#*doggett

Doggett slid the card across the table. “This is you, right?”

And true enough, in clean lettering read the name JOHN CONSTANTINE, as well as the rest of his absurdly intricate title. It looked like the card had been kept in supremely good condition, tucked away somewhere nice instead of shoved and crumpled in someone’s pocket for five years.

“‘Exorcist, demonologist, and master of the dark arts’. All of those things?”

the mouth

sharp teeth, sharper tongue, all growl and bark and bite, bite, bite. your power is gritted teeth and set jaws, quick and powerful words, decisive actions. everything you do is so personal and vulnerable - the way you love, the way you are loved, the way you attack, the way you drink in and feast on life.

Whoa... whoa, the AD’s head was on his shoulder.

Which, y’know, wasn’t so bad. There were worse people he could have on his shoulder. But with Scully leaning against his left shoulder and Skinner apparently leaning against his right, Doggett’s palms began sweating with anxiety.

They were on the back row of the bus meant to send them to the latest annual teambuilding session. Mulder and Reyes had drawn the short straws and were sat in the front row, though he imagined the real short straws belonged to the poor driver who had to listen to them talk about the new Matrix movie that just came out for the entirety of the drive.

It was a little after sunrise now. Supposedly the bus ride was an all night thing and they weren’t there yet, but Doggett’s internal clock was precise, which meant that he was the first one to wake up at exactly five in the morning.

But man, he didn’t think he’d wake up to this. He couldn’t stop the tips of his ears from getting warm, wondering if any of the other agents in the bus had woken up and looked back to see him doing his best pillow impression.

Feeling Skinner stir, he stiffened immediately. The man was waking up, and... and then what? Would Skinner pretend that he didn’t fall asleep on his shoulder? Should Doggett pretend his boss didn’t fall asleep on his shoulder?

God damn it. It was moments like these he missed Criminal Investigations, if only because he didn’t like anyone enough for shoulder leaning to be a thing. John liked Walt, though. He liked Walt like he liked Monica, and Dana, and Mulder.

But whereas the three idiots were highly likely to lean against him, Doggett never thought Skinner would.

Thinking he had to say something, he managed a soft, “M... mornin’, sir.”

Both hands raised in an indication of surrender (so this woman knew he wasn’t after her), Doggett gave a slight shake of his head. “Believe it or not, ma’am, I think we’re huntin’ down the same thing.

“It made those marks in the trees, right?”

One of his hands curled its fingers in, everything but the index, and Doggett pointed in the direction of the claw marks that criss-crossed in on a birch tree about thirty degrees from his front. They were territorial marks... or at least that was what he assumed based on the files in the basement he’d read through.

God knew he was out of his depth here.

It’s the way Rohrer looks, confident and pleased as he straddles him and declares he’s won, that has John’s heart jumping up into his throat. It’s not that he didn’t expect this-- Rohrer’s taller than him, heavier than him, and by all accounts has dedicated more hours to perfecting technique than John ever would-- but the way that Rohrer grins with triumph is something else. Something sweeter, he thinks, than he thought it would be, even if by all accounts John isn’t a sore loser, and he wouldn’t have been cross with him anyway.

He exhales, the corner of his mouth pulling up into something like amusement. “Huh.”

One of his arms slips, his wrist leaving Rohrer’s grip, and his fingers slide up to grasp his collar with a faint smirk.

“Right.”

Sitting up is easy.

saturn

Saturn embodies the spirit of the scholar; you pull knowledge from the universe and spin it into wisdom for others who ask for it. Once you set your mind to something, you have a tendency to develop tunnel vision by ignoring other people and your needs. When you are able to balance yourself and your ambitions, however, you are a magnificent force of intelligence.

meme.

It was an accident, Doggett wanted to tell himself. Entirely unintentional. Something born out of instincts that were meant to be long dead.

But Mulder had made him lunch, of all things. Mulder, who had all the cooking ability of a university student, had decided that today he’d give Doggett a sandwich and some greens and fruit in a brown paper bag like it was his first day at school.

He didn’t know why. Granted, since Scully’s first visit to his home, Mulder had been far more amicable, but the lunch had thrown him off so severely it was like his mind had shut down. All that was left then was instinct-- the memory left in his body.

And apparently what his body could remember was that the last time he had someone call to him before leaving for work, asking him to wait because he forgot his lunch, this person had been his ex-wife.

So, in place of confusion (which was deadly in a world like this), instinct gave way to taking the bag in hand, as he used to forever ago. It gave way to a ‘thank you’ coming out of his mouth. It gave way to Doggett leaning in and kissing Mulder on the lips with a ‘goodbye’.

And then, as if this was all natural, he left and shut the door after him without even sparing a glance at Mulder’s face, and it was only when he was sat alone in his transporter that the horror began to set in.

It would’ve stuck with him all day if Doggett wasn’t good at compartmentalising. But as it was, the experience was packed away, sealed with duct tape, and shoved into the far corner of his mind.

It returned in full force as soon as he got home, though.

Oh, he still opened the door as usual, of course. And he entered as usual, and shrugged his coat off as usual, and undid the buttons to his suit jacket as usual, but instead of opening his mouth and telling Mulder he was home, he hesitated.

And John Doggett wasn’t supposed to hesitate, not in this world.

In an effort to keep moving, he tried to go upstairs as quietly as possible. Maybe they wouldn’t have to acknowledge it. Maybe Mulder wouldn’t ask him about it. Maybe Doggett was safe.

He’d just wash the containers Mulder had given him later at night while the other man slept. Easy peasy, right?

Except he walked right into his closed bedroom door, split the wood with the impact against his face, and brought a cracking noise that was definitely way, way too loud.

meme. ( @petmulder )

It was only after a whole weekend of being away from Fox that he noticed it. In John’s defence, though, the past week had been so ridiculous-- and had ended with a culmination all the way in his old stomping grounds of Georgia-- that he didn’t have any energy to do anything when he got home save for shower, crawl into bed by Fox’s sleeping form, and hold onto him until he passed out.

But when he woke at nine on Monday morning (Skinner had given him the next few days off, thank God), far later than his usual wake up time of five in the morning, he found himself caught up in his omega’s scent, especially since now he had the time to really bask in it.

John glanced up slightly, catching the clumsy resting face of his passed out lover, and took a good, long moment just looking at him before burying his face in his chest again. Fox always smelled so good, but he was smelling even better now-- better than he could ever remember him being. All the time away from him was suddenly hitting him all at once, and John sighed quietly as he trailed an affectionate touch along Fox’s side and up towards his chest.

That was when he felt it, of course.

It was slight, very slight, but as he traced upward from Mulder’s hip (one of his favourite places to kiss), he felt the smallest swell of his belly.

And his eyes widened with it.

Doggett switched tactics, his nose still pressed to Mulder’s chest as he traced a proper circle, and he felt it again. The slightly stretched flesh, the tiniest little bump...

And, sparing Mulder’s sleeping face one more glance, he couldn’t help the smile.

The rest came to him like clockwork: kissing Fox’s chest, kissing the dip between them, and moving lower and lower as his position changed in bed and John hid further beneath the sheets.

He kissed the top of Fox’s rounded stomach, and-- feeling fingertips brush through his hair-- he grinned as he crawled back up to his barely awake mate and kissed his parted lips. All the while, John’s hand stayed on his belly.