see part one for rating and disclaimer --- They say I'm healing. They say I'll be ready to return to my unit soon. I can't say I am not thankful. Nothing has perplexed or vexed me as much as the endless monotony of hospitalization. Twenty days that have easily felt like forever. I ease myself into a sitting position. Pain reverberates from the bone outward. For once, I don't mind it. It is the only real thing about this place. All of the misery of field life would be a welcome change to this useless existence. There is nothing to do but reflect and wade in the past. Pointless rumination about events I can neither change, nor go back to. The man beside me groans and stirs in his morphine induced sleep. He begins to thrash and one of the nearby nurses rushes to his side. I look away embarrassed for him; wary of becoming just like him. She is, of course, my only respite. She comes to me everyday, under the guise of treatment. She is an officer, one of the few women with rank, a Lieutenant. She has been at the front since the beginning. She has served with the French since August 1915. Her duties really don't include the kind of daily contact she has had with me. She could have one of the FANYs take care of the mundane details, but doesn't. I wonder what that must be like for her, recalling the awkward moment weeks before. A woman like her always has to be careful so as not to have her actions misconstrued, her authority undermined. She stops by several besides before she reaches mine. Those men receive a sliver of her time and none of her warmth. The remainder of both she saves for me. She is the one thing that makes all of this tolerable for when I am with her, there is no past and no future. There is only the now. I watch her approach, pan of water clutched in hand. Heat rushes through me, courses through my body like a fever. She plops the water basin on the makeshift stand beside me. "All right, Jack." She smiles. "I believe you are familiar with this procedure." She helps me sit up so I can disrobe. Even here we are hardly out of uniform. There are no other clothes for us to wear. Fabric is needed much more urgently for everything else. She helps me out of tunic, undoing each button carefully. I watch her alabaster fingers pour over brass buttons. Her skin is cracked along her knuckles. She peels the tunic off. I lean forward best I can. Pain shoots through my shoulder, spreads down my arm, through my chest. She wrings out the rag; the water drips back into the basin. I brace myself as I sense the cold cloth near my skin. She rests the cloth against my back, sending pricks of shock through me. I instinctively arch my back away from her touch. "I'm sorry it is so cold." The cloth travels gently down my spine. Every cell body feels electrified by her touch. After such a drought of contact, her kindness, her caress is almost too much. "They are starting to talk." She says, dipping the rag then wringing it. I twist back to look at her. She wipes my back again, the rag dipping slightly below my waist. My stomach knots; my muscles tense. "About your condition, this constant silence of yours. They believe you may be suffering from shell shock." I return to watching the foot of my bed. She drags the rag across my waist up to my ribs. "They have begun to consider whether or not you should be hospitalized." The rag travels up to chest, across my right nipple. I feel it pull taut from the cold, from the softness of her fingertip as it grazes over it. "Arm." She instructs. I lift my arm dutifully; she scrubs my armpit. The rag goes back into the water. "Lean back." She wipes my chest, avoiding my newly changed dressing. She swabs my stomach. I shut down. --- "Agent Doggett?" Scully eases me back into the seat. I lean my head against the wall. "Everything all right, Miss?" The bartender asks from the other end of the bar. Scully ignores him; she rests her hand on my face. "John." She repeats my name, tapping my cheek gently. I lean into her hand. She stops. She couldn't convince me to go the hospital. She must have known she wouldn't; she didn't argue the point with too much conviction. Instead, she demanded I allow her to drive me home. Demanded I allow her to stay with me until I felt better. Demanded I allow her call Monica. I didn't argue; didn't deny her anything, not that I ever would. She opens the door with my keys. She shoves the door open and waits for me to go in. I smile. "Ladies first." She doesn't think I'm the least bit funny. She lets me know with a disapproving frown. She leaves me in the living room while she rummages through my kitchen. I push into the couch, getting comfortable. She emerges from the kitchen with two glasses of water. She sets mine on the coffee table in front of me. She takes a seat on the loveseat beside the sofa. Takes a careful sip of water then sets it down as well. "Are you feeling better?" I don't want to be suspicious of her, but I am. She crosses her legs. "Monica will be here soon." She takes another drink. "Who is watching William?" I ask. My voice seems to startle her. She clears her throat. "My Mother watches him for me." She looks away towards the kitchen. "This is a nice house." "You've been here before." Her brows furrow. "Yes, I know. It doesn't change my current opinion." She shakes off her annoyance with me. "I never felt comfortable enough to commit to home ownership." She looks at her hands. "I bought my townhouse, but that's not really the same I guess." "No, it isn't." Her eyes narrow on me. "Do you want to explain what happened back there?" What should I say? How do I explain? I am exhausted, immobilized by the weight of another man's past. "Don't make a big deal out of nothing, Agent Scully." She scrutinizes me unconvinced. "Maybe you should rest." "I'm not tired." I tell her, my body becoming heavy and hot. "Do you mind if I make some coffee?" I shake my head. "Not at all." --- I tilt my head back as she lathers up the shaving soap. If they allowed mirrors, if they allowed us to use razors, I'd shave myself. We are not allowed either. She lathers my cheek, soft bristles of the brush tickling my stubble. She presses her lips together. I do the same. Lather covers my chin and upper lip. She gestures for me to turn and I give her my other cheek. She brushes on the soap then covers my neck. The blade is not as sharp as it should be. I can tell just be looking at it. She wipes it on her apron. "Now, be still." She chuckles. The blade scrapes against my skin. It almost sounds like ripping paper. She dips the razor into the water and wipes. She tips my head back further as she shaves along my jaw line. "I know this is hard for you, Jack, but I wish you would talk to me." The razor skims down my neck, finishing with a loud rasp. She rinses the blade. "I would hate to see you sent to one of those places." She tilts my face towards her. "If I only knew that you were all right then I could convince them." Scrape and rinse. I look up into her face. Her eyes are focused on the blade as she talks. I wonder how many men she's had this conversation with. She finishes my other cheek, covers her upper teeth with her lip. I mimic her. She leans in, concentrating. She smells like soap and ether. "Don't move," she warns, as the blade settles on my skin. I can feel her warm breath on my face. It smells like chocolate. Scrape and rinse. She finishes my chin quickly then wipes my face clean. As she gathers up her tools, she stops for a moment. She sighs into her chest then sits down on the side of the bed. She covers my hand with her own. "Please, tell me your name." Does she believe them? Does she think I'm broken like these other men? "I know how it sounds when I say it." She whispers, leaning in close to me. "I want to know what it sounds like from your lips. I want to hear your voice whenever I think of it, Sergeant Jack Dobbs." She's playing a game with me. She must be. "Please." We regard each other silently. She sighs, pushes off the bed and returns to her task. I watch her, considering whether or not to appease her. Certainly, her desire to know is nothing personal. It is just an extension of her job, her duty to me as her patient. She folds the last of her things into her apron, tosses me a lingering look. "I will see you tomorrow, Jack." As she begins to go, I call to her. "My friends call me John." "This," she says, as she guides me through the garden. "Is what the outside world looks like. I can see you had begun to forget." We look out over what once a private pond, just part of another rich man's estate. "This is my favorite spot," she says. "It reminds me of home." She squeezed my hand; releases it. We continue down the gravel path. She glances at the flowers; I concentrate on the mere act of walking. My entire body feels worn, sore and tired. We reach the end of the path. It spills out into an impossibly green, well-manicured landscape. It is surreal; the front is only 50 miles away. Something like homesickness tugs at me. We walk in silence to a nearby bench. She sits down; I sit beside her. "Are you tired?" she asks. "Would you like to go back?" I shake my head. There isn't much to discuss outside my treatment and the war. Those are after all the only things we have between us. Our conversation starts and stalls, until finally she takes over the endeavor completely. She talks about her brothers, both serving in Navy and her father, a retired Naval medical officer. Talks about what it was like growing up in a house full of men, being raised like a son, but never expected to be more than a woman. A dark shadow crosses her face as she disdainfully dismisses the idea of spending her life being just some man's wife. She recounts how she left home against that same father's wishes, knowing she needed so much more. Tells me of the rigors of her nursing certification and the pride she has of being not only one of the few women directly aiding the war effort, but one of the extraordinarily few officially considered soldiers. She tips her head towards me, locking her eyes on mine. "I'm not boring you, am I?" She teases. I shake my head. "What about you? What are you doing in this man's army?" "Just my job," I tell her, watching other nurses, other men walk the perimeter. She looks away; I can't tell if she is displeased. After a protracted silence, she hands me the stained, tattered letter she pulled of my pocket all that time ago. "I meant to give this to you earlier." She slips the letter into my hand and returns to looking out over the green. I shake the letter open with my left hand. Marnie's sleek, elegant handwriting stares back at me. January 5th, 1918 Dearest J.J., It is early morning, nearly four. Perhaps I should be sleeping, but I simply cannot stand being in our empty bed. Instead I shall ruin my eyes writing to you in the half darkness of our bedroom (I dare not try and retrieve more wood for the fire myself. You know I am shamefully afraid of the dark). Besides, it is beautiful, a dying fire, as enticing and alluring as its counterpart. How long has it been since I held you? The calendar marked six months today; it seems so much more like an eternity. That day at the train station seems a lifetime ago. Have you been receiving my letters? I have only received the one. There is much to say, much news I could share with you, but I am finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. I wanted my letter to be much more eloquent than this, but how can it be really? There is only one thing I want to say. If I could, I would simply fill the page with it over and over. I would cross oceans and ruin to ensure you heard the words. I love you. I have wasted much time. Were there a way to lasso it, to retrieve it I would. I would recapture all of the wasted moments between us. All of the times I wanted to pull you close and kiss your lips, to smother you and hold you to me. Prolong those precious seconds of overwhelming need, the desire to have you close so strong, it could never be truly satisfied. That hunger haunts me now. It makes the present so much harder to bear. The sun is rising. With the daylight, perhaps I will finally be able to sleep. I hope this letter finds you and finds you well. It is sent along with the strength of my longing and affection for you, perhaps that alone will guide it to you. I miss you, darling. Terribly. I suppose it will be all right. Somehow. There is at least comfort in knowing we are bound by more than heaven and earth. We shall be together. Always. With much love, M. I stare at the letter before me, my hand shaking. My eyes slip shut. I exhale a sputtering sigh. Bound by more than heaven and earth in that she had been right. We seem to be eternally bound by death. The death of our friend brought us together. Her own death ripped us apart. All that is left is the death that will seal deal-my own. She watches me, caution and regret in her eyes. "Have I upset you?" "No, " I whisper hardly able to find my voice. "What is she like?" She asks quietly. "She was lovely." I choke. I fold the soiled letter and slide it back into my pocket. She rests her hand on my thigh. I cover it with my own. We sit on the bench without speaking until it is time to return. --- The room is filled with muted light of dusk. I sit up, put my hands in my hair. Time is beginning to blend into itself. The dream comes easily now as vivid and palpable as real life. I am torn between two worlds. For the first time I am more than curious, more than annoyed, for the first time, I am genuinely concerned that I may be losing my mind. They sit across from each other, mugs steaming on the table, commiserating quietly. Monica looks worried, Scully tired and perplexed. They don't notice me in the doorway. I ease back into shadow. "What is your theory?" Monica asks. "It could be some kind of mental break caused by stress, his recent memory loss, the trauma of gaining and losing a son all at once- post traumatic stress syndrome. Even something as simple as depression-fatigue, lack of appetite, irritability, insomnia, these are all symptoms." Monica shakes her head. "When we found Luke...the agony he went through. The anger and resentment, the pain he bore...and his divorce. I don't know. He didn't flaunt his feelings, but he didn't deny them either." Scully nods, taking a sip of her drink. "What about you? What's your theory?" Monica mulls it over for a moment. "I feel as if there is an outside force, an invasion of some kind." "Like the incident with Anthony Tipet?" "Yes and no." She sighs. "Do you remember the experience I told you about?" "The slipping into a parallel universe experience?" Scully's eyebrows pique characteristically, the corner of her mouth curving into a playful smirk. "I know you have your doubts, Dana, but what if John is experiencing something like it. What if he's slipping in and out of alternate worlds? What if that first incident has had some residual affect?" Scully considers it seriously for a moment. "Well, your 'slip' wasn't triggered by anything you did or anything that happened to you. It was caused, according to your own theory by Erwin Luskesh, his power to shift between worlds. He did so willingly, purposefully. Agent Doggett has no such power, no reason to seek out an alternate reality. Even if he did, if say there were an alternate universe that held a reality more appealing than his own, why would he keep returning? Why not find the right parallel and simply remain there?" Scully picks up her mug, pushes off the table and goes to the sink. "I still think this has something to do with his recent memory loss, with Mexico." She dumps her drink into the sink and rinses the cup. "He told you his memory came back in flashes, a rush of images, a few at first then all at once." Monica perks up in her chair, as if suddenly realizing what Scully is trying to say. Scully leans against the countertop. "Maybe, that is what's happening now. Maybe, the sudden return of his memory opened a floodgate..." "To a past life." Monica interjects. Scully regards her skeptically. "That wasn't exactly where I was going with that..." "Wait, just think about it. It makes perfect sense. Often persons who encounter memories of past lives have suffered trauma, an accident, or an emotional catalyst of some kind. When they took him, they took everything- his memory, his life. Suddenly, he is living in an entirely different world, no knowledge of his past, no idea of his future. Then suddenly he begins having flashbacks. He finds himself and his son all at once, in the same stroke loses Luke all over again. He has to relive the shock, anguish and grief." "So, maybe as you said the stress of the event opened a floodgate that broke down the barriers between past and present. He didn't just regain these memories, but maybe others. Memories that are tainting his present. They're rushing back to him in these nightmares and waking dreams. Past life trauma often manifests itself in the phobias and behavior of person. Maybe his behavior is just left over emotion from the past." Scully ponders the probabilities for a long while before she admits, "It's possible, I suppose, improbable, but not impossible." After another long pause, she adds. "Why hasn't he said anything?" "Why would he? Would you?" Scully crosses her arms across her chest, looking down at her shoes. "I don't know, Monica. That's a lot to extrapolate from what little we know." "I think we know more than you give us credit for." Scully gives her head a small shake, not taking her eyes off her shoes. "He's in trouble, Dana. You and I both know it." Scully looks up and takes a deep breath. Monica drinks; Scully stares past her, each lost in thought. Monica sets her cup down; rubs the handle with her thumb. "Hey, we work pretty well together." She smiles. Scully pushes off the counter. Monica takes a sip. "Yeah," Scully deadpans, "Except you forgot to run out the room without letting me know you had figured it all out." Monica chokes down her drink. Scully chuckles. Their laughter fills the kitchen. It has been a long time since my house has been filled with laughter. I leave them downstairs, climbing the stairs quietly into my bedroom. Past lives, why am I not surprised to find them clutching at straws. I let myself into the bathroom and flick on the light. Monica had been right. I look like shit. I yank the medicine cabinet open, pull out my shaving kit. I close the cabinet, glancing briefly at the mirror the mirror before digging into the bag. What I see stops me dead in my tracks. "Sergeant?" It's her. I spin around. There is no one there. --- I'm restless, my body humming with tension, anticipation. I wish it were over. Only four hours, I tell myself. Four hours, I'll be free of this place. I'll be back on the line. How long has it been four weeks, six? I don't really know anymore. I only know it has been long enough. I wait, sit and listen to hospital life around me. Hospitals never sleep. I don't expect her, but she is suddenly there. She seems upset. It is hard to tell if she's been crying. "Are you ready to go?" "Yes." "You're glad, aren't you?" I can't deny it. I don't try. "Ready to die playing the hero?" She drops her eyes. She picks at the blood stains on her apron. "Lieutenant." "No dirty coins in your bandages, no accidental falls, that's not you. You are better than that, right Marine?" She chuckles sarcastically. "Katherine." It is the first time I have ever used her name. As soon as I say it, I want to never stop. She looks up, fresh tears brimming in her eyes. She takes a deep breath. Shakes off the sorrow, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. She looks down at me, her eyes dark and remote. I can't read anything in them. She touches my face. Her fingertips caress my cheek, the corner of my mouth. Her fingers are cold and rough, but her touch is exquisite, almost painful. I want to say something, anything, but I am speechless. I reach up and touch her hand. She bites her lip; pulls her hand away. Perhaps I should be insulted or hurt, but I'm not. Part of me knows you can never really hold onto a woman like her; she doesn't allow herself to be held. No matter how badly she might want you to do more than admire her. "Well, I wanted to say good-bye and I have." "Yes, you have. Good luck, Lieutenant and thank you." "Yes, well, it's what I do." She offers me her hand and I shake it. She has a strong, confident grip. After a time, her hand slips out of mine. She clears her throat then quickly, without warning, leans in and kisses me. Her lips linger only for an instant then she begins to pull back. I grab onto her, taking her face in my hands. I hold her to me. I won't let her go. I want her to know. I will never let her go. At first she resists, but then her lips part, her tongue darting between my teeth. I wrap my arm around her and pull her hard against me. She tastes like tears and sweat. --- I stare at my reflection. I can still feel her, her softness on my own chapped lips. I smell chocolate and blood, her salty taste is still in my mouth. A jolt of desire knots my stomach. I close my eyes. It is not real. It was never real. "Agent Doggett?" I twist back, both surprised and bothered to find Scully standing in the doorway of my bathroom. "Is it your habit to enter a man's bedroom unannounced?" 'What?" A wounded look crosses her face, quickly disappears. "Sorry, I..." She clears her throat and continues talking effectively ignoring everything that's been said. "Monica is headed home, but says she'll be back later." I lean against the sink. "She doesn't need to do that." She waits for something more. I don't have anything to share to with her. "I guess, I'll go ahead and go too." "Okay." She taps the jam with the palm of her hand. "I'd like to make sure you are all right before I do." "I feel fine. I'm going straight to bed." I push past her, out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. I shrug off my shirt, tossing it on the floor. I sit on the edge of the bed and kick my shoes off. I expect her to go; she doesn't. Instead, she moves to bed and sits down beside me. "I know you believe our concern for you is unwarranted. Perhaps you can't appreciate our efforts now, but I think with time you'll be able to accept the fact that we are only trying to help ." I wonder what it is she thinks she can do. It seems no one can help me now. --- September 1918 Saint-Mihiel, France We are Marines, men set apart by our code, our ethic, our honor. It is what separates us from the regulars. It is what makes us the first to be deployed, the most reliable. Our uniform is not only a source of pride, but of identity. We are Marines, but you'd never know it to look at us. Our forest greens are gone, traded for regular army uniforms. From afar, our own looked too much like the Germans, at Belleau Wood we'd suffered casualties from our troops because of it. You escape death. It is at you heels or just ahead. We march through the night, 60 pound rucksack on our backs, closing in on Saint- Mihiel, headed for the enemy. We march asleep, battered and bloody. There is no giving up, no giving in. We march in army uniforms, only our insignia, Marine issue pistol holster to make it clear. We are Marines-leathernecks. No man wants to die without the honor and respect he deserves. In a month, we've cut our way through town after town, their names just history to me now-Thiacourt, Pont-a-Mousson, Montsec. It is early October. We are headed to Blanc-Mont ridge, just behind Sommepy. The ridge is the key position to the enemy's defense. The Germans have spent four years entrenched on that ridge. We know they'll hold it no matter what the cost. In the gloom, smoke, and mist of night, we filter through to the replacement regiment to take our position at the foot of the slope and on the slope itself. Our goal is to carry at bayonet point the trenches that lay between us and winning the war torn ridge. The 6th sets in behind us prepared to offer cover; ready to advance once we secure the trenches. We are poised, restless, keyed up to the breaking point. We lunge into the darkness. We are not afraid; we know the way. It is burned in our memory. We take advantage of the hunter's moon and ease forward. We advance slowly, steadily through the sodden earth, taking cover in the scrubby pine and cedar along the battered slope. We work hard to close the distance between them and us. None of us want to be stuck in this no man's land; it will be a short shrift for anyone who takes too long to cross. Not enough time, we haven't had nearly enough time. Dawn creeps over the horizon, light breaking through the mist, leaving us completely exposed. The erratic shots in the dark that had plagued our progress cease. The sunlight brings warmth and gunfire. We are trapped, caught beneath the German barrage and our own counter barrage. Massed along the slope our own shells breaking on the crest, there is no where for us to go. We are unprepared for the intensity of this drumfire baptism. We are dying where we lay, no way to cover up, no chance to get away. We can't run, can only lie here and take it, watch the men around us writhe and suffer and die. Maybe in another place, another time I would have stayed pinned to ground. But this time, I can't stay, can't wait for death to find me. In the murky smoke of dawn, I decide to take my chances. I heave myself to my feet and rush forward. There are men all around me, scrambling, passing me by. There is no sound. I stare up through murky eyes into the sky. I try to reach out to one of the men as they pass; my body is filled with lead weights. The world is suddenly pressing down on me. An iciness seizes me, cuts into my skin like plunging beneath the ice of a frozen lake. The action behind me blurs. Suddenly, Corporal James comes into focus, dropping down on top me. At first he doesn't seem to recognize me. He takes a hard long look. He eases away from me, his face twisted in horror. His lips move; he's screaming. "Oh, Jesus Christ, First Aid!" *** I open my eyes slowly, seconds stretch into long minutes. A heavy, hollow feeling spreads through my chest to the pit of my stomach. It's me. Mud in my mouth, eyes wide open in shock. Blood trickling down my face, spreading in patches through my uniform. Me. A grim, vacant anger clamps down on my throat, squeezes my heart. It's me! I am frozen, trapped under ice. Can't move. Can't make a sound. I'm slipping further into darkness. I can't rise to the top. I grasp at fading daylight. Water pressing down on me, no feeling, no sense of self, I am utterly lost. Light. Everything is muted and dull. I blink hard; try to focus on her. "Agent Doggett?" Her eyebrows knit together, concern stamped on her face. She is sitting on the edge of the bed, her little pen light in hand. She rests her hand on me. Her touch cuts through me, slams into my chest, like the pounding fist of the paramedic who brought me back to life in Lebanon. Past and present crash together, time tripping over itself. I plunge forward. Air rushes into my lungs. I bolt up. She asks me what is wrong. Panic underlies every word. Certainly, I could reassure her, but I don't really have anything to say. I don't bother answering. Instead pull her to me, wrapping my arms around her in an awkward embrace. She tries to squirm away; I resist. I won't let her go. She questions me, the same way she questions everyone. I know, of course, she questions herself the most. Maybe it's the only way she can protect herself these days from being disappointed, from being left behind. She rationalizes my 'outburst'. I won't concede. The more she fights me, the stronger my hold. I will never let her go again. Eventually, I tell her as much. She scrutinizes me, wary of my declaration. She warns me not to confuse her kindness with weakness. She rests her hand on my chest, pushing me away. She shakes her head, admonishes me for being insensitive of her emotions. I ease my hold on her. She brushes her hair away from her face. She shakes her head; asks me to please not look at her like that. Don't I understand, she wonders out loud. I wipe the sweat off her brow with my thumb. She asks that I please not touch her. We sit together, uncomfortable, but unwilling, unable to move. She watches me unable to hide the hesitancy and fear in her statement. I caress her cheek, stroke her lips with my thumb. She gasps; her lips parting slightly, her shiny teeth peeking out. I drop my hand away. She says nothing, only regards me carefully. She tips forward slowly, shifting her body, making herself more comfortable. I wonder if she is waiting for me to stop her, to be the rational party in this completely irrational act. She pauses, giving me one more cautious look before finally resting her head on my shoulder. As the weight of her body settles against me, she soughs, her sigh a lot like relief, like surrender. I slip my hand into her hair, breathe her in. For the first time in a long time, I am truly awake.