Title: When It's Over

Author: spookycc

Rating: PG 13

Summary: Scully and Doggett run into trouble in the Pacific Northwest. Told
in first-person Scully POV.

Classification: V A DSF - ***Warning: Character Death.***

Spoilers: For S8 so far. Nothing specific that I can see, though.

Disclaimer: No characters, human or canine, are mine. And the song by Sugar
Ray from which this fic takes its name ain't mine, either.

Feedback welcomed at spookycc@earthlink.net

Dedication: As ever, to Doggett's Bitch (f/k/a "Fox's Vixen" :). My
soulmate, always. And for girlassassin, you know why. :)

No beta-reader was used. All typos are my own.

***

We were only separated for a few minutes. Where the hell could he have gone?

My partner and I were pursuing leads on a case in the Pacific Northwest. A
true X-Files case, so it was I who bought the plane tickets, but my partner
once again accompanied me in body and spirit, if not in like mind.

Hours ago, miles from our vehicle and escape, we both had the feeling we
were being followed. It wasn't false. Shots were fired, and we barely
escaped unscathed. We've been stuck out here since then, with a madman on
our heels.

My partner said the man was stalking him, not me. I don't know why he thinks
that or how he knows the man. Since then, he's insisted that we separate. I'
ve insisted we don't.

His words come back to me now. "He won't hurt you, Scully. He wants me. It's
safer for you if you're not involved."

I refused his request then, and I'd refuse it now, if I could *find* him.
There are a few situations that simply demand privacy to attend to, and when
I emerged from the brushy area, he was gone.

The trees seem to close around me, adding to the ominous feeling that clings
to me like a shroud. I don't dare dial him on the cell, in case he is in a
situation where that could compromise his safety. Instead, I whisper his
name loudly into the woods, as I trip blindly over limbs and vines. There is
no answer. Damn.

A gunshot rings out, breaking the silence surrounding me. I stop dead in my
tracks, breathing heavily, and slip my own weapon from its holster. The
tension in my muscles is now overshadowed by a fear that grasps my heart
with cold fingers.

I swallow again, even though my mouth is bone dry. I take a deep, slow,
cleansing breath, trying to calm my jangled nerves and quell the bad feeling
in my stomach.

Up ahead, in a clearing, I see a small campfire. Backlit by the fire stands
the man who pursued us into this Godforsaken forest. Though his eyes scan
the trees, his gun is pointed down at his feet.

My God.

There lies my partner, facedown, motionless.

My breath catches in my throat, and I muster as forceful a tone of voice as
I can right now.  "Federal Agent! Drop your weapon!"

He doesn't. Instead, he fires in my direction. I hear the round whiz past my
ear, before I return three shots of my own.

I chance a look around the tree I hide behind. The man is down. Could be a
trick. I steady my weapon on his still form, and ease my way slowly to the
clearing.

I see the blood stain on the man's shirt. He wasn't bluffing. Thank heavens.

I dial 911 on my cell - force of habit, of training. My mind is not on that
simple task. It is with my partner, who still has not moved.

I drop to my knees next to him. Mind racing, heart numb. I almost hesitate
before I check for a pulse. Until I've checked, I can still nurture the hope
that he'll be ok, even if he's - even if he's not.

I rest my fingers gently against his neck, and thank a God I don't often
speak to, when I feel a pulse. It's weak, thready, but at least it's there.
I see a small entry wound between his shoulder blades. Fear biting into my
stomach, I roll him over onto his back. And stifle a gasp. Blood covers his
chest - too much blood.

Forcing back tears, I take a deep breath, and pull my partner's shirt apart
at the buttons. The clinical side of me thankfully takes over for a few
moments. I probe his bloodied chest, finding the gaping wound that has pumpe
d too much of his life's blood from him. I pull off my coat, balling it up,
and press it down, hold it, as hard as I can, against the wound.

And then my clinical detachment flees me, like a rat from a sinking ship. I
lay my head atop my hands, and sob, quietly at first. I can't lose this man.
I can't.

I hear a soft noise under my head, and lift my gaze just a bit. The barest
slits of smoky gray meet my own eyes, and I hear my name pass from this
man's lips.

He struggles to return to consciousness. To return to me, I know. I don't
know what other concern would drive him this hard. There's no way that he
should be able to pull himself from the place he is now.

"Doggett." My tears flow more strongly now, mingling with the blood on his
chest.

His eyes shine with recognition. He's found me, and I can almost feel him
latch onto my spirit with his own. God knows that may be the one thing that
can save his life.

He reaches up weakly, touches a shaking hand to my tear stained cheek, and
shakes his head. I hear the weakest of whispers. "Scully - don't-"

"Shhhhh," I wrap my hand around his, and it goes limp within mine almost
instantly. His eyes are still locked with mine.

"Sss'not-" his breath breaks off. "'Ssssnot good, is it?"

I swallow a huge sob back within myself. "Please, just rest, ok?" I can't
even lie convincingly enough to tell him he's going to be ok.

His arm rises weakly once more, his hand reaching toward my face, pulling it
gently toward his own. I allow the touch, allow this man I once thought of
as an interloper to guide my face to within inches of his own. My heart
pounds wildly against my chest, not entirely because we're in the direst of
situations.

But he stops well before our faces meet, and levels me with as steady a gaze
as he can manage. He grimaces against a fresh wave of pain - how he could
feel that above the steady pain he endures is beyond me.

His eyes turn a bit glassy, before he blinks to clear them, and then they
engage mine once more. Steel blue meets blue-green, and I try to smile
through my eyes for him, try to tell him it's ok, it'll all be ok. But his
eyes tell me the truth: He knows it's not ok at all. The look within his
eyes frightens me with its clarity. There is no hope within it. Only
sadness - and something else - acceptance?

His lips move several times before I hear what he tries to say.

"I . I loved you."

I hear one soft, very conscious breath, before he fades away beneath me.


Fini