Symplegades
by Mischa (Prologue/?)
feedback: mischablue@iprimus.com.au
Rating: PG
Category: S, A, R (Doggett/Scully UST, possibly DSR?),
X-File
Keywords: mytharc.
Spoilers: general knowledge, 'Existence'
Timeline: post-Existence, but not in S9 canon.
Disclaimer: The characters you see here are not mine; they
are the property of 1013, Chris Carter, and associated
syndicates. Characters you don't recognise from the show are
mine. No copyright infringement intended. As far as I know,
Shoreside is a fictional place. No similarity to any existing place
is intended (although, that would be rather cool...)
Summary: A conspiracy, a static partnership, an uneasy
alliance and a mystery that will have Doggett questioning
all he knows.
***Archive: Please do not archive. Thanks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shoreside Stay-N-Save, San Francisco
March 22, 2002 -- 3:32 PM
Expectant winds blew low in the air, carrying with them the threat of building rain rolling closer from the sea. Salt lashed across their faces, sinking into the microscopic scars left by time. Faces reddened with the biting cold, their feet crunched on damp gravel. The sleek white Ford Taurus was an anomaly in the parking lot, a jarring pale dash splitting the random Morse code set by the darker vehicles around it. He was opening the door, pulling the driver's seat forward, when she suddenly broke the silence. Her voice sliced the heavy air.
"So this is it, then."
Doggett rose from his crouched position, turned to face her. The winds were building now, charging through the sparsely populated parking lot. Her motel room door creaked. He listened to the squeaking hinges and sighed.
"Yeah," he said, stepping out of the car to stand with her. The moving air chilled his face.
The case had been disappointingly unproductive, and they both understood each other's frustration. A hand-me-down case. The kind passed on to The X-Files not because of any paranormal abnormality, but because it was scut work no one else wanted. It was irritating and wearisome and despite the reassuring return to solid, practical, methodical evidence, the case simply held no interest beyond his natural drive for justice. A tale of grand theft and federal fraud being propelled by base human greed, pure and simple. No conspiracies, no hint of the supernatural, just stupidity, manipulation and megalomania.
Doggett had felt the same satisfaction he always did when he and Scully stood on the right side of the bars and faced the ringleaders, but the victory felt tainted. There was something more out there, he knew. While men did shady deals under tables and on paper there were monsters out there whose greed drove them to darker, inhumane deeds. He lived in a world full of wartime atrocities of a magnitude small enough for the world to ignore, investigated the sinister acts of broken men and women while the civilised earth
insisted it was at peace.
And there was no peace in the world, he thought, knowing he was alive by the metallic tang from the sea that collected at the back of his throat. He himself had been called peacekeeper until the rattle of shrapnel shattered flesh, and for all the peace he had tried to keep he had left with an honour of war.
Doggett wearily shifted where he stood, and looked closer into his partner's face.
Scully had been distracted. He knew she had seawater in her veins by her eyes and demeanour alone, but he had never thought she was the type to lose her focus in the face of it. In the beginning, she was all focus and direction even as the sea called to their less practical selves, reserving her musings for small quiet moments during stakeouts.
Something had happened since those first few days, something beyond what their case could account for. She had shut herself off, hidden herself away in the refuge of her hotel room. Sometimes when he could bring himself to listen through the thin walls he could hear her talking. To herself or to someone else, he was never certain. It wasn't much of a surprise when she turned to him as they wrapped the case and told him to go ahead without her. That she would be staying to handle further business.
When she told him, he knew... she was cut off from him already. That detachment... that was how the X-Files changed people.
It didn't turn them into mindless crazies cooped up in a basement office, didn't make them turn on each other like starving rats in an enclosed space. It simply offered a little more scope, and in that endless possibility there was the reminder of reality. But where the monsters were harder and the circumstances more disturbing, there was also a sense of wonder that Doggett found himself missing when working on a mundane case.
He wondered if that meant he was more open to extreme possibilities than his need for hard evidence allowed for, or if it just meant that he had his own passion for the unknown. For much of the time, he doubted both options. Put simply, X-Files were a helluva lot more interesting than white-collar crime. Crueller, more warped, but interesting anyway.
But they were also developing insensitivity to their work, a shell they couldn't seem to break through for the simple act of communication. The kind of barrier that could make Doggett look down at dismembered bodies and not even blink, the sort of coldness that had once made Scully shoot a man in dead calm.
The car door wobbled in the strengthening breeze and finally slammed shut, breaking him from his thoughts. Their faces turned towards it in unison, marvelling at the slow power the sky exerted on the ground. Stormstruck, they stood for a breathless moment gazing at the sky.
"Doggett," Scully said, and bit her lip. Her usually neat hair blew across her face, a sign of the storm soon to break. "I'm sorry about this."
"S'okay. If you need my help, you know I'm here."
She gave him that sideways look, the one that saw all. Drew her own conclusions. "There's nothing you *can* do. Not here. But thank you."
Scully moved like a mystery now, an incomprehensible being as perplexing as any X-File. Even her voice had muted from its
usually strident contralto. Doggett wondered when and where exactly she had become blunted, by life, by her self-discovery, by whatever it was that was haunting her. Because he knew by the way he puzzled over her while flipping through paperwork and making coffee that she was starting to haunt him too, despite all conscious efforts. She was haunting him while she was still alive and he wanted to be there for the life that suspended itself deep in his mind at night, transitory as it seemed.
Doggett was there for her now, but soon he would leave, because she insisted on staying alone. "Agent Scully?"
She saw her contemplating self reflected in his eyes and regained composure. "I'll be fine, Agent Doggett. Really."
"All right," he said. The door of Scully's motel room swayed to the rush of ocean air as they stared at one another. The salt was coming closer now, earth being beaten into submission by the sea. It stung. They blinked uncomfortably where they stood. He could hear the breaths Scully sucked between her teeth and wondered if the threatening rain tasted like salt on her tongue.
"Give Monica my regards," she offered. Doggett nodded.
"Will do."
"Stop by Mom's and check on William for me. He'd love to see you again."
"How long're you gonna be?" he asked, still curious. Scully was yet to give him a straight answer. On how long she would be, on where she was going, what she was doing. She looked at him and he could see a response forming in her mind.
He never once stopped to wonder what would happen if he never saw her again. At the time, such thoughts were unnecessary.
"I'll -- I'll be in touch," Scully promised, and Doggett frowned. All he was doing was just going home, and she was making it all seem so final. He trusted her instinct, understood that there were things she needed to do, but he still didn't understand.
"Okay," he said, and it was all he could say. "I don't know what you're getting into here, Scully, but take care of yourself. And if you need anythin', just call."
He had to trust her with whatever the hell it was she was about to do, because that was what she asked of him.
Doggett wasn't expecting the sudden step she took towards him, and even when she was resting lightly against him for that brief moment all he could think was that Scully must have been cold. It was only when she stood away from him again, gazing at him with the calm, centred resolution he hadn't seen from her since the beginning of this case, that Doggett realised what he had missed.
"Screwing up isn't part of the plan, Agent Doggett," she said, and he smiled. "Thank you," she added, before walking away to her hotel room. Doggett stared after her, smile sliding off his face in the rain, perplexed. The first hazy dampness of the storm began to darken his clothes.
He thought he would see her again, and soon.
It was an easy assumption to make.
* * * *
Location Unknown
Date Unknown
Somewhere in the yawning halls lined with silent stoic guards water leaks from the outside, dripping in a slow monotone that thuds counterpart to her heartbeat. The small of her back feels hollow without the solid presence of her gun. She knows it is the only way she would be allowed in there. Scully steps calmly through the rows of armed white-clothed men, meeting their gazes. The decorum and pride she had inherited from her military father, her ticket inside.
Scully keeps her chin up, posture tall, not betraying one ounce of the uneasiness that fills her. Thinks of the partner she left behind in a motel car-park, and only now begins to regret not telling him the whole story. Remembers the afternoon when she began to discover the answers to her questions, and the charade she began in order to keep the truth from Doggett. She knows he was beginning to guess anyway, but she should have told him nonetheless.
Yes, she regrets it now. Doggett would have been there for her if she asked, but left alone because she requested otherwise. Suspicion creeps into her thoughts -- would he follow her? -- but they're dispelled by the certain knowledge that he respects her enough not to try.
And so she is facing this next stage of her journey alone.
So many eyes...
Watching her...
They know who she is and why she is here and what she has come from yet they remain in their places, letting her pass through. Bitter triumph fills her gut the second she realises that they are going to let her get away with this. As long as she doesn't run, doesn't try anything stupid...
Scully carefully examines each face. Searching for a flicker of recollection. Waiting for a signal that she suspects won't come in this silent, antiseptic precinct.
And then, suddenly, there it is -- recognition.
Quick, subtle, but her signal nonetheless. A gaze dropping and shifting away, skating against the linoleum tiles. Scully recognises this face. The clack of her heels echo down the corridor. If she listens beyond the reverberation, she can hear the wind outside.
"I know you," she says in a firm voice. He meets her gaze steadily, and moves away. She steps into his vacated place to push against the door behind him. Scully registers the numbers on the door, but they don't ring any bells.
Under the pressure of Scully's hand the door swings open with a wrenching moan. The echo, dull and metallic, bouncing along the walls until reduced to mere vibrations of atoms. She hears the rasp of breathing, her own, the guard's, the...
All thoughts disappear as she stares into bewildered, beautiful eyes, and feels an aching familiarity.
Yes. This is why she has come.
She hears an odd chirp, a soft sob, and it is only be the involuntary clenching in her throat that she knows it is her own. "I've been looking for you," is all she can say. Her voice, so calm and controlled before, threatens to break, to shatter into the thick padded walls. Scully throws a glance to the cold white ceilings of the room, praying for strength. Those wrenchingly beautiful eyes still watching her, silent, understanding.
Scully takes a deep breath, and holds out her hand.
* * * *
Filmy rain blew softly in Scully's face as she stared vacantly into the depths of the water below her. Even with her hair pinned back neatly the way it was, strands still flew in the air, dancing in the sea wind. They had run, and they had ended up here. End of the line. Sink or swim, do or die. She wasn't sure how much more screwing around by the unknown powers out there she could take, and she knew that somewhere out there, someone was laughing at her and the prize she had simply walked away with.
She hadn't gotten away entirely. Yes, she had been followed. Yes, it had led her to this point, cornered by a foolish wrong step. She should have taken the time to familiarise herself with the area, to establish an escape route, but she was here...
"They won't come after you."
Scully spun on her heel, prepared to argue, but the chilling certainty in the speaker's eyes won before she even opened her mouth to argue. She breathed in the cold sea air, felt the splash of stray waves hitting the pier reach for her skin. The wooden structure beneath their feet was being beaten away by water. All certain things were crumbling now, and she feared what it meant.
She was thinking fast now, because she really didn't have a plan beyond this. It had been too easy. All Scully had done was claim her charge and leave, and now that she was beginning to understand why she was being followed it led her to one conclusion.
They *wanted* her to have this reunion.
And although she had taken all precautions, right down to neck checks and impromptu medical confirmations that the blood she drew was still red, it all made her very, very nervous.
"I should call," she said. "Home, Agent Doggett, A.D Skinner. I should call. Now that I know."
She cast a wary glance to the man sitting quietly beside her, at his weapon. He stared back with a mixture of compassion and anger and terrible, horrifying knowledge. The snub nose was in the air, the trigger ready to be pulled. If it was called for. If it was necessary.
Scully knew she wouldn't be calling anyone. Not any time soon. There were more pressing matters to deal with, like the gun in his hand.
"I'm ready for this," she said. Her voice shook.
* * * *
John Doggett's house,
Falls Church
March 25, 2002 -- 3:02 AM
The soft shrill of the phone dragged him like a resistant anchor out of the deep waters of sleep. Doggett switched on the bedside lamp and fumbled for the telephone, blinking in the harsh light. The brilliant red of his alarm clock caught his eye. Three A.M. Goddamn.
He knew it would be her but almost didn't recognise Scully's voice, beating down the phone line in sharp staccato. Rain fell in sheets of jagged metal patters outside, split by bright broken lines of light. Jesus. Had all the stormclouds of the world decided to descend upon the United States in one giant invasion? Had the storm somehow tracked him down or something? As winter merged into summer all there ever seemed to be was rain.
"John," she said. He could barely hear her over the roar of spinning water rolling down his roof. He listened closely, trying to catch every word. "It's me. Scully. I'll be flying in later this morning."
"All right," Doggett said, puzzled. He paused. Something was wrong. She sounded tense. "Agent Scully, you okay?"
He could hear her hesitate, fumble with the phone. Was that another voice in the background? Doggett couldn't tell. Then her voice was back, cool and even again. "I'm fine. Agent Doggett, I need you to pick me up from the airport."
His own instincts were climbing up to high alert, warning him that something wasn't quite right. "Yeah. Sure."
"Okay." Her voice was quick, official, tight. She rattled off her flight details and hung up before he could ask any more questions. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, and there she was in his head again, this cryptic puzzle only she could help him solve.
* * * *
March 25, 2002 -- 7:46 AM
Traffic howled and crammed on the road, but he could handle it with ease. It was merely a matter of negotiating his truck around the barely navigable runs of traffic, around the stalled cars, shaking fists, and blaring horns. It helped, of course, that he had the kind of truck that wore its metallic scars well. If anyone dared to ram him in order to get past, it wouldn't be his vehicle that would bear the
brunt of the damage.
Traffic was the grown-up version of bumper cars. Doggett caught himself grinning in the rearview mirror at the thought.
Tuesday. He hadn't seen Scully since Saturday. He hoped she found what it was she was looking for.
Reyes was on time and direct as always Monday morning, immediately noticing Scully's absence. Doggett felt a pang of regret at the memory; somewhere along the way, he'd neglected to tell Monica of Scully's side trip, and Reyes was out of the loop and frustrated by that fact again. They had argued, reconciled over shared paperwork.
Monica, at least, was receptive and clearly passionate about the work. She hadn't yet reached the stage where the mask of investigative detachment became permanent, and Doggett hoped to God it never would. He doubted it would ever happen. He knew her too well. Doggett didn't always understand her, Reyes made a habit of understanding him too much, yet the equilibrium they maintained was more than enough for them to work together without resenting the other's presence.
There was a stall in the traffic, the futile blare of impatient horns. Doggett looked in his rearview mirror to gauge the numbers of cars behind him, looking for an opening somewhere. The mass of metal machines were slowing, but there was still room to move.
"Jeez, you're a road hog sometimes, John," Monica had told him once in the office. Scully had overheard and smiled.
"Burning rubber and road rage are always effective triggers for elevated levels of testosterone," she said dryly, and Doggett tried to hide his smile behind a brow-furrowed scowl.
"Maybe it's the other way around," he had tossed back, and Scully had favoured him with a small smile.
A long, low Mercedes swerved dangerously in his direction before curling back into its original lane. Reyes was unusually wrong when it came to this particular observation, but it was a running joke anyway. He was too used to beat days on the streets and choking bumper-to-bumper cars lining the New York streets to ever truly be the 'road hog' she claimed he was, but there was a certain appeal to racing and owning the road.
Just not like the jerk peeling around in a car most would think too expensive to crash. On the race track? Fine. Out in the open road? The stupid bastard...
"I should throw the book at ya," Doggett muttered to the gel-slicked driver of the Merc, and watched the idiot take matters into his own hands.
The car he just barely managed to avoid clipped onto another in its pace, spinning across the road. Doggett swore and guided his truck safely away in an expertly executed defensive swerve. The spinning car in front of him regained its equilibrium and charged off down the road again, the roar of wounded pride charging from its engines reminding Doggett of the howl of a descending aircraft, bringing home the earth-born beings who had momentarily ruled the sky.
A memory shook him, and he blinked.
"I'm fine," Scully had told him, and he remembered her tone as he pulled into the exit and got clear of the thick lines of cars. Maybe he sensed trouble because the world was ending, after all. Scully was fine, and he was comparing planes to spaceships.
As he navigated his way towards the airport Doggett hoped she was okay. Scully was a subject of much study for him, a complex language to be deciphered with concentration and care. He had learned enough about her to know that there were times when she spoke the truth.
Doggett still had a lot left to know about her, but he did know this -- it wasn't one of those times. In those last few days he had begun to understand what was happening, but it all ended too soon for him to ever truly know.
The traffic remained thick all the way to the airport.
He hoped he wouldn't be too late.
* * * *
March 25, 2002 -- 8:46 AM
Streams of people flowed and edged around Doggett as he stood waiting for Scully to arrive. He checked his watch, and echoes of the milling people crowded in his ears. High up from the speakers a voice announced delays and called for passengers. Doggett listened closely, just in case any of those calls were his.
Something was wrong.
He had arrived ten minutes late, expecting to see her, but there was nothing, only the busy run of suitcases and bodies. Doggett had checked at the flight counter, and Dana Scully had been confirmed as boarding the flight... but there was no sign of her. He had waved his badge, asked to speak to the flight captain, to no avail.
Doggett rubbed his aching temples.
Scully wasn't the type to hide out in bathrooms fixing her makeup, and with the local flights departing in such small intervals he had no way of catching up with any of the flight attendants.
So where the hell was she?
He pulled out his cellphone and dialled the office.
"Agent Monica Reyes."
"Monica."
"John? You're not... early as usual. Are you coming in on time today?"
She sounded immediately alert, concerned. Doggett sighed, glad for her unerring intuition.
"Agent Scully called me this morning and asked me to pick her up from the airport. I haven't seen her. Has she called in to the office or somethin'?"
Monica's voice dropped to a wary note. "No... she didn't catch her flight?"
Doggett scanned the crowd. Nothing. "No. I don't think so."
"Are you sure? Give her a half hour. Maybe she's had to check in her weapon or something."
He shook his head. "I've given her half an hour, and I was late. Traffic."
He would keep on looking, but he couldn't shake the feeling...
And then, however briefly... a glimpse. Auburn hair caught the light and his reaction was automatic -- he turned to follow it.
He stopped. He stared. It was impossible, and yet... he knew at that moment.
John Doggett felt sudden weight sink into his bones, compressing him in his place. He gazed at familiar blue eyes, staring at him narrowed in questions and anxiety, and wondered just when the hell it was that you stopped asking yourself, or God, or anyone, all the questions that no one person could ever have the capacity within them to answer.
* * * *
to be continued... reviews welcome!
by Mischa (Prologue/?)
feedback: mischablue@iprimus.com.au
Rating: PG
Category: S, A, R (Doggett/Scully UST, possibly DSR?),
X-File
Keywords: mytharc.
Spoilers: general knowledge, 'Existence'
Timeline: post-Existence, but not in S9 canon.
Disclaimer: The characters you see here are not mine; they
are the property of 1013, Chris Carter, and associated
syndicates. Characters you don't recognise from the show are
mine. No copyright infringement intended. As far as I know,
Shoreside is a fictional place. No similarity to any existing place
is intended (although, that would be rather cool...)
Summary: A conspiracy, a static partnership, an uneasy
alliance and a mystery that will have Doggett questioning
all he knows.
***Archive: Please do not archive. Thanks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shoreside Stay-N-Save, San Francisco
March 22, 2002 -- 3:32 PM
Expectant winds blew low in the air, carrying with them the threat of building rain rolling closer from the sea. Salt lashed across their faces, sinking into the microscopic scars left by time. Faces reddened with the biting cold, their feet crunched on damp gravel. The sleek white Ford Taurus was an anomaly in the parking lot, a jarring pale dash splitting the random Morse code set by the darker vehicles around it. He was opening the door, pulling the driver's seat forward, when she suddenly broke the silence. Her voice sliced the heavy air.
"So this is it, then."
Doggett rose from his crouched position, turned to face her. The winds were building now, charging through the sparsely populated parking lot. Her motel room door creaked. He listened to the squeaking hinges and sighed.
"Yeah," he said, stepping out of the car to stand with her. The moving air chilled his face.
The case had been disappointingly unproductive, and they both understood each other's frustration. A hand-me-down case. The kind passed on to The X-Files not because of any paranormal abnormality, but because it was scut work no one else wanted. It was irritating and wearisome and despite the reassuring return to solid, practical, methodical evidence, the case simply held no interest beyond his natural drive for justice. A tale of grand theft and federal fraud being propelled by base human greed, pure and simple. No conspiracies, no hint of the supernatural, just stupidity, manipulation and megalomania.
Doggett had felt the same satisfaction he always did when he and Scully stood on the right side of the bars and faced the ringleaders, but the victory felt tainted. There was something more out there, he knew. While men did shady deals under tables and on paper there were monsters out there whose greed drove them to darker, inhumane deeds. He lived in a world full of wartime atrocities of a magnitude small enough for the world to ignore, investigated the sinister acts of broken men and women while the civilised earth
insisted it was at peace.
And there was no peace in the world, he thought, knowing he was alive by the metallic tang from the sea that collected at the back of his throat. He himself had been called peacekeeper until the rattle of shrapnel shattered flesh, and for all the peace he had tried to keep he had left with an honour of war.
Doggett wearily shifted where he stood, and looked closer into his partner's face.
Scully had been distracted. He knew she had seawater in her veins by her eyes and demeanour alone, but he had never thought she was the type to lose her focus in the face of it. In the beginning, she was all focus and direction even as the sea called to their less practical selves, reserving her musings for small quiet moments during stakeouts.
Something had happened since those first few days, something beyond what their case could account for. She had shut herself off, hidden herself away in the refuge of her hotel room. Sometimes when he could bring himself to listen through the thin walls he could hear her talking. To herself or to someone else, he was never certain. It wasn't much of a surprise when she turned to him as they wrapped the case and told him to go ahead without her. That she would be staying to handle further business.
When she told him, he knew... she was cut off from him already. That detachment... that was how the X-Files changed people.
It didn't turn them into mindless crazies cooped up in a basement office, didn't make them turn on each other like starving rats in an enclosed space. It simply offered a little more scope, and in that endless possibility there was the reminder of reality. But where the monsters were harder and the circumstances more disturbing, there was also a sense of wonder that Doggett found himself missing when working on a mundane case.
He wondered if that meant he was more open to extreme possibilities than his need for hard evidence allowed for, or if it just meant that he had his own passion for the unknown. For much of the time, he doubted both options. Put simply, X-Files were a helluva lot more interesting than white-collar crime. Crueller, more warped, but interesting anyway.
But they were also developing insensitivity to their work, a shell they couldn't seem to break through for the simple act of communication. The kind of barrier that could make Doggett look down at dismembered bodies and not even blink, the sort of coldness that had once made Scully shoot a man in dead calm.
The car door wobbled in the strengthening breeze and finally slammed shut, breaking him from his thoughts. Their faces turned towards it in unison, marvelling at the slow power the sky exerted on the ground. Stormstruck, they stood for a breathless moment gazing at the sky.
"Doggett," Scully said, and bit her lip. Her usually neat hair blew across her face, a sign of the storm soon to break. "I'm sorry about this."
"S'okay. If you need my help, you know I'm here."
She gave him that sideways look, the one that saw all. Drew her own conclusions. "There's nothing you *can* do. Not here. But thank you."
Scully moved like a mystery now, an incomprehensible being as perplexing as any X-File. Even her voice had muted from its
usually strident contralto. Doggett wondered when and where exactly she had become blunted, by life, by her self-discovery, by whatever it was that was haunting her. Because he knew by the way he puzzled over her while flipping through paperwork and making coffee that she was starting to haunt him too, despite all conscious efforts. She was haunting him while she was still alive and he wanted to be there for the life that suspended itself deep in his mind at night, transitory as it seemed.
Doggett was there for her now, but soon he would leave, because she insisted on staying alone. "Agent Scully?"
She saw her contemplating self reflected in his eyes and regained composure. "I'll be fine, Agent Doggett. Really."
"All right," he said. The door of Scully's motel room swayed to the rush of ocean air as they stared at one another. The salt was coming closer now, earth being beaten into submission by the sea. It stung. They blinked uncomfortably where they stood. He could hear the breaths Scully sucked between her teeth and wondered if the threatening rain tasted like salt on her tongue.
"Give Monica my regards," she offered. Doggett nodded.
"Will do."
"Stop by Mom's and check on William for me. He'd love to see you again."
"How long're you gonna be?" he asked, still curious. Scully was yet to give him a straight answer. On how long she would be, on where she was going, what she was doing. She looked at him and he could see a response forming in her mind.
He never once stopped to wonder what would happen if he never saw her again. At the time, such thoughts were unnecessary.
"I'll -- I'll be in touch," Scully promised, and Doggett frowned. All he was doing was just going home, and she was making it all seem so final. He trusted her instinct, understood that there were things she needed to do, but he still didn't understand.
"Okay," he said, and it was all he could say. "I don't know what you're getting into here, Scully, but take care of yourself. And if you need anythin', just call."
He had to trust her with whatever the hell it was she was about to do, because that was what she asked of him.
Doggett wasn't expecting the sudden step she took towards him, and even when she was resting lightly against him for that brief moment all he could think was that Scully must have been cold. It was only when she stood away from him again, gazing at him with the calm, centred resolution he hadn't seen from her since the beginning of this case, that Doggett realised what he had missed.
"Screwing up isn't part of the plan, Agent Doggett," she said, and he smiled. "Thank you," she added, before walking away to her hotel room. Doggett stared after her, smile sliding off his face in the rain, perplexed. The first hazy dampness of the storm began to darken his clothes.
He thought he would see her again, and soon.
It was an easy assumption to make.
* * * *
Location Unknown
Date Unknown
Somewhere in the yawning halls lined with silent stoic guards water leaks from the outside, dripping in a slow monotone that thuds counterpart to her heartbeat. The small of her back feels hollow without the solid presence of her gun. She knows it is the only way she would be allowed in there. Scully steps calmly through the rows of armed white-clothed men, meeting their gazes. The decorum and pride she had inherited from her military father, her ticket inside.
Scully keeps her chin up, posture tall, not betraying one ounce of the uneasiness that fills her. Thinks of the partner she left behind in a motel car-park, and only now begins to regret not telling him the whole story. Remembers the afternoon when she began to discover the answers to her questions, and the charade she began in order to keep the truth from Doggett. She knows he was beginning to guess anyway, but she should have told him nonetheless.
Yes, she regrets it now. Doggett would have been there for her if she asked, but left alone because she requested otherwise. Suspicion creeps into her thoughts -- would he follow her? -- but they're dispelled by the certain knowledge that he respects her enough not to try.
And so she is facing this next stage of her journey alone.
So many eyes...
Watching her...
They know who she is and why she is here and what she has come from yet they remain in their places, letting her pass through. Bitter triumph fills her gut the second she realises that they are going to let her get away with this. As long as she doesn't run, doesn't try anything stupid...
Scully carefully examines each face. Searching for a flicker of recollection. Waiting for a signal that she suspects won't come in this silent, antiseptic precinct.
And then, suddenly, there it is -- recognition.
Quick, subtle, but her signal nonetheless. A gaze dropping and shifting away, skating against the linoleum tiles. Scully recognises this face. The clack of her heels echo down the corridor. If she listens beyond the reverberation, she can hear the wind outside.
"I know you," she says in a firm voice. He meets her gaze steadily, and moves away. She steps into his vacated place to push against the door behind him. Scully registers the numbers on the door, but they don't ring any bells.
Under the pressure of Scully's hand the door swings open with a wrenching moan. The echo, dull and metallic, bouncing along the walls until reduced to mere vibrations of atoms. She hears the rasp of breathing, her own, the guard's, the...
All thoughts disappear as she stares into bewildered, beautiful eyes, and feels an aching familiarity.
Yes. This is why she has come.
She hears an odd chirp, a soft sob, and it is only be the involuntary clenching in her throat that she knows it is her own. "I've been looking for you," is all she can say. Her voice, so calm and controlled before, threatens to break, to shatter into the thick padded walls. Scully throws a glance to the cold white ceilings of the room, praying for strength. Those wrenchingly beautiful eyes still watching her, silent, understanding.
Scully takes a deep breath, and holds out her hand.
* * * *
Filmy rain blew softly in Scully's face as she stared vacantly into the depths of the water below her. Even with her hair pinned back neatly the way it was, strands still flew in the air, dancing in the sea wind. They had run, and they had ended up here. End of the line. Sink or swim, do or die. She wasn't sure how much more screwing around by the unknown powers out there she could take, and she knew that somewhere out there, someone was laughing at her and the prize she had simply walked away with.
She hadn't gotten away entirely. Yes, she had been followed. Yes, it had led her to this point, cornered by a foolish wrong step. She should have taken the time to familiarise herself with the area, to establish an escape route, but she was here...
"They won't come after you."
Scully spun on her heel, prepared to argue, but the chilling certainty in the speaker's eyes won before she even opened her mouth to argue. She breathed in the cold sea air, felt the splash of stray waves hitting the pier reach for her skin. The wooden structure beneath their feet was being beaten away by water. All certain things were crumbling now, and she feared what it meant.
She was thinking fast now, because she really didn't have a plan beyond this. It had been too easy. All Scully had done was claim her charge and leave, and now that she was beginning to understand why she was being followed it led her to one conclusion.
They *wanted* her to have this reunion.
And although she had taken all precautions, right down to neck checks and impromptu medical confirmations that the blood she drew was still red, it all made her very, very nervous.
"I should call," she said. "Home, Agent Doggett, A.D Skinner. I should call. Now that I know."
She cast a wary glance to the man sitting quietly beside her, at his weapon. He stared back with a mixture of compassion and anger and terrible, horrifying knowledge. The snub nose was in the air, the trigger ready to be pulled. If it was called for. If it was necessary.
Scully knew she wouldn't be calling anyone. Not any time soon. There were more pressing matters to deal with, like the gun in his hand.
"I'm ready for this," she said. Her voice shook.
* * * *
John Doggett's house,
Falls Church
March 25, 2002 -- 3:02 AM
The soft shrill of the phone dragged him like a resistant anchor out of the deep waters of sleep. Doggett switched on the bedside lamp and fumbled for the telephone, blinking in the harsh light. The brilliant red of his alarm clock caught his eye. Three A.M. Goddamn.
He knew it would be her but almost didn't recognise Scully's voice, beating down the phone line in sharp staccato. Rain fell in sheets of jagged metal patters outside, split by bright broken lines of light. Jesus. Had all the stormclouds of the world decided to descend upon the United States in one giant invasion? Had the storm somehow tracked him down or something? As winter merged into summer all there ever seemed to be was rain.
"John," she said. He could barely hear her over the roar of spinning water rolling down his roof. He listened closely, trying to catch every word. "It's me. Scully. I'll be flying in later this morning."
"All right," Doggett said, puzzled. He paused. Something was wrong. She sounded tense. "Agent Scully, you okay?"
He could hear her hesitate, fumble with the phone. Was that another voice in the background? Doggett couldn't tell. Then her voice was back, cool and even again. "I'm fine. Agent Doggett, I need you to pick me up from the airport."
His own instincts were climbing up to high alert, warning him that something wasn't quite right. "Yeah. Sure."
"Okay." Her voice was quick, official, tight. She rattled off her flight details and hung up before he could ask any more questions. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, and there she was in his head again, this cryptic puzzle only she could help him solve.
* * * *
March 25, 2002 -- 7:46 AM
Traffic howled and crammed on the road, but he could handle it with ease. It was merely a matter of negotiating his truck around the barely navigable runs of traffic, around the stalled cars, shaking fists, and blaring horns. It helped, of course, that he had the kind of truck that wore its metallic scars well. If anyone dared to ram him in order to get past, it wouldn't be his vehicle that would bear the
brunt of the damage.
Traffic was the grown-up version of bumper cars. Doggett caught himself grinning in the rearview mirror at the thought.
Tuesday. He hadn't seen Scully since Saturday. He hoped she found what it was she was looking for.
Reyes was on time and direct as always Monday morning, immediately noticing Scully's absence. Doggett felt a pang of regret at the memory; somewhere along the way, he'd neglected to tell Monica of Scully's side trip, and Reyes was out of the loop and frustrated by that fact again. They had argued, reconciled over shared paperwork.
Monica, at least, was receptive and clearly passionate about the work. She hadn't yet reached the stage where the mask of investigative detachment became permanent, and Doggett hoped to God it never would. He doubted it would ever happen. He knew her too well. Doggett didn't always understand her, Reyes made a habit of understanding him too much, yet the equilibrium they maintained was more than enough for them to work together without resenting the other's presence.
There was a stall in the traffic, the futile blare of impatient horns. Doggett looked in his rearview mirror to gauge the numbers of cars behind him, looking for an opening somewhere. The mass of metal machines were slowing, but there was still room to move.
"Jeez, you're a road hog sometimes, John," Monica had told him once in the office. Scully had overheard and smiled.
"Burning rubber and road rage are always effective triggers for elevated levels of testosterone," she said dryly, and Doggett tried to hide his smile behind a brow-furrowed scowl.
"Maybe it's the other way around," he had tossed back, and Scully had favoured him with a small smile.
A long, low Mercedes swerved dangerously in his direction before curling back into its original lane. Reyes was unusually wrong when it came to this particular observation, but it was a running joke anyway. He was too used to beat days on the streets and choking bumper-to-bumper cars lining the New York streets to ever truly be the 'road hog' she claimed he was, but there was a certain appeal to racing and owning the road.
Just not like the jerk peeling around in a car most would think too expensive to crash. On the race track? Fine. Out in the open road? The stupid bastard...
"I should throw the book at ya," Doggett muttered to the gel-slicked driver of the Merc, and watched the idiot take matters into his own hands.
The car he just barely managed to avoid clipped onto another in its pace, spinning across the road. Doggett swore and guided his truck safely away in an expertly executed defensive swerve. The spinning car in front of him regained its equilibrium and charged off down the road again, the roar of wounded pride charging from its engines reminding Doggett of the howl of a descending aircraft, bringing home the earth-born beings who had momentarily ruled the sky.
A memory shook him, and he blinked.
"I'm fine," Scully had told him, and he remembered her tone as he pulled into the exit and got clear of the thick lines of cars. Maybe he sensed trouble because the world was ending, after all. Scully was fine, and he was comparing planes to spaceships.
As he navigated his way towards the airport Doggett hoped she was okay. Scully was a subject of much study for him, a complex language to be deciphered with concentration and care. He had learned enough about her to know that there were times when she spoke the truth.
Doggett still had a lot left to know about her, but he did know this -- it wasn't one of those times. In those last few days he had begun to understand what was happening, but it all ended too soon for him to ever truly know.
The traffic remained thick all the way to the airport.
He hoped he wouldn't be too late.
* * * *
March 25, 2002 -- 8:46 AM
Streams of people flowed and edged around Doggett as he stood waiting for Scully to arrive. He checked his watch, and echoes of the milling people crowded in his ears. High up from the speakers a voice announced delays and called for passengers. Doggett listened closely, just in case any of those calls were his.
Something was wrong.
He had arrived ten minutes late, expecting to see her, but there was nothing, only the busy run of suitcases and bodies. Doggett had checked at the flight counter, and Dana Scully had been confirmed as boarding the flight... but there was no sign of her. He had waved his badge, asked to speak to the flight captain, to no avail.
Doggett rubbed his aching temples.
Scully wasn't the type to hide out in bathrooms fixing her makeup, and with the local flights departing in such small intervals he had no way of catching up with any of the flight attendants.
So where the hell was she?
He pulled out his cellphone and dialled the office.
"Agent Monica Reyes."
"Monica."
"John? You're not... early as usual. Are you coming in on time today?"
She sounded immediately alert, concerned. Doggett sighed, glad for her unerring intuition.
"Agent Scully called me this morning and asked me to pick her up from the airport. I haven't seen her. Has she called in to the office or somethin'?"
Monica's voice dropped to a wary note. "No... she didn't catch her flight?"
Doggett scanned the crowd. Nothing. "No. I don't think so."
"Are you sure? Give her a half hour. Maybe she's had to check in her weapon or something."
He shook his head. "I've given her half an hour, and I was late. Traffic."
He would keep on looking, but he couldn't shake the feeling...
And then, however briefly... a glimpse. Auburn hair caught the light and his reaction was automatic -- he turned to follow it.
He stopped. He stared. It was impossible, and yet... he knew at that moment.
John Doggett felt sudden weight sink into his bones, compressing him in his place. He gazed at familiar blue eyes, staring at him narrowed in questions and anxiety, and wondered just when the hell it was that you stopped asking yourself, or God, or anyone, all the questions that no one person could ever have the capacity within them to answer.
* * * *
to be continued... reviews welcome!