JiM :: In Common Hours

If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

—Thoreau

It took Doggett a while to realize what had happened to them.

He got his first clue the Sunday morning he and Skinner had both been invited to Scully's house to see her new baby. She and Mulder welcomed them matter-of-factly and showed off their new baby as if the child weren't a miracle, as if the fact that they were all standing there counting toes and letting tiny fingers curl around massive scarred and callused forefingers weren't a fucking miracle in and of itself.

Skinner was holding William, big hands incongruously gentle with the tiny body. Doggett stood at his shoulder and let the baby mindlessly grip at his finger and was surprised to know that he felt nothing but pleasure for Scully and Mulder and a kind of abstract warmth for the child. The tearing memories of holding his own child no longer ambushed him. The sheer relief of realization made him catch his breath and look away.

When he turned back, he saw it. Scully was sitting on the couch, laughing up at Mulder, who stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder. And he stood next to Skinner, leaning in and agreeing absently with anything Skinner said to or about the child. In the next moment, he saw that Mulder knew it, too. One long slow instant in which Mulder smiled gently, a little wistfully at him and gave a fractional nod.

/I don't need anyone's fucking permission/ was Doggett's first thought.

Wondering why he had thought that kept him distracted for the rest of the visit.

It was as if complicity had made them friends. Or, if not strictly friends, it had shown them the spaces into which the other might fit without causing any more damage to already shattered lives. That second awakening with one another, on a long golden afternoon, had been as silent and empty of discussion as the first. He had loaned Skinner a razor and a shirt and given him a mug of coffee. Then they had gone to burn the shirt Skinner had been wearing and vacuumed every inch of his car. By evening, they were done. The evidence of Krycek's killing had been as thoroughly concealed or destroyed as two federal agents could make it. They had parted with few words and none of thanks or obligation.

But Doggett wasn't especially surprised to find Skinner on his door step the next Saturday morning, a basketball in hand. It ought to have surprised him, his dour boss shotgunning the ball into his chest, but it didn't. Somehow, it was part of their agreement now. Pick up games of basketball, an early movie, random householding at Doggett's, yardwork. There were never any plans, neither of them ever spoke of it in the office, but one would just appear at the other's house with some suggestion. It was always accepted.

They had slept beside one another only one other time. Doggett had fallen asleep in the middle of a movie, after a long and sleepless night spent by himself. He awoke to find himself slumped against the other man, head tilted away even as his shoulder kept contact. Skinner had said nothing, just taken him home, followed him inside and straight into bed. It had taken Doggett hours to fall asleep this time and he had felt Skinner awake right beside him, keeping watch in the darkness for him. When he had finally slept, there had been no dreams that he could recall.

They didn't talk about it. What was there to say, anyway?

A week later, in the middle of raking leaves and listening to some classic rock station that made him feel young and stupid all over again, Doggett said abruptly, "Mulder thinks we're dating."

Whatever reaction he had expected from Skinner, it wasn't the complete and total lack of a break in the rhythm of his raking. It certainly wasn't a headshake, a smile and "What—did he make you promise to have me home by curfew?" It was easy for Doggett to flip his boss the bird and go back to raking. And to chasing the nameless demon loose in his head and trying to lock the little bastard down before he said something else unforgivable.

It was hours later, as he took the last piece of pizza left in the box, that Skinner said thoughtfully, "Mulder's not often wrong." By then, Doggett had done such a good job of shutting down the more unruly parts of his brain that he didn't get it. Not at first. No, it took until he had half a mouthful of beer for him to really register Skinner's comment. Wiping up the beer and hacking gave him something to do for a minute as he tried to think of something intelligent to say. Finally, he remembered that he had been a Marine, had faced combat and giant flying bat creatures. This was worse than all of them, but he forced the words out anyway. "Are we?"

Skinner looked pensive as he took his last swallow of beer before putting the empty back on the table. "From a certain angle, I guess it looks …," he began, then stopped.

"Are we?"

"Hell if I know, John." Skinner rubbed a hand over the back of his sunburned neck. "It'd be a pretty damned strange excuse for a courtship. Raking leaves, car crashes, destroying evidence, the occasional basketball game…"

"The beer is good," Doggett offered, watching his own fingers peeling the label off the empty bottle in his hands. When Skinner said nothing else, he asked, "It doesn't bother you?"

"That Mulder thinks I might be gay? It beats just about anything else he may have thought of me. Why, does it bother you?"

"Mulder bothers me," Doggett said with a hint of growl in his voice. Damn the man, why had he ever poked this sleeping dragon? In the next moment, his sense of justice reasserted itself. One meaningful look and a smile from Mulder had not started this.

He had, months ago, when he had crawled into Skinner's bed and let himself be cuddled to sleep. He had, weeks ago, when he had led his dazed and miserable boss to his own bed to hold him while he cried and shook. He had, when he had opened his door and caught the ball Skinner tossed to him. He had, every single time he had knocked on Skinner's door, climbed into his car, or mentioned a movie he wanted to check out. Somewhere, he'd crossed a line and never noticed it nor wanted to notice it. All Mulder had done was to point out what was already there. Damn the man.

"Don't worry about it, John. It's not like I'm expecting flowers," Skinner said with a quirk of his lip and got up to toss out the pizza box.

"Well, I'd sure as hell expect you to put out if we were dating." Doggett was absurdly pleased to hear Skinner's beer bottle hit the kitchen floor. He started to grin. They were tap-dancing on landmines and he hadn't felt like this in years. A snort came from the kitchen, then, "Maybe you'd better try the flowers."

"I bought dinner," Doggett reminded him, still grinning at the ceiling.

"A pizza won't get you laid, John." Skinner came to lean up against the door frame, lips curved. The light flashed oddly on his glasses and Doggett couldn't tell what expression was in his eyes.

"Hell, it used to work in college."

"Yeah? Must have been one cheap bunch you ran with. Where did you go to college?" And the dangerous moment passed, although that new knowledge still hummed and sparked within him. They talked alma maters and traded stupid sophomoric tales and neither of them had any more beer. /Just in case/ Doggett thought, then clamped down hard on the thought.

But the danger hadn't passed at all. Doggett realized it only as Skinner was leaving, shrugging into his leather jacket and putting his hand on the doorknob. He made some random 'goodnight' comment and Skinner started to reply and that's when he knew. Skinner's mouth suddenly fascinated him, maybe always had and how weird was it to realize that only now? Suddenly, those lips were still and Skinner stared back at him and that damned demon was crowing in Doggett's skull.

Then Skinner leaned forward, very slowly, very carefully and kissed him.

It was unexpectedly gentle, closed lips pressed against his, moving just a fraction. There was a tiny rasp of unshaven chin against his and then Skinner's mouth drew away from his. The first thing Doggett noticed, besides Skinner's carefully assessing gaze, was that the demon in his head was absolutely silent, gone. He was on his own.

The next thing he noticed was that Skinner smelled good. Like leather and sweat and sunlight and clean things. The leather of his jacket whispered a little under Doggett's fingers as he took hold of those broad shoulders and pushed Skinner back against the door. Then he kissed Skinner and this time, it was a little wetter, a little longer, a lot better.

Christ, it had been so long. By the time Skinner's tongue actually touched his, he was hungry for it and didn't care that it was a man kissing him, so long as someone was. Skinner's hands were moving lightly over his shoulders and he suddenly had no patience with anything tentative. He shoved his chest against Skinner's and brought his hands up to tilt Skinner's head to just the right angle. When he found it, Skinner made a surprised sort of noise into his mouth and his hands curled into blunt claws against Doggett's back. Much better, the two of them straining against one another, muscle and heat and bone and no room for thought.

Somehow, while he was trying to get Skinner out of that leather jacket, he wound up against the door with Skinner a warm weight against his chest. One hard thigh pressed itself between his legs and when Skinner flexed that leg, Doggett nearly shouted from the firm pressure against his half-hard cock. The drag of teeth down the tendon of his neck and the scrape of beard across his ear lobe had him panting and jerking. His head thumped against the glass and then Skinner's fingers were there, rubbing gently at the bruise and cushioning his head as he was kissed again firmly. Skinner was pressed against him and he felt how hard the other man was. Strange to feel this way and to feel another man's erection against his own. Strange, but good. Good, but…

"This is crazy," he gasped, breath gusting across Skinner's cheek and ear, causing him to shiver.

"Yup," Skinner agreed, yanking Doggett's tee shirt out of the waistband of his jeans. Those large hands skimmed up the skin of Doggett's back, making him arch a little closer to Skinner's chest. They leaned their foreheads together. Doggett could feel Skinner's breath on his face. "Wanna file harassment charges?"

"Oh, yeah. Lemme go get a pen," Doggett made as if to leave. Skinner barked out a laugh and yanked him back. They wrestled like much younger men for a moment, testing each other's mettle and grinning like idiots. Suddenly they were reclaimed by the sobriety of lust and Doggett felt his grin fade in the heat of the other man's gaze. "Upstairs," he said, and swallowed. Skinner just nodded, then shucked his jacket and left it on the floor by the door.

He could feel Skinner's eyes on him all the way up the stairs.

In his bedroom, it was oddly like the other two times Skinner had slept here. They both stood and stripped down. Nothing was said, neither looked at the other. Skinner folded his glasses and put them on the bedside table. His watch followed.

Doggett decided that thinking was his enemy right now; if he didn't think, he had a decent chance of getting laid tonight. In fact, finally looking up at Skinner's nude body, he thought it was a more than decent chance. It was a hell of a decent body, even if he had never much appreciated the male form before.

Skinner was looking at him intently. Finally, his nerves jangled and he snapped, "What?"

"I've seen you eat; where the hell does it go?"

Variations on a theme, he thought. A slender boy, then a skinny recruit, a wiry cop and heading for scrawny middle aged Fibbie, especially standing next to Walter Skinner, who had some slabs of muscle hidden under all those well-tailored dress shirts. There was an interlacing of scars across Skinner's abdomen, low and rippling against otherwise smooth flesh. Doggett found himself wanting to trace each long ridge.

"It's my libido," Doggett said sadly. "I just burn it off faster than I can keep it on."

Skinner laughed again, a low purring sound in his nearly empty bedroom. Then Doggett was tackled and he bounced onto the bed with his arms full of a naked man. Well, that took care of that awkward transition from stripping to bed, he had to admit.

In any of his vague wondering about gay sex, it had never occurred to him that it might be fun. Certainly he and his wife had had their share of laughs in bed, but somehow, he had never quite managed to wrap his head around the idea that it wouldn't all be a deadly serious pursuit of vice. He knew it was his own mental bullshit, but he was still surprised to hear his own laughter. Skinner kept grinning at him every time he found a ticklish spot with his fingers or his mouth. Christ, that mouth was going to kill him.

Skinner was serious again and he applied himself intently. He paused to lick and nip at Doggett's nipples; finding no particular reaction there, he slid lower. Doggett's hands locked onto his shoulders, but he was unable to stop Skinner, didn't really want to as he carefully traced the bow of Doggett's ribcage with his tongue. With a sudden twist of his head, Skinner's mouth was fixed to the inside of Doggett's elbow, licking and sucking. Doggett wanted to be embarrassed when he heard himself moan. Then Skinner's teeth lightly nipped at the tender skin and Doggett found himself curled into a ball around Skinner, making noises that could only be described as whimpering.

Skinner pulled back and smiled at him with wet lips. "Elbows, huh?"

Doggett swallowed and nodded dumbly.

"Let's see what else works. That OK with you, John?"

Doggett could only nod again.

His right hip, but not his left. The flat surface of his abdomen, just above the curve of his straining cock. The brush of Skinner's bristled chin against that sensitive skin nearly sent him off the bed. Long slow strokes of warm hands up his thighs, down his flanks to soothe him again. The feeling of his balls resting lightly in one of those warm hands was curiously comforting. The shock of Skinner's mouth on his cock was enough to make him groan and thrash. Skinner eased off and stroked his stomach lightly. "Shh, buddy. I've got you." His eyes were dark and steady and he waited until Doggett nodded.

Hot. Wet. Good. Really good. Words floated through Doggett's mind as he stared up at the ceiling and his boss sucked his cock. His hands drifted down to rest on Skinner's head and there was really no way for him to not know who was sucking him off. His fingers curved over a bald skull, combed through the short fringe of hair at the back of his neck, rode out the undulations as Skinner took him deeper, then pulled off to lick around the head.

Climax took him by surprise, he was so caught up in how Skinner was doing it. He came with a long moan and felt himself pouring into Skinner's mouth in three or four jerking bursts that arced him off the bed again. Skinner put a hand on his hip to hold him down and continued sucking and licking until Doggett whimpered and weakly tried to thrash free. Skinner finally released him and sat up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand when he met Doggett's dazed stare.

"You trying to kill me, Walter?" Doggett reached out a hand, not sure what he wanted, but wanting to try anyway. Skinner slid up into the empty curve of Doggett's left arm. "Quit whining," Skinner said with a smug twitch of his lip. He lay next to Doggett and his erection was pushing insistently against Doggett's hip.

"What do you want?" Doggett whispered through dry lips.

"Anything you can give me, buddy. Anything you can handle."

"Oh, I can handle it, Mr. Skinner," Doggett growled, reaching for Skinner's cock before he could think any more about it. Skinner's gasp in his ear was pure triumph and his cock was a hard, silky length and Doggett's fingers curved as easily around it as they did around his own. He pulled Skinner's sweating body closer, flexing a little when he pushed his face into the curve of Doggett's neck. He found a rhythm Skinner seemed to like, one that had him sighing and making a noise like a long, slow rumble into Doggett's ear. His hand was slick and warm now, sliding easily up and down. A slight tightening of his fingers on the upstroke produced a soul-satisfying gasp and Doggett grinned at the ceiling as Skinner slowly writhed beside him. He stopped at one point, fingers still tightly curled around the shaft, and he let his thumb drag across the tip. Once. Twice.

Skinner growled, "John," and Doggett let his lip curl as he said, "Now, about that tickling earlier…"

"Please!" Skinner breathed raggedly against his throat and suddenly, Doggett couldn't play any more, didn't want to play any more. He let his hand slide back into that easy rhythm again and he tightened his arm around Skinner and he barely heard himself whispering, "Easy, come on, that's it, let it go…"

And Skinner's body tightened and seized against him and then his hand was sliding over sticky warm wetness and there were gasps against his skin and then a hand that gripped his wrist and stopped it cold. Skinner's fingers slowly loosened, once he was certain that Doggett wouldn't stroke newly-tender flesh again. They pulled apart, damp skin sticking a little, then they both flopped back onto the bed, shoulder to shoulder, to stare at the ceiling and just breathe.

After a time, Doggett realized that his right hand was still wet and sticky, only now it was cold. He held it up and looked at the nearly colorless smears for a while and wondered what to do about it. Before he could wipe it on the bedspread, Skinner reached over and took hold of his wrist. With a piece of Kleenex from the box beside the bed, he carefully wiped at Doggett's hand. Then he dabbed at himself and Doggett looked back up at the ceiling and rubbed at his crazily sensitized elbow for a while.

When Skinner had tossed the wadded up ball in the general direction of the wastebasket, he began fumbling at the covers. Doggett finally got his remaining brain cells together and helped to get them both under the blankets. He reached out and turned off the bedside light. The room was unexpectedly black and his heart lurched childishly at the sudden unfamiliarity of his own bedroom. Skinner's arm slipped around his waist and he automatically turned onto his side, letting Skinner curl up behind him in what had become almost a familiar position for them.

"You OK with this?" The words drifted and stirred the hair at the back of his neck.

"Hell, Walter, I've been dead. I can handle laid just fine."

But it wasn't fine.

And somehow, the next morning, Skinner knew it. Knew that Doggett was winding up tighter and tighter just lying there and watching Skinner wake up beside him. Could see that Doggett desperately wanted to be all right with this, didn't want to be an asshole and somehow, he couldn't not be one. After a quick, silent cup of coffee, Skinner left. No good-bye kisses, thank god, no soft words or promises, just a long, unfathomable look and a nod. Then he was gone and Doggett could fall to pieces in decent privacy.

He didn't, not exactly. He did his laundry, watched TV, paid his bills, cleaned his weapons, didn't answer the phone, didn't answer the door, didn't leave the house. He even managed to cook a few meals, although eating them seemed like more effort than it was worth. He felt hot and itchy, like he had a fever, as if his skin was suddenly too tight, as if it might split and peel away and leave him new and too tender and someone he didn't recognize.

He got pissed at himself. Told himself that one blip wasn't going to redefine anything about him. Pointed out that he had chosen the single safest man he could have, a man over whom he actually had the power, if he ever took it into his head to file harassment charges. Reminded himself sternly that he had liked it.

Monday morning was something of a relief. When he got into the office, he found himself staring at the women he worked with, testing, evaluating his own response. When he felt himself growing warm at the sight of Agent Reyes' heretofore firmly unremarked nipples poking at the thin silk of her blouse, he wanted to kiss them in gratitude. By Wednesday, he had to give himself the speech about respecting and not lusting after his partner. But even that left him in a more cheerful frame of mind than he had been in days. At least until their regular weekly meeting with AD Skinner on Friday.

Because that's when he knew. He watched Skinner speak and heard not a damned thing as he saw those lips bow and flatten out, purse and press tightly together. Reyes' beautiful breasts had warmed him with lust, but the memory of Skinner's mouth, the sheer flexible reality of that mouth left him breathless with need. He rubbed absently at the inside of his elbow and felt a sharp pang of tangled lust and remembrance.

Shit.

They hadn't spoken since Skinner had left that morning. They had met only once, on Tuesday afternoon, in a crowded elevator. Skinner had nodded, face set in that sullen mask of indifferent politeness that he wore at the office. Doggett had nodded back, just as distant and unreal and he had gotten off at the next floor. He had figured that walking up four more flights of stairs to get where he was actually going was a fair price to pay for being chicken-shit.

But not a coward now, not under fire. Sitting here in front of Skinner, he could feel his ears burning, a flush climbing his face. Somewhere, he had read that men in their forties tended to lose their ability to blush. Just his luck.

He looked down at the page of meaningless notes he'd scrawled while Skinner had been talking to Reyes and wondered if what he was thinking was really so bad. His mother might think so. Certainly his dead preacher of a father would have—that alone was almost reason enough to do it. Well, that and the remembered feeling of being held and that hollow, burnt-out feeling that great sex leaves behind. Thought about holding the man in front of him, touching those scars, knowing that Skinner knew about the dark stuff inside him and his own scars and met it with his own, unafraid. Thought about basketball and beer and someone to hold the dummy end of the tape measure. About nightmares and snow and Skinner's mouth.

"Am I boring you, Agent Doggett?" Skinner's voice, dry and crisp, breaking into his thoughts.

"No, sir," Doggett said quickly and his lips twitched, remembering exactly how soft and ragged that voice could become, with the right persuasion. Both Skinner and Reyes gave him odd looks but they managed to finish the meeting without Doggett drifting away again.

It took him over an hour to get home that evening, which gave him plenty of time to second-guess himself and cement the slightly sick feeling in his stomach. After a shower and half an hour spent pacing, he finally got himself together and out the door.

Standing in front of Skinner's door with a six-pack felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. Knocking was stepping off.

Skinner's reaction, as he should have expected, was anticlimactic. "Agent Doggett?" When Doggett just shook his head, Skinner tried again. "John?"

Doggett just held up the six-pack and wished that he could think of something to say. After another one of those unfathomable long looks, Skinner stood aside and let him in. The TV was on, tuned to a basketball pre-game show. Cartons of Chinese food were spread out on the coffee table; food steamed on a plate. Skinner was in jeans and a faded blue sweatshirt and he looked tired, rumpled and a little defensive when Doggett's gaze lingered on the whiskey bottle on the table.

After a silence that lasted a little too long, he said, "Are you hungry?" Doggett wanted to smile when Skinner didn't even wait for a reply, just went and got another plate and a fork and set them on the coffee table next to his own. Instead, Doggett just sat down, pulled two bottles out of the cardboard carrier and twisted the tops off, putting one next to each plate. At Skinner's raised eyebrow, he said only, "Goes better with Chinese than Jack Daniels." They ate in silence, carefully focusing their attention on the ESPN hype and babble. Doggett chased the last few grains of rice around his plate for a while, then said, "You know, I always thought the one good thing about being with a guy would be that you never had to talk about …stuff."

Skinner snorted, then turned to look at Doggett. Shaking his head ruefully, he picked up his beer bottle and they solemnly clinked in a toast to the desperate desire to not talk about it. They drank, then Skinner said, "OK, John. So what don't you want to say?"

Doggett shrugged and stared at the screen for a minute. "I'm sorry?" he offered. Skinner's lip quirked and Doggett could almost see him trying not to grin. "What?" he demanded.

"If we're gonna kiss and make up, I want flowers."

"Aw, hell. Shoot me now," he groaned, suddenly feeling lighter than he had for days.

"Later," Skinner said, nudging him with his shoulder, "the game's starting."

And it was almost back to normal, the two of them just hanging out on the couch, watching a game and not talking. Except that now, every time he looked sideways at Skinner and saw his mouth or his hands, he saw the potential of them. The sensual promise in the callused fingers tapping against the beer bottle resting against his thigh. Remembered the brush of those lips in places that hadn't been kissed in a long, long time. The rough, sweet edge of teeth against his throat. The heat and strength of him.

OK. Almost normal. Except for being half-hard and torn between nerves and desire and plain old annoyance. He was too old for this crap, wasn't he?

The game wound down and he couldn't have said who won. Skinner turned off the post-game babble and started cleaning up the empty Chinese food cartons. Doggett clambered to his feet and collected the empties and followed Skinner into the kitchen.

Back out in the living room, the moment of truth came up before he was even ready for it. But he took a swing at it anyway. "Can I stay?" Doggett's voice was a little rough.

Skinner looked at him assessingly, then nodded. "Trouble sleeping again?"

"No," Doggett said firmly. "None at all."

It took a moment, but Skinner's probing look melted into something warmer, even a little hopeful. "Well, you've already been dead," he said, with a twist to his lips.

"Exactly," John Doggett said, and followed him out of the room.