TITLE: Nothing New
AUTHOR: Andie Stabler
FEEDBACK: Definitely! I love feedback! Please! Please! Please!
CATEGORY: DoggettFic, Post-ep to Badlaa.
RATING: PG. (Language)
SPOILERS: Badlaa, Via Negativa (Slightly)
ARCHIVE: Sure. Just let me know beforehand.
SUMMARY: What's our man Doggett thinking after witnessing Scully's breakdown at the end of Badlaa?
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Another chance to get inside Doggett's head. I think he's going to be spending a lot of time at the Jefferson Memorial.
Nothing New.
by Andie StablerJefferson Memorial
9:00 PMHow the hell did Mulder do it?
How the hell did he cast such a strong spell over one woman that she would decide what she sees based on his perception; based on what he would do?
I'd really like to know.
I let out a sigh, which came out in a cloud of vapor. I took another deep breath, filling my lungs with the chilly air.
The air was cold on my face as I gazed up at the statue of Thomas Jefferson. I liked hanging out here. It was quiet; a good place to just sit and think. Back when I was a cop and I was stuck on a case, I would do the same sort of thing. Go somewhere and just sit and think. A lot of the time it helped. Reviewing the facts usually brought on some flash of inspiration. Things would fall into place and I would wind up kicking myself for not seeing the solution much earlier.
Besides, who better to hang out with than a guy who wrote a declaration telling the King of England to go fuck himself in a way that made him want to run for the bedroom? The definition of a good writer.
I felt myself swallow, remembering Agent Scully's tears, how she had chastised herself for not being more like Mulder. Was that her goal while he was gone? To be like him, to take his place until he returned, seated at that cluttered desk?
It had been so hard not to do something as she had stood there, sobbing. I had come dangerously close to reaching out, laying a hand on her arm, pulling her to me, and holding her until her tears ceased. But I had kept my distance, somehow knowing that any sort of gesture of comfort I could make would not be welcome. At least not yet. And I wasn't going to force her to accept it.
I had only seen her in tears once before. Then, I had held her in my arms, trying to comfort her in some small way. But even then she had covered her face, hiding those tears, shutting me away from her grief.
Why? Why in the name of God do I care about her so much? Why was I so scared for her that one night she was in the hospital that I stood vigil outside her room all night long? Why, when she was crying her heart out for her absent partner, was I on the verge of tears myself? Why do I give such a damn? As a Marine, I had learned to care just enough to get the job done and no more. You go crazy if you don't. Where the hell had that learning gone?
It would be so much easier for me not to care; to just think of this as just another assignment. That's what the X-Files is, isn't it? Another assignment? Just like any other? I come in everyday. I do my job. (And I do it damn well, thank you very much.) I investigate cases. I write my reports. I keep my promises.
I guess that's why I care so much, because I made a promise.
No, that's not it. It's not the promise I made. It's the reason I made that promise. Part of it was pride. I know I'm good at what I do. And I'll be damned if one vanishing agent is going to prove me wrong in that.
But the other part was the statement of devastation on Agent Scully's face when I told her I had been assigned to the X-Files. I hadn't let it show, but seeing that statement had hurt. I knew none of it was my fault; that it wasn't my choice to be assigned to that basement office. But that statement had made me feel like anything I could do would bring the walls of the Hoover Building crashing down around us. But maybe if I bring back Mulder, I'll finally have the right to forget that statement; to replace it in my memory with something much more pleasant.
What in the name of God have I gotten myself into?
It really would be easier not to care; about her, about the X-Files, about finding Mulder. But I can't do that. Don't ask me why, but I can't. I care too damn much.
And dollars to donuts, that's what will ruin me.
I stared up at the statue of Jefferson again. _Okay, Tommy,_ I thought. _What the hell would you do? God knows you only had a country to found. So you should be able to help me with this one. How the hell do I deal with everything I'm seeing, everything I'm going through? Bat-people and dream killers. Slug cults and metal men. How the fuck do I deal with all that, Tommy? I'm a cop, a Marine, an FBI agent. I'm supposed to know how the world works. But as many times as Agent Scully has told me to keep an open mind, part of me simply refuses to accept any of what I'm seeing. But I have to, don't I? I have to accept the shades of grey that are invading my life._
_And then there's Agent Scully. I want so much to help ease the loss she's feeling. It really does hit me when I see her in pain. I don't think she believes I'll ever find her partner. She barely trusts me to watch her back, for crying out loud. She's so wrapped up in finding Mulder that I've become a third wheel in an invisible partnership. I'm lost here. So please tell me how the hell I deal with all of this. I need some help here._
But the statue remained imposing and silent.
With a sigh, I stood up and stuffed my hands into my pockets and turned to head towards home. It was obvious I wasn't going to be getting any sort of help or inspiration here.
It looked like I was on my own on this one.
Nothing new.