By wjmtv
wjmtv@jgitta.com
 

Date: Fri, 9 Feb 2001 21:49:14 -0600
Feedback: Yes please: wjmtv@jgitta.com
Classification: C-Crossover (that's what they
say; I don't get it)
Rating: PG
Archive: Yes
Disclaimer: "Wicked Game" is from the pen and
brilliance of Chris Isaak, and I am deeply in
his debt. Fox Mulder and Walter Skinner are
the property of 1013 productions. These other
two people don't identify themselves, so they
must be mine (I wish).

Summary: DoggettThoughts, a few hours after
"Badlaa"

"The world was on fire and no one could save
me but you..."

It was raining. Again. Frickin' rain in the
middle of winter. The wiper swished mightily,
giving just enough glimpse of street to be
sure the dotted line was still to the left of
the driver's door.

It hadn't been raining as they stood outside
the school. The sky was clear, a shining moon
reflecting the tear on her cheek as she
blurted a confession, choked out a name he
hadn't wanted to hear. But that was hours
ago. All the time the techs crawled around
the classroom bagging and photographing,
they'd had to stay. That was one of the
rules: you fire your weapon, you stay. And if
she stayed, so did he.

She never stopped amazing him. Easily the
fiercest, strongest woman he'd ever met, but
there were moments when he could feel the
pain hanging around her like the smoke that
lingers after a forest fire, when the flames
are gone but the ground is still too hot to
step on. She had told him more than once that
she was the skeptic to Mulder's believer, but
he knew it was crap. The cross at her neck
confessed it. And tonight she had proved it,
shooting an adolescent boy because she
believed.

He hadn't known how to respond. His instinct
told him to touch her, but that was
impossible. He didn't even have to close his
eyes to know how the offer would be taken.
The shoulder would jerk up, the body stiffen.
She would turn away. That was what she always
did when the hanging haze grew too dense. She
was a woman in mourning, a woman in love,
even if she didn't know it. And he was pretty
sure she didn't know. It was something she
wouldn't permit herself to feel. Something he
sure as hell didn't need to be thinking
about.

"Strange what desire will make foolish people
do..."

The light took too long to change. He drummed
the wheel, hearing the radio for the first
time since he'd left the scene. Just what you
need on a night like this: another song about
somebody doing something they shouldn't.

Red water being pushed around on the
windshield turned green and he pressed the
gas. Just another mile to the house.
Somewhere, people worked during the day and
came home before midnight to a place filled
with light and the smell of pot roast. He let
his left hand fall into his thigh, his wrist
bumping the hard leather on his hip. When you
had one of those under your jacket, you
didn't get to work too many day hours. And
you came home near dawn to a dark bed so big
you won't even enter the room to look at it.
Just sleep on the sofa.

He could have been there by now, if he hadn't
needed to follow her home; make sure she got
there safely. She wouldn't like it if she'd
known he was there, but he banked on her
preoccupation and his too many years of
practice, to keep him from her notice. She
stumbled on her way up the stairs and
instinct shoved him forward, but he stopped
after half a step. She didn't look up as she
entered the building, not even a half-glance
over her shoulder, so he knew he'd been
right. No one, no matter how seasoned, can
resist that last look when they think they're
being followed. When the door closed behind
her it started to rain, and he'd had to run
back to the car. He laughed as he closed the
door, a dry chuckle at himself for hurrying.
Who cares if you come back wet? he thought.
Who's gonna complain if you drip on the
carpet?

Her apartment would be warm. The ceilings
were high, but the floors above and below
kept it insulated. He wondered if she took
her shoes off as soon as she closed the door.
Wondered if she was the sort who would look
at her mail now, no matter what had happened
in the last few hours. Wondered which of the
many things she wouldn't tell him, hurt the
most.

"I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like
you..."

They were a strange bunch. All three of them.
It was like a contest, trying to see who
could say the most by saying the least. Some
days Skinner wore the laurels, some days he
could feel them whispering against his own
hair. But usually the crown sat upon her
auburn head, and neither of them was willing
to lift it off, even if she might be the
better for it. Of course there were things
they had seen and knew, that he had no way of
knowing; they'd worked together for seven
years before he was thrust upon them. But
below the sewer flotsam and vampires and
giant spaceships in the snow ran something
deeper, something  between the two of them
that was personal and frightening and
permanent. Something maybe even Mulder didn't
know. Seeing it weigh on her brought him
sometimes a nearly physical pain, but he knew
what pushing either of them would
accomplish--knew it well, because that was
what people got when they pushed him.

She was so small. He raised his elbow to the
windowsill and rested his head against his
hand. She'd killed someone--or something--
tonight, and he knew from the case files that
she'd done it before, but that was all he
could think about. How tiny she looked,
standing beside Skinner, how tiny she felt
standing beside him. Had Mulder ever--?

Dangerous ground.

"I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like
you..."

He winced as he thought over the last few
days. The stupid-ass jokes he'd made, trying
to get a smile. He'd even caught himself
flirting once or twice and pulled back in
embarrassment, hoping she didn't notice. Then
there was the other; out by the pool. That
was frustration talking, making him say
things he didn't mean. Probably the only
reason she let it go was that she knew it was
frustration too, but she assumed it stemmed
from the case. A part of him had wanted her
to turn on him, spitting her own irritation,
just so he could take her by the shoulders
and hold on.

He made the last turn. His street was dark,
the houses closed and sleeping under the
crying sky. Was she brushing her hair? His
mother had always brushed hers that hundred
strokes every night, and if any woman still
did that it would be her. He could tell, when
he forgot himself enough to open a door for
her, that underneath the current of unease
between all men and women now, there was a
part of her that appreciated the gesture for
what it was. She would turn on only the lamp
beside her bed and undress quickly, brushing
her teeth in a shadowy bathroom rather than
face 200 watts at the darkest hour. Then,
sleep, he hoped. Did she hug a pillow? Still
curl against a purloined shirt? Did she ever
reach out, eyes closed, believing someone
might actually be there, and was there any
nothingness more harsh?

The driveway. He hit the garage door opener
and light washed over him at last, beckoning
him forward until the water no longer
splashed on the roof and his bumper almost
touched the bike.

"I don't want to fall in love...."

He put the car in park, killed the
headlights, and turned the key. The radio
stopped.