter.”
She smiled at him. She seemed to smile a lot, and Skinner liked that too. His life had been pretty serious for a long time now. “Only if you call me Abby,” she replied.
~~~~~
Skinner walked into his empty apartment with a lighter step than usual. He hadn’t gotten much paperwork done, although he had gone to the gym. He and Abby had spent a couple hours just talking, surrounded by Chinese food and paperwork. They had spoken of little things, like where they had grown up, what their parents had been like, what had brought them to the FBI. Skinner had forgotten what it was like to have dinner with someone who didn’t seem to be half-broken.
Of course, he felt as though he was held together by duct tape and little else sometimes, but it was difficult to be strong for someone else when you were worried about flying apart. Abby was no more hurt or scarred than the next person. She hadn’t asked him to cover for her, to protect her, or to tell her everything was going to be fine. She had simply listened to him, asking questions that drew answers, and then she had talked. Of normal things, everyday things, things anyone might talk about.
Skinner didn’t begrudge his shoulder or his protection to Mulder or Scully, or now to Reyes and Doggett. He didn’t regret the steps he’d taken to find Mulder in Oregon, or later to preserve his life in North Carolina. He didn’t regret putting himself on the line for Doggett in Mexico, and he wouldn’t forget or ignore what he’d seen in that Oregon forest, whatever anyone said. Once he got down off the fence, he was a formidable opponent and a valuable ally.
But there had been days when he wished he’d never met Fox Mulder, never heard of an X-File. Days when he wondered what the point of pushing ahead was. He was swimming against the tide, and he knew it. He understood the power of those above him better than Mulder ever had, and in some ways, better than Doggett did now. He knew the fight was hopeless, and it was a mark of his character that he carried on anyway.
Skinner was well aware that in a few years someone would come to him and offer him early retirement. They would couch it in attractive terms, no doubt, and they would tell him they were doing him a favor, but he would know, along with everyone else, that they were simply getting rid of him in the easiest manner possible.
What was worse, he would probably take what they held out to him. He’d find a job as a consultant for a security firm, maybe find someone like Abby, who for whatever reason seemed genuinely interested in him, and settle down. Forget he’d ever heard about the X-Files.
He snorted. Fat chance. Though he supposed there was a possibility. With Mulder gone, and Scully at Quantico, he wondered what his role was in the greater scheme of things besides making sure he didn’t lose an agent south of the border and sending the occasional tidbit of information down to the basement.
The phone rang just as he was stepping out of the shower, and he went to answer it. “Skinner.”
“Walter? This is Abby. I know this is a little odd, but we’re having a neighborhood potluck on Sunday. I thought you might like to come.”
Skinner thought about the weekend that stretched out in front of him, full of paperwork in an empty building or an empty apartment, interspersed with a visit or two to the gym and to the grocery store. He thought about a normal evening with someone who looked as though she enjoyed being with him, who didn’t think of him as a replacement for a lost friend or a pillar of strength. He thought about a chance to have a few moments relief from his life as it was, and said the only thing he could think of to say.
“That sounds good. What time?”