Title:  Still Lives
Author: Michelle Kai
Rating: PG
Category: eventually post-ep for Empedocles
Spoilers: it'd spoil the surprise so please just give it a read!
Distribution: anywhere if ya let me know first! 
Dedication: This piece is dedicated to the wonderful 
Doggship, in particular to Anne Hedonia for the 
awesome beta and encouragement.  Also a huge 
thanks to alanna ("Lone Star") and wjmtv ("The Cliffs of 
Falls") for inspiration to write Doggettfic.  
Author's notes: (at the end)

********************************************

Still Lives


"Hi," a small voice whispered shyly.

Peeling his intent gaze away from the 
batter for a minute, the boy turned to 
see who had spoken.  

"Hey," he replied with all the authority 
of his seven years before returning his 
squint at the batter taking a practice swing.  

"What are you doing?" the little voice 
continued.

"I'm playing baseball!" the boy punched 
his left fist into his well-worn glove and 
crouched a little lower, pulling on the bill 
of his cap to keep the sun out of his eyes.  
"You'd better go sit on the bench.  I don't 
want to run into you when I catch this one."  
The boy grinned as he looked at the little 
girl again. 

Instead of walking away, she asked, 
"Why don't you wear your glove on the 
same hand as them?" gesturing the other 
players.  

"'Cuz I'm a lefty, like my dad." the boy 
flashed another smile.  Then he knitted 
his brows together, trying to imitate his 
dad's  'serious' expression.  
"Look, the ball is going to come flying 
this way any minute now.  You gotta go." 

"It's okay.  The ball won't hit me." 

"You don't know -" his words were 
cut short as the crowd erupted in cheers 
to the baseball sailing gracefully in a 
high arc, straight towards where they 
were standing.  The boy sprang into 
action and ran towards the estimated 
landing spot of the ball.  Opening his 
glove wide, he stretched his arm up as 
the ball came closer, faster, closer still, 
to his waiting palm.  When contact was 
almost certain, the boy closed his fingers, 
anticipating the satisfying thud as rawhide 
hit leather.  Instead, he only heard the 
whoosh of the ball flying past - no, flying 
*through* his gloved hand, landing on the 
grass behind him.  In half a second it was 
scooped up by his buddy Nick and thrown 
straight to second base, arriving a fraction 
of a second before the batter.  
"OUT!" the umpire shouted and half of 
the players cheered, while all the parents 
applauded, signifying the end of another game.  

The boy was baffled but started running 
after his teammates, calling out, 
"Good arm, Nick!" Nick didn't even turn 
around.  Running faster to catch up, the 
boy tried again, "Hey, Nick!"  Still no 
response.  More boys ran in from the 
field as they gathered around Nick and 
the second baseman Joel, cheering and 
high fives all around.  The boy joined 
in the celebration but no one seemed 
to notice him.  Finally as the players 
dispersed, packing up to go home, the 
boy walked up to a man.  "Coach, did 
you see that?  I CAUGHT that last one.  
Except I DIDN'T, 'cuz it fell through...  
Coach?" The man continued packing up 
the gear, oblivious to the boy's plight 
and perplexity.  

"He can't hear you." 

"What?"

"He can't hear you." the little girl repeated.  

"Why not?" 

"'Cuz we don't live in the same 
place they do anymore." 

"What are you talking about?  I live 
just down the street.  My mom and dad -" 
the boy scanned the quickly thinning crowd.  
" They should be right over there."  He 
craned his neck to find his parents' familiar forms.  

"They aren't here." the little girl said 
sadly, shaking her head a little.  

"What do you mean?  Mom and Dad 
never miss my games!  They must be 
just talking to someone..." the first 
hint of uncertainty crept into his voice.  

"They didn't come today." 

"Why not?  How would you know?" he 
tried masking his fear with anger.  
"Who are you anyway?  What's your name?" 

"Emily."        

***************end of part one***********

Still Lives (2/3)
(header in part one)

*********************************
An hour had passed since the last minivan 
pulled away from the parking lot in a cloud 
of dust.  The sun slowly but steadily dipped, 
lengthening the shadows around the two small 
figures remaining on the bleachers at the park.   
Neither spoke for a long time.  

"I know I'm not supposed to leave the 
diamond by myself, but it's getting dark," 
the boy mumbled more to himself than to Emily.  
"Okay, I'm going to walk home.  Dad 
probably just got a call from the office 
and had to go in a hurry." Suddenly 
remembering the small figure still 
sitting patiently beside him, the boy 
asked, "Don't you have to go home?  
Where are your parents?" 

"It's okay," the girl said ambiguously.  

"You'd better come with me.  You can 
call your mom from my house.  Do you 
know your phone number?" 

The little girl shook her head. 

"That's okay.  My dad's a cop.  He'll 
make sure you get home safe.  Come on!" 
The boy bounded off the bleachers then 
turned and waited for Emily to make her 
way down more slowly.  

"Oh, and my name is Luke." the boy 
remarked casually.  

"I know." Emily replied.  Luke frowned 
slightly and then shrugged.  Holding her 
hand, he led the way home. 

As the pair neared a house with a tire tree 
swing, Luke spotted a bike lying haphazardly 
on the front lawn.  'Uh-oh,' he thought, 'Better 
put it away before Mom finds out.'  Letting go 
of Emily's hand, he said, "I'm just going to put 
this way.  Wait here, okay?" Just as he leaned 
over to grab the handlebars, the headlights of 
a passing car illuminated the bike, reflecting 
a pink frame with Barbie stickers.
 "Hey, that's not my bike!" Luke exclaimed 
as he recoiled, as if touching something so 
girly would affect his boyishness.  Deciding to 
leave the bike alone, Luke jogged up to the 
porch steps.  

When the door wouldn't open, he rang the 
doorbell, rocking back and forth impatiently.  
Hearing footsteps inside getting louder, Luke 
grinned, anticipating the look of surprise on 
his mom's face when she opened the door.  
Then he thought it would be funnier if he made 
one of his 'scary faces', so he pulled down his 
cheeks and stuck out his tongue.  'Mom's going 
to scream', thought Luke mischievously as the 
door opened to reveal - a woman with an apron, 
but not his mom.  Instantly embarrassed, Luke 
stammered, "Uh... sorry about that.  But, uh... 
who are you?  I mean, is my mom home?" His 
ears felt like they were on fire.  The woman 
looked up and down the street with a confused 
expression for a moment, then turned and 
closed the door behind her.  

"Hey!" Luke protested.  "What's going on?  
I live here!  Mom?  Dad?  Open the door!" 
Luke pounded on the door.  He jammed his 
fingers at the button of the doorbell again.  

"George, would you get that?" the woman's 
voice called above the sound of the TV and 
pots and pans clanging.  

"Sure honey," came the muffled response as 
heavy footfall thumped down stairs to approach 
the door.  The door opened revealing a man, but 
not his dad.  The man's expectant expression 
soon turned to annoyance. 

"Kids!" he muttered shaking his head and 
closed the door firmly behind him, sliding 
the bolt into place for good measure.    

"Hey!  Who are you?  What's going on?  
Let me inside!!  Lemme in!" His frantic 
pleas started to take on a desperate tone as 
they all went unanswered.  Exhausted, Luke 
sat down on the porch steps, burying his face 
in his hands as loud choking sobs racked his 
body.   He felt a small hand tap his right 
shoulder, and looked up.  

"Don't cry," Emily looked sad.    

"Who are those people?" Luke managed 
through his hiccups. 

"They live here."

"NO!  I live here!  See that swing?  My 
dad put it up for me when I was little!  
I live here with my mom and dad!" 

"They live here now." 

"Then where are my mom and dad now?" 
Luke asked quietly after a moment.

"I'll show you." Emily looked up at the sky, 
"Not yet.  When the stars come out." 


*************end of part two*******************   


Still Lives (3/3)
(header in part one)

*********************************
John Doggett pushed his weary body into 
his house, resting his holster beside his keys 
on the coffee table, and sank into his couch.  
He told his overworked brain to stop for a 
second, but still it went a mile a minute, 
considering possibilities and then dismissing 
them again.  "Maybe it was for that little girl." 
Monica's words echoed inside his pounding head. 

<> John cautioned himself, 
<> 

Whenever his thoughts turned to Luke... 
"Aw... f-" He started to berate himself, 
but stopped and got up instead, as if he 
could still hear his wife's voice telling 
him not to use that word around their son.  
Opening the fridge, he reached for two 
beers and downed half of one in a single 
gulp.  John hated himself for trying to 
drown out his emotions.  For many dark 
months after Luke's death, alcohol was 
his only solace.  And then it was an uphill 
battle week after week of trying to regain 
control, fighting tooth and nail every minute 
of the day.  By the time he was sober, his 
marriage had dissolved, his once perfect 
little family completely shattered.  It took 
a year for him to be able to trust himself to 
drink again, cleaned up enough to enroll in 
the FBI Academy.  Over time he learned to 
cling on to the memories of happier times, 
and could even look at a picture of his son 
with a smile instead of breaking down.  But 
the last few days, with the arrival of Monica 
and the reappearance of Bob Harvey, all his 
emotions were sitting precariously close to 
the surface. 

<> 
John thought bitterly.  
<> 

John knew that he should stop thinking like this.  
Go outside, run around the block, get some 
fresh air.  But instead of changing into his 
sweatpants, he reached for another drink. 
<>  But Agent 
Scully's words drifted into his fogging brain.  
"I was afraid, afraid to believe."  
<> John wondered as 
he ripped the tab off his fifth drink.  
<>  angrily he shoved that 
thought away.  
<>  But another voice in his head immediately 
countered, <>  "I just want 
you to be honest with yourself." Monica's voice, 
again.  What are lies and what are truths?  What the 
hell does it matter?  What did he see and what did 
he imagine? <>  John had 
heard stories about people seeing visions of the 
dead before, even read up on it in his desperation 
to see his son again.  <> 
 The crazier stories had something about stars... starlight.  
<>

I want to believe.  

John massaged his temples and set down 
his drink.  Rubbing his tired eyes, he sighed 
and tried to coax his body into moving 
towards the bedroom.  For a second, he 
closed his eyes and suspended all incredulity.  
<>  
He felt his eyes start to burn with unshed tears.  
<>

"Daddy?"  

An almost forgotten voice pierced his sorrow.  
John jerked his head up, and was met with the 
sight that could only appear in his dreams.  

"Luke?" John whispered with uncertainty, 
afraid that the image of his son would just 
disappear if he blinked.  

"Yeah." Luke said with the brightest smile and 
ran towards his dad.  John felt his heart melt 
and tears stream down his face as he embraced 
his son, holding on with no intention of ever 
letting go.  Gently he rocked his son like the 
first time he held him. 

"I'm so sorry, Luke."  John sobbed, "So sorry..." 

"I love you, Daddy," was Luke's only response.  
When John's crying subsided, he looked down 
at the smiling face of his son, fast asleep in his 
arms.  John closed his eyes...

Sunlight streamed into the room and John 
slowly opened his eyes, instantly aware of 
every painful joint and muscle he now had 
as a result of sleeping on the couch.  Suddenly 
remembering the night's events, he sat up 
and stepped on an empty beer can.  
<>  Just as despair 
was about to set in, John realized that he 
was holding something against his chest.  
Slowly he pulled his arm away.  

In his hand was a baseball cap.



**************end of part three**************

Epilogue

"Will I get to see him again?"  
"You can always see him."
"But will he see me?"
"Maybe."
"So what do I do now?" 
"Want to play with me?"
"Do you know how to play baseball?"     

--end-


author's notes:  what do you think?  Feedback 
always welcomed at   
Oh, and the title is a tribute to the beautiful 
opening soliloquy of "Closure".