Title: II: Twelve Inches
Author: Dust
E-mail: okonak@city-net.com
Rating: R [John likes cussin' cuz it's manly.]
Category: S/D UT (You can decide whether or not the UT is 
sexual.)
Spoilers: Season 8
Keywords: S/D
Disclaimer: I love these characters -- but they are not mine. 
They are the
collective property of Chris Carter/1013 & Fox.
Feedback: Bring it on.
Summary: In trying to understand his own feelings about women 
and
relationships, Doggett inadvertently helps Scully understand 
Mulder.
Author's Note: Twelve Inches overlaps with The Light from 
Corners and then
picks up where it left off. JD's POV.
For the purposes of this series: Mulder is still gone & Scully 
has miscarried.
Aknowledgements: This one's for my Master Betas, Kate & Mischa, 
who have
big brains and bigger hearts. And Kabbie, my very favorite 
Barkeep.
*
This is life's sorrow:
That one can be happy only where two are;
And that our hearts are drawn to stars
Which want us not.
-- from "Herbert Marshall" (E.L. Masterrs' Spoon River Anthology)
*
John Doggett knows he's no dummy. Yeah -- maybe he's never 
really
understood Oscar Wilde, but these days he wonders if Wilde 
understood
himself. Doggett read Wilde in college, when his friends called 
him, by
turns, Cactus and Bullet. His friends had names like T-Bone and 
Stick. They
drank a lot of beer and watched a lot of stars from the beds of 
pickup
trucks that smelled like red clay. They saw The Deer Hunter six 
times. And
then Stick told Doggett he looked like Christopher Walken, and 
Doggett
kicked his ass.

The college thing -- it wasn't his scene. Especially the lit 
classes. He
had this one lady professor named Margaret. Students were wait-
listed for
her classes, because Margaret had really great legs. That was 
her hook.
Maybe her only hook, because who gives a rat's ass about 
nineteenth-century
British literature, right? All those fainting women and starving 
orphans
and purple prose. The death scenes were seventeen pages long -- 
on average.

He still wonders if Margaret's classes emptied out when she 
started to wrinkle.

Margaret loved Oscar Wilde, and one day, when she was talking 
about the
abuses he suffered at the hands of prison wardens, she started 
to cry. Just
a little, but everybody knows that a teacher only has to cry a 
little to
make a class nervous. Someone's chair creaked, and then it was 
three
o'clock, and the class dissolved into overzealous chatting and 
flirting.

That night, Doggett skipped the beer and went to the library. No 
shit. He
read about Oscar Wilde until the place shut down. Well -- until 
he fell
asleep on a stack of books.

Oscar Wilde -- the dude was gay. But more importantly, he was a 
liar. And
Margaret thought he was just the damnedest thing since sliced 
bread. And
that's when John Doggett began to cultivate his home-grown 
philosophies
about women and love. Women, he decided, love the guys who can't 
love them
back. Margaret was in love with Oscar Wilde, who was a self-
consumed fat
fruity lying S.O.B. And dead.
*
Doggett is painfully aware of his own compulsive neatness, a by-
product of
boot camp. (The total institution is the most effective re-
socialization
agent -- that's what his wife used to say.) He slides the book -
- The
United States Marine Corps Workout -- into its slot, between The 
Vietnam
Experience and Amphibious Operations. His books are organized
alphabetically by author. He considers reorganizing them -- 
perhaps they
should be sorted alphabetically by category. And then 
alphabetically by
author within those categories. Maybe he needs to label the 
shelves. He has
732 books. But he can also run seven miles in combat boots -- 
with a loaded
weapon and a full pack. He needs to remind himself of this. Are 
you still a
man, he wonders, if you use a feather duster? He thinks about 
Wilde's
ruffled shirt cuffs -- then drops to the floor and does one-arm 
push-ups
until he's too tired to remember how to count.
*
It is an aggressively spring day -- the air trips over itself 
with green
excitement; the world fidgets. But if there are birds and lawn 
mowers he
does not hear them. He hears bad brakes and the low moan of 
planes. And
behind it, the white noise of loneliness -- the black hole buzz 
of extra
rooms and household appliances.

Sunday never felt like sorrow when he had a family. He remembers 
waking up
for hash and Texas toast -- grilled with salted butter. He 
remembers strong
coffee, bare feet, laundry, and lots of dramatic yawning. And 
later, Turtle
Wax and baked pavement, the hose water catching rainbows while 
he washed
the truck. He remembers that Sunday seemed to roll itself out in 
all
directions. In his head, it was always spring and sixty-five 
degrees.
Sunday was possibility.
*
He was on the brink of sleep -- falling into that hazy half-
dream place --
when his wife's delicate tremors shook him awake.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
"No," she said. Her voice seemed to crack open and his blood 
began to pound
in time with her shaking.
"What is it?" he managed.
"It's everyday. It's not knowing if you'll make it home."
He was surprised to hear her play the cop's wife. She was a 
fatalist and an
adrenaline addict.
"I don't fear death," she said. "But I fear loss -- I fear more 
of it."
This wasn't about him; it was about Luke.
"Didn't anyone tell you?" he said. "I'm bulletproof."
She laughed a little. Sniffled twice. But she kept her back to 
him.

They divorced -- quietly -- within the month. He understood her 
reasons. If
she let him go, no one could take him away.
*
He remembers the space between her shoulder blades, but he has 
nearly
forgotten her face.
*
The way he sees it, he and Agent Scully interact on two levels. 
They watch
themselves talk to the badly-acted surface versions of 
themselves -- the
cold scientist and the tough cop, the stuff of bad jokes and 
worse sitcoms.
He scoffs and swears, she clucks and huffs, they butt heads and 
go home.
But there is something else -- something subterranean. The 
infrequent but
mutual glances -- the skittish moments when their old pains 
betray them.
*
He is the kind of lonely that leads to breaking things. First 
glass and
then bone.
*
Some smart-ass profiler he worked with back in New York used to 
go off
about his "research" -- men, he said, have suicidal fantasies 
more often
than women, and their fantasies are statistically more violent. 
Blah blah
blah. No shit, Sherlock. Doggett imagines impaling himself on 
something
unconventional, like a giant post-modern sculpture of a 
clothespin. He
imagines doing it in front of Agent Scully. Christ Almighty.

The more he thinks about it -- that profiler looked like a 
hamster in a
suit coat. With a face like frogskin.
*
Every morning, he gets her a brown coffee in a brown cup. She 
never drinks
it. But she has yet to toss it in his face. Usually he keeps low 
and sets
it on the corner of her desk. But this morning -- she reaches 
out to take
the cup. Impossible? Her fingers touch his. And the light in the 
room gets
warmer; her desk is ground zero.

At 10:07 am she cracks a joke. It's a dumb joke about a lawyer 
and the Pope
and Bill Gates and she tells it badly, but they laugh together -
-
nervously, at first, both of them pretending that the walls are 
terribly
interesting. But then the laughter tumbleweeds, gets round and 
full, and
she hiccups, and neither of them can stop. It's the punchy 
laughter of
relief and exhaustion, the laughter of two people who have died 
and come
back but still don't believe in that sort of thing. For 
different reasons,
of course.
*
At 12:13 pm he catches her trying to balance a pencil on its 
chalky eraser.
He wonders about the space between her shoulder blades. He 
thinks about the
notches in her spine, the comet-tail scar at the base of her 
neck, the
snake compassing her tailbone. He could cover the diameter of 
her waist if
he fanned his hand out. His fingers tingle. "Hey," he says. 
"Let's get
lunch."
*
It is the first time they have shared an unnecessary meal. They 
gravitate
to the small deli a few blocks away, because parking is a bitch, 
government
tags or no. John Doggett wishes it were dinner, because the 
place has some
great beer. Beer so good he's getting buzzed just thinking about 
it.
Margaret, who spent too much time in Europe, used to ask her 
afternoon
classes if they were sleepy with wine. "It isn't depraved to 
drink before
noon," she'd laugh, "as long as you're not drinking alone." "Or 
straight
from the bottle," he'd added one day. She'd seemed to enjoy 
that.

He pours a generous amount of hot sauce on his sweet potato 
fries.
Scully raises an eyebrow -- it's a reflex. "They have mints 
here, right?" A
cresent-moon smile.
He smirks. "You like Oscar Wilde?" he says. *Shit.* He didn't 
really mean
to ask.
Scully stops assaulting her salad, sets her fork down -- 
surprised. "Oscar
Wilde? As in nineteenth century writer and renegade aesthete?"
"That's what I said."
"I have no idea where this is going, Agent Doggett. But I'll 
bite." She
pauses. "I'm intrigued by -- if dubious about -- the idea that 
life
imitates art. I think Wilde had to believe that -- I think it 
was more than
a philosophically indulgent thought. I think he had to believe 
that he
could write a safe world for himself -- since there was no place 
for
homosexuals in the real one."
"Okay -- but do you like his stuff?"
"His characters are rarely *emotionally* engaging, but his 
writing is
remarkably clever."
"Agent Scully, this ain't no thesis defense. I'm asking: do you 
like the
man's work?"
"It's been a while. But yes. Yes -- I think I do. Why?"

It's his turn to pause. He decides to spill. To hell with the 
calculated
bullshit. "I took this Victorian lit class in college," he 
begins. "To
fulfill a general req. Anyway. I had this lady teacher -- she 
was
fascinating. She loved Oscar Wilde. I mean, this lady had a 
serious
preoccupation with the guy. But she liked him *too* much. He 
didn't make
any sense to me, because she couldn't explain him honestly, you 
know?
Couldn't teach him with any objectivity. So one night I went to 
the library
and read about the man. I stayed up all night thinking about 
him. I dreamed
about the bastard. And the next day, it's like everything was 
different."
"In what way?"
"I guess you'd call it disillusionment or something. But I 
started
believing that people -- smart people, capable people -- get 
transfixed by
their own ideas, and that the ideas get in the way of living. 
And in
Margaret's case, her ability to teach -- to do her job. This 
woman -- she
wasn't much older than me. She had her PhD. A smart cookie. And 
real
good-looking. But she was lonely, because she couldn't get outta 
her own
head. She spent all her time convincing herself that Wilde was 
infallible.
Thinking about that, I got cynical -- about people. About women.
Relationships, y'know?"
"Agent Doggett -- that's remarkable."
"What?"
"Not to trivialize your epiphany -- but it's great story. You've 
just told
me a poignant coming-of-age narrative that's not about cars or 
baseball or
masturbation."
"Yeah, well." His embarrassment catches him. "You got a story 
like that?"
"Like yours?"
"Yeah."
"No -- all of my stories are about cars and baseball and 
masturbation." Deadpan.
"C'mon, Agent." He grabs the check. "I'm buying. But it'll cost 
you a story."
She leans back in her chair, crosses her arms. "Alright. It's 
about smoking."
"Pot?" he asks.
"Cigarettes."
*
They take the long way back because she wants to see the cherry 
blossoms.
"The trees," she says, "were a turn-of-the-century gift from 
Japan. I
think." Her voice seems to lift above car horns and mufflers. 
She's looking
up, not watching traffic. He watches for her.

They stop outside of headquarters, a hulking mess of pointless 
bureaucratic
geometry.
"Wilde," she says, "is Mulder." She speaks the words directly 
after
processing them. Doggett can tell, because she's using her 
slightly stunned
hypothesis voice -- flat and urgent. "When Wilde was on trial 
for his . . .
indiscretions, he couldn't bring himself to respect the legal 
process. He
was flip and ironic until death. He could have saved himself -- 
he could
have played along. But -- what did he say? When he was under 
oath?"
"What didn't he say, right?"
She continues. "I can't remember exactly. But I think Wilde 
would have
argued that we have the ability, not just to construct, but to 
consume and
destroy one another with words, ideas, images, ideologies. Wilde 
himself
was, in a sense, first enjoyed and then destroyed by others' 
inventions of
him. Wilde was an individual -- but he got lost behind the 
cruelty and
stereotype of his critics. I don't think it's too much to say 
that he was
crucified in a collective and paranoid effort to maintain a 
constructed
reality about deviance and normalcy. But I don't think it's too 
much to say
that he could have -- should have -- given in. Just a little. 
Enough to buy
his life back. I can't imagine that artistic politics matter 
when you're
dead."
"That's a goddamn mouthful, professor. And I wish I could tell 
you you're
right, but I didn't -- don't -- know Mulder."
She smiles at his knees.
"Hey," he says. "Thanks."
"For what?"
"Making sense of Wilde. Or trying to. You lost me at the end -- 
that stuff
about crucifixion."
"I should have left the religious iconography out of it." She 
squints away
the pink May sun and shifts her weight. She's hesitant, 
indecisive. He
waits -- it feels like a high-stakes poker game. Or maybe just a 
staring
contest. "Thank *you*," she finally says, "for making sense of 
*Mulder*.
For finding him."
"I didn't --"
"Be gracious. Just say 'you're welcome.'"
"You're welcome." They stand facing one another. They are 
separated by a
foot of spring air. Twelve inches -- it's not much.
[*]