Telecommunicating by Mischa mischablue@crosswinds.net Spoilers: general S8 up to 'DeadAlive' Timeline: Set in the 'DeadAlive' three month interval between Mulder's burial and exhumation. Keywords: Doggett, Scully, and Mulder makes a cameo appearance. Category: S, DSF/UST, a touch of odd H Summary: A simple bug hits Scully harder than it normally would, but Doggett is there to catch her when she falls. Another small but significant step in a strengthening partnership takes place, thanks to a fever dream. Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, FOX, and of course to RP, GA and DD. Although apparently when it comes down to it, they're actually the property of Rupert Murdoch. And on the note of weird legalities, I mean no infringement and am making no money so don't bother suing. Archive: SHODDSters, yes; Ephemeral, yes; Gossamer, yes; XFMU, yes; all others just drop me a line. Author's Note: My contribution to the Chicken Soup for the SHODDS Soul series, in honour of our illustrious captain DB. Dedication: For DB, of course! * * * * The migraine and the ache in her throat are bad enough, but it's the tinnitus that is driving her to distraction. Scully's used to ignoring the painful ringing sound, but at work and in close proximity to computers, telephones and the whirring of fluorescent lights it's harder to dismiss. The background noise is particularly grating today on her eardrums. The same medical reasons for why her ears are ringing are also causing her thoughts to drift. She wonders if it's being caused by subversive government signals being transmitted into her mind through radio waves. Or maybe the computers are sentient, sending subliminal messages to her through its soft hums. Scully decides at that very moment that whatever it is, it's driving her mad. An madness that the Lone Gunmen would be proud of, but insanity nonetheless. She can't deny, however, that it's not a signal being sent to her alone. Doggett appears even more carefully attuned to her today than usual; keeping a close eye on her as they worked, getting her cups of water before she even lifted her head to ask. His constant concerned surveillance has been more of a comfort than Scully is willing to admit. Somehow, knowing it would take only a reflex action for him to catch her if she fell makes her less anxious about falling. Trying to work out whether or not Doggett is surreptitiously observing her is not an easy task, but she watches him back anyway. It's his hands that have her attention this time, placing his completed paperwork into a folder. It wouldn't take too much, she thinks for a wild reckless second, to just ask him to give her a massage. Slow, deep, calming circles at her temples, through her hair, soothing away the tenseness building in her skull... Rationality takes over, as always. There are boundaries in this partnership, as in all, and she doesn't want to cross them. And so her idle thought passes by unacknowledged. She makes a steadied effort not to look at his hands when he places them on her desk. "Six o'clock's come and gone, Agent Scully. Wanna get something to eat?" "We've been here that long?" she asks, and immediately chastises herself for the slip. All she wanted, she had said to herself all day, was that she wanted more time, and now the working hours were long again and she hadn't finished everything she'd wanted to get done. "Agent Scully?" In the few weeks since Mulder's burial Doggett has seen the occasional distracted gaze break through her resolved professional mask, and learned quickly when to call her on it and when to leave it alone. All the same, Scully has made a careful effort not to rely on her partner too much in that time, fearing she may sap his staid support, his strength. An irrational fear, unfounded, she knows, but enough of a reason for her to hold back. She makes an effort to smile, but he still watches her. "I'm fine, Agent Doggett." He doesn't look convinced. Scully looks back down at her neat pile of unfinished paperwork forms, avoiding his piercing, searching gaze. The ringing in her head sounds like a field teeming with cicadas. Maybe a call centre bullpen at peak hour. Probably both. She looks up, wishing she could look at her partner in silence, and thinks that it is definitely both. * * * * The next morning she doesn't bother slapping at the alarm, much less getting up. The noise doesn't bother her. It's merely a background track to the noise in her head. Scully focuses aching eyes to the blank ceiling, half regretting not taking up Doggett's offer of dinner. Only half, because although the baby had apparently conspired with her stomach in a kick-box of a protest, she knows she wouldn't be able to hold down anything anyway. It's that particular thought that eventually drags her out of bed. When she looks in the mirror, Scully rolls her eyes at her reflection and heads to the kitchen, trying to find agreeable food to work with the medication she throws in her mouth as she moves. She grabs the phone along the way and calls in sick to Skinner's secretary, who immediately patches the call in to the Assistant Director. It's brief and to the point. "Scully?" "I'll be all right, sir." "If you need anything --" "Of course." She doesn't need to ask him to drown out the sound of a phone ringing in the background, because they hang up shortly after that. She thinks about calling Doggett as she walks into her kitchen, knowing he would be worried. Illness has never hit her this hard in a long time, but she knows it's a compound effort -- the weakness of winter, on top of her insistence on going back to work, and Mulder... For all the strength and will of the mind, at some point the body will revolt, and she's reached that point. Exhaustion, grief, and stress has not caused her sickness, but neither had they helped. She suspects that Doggett understands that, more than he ever lets on. Scully glares at the carton of innocently formed eggs sitting in her fridge as she prepares her meal. Food prepared, Scully muses over the ease with which this illness managed to overtake her as she picks up the phone to call her partner. She finds herself staring blankly at a worn spot on the benchtop, the meal forgotten, when the knocking begins. * * * * The temptation to lean against the door when she opens it is too great, but she is standing straight and tall as she can possibly be when she sees who is on the other side. "Agent Scully?" "Agent Doggett." The anxiousness etched on his face doesn't clear when he gets a long hard look at her. "Figured you wouldn't be in after yesterday. A.D. Skinner just called now to confirm it. How're you doin'?" He was worried. Of course he would be worried. She'd never made that second call, she had been distant the day before, and the baby was beginning to show now, a gentle swell rising through her clothes. "I'm sorry. I meant to call --" "It's okay," he says immediately, watching her. "But you're not, Agent Scully. Come on." Gently Doggett takes her by the arm and closes the door behind them, leading her to the living room and her couch. He's been to her apartment several times now, calling in to check on her after Mulder's funeral and one time when her car broke down and she had a doctor's appointment. Somewhere along the way -- she hasn't really taken the time to notice the exact moment -- his presence in her life has increased substantially, and she couldn't be more thankful for it. Their partnership, their friendship, has taken leaps and bounds with every small gesture. After the inadvertent revelation of her pregnancy and his quiet, enduring support by her side before and after the funeral, a new well of mutual respect has grown and strengthened between them. They do their best to be honest. And because she understands this, understands him, she assures him with what she believes to be the truth. "I'm okay. Really, Agent Doggett." And with that, she stands up. The only thing keeping her from falling back down again is him. * * * * "They say that doctors make the worst patients, you know," she says ruefully as he helps her onto the bed. "I know." Scully knew Doggett wouldn't play along with her and deny the phrase, but she shoots him a mock glare anyway. He looks gently amused before the smile slides off his face. "You're running a fever, Agent Scully. A high one. You shouldn't be up at all." "I made breakfast," she protests, hating the sound of her slurred voice. "And did you eat it?" Scully can't honestly remember, but Doggett knows she didn't, and with the look he sends her she knows he knows that she's remembering she didn't. "Agent Doggett," she begins, trying to sound less confused and more professional. She wonders what she could possibly say to him that could maintain her distance. "I hope you're not thinking of feeding me." Okay, so maybe professionalism is out of the cards at this present half-delirious time. She's silently chastising herself as Doggett throws her a lopsided, utterly rakish grin. "Always one step ahead of me, Agent Scully." The mental image amuses them both. Narrowing her eyes, Scully half-seriously contemplates asking him anyway just so she could bite him for that comment. "I already took my medication," she admits, and Doggett's smile fades, his forehead creasing further. "I'll go get your food," he says, and slips out of the room. Doggett comes back with her plate of untouched food and gently nudges her to eat, and it strikes her as odd at how comfortable he seems playing the role of personal doctor. He's done this before, Scully thinks as she tries to taste her bacon, he's held vigil over waking patients, fed them, watched over them, nursed them back to health. When? A wife? A child? In her foggy mind the image of his comfortable yet empty house rises. She can't help but wonder, and makes a mental note to ask. Someday when she's a little more lucid than this. She's shivering by the time she feels she's eaten enough. Doggett balances the plate on his knees and looks at her with concern. "I'm cold," she says, trying not to let her eyes droop. "But that's --" "I know," he says, reaching over and placing the cool cloth on her head. "It's the temperature. Come on, time for you to rest." She shoots him as arch a look as she can possibly achieve with the heaviness sinking in her skull, more confused by her surprise at his intuition than she is by his intuition alone. "Doggett?" she asks sleepily as she lies back and stares at the ceiling. "Yeah?" His hand feels cold when it's in contact with her skin, and she feels as though her centre of gravity is moving toward that touch. Scully keeps her eyes tightly closed, fighting the waves of dizziness, watching coloured spots of crimson and purple dance behind her eyelids. Curiosity rolls idly in her veins. Her voice is slurred and small. The question that comes out of her mouth not the one she intended to ask. "Can you stay?" She doesn't hear his answer because the red and violet flashes in the darkness are replaced by a rolling, soothing wave of black, and she falls headlong into sleep. * * * * After an interminable period of dreamless darkness, it begins. It's the same kind of dream she always has when she's on the brink of breaking through a fever, only she rarely remembers it when she's conscious. She's running. Sweating it out. On the verge of losing it completely. The scene swells and recedes. Slow, hypnotising frequency. Mountains of random description; moving giant hills that seem to crawl and roll of their own volition. They oscillate in size between being small enough to fit in the palm of her hand or high enough to block the sunlight, and Scully gets the feeling she's running on one of them, as well, by the way the earth is shifting under her feet. She doesn't usually get motion sickness -- a life of travelling long weaned her off any potential susceptibility -- but her stomach always counts these fever dreams as a strong exception to the rule. Her watch is ticking in her hand. When she looks down she observes the second-hand make its slow counter-clockwise circuit and doesn't once think that it's odd. Faint music plays lightly on the air, and as she keeps running she can hear snatches of nursery rhyme, childlike voices carrying the song on the wind. After a while she stops running... or the moving mountains slow down, she really doesn't know. All the same, an old friend is waiting for her at the end, mouth tinted in a wry smile. "Hey." "Hi." She's had her dreams and nightmares about never saying a proper goodbye to this man, but tears don't seem to have a place in the strange world of the fever dream. There are never tears, only words. She glances down at her hands, struggling to find the right ones, but her silence says it all. They share a painful smile and after a moment she extends her hand out to him, passing along the counter-clockwise watch. He takes the offered watch from her, watching the hands' reverse movement with a rueful grin. "Who knew that Batman and Superman were one and the same?" "What?" He holds up a familiar scrap of newspaper, lowering his tone to dramatic voiceover. "Faster than a speeding bullet... can leap tall buildings in a single bound... Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a crazed human bat that likes to regurgitate human fingers?" She smiles. She can't help it. He stares at her solemnly and changes the subject. "Is he catching you, Scully? When you fall?" If I let myself fall, her silence says. But when she can't help it, she knows Doggett's support will hold her. The man standing by her acknowledges the fact with a nod. "Will you catch him too?" he asks quietly. Lead weights of importance hang off his question. She doesn't need to think. "Of course." Somewhere in the distance a phone rings. Something cool, moist and soothing passes across her face. When she opens her eyes again, Mulder is gone. * * * * She's still dreaming yet partly awake now, somehow aware that somewhere beyond the clutches of her subconsciousness a fever is being sponged away. In her dream Scully is standing beside Doggett, and they are staring into the black hole of a filing cabinet, files spinning in the darkness, answers threatening to remain just out of reach. He's holding a watch, and she looks down and realises with a start that the second hand is moving forward. "Concern's for your well-being, Agent Scully. That's all it's ever for." "I know," Scully says. A hand reaches out to him and he places the watch gently onto her palm. The smooth clear face shimmers as she stares at it, and the second hand moves clockwise to the irregular frequency of her thready pulse. She steps forward, and before she can change her mind, slides her arms around her partner, knowing he'll anchor her if she threatens to drift away. Scully wonders why the issue of trust has never come up between them, why it never needed to be explicitly said. She has never needed to ask this man -- his actions tell the story alone. And although she already knows the answer to the question she's about to ask, she feels a sudden urge to ask it anyway. "Doggett, do you trust me?" She looks up, eyes questioning, but Doggett is gone, and Skinner is standing in his place. She blinks, more startled by his sudden presence than the fact that she can see through him. "Where's --" "He's on the other end of the line, Agent Scully," Skinner answers. She can see the faint form of starlight through his outline. "I suggest you back him up immediately." "Sir?" she asks, confused. She steps away from her superior and turns her head towards the telephone. There is a faint ringing. The increasingly lucid part of her mind recognises this part of the dream -- soon it will be over, and forgotten. "Hey, pick up the phone, Agent Scully." she can hear a voice plead in the distance. She steps closer to the phone and hesitates. "Agent Doggett?" "I can't get through to you if you don't pick up the phone," the distant voice says. The phone keeps ringing, echoing in a skull that feels curiously empty. Scully reaches for it, wanting to stop the sounds from slamming against her eardrums. She curls her fingers around another person's hand and opens her eyes. * * * * She immediately regrets it when the light floods into her brain and explodes like a supernova, electrical impulses going haywire as Scully struggles to adjust to the brightness. Her stomach protests against the visual assault, and for a wild dizzy moment it feels as though her digestive system is turning inside out, or that her gut is trying to crawl up her oesophagus, or something strange and equally mind-altering. And then there is calm, a hand on her forehead, soothing words that she can't quite make out over the confusion in her head. Calmness really is the colour of blue, a light, multifaceted cerulean tinged with greyish teal. Centering her focus onto that colour, the fever dream soon fades into the ocean of her mind. She gazes into blueness and swims back to the surface. "Agent Scully?" A voice somewhere out of the blurred scope of her vision asks. "Agent Scully, it's me." She stares at him with so much puzzlement in her eyes that he looks as though he is compelled to add, "John Doggett." "I -- I know, I didn't forget you." How could she, when it was those eyes that pulled her to the shore? She is still gripping his hand and pulls away slowly, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. "For a moment there I thought --" Her first instinct is to say that she thought he was a telephone receiver, but of course she isn't going to say that aloud. Something flickers in his eyes. They both know what he thinks she meant. "S'all right," he says. "How're you feelin'?" He places the washcloth on the bedside table. She pulls herself up with a tentative slowness and he reaches for her, supporting the weight she can't quite catch with her fatigued muscles. Scully smiles weakly in thanks, noting the tidy way Doggett folded the handtowel and positioned it in a neat row with her medication, her thermometer, and a glass of water. "Fever's broken," she states. Her gaze falls to his large gentle hands as they move away, and she focuses her attention to the weave of fabric stretched over his shoulder as he moves back and sits beside her. Just barely keeping his distance. "Yeah. You want anything?" "No, I'm okay," she says, surveying the bedside table. "You thought of everything, for now," she adds, reaching for the water and taking a tentative sip. He watches her closely. The water manages to stay down. "Some dream you were having just now," he comments, picking up the washcloth again. Scully begins to protest, but he quells her with a firm look. He runs the towel gently over her face again, wiping away every last trace of the fever. She feels pampered, foolish, utterly and totally cared for. Studying him, she realises that his movements are practised and fluid, and she is oddly surprised. Lightly she grips his wrist as he moves back, plucking the towel away with her free hand and curling her fingers around his palm. It's the illness, she justifies to herself, lowering her defences and thus her inhibitions. It's the only way she can explain away the fact that she's quite literally holding his hand. "You've done this before," she says to him. Almost accusing. Doggett throws her a perplexed half smile, his eyes still shadowed with concern. "I've taken care of people before." "I don't doubt that." Questions linger on her tongue, but he's too close, and she's still holding onto him. She observes the careful way his hand is surrounding hers, and decides that one day she *would* like those gentle fingertips to rotate at her temples, soothing away the residual ache. Maybe one day soon, she could bring herself to ask. Need for honesty makes her look up to meet his calm blue gaze -- she needs to tell him that it wasn't grief that made her ill, but even if it certainly didn't help. "Agent Doggett," she begins, "I'm -- I'm not ill because I haven't been taking care of myself." "I know. I understand." Of course he does: he's been observing her so carefully that he would leap in himself if he thought she wasn't. She still tries to explain it anyway. "I don't want you to think --" "Agent Scully, it's all right." Doggett's gaze is serious and direct, and she knows that he isn't hiding any doubts from her. Scully suspects he understands more than she's given him credit for so far. "Okay," she answers, and they stare for a moment, silently contemplating each other. Scully wonders if, now that she's awake and relatively aware, he will take that as a cue that he isn't needed anymore. She hopes not. "Don't want to leave you 'til I'm sure you're okay," he finally says, and she sees an odd sort of longing in his eyes, as though he is not sure he wants to leave her at all. Her small sigh of relief is completely involuntary. She squeezes his hand gently. "Agent Doggett?" "Yeah?" "I think I'm okay to get up now," she says slowly. "But could you stay a little while longer? I mean, here?" Faint surprise flickers across Doggett's face. You just picked up the phone, Scully's subconscious mind tells her. It's an absurd thought, one she doesn't remember the source of, and it contributes largely to the gentle smile that creeps onto her face. He smiles back, and she hears him this time around. "All right," he says. "I'll stay." * * * * The long, soothing shower washes away all the last lingering traces of her fever, and her clothes feel absurdly fresh and clean when the smooth fabric touches her skin. Her mind is calm and blue, no ringing at all. Scully wanders out to find Doggett sitting on her couch, focus etched into his face, and she realises that the buzzing of cars on the television screen is just loud enough to drown out the sounds of water running. "Who's winning?" "It's a replay." "Oh. Who won?" She sits next to him on the couch. It doesn't feel as awkward as her mind tells her it should. Scully looks at her partner and sees him for who he is, not for who she once thought he would try to replace. A few companionable moments later Scully insists on taking her own temperature, she all she does is look at him in the silence that comes of an mercury bulb stuck firmly under her tongue. Doggett catches her eye and looks vaguely amused, slightly nostalgic for something she can't define, before turning his gaze to the screen as a car tumbles and spins into the air. They wince in unison and breathe a sigh of relief when the driver walks out unscathed. "I knew that would happen," Doggett defends himself slightly when Scully shoots him an arch look. "It's a *re*play." She rolls her eyes and pulls the thermometer out from her mouth. There's a faint tinny sound in her ears. "A hundred," she finally says, holding the slim glass rod up to the light and tracing the path of silver with her gaze. He leans over to get a closer look. "That's okay. For now." "I just have to sleep the rest off." Accepting her diagnosis, he nods and switches off the television. The faint ringing that had started to rebuild fades. "Do you feel like eating?" "Not yet," she admits, looking at her watch. "Maybe in about an hour." Her stomach feels calmer now, and she could probably succeed in eating a horse if she felt like it. Only thing is, she doesn't. "All right. Get some rest. I'll see about gettin' you something to eat," he adds, standing up. "*Not* pizza." Her sense of balance churns at the thought. "I can cook. I'll fix something for you. Chicken soup, even." She tips her head, curious but unsurprised. Scully has seen Doggett sleeping in the shell of an idyllic domesticity. She doesn't doubt for a second that he could probably outcook her if she challenged him. "Thank you," she says, and she means it for today, for the last few weeks, few months, everything. They look at each other for a long moment. He doesn't seem to want to walk away, not yet. "Agent Scully?" he asks quietly. "Yes, Agent Doggett?" "I do, you know that." She has no idea what he's talking about, but he says it with such conviction and sincerity that she believes him. "I know," she says simply. Her eyelids slip shut against his solemn nod and she drifts on dream again, knowing she won't float far with his presence to keep her grounded. A few moments pass before she hears his footsteps moving away, heading towards her kitchen. The world seems so much calmer to her, now that the brunt of the fever has passed and the pain in her head has lessened. She leans her head back into the couch and lets the soft sounds of Doggett moving around in her kitchen fade into the cool blueness in her mind. Somewhere in her head, the phones have all stopped ringing. ~ END ~