The dim sound of cars hissing through rain-fresh puddles filled the cool darkness with an air of mystery. Streetlights flickered, pale imitations of stars, as the wind ripped away shadowing clouds. A new moon was setting, unseen, behind the city's towers. Under the grate of a fire escape, halfway up the side of an apartment building, a window slid up silently to let in the night. Damp breezes explored the new space, cleaned stuffy air, ruffled book pages. A small boy peered out into the grey false dawn, sniffed tentatively at the sea-smell and the green-smell that the wind offered. His face was pointed, all knobby chin and sharp cheekbones beneath level brows. Tousled blond hair whispered over ears pricked to catch distant sounds. Eyes, grey-blue, reflected the gleam of the night-wet streets.

From a side alley, a man emerged into the boy's view. He drew back into his room and reached for the window-catch, a wary animal in its den. He watched as the stranger walked to a point directly across the street and pause. He looked up, seemed to see the boy despite the shadow of the overhanging fire escape. Ropy muscles inked with tattoos flexed as he crossed his arms. He smiled. The boy leaned on the windowsill, eyes wide, an answering smile tentative on his solemn face.

"You coming out?" The voice was hoarse, but rippling with amusement, cajoling.

"Nope."

"Your mommy know you got that window open?"

The boy ducked back. "I'm allowed."

"Right you are." The man laughed, uninhibited in the stillness. The boy's grin widened, gap-toothed. He poked his head out, daredevil, and sucked in the night air. Thin arms reached out and grasped at cold metal. His giggles rose above the stranger's, treble and bass. The man walked across the street, looking up at the boy. He cocked his head, touched the ladder; with a jerk, pulled it down. He set a foot on the first rung, still chuckling, but a deeper, darker sound.

The boy gasped. "No--" he said, and pulled away. His smile twisted, a parody of happiness, vomiting laughter. The man climbed up, wolfish grin and hoarse breath sniggers. His eyes met the boy's, dark in the greyness, watching the laughter turn to sobbing guffaws, the sickly grin to a rictus of fear. His hand closed over the boy's wrist, slender pale flesh under dark-furred muscle. He yanked the unresisting body towards him.

"You're coming out," he grunted, clamping dirty fingers and yellowed nails down over the boy's whimpers. He slung the slight weight over his shoulder and slid down the ladder, disappearing into the night. Behind, the wind snapped at curtains, filling the boy's room with sea-smell and green-smell. Already, the echo of laughter had vanished into the new day.

Doggett looked up as the elevator doors opened. The familiar dingy hall, with its floor-to-ceiling boxes filled with buried files, led him to his inherited office. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the door ajar. Inside, Reyes was sitting behind the desk, meandering idly through a history of strangeness, files open around her. Doggett paused in the doorway, a ritual appeasement to the gods (or whoever) had protected the office's erstwhile inhabitants. He shook himself, irritated by his own superstitions, yet unable to simply enter the room as though it were his own.

"An' may I ask what you're doin' here, up from New Orleans again?" he asked. "Kersh didn't make himself clear enough the last time you dropped by?"

"I 'dropped by' at your insistence, John," she replied, flipping a folder closed. "And it was a good thing, too." She stood up and passed him to get to the door. "But today, I'm here at the deputy director's request."

"He asked you to come? Why?"

"As strange as this may seem, he's got a case for us." Her blue eyes were frank, but her lips were thinned by doubt. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. "His idea of an X-file, I guess."

Doggett eyed her askance. "An' I suppose this is supposed to keep our attention well away from anythin' resembling human replacements, or some such. What's the case?"

Reyes glanced away, letting the weight of the office's silence hang between them. "A kidnapping," she said shortly, not looking at him. "Here in D.C., two days ago." She hesitated, then thrust the folder awkwardly towards him. Doggett ran his fingers over the rough grain of the page, knowing by her expression what he would see before he opened the file. A photograph of a young boy, maybe nine or ten years old, grinning impishly at the camera. Somehow, it was a picture of childhood itself: a rib-sticking, rough-playing, gap-toothed happiness, gleaming with small mischiefs and untrammelled activity. He was thin as an alley cat is thin, all his food subsumed into the energies of existence. The blond and blue-eyed liveliness contrasted sharply with the stark black lettering underneath: Paul Whitcomb, 05/09/91.

"You say this happened two days ago?"

"Yes. John--"

He ignored her, directed his frown to the folder. "And the window was locked from the inside, and both parents were home?"

"I know what this looks like. And believe me, I brought this to Kersh's attention--" Reyes paused, then rushed on, "He said that as long as this office was a part of the FBI, we would continue to investigate such cases as he deemed appropriate." A half-shrug conveyed her thoughts about Kersh's scare tactics. "I know how this must feel, John, but for all we know--"

"For all we know, what? The guy I'm thinkin' did this is a month dead in a car crash? All we know is exactly nothin'." His face was tight with anger. "The same M.O. The same goddamn day!"

Reyes caught his arm, her slender fingers subtly calming. "It could be a coincidence. That was years ago--And I saw Bob Harvey's body. We were so sure he was the one, back then; how can this case change that?"

Doggett crumpled the edges of the folder and tossed it to the desk, shaking loose of Reyes' attempts at rationality. "The man had an alibi as solid as I am standing here. Our guy's still out there--" I just know it. The unspoken words hung between them, again catching on the office's strange stillness. The air seemed almost to crackle with some vital spark. The moment passed, like the sun going behind a cloud, and he shook his head. Too many ghosts, he thought, glancing at the empty patch on the wall where a piece of history dominated the room by its absence.

He looked back at Reyes only to find her eyes travelling over the room, light and speculative. "Can you feel that?" she asked softly. "For a moment there--the connectedness..."

"Yeah," Doggett said, dismissively. "Like I feel Kersh's breath down the back of my neck. If he's giving us X-files, it sure as anything ain't just for the hell of it." He took up the folder and grabbed Reyes by the elbow, pulling her from the room's oppressive silence. "C'mon, we'll go talk to the officers at the scene." In the hall, he turned back to close the door, locking away the shadowplay of jeering ancestors.

That night, he dreams.

Marines in crisp white uniforms salute him as he walks by. Metal clanks beneath boot heels, hollow. The sea roils past the keel; it whispers of sailors swallowed. He places a hand to the hull and feels the condensation where life meets its end. Wonders whether a pinhole crack has formed, letting sea brine seep into abandoned companionways, trespassing in the desert ship.

He is on the deck. At its far end he can see a woman. The wind presses her skirt into revealing her form. She is tall; she is lithe, though he knows she's been pregnant, given birth. Blonde hair in the wind is Medusa's, snaking out from beneath a scarf. He knows she will turn, see him; knows already the sea-green of her eyes.

Between them a boy steps out. He is his mother's mirror, slight. Only his eyes are his father's, blue as autumn sky. The boy is solemn, small against the ship's gunmetal grey. He looks to the windblown woman. She smiles, wistful perhaps, though with the distance it is hard to tell.

He reaches out hands, handcuffed by the white regularity of his uniform. He is silent; knows his voice has been silenced. Knows the boy cannot hear. Knows--

Knows already how this ends.

The boy watches the ocean. Seems to count the swells that lift them all. Goes to the edge and pauses there, his smile a strange farewell-

Does he slip? Or could it be that he leaps, some joyful abandon of caution? His mother is his shadow, follows him to unknown depths. The deck is empty under the threatening sky.

The dreamer watches but cannot move. Cemented by duty, by orthodoxy perhaps, he stands at attention, forever tied.

He is alone.

Doggett's steps were firm but slow as he made his way to the door at the end of the hallway. He lifted a hand to knock, wondering what exactly he would find on the other side. Unsure if he wanted to find out. He was not a stranger to rumours, after all. And he had seen his share of--well, of what he didn't know, but of something. Giving an inward shrug, he let his knuckles tap a question just below the number thirty-five.

After a pause, the door opened. Scully looked up at him, the beginnings of a smile fading into surprise on her face. A moment passed as she appeared to evaluate his presence on her stoop. "Agent Doggett," she said, stepping back from the threshold. She retreated to the kitchen, leaving him wrestling with this enigmatic statement--invitation to enter or simple fact? He edged inside and shut the door quietly behind him.

"May I ask why you're here?" she asked. Doggett shook his head, wondering whether to tell her that he didn't know any more than she did why he had come. Her businesslike question left him hovering on the edge of speech; not only did he not know where to begin, he didn't even know what to call her when he did.

"I'm sorry to come so early," he said instead, though she was already dressed and he could see breakfast dishes in the sink. She nodded her acceptance and waved him to a chair. He noted with some surprise of his own that although her attitude was the same calm professionalism he had come to know so well during their short months together, there was something different about her expression. He couldn't quantify it; it was outside his experience with her. She was like a room he had learned to negotiate in the dark, and suddenly a light switch had been flipped. He still knew his way around, but now there was so much more revealed to him. "How's William?" he asked, buying time.

The incipient smile that had greeted him at the door now spread over her face like sunrise. "He's fine," she said. "Just fine." Relief was strong in her voice, but that same strange undercurrent ran through it. Something about William. "He's sleeping, now," she added, looking past him towards the bedroom. Doggett could see the small marks of several nights' worth of broken sleep in her face, yet she seemed more relaxed than she ever had been in his presence. Not even the glow of new motherhood could explain this strange contentment; the release of tension that spoke of happiness more than mere words ever could.

"So things are...settled?" He didn't know what, exactly, he meant by this, but her curious glance served to tell him he was on the right track.

"For now, things are still...Well, I'm not sure. Now really, Agent Doggett, I have about six months' maternity leave coming. I hope you're not here to get me to go alien hunting with you." She smiled again, but the warmth had been leeched from it. Aliens were not the way to her heart, obviously. Or maybe they were, but that route had already been taken. Doggett could feel the same spectral absence that plagued him in his adopted assignment.

"No, of course not." Yes, precisely. "I was just wonderin' about all those years you spent on the X-files." He paused, then plunged ahead. "You remember when you were in the hospital, and I was working that murder case--Jeb Spinks? You told me you were afraid to believe..."

Scully nodded, but he could see her defensive walls coming up, anger or fear seeping into the set of her shoulders. Remembering her surprise when she'd opened the door, he suddenly realised that the transparency of expression he'd noticed was not for him. Other visitors could be expected.

"I won't lie to you, Agent Scully," he said, deciding on a form of address. "I did come about an X-file. I got this case from Kersh. A boy, ten years old, was kidnapped out of a locked room. It was the same day--the same date as my son." He stopped, remembering. Then, brushing the past aside, he continued: "I know you and Mulder had a case like this last year, kids being taken like that. So I thought I'd ask you about your thoughts."

Scully leaned back in her chair and wrapped her fingers around a half-filled mug of coffee. "My field notes should be in the case report," she said briefly. "Just before the kidnapping, did the parents of this boy experience a vision-as though he had been killed?"

"No," he said. "That wasn't the case here."

"Well, then I'm afraid I don't know what to tell you, Agent Doggett." Scully looked up as a fretting cry came from the back room. "Excuse me," she said.

She returned from the bedroom with William in her arms, smiling down at his calm cooing. The tears had dried on his cheeks. The early, indistinct blue of his eyes had given way to rock-crystal green, pieces of autumn sky reflected through malachite. The faint fuzz on his head echoed Scully's flame red hair, but was a shade darker, almost auburn. Scully sat at the table and propped William up against her chest. Gurgling, he stared with fascination at his hands waving the air in front of him.

"He's beautiful," Doggett said, and was rewarded with another joyful smile.

"He's hungry." She gazed down at her son and rubbed his cheek with a gentle finger. Immediately, William turned his head and made sucking motions. Scully smiled, then looked up. At her glance, Doggett stood up, realising what she meant. She stood with him. "Look, Agent Doggett, I'm not sure what help I can be. If you need more information, you can call, but my field report was thorough."

"Right." Uncomfortable, watching that strange barrier descend over their conversation, Doggett edged towards the door. "Sorry again to come unannounced," he said. He spared one last look before turning away--

A great white light came creeping out of the edges of the world, rushing upon him with almost perceptible speed. The warm kitchen disappeared from his sight, golds and reds flickering like fireworks behind closed lids. His sight was blurred, but scents were a roadmap to mark the place. Dank and distant, a sea breeze was nearly masked by the aromas assaulting his nostrils: garbage, rank and heavy; a thousand flushes of grey water; car exhaust like a tarry phlegm. Then, like a rolling tide, a great ocean of blue-green dimness flooded his vision. Cold rain rimed rough boards, hoary with the memory of many frosts. Dampness provided texture to the slender shafts of weak sunlight, falling on the cracked cement of the floor. And last, sound: chittering and scrabbling of tiny feet-rats. Then, a low rush, like the wind through pines. No. The thought came from somewhere outside himself. Not wind--the river.

"Agent Doggett?"

He blinked, and the kitchen returned, sharp and clear. "Yeah?" he said, his voice rough, feeling the strange disconnection to reality, like rousing from a faint.

Scully was staring at him in concern, William whimpering slightly in her arms. "You were out of it there for a minute. Are you all right?"

"Sure," he said, without conviction. By the look on her face, she was equally unconvinced. "Really," he added. "It's just...uh...work, I guess. I'm meeting with Kersh today about this case..."

She nodded. "I'm sorry if this brings back too many memories," she said. "The X-files can get quite...personal, sometimes."

Doggett shook his head. "Yeah, well, sometimes I get the feelin' like I am an X-file, Agent Scully." Awkwardly, he turned away and moved quickly to the door, closing it softly behind him. He made his way to his car and slipped inside. Breathing deeply, he crossed his arms and rested his head on the steering wheel, still feeling disoriented. Behind closed lids, the cement room came back to him--wet, cold, the far off sea--mixing with his dreams. After a moment, he looked up, ready to return to work. Glancing back towards the apartment building, he saw Mulder approaching. That answered that question, he thought. The man had a jaunt to his step as he nearly ran up the steps. Doggett could just make out his expression as he neared the door and was amazed.

Mulder was smiling.

"Agent Doggett."

Doggett turned and saw Skinner coming towards him, his powerful strides quickly closing the distance between them. "I didn't expect to see you here, sir. I thought this was just a debriefing."

The assistant director shrugged. "I was called in," he said, looking away, his face set and hard.

Doggett studied him for a moment, watching the tic in his cheek as he clenched his jaw. "You know why this matter has been classed as an X-file, sir?"

Skinner returned his look, his dark eyes frank. "This is a kidnapping, Agent Doggett, well within the Bureau's purview and your investigative talents. There's no need to object to the assignment simply because of office politics."

"I think you and I both know what Agent Mulder would have to say to that," Doggett countered. "If the X-files aren't bein' used to investigate the paranormal, then why call them that at all?"

"Mulder is no longer a part of this organisation. He may not like the way things are run in his absence, but we can't let that be our concern today. If you want to continue the man's work, then start by learning to pick your battles. God knows Mulder never did."

"Yeah, but I still got some questions regardin' him and his work, not to mention the things I saw happenin' in the deputy director's office. This case is nothin' better than a smokescreen."

Skinner smiled grimly and shook his head. "Agent Doggett, I don't think you know the true meaning of that word. And I hope you never do." He turned away and entered Kersh's outer office, and they sat in silence until the secretary deigned to notice them.

"The deputy director will see you now," she said, as though she had just noticed their presence. The door opened and Kersh stood there, the perfect bureaucratic archetype in his crisp suit and wire rim glasses.

"Good day, gentlemen." Kersh nodded to his secretary to usher the two men into his inner sanctum. Doggett exchanged a glance with Skinner: this avuncular welcome was so typical of the deputy director; yet at the same time he had the air of a small boy taunting them. I bet he pulled wings offa flies as a kid, Doggett thought as he met his superior's smug gaze. Behind him, he could almost hear Skinner rubbing his knuckles to relax his fists. There was no love lost between him and Kersh, especially since he'd missed out on the promotion to deputy director. Association with the X-files was costly.

Doggett waited for Kersh's permission to sit, already dreading the soft, sinking feeling of the office's overstuffed chairs. It was impossible to maintain his normal military bearing; the chairs felt as though they'd been stuffed with quicksand. He sank down until his eyes were level with the lamp on Kersh's desk, leaving him with the feeling of the big man suspended over him like impending doom. Even Skinner's large frame was lost in the sticky leather upholstery. A man can't be proud in a chair like this.

"I think we all know why we're here," Kersh began, with the happy arrogance of a man who is never wrong--and is never contradicted when he is. "This--X-file," he said, gloating over the assignment, his genial smile widening slightly. His eyes mocked their silence as they waited for him to continue. "The kidnapping--or should I say, abduction--of Paul Whitcomb." He opened the file and indicated Doggett should begin.

"This afternoon, Agent Reyes and I interviewed the parents, the neighbours, and the officers at the scene," he said. "I'm afraid none of them had any more to add to their statements taken the morning of the kidnapping. The mother says that the boy often asked for his window to be left open, and he may in fact have opened it himself. This would account for the lack of fingerprints and point of entry."

Kersh nodded. His attention drifted past Doggett to Skinner, but he did not ask for the details of the manpower assigned to the case. Instead, he flipped through his file, and said: "They've worked out a profile for the kidnapper up in the VCD. They believe the suspect will be a white male, early forties, from a working class background. He will hold the boy for a time, but that time is limited. I'm sending you and Agent Reyes to this address to investigate a possible perpetrator identified by a witness." He tossed a sheaf of paper across the desk, and Doggett retrieved it. He glanced at the address.

That's nowhere near the river. The thought came, without substance or context. Doggett jerked his head up. "Excuse me, sir?" he said, his voice rough with doubt. "Isn't that uptown somewhere?"

"Yes, of course it is," Kersh answered. "You know Washington well enough for that, I hope?"

"Yeah." Doggett glanced back at the folder. It was as though someone had spoken aloud--the river. He shrugged and settled more deeply into his chair.

Kersh glanced over the rims of his glasses as though to invite further comment, then continued. "A Mrs. Bodnar claims she saw a man entering an abandoned apartment there," he said. "From her description, he matches the profile our boys in violent crime have come up with."

Doggett looked up once more, watching the deputy director's lips moving, feeling the sense of his words. Loud in his ears was the phantom rush of water. He brought a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Cracked cement, oil-stained, faint glitter of afternoon sun--

"Are you hearing me, Agent Doggett?"

He opened his eyes and met Kersh's steady gaze. The setting sun winked off the gold rims of his glasses, sending tiny sparks to blind him.

"I said are you hearing me? Or does the fate of this boy not concern you?"

Kersh's words cut through him and he clenched his fists, angry at his own preoccupation. It was nothing, nothing; less than nothing. Overwork. Worry.

Luke.

I saw a vision, as though just for an instant, the body had changed.

Changed? To what?

It looked like ashes.

"I think the boy is being held by the river," he said slowly, frowning up at their hard stares. Skinner tilted his head, his face thoughtful as he gazed at Doggett with narrowed eyes.

Kersh slapped the report down on his desk, the sound like an explosion of annoyance. Through taut lips he said tightly, "What evidence do you have of that, Agent Doggett?"

"I…" Doggett stumbled over the words, feeling the tension like a palpable thing. Kersh's face was tight with anger, his dark eyes intense. "None, sir. It's just a feeling."

"A hunch, Agent Doggett?" Skinner raised an eyebrow at him, offering him a better choice of words. Psychics--or psychos--had feelings. Law enforcement officials had hunches.

"Yeah." He would have stopped there, but Skinner's warning glance made him grope for reasons. "I mean, this guy our witness saw--he coulda been the building inspector, or a contractor. It's not hard to find white males in their forties wearin' work clothes."

"I think there is a bit more to the profile than that," Kersh said. "And what makes you so sure the boy is near the river, let alone still alive? May I remind you that no ransom call has been received to indicate that happy state of affairs?"

"He's alive, dammit!" The words burst forth, unchecked. Doggett found himself standing over Kersh's desk, mirrored in the deputy director's glasses. "Alive," he repeated, and stepped back. Skinner shook his head, anger showing on his face as well, but not at Doggett--rather, for him. For losing control and giving Kersh what he wanted.

"I don't like your tone, Agent Doggett," Kersh snapped. "If I wanted to hear this kind of outlandish statement, I'd call Fox Mulder. Fortunately, that is no longer an option."

Doggett slapped the folder down on the desk. "You're right about that, sir," he said, "but maybe it isn't so fortunate. Mulder was probably the best profiler you ever had. Maybe I don't know why I got this feelin'. Maybe it's just the way the facts come together for me. But he would know, and he would know why he knew."

"Are you suggesting that this lead is not worth following up, Agent Doggett? Because I can assure you that is the best way to follow in your predecessor's footsteps."

"Of course I'll follow this lead. I want to see this boy home, and safe." Probably more than you, he added silently. Despite Skinner's words, he knew that this case was no more than politics to Kersh. It was certainly more than that to him: and more than a mere kidnapping, too.

It was a second chance.

He dreams:

Flashlights pierce the night, their beams swinging like swords. Cold bites at his flesh, his bones ache with it; midwinter, and he has been here before. At his feet he sees fresh earth mixed with snow. Somewhere, a backhoe rumbles, and clods of dirt tumble down, down into darkness. An open grave.

A casket rises before him, its black wood frigid with a deeper chill. Around him men's breaths cloud the air like a spectre of death. He knows they wish to pry into matters best left alone and he cries out, but they do not, can not hear. He reaches out a gloved hand to return the morbid thing to its resting place. He does not want to see that face.

At his touch, the lid opens, white satin coverlet dusted with the remains of roses. He pushes away only to be drawn closer; knows he will see again the stiff grey skin, the ragged red scars, and the man who cheated death.

But it is a boy who lies there. He is face down, his blond hair spiked with dried blood, his arms twisted behind him. The dreamer struggles, opens his mouth to speak a name, reaches out to touch skin still infused with life--

There is nothing there save the embers' ghosts, wrought by a living flame and doused by death.

And he is left with a handful of ashes.

"John, wake up!" Rough hands shook away dreams.

In an instant, Doggett was pulled back to reality. He lunged upwards, tangled in bedclothes, his bare skin slick with sweat. Caught a glimpse of short dark hair and tanned skin. He leaned back and rubbed sleep from his eyes. "What'n'hell are you doin' here?" he growled, feeling the prickles along his jawline and longing for a hot shower. His feet were icy even in the summer heat, and the breeze from the open window raised gooseflesh on his arms.

"You didn't show up for our meeting with Mrs. Bodnar," Reyes said, retreating to the doorway. "You didn't answer your phone or your door. I was worried, John."

"How'd you get in?" he asked, grabbing a shirt from the floor. His head throbbed with remembered images, not fading as such dreams usually did, and he sat on the edge of the bed, not truly caring for Reyes' anxiety or Mrs. Bodnar's offended sensibilities.

"Why were you still asleep?" she countered, holding up the key he kept in a magnetic case under his pickup's running board. "Skinner told me about your meeting yesterday. Do you truly believe that you've sensed something about this case?"

"Didn't get much out of your witness?" he asked, choosing to ignore questions he didn't have answers to.

"You were right, the man she saw was the building super." Reyes raised her voice as she wandered back to the living room, offering him a measure of privacy while he dressed. "Checking on the results of the fumigation. I spoke to the police, and they still haven't turned up any leads."

Doggett nodded as he entered the kitchen and dumped some instant coffee into a mug. Reyes followed him, her lips pursed as she tried to hold back. He studiously avoided her look as he filled the cup with hot water, then eyed her over its rim as he sipped. The hot liquid shot through him, bringing winter-chilled limbs to life but not dispelling dreams. "You got any ideas?" he asked. "'Cause I got nothin', meeting or no meeting."

Reyes crossed her arms and leaned back, eyeing him as though the word liar was tattooed on his forehead. "Then what was all that about with Kersh?" she said.

He shrugged and turned away from her, gulping down the coffee.

"You've seen something. I can feel it."

"Ah, not this again!" he said, pushing away from the counter. "It's too early in the mornin' for this."

"Skinner wants to know what possessed you to say such things in front of Kersh--and so do I."

"I'm possessed, now, is that it?" He pinned her with a glance, daring her to bring up the past.

"I don't know what it is, John--I just want you to be able to help this boy, in any way you can."

Yeah. Just like I wasn't able to help my son. Pain, old as blood and new as memory, tensed his shoulders, and his hands tightened on the empty mug, knuckles white. Reyes paled under his stare, her dark eyes like empty oil drums, hurt by his anger and her own remembered pain. Damn her helpfulness! If it weren't for her, he'd have put this behind him by now… Could have covered the past like a blanket thrown over the opening of a treacherous cavern, darkness banished by fluorescence. He could have forgotten: left failure behind, and forged new memories.

Liar, his thoughts whispered. You remember--you've seen-- He clamped down on the traitorous thoughts, clenched his jaw as though physical pain could purge his mind. Forget the dreams. Dreams don't find missing kids. His voice taut with suppressed emotion, he said: "Listen, I don't know what you expect me to say."

"I just want to know the truth--" Picking at scabs.

"Yeah, the truth," he said. "That's what this is supposed to be about, isn't it? You wanna know what I see? I see two people who have lost their son, and a whole precinct of canvassers comin' up with nothin', and a CSI unit captain who can only shrug at me. That's what I see." He tossed the mug into the sink with a clatter and stood with his head bent, arms akimbo.

But-- a voice, a memory's ghost, laughed silently. --that's not all you see, is it?

Just dreams--

But you were awake. Mocking, questioning, his conscience melding with the midwinter dreamscape. Just dreams? Not in the hospital, chasing Jeb Dukes. Not when you saw him; saw the ashes--

I didn't!

--not yesterday. Again: rats, red eyes in darkness, cold giving way to summer's end, fevered imaginings, wet cement warming under the morning sun--

"John…?"

Doggett looked up, seeing Reyes like another ghost, another memory. When they had found him: the still body, caught in sleep like an insect in amber; all his promise wrapped into an impenetrable cocoon. Sweater and jeans mud-encrusted, hair dark with blood, autumn-sky eyes closed forever. Reyes, trying to comfort, and failing because she insisted on hope.

He looked at her. "I gotta go." Quickly, he stepped around her and headed outside, easily outdistancing her hesitation and confusion.

"John!" Irritant, buzzing, unreal, she followed him out to the truck. He didn't look at her; his eyes were on the past. The door slammed with a solid thunk, the engine rumbled to life under his fingers. Mechanically, he drove off, watching her in the rear-view: anger and incredulity were written in her stance. She was another monument to failure, and he would leave them both behind, finally reaching out of the past.

He drove, and thought of reaching out--but not for hope.

Reaching for the future.

Déjà vu washed over him as he approached the door at the end of the hall. The weather had taken a turn: a week's cold rain had vanished under an Indian summer, turning tree leaves to burnished bronze, and leaving air conditioners wheezing. Doggett stood undecided as bursts of cold air rattled past him, sending his fevered body into fits of ague. The aura surrounding the apartment seemed different since he'd drawn his own conclusions about the things that he'd seen yesterday. He was aware of Scully's history, and when he'd first learned of her pregnancy, he'd made assumptions based on office gossip. It wasn't a hard supposition to make, unless you knew the people involved; but now, knowing them as he did, otherwise obvious facts became fictions written by vicarious lovers, and even genetics were suspect.

His questions returned, circling his mind like wraiths without homes. Despite what he'd told Reyes, and continued to tell himself, he'd seen something here yesterday. And not for the first time: visiting Scully in the hospital, the silent panic of a crime scene he'd not yet seen had impinged itself on his mind's eye. Was Reyes right?

Steeling himself, he knocked at the door. There was a long pause, time enough for misgivings, before Scully opened it.

"Agent Doggett," she said, as though resigned to his presence. "How's the case going?"

"Not well, Agent Scully," he said. "There's been talk of reclassifying it as a missing persons case, or else a murder."

"But you don't believe that?"

"No." Brief, abrupt, wondering what else to say. There wasn't any dimming of his consciousness; no blurring of the here-and-now. Scully leaned against the jamb, holding the door close, making him curious about what she was hiding from him. Or whether he was the one she was hiding. "I gotta tell you, Agent Scully, somethin' weird is goin' on here. Maybe Mulder could tell you more precisely, cause I sure as hell can't explain it. Maybe Kersh was right after all."

"Right about what?" She glanced back over her shoulder as she spoke, confirming his guesses.

"Right about callin' this thing an X-file," he answered. Fatigue blurred his thoughts, leaving him with no resistance to the idea Reyes had planted in his head. How could he deny it? The visions pulsed behind his eyelids every time he blinked--disjointed imagery clearer than a lucid dream, but giving no direction, no more clues to go on. He'd thought Scully was the catalyst: the visions came when he was with her. But now, when he opened himself up to extreme possibilities, willing to experience whatever it took to find a boy most had given up on, he felt nothing. He was trapped inside his skull, dead normal once more.

Scully was watching him with a doctor's eye. "I don't know about that," she said, "but you're exhausted. Come in." She led him carefully through the apartment to the living room.

Mulder was sitting on Scully's couch, dandling William on his knee. Both wore expressions of amazement, as though stepping out onto an alien world and seeing everything for the first time. William was burbling contentedly up at Mulder, watching the man's gentle expression. Reflected in each other, their eyes were the same shade of hazel-green. Doggett hesitated, but Scully urged him into the room and eased him down on a chair. She glanced at Mulder apologetically.

At the sight of him, Mulder's face grew taut, erasing the soft wonder he'd shown to the baby. He drew William closer, seating him in his lap. "I guess New York's finest aren't that fine if they need a disgraced FBI agent and a new mother to help them put the clues together," he said, his voice acrid with jealous anger.

Despite his exhaustion, Doggett bristled at the comment. "I'm here to ask Agent Scully for help, off the record," he said.

"I told you everything I know yesterday," Scully said, sitting on the couch next to Mulder. "I'm not at all familiar with this case."

"I saw somethin' that I can't explain," Doggett said, then hesitated. I've had these visions---Saying the words aloud would give them a strange sense of finality; they could not be unsaid. Even in front of Mulder and Scully, he feared ridicule: bursts of incredulous laughter at the merest hint of the paranormal. Already earning the nickname that goes with the job.

"I just don't know if I can believe what I've seen," he continued. "The way Agent Reyes talks--well, if it means I coulda done something more for my son, then believin' in what I've seen means that I failed him, somehow."

"I'm familiar with Agent Reyes' persuasive abilities," Mulder said. "And I don't believe that you failed your son because of your beliefs." He paused, gauging Doggett's reaction. "But maybe this time, Agent Doggett, disbelieving will mean failing again."

Doggett nodded, feeling the truth of these words. "I don't know why it happens," he said. "But yesterday when I was here, I saw somethin'--I thought I saw the place where the kid's bein' held. Something similar happened back when I visited you in the hospital, Agent Scully--like a dream, almost, but clearer."

"And you think I cause this?" Scully's eyes widened at the implication.

"I don't know." He spread his hands out before him, brimming with uncertainty. "I thought--when I came today--that it would happen again. But--" He shook his head and sat back, feeling as though he floated on a tide of weariness.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Doggett watched as William squirmed on Mulder's lap, his face puckered with the beginning of a sob. Something in the silence unnerved the baby, and he began to whimper, his breath chuffing as he worked his way into a wailing cry. Scully turned to Mulder and took William, offering a mother's comfort, and--

Another man's sight settles into his mind, a ghostly double awareness. The colours of the vision are sharp: glaring sunlight is bright on rippling water. Grey buildings stand on all sides like ancient monoliths, reaching for the azure sky and falling short in their own foul fumes. The garbage smell is heavy in his nostrils. Traffic is a distant clamour, scarcely regarded. The streets are vaguely familiar; somewhere he has been before, large doors leading into warehouses, rough apartment buildings falling into disrepair. The angle of the sunlight indicates the direction--south, south to the river. The other's sight settles briefly on a signpost, and through the haze of two minds in one, he exults: he is close. The man approaches an apartment, red brick soiled by the city's soot, and recognition tugs at him--he almost knows the place--can nearly make out the address--

"Are you all right?" The words came from outside the hazy remnants of the vision. Scully's voice? Somewhere, a baby crying.

"I saw it--" Doggett forced the words past nerveless lips. "Almost saw it…" The disorientation was stronger this time, holding him in its whirling grip.

"You've gone pale."

He nodded, or tried to nod, recovering slowly. "I've got to get down there."

"Down where?" Mulder, interested despite himself.

"The south side--near the river--brick apartment, broken windows, next to a warehouse--"

"You're in no condition to go anywhere," Scully said. "Let alone someplace you've never seen."

"Oh, I've seen it plenty," he answered. "More than I care to." He looked up to see Scully hovering over him. Behind her, Mulder was holding William and trying to soothe his cries. Doggett's breath caught in his throat as the meaning of the scene fought its way through his blurry consciousness. Scully had taken William in her arms--the vision--and now, Mulder held the baby once more.

"It is you," he said slowly. "It's you and William."

"What?" Amazement coloured Scully's voice. She looked at Mulder. He had managed to calm William, and the baby was nearly asleep, drooling over the strong hands that held him. Mulder's face was unreadable; neither acceptance nor rejection of Doggett's words showed in his expression.

Doggett sighed. The tension that had sustained him through the confession of the things he'd seen was gone. "I need you to come with me," he said, unheeding of the effect of his words, only knowing that they must be said. "Both of you."

"Come where?" Scully asked, though it was obvious she understood what he meant.

"I need to get closer," Doggett answered. "If we're going to find Paul Whitcomb, then I need to see where he's been held, exactly. It's been four days. There's no telling how much longer the kidnapper will keep him there, or whether he will even keep him alive--"

"No."

Scully and Doggett looked up in surprise at Mulder. His eyes were dark with hurt and anger as he watched Scully, ignoring Doggett for the moment. "Scully, you can't take William out on a criminal investigation," he said. "It's a foolish risk."

"Don't you understand?" Doggett heard his own words as from a distance. Dull anger pulsed through him at Mulder's obstinacy. "I need them. I need to find him. I can't just let this happen…" Happen again. Second chances are not meant for failure.

Mulder's lips tightened. "Excuse me," he said. "I need to put William to bed." He left the room, leaving Doggett and Scully caught in an uncomfortable silence.

Doggett shifted in his chair, watching Scully's still face. She did not look at him; her eyes were unfocused, seeing some other time and place. He wanted to plead with her, tell her how it felt to have this man's thoughts thrust into his brain. Like stealthy intruders, they ate away at his sense of self, and yet were oddly familiar. Despite his denials, he'd lived with the memory of a vision for years. The sense of it curled into the dark corners of his consciousness, echoed by the imagery that came when he was with Scully and Will. He yearned for her understanding because he couldn't understand himself. He wanted to wash the visions away and return to his normal life, but at the same time, he needed them. Needed to explore them, find meaning in them, follow them---use them to save Paul Whitcomb, and so save the memory of his son. Hearing Mulder's footsteps returning, he extended a hand to touch Scully's arm.

"Please," he said. "I can't find him without you."

For an instant, their eyes met, and he saw in her the acceptance he craved. Mulder entered the room then, and took his seat on the couch next to Scully. She hesitated for a moment; but she had never been one to be intimidated by his anger. No argument had yet been able to sunder their years of friendship, and each trusted the other deeply enough to speak the truth when it was needed.

"I'll go," she said quietly, her voice firm.

A swift spasm of anger crossed Mulder's face. "Just because Vision-Boy here goes off on you, you want to take your son out looking for a murderer!" He stood abruptly, containing his fear and anger in movement.

"Look how much you risked over the years, looking for your sister," she replied. "Is this any different, just because you're not related to the boy?"

Mulder was taken aback, and stood silent for a moment. Samantha's name was still sacred to him, even after he'd laid her ghost to rest. "You think it may be something like what happened between Roche and I?"

Scully gave a half-shrug. "I don't know what it is. All I know is what Agent Doggett has told us. And if we can help him catch this man--"

Mulder looked down at Doggett speculatively, taking in the unshaven chin and shadowed eyes. "I can't claim to understand all that happened to you while I was gone," he said to Scully. "Learning you were pregnant, after everything you'd gone through--then almost losing what you'd fought so hard for--so I just can't believe you'd risk William, or yourself, chasing after visions."

"What happened to searching for the truth, Mulder?" she asked. "We've chased after plenty of visions, most of them yours, through more dangerous situations than this."

Their eyes locked, and it seemed to Doggett that the argument continued on some level more basic than speech. The silent debate was carried out in their eyes, in minute changes of expression he couldn't translate. Their thoughts passed before him like half-heard murmurs, on the edge of comprehension.

Finally, Mulder broke the silence. "Things are different now. I'm different; we both are. I realise now that this is the truth I fought for." Gently, he cupped her elbow in his hand, drawing her away from Doggett. Leaning closer, he said softly, "I spent years chasing ghosts. Chasing the past, and gaining nothing. Ignoring what I'd already found. I'm not ready to turn my back on something I've only just recognised."

Scully shook her head and replied equally softly. "No. But you'd be turning your back on something you've believed in for so long. I've felt the strength of your beliefs; they gave me the courage to face things I couldn't explain. It's not about the risk, it's about respect for the work, even if it's no longer yours."

Mulder closed his eyes and turned away from her, the set of his back stiff with unvoiced anger. The loss of the X-files was a fresh hurt, and deep, like a blow struck to a half-healed wound. Scully stayed where she was, unwilling to offer comfort that would be taken for pity, and restrained by Doggett's presence. When Mulder spoke, his words were tinged by an older sadness, still bitter with the passing of unforgiving years.

"Look at what happened to my family when my father made this choice."

"Oh, Mulder, no," she said, catching his arm and turning him around. "You are not your father. The situation isn't the same."

"Isn't it? He put his job above any consideration for his family." He looked down at her. "Look at how much it hurt my mother."

"We still don't know why your mother…"

"I don't want Will involved in the X-files," he whispered fiercely. "The costs are too high. I told you that once--" He broke off. Like a sleeping beast they had long feared to awaken, their relationship had existed in the silent spaces between them, understood but undisturbed. Mulder's absence had upset the delicate balance of their unspoken feelings.

A creature moulded by the thumb of circumstance, Mulder could not fit into the gap he'd left behind. And now, easing his way back into the rhythms of his life, he was afraid: afraid of losing his only anchor to the world he'd once known intimately. Moreover, he feared to hold too tightly to that lifeline, believing it would snap under the weight of his need. Yet Scully had always been able to take in everything he could give. It was that very strength, that understanding, that drew him to her: the storms of his emotions broke over her like waves on the shore. She was his constant, his touchstone; the only breakwater that could encompass the restless ocean of his thought. But always, he had lost the things he had loved most fiercely--his sister; his first love; his truest friend. Now, he backed down in the face of her resolution because he feared to love too hard.

"Fine," he said. "It's not really my decision, anyway." Mulder forced emotion out of the words, letting them fall from his lips, the clipped remains of the truth. Telling her of the pain she'd caused, by keeping her secrets; by leaving him unnamed, unofficial; by bestowing illegitimacy where none was needed.

In her eyes, he saw that she had divined his true meaning, and was hurt by his inability to express that truth. Even after they had acknowledged everything that lay between them, he still could not say the words. Could not tell her of his fear. The words drifted between them like ghosts:

I don't want to lose you.

He dreams that he awakens with visions of ashes and blood still strong in his mind's eye. He dreams that he finds a woman and child, painted Madonna, and stands with her, fire and ice. Memories and ghosts tug at him, pull him down into a past he thought he could escape. Together, they go forth: south, south to the river, following a vision, a dream, or an awakening desire. They walk the streets: he follows another man's sight; she follows him; and behind, far behind, like a protective spirit or guardian angel, a third comes after them. He is separate yet linked to this drama, drawn by bonds of fear and love.

Then, like a revelation, he knows this is no dream. He is awake, trapped in a vision:

"How much farther?" the words are worried, fearful, and far away.

"We're almost there," his voice answers.

The high, wailing cry of an exhausted baby is both distant and near, doubled in his ears. It gives him a sense of place, of direction, and he stumbles forward. He can hear a confusing mixture of voices, summoning Agent Reyes, police backup, an ambulance.

Time passes, irrelevant.

Suddenly, recognition washes over him…he sees it: dirty red brick, cardboard taped over broken windows, surrounded by a warehouse's discards.

"There…" Doggett lifted a wavering hand to point. "He's there."

He watched as Reyes waved the uniformed officers forward to surround the rough wooden doorway. Above them, the curtains twitched: the man was looking out the second storey window. Doggett was taken once more by the images:

--looking down on the gathering strength of the police--the acrid smell of gunpowder--cold metal hard in his hands--

"He's got a gun!"

Shots rang out, like thunder punctuating the looming grey skies. Stricken, the man fell from the window embrasure. Police officers rushed forward, sights trained on him, but he made no move. Doggett clenched his fists, torn from the vision, staggering from sudden dizzyness. Reyes stepped up from behind and steadied him.

"It's all right," he said. "Let me go."

Reyes stepped back, and he shrugged her further away. "Go on," he said tiredly. "Go find that kid." After one last doubtful glance, she went.

Doggett walked over to where the man had fallen. The body lay on the asphalt, blood seeping over tattooed skin until it seemed that the inked beasts themselves were dying. The rain had started again, pulling a shroud over the scene. Doggett reached out and tentatively touched the cool skin. At once, the visions came again, their vivid colours tinged with grey--

Paul Whitcomb on the fire escape, shocked laughter paralysing him--the basement room, stifling air trapped by the glaring sun--the gloating swallow of the river--wet with sticky heat--chilled by rain--

Memories that were never his, ghosts haunting him like guilt…Fading now, memories and ghosts siphoned by the dying mind--

is this revenge? is it death?

--the forest--the body--ashes and blood--

LUKE!

"Sir, if you've finished, we need to move the body now."

He looked up. Two paramedics stood above him, their faces mildly bored now that they had no one to resuscitate. He sat back on his heels, watching them go, his eyes empty of another's sight. The visions now seemed insubstantial memories that no longer held him in their grip. Within himself he held tightly to the knowledge that this was the man he'd sought, the man responsible for Luke's death. Our guy's still out there, I just know it!--the remembered words sounded in his ears like a prophecy fulfilled. No longer. No longer.

Turning back towards the building, he saw Reyes leading Paul through the glare of flashing police lights. The boy was diminished by fear, clutching his rescuer close, his grey eyes wide at the chaotic press of onlookers and policemen.

Doggett watched as Reyes bundled him into a blanket and sat him in a police cruiser. "Luke--" he whispered. Paul did not look like his son, fair where he was dark, his eyes cloud-grey, not ice-blue; yet there was something similar in his being, some flame of life that echoed the ghosts of his past. He wanted to crush the boy in his arms, feel the slender bones, the wiry strength, the slim, straight child's body. He stood on the balls of his feet, aching for movement, shivering with stillness. Parents rushed through the cordon, and boy turned to them with a glad cry. The blue-grey glance swept over him, as tender as a knife's blade, uncaring as a memory. Blond hair was tucked into a father's chest. Thin arms, mottled with bruises, clutched at his broad back, affirming reality. He imagined himself in the boy's embrace. The father's shoulders shook, and Doggett knew and understood that his throat was strangled by prayers of thanks mixed with imprecations, a jumble of whispered words. He stood silent, yearning for a past different from the one he remembered.

"Do you think that it's over now?" Scully came up behind him, William still whimpering slightly in her arms. She tucked his blanket closer around him, her eyes on the tearful reunion.

The visions, yes; as for the rest…"I dunno. You've done this for nearly a decade; is it ever?" He glanced down at her profile and saw her arms tighten around the bundle she held.

She gave him a brief, wry smile, quickly hidden. "No, Agent Doggett. It's never over." And she turned her back on the frenetic activity behind police sawhorses: paramedics loading the body bag into the ambulance; officers directing traffic; CSI entering the melee with cases of equipment; the Whitcombs, standing oblivious to detectives and media hounds, bracing each other against the chill wind. Doggett followed her with his eyes, looking over his shoulder. She edged her way through the gathering crowd, pushing her way past with a cold authority she'd learned from the job that never ended. Beyond the rubberneckers and the blue line of uniforms restraining them, Mulder stood: a little apart, a little lost in a mob not of his making.

Doggett studied him, noticed the rain-darkened shoulders of his trench coat and his hipshot stance. Their eyes met through the shifting mass of humanity. He wondered if he would see anger there, but Mulder's gaze seemed old and tired, defeated almost. His thoughts lay on the surface of his expression, oddly apparent even to Doggett: here was an X-file he'd fought against, not championed. Given his father's choice, he'd opted for safety rather than the truth. A betrayal of the paranormal. Perhaps his office had been bestowed on the proper acolyte after all.

Scully made her way out of the crowd and walked towards Mulder. As she neared him, she slowed, until they were standing an arm's length distant, the ritual formality of years still holding them apart. The baby was a whimpering weight in her arms. Shifting him, she held out her hand to Mulder, and he looked down at her, breaking eye contact with Doggett. For a moment, they stood with the rain intensifying around them, protected in the lea of the building, empty of words and of emotions. Then, slowly, Mulder smiled, as though happiness was an awkward guest, arriving unexpected and luggage-laden on his doorstep. He drew Scully closer and took William, cradling him in the crook of his shoulder, against the strong chest. Murmuring words of comfort, he stilled the baby's last shuddering sighs, easing him into sleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Scully leaned into him, reassuring and being reassured, and they made their way to the car through the lowering mists.

Doggett turned back to the crime scene, watching the yellow police ribbon fluttering in the growing breeze. The Whitcombs, too, had found shelter from the rain that now swept down from the darkening skies. Around him, the crowd was dispersing, discouraged in their voyeurism by sharp gusts of the wind. The ambulance had pulled out, its siren yelping in a brief burst of impatience to clear a path back to more travelled streets. The scene was still lit by strobe flashes of red and blue, eerily silent under the patter of droplets. Fog had come with the afternoon's failing, bringing with it the distant scent of a farther shore. Sea smell and green smell drowned out garbage and oil spills for a moment that attenuated, grew longer, and Doggett breathed it in, fighting the tightness in his throat. Alone, he stood as an island in the growing obscurity of shifting mists, imagining that he could see ghosts drifting in the grey banks.

"John, you're getting soaked." Coalescing out of the fog, a darker shape against the grey resolved itself into Reyes' form. She proffered her umbrella, but he only looked at her, refusing comfort once more. "Come on, the detectives want to ask you some questions. And you're going to have to write a report that satisfies Kersh, too."

"Do you think I can?"

Reyes hesitated. "I don't know."

Doggett shook his head, sending water flying. "I can; it's simple: deny everything." Official policy was easy to write. Say the least with the most words: allude to suspicious activity, inside sources, witnesses afraid to come forward publicly.

"You're not going to tell them what you saw. What you experienced." Angry once more over his betrayal of her truth. Like Mulder, she'd been a black sheep at her field office because of her beliefs, but there was a difference between them: Reyes could not accept someone who would not believe. Mulder, at least, could respect another point of view; respect the strength of someone else's convictions…hoping, and winning out against hope, that she could give back some measure of his beliefs. Find, in her, his one in five billion.

Doggett looked down on Reyes and took the umbrella, then started off to where the police detectives awaited them. "Skinner told me somethin' I think makes a lot of sense," he said. "He said I should learn to pick my battles, find some I could win. This ain't gonna be one of those."

"With the kind of cases you find in the X-files, how are you ever going to find one you can win, especially when you're out on Kersh's playing field?"

"I don't know," he said. "But gettin' myself locked in a loony bin isn't the way to go about it." He stopped just short of the building and looked up at the empty window, listening to the hollow tapping of rain on the umbrella. What possessed this man to do what he did? he thought to himself. I think he was boasting. Taking Paul Whitcomb on the same date, in the same way; gloating that I couldn't catch him before, and would not find him this time. Or perhaps, he didn't even know that I saw through his eyes, however briefly. He thought of the past, of his success, as I thought of my failure. Living in the past, with memories that haunted us both. Living with ashes and blood.

Sparing a last moment for the visions, he thought: It does not mean that I will forget my son. It does not mean that I failed him. But I can no longer live in the past.

A new wind was blowing, now, pushing rain clouds aside, and Doggett looked up at the sky. The dim sound of cars hissing through rain-fresh puddles filled the cool darkness with an air of mystery. Streetlights flickered, pale imitations of stars, as the wind ripped away shadowing clouds. The waxing moon was rising behind the city's towers.

And he stepped beyond the reach of the darkness, out of the ghostly fog, away from memory and desire; he stepped into the sharp light of the limitless future.

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Fall 2003