EMPATHY (Part I)
By MeridyM
meridym@home.com

Distribution:  Sure, just ask.

Disclaimer:  Nope, not mine, except the obvious. 

Rating, Part I:  NC-17, for explicit eroticism.

Classification:  DoggettFic.  A love story.  

Summary:  During an unusual weekend, Doggett is reminded that
even in the face of loss and regret, you can love and be loved.

This is a companion piece to "Intuition," and it would be helpful 
(though not absolutely necessary) to read that first.

Feedback:  Please!

I've never written anything quite like this before.  It started out 
as another type of story altogether, but ended up basically a love
story. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. . .it's just odd how
things go sometimes.

Thanks to Michele for reading and sharing ideas and to Cassie
for giving me direction without even knowing it.  Thanks to
Rina for lending me her name.  And special thanks to Jo for 
patient and enthusiastic reading from the first sketch of this 
story, through all its perambulations, all the way to the 
finished product.  And, as always, thanks to the ladies at
the ML.




John Doggett tried another position on the big leather sofa, kicking
the afghan off his feet in his frustration. He sighed, and rolled 
over onto his side. 

Nope. It wasn't going to work. He ran his hands down his face and 
turned over onto his back and put his hands behind his head.  
Christ, he was tired. 

He'd been rereading the same page of "Body of Secrets," cast aside 
there beside him, for the last 10 minutes, and something told him
that he wasn't going to get any more of it read.  He normally 
devoured political stuff like that, but tonight the words were all
running together.

There was probably no help for it.  He was too tense, too 
distracted, too tired.  He just needed to. . .relax.  

Right.
                  
The doorbell rang. Doggett glanced at his watch.  9:53 on a Friday 
night?--well, at least it probably wasn't somebody selling 
something. He got up from the sofa and walked barefoot to the front
door. 

He flipped the porch light on.  The woman standing in front of his 
door was looking out over the quiet, dark tree-lined street. A breeze
lifted and moved her short dark hair.  He opened the door a couple 
of inches and squinted at her.

She turned, and a familiar pair of pale green eyes met his. Her lips
turned up just slightly. "Hey, John," she said in her soft drawl.




Morgan Dannah lived 2,000 miles away. He hadn't seen her since that 
weekend in Boulder a couple of months back--which, as sweet and
memorable as it had been, seemed like half a lifetime ago, given
all that had happened in his life since then. She'd lived through
a hellish abduction during a case that had taken him and Scully
to the Rocky Mountains about four months before, a case that had
ended with two women dead and Mo Dannah critically injured. He
had vivid memories of that case, but particularly vivid memories
of her--her voice, her hair, her scent. Her mouth.

Kissing her mouth.

For a messy melange of reasons, he'd gone back to see her months 
after the case had ended. Part of it was that he felt responsible 
for getting sexually involved with her while working the case. He 
knew that that sort of thing happened, but he'd never thought he'd
be the one thinking with his dick instead of his brain. It nagged 
at him, especially when it was brought home to him that his actions
might have put her in greater danger.  He'd told himself to forget 
that the whole thing between them had ever happened. God knows he'd 
never mentioned it to anyone, though Scully sure as hell knew that 
*something* had gone on.

But he'd found he couldn't forget it, or her. He'd found himself 
wondering about her, about how she was doing after what she'd been 
through. He'd found himself wondering if she thought he was a shit
who had slept with her and forgotten her.  He'd found himself
wondering if she thought of him at all.

In the end he had to acknowledge that there was more than all of 
that going on. Morgan Dannah was a loving woman with abilities he 
couldn't begin to understand and more guts than a lot of men he'd 
worked with. Spending that time with her several months after the 
case ended, when she was still recuperating from the injuries she'd 
suffered during her abduction, had only reinforced his reluctant
affection for her.  There was something about her that delighted
him.  He didn't really understand it, but it was true.

He'd spoken to her only a few times since that weekend in Boulder,
but he'd thought about her.  Especially at night, when he would wake
up, sweating, and roll over in his empty bed.



"Mo?" he asked.

"Yeah.  It's me, darlin'," she said, smiling now.  She had lively 
eyes, and they regarded him with a familiar affection.

He opened the door, running a hand down his face.  "Come in." She 
walked into his house and frankly looked around.  "What are you 
doing here?" he asked.  "I mean, you're in town?"

Oh, *that* was brilliant.

She took pity on him.  "I got in a little while ago. I'm doin' a 
seminar in Georgetown tomorrow and Sunday. I figured I might 
surprise you."  He certainly wasn't dressed for company, in gray 
sweats and black T-shirt, his sandy-brown hair on end.  He looked
tired, she thought, vulnerable, if you could ever use that word to
describe him.

Funny, she thought, how your body remembers things.  She remembered 
the sensation of his unshaven cheek against hers, his scent, the
taste of his mouth.  She felt a sudden shock to her stomach.  

"Well, you're a surprise, all right," he said, bringing her back to 
the present.  "How'd you get here?"

"Taxi," she said.  "Can I tell him it's okay to go?" She smiled a 
little hesitantly.  "I didn't want to assume."

Doggett studied her, knowing what she was asking him.  "Of 
course," he said, stepping out onto the porch and waving the taxi
off. He came back in and shut the door.

He stopped and looked at her.  She looked healthy again.  She was a 
slender woman, but she looked better than the last time he'd seen 
her, not so thin. She looked good.  A red sweater, jeans, boots, an
open leather jacket.  There wasn't much left to show what she'd been 
through, maybe just a hint of scarring around her eyes.  He knew of 
other scars--some that were under her clothing, some that weren't on 
her body at all.

"It's a nice house, John," she said.  She set her shoulder bag on 
the floor, turned back to him and met his eyes.

"It's real good to see you," he said, looking at her intently.
"It's good to see you lookin' healthy again."

"It's good to see you, too." She smiled at him and touched his
hair. "I like it longer this way," she said softly.  He put
his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest for
a moment, and Doggett let out a breath he hadn't realized he
was holding.  In the stillness of the room she could hear
his heart beating.

Then she looked up at him searchingly.  "I hope you don't mind that 
I came so late," she said.  "I wasn't really planning on coming at 
all, but I just--"

"No, it's okay. It's great. I'm just surprised to see you." He 
caressed her neck almost absently. 

"You're sure?" She studied his eyes, looking for any hint that she 
needed to leave.

"I'm sure." He nodded.  "Come on in and sit down." He helped her
out of her jacket. "Would you like anything? I have beer, wine.
I think there's some orange juice in the fridge. Or maybe I can
find some tea around here somewhere."

"A little wine would be nice--but don't go to any trouble," she 
said.

"You know, pourin' a glass of wine really doesn't take a lotta 
effort," he said, giving her an ironic smile.

As he walked into the kitchen, she looked around.  The house 
actually was very nice, warm and well-appointed.  Lots of books. 
Plants.  Art on the walls.  A nice kitchen.  She saw the book on
the sofa, the disheveled afghan, and bit her lip.

He returned with a glass of dark red wine, handed it to her and 
motioned for her to sit on the sofa.  She sat on the edge of the 
leather sofa cushion, and he sat down and put his bare feet up
next to her. 

"So you're leading a seminar here in the city?" Doggett's eyes
never left her face. "Why didn't you call and let me know you
were coming?  I could've met you at the airport, taken you out."

"Well, I'm here with Marian--you remember my assistant?--so that 
would have been a little odd.  But maybe you could buy me dinner 
tomorrow night?" She smiled at him.

"Dinner sounds great. Count on it." He smiled back. "So what's the 
seminar?"

"It's a workshop on vibrational medicine at George Washington 
University Hotel, tomorrow and Sunday."  She sipped the wine and 
felt herself start to relax. "An old friend of mine from Kripalu Yoga
invited me, and they're hosting. I think it's going to be excellent."
She looked at him, remembering so many things.  "How's Agent Scully?
How's she feeling?"

He hesitated.  "She's okay, under a lot of stress.  Her pregnancy 
hasn't been easy.  Funny how some women can just sail through it, 
and some can't, huh?" Doggett looked right into her eyes.  "I'll
tell her you said hi."

"I wish you would," Mo said.

They sat in silence for a moment.  

"You look good," he finally said, softly. "Are *you* feeling okay?"

"I'm better--still a few problems, but I'm okay. Thanks for asking, 
darlin'." 

"What about work?  You back full-time?"  

She set her glass down and looked at him seriously.  "Pretty much.  
I finally hired someone to help me just a few weeks ago." 

She swallowed and leaned a little closer to him.  He met her 
halfway, and they looked into each other's eyes until they both
began to smile a little at their own awkwardness.  It was almost
as bad as the first time, when they'd been strangers about to
share a kiss.

"Is it hot in here?" she asked him wryly.

He took her face in his hands and slowly ran his thumbs across her 
cheeks. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It's hot." He kissed her.

She shut her eyes. How did he do this to her? It made her melt.  

"I've missed you," he said, and kissed a slow trail down her neck, 
caressing her back, her ribs.  She was so soft, so warm. She smelled 
so good. 

Mo found herself being gently but insistently pushed back onto the 
sofa cushions, as he covered her body with his and found her lips
again.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling a familiar
frisson in her belly as his tongue pushed against hers.

Marian was right:  She was hopeless.

"Mo, let me make love to you," he said against her mouth.

She drew in a breath and looked at him.  Then she shut her eyes and 
kissed him again.

He sat back and tugged one of her boots off, then the other. He 
unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans and slid them 
slowly down her legs, scooping her socks off.

Leaning back on her elbows, she looked up at him, her curly hair in 
her eyes, her breath coming quicker.  He stripped his T-shirt off
and tossed it to the floor. His blue eyes were intent on her as
he moved his hands slowly up her feet, her calves, her thighs,
and she finally pulled him on top of her and kissed him.  

He helped her out of her sweater and pressed his lips to the soft 
white skin of her throat, moving his mouth down to the swell of
her breasts above the black lace demibra.  He unclasped the bra
and trailed slow kisses from one nipple to the other, and she
moaned and ran her hands through his hair.  He slid her lace
bikini down and off her legs, and she tugged his pants off his
hips.  He pulled them off and threw them on the floor.

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her cheeks, her throat,
her mouth, caressing her body with careful hands.  She seemed
to want this as much as he did, but he didn't want to go too
fast.

They had explored one another's bodies before, and they made love 
with a familiar passion and sweetness, knowing just where to kiss
and touch each other.  

At last he laced his fingers in hers, pressing her hands back onto 
the leather, and squeezed his eyes shut. Trembling, hot and chilled
at once, she cried out, moving her head against the sofa cushion.

"Oh, darlin'," she whispered, a shaky outbreath.

He pulled her into his arms and cradled her, burying his face
in her neck, breathing her scent in deep.  She smelled like
flowers, like sweet musky sweat. He hadn't touched a woman since
the last time he'd been with her, and he hadn't realized how much
he'd missed this, how much he'd missed her.  There was something
undeniably true about making love to a woman:  It reminded you
of just how alive you really were, of just how good it felt to
hold and touch another person, to feel someone's warm skin against
your own.

She put her arms around him and held him tight, resting her head on 
his shoulder. As hard to know as this man was, she could so easily
love him, and that was beyond thought. It could never happen, not
in this lifetime or ten thousand others.

He laid her gently back onto the sofa and kissed her. "You cold?
You need this?"  He pulled the afghan out from under their bodies
and tucked it around her and then lay down next to her.

She ran her fingers down his cheek, across his mouth. "I probably 
should call Marian before too long," she said.  She propped herself 
on an elbow and looked at him with a smile. "I told her I'd call
when I got here. . .and, well, I really wasn't expecting. . .this."

"What *were* you expecting?  You didn't really think I'd let you 
outta here without making love to you, did you?" Doggett asked her
with a skeptical smirk.

She looked a little abashed.  "I don't really know what I was 
expecting," she said. "I knew I was taking a big chance, coming 
here.  I didn't know if you'd be out, or if you'd be home. . .with 
someone." 

"Well, you could've called me ahead of time," he said. He frowned
in thought. "Were you hoping I wouldn't be here?"  He watched her
face grow serious.

"Well, no, not exactly," she said softly. "I wanted to see you, but 
I guess I was also a little afraid to.  I know coming here without
calling first was dumb.  But I didn't know for sure *how* you'd 
react."

"Yeah, I get that.  But you really are lucky I was even here.  I
would've hated to miss you, that's all." He wrapped his arms around
her.  "Well, you're here, and I'm here.  And I'm glad."  He kissed
her forehead. "Stay here tonight," he said.  "Sleep here with me."

She rested her head back on his shoulder and closed her eyes. 

He kissed her neck.

"Mmmm. . . I can call Marian and let her know I'll meet her in the 
morning. It's not like she'll be surprised, anyway."

"Yes, call Marian," he said.

He kissed her shoulder.

"She remembers you," Mo said, smiling. "She didn't think I should 
come see you."

He looked up. "Why not?"

"She thinks you're dangerous."

"Well," he said, "I am."

He kissed her throat.

"Mmmm--stop that. She's sure you're going to break my heart."

"No," he said.  He pulled the afghan away and kissed the soft skin 
between her breasts. "I won't do that." His fingers traced the
slowly fading scars on her chest and ribs from the knife the maniac
had used on her up on that mountain. They weren't as noticeable now,
but there were so many pink marks on her skin.  Not for the first
time, he wondered how she'd even survived.

As if she knew what he was thinking, she touched his cheek gently. 
"Could I use your phone?"

"It's in there, on the wall," he said, indicating the kitchen.

"And do you think I could get a bath?"

"Sure," he said.

"I'm kind of grimy from the plane," she said.  Then she smiled. "I 
hope your neighbors aren't the nosy type," she added. 

"Well, the blinds are shut," Doggett said dryly.  "But if somehow 
they were watching, I'm sure they were all happy to see I've
finally broken my vow of celibacy."  The thought made him laugh
softly.

She looked at him.  He didn't laugh easily, and when he did it was 
an exceptional thing.

Yep, she thought.  Hopeless. 

She disentangled herself from his arms, found her jeans in the 
jumble of discarded clothing on the floor and slid them on.  Doggett 
watched her.  Her body was spare and strong, and she excited him, he 
couldn't deny it.

She pulled her sweater on as she walked into the kitchen. As she 
touched a number into the phone, he got up and slid his sweats back 
on and picked his T-shirt up off the carpet.  He looked at the lacy 
underwear there on the floor, suddenly feeling disoriented.  

This woman had literally walked into his house when he was at the 
lowest ebb he'd been in years. He shook his head and pulled his
T-shirt on.  You just never know the turns your life is going to
take. He'd had his share of unpleasant ones lately.  Maybe it
was time something good happened.

He walked into the kitchen just as Mo hung up the phone, looking 
pensive.  She sighed, but smiled as she looked up at him.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"I'm glad you came," he said.

"Me too, darlin'," she murmured.  

"You need anything?  You hungry at all?"

She nodded. "Actually, I am, a little."  She smiled.  "Do you have 
any cereal?"




Mo sat at his breakfast bar eating a bowl of Cheerios.  Her eyes 
moved from the clean white linoleum floor to the cupboards, which
she imagined were full of neatly stacked canned goods, pots and
pans, bowls and cups.  The big plant over the sink was lush and
beautiful. His kitchen was a lot nicer than hers.  Maybe he was
a better cook too--which, she thought with a smile, wasn't going
much.

For some reason the bicycle propped against the wall surprised her.  
She knew he was fit--but a bike? It was such a Boulder thing, where 
the mountain bikes outnumbered the Volvos and BMWs.  She couldn't 
imagine him living in Boulder. 

She looked over at him.  He was sprawled on the sofa, reading the 
book he'd abandoned earlier, his brow furrowed in concentration.
It occurred to Mo that his face was so soft when he was sleeping 
because he could let go of that concentration, that focus. 

With that odd telepathic thing that sometimes happens between 
people, he looked up and met her eyes.

"You sure you don't want something else to eat?" he asked.

"I like cereal," she said. "Besides, it's getting late."

"Yeah, I know."  He stretched, trying to hide a yawn and failing.  
"What time do you have to be in Georgetown in the morning?"

"Maybe 6:45?" She spooned the last bit of cereal into her mouth
and carried the bowl to the sink and rinsed it out.

"Then you really should get that bath, if you still want it,
and get some sleep."

"Okay.  That would be great."

"Then come on upstairs."


            *                  *                  *  


Doggett flipped on the bedroom light, and Mo walked in behind
him as he went into the en suite bathroom.  It was a comfortable
bedroom, wood-paneled and peaceful, with a wood-framed bed made
up with a soft comforter. 

She followed him into the bathroom and watched him pull a
washcloth and a thick bath sheet out of the cabinet in the bathroom.
It was her turn to feel disoriented.  How odd, she thought, to
actually be here and see how he lives.  She glanced over at the big
bathtub.  He pulled a glass jar off the top shelf and handed it to
her.  

"Lavender bath salts."  The jar was old, the label peeling off the 
glass. It was an oddly feminine thing to find in his bathroom.  She 
looked up into his blue eyes, so intent on her. "John, thanks. It's 
just what I need tonight."

"You're welcome."  He turned to leave. 

"John--" she said hesitantly.

"Hmm?" he asked, his hand on the doorknob.

"Stay here," she said.  "Sit here with me." 

He looked at her, silent, his restlessness warring with his desire 
to be with her.  Finally she won out.

"Okay," he said.

Mo turned the water on as hot as she could stand it and poured some 
of the bath salts under the stream from the tap.  They foamed
slightly and dissipated in the churning water.  She turned out the
light, leaving only the night light glowing.

Doggett leaned against the vanity, watching her in silence.

Mo pulled her sweater over her head and slipped her jeans off.  
Stepping into the bathtub, she eased her body into the hot water.  
She lay back and took a deep breath, and then let it out in a
satisfied sigh.

"You could come in with me," she said, smiling. 

"I think I'll just stay here for now," he said.

"It would relax you," she added.

He laughed.  "I can guarantee it wouldn't relax me."

"All right, darlin'," she said, sinking further into the water.

The room was so quiet they could hear the slow drip of water from
the bathtub faucet.

"I've been wanting to ask you this," he said after a moment. You 
don't remember much about. . .what happened to you up in that
cabin, do you?"

"No," she said, opening her eyes and looking at him.

"Probably a good thing." 

"Mmmm.  I don't have a very good memory about that whole time, 
actually. Except for you, and Scully."

"Do you remember what you said to me when I visited you in the 
hospital the last time?" he asked her.

She shook her head.  "No.  I'm afraid I don't remember that
either," she admitted.

"I told you that I'd come back to Colorado to see you.  And I knew 
you thought it was a load of crap--you must've thought I was outta
there for good.  But the last thing you said to me was, 'Be safe.' "

"Really?"

"I haven't forgotten it," he said.

She smiled, but was quiet for a moment.

"You know, when you came back out to visit me?--the first night,
when I was so afraid to be close to anyone again, after. . .after
what happened, you were so gentle with me. When you made love to me,
it made me realize how alive I still was. I haven't forgotten 
*that*."

"How else could I be with you, but gentle?" he asked. 

She laughed softly.  "We sure are a mutual admiration society,
aren't we?"

Doggett smiled a little.  "I meant what I said. It wasn't b.s."

"I meant what I said, too, darlin'."

The room was still again for a long moment.  

"You gonna need a ride to Georgetown in the morning?" Doggett
asked.

"I was planning on calling a taxi," she said softly.

"I can take you," he said.

"Thanks, John.  That would be great."  She smiled at him.

In the stillness and the low light, Doggett realized that some of 
the tension was draining away. A state without tension--it was
something he could hardly remember.  Especially since they'd found
Mulder, too late. . .

He shut his eyes, willing the thought to go away.

He watched Mo wash her hair and soap her body, wondering what she
would say if she knew just how long it had been since anyone
other than him had been in that bathtub, how long it had been
since anyone had been an intimate part of his life.

Doggett crossed to the bathtub and took the soapy washcloth from her.
He rubbed it gently across her shoulders, over onto her collar
bones, down her back.  Mo looked up at him, feeling an ache in 
her middle that she knew wasn't hers.

If he noticed her expression, he didn't say anything, but silently
rinsed her, squeezing clear, hot water from the washcloth over her
body.

She said nothing, but she knew that something wasn't right.

"We'd better get you dry before you get cold," he said to her.
She stood up out of the water, her body glistening wet.  He wrapped 
her in the heavy bath sheet and lifted her out of the bathtub.  She 
raised her face to his, and he traced his fingers down her cheek
and kissed her mouth.

He gathered her up and carried her into the bedroom, setting her 
down carefully on his bed.  

She was suddenly nervous.  She certainly wasn't a virgin, and they'd 
made love more than a few times, not even counting the earlier close 
encounter on his sofa. But it hadn't seemed so strange to be with 
him in her own house. It was so different being here, she realized,
in his house, in his bedroom, going to sleep with him in his bed.
It was so. . .domestic.  Had he lived here with his wife?  Oh, God,
now she was thinking too much.  Had he slept in this bed with other
women?  Don't be stupid.  Of course he had--despite his jokes,
he wasn't a monk.  And it was clear that there had been at least one
woman in his life who had loved him passionately, and he her.

Doggett turned on the lamp on the nightstand, and turned off the
bedroom light. He sat down next to Mo on the bed.  As if sensing
her mood, he took the towel and began rubbing her hair with it,
making her laugh.  He smoothed the soft terry cloth over her
shoulders and back, her breasts, across her belly.  She lay back
on the bed, and he rubbed the towel down each leg, lingeringly.
He touched his lips to her thigh and felt her shiver.

He pulled his T-shirt over his head and leaned over her.

Her skin was golden in the low lamplight, her cheeks shaded by her 
dark lashes.  "You're so beautiful," he whispered. "So sweet."
He kissed her mouth, her neck.

He looked down at her. "Let's go slow this time," he said.

"All right," she said quietly, her eyes soft with desire.  She 
reached up and drew him down to her, her breasts silken against
his naked chest.  She kissed his mouth languidly, touching her
tongue to his. He returned the kiss with rising passion. God,
he loved kissing her, and would have been glad to keep kissing
her.  It's just that it always seemed to lead somewhere else. . .

He moved his hands and his lips down her body slowly, his fingers 
delicate on her breasts, her ribs, her waist. He took her breasts in 
his mouth each in turn and sucked at the nipples, slipping his hand 
between her legs and touching her with gentle fingers.  She moaned,
and he moved his mouth down across her ribs to her belly, his tongue 
leaving a hot trail across her soft, scented skin.  He parted her
thighs and, holding her hips, settled his mouth between her legs,
tasting the faint lavender from her bath and her own warm, wet
sweetness.

"Ohhh," she breathed, draping her legs over his shoulders.  Her
breathing quickened and she moaned, running her fingers through
his hair. 

When she didn't think she could stand much more, she touched his 
cheek. "Let me love you too, darlin'," she whispered.  

He raised his head and trailed slow kisses across her belly, up to 
her breasts, and then her throat. He pulled her on top of him.

Mo straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips, and he 
reached up and cupped her breasts with his palms.  She ran her hands
slowly across the warm skin of his shoulders and down his arms,
then across his chest, teasing his nipples, and then down his belly.
She slid her fingers under the waistband of his sweats and pulled the
pants off and dropped them to the floor.

She stretched her body out on top of his, pinning his arms to the
mattress and kissing his mouth. She slid her lips down to his neck
and bit him gently. His erection was hard against her belly, and
she kissed him slowly from his throat down to his navel. He tensed
and shivered at her warm lips on his skin.

Her fingers moved gently down the insides of his thighs.  Then she 
took him in her mouth, licking the satiny skin of his penis,
circling her tongue around him, enjoying the sweet-saltiness of him.
She moved her lips on him slowly and rhythmically, and he arched
his back and tangled his fingers in her damp hair, his breathing
coming fast.

"Ahh, God, that's so good," he sighed.  

She straddled his hips again and guided him inside her, moving 
against him.  He held her shoulders and pushed and pulled her, 
moving according to her rhythm. She threw her head back, and he put 
his hands on her hips, holding her. Her hands tight on his biceps,
she pressed him back onto the soft sheets and slowly rocked her body
with his until the waves of orgasm overcame them with hot, exquisite 
pleasure. 

She let out a sobbing breath and collapsed onto his chest, wrapping 
her arms around his neck.

Doggett sighed.  "So sweet," he whispered again, running his fingers 
over her lips, swollen from his kisses.  Mo smiled at him, and 
something turned over in his heart, something he hadn't felt in a 
long, long time.

He held her to him and kissed her tenderly, brushing her hair from 
her damp face. 


 
Lying in bed with him, she would put her head on his shoulder and 
tuck under his chin, wrapping herself around him. He figured it
made her feel safe--he knew it had that effect on him.  As he held
her like that, caressing her soft skin, he felt that nothing was
wrong, that nothing could interfere with that moment of peace and
comfort.

Tonight, warm under the covers, she twined her body around him and 
touched his face. "John?"

"Hmmm?"

"Tell me what's wrong," she said.

He opened his eyes, his relaxation evaporating. Her face was next
to his, soft and concerned. He should have known that, of all
people, she would know something was going on.  He felt the knot
in his chest of--was it anger? despair?--swell to almost choke
him.

"Nothing's wrong," he said. Christ, *that* was convincing. But he 
couldn't tell her. Where in hell would he even begin?  It was too 
convoluted, too unbelievable, too painful.

"It's just that I know it's important," she said softly. 

He knew she probably did know.  But for some reason her pushing it 
irritated him, even as some part of his mind recognized that he was 
being irrational. He spoke to her as if she were a child, as if she 
were stupid.  "I said nothing's wrong." 

"You don't need to tell me if you don't want to," she said. "But if 
you can't talk to me, maybe I shouldn't be here."  She sat up.  "As
much as I love being with you like this, I--"

Now he was angry, inexplicably, stupidly.  He sat up and leaned 
close to her.  "Look, *you* came *here*--without even calling me
first, I might add, which didn't show me a lot of respect--and now
you're acting like I should be happy to open up to you?  I don't
know--maybe you *should* go."

Startled, she moved away from him, and he saw the tears spring to 
her eyes.  Oh, way to go, asshole.  It's not enough that *you're*
fucked up; you have to hurt this woman who's done nothing but care
about you.

"All right." It was all she said.  She got up off the bed and
walked to his bathroom, her lithe body taut as a bowstring. 

He lay back on the bed and ran his hands down his face.  Christ 
Almighty.

He should just let her go. It would be easier in so many ways.  
There would be no simple way to tell her what was on his mind, and
talking to her about these things would just tie her up with him
tighter. He didn't think either of them needed that.

He heard her dressing in the bathroom, heard her zip her jeans,
heard the splash of water in the sink.

She walked back into the bedroom, barefoot but otherwise dressed.  
She looked at him, and he found that he couldn't let her go.

"Don't," Doggett said softly.

She turned to him, anger and sorrow darkening her eyes. "Don't what? 
Don't leave? Or don't ask questions?" 



He realized that he had been keeping her separate, a refuge
from the rest of his life, keeping the tender, erotic nights
he'd spent with her, the happiness she had brought him, separate
from what he did day to day.  He recognized the irony in that:
It was his job that had brought him into her life in the first
place.  The brutality she'd been subjected to--so severe it had
left her with lingering physical problems--had shaken him more
than he was willing to admit. He'd lived with violence as a
normal part of his world for so long that it didn't particularly
impress him anymore, but he told himself that she didn't need to
be part of that world. He'd told himself it was to protect her.
But now he wondered if it were really himself he was trying to
protect. His subtle denial of her kept her at a distance--and
it saved him the emotional complications.

But she had become a part of his life whether or not he wanted to 
admit it. From the outset, he'd known that making love to her would 
complicate his life, and he'd done it anyway. He had wanted her as 
much as she had wanted him, and he had broken one of his own 
commandments: Thou shalt not mix business with pleasure. 

And now she was asking him to let her in a little bit, to 
acknowledge that she was a reality in his life, that she was more 
than a passing pleasure--and he couldn't bring himself to talk to
her about the things that were nearest to his heart. 


"Don't go," he said.

She looked at him for a moment and then walked out of the bedroom.

"Fuck," he hissed.  He rolled out of bed and pulled his sweats back 
on, hearing her bare feet on the stairs.  She would find her socks, 
boots and coat and be out the door--he knew that much about her.
There was a steel beneath her softness, and he didn't like being
on the receiving end of it.

He was halfway down the stairs when he realized she was standing at 
the bottom of the stairwell, her back to him.  He took her by the 
shoulders and turned her around to face him.

"Don't walk away from me," he said softly.

"Let me go, John," she replied.  "It was a mistake for me to come 
here in the first place. I--I think I just misread things."

"Look, talking isn't exactly my strong suit.  But if I let go of
you will you stay here with me?"

She looked into his eyes, and he could almost see her weighing the 
question. "Okay," she finally said, her voice so low he could
barely hear her.  "I'll stay."

He took his hands off her shoulders.

"Let me say something first, before anything else," she said.
"I think maybe I need to explain something about myself.  When
I'm close to people--especially men--I can feel what they're
feeling, but I don't know why they're feeling it.  Do you have
any idea how hard that is?  It makes me crazy, 'cause I can
only shut out so much of it."

He stepped closer.

She held her hands out in front of her, palms toward him.  "No. 
Don't."

He stopped.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me.  I don't 
want that.  But I just want you to understand that when I get
close to a person I can feel everything, but the only way I can
ever understand anything," she smiled just a little, "is if that
person talks to me."

"Why didn't you tell me this stuff a long time ago?" he asked her.

"I don't know.  Maybe I figured I'd never get close enough to you
to worry about it.  Maybe you intimidate me.  Maybe you confuse
me." She sat down on the steps, and he sat down next to her. She
bent over and wrapped her arms around her knees and looked at
her bare feet.

"Mo, I'm sorry I was such a jerk."

She didn't look up.  "Yes," she said.  "You were." 

He didn't say anything more, but just sat with her, feeling more and 
more awkward as the silence stretched out.

"So, are you gonna tell me what's wrong, darlin'?" she finally 
asked, still looking down.  "Or am I going to have to slap you
around?"

Trying not to show the relief he was feeling, Doggett slowly
smiled.  "You think you can take me?"

"You're not so tough."

She finally looked up at him, and he put his hand gently on the 
back of her neck where her still-damp hair curled. She shivered.

He pulled her into his arms, and she leaned her head against him and 
shut her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Will you come back to bed?"

She nodded her head against his chest.



Contrary to his very nature, he talked to her.

He told her about how they'd found Scully's partner dead in the
Montana woods, how the search he'd originally headed up had ended
in tragedy and, in the only sense that mattered, failure.  How
Scully, numb and hollow-eyed, haunted their office and sometimes
didn't seem to see or hear him.  How he'd been going through the
motions at work, trying to keep everything together, while he
felt like falling apart himself.

She lay with him in his bed, her arm warm over him.

"They buried Mulder a couple weeks ago." His voice was low. "I 
promised her I'd find him, but, Jesus, I didn't want it to end the 
way it did. I'm not sure I really understand how we found him.  It
was so damn strange."  He was still for a moment, trying to find
the words.  

"John, I understand strange," Mo put in gently.

"I don't know--this is stranger than the stuff you do." He was 
clearly embarrassed. "In fact, it's just nuts. Scully was convinced
that he'd been abducted by aliens."

"Aliens?" Mo was quietly incredulous. 

"Yeah--and our boss--the assistant director--was convinced of it 
too, and a straighter guy you'll never meet. I couldn't figure it
out for the longest time."  He sighed.  "Who am I kidding?  I still
haven't figured it out."

"Obviously you didn't think that was what happened." 

"No.  I still don't." He glanced at her. "When other people who'd 
disappeared about the same time as Mulder started turning up, I 
called an old colleague in on the case, a woman I'd worked with
before, and asked her to join us in Montana.  She works with ritual
cult kidnap and murder cases.  She's good.  I figured she might be
able to help. Because honest to God, I didn't know what else to do."

"Why would you call in someone who worked with ritualistic cult 
cases?"  Mo asked.

"Because the people who were being returned--from wherever the hell 
they'd been--showed signs of abuse, torture even."

Mo was still for a moment, trying to put the pieces together. "This 
colleague of yours.  What did she do with you before?"

When he didn't answer, Mo knew.  This was the heart of it. She 
smoothed her fingers across his hair above his temple.

"I had a son," he said. "He was taken, and. . .murdered, back in
New York."

"Oh my God."  She sat up and looked down at him.

"Shhh," he said.  He wanted to finish the story he'd started, but
if he thought too much about that part, he'd never get through it.
He reached up and pulled her back down to him.

She put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, feeling the 
tears burning.  
  
"Agent Reyes--she worked with me back then, trying to find him."

"You found him?"

"Yeah.  But we got there too late.  He was dead."  

She felt the tears begin to roll down her cheeks, and she wiped them 
away before they could drop on his chest.  She couldn't even begin 
to imagine the anguish. 

"It was tough, seeing her again," he finally said.

"Agent Reyes?" she asked.  She was beginning to understand.  It was 
like the past replaying in his head.

"Yeah." He laughed humorlessly.  "We got there too late again, in 
Montana." He looked down at her.

Mo didn't say anything.  There were layers to this that she hadn't 
suspected.

There were layers to him that she hadn't suspected.

"I didn't mean to act this stuff out on you," he said.  When I saw 
you this evening I just--"  He realized he didn't know how to
explain it. 

"It's okay," she said.  "You didn't do anything to me.  You've had a 
lot to handle."

They were both still for a moment.

"You don't remember when we found you in the cabin, up on the 
mountain," he finally spoke.  "But for a minute, I thought you--I 
thought we were too late that time too."

She was beginning to understand how things were tying together for 
him.  "But you weren't too late," she told him.  "I'm here."

"I know," he said.

"The pain never really goes away," she said quietly.  "But things
like this can heal."

"I don't think I have your faith," he whispered. 

She raised herself up a bit and kissed him gently. "It just takes
a long, long time."

He didn't say anything, but just pulled her tighter to him.

She lay her head back down on his chest.  "I know it must not seem
possible to you right now," she added. She wrapped her arm over him
again.  "What was his name?" she whispered after a moment, needing
to know.

"Luke," he said, knowing instantly what she meant.  "His name was 
Luke." 



Sometime later he awoke and felt her hands on his chest, soothing 
and very warm.  He stirred, and she drew her fingers across his
skin in a gentle caress.

"Go back to sleep, darlin'.  Everything's all right," she said, 
and he gradually drifted back to sleep.  "Be at peace," she 
whispered to him.


             *                  *                  *
Saturday Morning

Doggett rolled over.  The other side of his bed was empty, even 
though he could still smell her on the pillow.  He lay back and
rubbed his hands down his face, across his eyes, sighing deeply.

He propped himself on his elbows and looked around the room.

Wearing a T-shirt and not much else from what he could tell, she
was sitting cross-legged on the floor not far from the foot of the
bed.  

He shook his head, knowing all the derisive things his friends in 
the Hoover Building would say if they had any idea he'd hooked up
with a yoga-practicing New Age type from Boulder.  He smiled at the 
thought.  Of course, if they ever got a look at her it wouldn't much
matter to them what she did.  Then the comments would just be
obscene, about how yoga must make a woman pretty limber. . .

Her body was relaxed but upright, her hands loose on her knees, her 
face washed clean, peaceful.  Her breathing was slow and deep and 
regular.  At length her breathing returned to normal and she 
extended her arms high above her head, stretching to one side and
then the other, and then extended her legs and lay down on the soft 
carpeting.  He heard her sigh in satisfaction.  She stood up and saw
him watching her. 

"Morning," she said softly.  She walked over to the bed and perched 
on the edge. "I made some coffee, if you want some.  Black, right?" 

He pulled her down on top of him. "I want you," he murmured, 
brushing his lips against her cheek. 

"You've got me," she said quietly. He put his hands under the
T-shirt and rubbed her back.

"Oh, you're so warm," she sighed. She pulled the covers back and 
burrowed under them, wrapping herself around his warm body.

He kissed her and pulled her close, his hands moving over her body.

"Don't start somethin' you can't finish, darlin'," she murmured.

He kissed her again.

"Mmmm, I don't have time. . ." She squirmed away from him, and he 
grabbed her around the waist.

"If you're in such a hurry, why'd you get back in bed?" he asked.  

"Give me a break, John," she said, "Before I get through, I'll be 
runnin' on caffeine and adrenaline."  But she laughed.

"I didn't think you believed in caffeine," he said.

"Oh, yeah, some," she said. "I even smoked, when I was in college."

"You?" he said, disbelief in his voice.

She nodded.  "When I was dancing.  Helped me stay thin."

"You were a dancer?"

"Mmmm.  For a while. It was a long time ago." 

"What else don't I know about you?" he asked her, pulling her into 
his arms again.

"Quite a bit, I'd guess," she murmured, kissing his neck.  "Mmmm,
that feels so good," she said, and closed her eyes as he rubbed
her back.  He was good at it.

"Time to go?" he asked her.

She sighed. "Unfortunately.  Now that I'm all warm, and you're 
rubbing my back. . ."  She sat up slowly.  "I have to make sure all
the tables are set up, and I have to get my own table from my hotel
room." She slid out of bed.

"Table?"

"A massage table.  Folds up.  Weighs a ton." 

Mo found her clothes on the floor and got dressed.

His arms folded beneath his head, Doggett watched her.

"My socks and boots are still downstairs," she murmured to herself,  
heading out the bedroom door.  She stopped and turned. "Oh, do you 
want that coffee?  I'll bring you up a cup."

"Sure," he said, rolling over and stretching.  

It was strange having another person in his house--especially a 
woman.  He'd lived alone for a long time now and had gotten used
to it.  His cleaning woman came and went faithfully without bothering
him.  No one left their clothes laying around.  No one bothered him
--that was what work was for.

It was a quiet place.

Mo came back in, boots in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other.

Maybe not so quiet right now.

            *             *              *

Mo slipped her card key into the lock of the hotel suite and pushed 
the door open.  She motioned for Doggett to follow her inside.  He 
walked in behind her and closed the door.

"Marian!" she called out, tossing her jacket on the suite's sofa.

"I'm back here.  How are you?  What did he--" Marian's voice faded
into silence as she walked into the living area and saw Doggett
standing there, silent.

"Marian, you remember John Doggett," Mo said gently.

"Yes, how are you, Agent Doggett?" The tall, gray-haired woman 
walked over to him and extended her hand, which he took.

"I'm fine, thanks, Marian," he said, scrutinizing the woman.  He 
couldn't help but notice that she was scrutinizing him right back 
with sharp gray-blue eyes that looked him over and sized him up.

It made him feel like he was about 15.  There hadn't been very many 
people in the course of his life who could make him feel that way, 
and of course, this particular woman would have to be one who could.
He almost smiled at the irony.

"Is the room ready?" Mo asked Marian, breaking the subtle tension.

"Yes, it's ready.  The guys set the work tables up a while ago, and 
I took the bells and the candle and the rest of the stuff. All we 
really need to do is go down there.  You want to take your table
down?"

"Yes," Mo said.  "Thanks, Marian.  For doing all this stuff. I 
really owe you." 

"It's okay.  And, yes, you do." Marian smiled slightly, glancing at 
Doggett.  

"I'm gonna change," Mo said.  "Just be a minute."  She disappeared 
into the other room.

"So, Agent Doggett, what are your plans for the day?" Marian asked 
him.

He regarded her.  "Well, once I leave here I think I might go to the 
gym for a while.  Or take a bike ride.  Or do some paperwork. And 
then, well, we'll see."

"That sounds like a good occupation for a Saturday," Marian said.  
"So, you're taking Mo out tonight?" she asked.

Doggett was surprised at the question.  "If I can get reservations 
at the place I want, yeah." 

"Well, I hope you have a wonderful time."  Marian said. 

"I don't have any doubts about that," Doggett said.

Mo walked back in, fastening a black belt over a long soft knit 
column dress in a gentle forest green. "Ready?" she asked Marian.
She glanced at her watch. "We have some people to meet," she said
softly.    


Doggett watched from the back of the conference room as Mo dimmed 
the lights and walked to the center of the circle of chairs.  The
eight participants watched her closely.

"I want to welcome you here this weekend," she said in her gentle 
drawl. "Let's just be quiet together for a few minutes and think 
about why we're all here." She lit the white candle on the table
in front of her, and picked up what looked like two brass disks
that were connected by some sort of cord.  She held them up by
the cord and brought the disks together.  They made a lovely,
resonant chiming sound that shivered up and down your spine. 
She shut her eyes.

Doggett's eyes narrowed as he watched her.  As much as his mind
was rejecting what he was seeing, something made him stay and
watch. There was a compelling strength to Mo Dannah in this sort
of setting that wasn't always quite so obvious.  This was what
she did--it was where she belonged--and it was a revelation to
him to see her this way. 

The tones of the bells faded and Mo opened her eyes and smiled. 

"I'd like you to introduce yourselves now, if you would, and tell
us what your experiences have been and why you came here," Mo
said, and pointed to a slight, dark-haired woman.  "Rina, is
it? Why don't you start?"

The slender Asian girl looked around and cleared her throat.
"I've always had an interest in this, I guess, and I thought
it was time I got some training. . ."

Doggett walked out the door, leaving Mo to her world.

EMPATHY (Part II)
By MeridyM
meridym@home.com
 
Rating, Part II:  R for language and eroticism.
(All other header information is in Part I)


Saturday Evening

Doggett stood in front of the hotel room door, trying to remember
the last time he'd gotten this dressed up to take a woman out to
dinner.  Don't even go there, he said to himself. He straightened
his tie and knocked on the door.

The door swung open a moment later, and he found himself looking 
straight into Marian's gray-blue eyes.

"Good evening, Agent Doggett," she said with a small smile.  "Come
on in."

"Marian," he said with a nod, and walked past her into the suite
sitting room.  

She looked at him, taking in the long coat, the dark suit, the nice
tie.  The flowers he was holding. At least the man's respectful, she
thought with a certain grudging approval.  She knew Mo would love
the flowers.  She was beginning to understand why Mo liked the 
man too.  Marian held Doggett's gaze, appreciating the way he
wouldn't give an inch.
 
"You're going to treat Mo right, Agent Doggett." Marian's expression
wasn't unkind, but it was more of a command than a question.

"You know I am," he said.

"I don't know you at all," Marian replied.

He didn't say anything.

"Is she going to stay with you tonight?"

That was damn personal. "That's really up to her," he said quietly.
"You her mom, Marian?" Amusement struggled with annoyance in his
voice. 

"The next best thing to it," she said. "I've known her since she
was 21."

"I appreciate that.  But she hasn't been 21 for a long time now."

"I just don't want to see her hurt."

Doggett chose to speak softly. "Marian, I'm not going to hurt her."  

The older woman studied him, and then nodded.  "I never thanked 
you for saving her life," she said. 

"It was my job, but I appreciate the thanks." Doggett extended the
bouquet to her.  "I brought these for you," he said.

She gave him a sharp look. "For me?"

He smiled, almost enjoying her discomfort.  "I have something else
for her. Please, they're yours."

She took the flowers. "Thank you. I'll go put them in water.
She walked into the suite's other room.  Doggett ran his hand 
through his hair, which was already on end. 

"John, sorry I'm running late." Mo walked in from the other room, 
fastening an earring. "I'm not much used to this dress-up stuff 
anymore."

He stared at her. 

"What?" She looked at him nervously, pushing a lock of hair behind
her ear.

"You're incredible," he said, walking over to her. He kissed 
her cheek.  He'd never seen her like this before. She had on a 
midnight-blue dress made of some clingy, silky material that was 
short, close-fitting, off the shoulder, and low-cut.  

"So I'm presentable?" she asked.

"No," he said. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you," she said softly.  "I've just never thought of myself
that way."

He shook his head. "Well, you might start," he said. "How did the
seminar go?"

"It went well.  I have something to tell you about it, actually."

"I have a story for you too.  About flowers," he said, with a small
smile.

She looked puzzled.

"I'll tell you later. It's a good story."

            *                 *                 *

They sat side by side at one of the banquette tables in the small 
restaurant. Doggett always liked this kind of seating arrangement--
if he were with a woman he liked being with, anyway. You could have 
drinks and a good meal and stay close to your dinner companion.
This was just one aspect of the restaurant's intimacy--and it was
well worth the price.  Czardas was one of the best small places
in Georgetown, serving some of the finest Hungarian food anywhere.

She had slipped off one of her shoes and tucked her leg up under 
her, turning her body slightly toward him. Her knee was warm against
his thigh, and his hand lay loosely on her leg in its silken
stocking. She looked at him over the rim of her wineglass. 
Her face was flushed, from the wine he was sure, but also with
her own high spirits. They had probably done more talking
than eating, but it felt good. He was enjoying himself.

After being with her in Boulder, he'd thought that he knew at
least a little bit about her, but he'd learned more tonight.
He'd learned that she had a younger sister named Maeve who
still lived in South Carolina. That she had earned an undergraduate
degree in dance therapy, but a car crash had shattered her
pelvis and also any thoughts of dancing and had led her instead
into body work and healing.

He in turn had talked about his family in Georgia, his sister
Anne and her three children, his mother who still lived, alone,
in Marietta.  He'd found it easier to talk about Luke than he'd
thought it would be, maybe because she didn't ask questions,
but just listened to him talk about his son's love of drawing
and dinosaurs and bugs and video games.

And they'd talked about high school--maybe after they'd had enough
to drink.

"So you were in high school during the disco era?"  Mo had smiled
at him over her wine glass.  "I can't imagine."

"Well, don't try too hard.  It was actually a little before that.
I was a Springsteen man, myself," he had admitted, trying not to
smile.

She had set the glass down.  "Oh, I can see that.  I came along
a little later.  I was into the New Wave guys."  She'd touched
his hand.  "I was a weirdo in high school.  I'll bet you were
a jock."

"I played football, but I wasn't exactly a star." 

She'd laughed.  "I'll bet the girls loved you anyway."

"Maybe a couple," he'd said, smiling now.



He swirled what was left of his bourbon and water around in the 
glass and relaxed against the back of the banquette.  He watched
her eat. She held her fork in her left hand, and he wondered why
he'd never noticed that before.  He noticed the way the candlelight
reflected on her white skin, and she looked up from her veal
medallions and caught him watching her.  She smiled at him.  

"Did you ever think about having kids?" 

Her smile faded.  That had come out of the blue.  She blinked a
couple of times and swallowed the bite that was in her mouth.
She set her fork down on the edge of her plate and brought her
napkin to her lips. 

She studied him. What was he doing? He looked at her steadily,
his blue eyes clear and guileless. He looked so good tonight,
his dark blue suit and white shirt formal and immensely appealing.
She was just beginning to understand the heart of this childless
father, and she decided he was asking because of that heart,
because he needed to know. She put her hand on his.

"Yes," she said softly. "I always wanted to have a baby. We tried.
I. . .couldn't."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Oh, darlin', don't worry about me," she said.

"It's just a shame, that's all." He caressed her leg gently.
"Did it affect your marriage?"

"Well, sure, some. But it's not why we went our separate ways.
He wanted his traveling life, and I had a business that was
still pretty new." She looked at him intently. "And he had. . .
well, there were always women, John. Max is a very attractive man."

"He had women on the side when he was married to you?" He didn't
bother to hide his disdain.

"I think after a while he just wanted to be single again. It
happens."

"I just have a hard time understanding why a guy'd think he needed
someone else when he had you."

"That's sweet. But you know how things work. You and I haven't spent
enough time together to get on each other's nerves.  We've pretty
much just seen the good things."

"Yeah, I guess that's true," he admitted.

The waiter came by to check on things. "Are you finished with this,
sir?"

"Yeah, you can take that," Doggett said. 

"And the lady?"  He looked at Mo.

"I'm okay, thanks," she said.

"Very well. Was everything to your liking?"

"Yes. Thank you."

The waiter took Doggett's plate away.

"I wanted to ask you something," Mo said then, serious.

"Sure, ask."

"When you were with the police, did you ever do any work with 
domestic violence, anything like that?"

"Not a lot, but maybe I can help anyway.  What is it?" He was 
curious now.

"There's a young woman in my seminar, and I think someone's abusing
her."

"What makes you say that?" Doggett leaned back and looked at her.

"It's no one specific thing.  It's just that when I work on her--
when I do energy work with her, I can feel this amazing pattern
of fear in her.  It's focused in her sex organs.  I think someone's
abusing her in some way, maybe sexually."

Doggett frowned.  He couldn't base any judgment on someone's guess.
Intuition wasn't evidence.  "Have you noticed any marks on her body,
Any physical signs of abuse? Has she said anything specific that
makes you think this?" he asked her.  

"No, not really.  Maybe a bruise here or there, but those could
be anything. But, John, I know someone's hurting her." She picked
up her wineglass and leaned back next to him. "There's a method
of healing that every vibrational healer uses, even though no one
likes to use it or even likes to admit to using it.  It's not
healthy for the healer, for one thing."

Doggett raised his eyebrows.

"It's when you take on the person's pattern--you take it away from
them, so they're no longer ill--and basically you develop their
symptoms and heal them in yourself. It's a kind of empathy."

"And you've done that, you do that?" Doggett asked.

"Every so often," she said. "Sometimes it's the only way to help
someone."

"It sounds like it could be dangerous," Doggett said, frowning.

"It can be. It happens a lot with inexperienced or arrogant 
healers. They'll take on someone's pattern without meaning to,
or without being able to handle it. But sometimes you make the
decision to do it because it's the only way out. Or it's the
fastest way to handle something in a situation where you
need to move fast."

"So why are you telling me this?" His eyes were serious. "What
does this have to do with the girl in your seminar?"

She looked at him intently.  "John, she has the strongest natural 
talent I think I've ever come across in a beginner. I was
working on her today, and I swear she transferred some of
her pattern to me, without even knowing what she was doing. 
Maybe I was being careless."

He knew that she wasn't often careless. "Are you sure you're
okay?" 

"I'll be fine." Her face grew thoughtful. "But you know, now
that I think about it, I've been having a little pain that
fits with the pattern I was feeling in her." She shook her
head. "John, is there anything that the police can do?"
she asked.

"Not a thing, not until something actually happens.  If you
were to go to the cops and tell 'em what you just told me,
Mo, they'd laugh at you."

"That's what I figured too." She sighed.  "Thanks for not
laughing at me." 

Doggett smoothed her hair behind her ear.  "I don't find you
laughable," he said.  The look she gave him made him smile.
"Do you feel like having dessert?" he asked.  "Or should I take
you home and put you to bed?" 

She looked at her half-eaten dinner. "I don't want any more
food, thanks.  Maybe a walk?  You could show me around a
little?  And then, yes, why don't you take me home and put
me to bed."  Her expression grew wistful. "I hate to keep 
ditching Marian, even though I think she kind of expected it.
But I want to spend as much time with you as I can.  We don't
have much time left."

He nodded and raised his hand to get the waiter's attention.
"What time's your flight to Denver?" he asked her, handing
the waiter his card.

"Tomorrow night at 8.  But I'm busy from 8 till 4, so. . .

"So let's go home. We can have a nightcap at my house, some
music--whatever you want." 

"Like a real date," she said.

"Yeah. A real date." Doggett held out his hand to her, and she
laid her hand in his palm.

"Okay," she said softly, and he helped her up from the table. She 
stood, waiting as he signed the receipt and handed it to their 
waiter.  They retrieved their coats from the coat check and 
headed out into the chilly spring night.



Her cheeks glowing from the fresh air, Mo laughed as he held the
door open for her.  "I still can't believe you told Marian that
the bouquet was for her." She took his arm and squeezed it.

"It was a peace offering. She was ready to have me arrested for
contributing to the delinquency, or corrupting youth, or something.
Damn, she's protective of you." Doggett shut and locked the door
behind them.

Mo nodded her head.  "Yes, she is. She's been very good to me, for
a lot of years." She watched him put his car keys on the side table
in the foyer. He took off his coat and hung it on a hook there.
"She doesn't mean to be off-putting," Mo added. "She just
worries about me. Ever since Max left, especially. She tends to
bird-dog the men in my life--a little too much."

"Just a little."  He stood in front of her. "Can I take this for
you?" He indicated the jacket, and she slid it off her shoulders
and handed it to him. 

She stood in his living room in her fancy dress, suddenly awkward.
Part of her wanted him to take her to bed, and part of her wanted
to take the next plane back to Colorado. He walked back to her
and took her by the arms.  His sharp eyes were gentle, his face
soft, relaxed. She realized that this was a face he showed to
very few people, to the people he cared about, undoubtedly to
the women he'd loved. The angular planes of his face sometimes
gave his appearance a certain fierceness, and she knew that was
a part of him too. And despite everything her gentle Southern
mother had ever taught her, she also knew that she liked the 
fierceness, that it excited her. 

He seemed perfectly content to say nothing, to just hold her and
look at her, a half-smile on his face. She wondered if he was
playing with her. She studied his face, the mole on his chin,
the dimple there, the small scar across his nose, the Vs of his
brows, the pale eyes that held a glint of amusement. She leaned
into him slightly, her hands on his ribs, suddenly heady with
desire. He smelled so good, and she wanted him to touch her,
to kiss her. She shut her eyes and rubbed her cheek against
his, and he pulled her in tight to him, his hand at the small
of her back.

He could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of
the dress. Her lips were parted, her breathing quick and shallow,
and he could tell that if he kissed her they probably wouldn't
make it to that nightcap. He pushed his fingers back through
the soft curls of her hair and looked into her eyes.

"Wanna bet I can kiss the lipstick right off your mouth?"
he asked her softly.

She caught her breath at that and then smiled, and he kissed
her, relishing her mouth's warm sweetness.

After a while, he slid his lips away from hers and pressed
them to the tender spot between her jaw and her ear.  She
drew in a shaky breath.  

"Let's go upstairs," she whispered.

            *                *                *

Mo bent over and slipped off one shoe, then the other, and
Doggett watched, enjoying the view. He reached out to flip
the light switch on the bedroom wall, and she grasped his
hand.

"No," she said, and put her arms around his neck and
kissed him.

He put his hand on her backside and pulled her into his body,
rucking her skirt up until he could feel the back of her
thigh. Surprised by the bare skin under his fingers, he
realized she was wearing stockings and garters.

"I didn't know you were such an old-fashioned girl," he
murmured into her neck. 

She smiled.

With a satisfied expression, he unsnapped the back garter
with his thumb.  "I don't get the chance to do that very
often these days," he admitted.

"You know, I don't think I want to know where you learned
to do it," she replied.

"And I'm absolutely sure I don't want to tell you."

He slowly unzipped her dress and put his hands on the bare
skin of her back. "Let me look at you," he said, and pushed
the dress down and off her arms and skinned it past her
hips.  It fell to the floor.

She stepped out of it and stood in front of him in a
dark-colored strapless bra and matching panties, garters
and stockings.  In the low light from the lamp on the
nightstand, he couldn't quite make out the color of the
fabric, but it was sheer and enhanced rather than hid
the details of her body. 

"Do you like it?" she asked, almost shyly.

"Yes," he said softly. "I do." He was having a hard
time breathing. He touched her breast gently, and she
shut her eyes. He stroked the erect nipple with his thumb
and then turned her around so that her back was to him.
He pulled her tight to him and pointed to the mirror in
front of them.   

"Look at yourself," he said to her, "and tell me you're
not beautiful." She opened her eyes just a little and looked
in the mirror out of the corner of one eye, smiling
self-consciously.  He put his hands over her breasts,
kissing the back of her neck, and she made a sound that
was half-sigh, half-moan.  He ran his hand down her
stockinged thigh, and then she felt his fingers on her
back. 

She closed her eyes again as he unhooked the bra
and slid it away from her body.  He dropped it to the
floor and covered her bare breasts with his palms, pressing
his mouth to her temple. She watched in the mirror with
half-closed eyes as his fingers caressed the rosy nipples,
and she put her hands on his legs to steady herself. 

"If you keep doing that, I'm going to faint," she said to
him softly, only half-joking.  "And you'll have to call 911,
and then how are you going to explain the way I'm dressed
to the EMTs?"

He smiled. "They'll just be jealous." He steadied her on
her feet.  She pushed his suit coat off his shoulders and
pulled it off. He tugged his tie off and tossed it on the
floor and unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off, then
skinned his T-shirt over his head. 

She took his hand and pulled him over to the bed.  She 
sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at him.
Kneeling in front of her, he ran his fingers across the
span of white skin above the dark stockings and unsnapped
the garters there. He pulled her stockings down and off
her legs one by one and dropped them on the floor, and
then gently pushed her back onto the soft comforter.  She
reached up and undid his belt and unzipped his dress pants
and pulled them and his knit boxers down and off.  He fumbled
with the garter belt and finally got it unhooked, while she
looked up at him, laughing. 

He lifted her and moved her to the center of the bed, his body
poised over her.  She reached up and pulled his face down
to hers and kissed him.  He ran his hands slowly up her body,
touching her hips, moving over her ribs, caressing her breasts. 

"Oh, darlin', please."
 
He slid the sheer bikini down off her hips and dropped it to
the floor.  She pulled him close, and they both sighed as
she surrounded him with her warmth.
  

He put both his hands beneath her head and kissed her,
their lovemaking slow and sweet and full-hearted.  Her
arms around him, she moved and breathed in rhythm with
him, and he wouldn't have been surprised to learn that
her heart was beating the same cadence as his.

It occurred to him that the term "lovemaking" must have
come about to describe this sort of experience, and that
it was the perfect atmosphere in which to conceive a child.
He knew she would believe that.  He tended to, himself.

Maybe in another lifetime. . .    She would believe that too,
he thought.  He didn't think he did.

He shook the thought off. It was just another regret, and
he had enough of those already. He kissed her again,
kissing her as if he might never have another chance to
kiss her, and she tightened her arms around him and ran
her foot down the back of his calf in a gentle caress. 

Could it just be that she made him happy? Happiness was
something he hadn't given much thought to in a long time.
After the anguish had come the whole gamut--denial, anger,
grief. And then the numbness, which had lasted for so
long he thought he'd never be able to feel anything again.
He'd always worked too many hours, but after Luke's death
he tried to lose himself--in work, in drink, in so many
things.  He'd pushed people away who were only there
to help, people who had loved him, people he'd loved.
He didn't think that happiness was anything he needed
or--if the truth were told--anything he deserved.

And then, at some point, things had slowly started to
change. He'd begun going out again and being with friends,
had started seeing work as a challenge, maybe even a
pleasure, rather than a refuge from the rest of his life.
He'd begun to heal.

But happy? That was tough to say. From time to time, sure,
he was happy enough. There were family, friends, things to
do that he enjoyed. There was the occasional woman he spent
time with and liked immensely, who made him feel good.
But. . .but.  It was tough to say.

Yeah.  She made him happy.  

But this was real life, and she would go home, back to her
world, and part of him would die a little. He realized
he was steeling himself against that inevitability even
as he held her there so close under his heart.



He felt her hands on the back of his neck, felt her body
tensing under him, felt her draw in a deep breath as she
approached her orgasm. 

She let out her breath in a long, shuddering sigh and held
him tight, giving in to the ecstasy moving through her
body. He held his body still, feeling her rhythm around
him.  She kissed him then, as he found his own release.

He took her face between his hands and looked at her. When
she opened her eyes at last, he saw that they were bright
with unshed tears.  He kissed them away.


They lay together, wrapped in each other's arms.  She ran
her fingers down his cheek and neck, across his shoulder,
tracing patterns on his warm, freckled skin.

"You have to go home tomorrow," he said, his breath
warming her cheek.  It wasn't a question.

"Yes."  

"I wish you could stay, a little longer anyway."

"I know," she whispered. "So do I. But you have to work on
Monday, anyway." She pressed her face against his shoulder,
"I know this is going to sound dumb, but I just wish that
we could stay here together and not go anywhere else."

He lifted her face to his.  "I do too. But the reality is
that you have to teach a seminar tomorrow." He rolled over
and pulled the covers down, and tucked her between the soft
sheets. "And you need to get some sleep."

"I know," she murmured as he slid in next to her and put
his arms around her.  She took his hand and tucked it over
her breast, and snugged up against him. 

He held her until her breathing became slow and regular and
he knew she was asleep.  He carefully got out of the bed
and pulled the covers up around her. He turned out the light
and went into the bathroom and tugged on a pair of sweat pants
that he found on the clothes hamper. He shut the bedroom door
behind him and went downstairs.  He didn't think he'd be
able to sleep for a while.

            *                 *                *

Mo was lying on an unfamiliar bed.  It didn't have the
soft plushness of her big bed at home, or the crisp comfort
of Doggett's bed.

Where was she?  She couldn't see her surroundings; she
could only feel, and smell.  She wrinkled her nose at
a strange, sour odor and tried to fight back a sudden
feeling of terror.

Then she felt someone's strong hands on her, tight and
painful, pulling her hands behind her and wrapping
something around her wrists, and then a rough hand
clamped across her mouth.  Someone's heavy body was
on top of her.

She couldn't move. 

She was being raped, agonizingly. 

And she couldn't do anything to stop it.


The scream from upstairs made Doggett jump.  He took the
stairs two at a time and burst through the bedroom door
and hit the light switch.

Mo was lying on her side in his bed, rocking her body
rhythmically, whimpering.  He gathered her up and held
her close.  She startled and pulled away to look at his
face.  

Then she threw her arms around his neck and held him so
tightly he could barely breathe, her fingers clutching
spasmodically at his back and shoulders.  She began
sobbing, taking in great ragged breaths and letting
them out in piteous howls. He held her, rubbing her
back as if she were a child, until she stopped trembling
and her tears subsided.

"Shhh, baby, it was just a dream," he said to her softly.
"I got you. You're okay now."  He loosened her arms from
his neck and inspected her face. He frowned, squinting
at her skin. Was there a shadow there on her cheek?
He leaned over and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. 

"Here, can you slide over here a little?" he asked Mo.
He peered at her. There was definitely a faint mark on
her face, on her right cheek and the right side of her
jaw.  He frowned, worried now, and did a quick once-over
of the rest of her.  Her wrists were both circled with
faint pink wheals. . .like. . .ligature marks.

Impossible.  But they weren't there before, he knew that.
Call him whatever you want, but he was observant as hell. 

What the hell? It was beginning to feel like an X-file.

Mo reached out to him, and he pulled her into his arms
again, wrapping the comforter around them both.  He didn't
say anything, but simply held her, smoothing her hair.

"It wasn't a dream," she murmured against his shoulder.

"Then what was it?" His voice was hard, and she looked up
at his face. His jaw was set, his lips pressed into a thin
line.  He took her by the shoulders. "I just want you to tell
me what's goin' on. There are marks on your body--on your
face.  What the hell *is* it?"

"I don't know!" She flared up at him. "Don't talk to me like
I'm one of your suspects!"

He shut his eyes and pulled her against his chest again. "God
almighty," he whispered.

She finally looked up at him. "I really don't know what it was,
not for sure," she said quietly.  "It felt like a dream, but it
wasn't."

He could feel her body trembling, and he held her head against
his chest.  "Tell me what you experienced.  Tell me what you
think happened," he said quietly, realizing that he had to go
gently here.

"I know you don't believe in stuff like this, but have some
respect for me," Mo said. "You've got to listen to me for a
minute and not judge."  She sat up and looked at him.  "Can
you do that?"

"I'm listening," he said.

She pulled the comforter closer around herself. "I told you
earlier that I thought Rina--the girl in my seminar--had
transferred something to me--I'd call it a pattern, but--"
She hesitated.

He waited for her to go on.

"Assuming for a minute that I'm not crazy, if what I
experienced is any indication at all, I was experiencing
something she's already gone through."

"What was it?" Doggett asked.

Mo shivered reflexively.  "It was a rape.  By someone big
and strong--I couldn't see.  He tied my wrists with something."
She rubbed her forehead.  "John, the pain was awful. I don't
know what he's been doing to her, but it was horrible."

"What I don't get is why you have the marks on your face,
on your wrists," Doggett said.

"Darlin', I don't think I could give you an explanation that
would work for you," she said with a sigh. "But you can
believe your own eyes--you can see the evidence, and I
didn't do it to myself." She took his face in her hands.
"One of these days, you're gonna have to stop pushing
things away and just accept a little." Before he could do or
say anything, she slid out of the bed and walked into
the bathroom.

Doggett ran his hands back through his hair and stared at
the closed bathroom door.

Mo sat down on the edge of the bathtub and looked down at
her legs.  There were smears of blood on the insides of
her thighs. It wasn't her period, she knew that, and she
also knew she needed to get that blood washed off before
Doggett saw it. 

She ran the hot water in the sink and wet a washcloth and
wrung it out.  She rubbed the washcloth across the blood
on her legs.  She looked at the red stain on the white
terry cloth and, with shaking hands, rinsed the cloth off
in the sink.  She examined herself in the mirror.  There
was a pink mark on her cheek and, lower down, on her jaw.
She watched her reflection as her eyes filled with tears.
Exhausted, she leaned over the sink and let them roll down
her cheeks. 

Concerned, Doggett went to the door and listened.  Hearing
her quiet weeping, he walked in and pulled her up into his 
arms.  She hid her face against his chest.

"Shhh, sweetheart," he said. "It's all right.  I don't know
how this happened, but whoever did this to you is gonna pay.
Come on, let's get you back to bed."

He helped her back into his bed and went back downstairs to
turn off the lights.  He slowly walked up the stairs and back
into his bedroom.  He stood in the room for a moment, silent,
listening to her breathe.  He climbed into the bed next to her
and tucked her body up tight next to his.

Half-awake, she rolled over and put her head on his shoulder,
draping her arm over his waist.  " 'm sorry, John," she murmured.

"For what?" he asked.  He smoothed her hair from her face.

"For just makin' a mess of things," she whispered. 

"You didn't do that. You don't need to be sorry for anything,"
he said softly and kissed her cheek. She sighed. "Go to sleep now."

He wrapped his arms around her and held her, as if to keep her
safe.  He stared into the darkness, wondering if he could.

          *                    *                   *
Sunday Morning

Doggett rolled over in bed, yawning.  He scrubbed his hand
down his face and reached for the watch on the nightstand.
6:03 a.m.  They would have to get ready to leave before long.
She had to be at the hotel at 7:30.  She was sleeping peacefully,
curled on her side.

He returned the watch to the nightstand and rolled back over,
pulling the comforter back up over his shoulder.  This was
probably the last chance he would have to be alone with her,
and damned if he was getting out of bed just yet.

He spooned up behind her, putting his arm around her waist.
She was seductively warm, and he kissed the back of her neck.
It had been a long time since he had felt such a loving desire
for a woman.  It continued to surprise him, as did the woman
herself and her response to him.

She stirred and murmured something quietly in her sleep,
turning her face toward him. He pulled her closer to him,
and she turned in his arms and raised her face to his kiss.



Mo looked out the car window at the wide span of river.
The Potomac.  She smiled, feeling like a little girl.

"Do you ever get used to it?" She turned to Doggett, who
was checking his mirrors and trying to change lanes.

"What?" he asked.

"The buildings, the monuments," she said.

"Some days, you don't even see 'em."  He smiled.

"Really?" She sounded sad.

"Yeah.  Too bad, huh?" He glanced at her.  "Do you ever
get used to the mountains?"

"No." She shook her head.  "I'm always pretty amazed."
She wound a lock of curly black hair around a finger,
and then touched her earlobe. "Oh."

"What?" 

"I've lost an earring."  She sighed.  "One of my favorites."

"I'll check the house when I get back home.  I'll send
it to you if I find it," he reassured her. "Do you have
all your stuff?"

"I'm pretty sure," she said.  "I didn't really have much
at your house."  She was quiet for a moment.  "John, could
you do something for me?"

"What?"

"Could you come back to the hotel a little early, and sit
in on the last little bit of the seminar?  I'd like to know
what you make of Rina."

"Sure.  But I don't think it'll do any good," he said.

"That's okay.  I just want you to meet her. You're one of
the most observant people I know."

            *                  *                  *

Sunday Afternoon 

Doggett got back to the hotel around 3 p.m.  He'd stopped
in at the office for a while, and there had been a message
from Scully on his voice mail. She wouldn't be in the next
day until after lunch.  His brows rose at that, but the last
few months had been hell for Scully, and he figured she had
coming to her any time off she wanted.  She had her own
well-being, and her baby's, to think of.  

The seminar was on a break when he arrived, and he stood
by the door quietly, trying to get the lay of the land.
There was a big man with dark hair and a beard in deep
Conversation with an older woman who had a loud, infectious
laugh.  Marian was conducting some paperwork with a little
blonde with long hair. Then he saw Mo, sitting up front next
to a small Asian girl.  That would have to be Rina.  

Mo looked up and saw him.  She raised her eyebrows almost
imperceptibly, and he walked over to where the two women
were sitting.

"Ladies," he said, stopping in front of them.

"John, hi," Mo said.

"This your fella?" the young woman asked Mo teasingly.  

"This is John Doggett," Mo said.  "John, Rina Araneta."

Araneta. Doggett had gone to the Police Academy with a
Louis Araneta, a long time ago.  It was Filipino.

"It's nice to meet you, Rina," he took her hand and shook
it, looking from her pretty dark eyes to the faint marks
on her slender wrists.

Impossible.

"It's a pleasure," she said, glancing from Doggett to Mo
and back. 

"Thanks for coming down early," Mo said to Doggett softly.

"Sure," he said.  "I'll just go find a place over there,"
he said.

"We're about ready to get started again here, in just a few
minutes."  Mo turned to Rina.  "Do you want to be my
demonstrator body this time? Then you can switch with Lori."

"Sure," the pretty Asian girl said. 

            *                   *                    *

Leaning against the wall and trying to look inconspicuous,
Doggett watched as the seminar members paired up, watching
and listening to Mo and emulating what she was doing.

Rina was lying on her back on Mo's massage table.  Mo held
her hands over Rina's abdomen and spoke to the little blonde,
Lori. "When you're working on a woman," she said, directing
her comment to the entire group, "you need to be aware of the
reproductive organs here in the abdomen. They have such a
distinctive pattern," she said. "Do you feel that?" She smiled
at Lori, whose hands she was guiding.

The other woman looked uncertain, and Mo adjusted her hands
just slightly. Lori smiled and nodded.

Mo looked up then, and blinked a few times.  She tried to get
a breath, and couldn't.  Lori watched as Mo's face slowly went
white. Mo let go of Lori's hands and put a palm on the massage
table for balance.

Doggett stood up straight.  He started walking toward her.

"Marian, can you take over for me?" Mo called over to her assistant.
"I'll be right back," she said to Lori and walked toward the door. 

Doggett met her halfway and took her arm, alarmed.  "Mo, what's
goin' on?"

She grimaced. "John, just help me to the bathroom.  I'll be okay."

He held on to her arm and walked with her out of the meeting room
and into the lobby.

"Mo, what's wrong?" he asked her as he helped her to the ladies'
room.  There was no one inside, and he walked in with her.
"Do you need a doctor?"

"No," she said.  "They'll just poke at me, and they won't find
anything wrong. No," she said emphatically. She braced herself
on the sink and bent over, obviously in pain.

"That's it," Doggett said, "I'm getting you to the hospital."

"No," she said quietly.  "I won't go." 

"Am I gonna have to carry you outta here?"

"That's exactly what you'd have to do," she said, meeting his
eyes with an even gaze.

"I swear to Christ, you're a pigheaded woman," Doggett said
hotly.

"John, please, just go get Marian, okay?" she whispered.

"You'll be all right here by yourself?"

"Yeah.  I'll be okay. Marian can help me." 

He walked out and crossed the lobby again to the meeting
room. He scanned the group, finally catching Marian's eye.
One look at his face, and she nodded to him.  He went back
out into the lobby to wait for her.  

"Agent Doggett, what happened to Mo?" she asked as she
walked into the lobby a few minutes later.

"She's in pain, but hell if I know what caused it.  She's
in the bathroom and wants you," Doggett said to her, walking
with her.  "She needs a doctor."

Marian pushed through the bathroom door.  "Mo!" Doggett
heard her call out to her friend.

He stood alone in the lobby, wishing there were more he
could do, angry with himself that he hadn't forced the
issue of the hospital, hating that he felt so helpless.

Then he walked back over to the meeting room.  There was
someone in there he wanted to talk to. . .

            *                  *                   *

Marian walked over to Mo and took gentle hold of her arms.
"What's hurting?" she asked simply.

Mo took a deep breath and let it out.  "It's all pelvic,"
she whispered.

"It's her pattern, isn't it?" Marian asked, unceremoniously
lifting Mo's skirt and pressing her sure fingers carefully
to her lower abdomen.

Mo winced and nodded.

"Why did you do it?" Marian asked, her voice tight.

"Do what?--ah! That hurts!"

"Why did you take on her pattern today, after what you said
happened last night?" Marian smoothed Mo's skirt back down.

"She needs help, that's all." Mo ran her fingers back through her
hair.  "Even if she's not hurting physically anymore. I was
*bleeding* last night, Marian.  The girl's been hurt, physically,
emotionally--I don't know."  She sagged against the counter. "She
just needs someone to help her."

"And who's going to help *you*?" Marian asked her, putting an
arm around her for support. "You need to forget about her and
take care of yourself," Marian added, "or I'm going to go get your
Agent Doggett and have him take you to the hospital." She helped
Mo walk to the bathroom door. "Come on, let's get you upstairs. I
need to do some work with you, clear that pattern out."

"All right," Mo said tiredly and allowed Marian help her out to the
elevators in the lobby.

           *                  *                  *

Doggett threaded his way carefully through the people in the meeting
room. The tall, bearded man--the one from the yoga group?--was
trying to herd the group together, to put some sort of finish to
the seminar, Doggett guessed. He waited for the right moment, and 
then walked over to Rina Araneta. 

Rina was packing up a leather satchel when she looked up and saw
him standing there.  She gave him a hesitant smile.

"Could I talk to you for a minute?" Doggett asked her.

"Yes," she said, uncertain.  "What about?"

Doggett put his hand on her elbow and steered her away from the
others.  They sat down in the front row of chairs where they'd sat
earlier.

"Is it about Mo?" Rina asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, in a way," Doggett said.

She looked at him apprehensively.

"Look," he said, "I may as well just say it.  She's hurting
right now--and she thinks it has something to do with you."

Something passed through her dark eyes, a shadow of the type
Doggett had seen way too many times before. She knew something.

"This might sound crazy, but hear me out.  Mo thinks that 
someone's hurting you.  She says she can feel it in her own body."
He heard the words he was saying and wondered if they sounded as
far-fetched to her as they did to him.

"Is she okay?" Rina asked him, her voice small.

"She says she will be," he replied, studying her face.

She finally looked right into his eyes.  "Do you want to go
get a cup of coffee?" she asked him.  

         *                    *                    *

Doggett was sitting on the sofa in Mo's hotel suite,
absently leafing through a magazine. It was something to
do while he waited, but what he was reading wasn't really
registering. 

Marian came through the door from the bedroom and quietly
pulled the door closed behind her.  

Doggett put the magazine down.  "How's she doin'?" he asked
her, standing up.

"She's going to be okay," Marian said.  "She's sleeping
right now.  She's just exhausted." Marian motioned him to
sit down.  She sat in the chair opposite him.  "Your urge
to get her to a doctor was a good one--but she'll be okay,"
she told him. "Agent Doggett, last winter when Mo was in the
hospital, the doctor told me that if she was lucky she'd have
a limp for the rest of her life."

Doggett nodded.  "And if she wasn't lucky?"

"That she'd never get out of bed again."  Marian gave him a
sharp look. "She fooled them all. She's one of the strongest
people I know."

"I'm beginning to understand that myself," Doggett said. "Marian,
what the hell happened to her?"

Marian studied him in that way she had. "I know you're not
inclined to give a lot of weight to these things--"

"Marian," he interrupted her, "I just want to know what
you think happened to her."

"You want my opinion? She gave away too much of herself,"
Marian said carefully.

"What do you mean?"

"She felt that girl was being hurt, and she wanted to help
her.  So she opened herself up too far."

"Yeah, she told me about doin' that, and it didn't sound
too wise," he said. "What else, Marian?"

"Mo and I don't always see eye-to-eye on how to handle things.
She feels that sometimes you just have to give what you can,
even if it isn't wise."

"And you disagree."

"Not entirely.  It's what makes her an extraordinary healer.
But she doesn't always have much concern for her own well-
being.  Let's just leave it at this. Even before she decided
to work with this girl, she was vulnerable. She gave herself
to you too. I think in the end she just didn't have enough
reserve to handle it." She looked at him pointedly. "You're
an intelligent man.  You can figure out what I'm talking
about." She looked away.  "She wouldn't want me to be telling
you this."

As she spoke, Doggett felt his face flush hot.  "Then maybe
you better not say any more."  He looked at his watch. "Don't
you two have a plane to catch in about three hours?"

Marian nodded.

"I'm taking her home with me," Doggett said.  

Marian looked at him and then nodded again, knowing by the
look on his face that it wouldn't do any good to argue the
point.

"I'll make sure she gets on a plane tomorrow," he added.

"She can't afford--"

"We'll work it out," he said.  He walked over to the bedroom
door and turned back to her.  "You need a ride to the
airport, Marian?"

She met his eyes and smiled a little.

He opened the door quietly and went into the bedroom.

Marian looked after him.  She shook her head, then picked
up some papers from the table and started going through them.



Mo was indeed asleep.  Doggett sat down carefully on the edge
of the big bed and looked at her.  What had he gotten himself
into with this woman?  A serious relationship with a woman
--hell, *any* relationship with a woman--was beyond him
the way his life was going these days.  

Still and all, he already knew he was going to miss her. 
She brought him an inexplicable joy.

She rolled over and sighed, rubbing her face in her sleep.
He smiled. When she was asleep, she looked like she was
about 17.

She slowly opened her eyes and blinked at him owlishly.
"John?"

"Hey," he said gently.  "How you feelin'?" His concern for
her was written on his face.

"I'm okay." She propped herself up on her elbows and looked
up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you were," he said.  "And I guess I wanted
to find out what happened."

"It was pain, in my abdomen.  It was pretty bad, but Marian
helped me clear it out."

"You think it was related to--"  He didn't know how to describe
it.

She nodded.  "I do," she said simply.

He wondered if this were the right time to tell her about his
conversation with Rina.  Maybe not.

"I'm taking you home with me," he said.  "If you can stay
another night, anyway."

"What?" She was clearly surprised.

"You shouldn't travel tonight unless you have to.  Come
home with me and get some sleep.  You'll feel better in
the morning, and you can get a flight then."

"But Marian--"

"I'll take her to National.  It'll be fine," he told her.

"All right," she said, not knowing what else to say. "But
it'll cost--"

"We'll work it out," he said. "Mo, I want you to stay."

She looked at him, puzzled.  "You really do."

He didn't say anything for a long moment.  "Yeah," he finally
said.  "I do."

She lay back on the pillow and shut her eyes.  She reached
for his hand, and he took it and held it.

            *                  *                 *

Sunday Night

Mo sat on his sofa with her legs tucked up in front of her.
Pulling the afghan up closer to her body, she watched him
in his kitchen.  He walked back over to her with the cup of
tea she'd asked for and set it down on the big coffee table
in front of her.

"You need anything else?  You okay?" 

"I'm fine, thanks, darlin'," she said.  "I'm just tired.
Come sit."  She patted the sofa, and he sat down next to
her.  She curled up next to him.  

"I wanted to tell you something, when you were up to it,"
he said.

"Mmmm," she prompted, sipping the tea.

"When you introduced me to the girl in your seminar--Rina?--
I saw some scars on her wrists.  They didn't look fresh, and I
figured they could have been from anything. But it got me
thinking. After what happened to you, I went back and spoke
to her."

"What happened?" Mo gave him a quizzical frown. 

"I told her what was going on with you, and that you thought
someone was hurting her."

"What did she say?" Mo asked.

Doggett shook his head.  "This blew me away," he admitted.
"It took her a while to get around to talkin' about it. I think
the only reason she finally did was that she was worried about
what had happened to you. She told me that she'd been sexually
abused for years by her father."

"Oh, no," Mo said, her face stricken.

"She told me she's been in counseling for the last year or so. 
I guess she wasn't able to even admit to it for a lot of years. He
hurt her pretty bad."

Mo stared off into the middle distance, chewing on her lip. "Yeah,
I think I know. I think I maybe have an idea how he hurt her."

Doggett looked at her, weighing just how much he should tell her.
Rina had told him a lot more than he'd bargained on, and it was
stomach-turning.

She turned her face back to him.  "She was hurt internally, wasn't
she?"

Doggett's face was grim.  He nodded just a little.  "Her. . .uterus
was perforated."

"Oh, my God." Mo shut her eyes and rested her cheek on her drawn-up
knees.

"Are you gonna be okay?" Doggett asked her softly, smoothing her
hair. She looked like she might get sick.

"Yeah.  I'll be okay.  It explains her pattern, what I picked
up from her."  She sat up again and took a breath. "Where's her
father now?"

"He's dead."

"Good," Mo said. "God help me, but I'm glad." She didn't say
anything more for a long time.

Then she looked at Doggett with such weary sadness in her eyes
that he put his hand on her knee. "How do you deal with it?" she 
asked him.  "How do you do work that brings you into contact with
people who can do something like that?" She ran her hands down
her face. "I mean, I spend my life trying to heal the wounds caused
by people like that man. How do you do it?"

"I guess you just always have to think about the victim. . .about 
helpin' whoever it is," he said.

She sighed.  "You have all my respect." 

Doggett put an arm around her.  "You're not going to do that
thing anymore, right?" he asked.

"You mean take on someone's pattern?"

"Yeah, that."

She smiled a little.  "I'll try not to.  But I can't guarantee
a thing."

"Pigheaded," he said, smiling a little back.

"Well, maybe, but sometimes it's the only way to help.  It's
what I do," she replied.

"I know," he said. 

She settled her head against his shoulder. "Thanks for everything,
John," she said quietly.

"You're welcome," he replied.

"You were wonderful this weekend, and I just made everything
crazy."

"No." He looked down at her face.  "You made me happy. Do you know
how few people in my life have ever done that?  I'd say you did
all right for one weekend."

She smiled.  "I'm glad, darlin'," she said, trying unsuccessfully
to stifle a yawn. She resettled herself against him.  "I think
I need to go to bed. I'm so tired."  

He lay back onto the sofa cushions and stretched his legs
out on the coffee table.  She was soft and warm against
his body, and he shut his eyes and sighed, content just
to hold her.



When he awoke, he was in the same position, and she was a
dead weight now, sound asleep on his chest.  Well, he thought,
if sleep was what she needed, she was definitely getting it.
He picked her up carefully and carried her to the stairs and
up to his bedroom.

He lay her down on the bed, unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans
and slid them off, removed her socks.  He left her T-shirt on.
He was tired now himself. He pulled the covers back and rolled
her under them, and she curled over onto her side. He pulled
the sheets and comforter up over her and went to shut the house
down for the night and get ready for bed himself.

When he slid into bed next to her a little later, she stirred
and moved closer to him.  He pulled her into his arms and held
her, feeling her heart beating against his chest.  He could
almost feel how tired she was.  Maybe Marian had been right;
maybe she had just given too much away.  He hoped it wasn't
true.

"John," she murmured. "Love you."  

In the faint light from a streetlamp filtering through the
blinds, he looked at her, listened to her even breathing.
She was asleep.

He pulled her tighter to him and kissed her forehead,
squeezing his eyes shut. 


             *                  *                   *

Monday Morning

The sky was just lightening outside when she awoke,
wondering for an instant where she was.  Then she heard
the quiet breathing next to her, saw the shadowy outline
of the man there, felt the warmth of his body. She snugged
up close to his back and wrapped her arm over his waist,
listening to the birds outside.  There was a mourning dove
somewhere close by the window, and she smiled.  It was spring.

She pressed her lips to the back of Doggett's neck, and
he stretched and rolled over to face her. He put an arm over
her and pulled her to him.  He kissed her cheek, then her mouth.

"Mornin'," he said.  "You feelin' better?"

"Mmmm, I am," she said, running her hand across his
shoulder and  down the smooth, hard muscles of his back.
She paused at the soft curve below his waist, rubbing
a tender spot there with sure fingers.  "Oh, sweet
darlin', kiss me again," she murmured.  

He rolled over and kissed her mouth, pulling her tight
underneath him.  The kisses grew deeper and longer, and
he slid his hands underneath her T-shirt.  She pulled the
shirt off, and put her hands in his hair and sighed as he
kissed her breasts and caressed her body. 

There was a bittersweet urgency to their lovemaking.  They both
knew it was the last time.

Lying together afterward, they held each other in silence,
touching each other with gentle hands, not speaking.
It was as if there wasn't anything more to say, or maybe
there was too much.  

Finally Mo opened her eyes and looked at him.  "I don't
want to go," she whispered.

He brushed her hair away from her forehead.  "I know,"
he said.  He kissed her gently.

  
          *                 *                   *

He parked the car in front of the passenger drop-off at
the airport and looked over at her. 

"You sure you don't want me to come in with you?" he
asked her.

"I'm sure.  I'd rather say goodbye here."  She looked
at him with a half-smile.  "Thanks for everything, John.
Again."

"I'm glad you came.  I'm glad I got to see you again."

"I loved being with you," she said.

"I did too, you know that." 

She held his face between her hands and kissed him. "I
have to go," she finally said.  "Keep yourself safe,
darlin'. Please?"

He nodded. "I'll do my best.  And you take care of
yourself.  Call me.  Anytime."  

"I will." She smiled.  They got out of the car, and
he pulled her bag out of the trunk and stood with her
while she checked it.  Then she kissed his cheek and
quickly walked into the terminal.

She didn't look back.  He watched her, and stood there
for a long time after the door shut behind her.




Four days later he found the silver earring on his bedroom
floor, by the nightstand, caught in a loop of the thick
carpet.  He gently worked it out of the carpet and held
it up to the light of the lamp.  It was a tiny figure of
a woman, suspended from a delicate French ear wire. He
smiled, remembering it in her ear. He set it down on the
nightstand, feeling a sudden nostalgia that settled in his
gut, almost painful.  He sat down on the edge of his bed
with a sigh.

He'd send the earring to her.  He knew how happy she'd be
to have it back.

But, maybe, just for a while, he'd leave it where it was,
where he could see it.  


End