title: If I Didn't Have You
author: Jenna Tooms
email: jenna@66exeterst.com
keyword: DSR of the angsty variety
rating: R, to be on the safe side
disclaimer: Blah blah blah Chris Carter blah blah blah Fox Network
blah blah Robert Patrick is a hottie blah blah Gillian Anderson
rules the TV waves.
spoilers: There's Doggett. There's Scully. There's William. There's
theorizing about what happened to the Cigarette-Smoking Man.
archive: Please ask. I say yes.
Summary: Faith is having love even when hope is lost.

NOTE: Written for the DSR Lyric Wheel. Lyrics at the bottom.
NOTE #2: Mulder refused to appear in this fic. Can't say that I
blame him: I haven't been very nice to him lately.
NOTE #3: Unbeta'd. All grammar gaffes are my own fault. Spelling you
can blame on WordPerfect.
NOTE#4: Apparently even when I set out to write a happy fic I can't
do it. So, yes, bring tissues.

***

Pain everywhere.

Flashing lights and a dozen voices. Something tight around my neck.
A woman's face over mine. "Sir? Can you hear me, sir? We getting you
to a hospital. Hold on, sir."

I try to look around but the brace is holding my head still.
Where's Dana? I don't see Dana.

Then all I can see is the roof of the ambulance, and then the pain
swallows me.

***

I don't remember a thing before I opened my eyes.

No, that's not true. I remember the car. Turning the key. The
clicking and Dana's sudden look of fear: "Out! Out!" And then heat
and noise and blackness.

It takes a second to get my bearings. Hospital room. Monitors,
which as far as I can tell indicate I'm not going to die anytime
soon. I'm wired up pretty good, though, from respirator to catheter.
I wonder how long I've been out.

No Dana.

The panic hits me hard: heat and chills at once, my heart pounding
hard enough for the monitor to start beeping like I'm in cardiac
arrest, the room swimming before my eyes. I hear footsteps and a
nurse hurries in. Her hands are soothing but I can't hear her words
for the roaring in my ears.

"Partner," I gurgle.

But she's calling for a doctor and the pain is seizing me
everywhere, so if she answers me I don't hear it.

***

"Do you remember what happened?"

The doctor is young. Pretty, too. She looks like one of my nieces.
She tilts her head to the side and repeats, "Do you remember?"

"Car bomb."

"That's right. You were in an explosion. You're in a dangerous line
of work, John."

"Partner?" Nobody's answered my questions yet. Well, question. The
same one I keep asking, the only answer I'm interested in getting.

"Sh. Don't overtax yourself. You were badly hurt but I promise,
you're going to be fine."

The ‘d' is particularly hard to say. "D-d-d-ana!"

"John." She looks almost sad. "Relax. Concentrate on getting
better. Okay? I'll be back in a few hours. Can you reach the call
button?"

Someone put the button into my hand and I tighten my fingers around
it. Damn, even that hurts. How bad is it, really? I can't lift my
arms.

"Rest, John," the doctor says again, but if I do it's because of
the drugs in my system, not any sense of obedience.

***
We were arguing. "If anyone has answers it's the old man, John."

"Do you even know where to find him? If he's still alive? I don't
think somebody would be so involved in your life and then just
disappear. You said he was ill."

"He may still be alive somewhere."

"The last thing you need is another wild goose chase."

Death-from-above glare from her blue eyes, and then, "I need
answers, John," and I couldn't argue with that.

I didn't kiss her. I remember that very clearly. I was angry and so
I didn't kiss her before I closed the car door. She expected the
kiss and looked disappointed when she didn't get it.

So that's my memory, just before the empty click-click-clicks and
the sickening realization we'd been had. Dana, upset that I was too
upset to kiss her.

***

They won't tell me if she died.

The night nurse turns on the TV for me, to the local news
broadcast. I finally see a report of what happened, that tells me
two FBI agents were injured in what the police are calling a
mafia-style attempted murder. Both agents were rushed to St. Anne's,
where they are in critical condition.

That could mean anything. Apparently I'm still critical, but as for
Dana she could have disappeared off the planet for all I can find. I
want to ask the nurses if they know she has a little boy waiting at
home for her, if her mother has brought the baby because if Dana
needs something to live for seeing her baby will remind her, and I
wouldn't mind seeing the little tyke either because he's a sweet kid
and as precious to me as my own . . .

The night nurse dabs my face with a tissue. "Should I get the
doctor, Mr. Doggett? Are you in pain?"

"Partner," I mumble and continue crying like a punished child.

***

Monica has her brave face on. "It's not so bad. You look like you
got beat up, is all."

"Hurts."

"I know. They should have you on some pretty good drugs, though."

She's in on the conspiracy of silence, it appears. I said, "Dana?"
the moment she walked in and she said, "You concentrate on getting
your strength back, John."

She hasn't had much more to say. She's been holding my hand the
last few minutes, her eyes closed. Praying, I think, or meditating,
or chanting, or whatever it is that she does. I know what this is
about: earlier today the doctor asked me to wiggle my toes and
looked concerned afterwards. I tried to lift my legs when she left,
tried to bend my knees, and nothing happened. I'm not sure the
toe-wiggling happened, either. I can move my fingers, that must mean
something. I can speak, sort of. But all I've been able to think
about today is what I'll do with my life if I can't walk.

When Monica lifts her head there are tears on her cheeks. She wipes
them away with the back of her hand. "Dana's mother called me after
it happened. She said she was lighting a candle for you. I've been
thinking about that all day. Perpetual prayer. I feel like I've been
praying nonstop since it happened, even without the candle."

I squeeze her hand and close my eyes. What does it mean, that Mrs.
Scully hasn't lit a candle for Dana? That she's going to be fine? Or
do Catholics not light candles for the dead?

***

The second day  into it and apparently I'm strong enough to handle
the news. The doctor - Dr. Kimball, I finally notice - tells me in a
low, calming voice that my back is broken and I've been strapped
down to restrain my movement, to give my spine a chance to heal.
It's now a matter of time to see how severe the effects will be.

The burns, however, are minor: some Good Samaritans put out the
fire on our clothes before we were burned too badly. I make a mental
note to ask her later if anyone knows their names so I can thank
them properly, but for now I just close my eyes. Burns. Broken back.
Six weeks of stillness. I can handle this. I've been dead, for God's
sake, I can handle this.

"Dana?" I try, and open my eyes.

Dr. Kimball purses her mouth. "She's . . . she's not doing so well,
John. She hasn't regained consciousness yet."

A groan escapes me. No. I can't lose her now. I have to see her.
"Dana," I say again, with determination this time.

"John -"

"Please." My words slur like I've been on a three-day drunk, but
speaking more just hurts too damn much.

She sighs. "I'll see what I can do. Try to rest." She gives one
last quick scan to the monitors and leaves.

***

Memory.

Dana's lips. She'd had white wine at dinner, so her lips tasted
like wine. She had laughed a little, her eyes sparkling, when I took
her face in my hands. Her voice teased me. "John . . ." And then her
white-wine lips, her champagne breath, her honey skin. All the
teasing gone as she moaned my name again: "John . . ." and her
fingers gripped my neck.

We both were laughing as we fumbled to her bedroom, shedding
clothes as we went. She took a brief moment to check on Will and
turn on the baby monitor, and then it was her bed, her skin, her
softness . . . God. I remember everything, from the frantic search
for a condom to her kitten-like breathing as she fell asleep on top
of me, no heavier than a winter blanket.

Before dinner I played with Will, stacking Duplo blocks into a city
for him to happily destroy. Dana laughed at us from the kitchen, and
when he lurched towards her, feet still uncertain, she bent down and
held out her arms. She caught him up when he reached her and kissed
him, called him precious and set him down again. "Can you walk to
John? Walk to John, Willy!" He toddled to where I waited on my
knees, my hands out to encourage him, and he fell into my arms
laughing.

Four days ago, this happened.

***

I've met Dana's mother just a few times now. Mulder's funeral was
the first time, and all occasions after that there was only enough
times for a quick hello before she left with the baby or I rushed
out the door. Dana told me once, "She likes you. More than she liked
Mulder, I think."

Still, I'm surprised to see Mrs. Scully beside me, reading to me in
a soft voice. The book is one of my own, a history of U.S. naval
warfare. She puts it down when she sees my eyes are open. "Hi. How
are you feeling?"

"‘m ok."

"Good. Agent Reyes thought you might like something to keep you
occupied. She's buying some books on tape for you today."

"Thanks." There's a moment, while she reopens the book and finds
her place again, and then I say, "Dana?"

Mrs. Scully's eyes are as expressive as Dana's. The pain and
exhaustion tear my heart. "She's . . . she's back in surgery, Agent
Doggett. They have to relieve some pressure in her brain. It doesn't
. . ." She takes a deep breath. "It doesn't look good."

I whisper, "Will?" and for a moment she looks confused.

"Oh - you mean the baby? For a moment I thought you meant - my
oldest son is here. He and his wife are watching William." She adds
after a pause, "Dana has a living will. We . . . we might have
decisions to make."

My throat closes. No, Dana wouldn't want to live as a vegetable,
burdening her family into poverty. And her family might contest my
guardianship of William if I'm incapable of tending to him properly,
never mind that we had started the paperwork for me to adopt him by
the time we were married. Considering our engagement is less than a
week old, Dana may not have even told her mother yet.

Mrs. Scully starts reading again, but I can hardly listen. All I
can think is that I didn't kiss Dana goodbye.

***

It amused her that I would open doors for her, but I still did it,
and stood waiting while she got into the truck. She leaned over to
unlock the driver's side for me. "I like this thing as a statement
of your masculinity but I've had an easier time getting on a horse,"
she said.

"Keep that up and you won't be enjoying my masculinity for a while,
woman."

"You are far too easy to be making threats like that." Her eyes
sparkled with mischief.

"I'll show you easy -" I slid across the seat and pinned her to the
door, sucking on a particularly sensitive spot on her neck while she
giggled and shrieked and promised me she'd get me back good if I
left a hickey.

We laughed so much together. Sometimes I'd sit back and ponder how
two people like us, so damaged, so hurt, could be so happy together.

***

I wake to the faint scent of gardenias. "Mom?"

Her hand is on my cheek. "Jacky, sweetheart, sh. It's me."

"Mom," I say with relief. It doesn't matter that I'm a grown man
with a child of my own: once Mom comes everything will be all right.

"Monica Reyes called me this morning. I can't believe she waited
two days to tell me. Your father is driving up but I flew. How did
this happen, Jack?"

I can't speak a whole sentence but try anyway. "People . . . want
us . . . dead." Afterwards I feel out of breath as if I'd just
ridden down Achy-Breaky Trail.

"Jacky . . ." She gives a half-hearted laugh. "You couldn't chose a
safe line of work even if you tried."

I smile. She liked the Marines until I was assigned to the Middle
East. She wanted me to be a policeman until I decided on New York
City. She loved the safety of the FBI until I got into the X-Files.
My life has been spent reassuring my mother I didn't have a death
wish.

"Monica said you have a partner? That she's in intensive care?"

I open my eyes at this. She's out of surgery already? What day is
today? "Dana?"

"Dana. That's her name. You've mentioned her a few times, haven't
you?"

Just a few hundred, I'm sure. "Sick."

"Yes, very sick. I'll ask a nurse to get some information for you
when one comes by. Are you thirsty? There's some water here . . ."
She opens the plastic mug and sniffs it. "Stale. I'll get you some
cold." She rises and I watch her go into the tiny bathroom to the
right.

When I can speak properly I'll have to tell her about the new
development in my life, though at this point I'm not sure if I can
tell her the story with everything in past tense. "I was in love
with her . . . we were engaged . . . I was going to adopt her son .
. ."

I don't even want to think about it that way.

***
"Dogbert!"

I crack open my eyes to see Dana's three friends wheeling in a
cartload of electronics. Monica hovers behind them, and just shrugs
when our eyes meet.

"All your convalescing needs," Langly says proudly, "everything you
could need to keep you occupied, all within the touch of a button."

"Or a few buttons," Frohike adds, and starts setting up what
appears to be an entertainment systems at the foot of my bed.

Byers has flowers, and lays them on the table with a vaguely
embarrassed look. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a . . . smushed frog," I offer, and everyone laughs a little
too loudly. Monica bends and kisses my cheek.

"You look better." She has a shopping bag in her hand and starts
rummaging through it. "I bought you some books on CD . . . you like
histories, right? Nonfiction? I also got the latest Stephen King, I
thought you might want something good and long . . . is there
anything else I could bring you?"

"Dana," I say, and everyone freezes. Glances are tossed back and
forth.

Finally Byers fields it, and tells me gently, "We're still waiting
for news. Her mother is with her. We have some things for her too -
Agent Reyes suggested some atmospheric tapes and we've got a
rainstorm, whale song, an ocean, a desert night -"

"Ocean," I say and close my eyes again. She loved – loves, she
loves the sound of the ocean. Just like she loves chocolate ice
cream, insanely high-heeled shoes, her baby, and me.

***

My room is getting crowded. My father sits beside me, reading
letters from family. My mother washes my feet because she claims the
orderly neglects them. Monica is at my side, quiet, waiting to be
called upon to serve, whether it's changing the CD or getting my
favorite blanket from my house. The guys split their time between
Dana's room and mine.

"Will?" I ask Monica, and she smiles.

"Dana's brother Bill brought him this morning. What a cutie! He
wanted to lie down in Dana's bed but we couldn't let him, so of
course that made him cry. Your mother's been playing with him for
the last hour or so."

Good. He might be her grandson if -

No. He *will* be her grandson *when* Dana pulls through. I have to
have faith. Dana revived my belief in faith and I cling to it
desperately. It's all about love, isn't it? Love regained when hope
is lost?

But still no one can tell me if Dana has opened her eyes, and even
Dr. Kimball has no answers.

I'd give up my sight to see her one more time. I'd cut off my hands
to touch her.

***

"Look who I found," my mother sings out, pushing open the door, and
Will stares at me from her arms with wide eyes.

"Will," I say, and can't say any more for the tightness in my
throat. I can't see him for the blurring in my eyes. I want to hold
him in my arms, feel his arms around my neck, sing to him, rock him
to sleep, laugh at his antics - any of the everyday things that make
our little family so complete. As it is I can only watch as my
mother sits beside the bed. "Hey, William."

"Zawn?" he says, sounding frightened, and I can understand it. I
must look like a freak show.

"Me, Will. John." I'm going to cry if this keep up. Oh, God, I want
to hold my boy, I want to see Dana, I want to look at more than this
fucking ceiling! In response the heart monitor speeds up and I
scowl. Damn it, I can't even have an emotion without the entire
hospital knowing it.

"Jack, honey, calm down," my mother says, worried, and that's when
I feel Will's hands clutching my fingers.

"Zawn," he says, sounding more certain.

"William," I answer and curl my fingers so his hands are in my
palm. The heart monitor slows down to a more acceptable beat.

***

Plotting time.

"It's a question of detaching you," Frohike says, "but not alerting
the nurses. Unless we take all the equipment with us, but I don't
know how to do that and still keep this a quiet operation."

"We could dress up in scrubs," Langly suggests. "Just call it a
patient transfer."

"I'd feel better about this if I were sure we wouldn't make him
worse," Byers says.

Monica speaks for the first time since they brought up sneaking me
over to see Dana. "He needs to see Dana. More than that, Dana needs
to see him." All three men look at her and she shrugs. She looks
exhausted: circles under her eyes, hollows in her cheeks. She hasn't
said much about it but I get the feeling she knows more about the
car bomb than she wants to. "I'll do it myself if you won't."

At once the three of them murmur denials and promises of help, and
go back to pondering the wires and plugs. Soon they decide: IV,
catheter and respirator are necessary. Frohike gets the honors of
pulling off the rest, and he shrugs at me. "Sorry, dude," he
murmurs, pulling back the sheet, and I grit my teeth. I don't have a
whole lot of hair on my chest but the tape will still sting when it
gets pulled off.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dr. Kimball strides in and Frohike
drops the first wire. "What are you doing to my patient?"

"We were - ah -"

"He was complaining -"

"We thought -"

Monica interrupts, "His fiancee needs to see him," and everyone
else goes quiet. Even I'm surprised: we hadn't told anyone yet, not
even her. She goes on wearily, "She's calling out to him. Nonstop.
They need to see each other. They should be in the same room."

"Dana hasn't spoken or even opened her eyes since she arrived at
this hospital," Dr. Kimball says.

"I can hear it. One heart crying out for another. They'd recover
faster if they were together."

Ever since I met her Monica's done this: convinced someone she's
right when all logic says she's wrong. Dr. Kimball studies her for a
moment, then says, "All right. I'll request an official transfer.
Meantime I'll send some orderlies to help you get John to Dana's
room. Just a few minutes, I promise." She turns and leaves.

Everyone else releases a collective breath. I'd be fidgeting with
impatience if I could move.

***

"Your love is a gift," she whispered to me the first night we made
love. "Unsolicited, unexpected, but so necessary."

I kissed her hand and laid it on my chest, over my heart. "You're
necessary to me, too."

"Isn't it strange how it happens? You think you don't have anything
more to give and then you discover a well within you . . ." She
sighed and kissed me. "I'll admit I never expected the answer to my
prayers to come in the form of a former cop and all-around tough
guy."

I smiled at her, uncertain if she was serious. "You think I'm an
answer to a prayer?"

She nodded. "I prayed for comfort, and there you were." She rested
her head on my shoulder, sighing in contentment as I pulled her
close. We lay there for a long time, quiet, my hand holding her hand
over my heart.

***

Dana's room has also been decorated. Plants, flowers, her favorite
framed picture of the three of us, a small tabletop fountain: one of
Monica's feng shui-inspired gifts. Mrs. Scully is asleep in a chair
at her side, and wakes, blinking at us. "What's going on?"

"Touch therapy," Monica says, and directs the orderlies to move our
beds as close together as possible so our hands are even. I can't
even turn my head to see her. Her scent is masked by antiseptic and
pain. I have no idea what Monica claims she's been hearing. Even so,
I can sense Dana everywhere.

Gently, Monica lifts Dana's closest hand and places it in mine.
"There you go," she whispers and steps away.

I don't know what to expect. I don't know what any of us expect.
Miracles? Dana to awaken like Sleeping Beauty? Some prince I am,
then - I can't even wake her with a kiss. But I hold her fingers and
stroke them with my thumb. "Dana. I'm here."

I close my eyes. There's a lot more I'd say if I didn't speak like
a wheezing accordion. I'd tell her William misses her. I'd remind
her of her promise to marry me at Christmas. I'd reminisce about our
vacation last month to South Carolina, where she teased me about
getting excited over a minuscule Civil War collection in our hotel
lobby.

I'd tell her I'm sorry. I'd tell her my heart is crying out for
her. I'd give her one more kiss.

And then in my hand, her fingers twitch and curl around mine.

End.

***

I don't know what I was thinking / 'Til I was thinking of you / I
don't remember a thing before I opened my eyes / And you came into
view / I don't know what I was doing / When there was nothing to do
/ Must've been waiting for someone, baby / Now I can see - I was
waiting for you
CHORUS