She ran recklessly through the parking lot, panting heavily despite her good health and the weight of a small black carry-on. She nearly knocked over a man in blue jeans at the line for the metal detectors. When his keys prompted security to frisk him, she tapped impatiently and finally flashed her I.D.

"F.B.I. It's an emergency."

A cursory glance and curt toss of the head from the inexperienced guard was her signal, and off she ran again at full speed. Her black high heels were no hindrance, but she felt her sensible black skirt tear at the back. Paying no attention to it, she bolted for the check-in at the American Airlines counter.

"Flight 1121 to Portland. Name's Scully." She handed the attendant her driver's license. She was winded, and the woman in uniform behind the counter raised an eyebrow as she tapped Scully's name into the computer. The usual questions were asked and the usual answers given; no, she hadn't left her bag, she hadn't been offered anything by anyone.

"Ok, Ms. Scully, you're in seat 13A. Boarding for this flight won't be for another half hour or so. You'll hear an announcement."

"Thank you." Scully took her boarding pass and picked up her carry-on, anxious to be off running again. "Is there a bar nearby?"

The attendant, now amused, held back a chuckle. This frantic red-head didn't look like the drinking type. But to each his own...."Yes ma'am, there's a sports bar by Terminal 23. They're open late."

"Thanks again."

She took off running for Terminal 23, and seeing the bar, slowed a little. Good, a television, and it was on....rats, wrong network. The World Series was airing on Fox, this was ESPN.

"Um, excuse me...." She tapped the broad shoulder of the bartender. "Could you change the station? To Fox?"

"The World Series, eh?"

She nodded.

"Sure thing." He raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the tap.

She nodded again. "Shiner, please."

It was the beginning of the tenth inning. Yankees were tied with the Diamondbacks 3 to 3. Rivera was coming in to pitch.

Scully held her breath.

------------------------------------------------------

Doggett had never seen a woman get so agitated about a baseball game. Sure, it was the Yankees, it was the World Series, but weren't there more important issues at hand? Mulder was still missing, and they weren't even able to use this time to search for him. Kersh had them chasing shadows in Oregon for the third time in as many weeks. Earlier in the day, Scully had been characteristically pissed at Kersh for again thwarting the search for her partner. Doggett couldn't say he blamed her. This was fluff and they both knew it; kidnappings being attributed to Bigfoot. Kersh didn't even believe it, he just wanted
them busy now that the official F.B.I. stance on Agent Mulder was "missing, presumed dead."

They were booked on a 12:45 to Portland, lucky that they were even able to get a flight. Doggett picked Scully up around 11:15. She was irate, as he expected, but she was already spewing some language he'd never heard from her.

"Schilling, that weasel! Torre should be managing more offensively, then the Yanks could squeeze past him. Piece of cake."

He was bewildered. Scully, talking about baseball? Talking about the New York Yankees?

Doggett decided not to question it, and simply turned on the radio so she could listen to the game. Not acknowledging him at all, Scully immediately immersed herself in the game. She was virtually silent, only shouting an occasional "No!" or "Damn it!".

Then, as they started the search for parking, the Yankees tied the game. Paul O'Neill got to first, Martinez hit a homer and brought them both in, tying the game. Scully literally leapt from the car, grabbing her bag and running as fast as Doggett had ever seen her.

He just didn't get it. He was a Yankees fan, excited that the team had pulled such a stunt in the ninth inning, but he wasn't fanatical and really just wanted to get on the plane so he could sleep.

Doggett lifted his bag from the backseat, and as he began to shut the car door, he noticed something on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

A New York Yankees ballcap.

Deciding that Scully must have wanted to bring it for a reason, though that reason completely eluded him, Doggett picked up the hat and took it with him. Security made him put it on the conveyor belt at the metal detector. Apparently there had been some commotion just before he got there. A man in blue
jeans was being questioned on one side, and on the other a wet-behind-the-ears security guard was being chewed out for carelessness. Doggett went through as clean as an F.B.I. agent can, having to flash his badge and submit to a pat-down because of his service weapon.

"Sorry 'bout this, sir. Regulations."

Doggett nodded and walked off toward the American Airlines terminals.

At the counter, an attractive blonde attendant asked him all the usual questions, and he answered with all the usual replies. His F.B.I. badge, still in his hand, caught the attendant's eye and an amused smirk appeared on her lips.

"Alrighty, Mr. Doggett. Seat 14B. We'll be calling for your row in about 20 minutes." She looked up at him from her computer. "And your friend headed for Terminal 23, the bar there."

He looked at her quizically, and she responded with a pointed look toward his hand and his badge. "Ok, thanks," he said, realizing she meant Scully.

The bar?

Next to Terminal 23, only the bartender and Scully populated the tiny airport bar. Scully had what appeared to be a beer in front of her, and was intent on watching the television set. Scott Brosius was up to bat, Scully was holding her breath.....

Doggett walked up and sat on a stool next to her. He shook off the bartender's offer of a drink and merely sat watching the game and Scully's reaction.

Brosius was out.

Scully slapped her hand on the bar, and took nothing more than a sip of her beer. She hardly watched the next batter, squeezing her eyes shut and whispering something to herself.

To Doggett, it sounded like "For Mulder, guys."

The batter was struck out, and Derek Jeter stepped up to the plate. It wasn't looking very good for the Yankees. Jeter hadn't so much as hit the ball all night...and now he fouled, maybe the pressure was getting to him.

Scully held her breath and gripped the bar.

Doggett was watching all of this with a new understanding. He remembered that Mulder was a Yankee fan. Scully had mentioned it a few weeks ago, when the playoffs began. "Mulder would be ecstatic right now. This is his time of year. And watching the Yankees in the playoffs was one of his favorite...." She'd recalled who it was she was speaking to then, and her words were choked off with other words, about her latest autopsy findings in a case involving what appeared to be lycanthropy.

Looking now at the cap, Doggett noticed initials written inside it, with laundry marker, in tiny
handwriting. 'F.W.M.'

Mulder's hat.

In an instant, Doggett was overcome with Scully's singular whooping and hollering as Jeter knocked in the winning homerun. The Yankees had come back from a 2-run deficit in the ninth to win it by one in the tenth. It was just after midnight on November 1.

Scully handed the bartender a ten, ignoring his attempt to give her change. She opened her bag and started to dig around, obviously looking for something. A frustrated scowl overtook her glowing features, then something akin to sadness as her eyes welled up.

Doggett held the cap in one hand and with the other, reached out to touch her shoulder. Scully looked up, at first straight at him and quickly away, trying to compose herself in front of the man who was only her colleague, not her partner. Then her eyes were caught by dark Yankee blue and the white NY stitched on the cap.

The tears threatened to spill over, and she blinked them back quickly. Doggett pretended not to notice. He handed her the hat.

*Flight 1121 to Portland will begin boarding now, Terminal 26. All passengers should check in at this time.*

Doggett and Scully picked up their bags and made their way to their terminal, neither one speaking. This time it was a more comfortable silence.

With no baseball game to distract them on the plane, the two weary agents discussed their latest case and slowly let the conversation dwindle. Scully fell asleep holding the Yankees cap, and Doggett smiled in amusement. He hadn't seen her that animated or that happy in all the time he'd known her.

Until this night, John Doggett had been a New York Mets fan.