Title: Semper Fi

Authors: Anne Hedonia and spookycc

Rating: spooky: my part is G :-) Anne: mine is, 
surprisingly, only 
PG-13.

Summary: Scully learns something of DoggettÕs past. And 
Doggett learns
something of Scully.

Classification: V A, DSR

Spoilers: For S8 so far.

Disclaimer: spooky: No characters, human or canine, are 
ours. (Anne: no
matter how much weÕd really, really like them to be, in 
real life.)

Feedback welcomed at spookycc@earthlink.net / 
ahedonia@yahoo.com

Dedication: spookycc: As ever, to Doggett's Bitch 
(f/k/a "FoxÕs Vixen" 
:).
My soulmate, always. And for girlassassin, you know 
why. :) Special 
thanks
to Anne for letting me bask in her limelight. And 
SHODDSsisters, you 
all
rock!

Anne: To spooky, for coming up with this idea and 
suggesting it to me, 
and
letting me be associated with the OD (Original Dipper 
<g>), and to the
SHODDS bunch, for existing. :)



***

Semper Fi

We lost an agent today, a good agent. A hostage 
situation gone bad. We 
got
the hostages out, but sacrificed one of our own to do 
it. Even so, we 
were
lucky. The men holding the hostages were loose cannons, 
all of them. 
Hours
of negotiation and two canisters of teargas later, we 
got the hostages 
out
alive.

We all enter the Bureau knowing that this might happen, 
but somehow 
itÕs
easy to reassure ourselves with the false confidence 
that itÕs always
someone else who takes the fall.

It was someone else, today. But it was almost Doggett. 
I shudder a bit,
involuntarily.

"You okay?" His voice breaks into my contemplative 
mood. IÕd almost
forgotten how quickly he picks up on every move I make 
Š what it might 
mean,
whether something is the matter.

"Yeah Š IÕm fine. ItÕs just that Š well, that was a 
scare today." He 
nods,
his worry thus eased, and turns once more within 
himself.

I feel badly for the man who was killed in the line of 
duty. I feel for 
the
manÕs family. I know the pain of losing someone. I know 
it too well.

I try to jar Doggett back to the here and now. "How 
about you? Are you
alright?" I wonder if his introspection is seated more 
deeply than just
sadness at the loss of a colleague.

His eyes brush briefly over the bandage on his arm, and 
he dismisses it 
with
a shake of his head. "IÕm fine. ItÕs nothinÕ." It is so 
like John 
Doggett to
ignore his own problems and worry about someone elseÕs.

There is silence for a few moments. I say his name 
twice, and he 
finally
looks up.

He looks at me. He looks through me. His mind is not 
here, I know. I 
want to
help, and I wish heÕd let me. He lowers his gaze for a 
long moment. And 
I
take that moment to lay a hand gently on his uninjured 
arm. "What is 
it?"

He is silent for too long. When he does speak, his 
voice is subdued, 
somber.
"ItÕs my fault."

"WhatÕs your fault?"

He heaves a huge sigh. "Adams. Today."

"You know thatÕs not true." How can he even entertain 
that thought? If 
it
werenÕt for DoggettÕs actions, we would have lost more 
than one agent 
today.

Of course, he doesnÕt see that. All he sees is that he 
should have been 
able
to save Adams. Somehow.

"It is true!" he barks too sharply, and I back off, 
just a bit. 
Troubled
territory. He senses my discomfort and his tone is 
immediately softer. 
"IÕm
sorry. ItÕs just that - I blew it back there, just 
like-"

A pregnant pause. "Just like *what*?"

He just shakes his head, and lowers his eyes again. 
"Hey," I keep my 
voice
low. "I want to help."

He raises his head only very slowly, as if it takes 
enormous will to do 
so.
I place a hand softly against his cheek; turn his 
chiseled face to look
directly at me. "PleaseÉ Tell me."

He nods. And I learn the story Š pulled from him bit by 
bit Š of a 
tragedy
that occurred when he was a Marine.

"I met Robinson at the USMC Amphibious Warfare School 
at Quantico. We 
were
gonna serve a couple hitches, and then maybe go into 
the Bureau 
together. He
was a Staff Sergeant, I was just a Sergeant. Ended up 
he was my C.O. in
Lebanon."

"We were at HQ. Just routine, helpinÕ the U.N. task 
force. ŌTil some
kamikaze terrorist decided it would be a great public 
forum for aÉ a 
display
of rebellion."

I have to prod him gently to continue. And what he 
states next comes 
out as
bluntly as though heÕs narrating it by heart from a 
newspaper clipping. 
"On
October 23, 1983, a lone terrorist destroyed the HQ 
building in Beirut. 
We
lost 241 Marines and sailors. Over 100 more were 
wounded." I suddenly
realize this must be his way of distancing himself from 
the event.

"You were one of those," I guess IÕm not really asking.

He nods, and falls silent again.

"What else?"

He throws me a look IÕm not sure how to read.

"Long story short? I made it. Robinson didnÕt." Years 
ago, yet the pain 
is
still fresh on his face. "I got a freakinÕ 
Multinational Force and 
Observers
Medal and a medical discharge. Robinson came home in a 
box, along with 
a lot
of others."

He tries to pull away, but I donÕt let him put distance 
between us. 
This
noble man has known so much loss, so much sorrow. Yet 
he dismissed it
without apparent thought and took on my crusade to find 
Mulder. Made it 
his
ownÉ

And, in his own mind, he failed there, as well, when he 
and Skinner 
found
Mulder dead. I canÕt see how he could consider any of 
these as personal
failures, least of all the tragedy in Lebanon.

"John." He is pulling further within himself. I need to 
draw him out, 
to let
him share his pain, his guilt, so he can be rid of it. 
At least some of 
itÉ

He sits slumped, shoulders hunched over, and I realize 
he is crying. 
Softly.
He doesnÕt want me to see. He wants to spare *me* of 
*his* pain. As 
he's
always done. I move closer, and wrap an arm around him. 
I would never 
have
guessed that this outwardly strong man had so much 
grief inside him. It 
begs
for release.

"You need to let it go," I rub a hand across his back, 
feeling his hard
muscles play beneath my fingers. "ItÕll help. Let it 
go."

He sighs, a huge wracking sob caught before it can 
escape. "He was the 
best
friend IÕd ever had. Sure we were young, cocky even." 
He nods. "But we 
were
close. Really close. I never thought IÕd lose him so 
quickly."

"Go on..." I encourage him.

"I was working security that day. *That* day."

I pause for a moment. "Surely one man isnÕt responsible 
for the entire 
base
security." He shakes his head Š there were others 
involved, but he 
takes the
blame on himself.

This complex man I once thought simple. Layer after 
layer is revealed 
to me,
here, tonight. But I sense there is something more.

"What else?"

Silence that stretches too long before he answers.

"I failed him then. And I failed him again, years 
later."

"How could that be? John?"

"Staff Sergeant Robinson. His name was ŌLukeÕ." His 
voice catches 
within his
throat.

"Oh, God." My breath catches in my throat. Mulder told 
me of DoggettÕs 
son.
Was Robinson the man from whom Luke John Doggett took 
his first name?

Doggett turns to face me, hearing my slight gasp. I nod 
slowly. "I know
about Luke."

He levels me with a questioning gaze.

"I read Luke's file. When Mulder was helping you and 
Agent Reyes look 
into
the Jeb Dukes case."

Doggett nods in acknowledgement, no doubt glad he 
doesnÕt have to 
explain
the significance to me. Then he rests his elbows on his 
knees, and his 
head
in his handsÉ

Footsteps sound in another corridor. Soon a nurse 
pushing an elderly 
man in
a wheelchair rounds the corner, the two of them joking 
softly as they 
go by.
I feel John tense, watch his shoulders rise and fall as 
he sucks in a
steadying breath, blows it out quietly. I watch what 
was so close to 
the
surface a minute ago get shoved down toward where itÕs 
been, for so 
long. He
doesnÕt move again, even after the pair have passed.

I suddenly realize that this hospital corridor is too 
public Š even if 
he
does trust me, heÕs far too proud to let any show of 
emotion happen 
here. I
let my hand slip up his back, then gently pull his head 
closer and 
whisper.
"LetÕs get out of here."



He nods, rises to let himself be led. I take a chance 
and carefully 
grasp
his hand. I find he not only lets me, but after a 
moment, repositions 
our
fingers so that they intertwine. I warm at the contact 
and glance at 
him,
wondering if I really do see goose bumps on his neck, 
near where I was
whispering.

I guide him along the labyrinth of halls and nurseÕs 
stations, not
completely sure what my plan is - I figure something 
will occur to me. 
The
hall weÕre in merges with another, widening into a 
waiting area. The 
couches
are mostly empty, except for one long one, which is 
packed with a group 
of
family members. The people there hold onto one another, 
listening to a
doctorÕs news with rapt disbelief. The doctor speaks 
softly, his 
haunted
eyes filling in the words I canÕt hear. The mother of 
the group wails 
out
loud, and the other family members pile tighter onto 
her, trying to 
absorb
her grief.

The hand I hold suddenly clenches mine like a vise. I 
look to DoggettÕs 
face
and his eyes are squeezed shut, fighting to stem the 
flow of emotion 
before
it engulfs him, before he breaks his own iron code and 
shames himself 
in
front of strangers. I look around quickly, and see an 
exit that 
apparently
leads to a small, sheltered garden space. A "reflection 
area", the sign
says. Perfect. A few steps and weÕve disappeared 
through the door.

Doggett breaks out ahead of me, into the cool, quiet, 
dappled shade, 
and
stands with a hand covering his face.

His shoulders tremble, quaking for release. HeÕs still 
not willing. I 
want
so much to see him heal, and hate watching him do the 
same things to 
himself
that I used to do, years ago. Bottling it all up, 
reaching for no one,
waiting until the pain became too big for *anyone* to 
contain before I
showed it, and only then because I had no choice.

I know that many lessons canÕt be taught, that each 
person has to find 
his
own way to the truth, but I canÕt stop myself from 
urging him forward. 
I
walk quietly to his side and, after a moment, rest my 
head on his 
shoulder,
my hand slipping down to grasp his. "If thereÕs one 
thing my life has 
taught
me," I whisper, "itÕs that sometimes, real courage is 
allowing yourself 
to
be vulnerable."

It breaks from him in sobs that build quickly, jerky 
and choking, too 
much
emotion trying to come through one body. His face 
clamps shut with the 
shame
of letting go, but even so I can feel his relief. He 
turns impulsively 
and
embraces me, and I him. He holds onto me hard, though 
my heart breaks a
little to realize heÕs still obviously mindful of the 
difference in our
sizes, still seeming to protect, to enclose me, wrap 
around me. I rub 
his
back and whisper soft encouragement as together we let 
his pain and 
grief be
carried away by the quiet breeze.

After a few moments, heÕs quieted, sobs softened into a 
crying that he 
can
manage. "Too much," he sighs, over and over. "Too 
much..."

"Too much what?" I ask gently.

He sniffs loudly next to my ear, pauses to collect what 
he can. "Too 
much
loss, and...all at my hands." His voice is breaking 
again into a ragged
whisper. "When will it ever stop? When will I ever stop 
failinÕ people? 
When
will I ever get it right?"

IÕm horrified to hear these are his beliefs Š the man 
whoÕs given me my 
life
back over and over in the space of a just few months 
thinks heÕs done
nothing but fail? Š but I know how the mind works, and 
that a simple 
stating
of my opinion wonÕt change how he feels. I tell him the 
truth. "When 
you let
go. When you stop telling yourself youÕre to blame."

I feel him breathe, as he ponders this. When he speaks 
his low voice is
uncertain and vulnerable. "I dunno if I can."

My heart swells. I can hear him opening just a bit to 
the Ōextreme
possibilityÕ of ending his personal war. ItÕs enough. I 
pull back to 
see his
face, and try with everything I have to burn my belief 
into him.

"You can do anything, John," I say sincerely.

I stare into his teary eyes, and see them beginning to 
lighten with the
faintest of uncertain smiles. He seems in silent awe of 
my kindness, of 
my
giving to someone such as him, and not judging him for 
needing it. For
accepting his weakness Š for loving it, when he does 
not.

My own realization hits me, and I gulp in quiet shock. 
I do love all of 
his
sides, I realize. And I donÕt care what they look like, 
and would even 
vow
to embrace those I havenÕt yet seen.

A neglected tear leaks down onto his cheek. Without 
thinking, I slip a 
hand
straight into his inside coat pocket and pull out a 
handkerchief, one 
that
the months together have taught me that he carries. I 
gently wipe his
face...then look up to meet his eyes as something dawns 
in them. The
familiarity of my move has warmed them, and made them 
spill over with 
an
entirely different emotion.

He squeezes his eyes closed as though trying to stop 
himself from
proceeding... and then opens them, their clear blue 
decisive. He lets 
it all
go, visibly, and I feel goose bumps rise all over me. 
He leans quickly 
to
claim my mouth with his, pulling my body close, 
reaching up to cradle 
my
head reverently with his hands. I can feel him offering 
up every bit of 
his
soul, flooding me with it, wanting nothing more than to 
meld with me.

I am overwhelmed. I asked for him to let his feelings 
out, and now he 
has,
in a way I never expected. My pulse is racing and I am 
trembling with a
thought I cannot justify, but which is nonetheless 
overriding every 
other Š
please, I plead with him 
silently...please...donÕt...*ever*...stop.

I must not be clairvoyant, because a moment later he 
pulls back 
silently,
leaving me bereft. HeÕs looking down and away, eyes 
squeezed shut 
again, the
shame back in his features. "So sorry," he murmurs. 
"Please, I didnÕt
mean... forgive me."

I bring his face back gently with both hands, my own 
head swimming. 
"No," I
gasp. "No, John..." I have no idea what to say. I look 
into his 
tortured
face and blurt the first thing that I feel. "Come home 
with me."

He looks confused, then embarrassed, misunderstanding. 
"The way IÕm 
actinÕ,
you wanna keep an eye on me," he guesses quietly.

I shake my head emphatically, willing him to understand 
what I am too
shell-shocked with my own discovery to express. <I want 
to keep a lot 
more
than my eyes on you>, I think. What I say is "No, I 
need you...near."

His eyes widen in surprise, and search mine, darkening 
a bit as it 
dawns.
"YouÕre not the only one who needs a shoulder 
sometimes..." I say, 
looking
down in sudden self-consciousness. I raise my face 
again and when I 
open my
mouth, my voice is husky. "DonÕt leave me with just 
this...little taste 
of
you."

His eyes storm instantly with emotion, with grateful 
redemption and raw
need. I welcome the feel of his body and mouth as I am 
pulled against 
him
again. I sink into his urgent ministrations and reel 
with blissful
astonishment.

He slows after a moment, his kisses becoming sweeter 
and softer, then 
pulls
away so that his face still hovers near mine, nuzzling 
me contentedly. 
He
sighs. We take a well-needed moment to catch up with 
ourselves.

"YouÕre not followinÕ your own advice, yÕknow." I open 
my eyes to see 
the
smile his voice hinted was there. I smile back, 
quizzically. He brushes 
his
fingers through the hair at my temples, looking quietly 
awed, like he 
just
realized such a gesture was allowed.

"You told me to stop thinking that savinÕ people was my 
responsibility, 
but
yet here you are, spending all this time today...savinÕ 
me." His eyes 
have
welled again, and this time he doesnÕt shrink from it. 
His true self is 
on
display, and I am receiving my own private viewing. I 
warm with awe at 
the
privilege.

"Maybe I did," I say, with fake nonchalance. "But I 
figure, when we get 
to
my house, you can pay me back."

I feel a surge of very masculine hunger flare off of 
him. My knees 
weaken.
"Oh, that I can do," he growls softly. "In fact, I may 
like payinÕ you 
back
so much that I wonÕt wanna stop. IÕll have to go get in 
trouble again."

My insides quiver at what we are negotiating, and I 
pull myself closer. 
"If
you do, IÕm here."

His face grows soft with gratitude and revelation. "I 
know."

***

end