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.
Archive:  XFMU, SHODDS, OBSDS sites, okay, just let 
me know.
Disclaimer: Whatever, not mine.
Feedback: Please at gatorgurl94@yahoo.com
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 
Captain 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 be looking at it. She wipes it on her apron.
"Now, be still." She chuckles.
The blade scrapes against my skin. It almost 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 you 
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.
I don't bother answering. 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.