Waking
Author: Gatorgirl
Rating: PG-13, just to be safe.
Spoilers: Via Negativa, 4-D, John Doe 
Summary:  Doggett, Scully and Reyes coming around
again.
Archive:  XFMU, SHODDS, OBSDS sites, okay, just let 
me know.
Disclaimer: Whatever, not mine.
Feedback: Please at gatorgurl94@yahoo.com
Author's note: Thanks goes out to my SHODDS sisters,
Diandra, Spitfire, and Maria for their comments,
encouragement and beta. A special thanks goes out to
Rachel A. who inspired me with her awesome writing and
encouraged me with her kind words. Thanks!

Part One:

Belleau Wood, France
June 1918

I move through the tunnel out into the chilled 
morning air. The duckboards creak and cave into the 
wet ground then bounce back as I pass. Pulling away 
from the mud, the planks sound like the gurgling 
breath of a dying man. In the dim sunrise I see the 
men lined up against the trench walls. It seems to me 
the men are the only thing holding them up. 

I watch them as I go, some sleeping, some huddled 
together, others talking quietly. Each seems lost in 
his own world, his own little refuge. As I pass, they 
smile and greet me. That they make the effort 
flatters me.  I reach the lookout point, step onto 
sandbags, and peek out over the top of the trench 
into no man's land. I have been here almost a year 
and the sight of the place still shocks me. It still 
slices through me. 

The morning fog is not as thick today; patches of 
dawn filter through, cast light onto the barbed wire 
fences that keep them and us apart. I scan the line, 
try hard to ignore the bodies caught on the wire. I 
try not to think of them as people, but like puppets 
tangled up in string. The crackle of machine gun fire 
pops in the distance. Its rhythm like a long lost 
song. I follow the wire, to the wheat field and the 
line of trees beside it. I can't see the enemy, but I 
know he is there, waiting. I imagine another man 
propped on sandbags looking out into the empty space 
between us. I imagine he is wondering the same thing 
I am. How long before we hop the bags, make our move. 

How long before I am one of those bloated bodies on 
the wire?

"Sergeant."
I step off, down into the mud pit we call home.
"Runner just brought this in." He hands me the piece 
of paper. It is from general headquarters, Bezu le 
Guery.  I only glance at it; I don't really need to 
read it. The look on his face tells me everything I 
need to know.
"Thanks, Joe. I'll take it in to the Major."
He nods and makes his way back into the tunnel. I 
close my eyes; steel myself against the cold. 

-  -  -
The alarm shrieks in my ear.  I punch it without 
thinking; the buzzer quiets abruptly. I lie in bed, 
unsure. I expect to be somewhere else. Somewhere 
darker and dirtier. My stomach churns; dread pooling 
inside me. I hug the sheets to my body. I am bitterly 
cold. I close my eyes, but can't go back to sleep; 
haunted by my dream and the unrecognizable tune 
echoing in my mind. 


Monica is standing on his desk, plucking a pencil 
from the ceiling.
"We're not that hard up, are we?" Levity. That's what 
I need to shake off the apprehension crawling under 
my skin.
"Only some of us, John." She chuckles, turning to 
face me. 
Her eyes lock on me; her smile begins to fade. "Are 
you all right?"
I shrug off my jacket; drape it across the back of my 
chair. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"
She hops down; moves towards me, her eyes curious yet 
concerned. "There is something different about you 
this morning."
"Oh god, Monica. Don't start with your psychic 
friends network routine. It's too early."
She purses her lips in mock anger.  "It's never too 
early to believe."
She retreats to the desk, plucked pencil tucked 
behind her ear.

-  -  -

The haphazard hole we call the officer's quarters 
smells more stale than usual. It reeks with the smell 
of rot- rotting mice, rotting paper, and rotting men. 
The heat makes everything fester.
They stop talking when I enter room, greet me with a 
unanimous "Sarge".  
I nod a hello, hand the Major the orders. He pushes 
back his helmet, rubs the back of his hand across his 
forehead. 
"Get the runner."


Waiting is a big part of what we do here. That is 
what we're doing now. Some of the men talk, others 
smoke, their hands hiding the dim light of their 
cigarettes.  Waverley pulls his wife's picture out of 
his breast pocket; runs his dirty finger across her 
face. He says nothing, but I can hear him praying to 
her, to all the promise her smiling face holds. He 
slips the photo back into his coat. I have a faded 
picture in the pocket my tunic, too. But I don't 
pray, not to her, not to anyone. I know that there is 
nothing that can save me now. 
"You ready?" he asks, double-checking his side arm.
"I'm always ready, sir."
He smiles, half laughs as he slams his weapon into 
the holster.

It is just after noon. We are ready. Our goal is 
simple: capture Hill 142, only a thousand yards of 
wheat and wood between our immediate goal and us. On 
paper it is so clear, but out here on the line we all 
know how much that simple order will cost.

The men fall silent. I try not to think. I 
concentrate on the feel of the yielding planks behind 
me. The way the rim of my helmet slips in between 
them into the mud. I feel like falling. I wonder what 
it would feel like to be swallowed into the wall.  
Gunfire crackles above us. The earth rattles as the 
shells explode into the ground. We shake with it. I 
huddle with my men, rifle between my knees. The edge 
of my blood spotted bayonet stares back at me mutely. 
I clamp onto the barrel of my weapon, holding tight 
until it feels like an extension of myself. It gives 
me the strength to do what I know I have to. 
The major emerges from the end of the tunnel.  Walks 
over to where Lieutenant Waverley and I sit.
"Waverley," he nods. The lieutenant nods back.
"Sergeant," He shakes my hand. "Good luck."
He takes the whistle in hand, puts it to his lips. 
All sound fades except for its shrill cry. We surge 
forth en masse into nothingness.

-  -  -
The whistle rings in my ears. A hand tugs at my arm, 
yanking me back hard. I stumble.
"John."
Monica clutches my arm. "You trying to get run over?"
She holds me up; I can't seem to get my footing.
"John. Are you all right? You blanked out on me there 
for a second."
I feel lost. Confusion washes over me. I'm not sure 
what I'm doing here. 
"John."
Monica grasps my hand tightly. 
I plunge back; snap into focus. What the hell is 
happening to me? Doubt blankets over me. Had I been 
dreaming? How could I have been? We were having lunch 
then... I don't remember beyond that. I only recall
the 
piercing call of a whistle and the surge of 
adrenaline.
She looks worried and frightened. "What's going on 
with you today?"
I pull away from her, shrug her off roughly. I tell 
myself it is stress; I tell myself it is just ...
"I'm fine." I don't sound nearly as convincing as I 
would like. 
She is skeptical, but doesn't push me on it.

We walk silently back to the office. I can't shake 
the tension; it weighs me down like a bad hangover. 
Every muscle in my body feels electrified. Like a 
spring wound too tightly, I feel ready to snap. 
Everything and everyone feels like a threat. I can 
feel her concern like a pillow smothering my face. 
She wants to talk; she wants to know. I should tell 
her, but I'm afraid of what I'll say. This body I've 
inhabited so comfortably all of my life suddenly 
feels foreign.
"Doggett."
"What?" I growl, not understanding why I am so angry 
with her. 
She stops. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Nothing," I shout back as I leave her behind.


I enter the office to find Agent Scully leafing 
through a file on my desk. The hair on the back of my 
neck rises territorially.
"Is there something I can help you with, Agent 
Scully?"
"No, not really." She says, letting the file flap 
fall. "I was in the building. I stopped by to see if 
Agent Reyes wanted to have lunch."
She shoves her hands in her pockets as I move around 
her to my desk. Just as I sit down, Monica appears in 
the doorway.
"What the hell was that back there?" She says before 
realizing Agent Scully is in the office.
Scully looks to me then Monica.  
"Oh, hi Dana." 
"I was in the building. Do you want to go to lunch?"
Monica drops her things on what was Mulder's desk. 
"We just came back from Phil and Nick's."
I glance up from my desk.  
Scully adjusts her jacket. "Oh, all right." She 
glances back at me. "Maybe another time."
Monica glares at me. "Let me walk you out, Dana." 

-  -  -
 
It doesn't hurt. Not the way I thought it would. It 
isn't until the bullet explodes through me, ripping 
apart flesh as it exits that I begin to worry. Its 
force shoves me back; I am on the ground. Just ahead, 
no more than maybe 50 yards, there is nest of machine 
gunners, holding up the advance, mowing us down, one 
man at a time. I roll onto my belly and begin to inch 
forward, cheek to the ground, helmet askew, my weapon 
clutched in hand. Shells pummel the support lines 
behind us. Mortars knock down trees; explosions 
blanket the ground like a pall. Everywhere the 
screams and the cries for first aid. I drag myself 
across the field, seeking shelter behind a half 
finished mound of earth. I am stopped by a flurry of 
bullets. 

Waverley is a few yards ahead of me. He hugs the 
ground, moving forward. I can see the patch of red 
growing on his right arm.  He drags himself up, 
returns fire. He is rewarded with machine gun spay. 
His body falls to the ground, trashing about. The 
bullets rip apart his body, buttons, pieces of his 
uniform fly off him. When the bullets finally stop, 
there is nothing of Lieutenant Waverley left. It's 
just another body, just another man, just another 
casualty. I lie on my stomach, my rifle tucked 
beneath me. I don't feel the pain in my shoulder; 
there is nothing but rage. Part of me demands that I 
rise, surge forward, but movement is impossible. They 
are blanketing the ground with bullets.  Action would 
only insure my death. I lie on the ground, watch the 
life bleed out of my men. Out of the corner of my eye 
I see the Major Berry jump to his feet. Somehow 
avoiding the hail of bullets, he disappears into the 
forest.


Rationally, I know it has only been minutes, yet it 
feels as if time has ceased to exist, as if we are 
caught in a void, trapped in the same moment. I watch 
the dirt fly all around me, the stench like rotting 
meat, decomposing flesh. I try not to breathe. I try 
not to wonder about gangrene. Clouds of dust and 
smoke engulf us. Despite my best efforts I begin to 
wonder about the gas; fear tickles my spine. I still 
remember the gas. My insides churn and my muscles 
clamps down. I can still taste it.  I grab 
instinctively for my mask. My movement brings more 
gunfire. I freeze. Watch the body that used to be 
Captain Waverley bounce, hit by stray bullets. He 
rolls onto his back. I see the blood soaked photo 
peeking out of his pocket.


I know Major Berry made it to the back line. I know 
because the light artillery unit finally comes to our 
rescue. They are the ones that manage to destroy the 
gunner's nest. It is only then that I feel safe 
enough to move, to continue the charge. I stumble 
onto my feet; searing pain shoots through my torso. 
Flecks of white dot my vision, I fall to my knees; 
grasp my bloodied left arm.


Night comes slowly during the summer. It is nearly 
nine by the time darkness begins to descend on us. I 
don't know how long I have laid here waiting for its 
protective blanket to cover me. Around me I hear the 
groans and calls of the dying, the ones too injured 
to move. I don't want their fate to befall me. I 
don't want to rest my hopes of survival on being 
found in time by the medical corps men. Nor did I 
want to become a statistic, my identity discs one of 
many in bundle collected by the unfortunate men on 
grave duty. It takes all of my strength, my 
determination to drag myself up, to stand and take 
that first step, but I do. I stagger through the 
deepening shadows of the wooded hillside in the rear 
of the field. The upright position of walking 
intensifies the pain. I can hardly see or think. I 
stumble blindly, hoping to find something other than 
death.  

I travel for what seems an eternity, but is only a 
mile, before I wander into a small relief dugout. 
Once there I let go, hand myself over to fate and the 
perhaps capable hands of the medical corps man 
holding me up. I hear him ask another for water to 
clean my wound, but there is no water. What little 
they had they gave to the men already lining their 
pit. Even in my state, this seems to me, as it should 
be, my own thirst being so terrific. The man rips a 
soiled piece of cloth from a pile nearby and begins 
making a makeshift dressing. He works with haste not 
care. The jolt of hurt twists through me; I scream.

-  -  -

I wake up screaming. I can't stop. I scream until 
there is no breath left in my lungs. 

I can't drink enough water; I have never felt so 
thirsty, so empty. I inspect my reflection in the 
kitchen window. There is no blood, no injury. The 
face staring back at me is my own, but somehow not 
the same.  Part of me is still lying in a field, I 
feel split in half.  I run my hands through my hair 
and rub my face. 

It was just a dream. Just a fucking dream. My angry 
reflection stares back at me. Just a dream that 
didn't feel like any dream I've ever had. It felt 
more like living. It felt the same as it had in 
Mexico. Felt the same way it did as my memories of 
Luke came flooding back. I had known then 
instinctively that those weren't dreams. They were 
visions; they were my past rushing into my present. 


 "Scully." Her voice is so tired, so haggard, I 
almost hang up. 
"Agent Doggett?" Goddamn caller ID.
I can't find my voice. Now that I'm on the line, I 
don't know what the fuck to say. I should have called 
Monica, but know why I didn't. I don't want to hear 
some irrational explanation about what is happening 
to me. I don't need emotion; I need science. I need a 
slap on the face. 
"John?"
I swallow hard; take a deep breath. I hear her sheets 
rustle, her bed creak, I can almost see her adjusting 
her pillow as she sits up.
Finally. "I'm, uh, sorry to wake you." I glance at 
the alarm clock- one a.m.
"It's all right," she says. "I wasn't really 
sleeping."
I can't tell if she's being facetious. I say nothing; 
sit and listen to her breathe.
She's on the line, John. She's waiting.
I know I am making a fool of myself, but I just can't 
tell her the truth. Can't tell her I think I'm 
loosing my mind, having waking dreams, nightmares 
about a life I've never known. I can't admit I'm 
scared shitless; can't admit I'm curious as hell.
"Agent Doggett," she sighs. "Is there something you 
needed to discuss with me?"
I know it is not her intention to be rude, but she 
still manages to piss me off. Just when I think I'm 
gaining ground with her, she trips me. So, instead of 
asking for help, instead of admitting I need a 
confidant, I apologize for waking her and hang up.

I slip into bed. Lie awake in the dark.

---

"Sergeant."
Cliché of all clichés: at first I think she is angel. 
Strands of her auburn hair spill across her face as 
she works furiously to remove my tunic. This is the 
first time in eight months I have had a woman's hands 
on me.
"You're awake," she smiles. " I thought we had lost 
you there."
In the background, I hear someone call to her, 
"Mademoiselle-miss!"
She glances back, gives up on the buttons, and yanks 
the tunic open. She tugs at my identity discs; her 
eyes squint as she tries to read through the dirt and 
blood. She lets them go and begins to rifle through 
my breast pocket. Pulls out my last letter from home 
and the picture I carry with me.
"Claudette!" She yells.
Momentarily, a young girl appears with scissors.
"Merci. Ou est les doctors? Vous les a voir?"
She slices through my shirt.
"Non, mademoiselle. Je crois qu'ils avec les autres."
The angel nods, as the girl disappears. She cuts 
through my underclothes then carefully begins to peel 
the blood soaked cloth.
"Where are you from, Sergeant?" Her warm smile does 
not hide or slow her efficiency. She pulls back the 
wool undershirt, already dried and crusted onto the 
wound. I wince; choke back a cry.
She tries to distract me.
"You married?" She holds up my hand; shows me the 
ring on my finger. I am almost angry. Doesn't she 
think I understand the question? 
She smiles. I can see this is not personal; this is 
routine for her.
I nod anyway.
She begins to clean the wound; assess the damage. Her 
poking and prodding sends needles of pain shooting 
through my body. I groan.
"This her?" She asks, quickly grabbing the blood 
smeared picture beside her.
I regard the picture of this woman I used to know, 
her supple eyes, the slight curve of her smile. 
Despite the rigidity and formality of her pose, I can 
feel her warmth and charm, her humor and her kind 
nature. The portrait is black and white, but I see 
the caramel color of her eyes, the olive tone of her 
skin, the raven glow of her hair. Sorrow bites the 
back of my throat. Tears creep into my eyes. They 
burn like acid. I close my eyes.
"What's her name?" She asks perfunctorily, too busy 
to notice the state I am in.
I try to mouth the word, but I am cold and so very 
tired.
A man's voice booms behind her. There is the clatter 
of metal on metal. I try to focus. Listen to their 
words, but I am weary. Concentration requires a 
strength I am not willing to waste.


The angel is there when I wake up. Her blue eyes rest 
on me and for the first time I feel like she actually 
sees me. She is changing the dressing on the man 
lying on the canvas bag beside me. I try to speak, 
but my throat is raw, my tongue like sandpaper.
"Hello, Sergeant." She grins, a smile wholly 
different from before. She is radiant and relaxed.
"How are you feeling?" 
She moves over to me, quickly checks my dressing.  My 
entire left shoulder, left arm and hand feel numb.
"Would you like some water?" I nod as vigorously as I 
can. She pours water into a tin, helps lift my head 
so I can drink. All I can do is take a few tentative 
sips.
"You'll be glad to know we're shipping out today." 
She eases my head back. "Military hospital near 
Paris." Another beautiful smile. "They'll fix you 
right up."
She pulls a pencil and a form from her apron pocket, 
scribbles on it then pins it to my cot. When she's 
finished, she digs into the pocket again and 
retrieves the photograph of my dead wife.
"I saved this for you."
She slips it into my hand and folds my fingers over 
it.
"Take care, Marine." 
She gives my hand a gentle squeeze then moves on to 
the next man. 

---

"You look like shit, John." She says, without the 
slightest hint of humor in her voice.
"Well mademoiselle that is exactly what I feel like." 
I reply, pouring myself a cup of coffee. 
"What did you call me?"
I stop set the carafe down, cross the room to my 
desk. 
 "I didn't call you anything, but give me a minute 
and I'll think of something."
She pushes her chair back; I take a gulp of coffee. 
Find her standing beside me.
"I thought we were better friends than this."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Monica."
Anger flushes across her cheeks. "Don't bullshit me, 
John."
I set the cup down; swivel my chair to face her.
"Don't insult my intelligence or my ability. I can 
sense something is happening to you."
She waits for me to deny it. When I don't, she keeps 
going.
"There is aggression in you that I have never felt 
before. A terseness, a bitterness, I've never 
encountered from you. I have seen you at your worst 
and this is..." She pauses, shakes her head as if 
searching for the right words. "It's as if you are 
you, but not you. I can't explain it, but I see it. I 
see it in the details. I feel it in our interaction. 
There is so much anger. It's not just some general 
malaise. It...it feels personal."

I don't want to hear it. 
I don't want to deal with her. As of late, there is 
something too raw and painful about being near her. I 
look away from her; pick up the pen lying on my desk 
and make a note. 
"It's nothing. I haven't been sleeping is all."
"Don't. Don't pull that shit on me. It's not simply 
lack of sleep; there is more to it than that."
I tap the piece of paper with the end of my pen. 
"Look Monica, I understand and appreciate your 
concern. What I don't appreciate is this mini-
inquisition of yours, especially when all you have to 
back it up is some 'feeling' of yours. If you have 
some problem with the way I'm doing my job, you let 
me know. Otherwise, stay out of my personal life. I 
can take care of myself."
Her jaw clenches, a swath of crimson covers her 
cheeks.
She glances at my right hand. "You are not right 
handed, John."
She reaches past me, snatches the piece of paper off 
my desk. She shoves the note at me. "You are not 
right handed."
I want to laugh in her face; this is her shallow 
evidence?
She crooks her head; swallows hard. I can't look her 
at her; I stare at the papers littering my desk 
instead.
"John." She kneels in front me, lays her hand on my 
knee.
She is so familiar, the contact, her closeness is not 
awkward, but comforting. The feelings I have for her 
in that moment are not like any I have had for her 
before. They are not right; an implicit part of me 
knows they are not my own.
"What is going on?" she implores, her eyes dewy and 
soft.

I want to dismiss her, to file away her observations, 
chalk them up to her dramatic and emotional nature, 
but can't. I can't deny the emotion, the pull of her, 
like the strange energy that passes through you 
before you shock yourself. 
It dawns on me so abruptly, I feel as if the air is 
rushing out of the room, as if I were in a vacuum.  
Pieces of a dream flash in my mind: a wife, a nurse. 
I realize these are not pictures in my head. These 
are women I know. Women I have confided in worked 
with, done my best to protect: Agent Reyes, Agent 
Scully.
I stand stiffly, awkwardly, nearly knocking Monica to 
the ground. I grab my jacket. 
"I have to go. I'll give you a call later."
I rush out, ignoring her protest.

---

The truck dips then pops up. Gears grind noisily, but 
are easily drowned out by the men. My head sways from 
side to side as the truck bounces down the road. The 
truck is full of wounded. Most sit propped up against 
the wooden sides of the truck bed. The dying ones lay 
on the floor. 

The inside of the truck is dark; the only light seeps 
in through the bottom and sides of the canvas cover. 
I look about me. None of the faces are familiar 
except for my angel and the girl, Claudette. Angel 
crouches in the middle of the flatbed, trying her 
best to minimize the impact for the men on the 
ground, but there is really nothing she can do.
"How much further?" She shouts to the front.
"A couple of hours."
She curses, frustrated. She knows, just like we all 
do that in a couple of hours some of these men will 
be dead. 
One of the wounded men grabs at her apron. She kneels 
down to talk with him.  I can her hear praying with 
him. The other men fall silent, listening to her. Her 
voice is soothing and kind, warm, inviting. She 
delivers her prayer with delicacy and reverence. I am 
certain this is the most comforted these men have 
felt in a long time. I lean my aching head against 
the planks. Let her voice lull me to sleep. 



"Sergeant Jack Dobbs." She lifts the chart from the 
foot of my bed. 
"So, that's who you are." She chuckles.
She tips her head; her hat casts a shadow across her 
face. She looks different out of her nurses uniform. 
Though, her dress is plain, she is far from it. She 
seems much smaller, frailer in the daylight. Her 
hair, more red than brown, is contrasted sharply 
against her ivory skin. Her eyes more alive, bluer 
than any I have ever looked into. Despite being 
clearly earth bound, she looks more angelic than she 
did hovering above me. Though it is not my nature to 
praise or flatter, I find myself hard-pressed not to 
compliment her.
She replaces the chart and stands at the side of my 
bed.
"You were lucky." She points to my shoulder. "It went 
right through. "
She stops herself. 
She fingers the latch of her purse. I can see she has 
no real idea why she is here. I want to speak, assure 
her that I glad for her presence, but the words won't 
come. I have been silent for too long. Spoken so 
little of anything outside the battleground that I 
have no real idea of what to say to her.
We regard each other silently.

Nurses and doctors walk between rows of wounded, 
discussing their progress or lack there of, with a 
clinical detachment that turns my stomach. 
"It's not like that," she says, reading my mind, 
seeing the resentment on my face.
I nod.
"You just can't stay away, can you?" A doctor, dark 
hair, dark eyes teases her as they pass our row. 
"Always picking up strays," smiles one of the other 
nurses. "Watch out, Kathy. That one looks like a 
heartbreaker."
Angel's face flushes, her neck and cheek aflame. I 
can't tell if she is angry or simply embarrassed.  
Her gaze falls to the floor. Is she ashamed?
A younger woman pulls away from the pack as they pass 
us. She leans against Angel conspiratorially and
whispers. "Do not 
forget tonight."
The young nurse merges back into her group, Angel 
looking after her. I touch her hand. She turns her 
attention back to me and smiles a smile so small only 
I can see it- a smile small enough to be easily 
confused for a grimace.


---

The bar is crowded, happy hour and all. I choose a 
stool at the end; order a jack and coke. The barkeep 
plops my drink down as I slip my money onto the 
countertop. 
"Keep them coming." I tell him.
I drink it in one gulp. He drops another drink in 
front of me.

It wasn't right to leave her. 
I can't bear that I have treated her so poorly, 
unfairly. We are partners, but what I bring to the 
table is so much less than what she offers. She has 
placed her faith in me; stood unquestioningly behind 
me. She was there when the unthinkable happened. She 
was the one person who was honest with me in my 
grief. Though I have at times been dismissive and 
patronizing, she has remained.  She's done it all 
without complaint or ill will. Though, I know she 
cares about me in a way she would never give voice 
to, she hasn't resented my being in love with someone 
else. 

I finish the drink ask for another.

I should have told her. Certainly, she of all people 
would understand, would be able to help me sift 
through this. Whatever this might be. I loosen my 
tie; take a long sip. She would have an explanation. 
She has too. There is no doubt in my mind there has 
to be one. It can't be real. 
I tap the bar with the empty glass- another.

"Agent Doggett." She eases onto the stool beside me.
"What are you doing here, Agent Scully? Don't you 
have class?"
She orders water.
"Agent Reyes asked me to come."
Of course.
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"Monica said you're a creature of habit." She smiles, 
takes a sip of her water. "Guess you can't teach an 
old dog new tricks." 
I empty my glass. Gesturing for the man to bring me 
another, I turn to her.
"Do you mean to always sound so insulting, Agent 
Scully?"
She looks surprised, almost apologetic. 
I shrug my shoulders. "Maybe I just don't know you 
well enough to understand your humor."
She clears her throat. "I'm sorry, Agent Doggett.
I..."
"What can I do for you, Agent Scully?" I ask tersely.
She stiffens, suddenly formal. "Agent Reyes is 
concerned about you, your recent behavior. She felt I 
might be better able to elicit information from you 
than she would. She felt I would have a more 
objective opinion about the situation."
"Don't you mean a more professional opinion?" I 
snicker.
She shakes her head. " That isn't what I said." 
She sighs; rubs the side of her glass. "She's worried 
about you and frankly, I can see why."
"What the hell is that suppose to mean?" 
She stares at her water. "In the time I have know 
you, I have found you to be an honest and forthright 
person, thoughtful, a gentleman. If you could you 
step outside yourself, you'd see how you miserably 
you are failing right now at being any of those 
things."
I begin to reply; she cuts me off.
"Look, I can admit I misjudged you and that in our 
time together I have been less than kind. I have been 
remote and guarded. I did not place in you the trust 
you deserved. If my actions insulted you, I am truly 
sorry. Whatever you may think, I am here to help. You 
can trust me not to jump to conclusions. I believe we 
know each other too well for that."
I gulp the last of my drink. "Agent Scully, we don't 
know each other at all."  
I pluck a twenty out of my wallet. Drop it beside my 
empty glass. 
I stand to go; she grabs my wrist.
"John."
I watch her, her mouth moving in slow motion, her 
alarmed eyes growing wide. Light floods my vision. 
Pounding pain rips through my head.