TITLE: Watchdog AUTHOR: Anne Hedonia RATING: NC-17 - just to be safe. Sex and disturbing images. CLASSIFICATION: S, A KEYWORDS: DSR, Doggett/Scully Relationship, AU, Mytharc, Angst-o-rama SPOILERS: Up to about TINH, at which point I change everything. ARCHIVE: your little hearts out, just notify me where. DISCLAIMERS: Me very much not to be owning. Or meaning to be infringing. SUMMARY: She had managed to keep him shut out for all this time. And he had gone along with it. Until now. E-MAIL: ahedonia@yahoo.com MORE OF THE SAME CAN BE FOUND AT: http://people.we.mediaone.net/madwazel AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was the second one I ever started. A quick look at my collected *oeuvre* shows that it is the 9th story I evee finished. This one has taken a long time in gestating, folks. To be honest, I think that my mourning over the WTC/Pentagon tragedies was what gave me the necessary angst to finish it, but make no mistake - this is not a tribute fic. It is, however, darker than I ever expected, as questions of life and death were foremost in my mind. There's much Scully!Torture here, so be very warned. Also, in this little world, Mulder never rose again, Scully never got pregnant, and just parenthetically, Krycek never got shot. As long as I was taking things back, I figured I'd throw that in there, too. SHIPPERS AND MULDERISTS: For those of you who say we 'Dipper folk pair Scully up with Doggett too fast and without any remorse on her part, well...you can't say that for this story. Even so, it still won't be your cup of tea. Beta thanks to half the world: FirePhile, spookycc, Azar Suerte, and Cap'n DB. Thanks for your individual inputs while I went through StoryWeirdness (tm) - they helped enormously. * * * * * It was late, almost 9:45 am when Dana Scully reached her office, a fact that did nothing to relieve the frazzled feeling she'd been nursing all morning. She hurried over to Mulder's old desk and began to unburden herself of her things. She purposely used the ritual of getting settled as an excuse not to look across the room at her partner. As he did every morning, John Doggett continued his work, letting the moment of her greeting happen whenever she was ready. Scully knew that he was sending no pressure her way - he never did, he never would. It was simultaneously a relief and a guilty annoyance. Finally, it was time - nothing else to put away, no more clothing to straighten, no excuses left. She sighed and tried to release all her restless energy, tried to let go of all she couldn't change and couldn't do. She sat, then raised her eyes to where he was: "Good morning, Agent Doggett." "Mornin'." Doggett glanced up at her with a polite smile, and then - yes, there it was, that something else. It was barely half a second of extra attention, but it was there, Scully could feel it, dammit. In the fraction of an instant after his greeting, she could see him take in information, process it, come to a conclusion, and then move on. The main thing Scully could tell - a thought that had been occurring to her constantly, lately - is that he knew. Of course he knew she'd just come in from visiting Mulder's grave this morning - even though she never spoke of it - but it was more than that. He knew how often she'd gone this week, and that she was starting to visit after work, too, and on weekends. He knew, she thought with an irrational paranoia, what she talked about with Mulder at the gravesite. He somehow knew the desperate quality of her visits, lately, her frenzy to somehow feel a tangible connection to her fallen partner, because after two years, that feeling had been slipping away. Doggett's attention had fallen back to his paperwork, and Scully continued to look at him. She looked at the strong forearms exposed by the already-rolled-up sleeves, at the spiky, short hair that covered his bowed head. She became angry, thinking of Doggett's invasion of her private life, the gall he was showing with his intrusion into her feelings and thoughts. The very next second, the anger was gone, replaced with a tangled confusion. The man hadn't done anything this morning but look at her. He hadn't asked a single question, made even one inquiry into her private life. Oh, she felt sure he must ask about her with other people, discreetly of course, but the only person who really knew anything about her was Skinner and he would never reveal anything she wouldn't condone. She was sure the information he got was nothing but scraps, and that he filled in the rest with his intuition, his near-genius for reading "suspects" and anyone else who crossed his path. Scully fished through her bottom desk drawer and found her coffee mug, carelessly stashed there before she left yesterday, in a hurry to beat the traffic to the cemetery. She gazed unseeingly at the now-dried, crumpled tea bag she'd left inside it, and the brown, puddled stains at the bottom. The two years since Mulder's death had been a trial for everyone even remotely connected to Mulder, a grueling hardship with Scully at its center. Scully was familiar with the stages of grief: shock, denial, bargaining, anger, depression, acceptance. As it had fallen to her to announce death to relatives often enough, she'd had a fair bit of experience being the reasonable one - she who could see past the terrible news into the greater scheme of things. But as often happens, her intellectual understanding did nothing to lessen the impact when Mulder's ruined body was found. Her detached "experience" provided no map. In the months that followed Mulder's graceless "return", the wrenching pain was pure quicksand, and she was as powerless in its grip as any layperson, positive she was the only one ever to feel so hopeless and that no end to her suffering could possibly exist. She realized, in retrospect, that her "bargaining" phase had been the hardest for those around her to take - she'd come up with theories, torturous constructs of pain that kept her awake almost constantly, and often sent her to Skinner's doorstep in the wee hours, wild-eyed and demanding action. Mulder's body had been switched and wasn't the one that they'd buried, perhaps his vitals were just incredibly dormant and he should be exhumed to make sure they hadn't missed anything (she had to admit now that that was the most farfetched one). Once she'd wanted the body exhumed just to search for her cross pendant, the one she'd given him just before he 'd gone to Oregon, and which had not been on the body when it came back. She was sure that this proved it wasn't the real Mulder. Watching her argue her theories made Skinner's face crumple with fatherly pain, made Doggett's jaw go tight with diplomatic silence, and made her mother cry quietly as Scully continued to talk and didn't notice. Occasionally during this time, a little bit of Scully's consciousness would poke through to the light, and cast a glance at the possibilities of a life after grieving. As much of a relief as those thoughts were, some other ruthless part of her always yanked her thoughts back down into the mire and demanded that she stay there. She was afraid to go on to the stage of acceptance. She felt it would be a betrayal to ever be happy again. Her suffering had run the gamut - she had been everything from petulantly impossible to a whirlwind of hopeless activity to the walking dead. As the one who worked closest to her, every day, Doggett had been everything from quietly concerned to openly concerned to argumentatively concerned to stoic and dutiful. He gave her space when she would allow him no closer, giving up individual battles but never conceding the war. The one thing he had never, ever done was leave. He hadn't known her for half as long as anyone else in her life, but no matter what he was to her, he was always there. Speaking of which, he was there again. Literally. Standing over her with a bemused smile on his face, holding his coffee mug. He cupped his free hand to his mouth and joked quietly: "Pagin' Agent Scully..." She shook herself, smiled guiltily. "Sorry. It's been one of those mornings. I didn't sleep too well last night." Certainly wasn't a lie. Sleep was another thing affected by this problem of hers. "Not a problem." He pointed at her cup. "I was just thinkin' that was a good idea. Want me to get yours?" She started to answer reflexively, then stopped herself: "Yes, actually, that would be nice." "Okay." He paused and considered her - though his face barely betrayed it, she could feel him sizing up her state of health. "You ever try that melatonin stuff? I tried it once when I had jet lag. Worked like a charm." Scully smiled and gazed at her lap, deciding not to mention for the 1,000,000,000th time that she was a doctor. "Maybe I'll pick some up." Doggett nodded, turned to go. Before he reached the door he turned back to his desk and grabbed something. An instant later he was holding out her favorite ballpoint to her - the one from the muffler shop she had never visited and had no idea how their promotional pen had ever ended up in her possession. "I borrowed that pen you like. Meant to put it back before you came in - didn't mean to Shanghai it from you." Scully smiled weakly and reached to take it from his hand. She'd never *said* it was her favorite...but then why was she surprised? Her fingers didn't close securely around the pen, and when he let it go it fell to her desktop. Before she could reach for it herself, he had it and was handing it to her again. Their eyes met for a brief moment, too quickly for Scully to throw the shields up. Their eyes met and she was momentarily weak and he saw it. He saw it and accepted it, saw no shame in it, and was quietly happy - grateful even - to be able to catch her and buoy her back up. His eyes were the sky and she marveled at how his gaze could go from granite to softness itself, in the space of an instant and without any discernable change. And then he was gone. Off to fulfill yet another duty, perfectly. Scully's face burned with what had just happened. Scully had learned that protectiveness was Doggett's defining trait. It was his apparent calling in life - protecting everything and everybody. Scully also knew that, of all the things Doggett guarded, he protected her in particular. She usually didn't want to think about why. She knew he meant no disrespect, that it was done out of genuine concern. Which panicked her even more. It meant he wouldn't stop. Doggett guarded her with a quiet yet absolute relentlessness - like those Terminator robots from the movies. He wouldn't even give her the luxury of self- destruction. When she tried to hunt up reasons to feel guilty about a case going awry, he'd bar the way. When she tried to isolate herself and feel sorry, he'd put those blue eyes of his and their knowledge sternly in her path. He was the principled therapist who wouldn't let her shrink from her troubles. He was the teacher who gave her an F to wake her up and make her angry, then bent the rules to let her retake the final. He was on the job even though she'd refused to hire him. This mission was for her benefit. How could she be angry with him? She really wasn't. She was, but she wasn't. But something else was even more troubling than the protection thing: she was currently thinking thoughts she couldn't bear to entertain, while evidently sharing office space with a mind reader. Doggett simply COULD NOT EVER find out what was going on in her head...except that her head was evidently a fucking fishbowl, displaying her innermost secrets like some kind of personal Jumbotron atop her neck. She was afraid to think anything. No wonder she was acting like a space case. She smiled as "Paging Agent Scully..." replayed in her head. Jesus, "Agent" Scully. And "Agent" Doggett. Even though it had been two years plus since his impromptu baptism at the water cooler, Scully's relationship with Doggett had barely advanced an iota. In the office, that is. In the field, they had managed to allow themselves to open up more, for the sake of the job. They were free to argue and get into each other's hair, call each other on bullshit and laugh with relief at close calls. They saved each other's lives, broke down and ranted and raved, fell apart and picked up each other's pieces. But they rarely asked any questions of each other that didn't relate to the work, and they never pushed into uncharted territory without it having some bearing on a case. And back in the office, it was as if none of it had ever happened. They conducted themselves in each other's presence as if they were having high tea. Doggett still tiptoed around the minefield that was Scully, and because he did, Scully acted as though she'd deigned to allow him in her presence. It was ridiculous, really. But to change it would mean to talk about it. And Scully didn't even consider talking about anything she didn't have to. Not without a good reason. And the reason she was considering lately was definitely not good. Her jumbled thoughts crashed into themselves when the phone rang. She started, then picked it up absently: "Scully." The voice on the other end was low and thick. "You buried the wrong man." Scully felt nothing but a cold chill as her heart stopped beating and all the blood in her system slowed to a crawl. "Excuse me? Who is this?" She worked to remain calm, not to tip her hand. "Someone who knows. The man in that grave is not Agent Mulder." Scully fought with every fiber of her being to give nothing away. But Mulder 's trail had been so cold for so long, she wasn't sure if she could contain the adrenaline of hearing it mentioned. "Who are you and how did you get my name? "I'm not going to stay on this call long. I can take you to where your partner is. But you have to do as I say. Meet me tonight at the Winchester Rest Area out on Interstate 81, in Virginia, 11 pm. Come alone, and unarmed." Scully's mind raced as fast as her heart. She tried to place the voice, but couldn't. It wasn't Krycek, or Jeremiah Smith...it could never be the Gunmen. Cancer Man was supposedly dead, and so were the other choices that skittered through her brain, like Modell and Pfaster. She tried to sound unimpressed, while quietly scribbling down the details of the meeting place on a nearby pad. "I'm sorry, but you can't honestly think I'm going to go running off to meet you on the basis of just this call." "I don't think you will - I *know* you will. I'm only offering this once. Better make it count." The line clicked dead. As she replaced the receiver, Scully wondered if her shaking hands were apparent to Doggett from where he stood in the doorway, two coffee mugs in hand. "Who was that?" he asked casually. "I don't know. I think someone got a wrong number." Doggett nodded in understanding. She knew he wouldn't press her. He had long since learned the folly of it. He would, of course, wait and get his information some other way. Meanwhile Scully removed the pad from her desk as unobtrusively as possible, quietly removed the first page, stuck the rest in a drawer. Scully thought for a fevered moment as Doggett politely placed her tea mug next to her elbow. She glanced down: rosehip tea, and she could smell the honey he'd put in. Amazing - just as if she'd fixed it herself. She shook her head, then a moment later made her decision, picking up the mug and her laptop and rising. "You know, for whatever reason, I'm having a hard time getting started this morning. I think I'd like to go work in the conference room for a bit, gather my thoughts." Doggett's forehead furrowed gently. "You sure? You just want some privacy? I could always take off and..." "No, no, really, I think the change of scenery might do me good. It's no problem." She smiled quickly and headed for the door before he could stop her. She felt a slight twinge of his irritation as she breezed out - she hadn't shut him out of anything work-related in a long time. This move of hers must be bringing back bad memories. * * * * *continued in part 2* * * * * Once in the safety of the upstairs conference room, Scully let her thoughts race freely. She grabbed the phone and asked the operator to trace the last incoming call to her office line. Answer? Pay phone in Baltimore, low-rent neighborhood - "low-rent" even for a town full of little else. She searched her memory for any connection to someone she knew or had known, and came up with none. Scully felt herself relax incrementally, now that she was free of Doggett's emotional x-ray vision. She began to sort things out: What had been the point of that call? Was somebody just trying to mess with her? And who would do that? The search for Mulder hadn't exactly been front page news, and it was a case long closed at this point - whoever was offering her this information had to be someone who knew her - whether or not she knew him back. Her first thought was that there was no way this person had any information, and that whoever he was, he was just trying to get something from her by pushing her most sensitive button. But how did he know about that button, if he wasn't already in the "loop"? If it wasn't someone involved with the aliens, or the long-lost Syndicate, then who else would want something from her? Scully sighed and rested her forehead on one hand. She realized, of course, that to follow up such a "tip" would be a complete waste of time, if not extremely dangerous to boot. A personal embarrassment or a professional one. A trip to Virginia tonight would not be worth the scolding, laughing or - God forbid - the rescuing she'd need if anything went wrong or anyone ever found out. But she didn't seem to be able to stop herself. Scully lifted her head, gazing out the conference room windows. None of the logical reasons for not going mattered, she realized - they didn't matter a bit. she thought. She rose and gathered her things, but decided to take the long way back to her office, and perhaps stop by the soda machine as well. She needed to brace herself before seeing Doggett again - there was now one *more* thing in her head that she didn't want him to know. * * * * * The rest of the day passed as usual, in near-silence. As a general rule, it was always hard to tell if anything was wrong between Doggett and Scully, so glossed-over was their comportment. Scully sometimes thought with amusement that the two of them acted downright British. But Doggett proved only temporarily British - he declared his independence at about 6:00 pm, as she was preparing to leave. Scully looked up to see his tall frame planted in front of her desk, arms folded in a wordless gesture of challenge. "Is there something I can help you with?" she asked. Doggett's jaw tightened slightly. He cocked his head to look at her. "I was just gonna ask you that." Scully didn't know why she hadn't planned better for this moment. "Why?" Scully's answer seemed only to inflame Doggett's anger, though its sole manifestation was a slight flaring of his nostrils. "Could we be grown-ups and cut the crap? I think we've been workin' together too long for this." A flare of heat and shame bloomed in Scully's chest and face - he was right. He was completely right. He didn't deserve this. But she couldn't compel herself to behave otherwise. He sighed and continued. "Okay, if you're gonna make me say it...all day today you've been actin' preoccupied, askin' for privacy - you're jumpy as a cat." His face softened with a tiny smile. "If you were a poker player, you'd be losin' a lot of money right now, cause you got 'tells' comin' out your ears." Scully couldn't help but smile a bit too, although she was still tense with defensive energy. Doggett stepped a bit closer to her desk, and leaned in toward her - the moment suddenly had more intimacy. The tops of Scully's ears felt hot. "You're obviously tryin' to handle something difficult, and I don't like seein' you like this. And I don't think you need to try and deal with it alone, when you got me here. So I'm gonna ask...is there anything I should know? Scully stared down at the top of her desk, one fingertip making circles on its surface. She knew she would hate herself quite soon after her next sentence left her mouth. "Thank you, Agent Doggett, but...there's nothing going on that you need to worry about." For some reason just saying those words made the back of her throat ache. Doggett's whole body stiffened as he straightened again. Every line on his face became more pronounced as his look reverted to granite. Scully felt hot regret for making him aim that look at her. "Fine," he said tightly. "I asked, and that's your answer." He turned on his heel and headed for the door, but turned back again before he reached it. He paused before speaking, as though trying to get a hold on his anger, trying to civilize his words. "I really thought we worked this out ages ago," he said finally. "If you say there's nothin' going on, then I will *take your word for it.*" The last phrase was more of a warning than a pledge. "I'm holdin' you accountable. So if I find out later that things were otherwise..." His anger seemed to be building, and a bit of it slithered through the cracks. "...you had your chance." He didn't slam the door when he left. Doggett didn't do things like that. Scully collapsed into a chair, head in her hands, willing herself not to cry. A moment later she raised her head again, her look bleak. The decision not to tell Doggett didn't surprise her much, but it did a little bit. Back when she was actively searching for Mulder, any attempt she'd made to head off without him had ended badly. Why was she even considering doing it now? Before the thought even finished, she knew the answer. Because of her tortured thoughts these days - she owed Mulder some kind of recompense, some kind of time where Doggett didn't intrude. Besides, what if this turned out to actually be something and she blew that too by bringing the cavalry with her? Scully suddenly had a feeling about something. She rose and moved quietly toward the doorway, stopping far enough back so that she could see Doggett still in the hall, but he couldn't see her. He stood in the middle of the empty corridor, about halfway between their office and the elevator. His back was to her, his head was down, his jaw was tight. She knew his body language now - it seemed obvious to Scully that he was regretting how he'd talked to her. A moment passed before he sighed, raised his head and continued on into the elevator, his resignation obvious in his listless gait. Scully watched him until he was out of sight, enduring a twisting in her gut at the slump of his shoulders. It wasn't just his looks, she knew that, although they certainly weren't a deterrent. It wasn't just loneliness, or hormones. It was him. She retreated to her chair and sat, closing her eyes as she let the thought be. She just wanted *him*. She firmly pressed two fingers to the space between her brows, hoping for relief. She didn't know how it had happened. Somehow the sealed, double-locked, barricaded door to her heart had been slipped open, effortlessly, by a man who never even seemed to be trying. It made all the sense in the world, on the surface of it. She knew there would be safety in his arms, and comfort and profound acceptance. She knew that if she were to let herself go where her thoughts and feelings were leading her, she would never want for anything again, as long as he could help it. He would treat her with respect and love and goodness, and maybe even a little awe and joy at the fact that she had chosen him. But then maybe she was getting ahead of herself - if pressed, she would have to admit that she didn't actually know if that offer was out on the table. But what the hell - she was no slouch in the instincts department, either. That was the logical part. There was another wild, frenzied part of her that said that if that offer was out, she absolutely could not take it. It demanded that whether Mulder was dead or not, she owed him more. She'd had her chance at companionship, and it had lasted as long as it did, and now it was over. It was greedy to ask for more. Nothing else could ever match or replace what she'd had with him. Nothing ever *should*. Not to mention that it felt like an obscenely short time since Mulder's death, no matter what anyone else would say about the two years that had passed. A small, tired part of her piped up that she just wanted to feel cared for, and happy. It was perfectly normal to want a companion, an ally...a lover. Another less-forgiving part of her screeched that she was a traitor. Scully stopped thinking a moment and sighed - her own thoughts were wearing her out. Scully thought about how Doggett looked when they were out in the field, how he approached crime scenes and interviewed subjects with textbook confidence and detachment. He was so strong, and calm. Everybody always told her *she* was strong and calm, but she couldn't conceive of herself coming off the way he did. He always looked like he had the answers, or perhaps more importantly, like he wasn't afraid of *not* having the answers. Everything would be solved through hard work, in his world. Everything could be dealt with. A thought flitted through her mind, unbidden, and she shivered, though not unpleasantly. She wondered briefly how, if called upon, he might deal with *her*. No. This had to stop. She had to nip this in the bud, and be ruthless. She'd continue as she had been, only more so: she'd never let any lightness into their relationship. It wouldn't matter if Doggett became likeably, playfully teasing while they were batting theories back and forth. It wouldn't matter if he became totally focused on her when she'd been hurt, or giving and utterly non-judgmental when she was vulnerable, offering the shield of himself and granting her the dignity of never mentioning her "weakness" again. Her barriers were not going to come down. She'd continue to grimace politely when he attempted to bring them closer with humor. She'd call him "Agent Doggett" until the day they fit her for a walker and false teeth. She'd leave the office at the end of the day and not look back as he stood in the doorway, watching her go and silently considering her reasons for rebuffing his latest invitation, his scrutiny burning like laser beams on the back of her head. There. That was it. Her resolution calmed her. It also made her feel achingly empty. * * * * *continued in part 3* * * * * Later that night, Agent Doggett locked his front door and headed for the pickup truck in his driveway. The second page of Scully's notepad was folded neatly in his jacket pocket, traced over in pencil to reveal the writing that had been on the page above. It was about 9:45 - Winchester was about an hour away. He wanted to be there early. He had backed the truck almost out of the driveway when he heard it: a sickening crack and tinkle of shattering glass, a rush of escaping air. "Fuck," he muttered in alarm. He pulled the car back up and got out to look. In the glow of the street lamps he could see the culprit: what used to be a whole beer bottle, one that had made its way into the gutter directly below his driveway. The slash in the tire was too big to patch. "Fuck!" He didn't take any more time to curse, just hurried to the end of the vehicle and crouched low, working to free the spare from under his truck bed. * * * * * About 15 minutes before the appointed time, Scully's car pulled into the rest area's parking lot. She parked in a space that was clearly visible from the road, right in front of the closed visitors' center. If this mystery man wanted a piece of her time, he could come right out into the open and say so. Not that it mattered at the moment - the place was utterly deserted. About five minutes passed, before a battered white van pulled into the lot, and eased into the space to her right. Visible in the driver's seat was a beefy man with large, unstylish glasses and a thick mustache. He turned and locked eyes with her, then opened the door and got out. Scully felt a wildfire of adrenaline shoot through her, and she swallowed hard. The man was a giant, damn near seven feet tall. She turned her head away and closed her eyes, trying to quell her sudden shaking. She felt small and alone. She thought of her gun, stashed in her glove compartment, but after a moment's hesitation decided to leave it there - she didn't think she could get it into her waistband now without him seeing. It was still nearby, at least... hopefully things would go as planned. 'Hopefully' - Christ. She paused and searched for the courage to do the stupidest thing she would ever attempt. She reached for an old comfort that was suddenly contemporary. she thought. She stepped out into the warm night air and stood, looking out over her car's roof at him. She eyed the van, and surprised herself with her own snarkiness. "Nice ride," she commented dryly. He took the jab without concern, his large head turning toward the object of her scorn as though he hadn't considered it. He gestured for her to come closer. "Come here. I'm not going to yell this stuff to you." She arched an eyebrow. "Who's listening?" He frowned at her. "Someone's always listening." He had her there. After a moment's hesitation, she walked around the back of her car to stand closer, but still at a careful distance. He looked disdainful of her caution. Scully fought to look as unimpressed and impatient as possible. "So?" He dragged out the silence a moment longer. "The man you buried - the one that was returned - was a clone. The real Mulder is still..." He clearly knew the import his of next words. "...out there." Scully fought to keep her face impassive. She felt inexplicably furious and violated, as though Mulder had invented those words, and was the only one allowed to use them. "Where, 'out there'?" she asked. It took effort to keep her words civil. The giant man's face didn't budge, didn't give up a single feeling. He had the eyes of a dead thing. "In an alien colony, here on earth. Being used as a slave. His memory's been wiped. He's close to being worked to death." Something about his casualness was awful. The contents of Scully's stomach threatened to escape. She kept her face impassive. "Okay," she said, in her well-worn skeptic's tone. "Where did you get this information?" "I'm a guard there. I got the gig through Krycek - he's a friend of mine." "Supposing this is true, you've actually seen Mulder there?" "Yeah, absolutely. In fact..." A hint of an obscene smile lit his face. "...I've personally had to rough him up a few times, for disobeying." Scully suddenly knew what it was to feel murderous. Her vision swam and her heart thundered. The gall of him giving her that little detail, the sadism it hinted at, were enough to make her arms and legs twitch with the impulse to attack him. She wanted to spit in his face and leave. She didn't. She took a minute before speaking, but even so her voice was shaky. "How come I never met you, never heard of you before?" "I was deep underground." Scully wasn't sure if anyone could dig an underground deep enough to hide this huge bastard. "Tell me where this colony is." "Nope. I have to show you." He dug in the pockets of his jeans. "And you can't know how you got there." He held out a red bandanna, dangled from one enormous finger, obviously meaning it as a blindfold. Scully blanched. This was a risk she was not prepared to take, and in her confusion she grew angry. "You actually expect me to go somewhere, blindfolded, with you?" The same sick smile crossed his lips, though his eyes remained stone. "Isn't the news that your partner - your lover - is still alive enough motivation?" Scully cheeks blazed red. "Who are you and why are you doing this? What is it you want?" "As long as I deliver Mulder, what difference does it make to you?" His words had gone flat, inhumanly so. Scully fought not to tremble. This was wrong, this was all wrong, but she still couldn't give up until she was sure this lead was nothing. She mustered her bravado, her years of training. She stood her ground and looked him in his snake's eyes. "I need proof that you can take me to him," she demanded. The huge man sighed, with an intimidating sort of impatience, and dug in his pocket again. What he produced and dangled from his other hand made everything stop. The cross pendant. Hanging there from big dirty fingers, displayed with obscene nonchalance. Scully felt a false, dizzy kind of excitement, a sick, frantic happiness. This was it. This was the lead she'd been waiting for. She fought crazy, conflicting urges to laugh and to vomit. She glanced up at the man's face, meaning to ask him about the circumstances of his gaining the necklace. That had been her intent, but all of that changed when she caught him in an unguarded moment. He was drinking in her pain, wallowing in it. This was what he wanted, why he was doing this. The look on his face was like that of an aroused man at a fifty-cent peep show. And even though Mulder was the profiler, Scully knew immediately the danger she was in. She knew it in a way that transcended language, a way that was built into her DNA and went back to ancient instincts, predator vs. prey. She felt as though she started moving before she was even aware of it, as though she had awoken from a dream in full flight. She was quicker than the clutch of his swinging arms, but the fumble with the car door was her downfall, giving his broad heavy strides time to come thundering up behind her, to let his massive arm close around her neck and squeeze. He was breathing hard now, lifting her off the ground, his voice hissing and rattling in her ear, losing control. "You're not CONTROLLING THIS, BITCH!" She pulled at his steely, immovable elbow, felt the inutterable wrongness of the hard pressure on her throat, saw bright flashes dance in her vision. She thought nothing of Mulder, as the sounds of night crickets and hoarse breathing faded out, as her open eyes lost their view of the road and the stars. Her only thought was of the man who could actually have saved her. * * * * * A few moments later, Doggett's Silverado pulled into the parking area. It stopped, its engine still idling. Through the closed window, Doggett looked around with quiet alarm, breathed heavily. Scully's car was the only car there, but Scully was nowhere near it. He left his car where it was, door flung open, and searched the area for clues. He found them in the space next to hers - fresh car fluids, leaked onto the pavement. He saw a trail of them, getting thinner and longer as they led to the exit the vehicle had used. He jogged to the exit and past it, seeing the direction the car had gone, until the driver had picked up speed and the splotches were no longer there to read. He ran back to Scully's car. His breathing was becoming frantic. His eyes darted, looking for something to hang onto. They found it - a small security camera, just inside the window of the visitors' center, aimed straight at where he stood. He had his cell phone out and was dialing instantly, evidently intending to wake someone up. * * * * * The pain wasn't that bad - it was the humiliation. Hours later, this was what Scully had decided. The gag that choked off her air and cut into the corners of her mouth could be dealt with. She could think of other things, bring up images to distract her from the discomfort. She didn't need to concentrate on the mental picture of herself as her clothing was ripped from her frame, as the giant man posed and tied her into degrading positions, took pictures. She couldn't truly feel it when he slapped her face with his meaty hands, tried to dredge up the reactions that excited him so, the reactions she currently wasn't giving. She couldn't feel any of that, because the burning shame was just too strong. She had never felt like this, so utterly defeated. Defeated because her link to Mulder turned out to be a lie, defeated with mortification at her own foolishness, at how her own emotional retardation had gotten her to where she was now and was soon going to kill her. In the previous hours, talking to her attacker had only led to the greasy bandana she currently tasted, and the few attempts she'd made to secure weapons or getaway opportunities had been thwarted, and punished with beatings. Her will to fight back was still there, somewhere, but it felt buried by the weight of her disgrace. She didn't want to go back to the real world, where her idiocy would live on in everyone's minds, in Skinner's uncomfortable smiles, in the excruciating pity on Doggett's face. She winced at the thought of Doggett - she felt sure he would never see her as the same. She'd be diminished in his eyes in a way that would keep him from respecting her as he had, keep him from...loving her as an equal. Maybe it was better to take her punishment. Maybe it was better to die and escape the living hell her life apparently wanted to become, one way or another, over and over... Through the prisms of her tears she saw her attacker coming at her with an item, the first item to draw a reaction from her in the course of her ordeal. She knew she'd reacted because of the hot gleam in the man's eyes, his greedy mouth hanging open, the bulge in his pants. The knife he was holding cut into her hand with an unreal, far-off pain, and she heard herself whining. He cut letters into her palms and feet. He cut a long line down the inside of her forearm. A hot spurt issued forth, spattering his plastic glasses, pushing him higher. His eyes glittered in an ugly way behind the cheap frames - he tried to catch the spray on his tongue. Oh God, oh God...she tried to stem the panic. But soon she would be losing too much blood. The sonofabitch was going to bleed her to death. She could feel the warm trickle dripping down her fingers, could barely see the crooked shapes he carved. They meant nothing as far as she could tell, but clearly meant everything to him. His knife was moving, hovering now, caressing her cheek, thinking of cutting a deathly smile from ear to ear. Then it moved down to her abdomen. He couldn't decide - his excitement had him frothing. He was so different now from the dead, frigid statue she had first met. His eyes locked suddenly to hers. She winced and squirmed, trying to pull back from the sickening intimacy. He looked gleeful, in a drugged way. "I have all of you," he murmured thickly. "How does it feel?" The knife point was pressing against her belly, slowly tracing the route of her intestine. The room was starting to spin, and her limbs felt weak and tingly, though every muscle in her body still clenched to the point of pain as she squeezed her eyes shut. Now she was going to know what it was like to die. Now she would see what happened. It was over. Except it wasn't. They both jumped when the door exploded open, followed by the appearance of a one-man force of nature. Doggett's face was so contorted in fury that Scully barely recognized him, and when his eyes focused on her current state, something in him went past fury, and became inhuman. A roar was tearing from his throat, unlike any sound she'd ever heard a man make, and something in his hands exploded again and again, as something in his heart did, too. Her attacker had only barely turned, risen, started to charge, when his huge body began wracking with the force of bullet after bullet from Doggett's gun. He hit the floor and convulsed, as Doggett kept shooting. Doggett kept shooting seemingly forever, as though unable to stop. He kept pulling the trigger even after his clip was empty, which Scully, in a weird moment of detachment, thought odd. Her world spun and collapsed on itself after that - she only barely remembered the wash of relief, it was over, the electric fear of her discovery, it was just starting, flinching without meaning to at Doggett's hands on her, the flash of hurt in his eyes, too much to feel, too much to think about, eyesight fading, going black. * * * * *continued in part 4* * * * * It was many hours later when she awoke, in a bed that smelled like someone else. She quietly realized a moment later that it smelled like Doggett, but wasn't sure how she knew that so well. She also wasn't sure how she knew it had been a long, agonizing trip to this quiet haven, but she did. She sat up uncertainly and looked around at the dim room, at its clean, simple coziness, its masculine features. She knew where she was. One nightlight had been plugged in nearby, throwing a small comforting glow around. The gesture threatened to break her heart. Images came back, of the emergency room, of fading in and out while they discussed her care. Talk of lacerations, contusions, the needle prick of stitches going in, a shot of pain medication that sucked her instantly into unconsciousness. And all the while Doggett's face, hovering, aching, refusing to leave her side, bellowing at everyone in sight that he would not be budged. The pain in his look rivaling that in her extremities, in her bruised cheeks. She wanted to soothe it, and to shrink from it at the same time. She glanced down and saw that her ruined clothing had been replaced with a loose, soft t-shirt, and some sweatpants. She looked at her hands and arm, and saw bandages, covering up the stitches. There was a raw ache there that was matched in her feet, and she knew without looking that things were the same in them. The wounds would inevitably heal in the shapes of her attacker's sick alphabet. If they scarred, she would be marked with his delusion for the rest of her days. Which brought her back to Doggett. The look she anticipated in his eyes. The diminishment. She was afraid that would never go away, either. She couldn't face him, no matter how kind he'd been. No matter what he'd shown her in the cabin, the ferocity with which he'd protected her. She'd made him feel that panic, that horror. It was all her fault. She couldn't stand the thought of any of it. She couldn't put on her shoes, so she carried them, as she padded slowly down the stairs, wincing, toward the front door. She didn't know where he was in the house, but in retrospect, she should have. The disembodied voice was almost sinister with anger. "Where exactly do you think you're goin'?" She startled and turned to see Doggett getting off the couch where he'd been laying in his t-shirt and shorts, discarding his blanket and moving toward her in the entry hall. The look on his face was so angry, so blazing with hurt, it made her blood run cold. This was all her fault, she thought desperately. All her fault. He stood a few feet from her. Hot emotion roiled off of him. She wasn't sure, but she thought she saw him shaking. She tried to muster her usual mask. "I didn't want to put you out any further." "GODDAMMIT!" he exploded. He almost lunged at her, got so close she could smell his sweat and see his nostrils flaring. "You're tryin' to kill me, aren't you? You're tryin' to fuckin' kill me!" Scully's composure was mightily rattled. She reached for the door almost unconsciously, and found her upper arms caught in his hands, her body turned to face him. "You are not GOIN' ANYWHERE!" Now she knew he was shaking, because she could feel it in his touch, reverberating through her. She could also see a secret in his eyes, the fear and pain that the rest of his demeanor denied. "YOU ARE NOT SHUTTIN' ME OUT EVER AGAIN, YOU GOT THAT?" he roared. "You are never again gonna pull something as STUPID as that, just for the sake of your own privacy! How could you? How COULD YOU?!" He shook her once, then recoiled immediately with regret. His face crumbled. She felt him move to pull her into his arms, then stop, looking away and letting his arms fall, useless. Scully was trembling so hard that she could no longer hold onto her things. Her shoes fell out of her hands and hit the floor, two rude thuds adding more fuel to their emotional fire. She had to say something. His eyes had turned back to hers again, and were raking her over their fiery coals. "How could you not know that guy was dangerous?" he accused. "You *had to* remember him." Scully startled at his words, couldn't process them. Doggett saw it. "He was the janitor in our area, about six months ago? The one that couldn't stop lookin' at you in that sicko way of his, like you were made outta candy." He grimaced guiltily at her obvious non-recognition, rubbed his hand through his hair. "That musta been during one of those times when you were...havin' trouble," he muttered. Scully stared at him as he continued. "I made sure he got transferred. But evidently not before he'd read everything in the goddamn files." He sighed in weary regret. "He must have known exactly what to say to you." Scully's reality spun. That was how he knew? The files? Well, that and, evidently, daily surveillance, right under her nose while she was deep in her own problems. And he must have gotten a copy of her necklace, somehow. She felt sick. She was an investigator, for godssakes. She was an even bigger idiot than she'd previously supposed. Doggett's voice was a hoarse, ruined whisper. "Why? Why didn't you tell me? I *asked* you. Why wouldn't you tell me?" She flailed desperately for an answer that would keep her secrets hidden. She found none. "I just...I couldn't." "Why?" he asked again. She was silent. His temper flared. "WHY??" It blurted out of her. "It was a lead on Mulder. I had to follow it." She started to cry. "I owed him!" The disbelief on his face was outweighed only by his excruciating hurt. "You OWED him? You owed him YOURSELF, even after he was dead?! When *I'm* the one who has to stand here and watch you..." He stopped this train of thought, more selfish than he was used to. His anger returned. "How much more you gonna let him take, Dana? How much more you gonna give him?" His hands were on her arms again. She was crying in earnest now, her thoughts and feelings irretrievably jumbled. "I had to try everything...not to betray him!" Doggett's anger was dumbfounded. "How could you betray him? HOW?" Scully's last thread of sanity snapped. "BY LOVING YOU!" she shrieked. Doggett's eyes were frozen, wide with shock. "There, it's out!" She was sobbing now. Her bandaged hands pounded on his chest to punctuate her words. The pain in them screamed for her to stop, but she couldn't. "Now YOU have all of me! Are you HAPPY?!" She began to pound at him furiously. Doggett, still dumbfounded, easily stopped the assault. The feel of his hands around her wrists was comfort, somehow. Even at her lowest ebb, the confession was release like she'd never known. She gave up struggling. "It's not *right* for me to be in love with you, John..." she wept. She let her head fall to his chest, instantly pacified by its solid warmth. She rubbed her cheek against him. "But I can't help it anymore..." she whispered. Her hands freed themselves, and she ran her arms quickly past his ribs and up his back. It filled her soul. "Oh, God..." she moaned. "I don't *want* to help it..." Suddenly, she felt him awaken, felt his arms lock quickly, ruthlessly around her. He squeezed her in with a fierce relief of his own, until she could barely breathe. She welcomed every second of it, tried to pull herself impossibly closer. "Do you know how close you came to dyin'? Do you know?" She felt his lips pressing feverishly against her hair, her brow, all over. He pulled her face to look at his, to show her his tears. He grimaced, as though his next words were unbearable. "Do you know what he was *doin'* to you?" Scully could only shake her head miserably. "It can't happen again, ever." His desperation was palpable, and his face hovered so close. "You can't *let* it happen...Dana, I..." Suddenly his mouth was crushed against hers, kissing her so hard it was almost painful. And to her, it still wasn't enough. She returned his kisses fiercely. She threw her arms around his neck and he lifted her, pulling her face up to his level as they attempted to devour each other, over and over. There was no earthly name for this level of need. She wanted to be inside him, curled up against his heart. She would do anything to know she had reassured him totally of her health, her continued life...to erase what she had caused him. He pulled away only occasionally, for breath and to mutter fevered, half-wept apologies. "I'm so sorry if I pushed you, made you feel you had to...I'm so sorry..." She kissed him to reassure him, to silence him, to keep her heart from shattering with his pain. "No no no I'm sorry I'm sorry...you never...you never did anything to deserve this..." "Let me be there..." He was imploring her now. "Please let me in..." "I want you to be there, I'll let you..." she promised. "I want you...inside..." Scully felt Doggett's strength and determination surge, as he swept her whole body up into his arms. Soon she realized he was carrying her up the stairs, for all the world like Rhett Butler with Scarlett O'Hara. She would have laughed at the image at another time, but not now. She was glad of it - her tortured feet wouldn't have taken her up the stairs as fast as she'd have wanted to go. She saw the nightlight blur by as she was swept past it and placed onto his bed. It reminded her again of his selflessness, his kindness. He was above her and she started to pull at his clothes with her bandaged hands, desperate to feel more of him. He stopped her, removed his shirt on his own and then lifted her bodily to get her t-shirt off. She let him undress her, let him do anything he wanted. He ripped off his own shorts impatiently, was lying atop her in a heartbeat, savoring the connection. Scully cried out with the feel of his skin, his delicious weight. He misunderstood and thought he'd hurt her, pulled away. She pulled him impatiently back down, kissing him ferociously, refusing to give up contact. He got the message and responded instantly, his hands burrowing under her lower back to pull her hard and flush against him. He thrust his hips at her, rubbing his hot, stiff cock wantonly against her belly, like a rutting animal. The feel of it, and the sense of his utter abandon, made her moan out loud. After a long moment of this, he slowed, then pulled back, panting. "I want this to be good," he gasped. "I wanna show you..." He faltered, as the love in his face made his words redundant. "...everything. I don't wanna go too fast..." She nodded, understood completely, and had no time for it. "Next time," she assured him. She kissed his cheeks, his eyelids. "And every time after that...I promise." With that, he set upon her like a man possessed. There wasn't an inch of her body he didn't devour with his mouth and tongue, lingering over the taste of her. He brushed his lips over her wounds with unbearable gentleness. Sometimes, as he moved on, she felt his tears against her skin. His hands and arms alternately grabbed her, pulled her, cradled her, glided over her, leaving little trails of nirvana in their wake. Every touch made her shudder and writhe, created jolts of pleasure and a flood of sticky wetness that was passed onto his belly when she clenched her legs around him. It seemed as though, through physical contact, he was able to pass on to her every emotion in his heart. And it was more than she could process. She had known he wanted her, but she'd never had any true concept of the enormity of his love until now. He teased her with his mouth and fingers, wrenching gasps from her, uncontrolled shivers, astonished moans. He brought her to orgasm after blinding orgasm, despite her pleas to have him inside her, to let it be something they did together. It was a strange, giving sort of selfishness - he was immovable in his desire to cherish her. He had the air of a man who would never take anything for granted again. It wasn't until he finally eased himself inside her that she was able to give back, that she saw him take what she wanted to be his. His ferocity returned and he claimed her then, over and over, fighting off death with sweat and muscles and urgent thrusts. She could feel his other losses looming large in his heart, but when she met his eyes, she could see only herself. He came forward onto her and buried his face in her neck, thrusting hard enough to jar her entire body. She felt a tingling awe at his wildness, at the ardor in his groans. She clung to his shoulders and hung on. She brushed her face against his ear. She gave herself over to the feel of his chest, his belly, his groin rubbing and colliding against hers. His claim on her wasn't desperate - it was a promise. His fierce love brooked no argument - she was his and would ever be. He would accept none of fate's vagaries. He would keep her safe through sheer force of will - nothing would harm her on his watch, and his watch would be eternal. She bucked against him, her own wildness tapped, until he arched back from her in a wracking, shuddering pleasure that echoed her own - an aching, grateful release. * * * * * A short time later they were spooned tightly together, watching the morning break through his curtains. Neither had spoken for quite a while. There had been no need. Or so Scully had thought. Doggett's low rumble broke the silence. "I never said out loud that I love you." Scully chuckled quietly. "You didn't have to." He squirmed behind her. "Still..." "Hey." She looked back at him. "*I* said I loved you when I was bawling, like it was some terrible fate or something." She didn't like to remember it, hated the impression she must have made. "I'm so sorry I said it that way." He stroked her hair, gently. "When someone you've loved for a long time dies, it can twist up your heart and your mind in funny ways." Scully knew that he was speaking from experience. "I understand." She shook her head. "Still..." "Okay, startin' from scratch, from right now..." He coaxed her around to face him. She complied, settled against the pillow and watched him, as a heartbreaking seriousness overtook his features. His hand caressed her shoulder. "I love you, so much," he said. The devotion in his pale eyes would make a puppy's look callous. "More than I think I've ever loved anything." Scully flooded with a kind of redemption that, after the events of the past day, she'd thought she'd never feel again. "And I love you," she whispered, tearing up. "More than anything." Such a relief to say it out loud. Doggett's eyes were misty. "Okay then," he said. She smiled. "Okay." He touched her face. "So what's next?" She thought a moment. "Pancakes." He nodded seriously at this wisdom. "Pancakes." Neither of them moved. She grinned. "You know, in order to have pancakes, you're going to have to let go of me eventually." He smiled sheepishly. "I know." It was her turn to get serious. "But even when you do let go of me," she informed him, "you won't have. Not really." His eyes shut briefly with a kind of relief, and gratitude. He kissed her sweetly. "Thank you," he smiled. * * * * * End.