From: jerry Date: Tue, 14 Nov 2000 07:16:33 GMT Subject: NEW: In the Handbasket (1/1) TITLE: In the Handbasket AUTHOR: Jerry CATEGORY: V KEYWORDS: Doggett POV RATING: PG-13 for language? SPOILERS: Within/Without ARCHIVE: please ask FEEDBACK: jerrycanary@att.net DISCLAIMER: No harm, no profit, no infringement intended THANKS: to Shari for the quick read-through NOTES: I have no idea where this came from. I don't even think I'll be *watching* the MOTW eps. Oy. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Another one, buddy?" The bartender's voice startles me and I realize I've been staring right through him. "Yeah...another, straight." My voice sounds odd, like I'm listening to a character in a movie. Hell, why not? The last few days have certainly resembled some half-assed screenplay more than an FBI manhunt. The bartender slides the drink over to me and I settle it in my right hand, swirling the glass slowly and looking into the eddies of the gin. I see their faces as I have all evening. I see their faces like I used to see the faces of the victims or the criminals: insistent, unrelenting. Skinner. There's my first problem. The man is an Assistant Director and I know he's worked damn hard to get there. I read his file: tour in 'Nam, nearly killed in action, best SAC record in the bureau, and particular commendations for his skill in heading up manhunts. So why break all the rules here? Why piss away his career for a maverick agent, his distraught partner and stories from bad science fiction comics? He's on thin ice, making statements that - on the record - would result in his termination. Yet I've never seen a man more steadfast in his conviction. I down the drink in one gulp and motion for another. He was laughing at me, dammit. Fucking amused at the sight of a well-run operation: an operation he might have run earlier in his career. Certain that we would fail. We did fail. I pull out my cell phone and call Kiley. "Any news on the boy?" Kiley has nothing to tell me beyond what I already know. One boy, one safe house, six agents guarding him, including one in the room with him at all times and...gone. The closest agent on a respirator, first in Phoenix, now at GW. Skinner, when questioned, giving me that same shake of the head, that same smile. "I wouldn't have thought you'd need to take a statement more than once, Agent Doggett. It's already been explained to you; I can't help it if you can't see past the end of your weapon. I've got nothing more to say." Shit. Fourth drink, another vortex of booze, another face. Mulder. I set my drink back on the bar and rub my eyes. How the hell did he survive that fall? My ruse to Agent Scully aside, I know the man's reputation - before and after his focus on the X-Files. His crazy theories didn't start with his work in the basement: he defied FBI protocol and profiles from day one in the BSU - and cases were solved because of it. Spooky Mulder: the name fit his genius, but now...how the hell did he survive that fall? I hear her voice and her face appears in the mirror behind the bottles. I turn around - nope. Just the usual idiots who hang out in this place. I twist back around again and there she is in the mirror, staring over my shoulder. I give up trying to slice through the haze and just listen. "I've seen what appears to be a man transform into another man." I shake my head at the red-haired apparition. No way, Agent. "He's alien. He's a bounty hunter." A flash of red hair across a sea of bunk beds. One of my men, shrinking in fear from Agent Scully's touch. Mulder, expressionless, stepping back off a cliff...then running away. Green ooze that the lab can't identify. Jesus. I shove the drink away. What the hell am I supposed to do with *that*? Skinner's voice. "You're being made a pawn." No. No fucking way. Kersh: "You're assigned to the X-Files, effective immediately. You're there until you give me some straight answers. You're a smart man, you figure out what the hell is going on." I groan and reach for my wallet. A few minutes later I'm standing on the corner, bleary-eyed, waiting for a cab. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hospital lights are way too bright. I resist the urge to pull my sunglasses out of the pocket of my trenchcoat. Agent Scully's room is at the end of the hall. I know I'm pushing my luck, but if we're going to have to work together, we've got to find some stable ground where we can cooperate. Just a short conversation before lights out, I silently promise the charge nurse as I pass the station, flashing my badge. The door to her room is open slightly and I stop in the hall when I see that someone else is already in the room. Another woman, older, with dark hair, sitting by Scully's bed and holding her hand. Her voice is quiet but seems to be soothing, as Scully's eyes drift shut. I turn to go and suddenly notice the man in the chairs. He looks like a bum, unshaven with fingerless gloves and several mismatched layers of clothing...but he is staring at me and smiling. I stop and stare back. "Agent Doggett, I presume?" "Who's asking?" "Just a friend of Agent Scully's. You'll have to wait until tomorrow. Her mother is with her. Fugitive Division, huh? Good job on the Haskins capture in '93. Too bad you spent all those man hours on an innocent man. Frame up, no question. NYPD got led around by those CIA mother -" "Who *are* you?" I try a sterner tone. The man is unaffected. "Like I said, a friend of Agent Scully's. And Mulder's. Just keeping an eye on things until Mulder is returned." "Returned from where?" He shakes his head at me and for a moment looks remarkably like AD Skinner. "Get smart, Agent Doggett. Scully needs you on this. And come back tomorrow. She needs her rest." He stands up, all what - five foot two of him? - and meanders down the hall to a drinking fountain. He watches me as he drinks and I decide I've had enough for one day, thank you, and head back down the hall to the elevators. As I wait to go down to the lobby, I lean against the wall and once again rub my hand over my eyes. A crack profiler who wastes years chasing ghosts and spaceships, then disappears and reappears at will. A talented pathologist and agent who spends seven years with him working unsolvable cases and ends up talking about aliens. An assistant director of the FBI who backs her up and then some. Disappearing evidence and witnesses. A wacko in homeless gear keeping watch. What the fuck have I walked into? ~~~~~~~~ End jerrycanary@att.net