_Even though I'm still pretty sure they found Edina's body right over there..._

He managed half a smile.  _There's reality, John, and then there's fantasy.  Learn the difference._  But that just put him down another avenue of bad thoughts..._

It had been a rough few weeks.

One would think, with Scully was both delivered and in possession of her child, Mulder officially resigned from the Bureau, and Agent Reyes permanently assigned to the X-Files to help him with the considerable casework, that Doggett's heart would slow to something resembling a normal beats-per-minute.  That he'd be able to sleep for more than thirty minutes at a shot.  That he'd feel some satisfaction.  After all, the good guys triumphed over a hell of a lot of bad guys--not often you could say that, not in his line of work. But Doggett had come down from his personal ticker-tape parade all too quickly and dove back into the X-Files within days.  He found that a lead into a possible conspiracy gave him a certain dark thrill, something that frightened him.  How long until he turned into Mulder, only turned on by the cloak-and-dagger shit? At least the pre-Scully Mulder. . .

_Dammit._

He got out of the car with a series of jerky movements and slammed the door.  There was no other movement in the alley as he marched rapidly to the warehouse's only door and looked up into the surveillance camera.  "It's Doggett--let me in." Nine locks clacked their way open, and he heard the epitome of nasal sarcasm as the door opened, "See, Jimmy--when we actually lock the door, people can't just come in, even if you dig it when they slink against the doorway all dramatic-like in their leather bondage gear."

Doggett really attempted to keep his mouth shut. "Sorry guys, I forgot it's Tuesday--should I get the cuffs out of my trunk?"

Langly scrunched a disparaging face in Doggett's direction but let him enter.  He held a stiff finger out at eye-level.  "Hey, Secret Agent Man, don't think I can't kick your ass.  Just because I let Mulder get away with that shit. . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm not Mulder--I think that topic's been more than adequately covered."  Doggett rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Hey, would you like something to drink?  I just brewed up a fresh pot of coffee for the Thermos and there's a cup or so left," Jimmy asked solicitously.

"Yeah, coffee'd be good."  The man returned from the kitchen with a none-too-clean looking mug, but Doggett barely noticed as he quickly swallowed the contents.

Continuing what was apparently a long-running argument, Blonde said to Blonder, "I do lock the doors, she just--"

Doggett interrupted before it could get rolling. "Look guys, I'm just here for the surveillance tapes Frohike set up in the Howard Street Tunnel."

Langly's eyes lit up, antagonism momentarily forgotten.  "Oh, man, you aren't going to believe what's been going on it there.  We saw--"

Byers voice preceded the man in from the back room.  "Langly, all we saw was a lot more traffic on the rails than official records account for.  Exactly as Agent Doggett expected."  He turned to the older man with a raised eyebrow.  "We took the liberty of digitally enhancing some of the frames--I think you'll find the posted registrations on some of the cars very interesting."

Jimmy cut in before Doggett could reply.  "What about the movements we saw?"

Byers heaved an impatient sigh.  "Those were just shadows," he said with exaggerated care.  "You two did not see...creatures...gnawing...on the rails."

Langly threw up his hands.  "Fine.  I'm still writing it up for page 3, and when a train finally bites it, the Associated Press is going to be all over me."

Doggett managed a wan smile for Byers, ignoring the other man's rant.  "Great--that'll help the investigation a lot.  Where's the man I need to thank?"

The other three exchanged a glance.

"He's in the back."  Byers gestured vaguely behind him.

"Hey Doggett--" Langly began, picking up one large black bag and hefting a second one towards Jimmy, "--favor to ask."

"What?"  Doggett dreaded the answer.  He had a feeling it would seriously mess up his evening's agenda of a few beers and getting in bed before midnight.  He also suspected that Blonder'd come within a hair's breath of calling him "Dogbreath," but chose to ignore it.

Byers laid a hand on the older man's shoulder, carefully.  "We're in the middle of a very delicate operation here, and we wouldn't ask for help if we hadn't already invested so much in setting this up.  Could you keep an eye on Frohike for us tonight?"

Doggett's eyes narrowed.  "Why's he need babysitting?"

"He's not drunk or violent or anything," Byers hastened to assure him.  "He just...shouldn't be alone."

Doggett snorted and replied, "So hangin out with a virtual stranger is any better?"

Byers and Langly, appearing to have suddenly been struck mute, looked away, Langly over his shoulder and Byers towards the ceiling.   Doggett made the mistake of turning to Jimmy for further enlightenment and found himself pinned by a thousand watts of puppy-dog eyes.

"Look...here...I...it's not..."  He trailed off as the young man turned up the pleading another notch.    "Fine."

Blonder clapped Blonde on the back.  "Way to be a team player, man."

Jimmy beamed.

Byers cut in, "C'mon.  We have really got to get going."  The other two nodded, almost reluctantly, and shifted their bags, which made odd, faint metallic noises.

Doggett held up a hand.  "What's in the bags, boys?"

Langly favored him with a small, slightly manic grin.  "You really don't need to be asking that, Special Agent.  Let's just say I have to teach a course on safety to some legitimate businessmen."

"Yeah, ya know, I really don't want to know any more."  Langly has a gift for sapping the strength of the people he converses with, thought Doggett.  He made a shooing motion with his hands.  "Have fun storming the castle.  I'll lock up behind you."

He pulled Jimmy aside as the other two passed.  "What's goin' on here?"

The younger man seemed to know Doggett wasn't interested in the funky poaching.  The worry was clear in his voice.  "We don't know.  Fro's just been out of sorts.  Barely talks to anyone unless it's about the paper. He even told us he'd sit this one out, and it was his idea to start with!" Jimmy lowered his voice to a whisper.  "He hasn't had a drink in weeks."

A horn honked half a dozen times in the alley, followed by, "Jimmy!  Get the lead out of your ass!"

"Coming, *Shane*!" Jimmy, leaving a concerned expression in his wake, left Doggett alone in the anteroom of the warehouse.

The agent dutifully shot all the locks, one after another.  Finished, he leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the door and spent a moment fantasizing he'd never been assigned to the X-files and, hence, was happily spending a quiet Tuesday evening nitpicking the police procedures on "NYPD Blue."  Hell, while he was at it, he added his ex-wife on the couch next to him with her hand high on his thigh and three or four kids safely tucked into bed.  When he found himself actively visualizing the dog at the fireplace and the picket fence outside, Doggett decided Frohike's company was probably preferable to his own maudlin thoughts.

His first view of the man in black, however, almost made him reconsider.  Frohike was sprawled across the whorehouse-red couch while a M*A*S*H rerun played across the TV without sound.  A virgin bottle of Jim Beam rested on his stomach, gently shifting with Frohike's breathing.  The shirt underneath it looked relatively clean, but wrinkled, as though someone had carefully washed the clothes and but they ended up on the floor in a heap afterward.  The red-rimmed eyes, stubble, weary demeanor--that was normal, right?  He didn't look up as Doggett entered the room and sat on the coffee table in front of him.

Doggett reached into his store of Lone Gunmen tolerance and scraped bottom.  He reached forward and rudely snapped his fingers in front of Frohike's eyes, earning a blink.  "Hey."

Frohike blinked again, slowly and deliberately, then looked back at the TV screen.  "What?"  His voice was thin and dull, uninterested.

"I wanted to thank you."  Doggett waited a few beats for a response.  "For settin up the surveillance cameras, and everything.  Although how you managed to hook up the cameras without getting either caught or run over by a train is beyond my imagination."

Frohike didn't rise to the bait.  "You're welcome.  Any time."

Doggett tried again.  "According to Byers, the traffic supports my theories.  Someone is moving a whole lotta something, either right under the government's nose or with its compliance."  He was beginning to warm to the topic, even under the stifling influence of Frohike's utter lack of interest.  "I'm gonna need some a that fancy hacker kung fu to trace the registries back to the originations, and when they turn out to be fakes, dig the real badgers right on outta their computer dens--"

"Ask Langly."  The words were like a bucket of cold water.  Frohike momentarily contemplated the unbroken seal of his bottle, and then put the whole thing aside on the floor by his feet.  "That's his biz."

Doggett sighed.  He'd had a pretty good metaphor going there too, for a Tuesday night, anyway.  "I give up.  Move over."  He picked up the remote, turned up the volume, and sat on the couch next to Frohike.  "This is a good one--they all have these weird dreams comin outta missin their families and the wounded soldiers.  I had nightmares for a week after the first time I saw it about my arms falling off."

"Wait a minute."  Frohike was giving him the skunk eye, not quite believing the input from his senses that the agent appeared to be making himself at home.  One of their pet FBI agents was slumped on their couch.  Holding *his* remote.  All but had a hand resting in his waistband a la Al Bundy.  This could not be real.  "You give up on what?"

Doggett raised his eyebrows and shrugged.  "Hey, I tried to get you outta your little funk.  I made the effort.  Reach out and touch someone and all that jazz.  Now that I've established myself as a human being, I'm just gonna watch some TV, like a good babysitter.  Maybe I'll even raid the fridge later.  So have you seen the one where--"

"Babysitter?!"  Frohike's voice rose an octave over the four syllables.  He sat up in outrage, kicking the bottle under the couch, where it would undoubtedly remain until Byers' next dust bunny rampage.  "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Can it, man."  Eyes of steel weariness flicked over to him.  "I'm not in the mood."  Doggett thumbed the volume up a few more clicks.

Frohike opened his mouth to fire back a retort, but obviously thought the better of it.  Fine with me, thought Doggett almost angrily.  Go ahead and stay in your silent little sulk.

Dammit.

He realized he'd said it out loud when he saw that Frohike's eyes were not only flicking over in little information-gathering forays but also displayed some spark of concern. It was good to see some life there, but Doggett could have done without it directed towards him.  Luckily, the older man stayed silent through the end of the show.

The agent was left in a slightly more mellow mood, almost introspective.  _All those people, scared outta their minds by the things that passed in front of them and dreaming of normalcy, and at the same time just as terrified those real, normal lives were only dreams..._

Frohike took the remote from Doggett's nerveless hands and shut the television off.  Without turning his head, he spoke gruffly into the silence that descended.  "There's a good place for Cuban around the corner.  You interested?"

"Sure."  Anywhere but here.
 

Doggett began to feel slightly better as he settled into the booth in the back of the Funky Nassau.  There had just been something about the atmosphere in that warehouse that'd made his half-formed regrets of the past few months settle over him like a too-small hood.  He leaned back and stretched his long legs out into the aisle, not thinking about how late it was already and how early he had to be into the office on Wednesday.

Frohike returned with a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses--and something else.  He dropped the pack of Morley lights on the table without ceremony.

Doggett raised an eyebrow.  "You didn't strike me as the smoking type."

"I'm not.  But I thought you might be.  Tequila okay?"  Frohike slid in across from the agent.  "Oh, and we've got black bean burgers coming--specialty of the house."

Doggett shrugged.  "Fine with me, but I'm not much of a drinker."

He rarely drank, and only when out with friends--he knew too many people in the enforcement field who took to drinking at home, alone.  And he hadn't had much chance to get out in the past few months, so his tolerance was probably pretty much nil.  He sized up the other man and made some quick mental estimations.  It wasn't likely he'd be challenged into drinking more than he could handle, anyway.

Doggett took the shot he was offered and tipped it in the other man's direction.  "Salut."

They both tossed and swallowed, without salt or lime, grimaced.  Doggett noted with vague approval that Frohike didn't bother with the teetotaler's accouterments, either.  He ignored the cigarettes entirely, pointedly.  He hadn't smoked since Luke's funeral, his mind saturated with memories linked inexorably to the three-pack-a-day habit he'd acquired during the investigation.

Frohike was the first to speak, barely.  "So."

"Hmm."  Doggett concentrated on the acidic feel of tequila spreading across his stomach.  "Yeah, just so."

Frohike shot him a nonplussed look and poured two more shots.

"So what's going on?" Doggett continued.  "Blonde, Blonder, and Not-Blonde are tiptoeing around you.  Why?"

"Blonde, Blonder, and Not-Blonde??"  Frohike chuckled, a dry like cloth pulled across sandpaper.  "So what's that make me?  No, forget it, I don't want to know."  He toyed with his drink.  "I think that one gives even Muldah's fond nicknames a run for their money."

"Muldah, huh?"  Doggett refused to rise to the bait.  "Yeah, we found MulDAH for ya.  Under conditions, frankly, I never want to discuss with anyone, ever, again.  I'd burn the reports if I could and call it all a bit of underdone potato, except it's kinda my job now."  He tossed back the second drink.

Frohike raised his and intoned, "To the truth, in gravy and graves."

Doggett grimaced, and told himself it was from the bitter alcohol.  A chill ran across his shoulders as he carefully did NOT think about waking in a cave...

Frohike set his glass back down, suddenly cocking his head like the RCA dog.  "Honestly, Agent, are you glad?  That Mulder's back, safe, whole, that Scully's happy--"

"Yes."  He flung the word like a stone.  "It was my job.  I completed it.  The good guys won."

Softer.  "And Scully's happy."  He poured himself another round.

Frohike smiled with half his mouth.  "Man, wait for the burgers.  I am not having you dancing on the tables before the food shows."

Doggett grunted.  Probably the sensible option.

Frohike broke the silence again.  "The first time I met Scully, I think I only managed to say two words: 'She's hot.'  She rolled her eyes."

Doggett snorted.  "She threw a glass of water in my face.  Water I brought her."  He tossed back the third drink.  Did anyone ever make a good first impression on the woman?

Frohike pointed emphatically.  "Now, there was your mistake.  Wait until they finish the drink before you make your approach.  That's a rookie mistake."  He surreptitiously moved the bottle behind his other elbow.

The agent shrugged.  "Yeah, well, she kept it up for months.  Metaphysically, I mean--is that the right word?"

"Probably."  Frohike seemed to be giving him a strange look, but Doggett was more interested in finding a light for the cigarette in his mouth.  Frohike finally struck a match for him, cupping the flame in his hands with an oddly tender gesture.

"Then there was the thaw, of sorts."

"I know that thaw." Frohike smoothed back his hair with exaggerated care, as to retrospectively gussy up.  "All of a sudden, you look at her, listen to her words, and although nothing has changed, it's completely different.  She trusts you--and she doesn't trust anyone.  Except maybe Mulder."  Frohike watched the growing exhalations of smoke contemplatively, with an expression that was either unreadable or the most perfect realization of low misery Doggett had ever beheld.

"Exactly!"  Doggett felt his eyes widen, and then the end of Frohike's words caught up.  "Except Mulder.  She doesn't need to trust anyone else."

The waitress appeared with two large plates.  Doggett stubbed out the cigarette impatiently and reached for the bottle.  She eyed him dubiously.  "You want some water with that, hon?"

"Please," he rasped in return, pouring a fresh one with one hand and reaching for the burger with another.  Suddenly, he was ravenous, and the oddly enticing smell of the spicy black bean patty was driving him nuts.  He dove into the burger, pausing only once to sip away at the drink.  In two minutes, the food was gone.

Frohike whistled appreciatively.  He opened his mouth, almost laughing, and then closed it again.  Then, "You'd think you haven't eaten in years."

I missed a joke there, Doggett thought.  At least Frohike's showing more signs of life, though.

The other man was indeed significantly revived.  Actually, there was something so familiar about the man, now that Doggett really took the time to look.  Something about the shape of his face, the slightly bulging, rounded eyes, the glasses...it tickled at his memory...

He slapped the table in triumph, making his companion and half the bar's patrons jump and stare.  "I got it!  Ginsome Praise!  Gibson!  He could be you!"  He smiled sharkily.  "Tell me honestly, Frohike--Mel--did you have something to do with that?  Huh?"

A slow grin spread across his companion's face, one that reached his eyes for the first time that evening.  He turned to the bar.  "Tina!  We need some more bread or some chips or something over here, bad!"

Doggett pushed the untouched shot into Frohike's hand.  "C'mon, salut!"

Frohike tossed, swallowed, and fixed the agent's slightly fuzzy gaze with his own.  "No, nothing to do with that boy," he carefully enunciated.  Then another, startling grin, like a flash flood across Death Valley.  "That I know of."

The agent laughed delightedly and slapped the table again.  He sobered quickly, though.

"I think it started after that whole lobster monster parasite thing," he said, as though he'd never interrupted his own monologue.  "When she saw that she had to lean on somebody, and that I was there. Just...there."

A couple at the next booth had been sending little glances their way, and at the words "lobster monster parasite thing," fled the booth entirely in favor of the bar.

Frohike smiled, faintly, all traces of mirth vanished.  This smile only served to accentuate the impression of misery.  "I just showed up drunk on her doorstep.  That seemed to bring out the maternal instincts.  Not a good way to get the ball rolling, I learned.  But I seriously doubt your parasite removal approach was any more successful."

Doggett leaned back, gazed at the ceiling.  Frohike solicitously lit the fresh cigarette he was gesturing with in small circles.  "She'd never really talk to me, ya know?  Just kinda let herself be weak, or hurt, for a minute and let me see it.  Let me be in the same room while she wasn't being perfect."

Frohike stared into his glass.  "I got a few calls.  Once at 4 am, because she couldn't sleep and knew we'd be awake.  I downloaded an mp3 for her, some soothing Jackie Wilson song she had a yen to hear, and held the phone up to the computer speaker.  Listened to her breathing for a while before I hung up the phone."  He sighed heavily and shifted, idly playing with the half-empty box of Morleys.  He looked up to find Doggett staring intently.

"So, I ask you--are ya glad I found him?  That Scully's happy?"

"Mulder's my great friend.  The world's not the same without him in it."

"So, no."

"So no.  Or... I don't know."  Frohike rubbed his eyes, almost digging his thumb into the sockets.  "There were a couple of other calls, you know.  Both memorable, in different ways."

Doggett answered with the detective's automatic, "How so?" but he was losing his grip.  Actually, he was sure of it when the other man continued in a mumble-- "What did you just say?"

Frohike grimaced and dropped his hands back to the table.  "Forget it."

The other man gestured expansively, one hand, with the cigarette still burning, palm up and flat and making vague circles at chest level over the table.  "Well, that's easy, because I didn't hear ya to start with.  Unless you actually meant to say...well, what I didn't hear, and I'm not so sure I shouldn't ask you to step outside--" Doggett watched his hand, still elevated, tremble "--later.  Her bein' a lady and all, and a personal friend--"

"Calm it down, John."  Frohike slumped back in the booth, seemingly exhausted by the use of a Christian name.  "And the lady in question is perfectly capable of kicking any ass on her own."

Doggett stabbed the air, scattering the ash from his forgotten cigarette onto the other man's nearly untouched burger. "But I don't think she'd like people saying things behind her back--"

"So keep it under your hat.  There's a reason I haven't told anyone about this, even the guys.  Jesus.  I can't even imagine what they'd have to say..."  He seemed to pull his attention back to his companion with an effort.  Doggett still glared at him, even if the cold blue eyes didn't seem to be looking in exactly the same place.

With a surprisingly quick movement, Frohike snatched the cigarette out of the agent's hand, stubbing it out on his plate.  "C'mon.  Let's head home."Doggett blinked.  He couldn't think of any reason why not, but what had they been saying...?  He stood, and his concentration was completely taken up for the next few minutes with the challenge of not swaying.  A hand took his elbow, gently, and Frohike guided him out of the Nassau with care.  "Wait, the bill--" he began, and tried to turn back.

"Taken care of.  C'mon."  Frohike tugged insistently.  Doggett's hand dropped from his pocket; the slap of chilly Baltimore night air had sobered him up just enough to know better than to bring out a wallet in this neighborhood, even if it was the only chance he'd get to reimburse the other man.

"Well," he began, "I've got the next one, then."

Frohike's glasses caught the reflection of the nearby streetlight as he looked up, too quickly, as if he were trying to catch a fleeting sneer of sarcasm.  Finding none, he favored Doggett with another startled grin.  "I'll hold you to that, you know.  Especially since you left the rest of the Cuervo in the booth."

Doggett opened his mouth to reply, but the sight of that grin brought the entire conversation back into his head.  He closed his mouth, paused on the sidewalk, and then moved to the railing next to it.  Like every road on this part of town, it overlooked the bay and had a stunning view of the enormous neon Domino's Sugar sign.  He stared into the rippled red reflections and tried to take in what his memory told him.  "It's Frohike's baby," he quietly told the water.

"You bet your ass."  Doggett turned enough to see the other man's profile, also staring off into the water.  He had a feeling this was the most lost the eminently capable man ever looked.  "She...we...she... It was decided to keep it quiet, since there were so many...unsavory...possibilities, and as many enemies she's made who might want to...take advantage of the situation, I have even more.  And, well, the lives we both lead..."

"Yeah, that and she's in love with Mulder, so it's much easier for her to let him think whatever he wants to believe."

Frohike looked away, and Doggett felt as though his skin would blister from shame.  What in God's name had brought that out of him?

After several minutes had passed, Frohike finally returned to staring at the water.  "She made her decision, and none of us have anything to say about it."  He fixed Doggett with a piercing gaze that wasn't in any way cold or angry, just understanding.  "And that includes me and you."

Doggett's face worked as he tried to spit out a denial, but all the words died on his lips.  Finally he settled on a sigh, and nodded out toward the ocean.  He felt as though he'd been glimpsed naked, and no covering was at hand.

"She's got her right to chase happiness, just like each of us.  Maybe she's caught it...maybe Mulder'll change and be good to her, for once, or maybe she'll be happy with him as he is, or maybe you and I will go on doing our best to cushion the blows.  What will be, will be."

Doggett dared to glance directly at Frohike as the other man wound down.  He looked, well, not happy by any stretch of the definition, but at peace, or near it.  The lines around his mouth and eyes had softened a bit.  As he took the agent's elbow again, Doggett realized what the difference was--Frohike was no longer alone with himself.

And neither was he.

"Of course," Doggett broke into the companionable silence, feeling obligated to sound a positive note, "I've still got a good friend and partner.  And you guys--we'll need you a lot more with Mulder out of harness.  And then there's the endless rounds of babysitting--her mother can't be free every time..."

Frohike snorted.  "I think there's been enough talk of babysitting tonight."

But the look he gave Doggett was amused, almost anticipatory.  Then he continued, "Besides, I'd rather imagine the day when Will is, oh, three or so, and Scully comes home to find the entire apartment wired up and a video of Mulder eating an entire tube of raw cookie dough in the VCR."

Doggett sputtered with laughter at the image that brought up, making both men stagger.  A passing car honked noisily at them.  They walked into the fog that was just beginning to roll in off of the bay.  Frohike's words drifted back, "You do realize, Secret Agent Man, that you are staying on the couch."

"No, nope, I'm fine, really.  I've to be gettin home..."

"Not a chance, G-man.  Anyway, I'm betting Langly stole your keys--he's just learned to pick pockets."

"What?!  Dammit..."
 

Epilogue...Somewhere around 4:30 the next morning...

"John, John!  Dammit, wake up!"

Doggett came unpleasantly awake, simultaneously noting his dry mouth, sour stomach, throbbing head, and the fact that being shaken was not helping any of the three.  "Whaaaa..." he managed.

"He's gone.  Up and left!  He left her a note, saying he had to pursue the truth--wait, I'll get the email, you can read it for yourself."  Through one bleary, half-open eye, Doggett watched what he believed to be Frohike in an extremely tattered bathrobe with a Kevlar vest on top pad quickly out a door.  Before he could take further note of his surroundings, Frohike was back and shoving a paper into his hands.

Doggett set it aside and forced his mind to focus.  "Lemme see if I can cap it."  His voice sounded like molasses and gravel--more than usual.  "Mulder's gone, ostensibly to seek out the truth behind them Billy Miles unstoppable alien characters and possibly to protect Agent Scully and William with his absence, but the truth is at least partly that a month of diapers and soap operas has put him into a first-rate freak-out tailspin."  He rubbed the grit from his eyes.  "That sum it up?"

Frohike had managed to get dressed while Doggett talked, and the agent felt momentarily grateful that his eyelids had been glued together with sleep gunk.  "I guess that's why they pay you the big money, eh?"  He disappeared through another doorway, and Doggett heard the sound of running water and an electric razor.  "She wants someone to track his movements as much as possible, but hasn't decided what she'll do with the information.  I'm leaving Langly a note and heading over--she shouldn't be alone."

"Wait!" Doggett untangled himself from the covers, noted that he was clad only in boxers and undershirt, and began to search for his clothes.

"She asked if I knew where you were, because she hadn't been able to get a hold of you.  I told her you were asleep in my bed, and let her make of it what she would."

Doggett looked over his shoulder and realized that, indeed, he'd been passed out in Frohike's bed.  "No, you stay here and start the search.  I'll go."

Frohike hurried back out of the bathroom, clean-shaven and significantly better-smelling.  He picked his jacket up off the floor.  "Not a chance, bucko.  She emailed _me_."

Doggett held up his cell phone, retrieved from his pants pocket, in triumph.  It read, "Missed one call, 3:52 a.m., 'Scully.'"

"She _called_ me!"

Frohike sighed impatiently.  "Fine, so we can go together."

Doggett nodded, knowing that was the best he was likely to get, and jumped both legs into his pants at once.  Frohike raised one eyebrow at the trick, and then leaned forward, sniffing significantly.  "Unless you think it'd be a good idea for you to clean up first..."

The other man got a tequila/cigarette/sweat-flavored whiff of himself and groaned out loud in frustration.  As he threw his undershirt from his body and headed for the bathroom, he heard Frohike call back, "I'll see you there!"

Then, to his great startlement, Frohike poked his head around the bathroom door, his lenses immediately fogging from the hot shower Doggett had just started to run, and favored Doggett with another impish grin.  "The chase is on, my friend."

<end>