X-Files Waking

Waking

Author: Gatorgirl

Rating: PG-13, just to be safe.

Spoilers: Via Negativa, 4-D, John Doe

Summary: Doggett, Scully and Reyes coming around again.

Author's note: Thanks goes out to my SHODDS sisters,

Diandra, Spitfire, and Maria for their comments, encouragement

and beta. A special thanks goes out to Rachel A. who inspired

me with her awesome writing and encouraged me with her kind

words. Thanks!

Belleau Wood, France

June 1918

I move through the tunnel out into the chilled

morning air. The duckboards creak and cave into the

wet ground then bounce back as I pass. Pulling away

from the mud, the planks sound like the gurgling

breath of a dying man. In the dim sunrise I see the

men lined up against the trench walls. It seems to me

the men are the only thing holding them up.

I watch them as I go, some sleeping, some huddled

together, others talking quietly. Each seems lost in

his own world, his own little refuge. As I pass, they

smile and greet me. That they make the effort

flatters me. I reach the lookout point, step onto

sandbags, and peek out over the top of the trench

into no man's land. I have been here almost a year

and the sight of the place still shocks me. It still

slices through me.

The morning fog is not as thick today; patches of

dawn filter through, cast light onto the barbed wire

fences that keep them and us apart. I scan the line,

try hard to ignore the bodies caught on the wire. I

try not to think of them as people, but like puppets

tangled up in string. The crackle of machine gun fire

pops in the distance. Its rhythm like a long lost

song. I follow the wire, to the wheat field and the

line of trees beside it. I can't see the enemy, but I

know he is there, waiting. I imagine another man

propped on sandbags looking out into the empty space

between us. I imagine he is wondering the same thing

I am. How long before we hop the bags, make our move.

How long before I am one of those bloated bodies on

the wire?

"Sergeant."

I step off, down into the mud pit we call home.

"Runner just brought this in." He hands me the piece

of paper. It is from general headquarters, Bezu le

Guery. I only glance at it; I don't really need to

read it. The look on his face tells me everything I

need to know.

"Thanks, Joe. I'll take it in to the Major."

He nods and makes his way back into the tunnel. I

close my eyes; steel myself against the cold.

The alarm shrieks in my ear. I punch it without

thinking; the buzzer quiets abruptly. I lie in bed,

unsure. I expect to be somewhere else. Somewhere

darker and dirtier. My stomach churns; dread pooling

inside me. I hug the sheets to my body. I am bitterly

cold. I close my eyes, but can't go back to sleep;

haunted by my dream and the unrecognizable tune

echoing in my mind.

Monica is standing on his desk, plucking a pencil

from the ceiling.

"We're not that hard up, are we?" Levity. That's what

I need to shake off the apprehension crawling under

my skin.

"Only some of us, John." She chuckles, turning to

face me.

Her eyes lock on me; her smile begins to fade. "Are

you all right?"

I shrug off my jacket; drape it across the back of my

chair. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

She hops down; moves towards me, her eyes curious yet

concerned. "There is something different about you

this morning."

"Oh god, Monica. Don't start with your psychic

friends network routine. It's too early."

She purses her lips in mock anger. "It's never too

early to believe."

She retreats to the desk, plucked pencil tucked

behind her ear.

The haphazard hole we call the officer's quarters

smells more stale than usual. It reeks with the smell

of rot- rotting mice, rotting paper, and rotting men.

The heat makes everything fester.

They stop talking when I enter room, greet me with a

unanimous "Sarge".

I nod a hello, hand the Major the orders. He pushes

back his helmet, rubs the back of his hand across his

forehead.

"Get the runner."

Waiting is a big part of what we do here. That is

what we're doing now. Some of the men talk, others

smoke, their hands hiding the dim light of their

cigarettes. Waverley pulls his wife's picture out of

his breast pocket; runs his dirty finger across her

face. He says nothing, but I can hear him praying to

her, to all the promise her smiling face holds. He

slips the photo back into his coat. I have a faded

picture in the pocket my tunic, too. But I don't

pray, not to her, not to anyone. I know that there is

nothing that can save me now.

"You ready?" he asks, double-checking his side arm.

"I'm always ready, sir."

He smiles, half laughs as he slams his weapon into

the holster.

It is just after noon. We are ready. Our goal is

simple: capture Hill 142, only a thousand yards of

wheat and wood between our immediate goal and us. On

paper it is so clear, but out here on the line we all

know how much that simple order will cost.

The men fall silent. I try not to think. I

concentrate on the feel of the yielding planks behind

me. The way the rim of my helmet slips in between

them into the mud. I feel like falling. I wonder what

it would feel like to be swallowed into the wall.

Gunfire crackles above us. The earth rattles as the

shells explode into the ground. We shake with it. I

huddle with my men, rifle between my knees. The edge

of my blood spotted bayonet stares back at me mutely.

I clamp onto the barrel of my weapon, holding tight

until it feels like an extension of myself. It gives

me the strength to do what I know I have to.

The major emerges from the end of the tunnel. Walks

over to where Lieutenant Waverley and I sit.

"Waverley," he nods. The lieutenant nods back.

"Sergeant," He shakes my hand. "Good luck."

He takes the whistle in hand, puts it to his lips.

All sound fades except for its shrill cry. We surge

forth en masse into nothingness.

The whistle rings in my ears. A hand tugs at my arm,

yanking me back hard. I stumble.

"John."

Monica clutches my arm. "You trying to get run over?"

She holds me up; I can't seem to get my footing.

"John. Are you all right? You blanked out on me there

for a second."

I feel lost. Confusion washes over me. I'm not sure

what I'm doing here.

"John."

Monica grasps my hand tightly.

I plunge back; snap into focus. What the hell is

happening to me? Doubt blankets over me. Had I been

dreaming? How could I have been? We were having lunch

then... I don't remember beyond that. I only recall the

piercing call of a whistle and the surge of

adrenaline.

She looks worried and frightened. "What's going on

with you today?"

I pull away from her, shrug her off roughly. I tell

myself it is stress; I tell myself it is just ...

"I'm fine." I don't sound nearly as convincing as I

would like.

She is skeptical, but doesn't push me on it.

We walk silently back to the office. I can't shake

the tension; it weighs me down like a bad hangover.

Every muscle in my body feels electrified. Like a

spring wound too tightly, I feel ready to snap.

Everything and everyone feels like a threat. I can

feel her concern like a pillow smothering my face.

She wants to talk; she wants to know. I should tell

her, but I'm afraid of what I'll say. This body I've

inhabited so comfortably all of my life suddenly

feels foreign.

"Doggett."

"What?" I growl, not understanding why I am so angry

with her.

She stops. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," I shout back as I leave her behind.

I enter the office to find Agent Scully leafing

through a file on my desk. The hair on the back of my

neck rises territorially.

"Is there something I can help you with, Agent Scully?"

"No, not really." She says, letting the file flap

fall. "I was in the building. I stopped by to see if

Agent Reyes wanted to have lunch."

She shoves her hands in her pockets as I move around

her to my desk. Just as I sit down, Monica appears in

the doorway.

"What the hell was that back there?" She says before

realizing Agent Scully is in the office.

Scully looks to me then Monica.

"Oh, hi Dana."

"I was in the building. Do you want to go to lunch?"

Monica drops her things on what was Mulder's desk.

"We just came back from Phil and Nick's."

I glance up from my desk.

Scully adjusts her jacket. "Oh, all right." She

glances back at me. "Maybe another time."

Monica glares at me. "Let me walk you out, Dana."

It doesn't hurt. Not the way I thought it would. It

isn't until the bullet explodes through me, ripping

apart flesh as it exits that I begin to worry. Its

force shoves me back; I am on the ground. Just ahead,

no more than maybe 50 yards, there is nest of machine

gunners, holding up the advance, mowing us down, one

man at a time. I roll onto my belly and begin to inch

forward, cheek to the ground, helmet askew, my weapon

clutched in hand. Shells pummel the support lines

behind us. Mortars knock down trees; explosions

blanket the ground like a pall. Everywhere the

screams and the cries for first aid. I drag myself

across the field, seeking shelter behind a half

finished mound of earth. I am stopped by a flurry of

bullets.

Waverley is a few yards ahead of me. He hugs the

ground, moving forward. I can see the patch of red

growing on his right arm. He drags himself up,

returns fire. He is rewarded with machine gun spay.

His body falls to the ground, trashing about. The

bullets rip apart his body, buttons, pieces of his

uniform fly off him. When the bullets finally stop,

there is nothing of Lieutenant Waverley left. It's

just another body, just another man, just another

casualty. I lie on my stomach, my rifle tucked

beneath me. I don't feel the pain in my shoulder;

there is nothing but rage. Part of me demands that I

rise, surge forward, but movement is impossible. They

are blanketing the ground with bullets. Action would

only insure my death. I lie on the ground, watch the

life bleed out of my men. Out of the corner of my eye

I see the Major Berry jump to his feet. Somehow

avoiding the hail of bullets, he disappears into the

forest.

Rationally, I know it has only been minutes, yet it

feels as if time has ceased to exist, as if we are

caught in a void, trapped in the same moment. I watch

the dirt fly all around me, the stench like rotting

meat, decomposing flesh. I try not to breathe. I try

not to wonder about gangrene. Clouds of dust and

smoke engulf us. Despite my best efforts I begin to

wonder about the gas; fear tickles my spine. I still

remember the gas. My insides churn and my muscles

clamps down. I can still taste it. I grab instinctively for my mask.

My movement brings more gunfire. I freeze. Watch the body that used to be

Lieutenant Waverley bounce, hit by stray bullets. He

rolls onto his back. I see the blood soaked photo

peeking out of his pocket.

I know Major Berry made it to the back line. I know

because the light artillery unit finally comes to our

rescue. They are the ones that manage to destroy the

gunner's nest. It is only then that I feel safe

enough to move, to continue the charge. I stumble

onto my feet; searing pain shoots through my torso.

Flecks of white dot my vision, I fall to my knees;

grasp my bloodied left arm.

Night comes slowly during the summer. It is nearly

nine by the time darkness begins to descend on us. I

don't know how long I have laid here waiting for its

protective blanket to cover me. Around me I hear the

groans and calls of the dying, the ones too injured

to move. I don't want their fate to befall me. I

don't want to rest my hopes of survival on being

found in time by the medical corps men. Nor did I

want to become a statistic, my identity discs one of

many in bundle collected by the unfortunate men on

grave duty. It takes all of my strength, my

determination to drag myself up, to stand and take

that first step, but I do. I stagger through the

deepening shadows of the wooded hillside in the rear

of the field. The upright position of walking

intensifies the pain. I can hardly see or think. I

stumble blindly, hoping to find something other than

death.

I travel for what seems an eternity, but is only a

mile, before I wander into a small relief dugout.

Once there I let go, hand myself over to fate and the

perhaps capable hands of the medical corps man

holding me up. I hear him ask another for water to

clean my wound, but there is no water. What little

they had they gave to the men already lining their

pit. Even in my state, this seems to me, as it should

be, my own thirst being so terrific. The man rips a

soiled piece of cloth from a pile nearby and begins

making a makeshift dressing. He works with haste not

care. The jolt of hurt twists through me; I scream.

I wake up screaming. I can't stop. I scream until

there is no breath left in my lungs.

I can't drink enough water; I have never felt so

thirsty, so empty. I inspect my reflection in the

kitchen window. There is no blood, no injury. The

face staring back at me is my own, but somehow not

the same. Part of me is still lying in a field, I

feel split in half. I run my hands through my hair

and rub my face.

It was just a dream. Just a fucking dream. My angry

reflection stares back at me. Just a dream that

didn't feel like any dream I've ever had. It felt

more like living. It felt the same as it had in

Mexico. Felt the same way it did as my memories of

Luke came flooding back. I had known then

instinctively that those weren't dreams. They were

visions; they were my past rushing into my present.

"Scully." Her voice is so tired, so haggard, I

almost hang up.

"Agent Doggett?" Goddamn caller ID.

I can't find my voice. Now that I'm on the line, I

don't know what the fuck to say. I should have called

Monica, but know why I didn't. I don't want to hear

some irrational explanation about what is happening

to me. I don't need emotion; I need science. I need a

slap on the face.

"John?"

I swallow hard; take a deep breath. I hear her sheets

rustle, her bed creak, I can almost see her adjusting

her pillow as she sits up.

Finally. "I'm, uh, sorry to wake you." I glance at

the alarm clock- one a.m.

"It's all right," she says. "I wasn't really

sleeping."

I can't tell if she's being facetious. I say nothing;

sit and listen to her breathe.

She's on the line, John. She's waiting.

I know I am making a fool of myself, but I just can't

tell her the truth. Can't tell her I think I'm

loosing my mind, having waking dreams, nightmares

about a life I've never known. I can't admit I'm

scared shitless; can't admit I'm curious as hell.

"Agent Doggett," she sighs. "Is there something you

needed to discuss with me?"

I know it is not her intention to be rude, but she

still manages to piss me off. Just when I think I'm

gaining ground with her, she trips me. So, instead of

asking for help, instead of admitting I need a

confidant, I apologize for waking her and hang up.

I slip into bed. Lie awake in the dark.

"Sergeant."

Cliché of all clichés: at first I think she is angel.

Strands of her auburn hair spill across her face as

she works furiously to remove my tunic. This is the

first time in eight months I have had a woman's hands

on me.

"You're awake," she smiles. " I thought we had lost

you there."

In the background, I hear someone call to her,

"Mademoiselle-miss!"

She glances back, gives up on the buttons, and yanks

the tunic open. She tugs at my identity discs; her

eyes squint as she tries to read through the dirt and

blood. She lets them go and begins to rifle through

my breast pocket. Pulls out my last letter from home

and the picture I carry with me.

"Claudette!" She yells.

Momentarily, a young girl appears with scissors.

"Merci. Ou est les doctors? Vous les a voir?"

She slices through my shirt.

"Non, mademoiselle. Je crois qu'ils avec les autres."

The angel nods, as the girl disappears. She cuts

through my underclothes then carefully begins to peel

the blood soaked cloth.

"Where are you from, Sergeant?" Her warm smile does

not hide or slow her efficiency. She pulls back the

wool undershirt, already dried and crusted onto the

wound. I wince; choke back a cry.

She tries to distract me.

"You married?" She holds up my hand; shows me the

ring on my finger. I am almost angry. Doesn't she

think I understand the question?

She smiles. I can see this is not personal; this is

routine for her.

I nod anyway.

She begins to clean the wound; assess the damage. Her

poking and prodding sends needles of pain shooting

through my body. I groan.

"This her?" She asks, quickly grabbing the blood

smeared picture beside her.

I regard the picture of this woman I used to know,

her supple eyes, the slight curve of her smile.

Despite the rigidity and formality of her pose, I can

feel her warmth and charm, her humor and her kind

nature. The portrait is black and white, but I see

the caramel color of her eyes, the olive tone of her

skin, the raven glow of her hair. Sorrow bites the

back of my throat. Tears creep into my eyes. They

burn like acid. I close my eyes.

"What's her name?" She asks perfunctorily, too busy

to notice the state I am in.

I try to mouth the word, but I am cold and so very

tired.

A man's voice booms behind her. There is the clatter

of metal on metal. I try to focus. Listen to their

words, but I am weary. Concentration requires a

strength I am not willing to waste.

The angel is there when I wake up. Her blue eyes rest

on me and for the first time I feel like she actually

sees me. She is changing the dressing on the man

lying on the canvas bag beside me. I try to speak,

but my throat is raw, my tongue like sandpaper.

"Hello, Sergeant." She grins, a smile wholly

different from before. She is radiant and relaxed.

"How are you feeling?"

She moves over to me, quickly checks my dressing. My

entire left shoulder, left arm and hand feel numb.

"Would you like some water?" I nod as vigorously as I

can. She pours water into a tin, helps lift my head

so I can drink. All I can do is take a few tentative

sips.

"You'll be glad to know we're shipping out today."

She eases my head back. "Military hospital near

Paris." Another beautiful smile. "They'll fix you

right up."

She pulls a pencil and a form from her apron pocket,

scribbles on it then pins it to my cot. When she's

finished, she digs into the pocket again and

retrieves the photograph of my dead wife.

"I saved this for you."

She slips it into my hand and folds my fingers over

it.

"Take care, Marine."

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze then moves on to

the next man.

"You look like shit, John." She says, without the

slightest hint of humor in her voice.

"Well mademoiselle that is exactly what I feel like."

I reply, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

"What did you call me?"

I stop set the carafe down, cross the room to my

desk.

"I didn't call you anything, but give me a minute

and I'll think of something."

She pushes her chair back; I take a gulp of coffee.

Find her standing beside me.

"I thought we were better friends than this."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Monica."

Anger flushes across her cheeks. "Don't bullshit me,

John."

I set the cup down; swivel my chair to face her.

"Don't insult my intelligence or my ability. I can

sense something is happening to you."

She waits for me to deny it. When I don't, she keeps

going.

"There is aggression in you that I have never felt

before. A terseness, a bitterness, I've never

encountered from you. I have seen you at your worst

and this is..." She pauses, shakes her head as if

searching for the right words. "It's as if you are

you, but not you. I can't explain it, but I see it. I

see it in the details. I feel it in our interaction.

There is so much anger. It's not just some general

malaise. It...it feels personal."

I don't want to hear it.

I don't want to deal with her. As of late, there is

something too raw and painful about being near her. I

look away from her; pick up the pen lying on my desk

and make a note.

"It's nothing. I haven't been sleeping is all."

"Don't. Don't pull that shit on me. It's not simply

lack of sleep; there is more to it than that."

I tap the piece of paper with the end of my pen.

"Look Monica, I understand and appreciate your

concern. What I don't appreciate is this mini-

inquisition of yours, especially when all you have to

back it up is some 'feeling' of yours. If you have

some problem with the way I'm doing my job, you let

me know. Otherwise, stay out of my personal life. I

can take care of myself."

Her jaw clenches, a swath of crimson covers her

cheeks.

She glances at my right hand. "You are not right

handed, John."

She reaches past me, snatches the piece of paper off

my desk. She shoves the note at me. "You are not

right handed."

I want to laugh in her face; this is her shallow

evidence?

She crooks her head; swallows hard. I can't look her

at her; I stare at the papers littering my desk

instead.

"John." She kneels in front me, lays her hand on my

knee.

She is so familiar, the contact, her closeness is not

awkward, but comforting. The feelings I have for her

in that moment are not like any I have had for her

before. They are not right; an implicit part of me

knows they are not my own.

"What is going on?" she implores, her eyes dewy and

soft.

I want to dismiss her, to file away her observations,

chalk them up to her dramatic and emotional nature,

but can't. I can't deny the emotion, the pull of her,

like the strange energy that passes through you

before you shock yourself.

It dawns on me so abruptly, I feel as if the air is

rushing out of the room, as if I were in a vacuum.

Pieces of a dream flash in my mind: a wife, a nurse.

I realize these are not pictures in my head. These

are women I know. Women I have confided in worked

with, done my best to protect: Agent Reyes, Agent

Scully.

I stand stiffly, awkwardly, nearly knocking Monica to

the ground. I grab my jacket.

"I have to go. I'll give you a call later."

I rush out, ignoring her protest.

The truck dips then pops up. Gears grind noisily, but

are easily drowned out by the men. My head sways from

side to side as the truck bounces down the road. The

truck is full of wounded. Most sit propped up against

the wooden sides of the truck bed. The dying ones lay

on the floor. The inside of the truck is dark; the only light seeps

in through the bottom and sides of the canvas cover.

I look about me. None of the faces are familiar

except for my angel and the girl, Claudette. Angel

crouches in the middle of the flatbed, trying her

best to minimize the impact for the men on the

ground, but there is really nothing she can do.

"How much further?" She shouts to the front.

"A couple of hours."

She curses, frustrated. She knows, just like we all

do that in a couple of hours some of these men will

be dead.

One of the wounded men grabs at her apron. She kneels

down to talk with him. I can her hear praying with

him. The other men fall silent, listening to her. Her

voice is soothing and kind, warm, inviting. She

delivers her prayer with delicacy and reverence. I am

certain this is the most comforted these men have

felt in a long time. I lean my aching head against

the planks. Let her voice lull me to sleep.

"Sergeant Jack Dobbs." She lifts the chart from the

foot of my bed.

"So, that's who you are." She chuckles.

She tips her head; her hat casts a shadow across her

face. She looks different out of her nurses uniform.

Though, her dress is plain, she is far from it. She

seems much smaller, frailer in the daylight. Her

hair, more red than brown, is contrasted sharply

against her ivory skin. Her eyes more alive, bluer

than any I have ever looked into. Despite being

clearly earth bound, she looks more angelic than she

did hovering above me. Though it is not my nature to

praise or flatter, I find myself hard-pressed not to

compliment her.

She replaces the chart and stands at the side of my

bed.

"You were lucky." She points to my shoulder. "It went

right through. "

She stops herself.

She fingers the latch of her purse. I can see she has

no real idea why she is here. I want to speak, assure

her that I glad for her presence, but the words won't

come. I have been silent for too long. Spoken so

little of anything outside the battleground that I

have no real idea of what to say to her.

We regard each other silently.

Nurses and doctors walk between rows of wounded,

discussing their progress or lack there of, with a

clinical detachment that turns my stomach.

"It's not like that," she says, reading my mind,

seeing the resentment on my face.

I nod.

"You just can't stay away, can you?" A doctor, dark

hair, dark eyes teases her as they pass our row.

"Always picking up strays," smiles one of the other

nurses. "Watch out, Kathy. That one looks like a

heartbreaker."

Angel's face flushes, her neck and cheek aflame. I

can't tell if she is angry or simply embarrassed.

Her gaze falls to the floor. Is she ashamed?

A younger woman pulls away from the pack as they pass

us. She leans against Angel conspiratorially and whispers. "Do not

forget tonight."

The young nurse merges back into her group, Angel

looking after her. I touch her hand. She turns her

attention back to me and smiles a smile so small only

I can see it- a smile small enough to be easily

confused for a grimace.

The bar is crowded, happy hour and all. I choose a

stool at the end; order a jack and coke. The barkeep

plops my drink down as I slip my money onto the

countertop.

"Keep them coming." I tell him.

I drink it in one gulp. He drops another drink in

front of me.

It wasn't right to leave her.

I can't bear that I have treated her so poorly,

unfairly. We are partners, but what I bring to the

table is so much less than what she offers. She has

placed her faith in me; stood unquestioningly behind

me. She was there when the unthinkable happened. She

was the one person who was honest with me in my

grief. Though I have at times been dismissive and

patronizing, she has remained. She's done it all

without complaint or ill will. Though, I know she

cares about me in a way she would never give voice

to, she hasn't resented my being in love with someone

else.

I finish the drink ask for another.

I should have told her. Certainly, she of all people

would understand, would be able to help me sift

through this. Whatever this might be. I loosen my

tie; take a long sip. She would have an explanation.

She has too. There is no doubt in my mind there has

to be one. It can't be real.

I tap the bar with the empty glass- another.

"Agent Doggett." She eases onto the stool beside me.

"What are you doing here, Agent Scully? Don't you

have class?"

She orders water.

"Agent Reyes asked me to come."

Of course.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"Monica said you're a creature of habit." She smiles,

takes a sip of her water. "Guess you can't teach an

old dog new tricks."

I empty my glass. Gesturing for the man to bring me

another, I turn to her.

"Do you mean to always sound so insulting, Agent

Scully?"

She looks surprised, almost apologetic.

I shrug my shoulders. "Maybe I just don't know you

well enough to understand your humor."

She clears her throat. "I'm sorry, Agent Doggett. I..."

"What can I do for you, Agent Scully?" I ask tersely.

She stiffens, suddenly formal. "Agent Reyes is

concerned about you, your recent behavior. She felt I

might be better able to elicit information from you

than she would. She felt I would have a more

objective opinion about the situation."

"Don't you mean a more professional opinion?" I

snicker.

She shakes her head. " That isn't what I said."

She sighs; rubs the side of her glass. "She's worried

about you and frankly, I can see why."

"What the hell is that suppose to mean?"

She stares at her water. "In the time I have know

you, I have found you to be an honest and forthright

person, thoughtful, a gentleman. If you could you

step outside yourself, you'd see how you miserably

you are failing right now at being any of those

things."

I begin to reply; she cuts me off.

"Look, I can admit I misjudged you and that in our

time together I have been less than kind. I have been

remote and guarded. I did not place in you the trust

you deserved. If my actions insulted you, I am truly

sorry. Whatever you may think, I am here to help. You

can trust me not to jump to conclusions. I believe we

know each other too well for that."

I gulp the last of my drink. "Agent Scully, we don't

know each other at all."

I pluck a twenty out of my wallet. Drop it beside my

empty glass.

I stand to go; she grabs my wrist.

"John."

I watch her, her mouth moving in slow motion, her

alarmed eyes growing wide. Light floods my vision.

Pounding pain rips through my head.

They say I'm healing. They say I'll be ready to

return to my unit soon. I can't say I am not

thankful. Nothing has perplexed or vexed me as much

as the endless monotony of hospitalization. Twenty

days that have easily felt like forever. I ease

myself into a sitting position. Pain reverberates

from the bone outward. For once, I don't mind it. It

is the only real thing about this place. All of the

misery of field life would be a welcome change to

this useless existence. There is nothing to do but

reflect and wade in the past. Pointless rumination

about events I can neither change, nor go back to.

The man beside me groans and stirs in his morphine

induced sleep. He begins to thrash and one of the

nearby nurses rushes to his side. I look away

embarrassed for him; wary of becoming just like him.

She is, of course, my only respite. She comes to me

everyday, under the guise of treatment. She is an

officer, one of the few women with rank, a

Lieutenant. She has been at the front since the

beginning. She has served with the French since

August 1915. Her duties really don't include the

kind of daily contact she has had with me. She could

have one of the FANYs take care of the mundane

details, but doesn't. I wonder what that must be

like for her, recalling the awkward moment weeks

before. A woman like her always has to be careful so

as not to have her actions misconstrued, her

authority undermined.

She stops by several besides before she reaches mine.

Those men receive a sliver of her time and none of

her warmth. The remainder of both she saves for me.

She is the one thing that makes all of this tolerable

for when I am with her, there is no past and no

future. There is only the now. I watch her approach,

pan of water clutched in hand. Heat rushes through

me, courses through my body like a fever.

She plops the water basin on the makeshift stand

beside me.

"All right, Jack." She smiles. "I believe you are

familiar with this procedure."

She helps me sit up so I can disrobe. Even here we

are hardly out of uniform. There are no other clothes

for us to wear. Fabric is needed much more urgently

for everything else.

She helps me out of tunic, undoing each button

carefully. I watch her alabaster fingers pour over

brass buttons. Her skin is cracked along her

knuckles.

She peels the tunic off. I lean forward best I can.

Pain shoots through my shoulder, spreads down my arm,

through my chest.

She wrings out the rag; the water drips back into

the basin. I brace myself as I sense the cold cloth

near my skin. She rests the cloth against my back,

sending pricks of shock through me. I instinctively

arch my back away from her touch.

"I'm sorry it is so cold."

The cloth travels gently down my spine. Every cell

body feels electrified by her touch. After such a

drought of contact, her kindness, her caress is

almost too much.

"They are starting to talk." She says, dipping the

rag then wringing it.

I twist back to look at her.

She wipes my back again, the rag dipping slightly

below my waist. My stomach knots; my muscles tense.

"About your condition, this constant silence of

yours. They believe you may be suffering from shell

shock."

I return to watching the foot of my bed. She drags

the rag across my waist up to my ribs.

"They have begun to consider whether or not you

should be hospitalized."

The rag travels up to chest, across my right nipple.

I feel it pull taut from the cold, from the softness

of her fingertip as it grazes over it.

"Arm." She instructs.

I lift my arm dutifully; she scrubs my armpit. The

rag goes back into the water.

"Lean back."

She wipes my chest, avoiding my newly changed

dressing. She swabs my stomach.

I shut down.

"Agent Doggett?"

Scully eases me back into the seat. I lean my head

against the wall.

"Everything all right, Miss?" The bartender asks from

the other end of the bar.

Scully ignores him; she rests her hand on my face.

"John." She repeats my name, tapping my cheek gently.

I lean into her hand. She stops.

She couldn't convince me to go the hospital. She must

have known she wouldn't; she didn't argue the point

with too much conviction. Instead, she demanded I

allow her to drive me home. Demanded I allow her to

stay with me until I felt better. Demanded I allow

her call Monica. I didn't argue; didn't deny her

anything, not that I ever would.

She opens the door with my keys. She shoves the door

open and waits for me to go in.

I smile. "Ladies first."

She doesn't think I'm the least bit funny. She lets

me know with a disapproving frown.

She leaves me in the living room while she rummages

through my kitchen. I push into the couch, getting

comfortable. She emerges from the kitchen with two

glasses of water. She sets mine on the coffee table

in front of me. She takes a seat on the loveseat

beside the sofa. Takes a careful sip of water then

sets it down as well.

"Are you feeling better?"

I don't want to be suspicious of her, but I am.

She crosses her legs. "Monica will be here soon."

She takes another drink.

"Who is watching William?" I ask.

My voice seems to startle her. She clears her throat.

"My Mother watches him for me."

She looks away towards the kitchen.

"This is a nice house."

"You've been here before."

Her brows furrow. "Yes, I know. It doesn't change my

current opinion."

She shakes off her annoyance with me. "I never felt

comfortable enough to commit to home ownership." She

looks at her hands. "I bought my townhouse, but

that's not really the same I guess."

"No, it isn't."

Her eyes narrow on me. "Do you want to explain what

happened back there?"

What should I say? How do I explain? I am exhausted,

immobilized by the weight of another man's past.

"Don't make a big deal out of nothing, Agent Scully."

She scrutinizes me unconvinced. "Maybe you should

rest."

"I'm not tired." I tell her, my body becoming heavy

and hot.

"Do you mind if I make some coffee?"

I shake my head. "Not at all."

I tilt my head back as she lathers up the shaving

soap. If they allowed mirrors, if they allowed us to

use razors, I'd shave myself. We are not allowed

either. She lathers my cheek, soft bristles of the

brush tickling my stubble. She presses her lips

together. I do the same. Lather covers my chin and

upper lip. She gestures for me to turn and I give her

my other cheek. She brushes on the soap then covers

my neck.

The blade is not as sharp as it should be. I can tell

just by looking at it. She wipes it on her apron.

"Now, be still." She chuckles.

The blade scrapes against my skin. It sounds

like ripping paper. She dips the razor into the water

and wipes. She tips my head back further as she

shaves along my jaw line.

"I know this is hard for you, Jack, but I wish you

would talk to me."

The razor skims down my neck, finishing with a loud

rasp. She rinses the blade.

"I would hate to see you sent to one of those

places."

She tilts my face towards her.

"If I only knew that you were all right then I could

convince them."

Scrape and rinse.

I look up into her face. Her eyes are focused on the

blade as she talks. I wonder how many men she's had

this conversation with.

She finishes my other cheek, covers her upper teeth

with her lip. I mimic her. She leans in,

concentrating. She smells like soap and ether.

"Don't move," she warns, as the blade settles on my

skin. I can feel her warm breath on my face. It

smells like chocolate.

Scrape and rinse.

She finishes my chin quickly then wipes my face

clean.

As she gathers up her tools, she stops for a moment.

She sighs into her chest then sits down on the side

of the bed. She covers my hand with her own.

"Please, tell me your name."

Does she believe them? Does she think I'm broken like

these other men?

"I know how it sounds when I say it." She whispers,

leaning in close to me. "I want to know what it

sounds like from your lips. I want to hear your voice

whenever I think of it, Sergeant Jack Dobbs."

She's playing a game with me. She must be.

"Please."

We regard each other silently. She sighs, pushes off

the bed and returns to her task. I watch her,

considering whether or not to appease her. Certainly,

her desire to know is nothing personal. It is just an

extension of her job, her duty to me as her patient.

She folds the last of her things into her apron,

tosses me a lingering look.

"I will see you tomorrow, Jack."

As she begins to go, I call to her. "My friends call

me John."

"This," she says, as she guides me through the

garden. "Is what the outside world looks like. I can

see you had begun to forget."

We look out over what once a private pond, just part

of another rich man's estate.

"This is my favorite spot," she says. "It reminds me

of home."

She squeezed my hand; releases it.

We continue down the gravel path. She glances at the

flowers; I concentrate on the mere act of walking. My

entire body feels worn, sore and tired.

We reach the end of the path. It spills out into an

impossibly green, well-manicured landscape. It is

surreal; the front is only 50 miles away. Something

like homesickness tugs at me.

We walk in silence to a nearby bench.

She sits down; I sit beside her.

"Are you tired?" she asks. "Would you like to go

back?"

I shake my head.

There isn't much to discuss outside my treatment and

the war. Those are after all the only things we have

between us. Our conversation starts and stalls, until

finally she takes over the endeavor completely. She

talks about her brothers, both serving in Navy and

her father, a retired Naval medical officer. Talks

about what it was like growing up in a house full of

men, being raised like a son, but never expected to

be more than a woman. A dark shadow crosses her face

as she disdainfully dismisses the idea of spending

her life being just some man's wife. She recounts how

she left home against that same father's wishes,

knowing she needed so much more. Tells me of the

rigors of her nursing certification and the pride she

has of being not only one of the few women directly

aiding the war effort, but one of the extraordinarily

few officially considered soldiers.

She tips her head towards me, locking her eyes on

mine.

"I'm not boring you, am I?" She teases.

I shake my head.

"What about you? What are you doing in this man's

army?"

"Just my job," I tell her, watching other nurses,

other men walk the perimeter.

She looks away; I can't tell if she is displeased.

After a protracted silence, she hands me the stained,

tattered letter she pulled of my pocket all that time

ago.

"I meant to give this to you earlier." She slips the

letter into my hand and returns to looking out over

the green.

I shake the letter open with my left hand. Marnie's

sleek, elegant handwriting stares back at me.

January 5th, 1918

Dearest J.J.,

It is early morning, nearly four. Perhaps I should be

sleeping, but I simply cannot stand being in our

empty bed. Instead I shall ruin my eyes writing to

you in the half darkness of our bedroom (I dare not

try and retrieve more wood for the fire myself. You

know I am shamefully afraid of the dark). Besides,

it is beautiful, a dying fire, as enticing and

alluring as its counterpart.

How long has it been since I held you? The calendar

marked six months today; it seems so much more like

an eternity. That day at the train station seems a

lifetime ago. Have you been receiving my letters? I

have only received the one.

There is much to say, much news I could share with

you, but I am finding it increasingly difficult to

concentrate. I wanted my letter to be much more

eloquent than this, but how can it be really? There

is only one thing I want to say. If I could, I would

simply fill the page with it over and over. I would

cross oceans and ruin to ensure you heard the words.

I love you.

I have wasted much time. Were there a way to lasso

it, to retrieve it I would. I would recapture all of

the wasted moments between us. All of the times I

wanted to pull you close and kiss your lips, to

smother you and hold you to me. Prolong those

precious seconds of overwhelming need, the desire to

have you close so strong, it could never be truly

satisfied. That hunger haunts me now. It makes the

present so much harder to bear.

The sun is rising. With the daylight, perhaps I will

finally be able to sleep. I hope this letter finds

you and finds you well. It is sent along with the

strength of my longing and affection for you, perhaps

that alone will guide it to you. I miss you,

darling. Terribly. I suppose it will be all right.

Somehow. There is at least comfort in knowing we are

bound by more than heaven and earth. We shall be

together. Always.

With much love,

M.

I stare at the letter before me, my hand shaking. My

eyes slip shut. I exhale a sputtering sigh. Bound by

more than heaven and earth in that she had been

right. We seem to be eternally bound by death. The

death of our friend brought us together. Her own

death ripped us apart. All that is left is the death

that will seal deal-my own.

She watches me, caution and regret in her eyes. "Have

I upset you?"

"No, " I whisper hardly able to find my voice.

"What is she like?" She asks quietly.

"She was lovely." I choke.

I fold the soiled letter and slide it back into my

pocket.

She rests her hand on my thigh. I cover it with my

own.

We sit on the bench without speaking until it is time

to return.

The room is filled with muted light of dusk. I sit

up, put my hands in my hair. Time is beginning to

blend into itself. The dream comes easily now as

vivid and palpable as real life. I am torn between

two worlds. For the first time I am more than

curious, more than annoyed, for the first time, I am

genuinely concerned that I may be losing my mind.

They sit across from each other, mugs steaming on the

table, commiserating quietly. Monica looks worried;

Scully tired and perplexed. They don't notice me in

the doorway. I ease back into shadow.

"What is your theory?" Monica asks.

"It could be some kind of mental break caused by

stress, his recent memory loss, the trauma of

gaining and losing a son all at once- post traumatic

stress syndrome. Even something as simple as

depression-fatigue, lack of appetite, irritability,

insomnia, these are all symptoms."

Monica shakes her head. "When we found Luke...the agony

he went through. The anger and resentment, the pain

he bore...and his divorce. I don't know. He didn't

flaunt his feelings, but he didn't deny them either."

Scully nods, taking a sip of her drink. "What about

you? What's your theory?"

Monica mulls it over for a moment. "I feel as if

there is an outside force, an invasion of some kind."

"Like the incident with Anthony Tipet?"

"Yes and no." She sighs. "Do you remember the

experience I told you about?"

"The slipping into a parallel universe experience?"

Scully's eyebrows pique characteristically, the

corner of her mouth curving into a playful smirk.

"I know you have your doubts, Dana, but what if John

is experiencing something like it. What if he's

slipping in and out of alternate worlds? What if that

first incident has had some residual affect?"

Scully considers it seriously for a moment. "Well,

your 'slip' wasn't triggered by anything you did or

anything that happened to you. It was caused,

according to your own theory by Erwin Luskesh, his

power to shift between worlds. He did so willingly,

purposefully. Agent Doggett has no such power, no

reason to seek out an alternate reality. Even if he

did, if say there were an alternate universe that

held a reality more appealing than his own, why would

he keep returning? Why not find the right parallel

and simply remain there?"

Scully picks up her mug, pushes off the table and

goes to the sink. "I still think this has something

to do with his recent memory loss, with Mexico."

She dumps her drink into the sink and rinses the

cup. "He told you his memory came back in flashes, a

rush of images, a few at first then all at once."

Monica perks up in her chair, as if suddenly

realizing what Scully is trying to say. Scully leans

against the countertop. "Maybe, that is what's

happening now. Maybe, the sudden return of his memory

opened a floodgate..."

"To a past life." Monica interjects.

Scully regards her skeptically. "That wasn't exactly

where I was going with that..."

"Wait, just think about it. It makes perfect sense.

Often persons who encounter memories of past lives

have suffered trauma, an accident, or an emotional

catalyst of some kind. When they took him, they took

everything- his memory, his life. Suddenly, he is

living in an entirely different world, no knowledge

of his past, no idea of his future. Then suddenly he

begins having flashbacks. He finds himself and his

son all at once, in the same stroke loses Luke all

over again. He has to relive the shock, anguish and

grief."

"So, maybe as you said the stress of the event

opened a floodgate that broke down the barriers

between past and present. He didn't just regain these

memories, but maybe others. Memories that are

tainting his present. They're rushing back to him in

these nightmares and waking dreams. Past life trauma

often manifests itself in the phobias and behavior of

person. Maybe his behavior is just left over emotion

from the past."

Scully ponders the probabilities for a long while

before she admits, "It's possible, I suppose,

improbable, but not impossible." After another long

pause, she adds. "Why hasn't he said anything?"

"Why would he? Would you?"

Scully crosses her arms across her chest, looking

down at her shoes. "I don't know, Monica. That's a

lot to extrapolate from what little we know."

"I think we know more than you give us credit for."

Scully gives her head a small shake, not taking her

eyes off her shoes.

"He's in trouble, Dana. You and I both know it."

Scully looks up and takes a deep breath.

Monica drinks; Scully stares past her, each lost in

thought. Monica sets her cup down; rubs the handle

with her thumb.

"Hey, we work pretty well together." She smiles.

Scully pushes off the counter. Monica takes a sip.

"Yeah," Scully deadpans, "Except you forgot to run

out the room without letting me know you had figured

it all out."

Monica chokes down her drink. Scully chuckles.

Their laughter fills the kitchen. It has been a long

time since my house has been filled with laughter.

I leave them downstairs, climbing the stairs quietly

into my bedroom. Past lives, why am I not surprised

to find them clutching at straws. I let myself into

the bathroom and flick on the light. Monica had been

right. I look like shit. I yank the medicine cabinet

open, pull out my shaving kit. I close the cabinet,

glancing briefly at the mirror the mirror before

digging into the bag. What I see stops me dead in my

tracks.

"Sergeant?"

It's her.

I spin around.

There is no one there.

I'm restless, my body humming with tension,

anticipation. I wish it were over. Only four hours, I

tell myself. Four hours, I'll be free of this place.

I'll be back on the line. How long has it been four

weeks, six? I don't really know anymore. I only know

it has been long enough. I wait, sit and listen to

hospital life around me. Hospitals never sleep.

I don't expect her, but she is suddenly there. She

seems upset. It is hard to tell if she's been crying.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

"You're glad, aren't you?"

I can't deny it. I don't try.

"Ready to die playing the hero?"

She drops her eyes. She picks at the blood stains on

her apron.

"Lieutenant."

"No dirty coins in your bandages, no accidental

falls, that's not you. You are better than that,

right Marine?" She chuckles sarcastically.

"Katherine."

It is the first time I have ever used her name. As

soon as I say it, I want to never stop.

She looks up, fresh tears brimming in her eyes. She

takes a deep breath. Shakes off the sorrow, wiping

her tears with the back of her hand. She looks down

at me, her eyes dark and remote. I can't read

anything in them.

She touches my face. Her fingertips caress my cheek,

the corner of my mouth. Her fingers are cold and

rough, but her touch is exquisite, almost painful. I

want to say something, anything, but I am

speechless.

I reach up and touch her hand. She bites her lip;

pulls her hand away.

Perhaps I should be insulted or hurt, but I'm not.

Part of me knows you can never really hold onto a

woman like her; she doesn't allow herself to be held.

No matter how badly she might want you to do more

than admire her.

"Well, I wanted to say good-bye and I have."

"Yes, you have. Good luck, Lieutenant and thank you."

"Yes, well, it's what I do." She offers me her hand

and I shake it. She has a strong, confident grip.

After a time, her hand slips out of mine.

She clears her throat then quickly, without warning,

leans in and kisses me.

Her lips linger only for an instant then she begins

to pull back. I grab onto her, taking her face in my

hands. I hold her to me. I won't let her go. I want

her to know. I will never let her go. At first she

resists, but then her lips part, her tongue darting

between my teeth. I wrap my arm around her and pull

her hard against me. She tastes like tears and sweat.

I stare at my reflection.

I can still feel her, her softness on my own chapped

lips. I smell chocolate and blood, her salty taste is

still in my mouth. A jolt of desire knots my

stomach. I close my eyes. It is not real. It was

never real.

"Agent Doggett?"

I twist back, both surprised and bothered to find

Scully standing in the doorway of my bathroom.

"Is it your habit to enter a man's bedroom

unannounced?"

'What?" A wounded look crosses her face, quickly

disappears.

"Sorry, I..."

She clears her throat and continues talking

effectively ignoring everything that's been said.

"Monica is headed home, but says she'll be back

later."

I lean against the sink. "She doesn't need to do

that."

She waits for something more. I don't have anything

to share to with her.

"I guess, I'll go ahead and go too."

"Okay."

She taps the jam with the palm of her hand.

"I'd like to make sure you are all right before I

do."

"I feel fine. I'm going straight to bed."

I push past her, out of the bathroom and into the

bedroom. I shrug off my shirt, tossing it on the

floor. I sit on the edge of the bed and kick my shoes

off.

I expect her to go; she doesn't. Instead, she moves

to bed and sits down beside me.

"I know you believe our concern for you is

unwarranted. Perhaps you can't appreciate our efforts

now, but I think with time you'll be able to accept

the fact that we are only trying to help ."

I wonder what it is she thinks she can do. It seems

no one can help me now.

September 1918

Saint-Mihiel, France

We are Marines, men set apart by our code, our ethic, our honor. It is

what separates us from the regulars. It is what makes us the first to

be deployed, the most reliable. Our uniform is not only a source of

pride, but of identity. We are Marines, but you'd never know it to look

at us. Our forest greens are gone, traded for regular army uniforms.

From afar, our own looked too much like the Germans, at Belleau Wood we'd

suffered casualties from our troops because of it. You escape death. It

is at your heels or just ahead. We march through the night, 60 pound

rucksack on our backs, closing in on Saint-Mihiel, headed for the enemy.

We march asleep, battered and bloody. There is no giving up, no giving

in. We march in army uniforms, only our insignia, Marine issue pistol

holster to make it clear. We are Marines-leathernecks. No man wants to

die without the honor and respect he deserves.

In a month, we've cut our way through town after town, their names just

history to me now-Thiacourt, Pont-a-Mousson, Montsec. It is early

October. We are headed to Blanc-Mont ridge, just behind Sommepy. The ridge

is the key position to the enemy's defense. The Germans have spent four

years entrenched on that ridge. We know they'll hold it no matter what

the cost.

In the gloom, smoke, and mist of night, we filter through to the

replacement regiment to take our position at the foot of the slope and on the

slope itself. Our goal is to carry at bayonet point the trenches that

lay between us and winning the war torn ridge. The 6th sets in behind us

prepared to offer cover; ready to advance once we secure the trenches.

We are poised, restless, keyed up to the breaking point. We lunge into

the darkness. We are not afraid; we know the way. It is burned in our

memory. We take advantage of the hunter's moon and ease forward.

We advance slowly, steadily through the sodden earth, taking cover in

the scrubby pine and cedar along the battered slope. We work hard to

close the distance between them and us. None of us want to be stuck in

this no man's land; it will be a short shrift for anyone who takes too

long to cross.

Not enough time. We haven't had nearly enough time.

Dawn creeps over the horizon, light breaking through the mist, leaving

us completely exposed. The erratic shots in the dark that had plagued

our progress cease. The sunlight brings warmth and gunfire. We are

trapped, caught beneath the German barrage and our own counter barrage.

Massed along the slope our own shells breaking on the crest, there is no

where for us to go. We are unprepared for the intensity of this drumfire

baptism.

We are dying where we lay, no way to cover up, no chance to get away.

We can't run, can only lie here and take it, watch the men around us

writhe and suffer and die. Maybe in another place, another time I would

have stayed pinned to ground. But this time, I can't stay, can't wait

for death to find me. In the murky smoke of dawn, I decide to take my

chances. I heave myself to my feet and rush forward.

There are men all around me, scrambling, passing me by. There is no

sound. I stare up through murky eyes into the sky. I try to reach out to

one of the men as they pass; my body is filled with lead weights. The

world is suddenly pressing down on me. An iciness seizes me, cuts into

my skin like plunging beneath the ice of a frozen lake. The action

behind me blurs. Suddenly, Corporal James comes into focus, dropping down

on top me. At first he doesn't seem to recognize me. He takes a hard

long look. He eases away from me, his face twisted in horror. His lips

move; he's screaming.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, First Aid!"

I open my eyes slowly, seconds stretch into long minutes. A heavy,

hollow feeling spreads through my chest to the pit of my stomach.

It's me. Mud in my mouth, eyes wide open in shock.

Blood trickling down my face, spreading in patches through my uniform.

Me.

A grim, vacant anger clamps down on my throat, squeezes my heart.

It's me!

I am frozen, trapped under ice. Can't move. Can't make a sound.

I'm slipping further into darkness. I can't rise to the top. I grasp

at fading daylight.

Water pressing down on me, no feeling, no sense of self, I am utterly

lost.

Light.

Everything is muted and dull.

"Agent Doggett?" Her eyebrows knit together, concern stamped on her

face.

I blink hard; try to focus on her. She is sitting on the edge of the

bed, her little pen light in hand.

She rests her hand on me. Her touch cuts through me, slams into my

chest, like the pounding fist of the paramedic who brought me back to life

in Lebanon. Past and present crash together, time tripping over

itself. I plunge forward. Air rushes into my lungs. I bolt up.

She asks me what is wrong. Panic underlies every word. Certainly, I

could reassure her, but I don't really have anything to say. Instead pull

her to me, wrapping my arms around her in an awkward embrace.

She tries to squirm away; I resist. I won't let her go.

She questions me, the same way she questions everyone. I know, of

course, she questions herself the most. Maybe it's the only way she can

protect herself these days from being disappointed, from being left

behind.

She rationalizes my 'outburst'. I won't concede. The more she fights

me, the stronger my hold. I will never let her go again.

Eventually, I tell her as much.

She scrutinizes me, wary of my declaration. She warns me not to

confuse her kindness with weakness. She rests her hand on my chest, pushing

me away. She shakes her head, admonishes me for being insensitive of her

emotions.

I ease my hold on her.

She brushes her hair away from her face. She shakes

her head; asks me to please not look at her like that. Don't I

understand, she wonders out loud.

I wipe the sweat off her brow with my thumb. She asks that I please not

touch her. We sit together, uncomfortable, but unwilling, unable to

move. She watches me unable to hide the hesitancy and fear in her

expression. I caress her cheek, stroke her lips with my thumb. She gasps; her

lips parting slightly, her shiny teeth peeking out. I drop my hand

away. She says nothing, only regards me carefully.

She tips forward slowly, shifting her body, making herself more

comfortable. I wonder if she is waiting for me to stop her, to be the rational

party in this completely irrational act. She pauses, giving me one more

cautious look before finally resting her head on my shoulder. As the

weight of her body settles against me, she soughs, her sigh a lot like

relief, like surrender.

I slip my hand into her hair, breathe her in.

For the first time in a long time, I am truly awake.


End file.

X-Files