Part 5/16 Eros Bar. Friday night. 9.30 p.m. The bar was crowed. He'd expected that. It was smoky, he'd expected that, too. Even the decibel level wasn't totally unexpected. But he hadn't anticipated the physical contact. That was taking a bit of getting used to. In his ordinary run of the mill, heterosexual existence, a hand on the ass was a sure way of getting a punch in the mouth. Here it seemed to be a routine gesture. Sort of like shaking hands. Doggett shook his head in self-depreciation. His leaning-curve was steep to vertical. They never did courses on this in the F.B.I. training, Ma. He pushed his way through the throng, towards the bar. Been here ten minutes, and already he'd had more hands on his body than in the prior ten months. Actually, he thought, sliding away from another tight squeeze on the ass, make that the past coupla years. The journey across town in the cab, his head had been buzzing, full of Scully's de-briefing and Mulder's smart remarks. The other agent had recovered his health and temper enough to try and make Doggett feel uncomfortable about what he was going to have to do here. Immerse yourself, he'd said. Lose yourself in the role, he'd said. There'd been a glint in Mulder's eye as he told him to drink, dance, make contact. Make out, he'd said, waiting for Doggett to explode. But he was wise to Mulder's tricks. He'd just nodded as if taking it all in. The lack of rise out of him had driven Mulder nuts, he could tell. "Dance?" The heavy-set, vested man in front of Doggett barred his path. Doggett shook his head, no. The man looked him up and down, then wandered away. Doggett watched him go. Was it just that easy? One word, one shake of the head, and the interaction was over. Amazing. None of the verbal BS involved in a straight bar. He snorted to himself. Whole lot simpler. He looked around, getting his bearings. The bar should be over there. He could really use a drink. The heat in the club had brought him out in a light sweat almost as soon as he set foot inside. Good job he'd had that haircut. He could feel what hair that was left clinging to his head. He eased his lean body through a mixture of men that took his imagination and rattled it about. There were young men in tight clothes, older men in even tighter stuff, and pretty boys in expensive outfits. Quite an challenging mixture. He was glad he'd opted for tight, white tee with his jeans. He didn't think he could have stood anything more. The way it had clung to him had made Agent Scully smile, and had made Mulder look away. There were some serious issues, there, Doggett thought. Not that he was going to help Mulder resolve them. No way, Jose. Reaching the bar, he wedged himself between a couple of lumberjack look-a-likes. They turned to look him up and down. He nodded, pleasantly. They looked away. Obviously not their type. A grin slid on to his face. Oh well, can't win em all. He held up a hand to the barman. "Whadd'll it be?" the man yelled over the soundtrack from hell. "Club Soda," Doggett yelled back. That got him a funny look, but he couldn't afford to get hammered tonight. Never mind he might end up as the main course in some freak's buffet, he might very well get himself gang-banged. And standing knee deep in queers, getting his ass groped to hell and back, he was hard pressed to think which one was worse. Another hand made itself known. Fuck! Doggett scowled. He'd be black and blue tomorrow. He turned sideways, to present less of a target and scanned the place, perfectly secure in the fact that everyone would think he was just looking for someone. He almost laughed at the irony. His drink arrived at his elbow, and tossing several bills down, he turned to pick it up, his eyes travelling down the bar. What does the perp look like? He wondered. Big butch guy, like the beast man in leather over there? Or was he some puny wimp that liked to kill to prove himself? Was he standing next to him? Doggett narrowed his eyes. That was a thought to cool a man down. The images of the crime-scene pictures flickered in his head. Concentrate, John. He sipped his drink, carefully scanning the crowd. His eyes flicked on a pair of dark eyes looking slap-bang into his own. Sipping soda and taking a sudden shocked breath sent liquid down the wrong pipe. He sputtered, gasped and spilled drink down his front. Fuck! He wiped his shirt and looked up again. About halfway down the bar, sat Walter Skinner. Fuck me, thought Doggett. He wiped the back of his hand over his open mouth and gaped. The A.D. was sitting staring at him, clad in a black tee-shirt, sans glasses, a chunky watch he'd never seen before on his wrist. A glass came up in a slow salute. Shit! This was the unofficial' back-up? Doggett coughed up the last of his errant soda. No wonder Scully hadn't wanted to say who it would be. The Bureau gossip-mill would've had a field day. He raised his own glass. Nice to see you sir, he thought to himself. Come here often? An unexpected hand snaked around his waist, and for the second time, in as many minutes, Doggett spilled his drink. "Sorry, man. Didn't mean to make you jump." A voice behind him sent shivers down his back. He guy was standing so close, Doggett could feel the man's hard-on wedged in his ass. JesusMaryandJoseph! He turned his head to look. "Okay," he said, resisting the overwhelming urge to tell the man to back the fuck out of his personal space. Taller than him, longer hair. Although that wasn't difficult, after todays massacre. Probably a bit younger than the perp profile. He couldn't tell. He dredged up a weak smile. He was supposed to be in character, after all. The guy grinned and ran his hand up to Doggett's nipple, giving it a squeeze. Shit! The drink nearly went again. Gotta get used to this, John, he told himself, taking a deep breath. This might be you-know-who. He wondered if the guy had felt the wire, pressed to his chest. "Wanna dance, gorgeous?" Doggett's eyebrows climbed. Okaaaay. So he wasn't going to get used to this that quickly. "Now?" he asked, instantly realising he sounded like a complete doofus. The tit-pincher laughed. "No. Next year. Of course now." The hand squeezed again, and Doggett gripped the glass hard. There were playful pinches and there were downright painful ones, and this was way too far into the latter for his taste. He placed the glass on the bar and turned to face the man behind him, taking the offending hand in his own. "That hurt," he said, holding the hand in a tight grip. The guy just grinned some more. "Yeah?" "Yeah." Either very drunk, very stupid, or very twisted. Doggett wondered which it was. The guy pulled him towards the packed floor. "C'mon." Doggett was dragged through the crowd, attached to the tit-man by a grip of steel. He glanced back to see Skinner's eyes following him across the heads of the crowd. Keep me in sight, Boss man, he said, silently. The crush was even tighter out here. Men in front, to the side and behind. You'd be fucked if you were claustrophobic, Doggett muttered, finding himself forced to move, whether he liked it or not. "What?" the guy screamed, over the pounding of the music. Doggett shook his head. He wasn't about to try and have a conversation in this noise. He valued his vocal chords. The thump of the music was hypnotic, if not tuneful. Doggett wondered what it was, and if the agents in the surveillance van appreciated it. The thought of Mulder having to listen to this shit made him smile. Taking the grin as some kind of sign, the groper moved in on Doggett, grabbing the loops of his jeans and pulling him forward. He lifted Doggett's hands and put them around his neck. "Nice," he yelled, sliding closer. Doggett bit down on a comment. The back of the guy's neck was all sweaty and felt most unpleasant under his hands. The other man gripped his waist tight, and ground himself into Doggett's groin. Shit. He wasn't being paid enough for this. Thank God this wasn't an F.B.I. pay- for-view. He'd never live down the humiliation of dancing with this shmuck. The music dictated the man's thrusts, bumping hard enough to hurt. Doggett winced, trying to avoid getting his dick pounded to a pulp. The man smelled hot and sour. God! Even Mulder had smelled better than this loser. What had he got against deodorant? He could feel his own sweat trickling down the side of his face, and he hoped to God he didn't smell as bad as this guy. "Harder," he shouted into Doggett's hot ear. Not a chance, Doggett thought. And then a wet tongue shot into said ear, making him yell out in shock, and fling the man in his arms away. "Fuck!" He wiped furiously at the moisture. "What?" Mr. Licky looked confused. Shit. The guy didn't think he'd done anything wrong. Maybe this was a standard operating procedure in gay bars. Doggett still glared. He didn't care if it was standard or not, it made his flesh crawl. "Back off!" He yelled at the tongue-man. Shit - he knew how High School virgins felt. The guy reached for him again. "Okay," he shouted back. "Okay. Slow." He took Doggett's hands and pulled him close again. This time, the guy turned Doggett around. Allowing himself to be maneouvered, Doggett consoled himself with the thought that at least he didn't have to look at the man. Or smell him. Fuck. Regardless as to whether this was the perp or not, he'd book himself a long, hot steaming shower, later. He tried to relax into the dance, trying even harder to get the pissy look off his face. He'd hardly begun to relax and move, before the hands began to wander. Doggett rolled his eyes. How much more of this shit? At his age, he hadn't expected to feel like a 16 year-old girl, but he imagined that trying to control a pair of wandering hands was straight out of the prom-date drawer. Up to his tits, then down, just as quickly to his groin. Doggett wasn't sure which he hated most. The sudden sharp pain in his nipples, or the tight squeeze on his package. His temper was rising, in direct proportion to the way his balls were retreating into his body. Clenching and grinding his teeth, he pulled the hands first up then down, trying to find a neutral spot for them to rest. Feeling the wet kisses being planted up and down the back of his neck made his guts twist. His belly tightened with anger. He was hot. He was bothered, he wanted to sit down, but he really wanted to do, was turn around and punch this guy into the middle of next week. His face screwed up in disgust as that damned tongue licked behind an ear. That was it. Gripping the hands tightly, Doggett pulled them away from his body. One plucked a nipple painfully, the other scratched his crotch. Fuck. Enough was enough. Blow the case, screw Kersh and fuck this octopus! "Back off!" he yelled, turning around. The guy just stared, fuck-stupid. His hard-on had obviously drained his brain. "What?" he said. Doggett threw the man's hands down. "I said, back the fuck off!" Without waiting to see if the guy got the message, he turned and pushed his way off the floor. No more. Enough. Furious, Doggett ploughed forward, trying to get space between him and the human spaniel. He was all for things oral, but shit, he preferred it with his Goddamned consent. "Hey, blue-eyes." The man in front of him looked like he was twice the width and half as tall again. Not a small man, Doggett felt instantly dwarfed. "Get lost," he snapped. Had he got a fucking sign around his neck that read Fresh Meat'? A huge hand shot out and planted itself on Doggett's shoulder, effectively stopping his forward motion with a bone-jarring jerk. "I said, Hey." Weighing up his chances against a two-legged pick-up truck, Doggett sighed and did the sensible thing. "Hey." "I like you." Terrific. A grizzly bear was in love with him. Why did he have all the luck? "Tha's nice... Look, man. I just wanna get a drink, okay?" "I'll buy you a drink, pretty eyes." Oh for fuck's sake. "That's okay. I have one at the bar." He made a move forward. The paw stayed where it was, and so did Doggett. Shit. "You got nice eyes." Doggett tried squinting them, to put him off. "No, I don't," he said. This guy seemed to smell even worse than the last one. Did no-one in this place have any idea about personal hygiene? "Yeah, sexy blue eyes." Gentle Ben's big brother moved closer. Towering overhead, the man leaned into Doggett. "Gimme a kiss." Oh shit... This was above and beyond the call of duty. He could just picture Mulder in that nice, safe van, pissing his pants with laughter. Doggett cringed down, his face a picture of misery. What had he done to deserve this case? He must have done more than piss in Kersh's cornflakes to warrant this level of sexual abuse. The hand on his shoulder was grinding into bone. He wished he'd brought his gun. He'd have no problem at all putting a round between this big ape's eyes. Or in his crotch. Huge, wet lips loomed into focus. Shit. Doggett clamped his own lips between his teeth and screwed his eyes up. No way... no fuckin' way. "Is there a problem?" The deep voice cut through the bass line of the racket being churned out over the speakers. Doggett almost whimpered in relief. "Fuck off," The bear told him, almost touching Doggett's mouth. Opening wild, panicky eyes on Skinner, Doggett silently begged his Boss. Anything. Take my pick-up. Take my house. Anything. Just. Get. Him. Off. Me. "He's with me." A hand reached over the giant shoulder and pulled back. The look of surprise on the other man's face was almost laughable, if Doggett had been in the mood for levity. "What?" The giant turned to face Skinner. "I said..." Skinner leaned in to the man and bellowed in an ear. "The. Man. Is. with. Me." A pissing contest. This was an alpha- male pissing contest. He was being fought over like some fainting damsel. Doggett stared in absolute amazement. Skinner glared, puffing himself up into not inconsiderable bulk. The two men stared at each other. After a moment, the meaty hand came off his shoulder, and Doggett sagged in relief, rubbing the sore bit. "All yours, man. Didn't know." The bigger man grinned and stepped back, relinquishing his trophy to Skinner. That was it? No bare-knuckle fisticuffs? No handbags at dawn? Great. The two Fibbies watched the leather-covered apartment block move away. They looked at each other. * Part 6/16 Doggett opened his mouth to speak and Skinner took a step forward and shook his head. A large finger touched the middle of his chest. The mic. The van. They had an audience. Doggett nodded his understanding. If by some quirk of fate, the walking refrigerator happened to be the perp, then Skinner had just fucked up big time by rescuing him. But by now, Doggett didn't care. All he felt was a pathetic gratitude for being saved from a serious tonguing. He mouthed the words, Thank you'. Skinner grinned at him, and lifted an eyebrow. He seemed to find the whole thing amusing. Doggett wasn't laughing. His shoulder ached, his ass was sore, and he was all sweaty. With a vague smirk, Skinner pointed at him, then at his own chest. His mouth formed words. You're mine'. Then he laughed for real. In your dreams, Doggett thought, suddenly fed up to the back teeth with being seen as a piece of flesh. He brought his fist up and unfolded a middle finger. Fuck you', he mouthed back. That raised Skinner's other eyebrow and put a look of surprise on his face. Yeah, well, Doggett thought as he pushed his way to the bar again. What's he gonna do? Report me? I don't think so. He pushed forcefully through and grabbed his soda, downing it in a couple of long swallows. That felt good. He waved at the barman. Another. He ran his hand through wet hair. He supposed it was standing up in funny little spikes by now. Always did when it was wet. Couldn't do a thing with it. God. He shook his head. Now he was even sounding queer. He turned his head to wipe his brow on the top of his sleeve. This was torture. Too hot. Too noisy, too... fuck. Too everything. Propping one foot up on the footrest, he snagged his fresh drink and took a gulp. His tee-shirt was sticking to him. He ran a hand over his neck. Damn, he was hot. And heavy work boots might be the thing to wear to gay clubs, but they were making his feet ache. "Hi." Standing leaning on the bar with his ass thrust out like that was a huge mistake. Another hand homed in on his rear. Doggett sighed. This was getting real tedious. He spoke without turning. "Not interested." The hand disappeared. That worked well. Maybe if he kept doing it, then he'd get through the rest of this Goddamned nightmare without being molested. The music changed tempo, sliding into a more romantic beat. Thank God, thought Doggett, rolling his eyes heavenward. My poor head and ears thank you. "May I buy you a drink, sir?" The hand that rested on the bar was long and elegant. There were rings on each of the fingers. He could feel another hand, running lightly down his spine. Oh my God, thought Doggett. Priscilla, Queen of the desert. Not in a million years. "No thank you," he said, not looking round. "Are you quite sure?" The hand was stroking quite gently. Well at least it made a pleasant change, Doggett thought. A change from being pinched, squeezed and groped. But the answer was still no. "I'm sure, thank you." Manners cost nothing. "That's a real shame." The low voice sounded disappointed. He was managing to piss off quite a number of people tonight. Everyone he ran into, actually. Doggett gave a grim smile. His ex-wife would be proud of him. "Yeah, well. Life's full of disappointments." he told the voice. "Get over it." "I'd rather get over you." The stroking was not entirely unpleasant. Hypnotic. Doggett shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't." "You're very handsome." At least this guy was polite. "And you're very kind. But I'm not interested." "Then why are you here?" Shit. Busted. He opened his mouth to think of a snappy answer. "He's waiting for me." Oh for the love of God. Skinner again. Doggett turned his head to glare over his shoulder. The man was being ridiculous. "No I'm not," Doggett snarled at both of them, letting his temper show in his voice. He was a grown man, for God's sake, he could decide for himself what he was doing at any given time. He didn't need a nursemaid, a warden or a pimp. "Oh? Is that so?" The man with the gentle fingers fluttered them over Doggett's ribcage. "Yeah," Doggett answered, belligerently. Fuck Skinner. What was he playing at? Mr. White Knight to the rescue? He straightened up. Those fingers were tickling. "I'm not waiting for anyone." Skinner stared, his face blank. Doggett couldn't read what was going on inside his head. "So." Doggett looked as the man spoke to him. "Perhaps a dance?" No thank you, Doggett thought, I don't dance with men. But instead, what he said was: "Yeah." Skinner blinked and the man took Doggett's hand with a smile. Oh shit. Doggett looked down at their joined hands, what he'd just agreed to, dawning on him. Now what was the hell was he going to do? He frowned at his stupidity. Pig-headedness and a big mouth gets him into the shit once again. He was being pulled towards the dance floor. Oh crap. "I don't think so." Skinner's hand shot out to grab Doggett's trailing hand. Hang on a Goddamned minute. What was he - some kind of bitch-trophy? "What d'you think you're doin'?" he snarled at his superior. Skinner said nothing. Just stared at him. Doggett tugged experimentally on his hand. It wasn't going anywhere. "Oh, for fuck's sake, let me go." The other guy was still pulling him. This was ridiculous. Tug-of-whore. The three of them were moving into the crush. Doggett stared at Skinner. The man was acting crazy. Was he nuts? This is what Scully and Mulder had told him he was supposed to be doing. Dancing, making contact. Sweat gleamed on Skinner's head. Maybe he was dehydrated. Could he be sick? What's wrong?' he mouthed at Skinner, conscious of the mic. Skinner shook his head, tilting it to the other man. As if on cue, the man on the other end of him, halted. He looked at Doggett. "Coming?" he said. Doggett looked past his fit of pig- headedness to what Skinner saw. The stroker was about thirty or so. Dressed nice. Spoke well. Could he be? He felt Skinner's grip tighten. Oh shit. "I...er," Oh crap, crap, crap. He swallowed. No need to panic. No good reason to think... "Well? Are you coming with me, or are you indeed with him?" Doggett looked from one to the other. How did he get into this shit? "I'm..." He swallowed, hoping the God of Government agents and the guys in the surveillance van weren't listening too closely. "I'm with him." He wondered if the disco lights hid the warmth he felt creeping over his face. "Very well." The man released Doggett's hand. "Perhaps you'll allow me to watch you dance, then." Not so long as there's little blue fishes in the sea, Doggett told himself. "Why?" he asked, very aware that Skinner still had his hand in a tight grip. His hand was very hot. "For my gratification. And for the humiliation of being spurned." This guy was seriously creepy. Doggett swallowed. "And if I say no?" The stroker smiled. "Who knows," he said. "Perhaps we shall meet again. When you are without your guardian." Not really a threat. Nah. Not in the true sense of the word. Besides, he had a gun... Usually. Despite the comforting thought of firearms, he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his spine. This whole thing was seriously fucked-up. Time to cut loose. "I don't think..." Skinner's spare hand came up and planted itself in the centre of his chest. Doggett looked down stupidly at it. The big fingers were pressing the mic deep into his skin. They'd never be able to hear if he... The penny dropped. "Of course," Skinner spoke, squeezing Doggett's hand. "That's not a problem. You can watch." He pulled Doggett towards him. "I don't think..." Doggett said again, the tops of his ears radiating warmth. "Shhh, John. It's okay." Doggett gaped. What the hell was this... John' business? The A.D. moved his hand from the microphone, and slid it up to the back of Doggett's neck, where it proceeded to squeeze gently. Eyes wide as hub-caps, Doggett floundered, trying to argue as he was guided inexorably against the black tee-shirt. Shit! There must be something in the F.B.I. Rule book about this. Thou shalt not dance with thy superiors', or something. Perhaps if he punched him out? He was almost as tall as the A.D., but nowhere near so packed in the muscle department. He might be able to take him on a good day... Maybe. The hand on his neck squeezed ever so slightly. Maybe not. Skinner let go of Doggett's hand, moving to place the hot palm on heaving ribs. Eyes still locked on full-beam, Doggett stared, outrageously aware of being pressed firmly up against a wide chest, held still by arms much larger than his own. A pair of calm, dark eyes stared back. Doggett tried to breathe normally. No. Too smoky, too hot. He opened his mouth to drag a steadying lung full in. He had a feeling his panic was broadcast by his glowing ears and wild eyes. Skinner turned his head and moved towards Doggett, puttin his lips close to an ear. The huff of his breath made Doggett flinch. "Okay?" The deep voice said. Doggett wasn't sure to whom he was speaking, the maybe' perp, or him. The thought hit him cold, in the belly. Perp. Murderer. Maniac. The photographs from the case flooded into Doggett's' mind. Shit. He could live without recalling those, right now. Actually, he could live without becoming the next set of those pictures. So maybe Skinner was right. He tentatively put his hands on the A.D.'s waist. God! The things he did for his country. Maybe if he just shut his eyes, it'd all go away. Gradually, the pressure on the back of his head eased a little, as if testing to see if Doggett would bolt. It was like a scene from a pervy version of the Horse Whisperer. He smiled. Funny. Then another funny thought occurred to him. The A.D. was dancing with him, and it wasn't as awful as he'd imagined. Not that he'd ever imagined this... Christ! But the man had a sense of rhythm, at least. And his hands were staying in one place. That had to be something. One was in the small of his back, the other resting on his neck. Just resting, now, not holding him down tightly. Doggett sighed. He should really make a move to get away. Surely the perp had had enough of an eyeful. He stayed where he was. Funny how his chin seemed to fit nicely into the crook of Skinner's neck. The warmth from the other man's face against his was calming. He sighed again. And thank God, Skinner smelled good, too. Better than those other guys. In fact, he realised with a jolt, this was really quite... He frowned, thinking. Well, nice, was as good a word as any. On his back, a thumb was moving lazily in time with the music. Up and down his spine. Up and down. The hand on his head stroked the bristles at his nape. Gently. Almost a caress. He snorted softly. A caress... Yeah, right. But he made no move to stop it, all the same. "You okay?" The question was his, he knew it, this time. The whisper was right up against his left ear, hot on his skin. Doggett felt himself give an involuntary shiver. He nodded into the tee-shirt. Not so bad, he thought. Been better, been worse. Better than being served up for dinner on a dirty sidewalk. He moved his hands up to the A.D.'s back, spreading his fingers, pulling the other man closer. He could do this. No problem. He could always pretend it was a woman. He thought about that for a while, then dismissed it. No. That wasn't right. It felt different, bigger. More solid. Maybe it was just that he didn't feel like he had to be the protective one, the tough guy. He ran his hands over hard muscle. No way he had imagination enough to pretend this was a woman. Besides, he'd never done a woman the disservice of imagining she was someone else, so he wouldn't insult Skinner like that. And another thing, it smelled different. Dogget inhaled, experimentally. Yeah. Locker rooms and... ghosts of a barrack-room. Rudy Wallis entered his mind again, for the second time that evening. Doggett bit back a chuckle. What the hell would Rudy have made of this? Would he be pleased that Doggett was finally wrapped in a man's arms, moving sensuously to sappy music? Or would he be pissed that it was some other man's arms, and not his own? Doggett remembered the touch of Rudy's hand on his chest that day in the shower, remembered the look in his eyes. Pissed. Oh God, he would be royally pissed. Sorry, Rudy, my man. He felt the scratch of beard, as Skinner breathed into his neck. Sorry I never dared dance with you, Rudy. He hugged Skinner tight, remembering years before. God... You'd have loved this. Turning his head slightly, eyes still closed against stinging eyes from the bomb blast, Doggett kissed the side of Skinner's neck without conscious thought. I should have swallowed my stupid pride and kissed you before, he thought. Instead of waiting for two minutes too late. I'm sorry Rudy. A large hand moved down to hold his rear. Doggett didn't flinch. It held him tight against the man in his arms, pressing their hips together. They swayed to the music. This was real nice. Hot enough for Beirut, but... He frowned against a damp neck. Beruit? He'd never danced in Beruit. Where the hell was he? Doggett's mind did a helpful rewind of the last couple of minutes, wrenching his shocked eyes open when he got to the bit... Shit. He. Just. Kissed.... Oh fuck. He was dead. No question. Might as well lie down and put ketchup on his dick - Skinner would be handing him over to the killer on a platter. Doggett braced himself for impact. The hand on his neck just carried on stroking. The hand on his ass never twitched. Why wasn't he freaking out? Doggett wondered. This was seriously weird. Never mind Skinner, he thought, he was the one who just kissed another man. How fucked up was that? The trapdoor in his head, right next door to Common Sense' and labelled Self-Awareness', flapped open, spilling out an uncomfortable thought. Not nearly as fucked up as the idea that you're dancing with this man, and getting into it in a big way. Doggett frowned. A big way? Get outta town. Nah. Not him. Skinner moved his hips slightly, and Doggett's homed back in, with a will of their own. They circled around, cat-like, then stilled, tight against what felt most definitely like a... Oh. My. God. Skinner had a boner. The concept dried Doggett's throat, making it hard to swallow his shock. Oh shit. Oh shit. The trapdoor flapped, unleashing another uncomfortable home- truth. Take a look downstairs, Big Dog, it said. So have you. A small noise wriggled out of Doggett's parched throat. Skinner pulled his head away from Doggett's neck, and bracing the other man with his hand, looked carefully. "You okay?" he asked very softly. Doggett hoped it was too soft for the mic to pick up. Please God, let it be too soft for the mic. Doggett wet his lips. Was he okay? The whole question seemed too big to know how to start answering it. Skinner spoke again. "John?" "Huh?" All his mental trapdoors were bolted. Nailed shut and barred. Skinner brought his thumb round the side of Doggett's neck and rubbed the side of his jaw. It slid over the damp, freshly shaven skin. Doggett stared up slightly into dark eyes that seemed unconcerned with anything other than asking if he was okay. God! What a question. Maybe he was okay yesterday, and maybe he'd be okay tomorrow. But right now, Doggett's world was narrowed and tilting crazily, with all roads, less travelled or not, leading towards a very hard reason to not be okay, in his pants. "I'm..." He cleared his dry throat and tried to keep his voice low and steady. "I'm kinda strugglin' here, sir," he whispered. Understatement of the century. There was a smile on Skinner's mouth, just a little one, quirking up one corner. "Yeah." He nodded. "I know." Doggett swallowed again he had to explain. He had to excuse what was going on without his permission, in his pants. "I'm not..." he told himself and Skinner. The thumb rubbed up and down. "I know." "I don't..." Skinner smiled properly. "I know." Doggett frowned. Couldn't the man say anything else? And why did he have to keep doing that thing with his thumb. It was driving him nuts. "It doesn't matter." Either his brain was fried, or Skinner's was. Must be the heat . "What doesn't matter?" "What you are." He leaned closer. "Or not." Okay. This was just nuts. Certifiable. Off the wall. He wasn't making any sense to himself, and Skinner made even less. This oblique' shit must be catching. Doggett blinked several times. Fuckin' great. Now his eyesight was going. Either that, or Skinner was getting closer. Nah. Oh shit. The bigger man was homing in. Pulling his head towards him. Doggett opened his mouth to speak. Someone had to put the brakes on this crazy shit. This was as far into role-play as he wanted to venture. "I don..." Was all he managed before Skinner's mouth covered his. Fuck. Two hands jerked in surprise on Skinner's back, and his belly rolled over then tightened. Holy shit! * Part 7/16 The hands on his face and ass held him in place while he was firmly thoroughly kissed. Out of control with curiosity, his brain fired questions at him in an insane spray of demands, while his body tried desperately to sort out the torrent of physical input. Was this how it felt to be kissed like a woman? Was this the way he did it to women? Was it any different? Skinner's mouth is hot, it told him, stupidly. And wet. And hard. Those were just the basics, Doggett told himself. There's a damn sight more going on here, than just that. Hello? This is a guy kissing you, his logical mind pointed out. Like I could miss that one, Doggett thought, feeling the scratch of stubble and the ridge of another man's erection pressed up against his. And that in itself was another thing on his mind. Far from shrivelling up in shock, his dick was raging in his jeans, indignant at its constraint. Tonight's entertainment is brought to you by the letter F, for Fuckin' hell... How about that? Did someone forget to tell my dick I'm straight? That's as maybe, his body asked, but doesn't it feel damn good? Yeah. Yeah, he had to reluctantly admit that it did. Doggett's eyes slid shut as he gave a thin groan. This man sure knew how to kiss. A silky tongue was sliding in and out of his mouth, sending waves of lust down to his groin and clouding his brain. His dick throbbed. Fuck it. Doggett angled his head to allow Skinner to go deeper. You bastard Rudy, you never told me it would feel like this. Had it been minutes? Hours? Doggett hadn't the faintest idea. The kiss had stretched out in languid and erotic elastic and around the two of them, shutting out the noise, smoke and heat. Completely focussed on giving and receiving the best kiss he could recall in a coon's age, Doggett leaned in and gave as good as he got. Which was pretty much everything, and very nearly too much. With a gasp, he pulled away. Air. His chest heaved in protest. His cock ached in protest. His logical mind had given up protesting in the face of such naked, furious lust. "Shit..." he gasped out. He ran his tongue over wet lips and stared at the face in front of him, studying it as if for the first time. Dark eyes regarded him. "Okay?" That same damned question again. "Maybe," he answered, hoarsely giving nothing away. "Why'd you stop?" Skinner asked, running his hand up the side of Doggett's face and into his savagely short hair. Doggett arched his head into the caress. Why had he stopped? That was the $64,000 question wasn't it? He hadn't stopped because everyone could see. He hadn't stopped because it was wrong. Or even because this was his superior. He smoothed the tee-shirt over Skinner's back, thinking. He had to say something. The eyes with ridiculously long lashes gazed back patiently. After sharing a kiss like that, the truth was the only honourable thing he could offer. He leaned in. "Because if you'd kept doin' that," he whispered close to Skinner's ear. "I'd have disgraced myself in my jeans... Sir." Laughter rumbled up out of Skinner's chest. He hugged Doggett tight while he rocked, helplessly giving in to his mirth. Grinning at the absurdity, Doggett clung on, squashing the mic between them. He idly wondered what Mulder and the team made of the noise that was emerging from the A.D. More comfortable minutes passed. Eventually, Skinner calmed and pushed himself away. He gripped Doggett's biceps and looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his crotch long enough to make Doggett squirm slightly. "What?" he whispered. "Just looking," Skinner replied softly. "Yeah, well..." "I want..." It was Skinner's turn to hesitate. Doggett tilted his head up to look into his face. "What?" Letting go of one arm, the A.D. put his hand between them, and laid it over Doggett's crotch. Unable to help himself, Doggett jumped a little. Skinner grinned at the reaction and spoke firmly. "I want..." Doggett pulled a face and tapped his chest. Too loud. He jerked the other man towards him again, trapping his hand. He put his lips to Skinner's cheek. "Quietly," he told him, pausing to inhale the scent of the skin under his lips. Shit, he was getting used to this in record time. "I want to do something about this," Skinner said, gently squeezing Doggett's package. Doggett groaned and thrust forward. Fuck, the pressure was killing him. His pushed his hips again. Screw the Bureau, screw the case, and screw that he was straight. He wanted to do something about that dammed handful, too. "Oh..." he said, dropping his head to Skinner's shoulder again. He'd better quit that real soon. The hand began a rhythmic motion. No... oh shit, no. The friction was exquisite. "Not now..." he gasped into Skinner's neck. "God, not now." He could feel, rather than hear that laughter again. Bastard, he was teasing. Doggett pulled away and glared. Nodding, Skinner pulled his hand away, leaned forward and kissed him lightly, in apology. Doggett accepted it, wondering if he falling down the pink equivalent of a rabbit hole. Nothing to 100 miles an hour in the space of a kiss. "Okay. Not now," Skinner whispered. "But soon." Better be soon, Doggett thought, swallowing the tension. Or his balls were going to explode. He rested his forehead to Skinner's, closing his eyes. "Yeah." "Promise," Skinner told him, rubbing his arms. "I'm gonna shoot you if you're lyin' to me," Doggett replied, surprising himself by meaning every damned word. "Deal." Doggett looked up. This was... Well, weird didn't even begin to come close, any more. Here he was standing in a gay club, held tight in his superior's arms, who happened to be another guy. And he wasn't screaming to get away. He wasn't punching the guy out for having kissed him, shit... He was even letting him do it again. Guess what? He was standing slap-bang in the middle of a his own personal fucking X-File. Letter A, for Amazing. "Deal," he agreed. Then he angled his head and kissed Skinner. Not as hard as he had been kissed, but not bad for a beginner, all the same. "Federal Agent! Everyone stay where you are!" The voice cut between Doggett and Skinner, slicing them apart like a couple of scalded cats. "Fuck!" Doggett spun around, looking for the voice. The music died, the lights came on, and Doggett could see the crowd parting over the other side of the club as a swathe of black and gold FBI jackets moved in. "Nobody move!" That was Mulder's voice. Doggett threw a glance over his shoulder, but Skinner had melted into the crowd. He frowned. Was that a sliver of disappointment? He shook his head. Get real, Marine, he told himself, you really wanna get caught lockin' lips with the A.D.? He grinned at himself, pleased to feel his familiar one-sided grin back. At least that felt something like normal. He glanced down at his jeans. No evidence there. The fright of hearing the words Federal Agent' had scared his boner away quicker'n a cold shower. Mulder and the others were cutting through the crowd, making their way over to where Doggett stood. Shit. What was going on? Had they overheard on the mic? Cold panic threatened to roll Doggett's stomach. "Agent Doggett!" Someone was calling his name. "Agent Doggett!" "Over here," he replied, holding up a hand. His other hand quickly wiped his mouth. He was being stupid. No-one could tell he'd been making out. Not as if Skinner was wearing lipstick... Jesus. "Agent Doggett." It was one of the new guys, on probation from Vice. "It's all over. Case is closed." The young agent waved his hand behind him. "We got him." "Agent Bryant," Doggett scowled. "Keep details to a minimum in the public domain." The young man blushed. "Yes, sir. Sorry sir." Real Life was flooding back to him now. Her cleared his throat. No problem. He looked around. "Where's the Agent in charge?" Bryant indicated behind. "Agent Scully's outside. She said to defer to Agent Mulder." "Okay." Wiping his hands down his jeans and fighting the urge to look for Skinner, Doggett walked forward. "Let's go." The walk across the dance floor was surreal. The men parted like extras from the Red Sea. They all stared. Mr. Licky was staring at him with a very ill expression on his face. Doggett took vicious pleasure in staring back and watching the colour drain from his face. Try pinching my tits now, perv, he thought. The huge guy in the leather was open-mouthed. Doggett nodded at him, as he walked past, almost smiling when the giant stepped away. Not such a tough guy. Mulder was standing by the Emergency Exit, in conversation with a skinny Drag-Queen. "You'd be willing to testify to that?" Mulder was saying. "Uh-huh." The queen was staring up at Mulder in awe. Not quite drooling, but near enough. Doggett nodded at Mulder. "Agent." Mulder nodded back. "Take your information to the guy over there, and he'll arrange for someone to take your statement." The guy's huge sparkly eyelashes fluttered. "Can't you do that?" he simpered. "No." Mulder smiled. "I'm far too important." He turned to Doggett as the Drag Queen minced away. "Hey. Have any fun?" Doggett stamped down on the rising annoyance. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Mulder exactly what kind of fun he'd had, but he just shook his head. "You never give up, do you, Agent Muldah?" Mulder grinned. "Better believe it, Agent Doggett." Bizarrely, a sunflower seed flew into the air and into Mulder's mouth. "We got him." "The killer?" "No. Ronald McDonald." He rolled his eyes. "Of course the killer. Out there." Doggett didn't think Kersh would put up much of a fuss if he took out Mulder's issue and just shot the joker in the head. It'd be doing everyone a favour. "Show me." Moving past Mulder, Doggett pushed the bar to the Exit and hit the night air with relief. It was cold enough to raise goose bumps on his body, but glorious after the heat in the club. Pulling the tails of his tee-shirt up with one hand, Doggett roughly ripped the wire from his chest. He welcomed the sharp pain, glad to get the instrusive thing off his body. Wordlessly, he handed it over to Mulder. "Uh. Gee, thanks, Doggett," he said, taking the mic between two fingers. There were a circle of officers and agents standing around in typical post-case donut-and-coffee stance, talking, shooting the shit. "There," Mulder said from behind, pointing. Sitting against the alley wall was a man clutching a pair of black jeans and the remains of a white tee-shirt. Even from twenty feet away, Doggett could see he was trembling fit to bust. He was holding a Styrofoam cup in one hand, spilling most of it over the wreckage of his clothes. Agent Scully was crouching in front of him. Doggett moved over for a closer look. Scully looked up as he approached and nodded. Biting back a comment, Doggett stared. The guy was him. Well, no. That was just crazy. But it was a near thing. Real short hair, tee and jeans. Like Mulder had said, skinny and mature'. Shit. A shiver ran through him. "Are you alright, Agent Doggett?" Scully asked, standing with her hands on her back. He nodded, thinking : No. You must be joking. "Good job, Agent Scully." He pointed at the intended victim. "Saved number four." Scully nodded. "Yes. Just." "You shoot the perp?" He needed to know. He hoped they had. Would have been fine by him to blow the sick shit away, whoever it was. She shrugged, moving side to let the paramedics see to the near victim on the floor. As he stood up, Doggett could see the poor bastard had wet himself. He looked away. "Shoulder wound." She sounded as disappointed as he felt. Mulder stood behind her. "Take a look, Agent Doggett. See if you saw him in there." He didn't want to. Shit, he really didn't want to look. He didn't want to put a face to the activities he'd seen in those photographs. "Sure," he said. Because he was a good F.B.I. agent and that was what was expected of him. He moved to the back of the meat- wagons, Mulder and Scully following. The red flashing lights of the ambulances were bathing everything with their bloody touch. It seemed apt, somehow. Fit the mood. "Wait up, guys," Mulder called, halting the loading of the gurney. The medics paused and reluctantly, Doggett moved to stand by the stretcher. He had a sick feeling in his gut. There was no need for him to look. He knew what he was going to see. Knowing his luck, knowing the jokes that God sometimes liked to play. It was so obvious he felt a bubble of laughter in his belly. The club soda murmured in his stomach. Well, this was no great surprise. On the sheet, lay a hand with rings on every finger. The lights bled scarlet on the gold. The hand looked dipped in blood. Doggett could suddenly taste his evening meal.