Title: Nine-One-One

Author: spookycc

Rating: PG 13

Summary: Scully and Doggett's reactions to 9.11.01

Classification: V A DSF/DSR

Spoilers: US Season 8. Brief reference to "Semper Fi", a
collaborative fanfic work I did with Anne Hedonia. It's not
necessary to read that first. (But do it anyway. ;-)

Disclaimer: No characters, human or canine, are mine.

Archive: I'll take care of Ephemeral and Gossamer. Anywhere else is
fine – drop me a line to let me know where you're puttin' it.

Authors' Notes at end.

Feedback welcomed at spookycc@yahoo.com


Dedication: As ever, to Doggett's Bitch (f/k/a "Fox's Vixen" :), who
went a step beyond beta in this fic. My soulmate, always. Also for
girlassassin, faithful fan and rising star.

Special thanks to Robert Patrick, the man who brings John Doggett to
life.


**   **

Nine-One-One


September 11, 2001

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC

I was sitting at my desk, trying not to covertly watch Agent Scully.
I worried constantly about her, and wondered how little William was
doing. She had only been back at work for a few weeks, since her
maternity leave ended. The phone rang, and I picked up the call that
would change our lives forever.




September 14, 2001

That was three days ago. Now, at the FBI's request, Scully and I have
been drafted into the intelligence army, searching for data on the
hijackers and their possible accomplices still here in the United
States. We're working out of the Hoover building primarily, but
acquainting ourselves with the case from the New York end, as well.
Scully's mother was more than happy to baby-sit her grandson, for as
long as we might be gone.

We'd seen some of the destruction firsthand, before we were sent to
New York. Well within the police lines, Scully and I watched
together, as they hosed down the crash site at the Pentagon. I hope
she didn't notice that my hands were clenched into fists, but I
suppose she did. I still have strong feelings about any kind of
terrorist attacks, after my stint in the marines. And this was a
major attack.



World Trade Center
New York City, NY

We stand in front of carnage. Not that the Pentagon wasn't bad
enough, but this dwarfs it. Dust is everywhere. The smoke stench
invades my nostrils and clings to my clothing, my skin. A cloud
hovers above us - smoke, debris... death. It smells like death. Fires
still burn in the bowels of what used to be buildings.

I've been in battle. I saw collateral damage. But nothin' like this.
Someone took down the towers. And what about the other buildings? Can
they fix them? I'm not an architect, I dunno...

God, what about all those people?

I am amazed and appalled by the widespread devastation. This is so
much more than buildings tumbling in on themselves. There is
collateral damage everywhere. Many of the adjacent buildings will not
be habitable again without massive renovation and reinforcement of
the structures. Some that look outwardly fine have suffered so much
internal damage that they will be razed, and new buildings erected in
their place. And that doesn't even touch the human loss.

The looks on the faces of the firefighters, police and rescue workers
tear at my heart. They are resigned, exhausted. The faces of men and
women who have seen too much death. So close to giving up hope, even
though they never truly will, not until the last lifeless body is
found. I know that expression too well.

I've been in battle. I've seen friends die around me. But I've never
seen anything like this. I close my eyes for a moment, the dust
stinging them. And I'm besieged by images of my old Marine unit,
trapped under rubble, in a barracks half a world away. I shake my
head to clear it, and feel a hand on my arm.

"Are you OK?" I hear her voice beside me. I look down to see Scully's
soft, concerned eyes. Any other time I'd be thinkin' about how blue
they are, how they cut through my soul. Not now. "Are you OK?" she
asks again. And all I can say is "No."

I'm not OK. I dunno if I'm ever gonna be OK again... I don't know if
any of us will be.

Scully nods wordlessly. I admire and almost envy her clinical
detachment from all this. Then I look more closely at her, and
realize that the detachment is a façade. Dark shadows ring her eyes,
and her face is even more pale than usual.

They brought us here. In groups. To galvanize us into action. As if
we weren't already. Terrorist attacks, they said. Victims.,,

…My friends? Did they make it? I'm flashin' back to Beirut. My
friends didn't all make it out. I did...

Scully and I stand motionless, watching officers with well-trained
dogs scouring the rubble. And it strikes me again. I see some rescue
dogs. But beyond where they search, I see other handlers and other
dogs. I don't know if Scully knows the difference, but I do. Those
others are cadaver dogs. Trained to search not for survivors, but for
bodies.

One of the rescue dogs barks - he's caught the scent of what could be
a survivor in the rubble, and without thinking, he dives into twisted
steel, tearing with soft paws at the metal and concrete, twisting
away from wreckage... and then he comes up short against a bit of
metal that's just too much for him. I pull it away, pass it to a
firefighter somewhere along the line, and the dog keeps digging. We
keep on, and then the dog whimpers. My mind is as numb as my hands,
and I don't know what to do, but the dog has stopped. He's stopped,
and all that I can sense is the stench of death. And I feel her hands
on my shoulders...

Scully's hands... "John," she says... I can hear her, but I don't
acknowledge her.

She pulls on my shoulders, hard, almost toppling me backward. And
then I stop, for a moment. And see that the rescue workers have found
what the dog was barking at. It's not a survivor. It's another
victim. I reluctantly let her pull me away. But I can't seem to take
my eyes off the body. The firefighters handle it as gingerly and
reverently as if it still held life within it.

Scully pulls harder on my arm, and finally I just let her lead me
away from the scene. My eyes downcast, I wish I didn't notice the
deep ash that we're almost wading through. It covers my shoes, the
bottom of my pants. I suppose now it covers my shirtsleeves as well.
I pull our rental car keys from my pocket, and Scully takes them from
my hand. But she doesn't let go. Instead, she reaches for my other
hand, and I numbly allow her to take it as well.

My hands are covered with blood. As Scully turns them over within her
own small, pale hands, I realize the folly of handling steel without
gloves. The skin on my palms is shredded in ribbons, and I didn't
even feel it.

"My God – John! We need to get you to a hospital. Those cuts need
stitches."

I shake my head, try to pull away. But her grasp is firm.

"It's not an option, John. We're going to the E.R."

I nod my head wordlessly. She's right, of course.

As it turns out, there is an abundance of emergency room staff on
duty. Sadly, the reason for this is the lack of survivors being
brought in from the World Trade Center. Long past the initial
onslaught of people who made it out, it is deadly quiet here now.

We sit for a few moments, while Scully gives the staff my medical
history. She's done some background reading – she mentions injuries I
had before we met. As we sit in the tiny cubicle, my eyes are drawn
to the one other couple in the room. They sit motionless, their eyes
glazed, unfocused. They are covered with soot and ash, hiding their
faces, cloaking their grief. The woman cries softly, and I feel guilt
wash over me. She has lost someone today.

We're ushered into a treatment room, and the nurse pulls a drape
around the bed. Scully takes the scalpel from the nurse, and cuts
away the cuffs of my sleeves, rolling the rest of the sleeves up
above my elbows. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, my hands hurt
like hell. I try unsuccessfully to lay them in my lap – my arms are
so tired – but the contact irritates the cuts, so I hold them
awkwardly in front of me.

Scully notices my dilemma, and lays my wrists within her hands, so I
can relax my arms. I don't bother hiding the slouch of my shoulders
from her, as once I would have. We've been through hell and back
together. The search for Mulder, my failing to find him alive for
her. And then he was alive again. I shake my head slowly – who could
have predicted the circumstances that led to Scully and I being here,
together, today?

"What is it?" I turn to see Scully's concerned gaze resting on me.

"Nothin'." I'm lying, and that's not something I like to do to
Scully, that's fersure. But bubbling under my pain is guilt. Guilt
that's been eating at my gut for eighteen years. I don't know if
Scully would understand.

An uncomfortable silence is mercifully interrupted by the arrival of
a doctor and an anesthesiologist. I guess they're gonna put me under
while they stitch up my hands, and, to be honest, I don't have a
problem with that.

After the doctor explains what he'll do, he and Scully confer, in
medical terms, like I'm not even here. I pull my hands back a bit,
and Scully turns her attention to me, and graces me with a
smile. "You're in good hands, John."

I smile back at her. "No pun intended, right?"

I allow Scully to help me get on a gurney, and the next thing I know
they're wheeling me away and she's gone... I'm glad they don't leave
me lying in pre-op for very long before they come to put me under...

****

I awaken slowly, and for a moment I don't remember where I am. Then I
feel a slight pressure on one of my arms, and I look up to see Scully
sitting beside my bed, her hands resting on my right arm. I try to
put a smile on my face, and she does the same. I lift my hands into
my line of sight, and see them heavily wrapped in gauze.

"How're you feeling?" Scully's voice is a caress.

"Not bad." I lick my lips. Scully gets up from her chair, and pours
me a glass of water, holding it to my lips so I can drink. I
certainly can't hold a glass myself.

I nod, and she sets the cup back on the tray table over my bed. As
she returns to her seat, she rests her hands on my arm once more. Her
touch is warm, soothing, and I find myself relaxing under her gaze.

"I thought you'd want to know the doctors didn't find any nerve or
tendon damage," she explains. "Once the stitched areas heal up, you
should regain full use of both hands." I sigh deeply. Loss of use
could have meant a desk job, and that's a big weight off my mind.

"Good. Thanks." I wish I could hold *her* hands.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Damn. She sees right through
me. You'd think I'd be used to that by now. I allow my eyes to meet
hers, and they find comfort there.

I've never been good at opening up. I try to hold it in. My wife left
me when we lost Luke, because I couldn't open up. I couldn't tell her
about the pain, the guilt. I felt like I let her down. Let him down.

Scully doesn't put up with the silence, though. She pushed me to a
point of confession months ago, on a stakeout gone terribly wrong.
She knows about my experience in the Marines, and she's probably made
the connection between that incident and this, already.

"You're remembering Lebanon, aren't you?" Her statement falls on the
heels of my realization. She does understand, exactly. I just nod. I
don't know what else to say.

"I know you can't possibly feel responsible for anything that we've
seen in the past few days, John," she continues. "But I'm sure this
brings back painful memories for you."

I gaze straightforward at the wall, until Scully's gentle hand turns
my face toward hers.
I nod again. "It was like bein' there again. My friends. Gone."

Her voice is just loud enough to penetrate my thoughts. "I'm sorry,
John." I want to tell her more. I want to sleep. And I do, finally,
in her arms.


*** **

Skinner has called us back to D.C., and I can't say I'm not glad to
be called away from "Ground Zero". New York felt like home for me for
a long time. Now it only feels sad. Scully and I sit silently in the
back of a yellow cab, our rental long forgotten – the streets are
hardly passable by bike, let alone a car, so we let the local cabbies
do the driving.

A cloud of gloom hangs over us, just as it hovers over this poor
damned city. And then the cabbie stops. Without any traffic blocking
his path, or a stop sign or traffic light. I lived in New York long
enough to know that's damned odd.

"What is it?" I ask through the Plexiglas. He does not answer, but he
does point upward.

And we see what he sees. As close as traffic can get to what once was
the World Trade Center, which is probably a half-mile away. An
American flag hangs beside one of the heavy cranes that rip away at
the rubble.

I look at the street outside the cab, and see flags all around us.
People carrying them. People hanging them on buildings, on abandoned,
dust-covered vehicles.

I feel something I haven't felt since I was in the Marines. I feel
proud to be a part of this. Somewhere, deep inside, I know that New
Yorkers will rebuild their town. And for the first time in days, I
feel hope.


*****

Author's Note: This was a therapeutic attempt to deal with my own
feelings following 9.11.01 through the eyes of John Doggett. The
attacks brought out the "John Doggett" in Americans: our inherent
goodness, even when we are so often portrayed otherwise. We were
kicked in our complacency, and although I only know one near and dear
New Yorker, (Hi, girlassassin ), I feel very close to the events and
the aftermath. Our world is different. But it looks like a lot of
good will come from this evil.