AUGUST 12TH
By L. M. Shard

The rain fell heavy and hard, mixing in with his tears and hiding his grief. Odd that it was raining in the middle of summer, but the weather was appropriate. He had spent the day at the cemetery as he did every August 12th, the anniversary of his son, Luke's, death.

By now the blackness of night had fallen and the sun that had never actually shone its face on this dreary day was definitely put to bed. John Doggett touched the tombstone one last time and slowly turned, walking past his car, out of the cemetery, and into the city. He just walked, aimlessly, without heed to his surroundings, as his grief encompassed him wholly, taking him out of himself. At times he'd stop and stare straight ahead, focusing on a lamppost or building, but not seeing it. Then he'd walk again, his mind in a trance, his heart weeping with his eyes.

Eventually he found himself at his front door, having had no real intention to go home, but his feet had known the way and they had lead him there. Mechanically he took the keys from his pocket and fumbled with the lock. His fingers were numb from the cold, but he took no notice since his entire being was numb with sorrow. He let himself in and without removing his soaked trench coat, he fell to the couch, staring into nothingness. Droplets of rain dripped from his hair, trickled down his cheeks, and collected on the tip of his nose. He felt empty, void, alone.

He had had everything once; a loving wife, a healthy, happy son, until this day four years ago when it was all snatched away from him. Just like that. Gone. Gone was the family he adored, gone was the life he had built and treasured, gone was his precious son. A couple months later his wife followed. Gone. And just he remained; remained to bear the burden of grief alone, remained to relive the memories that would be no more. In time he had gone on with what was left of his life, but no matter how much time passed the grief was always there, like a serpent in the dark shadows waiting to strike. And strike it did, as it always did on this day and on the day of his son's birth. It did so with a vengeance as if making up for any happiness he had found on other days throughout the year. The grief knocked him down, cored him, and left him in an abyss of utter emptiness.

The telephone rang, but it was not until the message machine actually picked up and he heard a voice that he noticed. It was Monica; she always called him on this day. In the past she had come over, been with him, and tried to offer him comfort. But the last couple years he had pushed her away and now she just called, waiting for permission to help. But that was just it, she couldn't help him, no one could. Well, maybe there was one person who could help, just a little.

"John, it's Monica," she said into the machine in a voice that was weaved with understanding and pain. "I've been calling you all day…I…I just…call me if you need a shoulder to lean on. I'm here for you," she said. The line went dead and Doggett listened to the dial tone, then the repositioning of the tape. He did not move. He knew she meant well, but he did not want her. She couldn't help him anyway. Instead he just sat, soaking the pillows on his couch with his wet clothes as his skin prickled with goose bumps.

In what seemed like only moments later, but actually was hours, he heard a knock on the door. He didn't move a muscle, but when the knock was repeated he lifted himself off of the couch and walked to the door in a stupor. When he saw who was on the other side, he knew why his legs had brought him over to open it. Dana Scully stood in front of him and the concern and empathy in her eyes broke him of his daze, and in one swift motion he pulled her into a hug and buried his face in her hair. All the tears that had not come in the last few hours came pouring out. He sobbed, oblivious of himself, into her as she held him tightly and stroked his back with her hands.

She felt his damp hair and soaked clothes, knowing his skin must be icy cold, but she hesitated to tend to his physical being, aware that his mental and emotional ones were far more important at the moment. She was relieved that he allowed himself to let go in her presence, for she had feared that he would close her off and reject the comfort she yearned to provide him. Her fears were not unfounded though, for several minutes later he suppressed his tears and pushed her away.

It was like he had woken up, because he suddenly realized he was crying in Dana Scully's arms. Shame and embarrassment coursed through his body and he quickly pulled back. Roughly he swiped the back of his hands across his face and wiped away his tears.

"What are you doing here?" He said more abrasively than he had intended.

She looked at him with pain in her eyes and responded, "I thought you might need some company today."

"Well I don't," he snapped, suddenly angry. He did not want her to see him this way. And he sure as hell did not want to be her pity case.

She looked hurt by his words and opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. "Did Monica send you here?"

"No," she said quietly. "I did speak with her and she is very concerned about you, as am I. I thought maybe I could—"

"Help?" Doggett asked in a glaring tone.

"Yes," she almost whispered, lowering her eyes.

"Well you can't. No one can," he said and turned his back to her. "You better go."

"John…" she said and gently laid her hand on his shoulder. Her heart ached for him. She knew all too well what it felt like to lose loved ones. It was a pain that ebbed and flowed but never disappeared. When he did not turn around, she headed for the door. Maybe being alone was what he really needed after all.

He did not want her to go; he did not want to be alone anymore. She was the only one that could possibly ease the pain and she was almost out the door. He swallowed his pride, turned around, and said, "Wait. Please."

In an instant she was back at his side and he pulled her into his arms once again. They hugged for a long, long time, her ear tight against his chest, listening to the pounding of his anguished heart. She lifted her head to his and taking his face tenderly in her hands, she said, "I'm here for you, John. Always. Whatever you need."

Hearing those words from her lips unleashed an unexpected wave of relief throughout his body. Instantly the pain that had imprisoned his heart all day eased and tiny rays of sunlight pierced through the blackness. She cared; she really cared. Looking into her sapphire eyes confirmed it.

She saw the change in him. Where there had only been pain, grief, and darkness, there was now something else. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes," she said quickly, not allowing herself to consider what that something else was. Denial was her middle name.

"All right," he said, finally noticing that he was indeed very cold. He let her pull his coat off of his shoulders and down his arms, and watched her hang it on the nearby coat rack. Then he fumbled unsuccessfully at the buttons of his shirt, his numb fingers not being able to complete the task.

"Let me," she said softly, working each button one by one until they were all undone. She pulled the shirttails out of his pants and exposed his broad, chiseled chest. It glistened with moisture and she tried in vain to stifle her sudden sharp intake of breath upon seeing it. She was ashamed at letting herself be aroused by the sight of his half-naked form at a time like this. She thanked the heavens that he could not hear what she was thinking. "Go towel off and put on some dry clothes," she said, trying to cover her unbidden feelings.

He stood there for a moment, having been mesmerized by her touch, then silently turned and headed upstairs.

Scully went to the kitchen, draped his wet shirt over a metal stool at the counter, and looked for something warm to make to drink. She found some tea bags in a cabinet and put water on the stove to boil. Then figuring he hadn't eaten in a long while, she cased his refrigerator. She was pleased to find it rather well stocked for a bachelor and made them each a sandwich. She laid the sandwiches and the mugs of tea on the coffee table, then went back into the kitchen and grabbed a box of chocolates she had seen in the pantry. Adding it to the table, she sat down on the couch and waited for him.

Dana hoped her presence was bringing him some comfort. The thought of him being in pain ripped at her heart, and she had truly meant it when she had told him that she'd do anything to ease it. He had been there for her so many times in their search for Mulder. He had put her needs first for so long and it was high time to repay the favor. She wanted to. She needed to.

As he changed into dry clothes, he thought about what had just happened. He felt like a fool crying in front of her. Crying in front of anyone was something he just didn't do. In fact he had only cried twice in front of his wife, and that was right after the death of their son. But somehow, having cried in Dana's arms miraculously made him feel better. Just being around that woman made him feel better. The way she moved her petite and graceful body, her gentle touch, the sound of her voice: all these things made him feel good, alive. He had admitted to himself months ago that he was indeed in love with her. But with Mulder back from the dead, and their ambiguous relationship (were they together or not?), he didn't know if she would have room in her heart for him as well. She was certainly a hard one to read. She could be warm towards him one moment and then completely indifferent the next. If she was sending out signals, they were definitely mixed. But right now, he was going to take what he could get. If she was willing to offer him comfort on this black day, he was going to accept it, for she was the only one that could provide it.

With a deep sigh and a glance at Luke's picture next to his bed, he turned and went downstairs. He found Dana sitting on the couch and the look she gave him immediately soothed his soul.

"I took the liberty of making us some sandwiches. I figured you probably haven't eaten much today," she said gently.

Food hadn't even occurred to him, but at her mention of it, his stomach grumbled. She was right; he hadn't eaten since last night. "Thank you," he said and took a seat next to her on the couch. He noticed she had turned on the fireplace and the heat radiated over his icy skin, relaxing him.

"Drink this," she said, handing him a steaming mug of tea. "It'll help warm you up. You must be chilled to the bone." Her fingers touched his as he took the mug from her and a shiver rippled through her body, caused by their tactile coldness, but also from the ever-growing attraction she felt for him.

"Thank you," was all he said again and began drinking the hot liquid. Its warmth spread throughout his body just like her warmth had spread throughout his heart. Slowly he was starting to fill the emptiness and feel whole again, at least for the time being.

They ate their sandwiches in silence, comforted by each other's presence. Every now and then, Dana would look into his eyes, holding them with hers. Those moments were so healing, for what he saw in them was everything he needed.

Finally he spoke. There was so much he wanted to say to her, so much he wanted to share and explain, but words failed him and all he said was, "Thank you, Dana. Thank you for being here."

She covered his hand with hers and looked directly into his eyes. "Always," she whispered. What she saw in his eyes was unmistakable, but instead of holding his gaze she got flustered and looked down. She took two of the chocolates from the box and handed one to him, trying to distract herself from what she had just seen. Silently she admonished herself for not being brave enough let him peek into her heart.

"Chocolate has an amazing way of making me feel a bit better when I'm down," she said with a nervous little laugh, trying to lighten the intense feeling that was encompassing them.

He actually cracked a small smile and took the Baci chocolate kiss from her hand. "Thanks," he said and unwrapped it. Popping the chocolate in his mouth, he read the fortune that came with it. It was written in four languages. The English one read: "One loses time seeking for words; one kiss brings understanding". Usually he got a laugh out of these kinds of things, but this sentence hit home. He looked at Dana, who was reading her fortune.

She had just swallowed the delectable morsel when she read the little slip of paper. "Never lie to yourself, especially when love is at stake." If she believed in it, which she did not, she'd almost have to think this was fate. She looked up at John, her cheeks slightly flushed, and was surprised by what she so clearly saw reflected in his eyes.

Letting his heart and the words he had just read lead him, he leaned towards her and gently brushed his lips to hers. The sensation was exquisite and his head spun in euphoric need. He breathed in her sweet, chocolaty scent and was overwhelmed with the desire to taste it on her tongue. When she did not pull back, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her closer and kissed her fully, tenderly, conveying all that was in his heart. Their kiss lingered and deepened as they peeled back any barriers and opened up to one another. Dana allowed herself to feel what she had denied for so long and curled her arm around him, letting her fingers find and play with the hair at the nape of his neck. She felt alive and free, like she hadn't in years and her heart pounded wildly as she forced herself to slow down and not ravish him on the spot. This was not the right time for that, but it would come.

Panting softly, they parted, catching their breaths, but the loss of the heat and sensation was too much to bear and they sought each other's lips again, kissing with sheer passion. Everything that they couldn't say with words was said in these uninhibited moments, and when they parted once again the looks in their eyes confirmed it all. They were home.

John smiled at his love and she curled up in his arms. Together they sat on the couch, holding each other, watching the flames lick into the air, and blocking out the pain of the rest of the world, at least for that moment in time.

THE END