Title: Doggett At The Bat Author: spookycc Rating: PG-13 Classification: S/D, Doggett angst, Scully POV Summary: Fill-in-the-blank for "Patience" Spoilers: Yes! "Patience". Disclaimer: No characters, human or canine, are mine. And no dogs were harmed in the making of this fanfic. :) Feedback welcomed at spookycc@earthlink.net No beta-reader was used. All typos are my own. **** Splinters shower around me as I fire random shots through the ceiling of the old man's cabin. The room is strangely silent after the echo of gunfire in the close surroundings fades. I snap another clip into my service weapon, sparing time for a glance upward, then back at the elderly man. "Can you hear it?" I ask him. "No." "Maybe I got it." Yeah, right, I'm always *just* that lucky on cases like this, aren't I? I strain to listen, but I hear no noises on the roof. Whatever it was, it's either not moving or not up there anymore. I open the front door, half-expecting to see a creature looking right at me. There is none. Advising the old man to get his gun, if he has one, I close the door firmly behind me and begin to search the area around the house, glancing up at the roof to see if whatever *it* was is still up there. Suddenly a shot rings out from inside the house, and a small portion of the cabin's roof is blown out by a rifle shot. By the time I hear the old man's faint scream, I'm already halfway to the porch. Weapon in hand, I kick open the door. It takes only an instant even in the dim light to see the predator, crouched over the old man on the floor. The creature turns its head towards me, and I grimace imwardly. It hisses, blood dripping from its teeth, and I fire four shots into its back. The creature screams, probably in pain, but pain doesn't slow it down as it flies up into the rafters of the little cabin. I throw an arm above my head instinctively, to ward it off if it flies my way, but it does not. I scan the ceiling with squinted eyes, trying to make out its shape above me. The old man is totally silent. Perhaps I was too late to save him. "Agent Scully-" The voice from behind me jerks my consciousness into a 180, and I find myself pointing my gun at my partner, before it drops to my side. He is soaking wet - his shirt is covered with blood, presumably his own. The creature is momentarily forgotten, as I try to assess his injuries in a glance. A quick look at his face shows only a quiet determination in his eyes. My diagnosis is interrupted as the creature takes this opportunity to flee the cabin. It knocks me into Agent Doggett, and we both end up on the floorboards of the rotting old porch. My weapon skitters across the porch, useless, and I remain down as Agent Doggett pumps round after round into the fleeing, flying creature. Even after we both know the thing is probably well out of range, he pulls off two last rounds, then rolls weakly to face me. I help him to his feet as I regain my own. "Are you ok?" he asks worriedly, his steel blue eyes intense, concerned, just starting to glaze over a bit. A part of me almost laughs. I am perfectly fine, as fine as I *can* be right now, and this wet, weary, bloodied man is worrying about *me*. A part of me softens inexplicably, and I help hold him upright with one arm while I examine him with the other hand. "Yeah, I'm ok," my answer seems to relieve him. "But *you're* not, Agent Doggett." As I tilt his head to one side, then the other, examining the deepest wounds, his adrenaline level fades and I hear a soft sigh, before he goes almost completely limp in my arms. "Whoa - I gotcha." I help him down to the porch, his hands losing their tenuous grasp on my arms, as his eyes slip shut. My hand presses on the side of his neck, making sure the pulse is still strong. I risk a glance skyward as the creature shrieks, still aloft, and flies into the island mist. Shaking my head, I turn my attention back to the man who lies before me. It's pretty clear that *I'm" not gonna be able to haul him back to the boat - I could bearly slow his fall to the porch moments ago. He's a little shocky, which is certainly to be expected after what must have been an attack from the same creature we just chased off. He needs medical help - more than I can give him here. OK, first things first. Digging into my pocket for my cell phone - it's not there - probably lost it when we were flung to the porch. I find it within ten feet of my gun, and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that I have signal, albeit a weak one. The 911 call goes through and I let them know our location as best I can, using Myron Stefaniuk's house as a reference point. With help on the way, I know my prime concern is to keep my partner warm and try to stop as much of the bleeding as I can. I pull off my jacket and lay it over his still form. Inside the cabin, I find that I was indeed too late to save the hunted old man. The creature has taken its last victim - or has it? Shrugging off those thoughts as unhelpful, I rummage through a small linen closet, and pull several blankets off the old man's bed. Returning to the porch, I use the small washcloths and hand towels to staunch the worst of my partner's bleeding, and then cover him with the blankets. Checking his pulse again, I find that it's still strong. This doesn't surprise me. Even though my initial meeting with John Doggett was not a positive one, I would still have thought "strong" was at least as good an adjective as "deceitful" to describe him. Now, I see there is so much more to this man. He did *not* take on the manhunt to cover the FBI's ass, as Kersh had intended. He took the other path - the one that would surely ruin his fast-track to the top of the FBI - and the only one that could possibly help me find Mulder. I know he finds X-Files cases difficult to comprehend. I've been there. I know exactly how he feels when I make a Mulder-like leap. And as a scientist, it's not easy for me to make leaps, either. But as Doggett himself found out in reading the case files, it's usually a leap that solves them. And since Mulder isn't here, I'm the logical one to assume his role. I was so worried, earlier today, that I was trying too hard to see things that aren't there, leaping without enough evidence, just because I knew that a leap needed to be made. That a Mulder-type insight was needed to solve this case. I was hesitant to voice my concerns to this man who lies beside me now, afraid he would criticize, possibly even laugh. How I could suspect that is a wonderment to me now. He not only didn't think I was wrong, but he suggested that the "good cop work" we ended up doing would indeed help solve this case. I can't claim I know that much about John Doggett. I remember now my check on him through the FBI database - that didn't tell half the story. The man who lies here now could have lost his life coming back here for me. I know that. *He* knew that. And he accepted that chance when he returned to this cabin. That says volumes more about this man than any database could. Still glancing uncertainly at the forbidding plant growth that surrounds the small cabin, I sit and wait beside my partner, my back against a porch post, my gun in my hand. **** -- next day -- Speaking with Agent Doggett's physician outside his hospital room, I learn that the injuries my partner received are healing as well as can be expected. I thank him for his help, and let him leave to finish his rounds. God, I'm sick of hospitals. I've been in them more, as a patient or a visitor, since I lost Mulder than I had been when we worked together. I would have thought that a statistical impossibility. Opening the door quietly, I think perhaps my partner has slipped back into sleep, that perhaps I should go back to the cafeteria where I've been camping, and let him get his rest. But a squeaky hinge reveals my presence, and I adopt a sheepish look when he glances my way. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." "It's ok. I wasn't sleeping." Deja vu floods over me as I take my accustomed chair beside the bed of my partner. This isn't Mulder. But this man cared enough about my well-being to set aside concern for his own, and I find my feelings for him to be growing every day, a fondness, if you will, as we get to know each other. It took me seven years to figure Mulder out. Hell, I *still* never figured Mulder out, not really, not even after seven years. That's why these feelings I have now surprise me in their clarity. Maybe this is just a less complicated man than Mulder, and that's why my feelings are so much simpler. I slide a get-well card into his hand, and he almost smiles. He doesn't smile much, but I'm used to that, too, after working with Mulder. "What's this?" he asks. I flash a seldom-used smile in return. "Give a little, get a little, Agent Doggett." --- two weeks later --- My fingers play fondly over Mulder's nameplate, as my attention is drawn to Agent Doggett, who has just entered the room. "Sorry I'm late," he says casually. A remark lingers on my lips, unspoken. He wasn't late when it *counted*, or I might well not be here. Agent Doggett informs me that he received a fax from the old man's brother, who is going into hiding to escape detection by the creature. I am unsettled, and I spare him a serious glance. "Do you believe it? Agent Doggett?" Might as well see what he thinks about this. "Believe it?" He's not clear on what I'm asking. "That this *thing* is still out there, and someday it's gonna come after us?" I thought this would perhaps test his belief in what is becoming his career track. Instead, he opts for the simple answer, with raised eyebrows. "Well, I'm pretty sure I hit it, Agent Scully. I'm pretty sure you hit it, too." I guess I don't look shocked, because he continues. "The guys upstairs were makin' some noise about this case, about what's in our field report." I can't help smiling a bit, knowingly. "You'll get used to it." I walk behind the single desk in the room. "I never had a desk in here, Agent Doggett," I begin quietly. "... but I'll, uh.. I'll see that you get one." There is gratitude in his eyes, although he does not voice it exactly. "Alright." I go on, a bit uncomfortable, feeling I need to say more. "And I just.. I just wanna say um... Thank you for watching my back." His gaze is direct, open. "Well, I never saw it as an option." I nod, just a bit. "I'm sure you don't, either," he concludes. He's right, I don't. One agent defends another. Always. But there is more here... I slide Mulder's nameplate gently into the top drawer of what will be *my* desk for now... Maybe John Doggett is not as uncomplicated as I thought, after all. --fini--