The sounds reach him as soon as the elevator doors slide open; intermittent grunts, heaves, wheezes.
To John Doggett's trained mind, the sounds translate into clear indicators of some sort of ongoing struggle that get his senses tingling, and cause his own breath first to shorten, and then to come to a complete halt: a tiny whimper surfaces, tailgated by a cadence he recognizes all too well; a cadence he has memorized, and the very same one he has strained to keep off his mind as of late, furrows his brow: Dana. Trouble.
At once worried and enraged, Doggett's countenance shifts to one of determined action. His hand firmly on the grip of the gun hidden under his jacket, he gradually, carefully, slowly pushes open the door that separates him from the small basement office he's come to call his own, ready to shoot.
Still adjusting to the familiar murky ambiance of their assigned quarters, searching eyes fall upon four pearly white knuckles, steadily reddening against the outer rim of his - well, Fox Mulder's since he's returned- desk. Confusion clouds John's mind for a moment as he attempts to detect a second, maybe a third threatening presence in the room.
Defeated, his instinct still alert to a possible surprise attack from whatever angle, his eyes return to the hand on the desk, and trace a path upwards; a wrist, slender, delicate, connecting to an arm wrapped in bunched up white fabric, that droops several inches further up, exposing a creamy, deliciously freckled shoulder.
Doggett had been right as to whom he'd find in the room; Dana Scully's carmine hair spills onto her half naked backside in waves of a gentle fire, sways slowly and in tandem with the sounds exiting what he assumes, but can't be sure from where he stands planted behind a still partially opened door, are her parted lips. Sounds, that match the ones he's followed into the office, but whose motive he has overwhelmingly, staggeringly, and shockingly guessed wrong.
Doggett swallows, hard and desert-dry, as his vision expands to take in the full scene.
Dana Scully's perched on the edge of the mahogany desk, her back to the door, the objects that usually fill the tabletop are scattered on the floor, behind her, beside the table, everywhere.
Scully's left leg, the one he can see, is fully on display but for the line of dark scrunched cloth that adorns her her lap. Her hips move slowly, seemingly almost against her will, and her hand, the one he's caught sight of first, is visibly laboring to keep her steady.
Doggett draws in a sharp breath. She's… is she? Alone? His heart races furiously against his ribcage, like it means to bruise him on the inside. In a sudden, unwilling trance, and against the absurdity of the thought that Agent Dana Scully would indulge in self-pleasure at the FBI headquarters (basement or not), as well as against his better judgment, John nearly steps inside the room. His mind is suddenly nothing other than desire, drowning in pure urgency. To go to her, to watch her, to lend a hand. His hand, specifically.
One step, two steps.
John imagines he can feel the warmth of her rapid breath on his temple from where he stands, thinks his thumb can touch the rabbit-like pulse at the edge of her willowy wrist, taste the…
"Scully."
Doggett's hand reaches for the front of his neck, as if to make sure he hasn't accidentally spoken her name aloud, though he's certain the groan-like sound can't have been expelled by his own vocal chords. He stops in his tracks, startled. His fingers still gripping the collar of his shirt, he listens.
"Jesus, Scully, you taste amazing." A guttural grunt, coming from underneath the desk, beyond Dana's body. "Better than I remembered."
Fox Mulder crowns briefly from behind the desk, and Doggett catches a clear glimpse of the delicate fingers that belong to the hand he had assumed was between her thighs, tangled in Mulder's disheveled hair. A pull from those fingers, and the man that isn't him sinks back down with another grunt, one adorned with a hunger he understands all too well himself.
The shock has John take back the two steps he'd risked into the room only moments before; this is his cue to leave. He should leave. He has to leave. He must. This belongs to only the two active participants, and he's now officially their voyeur. Accidental or not.
But then Dana Scully sighs. She sighs, languidly, heavily, like she's just learned how to breathe, and Doggett's hand tightens around the brass doorknob on the door he was about to close behind him.
The very same doorknob his hand has tightened around so many times before in the past few months; when he's needed to keep himself from blurting out the way she makes him feel while she's trying to make him believe the unbelievable.
The same doorknob he's helplessly reached for when he's needed a steady ground under feet that want to run towards her, and promise to believe everything she believes in. Everything she'll want him to believe. Aliens, the Easter Bunny, Beelzebub himself.
"I know it sounds impossible, Agent Doggett." she tries to convince him, "But I can assure you that in my line of work I've now seen a good deal of far more impossible, incredible, and unexplainable things."
He hasn't, he's wanted to retort, again and again. Not in his line of work, not outside of it. Not once in his entire goddamned life, in fact, has he ever encountered anything as impossible, as incredible, or as unexplainable as Dana Scully.
But the words never materialize, which continuously brings them to that point in their exchange where John usually exhales and drags his tongue across his upper lip, in what he is sure his partner understands as annoyance, exasperation, even defiance. He knows it never crosses her mind that his tongue might be engaged in a futile search for the taste of her mouth, instead.
Now completely hypnotized, Doggett observes as a hand reaches upward from beyond the desk, and lazily slips over an already slightly exposed breast. John muffles a groan against the wooden door, as he watches that same hand push Scully's immaculately white dress-shirt further aside, and tug down the cup of her black lacy brassiere to reveal a hard, crimson nipple that two fingers - still painfully not his own - mercilessly, yet tenderly, proceed to tease.
He stares guiltily, his arousal flushing his cheeks, as Dana's shoulders sway like a swan landing gracefully after a flight, and her back arches to further ensconce her breast in Mulder's ravenous hand.
"Please. Please." Dana's roaring, her voice like tires on gravel, scratching the back of her throat.
Her throat.
John would kill to kiss her throat, haul his lips up and down the very place forging every single sound; encourage it to birth more of them.
She lets her frame fall fully onto the desk now, her chin pointed at the ceiling, her head dropping towards the floor.
For a moment Doggett thinks she might see him and much to his despair, he realizes the danger adds to his excitement. He almost wants to get caught, wants her to see him. Wants her to know how much he craves her, wants her to witness it, mirrored in his eyes: his unabashed yearning for her.
The pressure he's been doing his best to ignore this far, makes itself more pronounced in his crotch, to the point where he almost yelps in pain as he finally gives into his urge, and unzips his slacks to free himself from every restraint.
"Fuck" he curses under his breath, as his eyes return to her pearly skin, her sunset-coloured hair, the pebbled nipples he can only dream of wrapping his mouth around.
Mulder's tongue must, in the meantime, have tapped the perfect spot, because Scully's whimpering grows louder, and John's hand picks up speed on his painfully engorged cock.
"Fuuuck", he hisses again, now foregoing all guilt and shame and keeping his eyes on Scully's restlessness, on the way she seems to snake on top of the desk as if to get away from it. To escape. As if it's all too much.
She moans, and he knows she's calling, crying out "Fox", but in his newfound delirium he can hear nothing spilling from her lips that isn't akin to the spelling of his own name. John. Softly. John. Urgent. John.
Because in his thoughts, when he's making love to her, Dana Scully drops all formalities, and instead adopts that tender, affectionate tone she uses when she's concerned for him. John. When her strong facade is cast aside, and when he could swear, every damned time, that she's going to press her small, soft palm to his cheek and make all the bullshit in his head disappear. John, she'll utter. And everything's all right.
Dana sighs again, toward his pathetic wanking self. If she opens her eyes now, he knows she'll see him; her lids flutter and John's breath catches, but her eyes remain closed. The only things parted in the lust filled room are her legs, and her lips. Her plump pink lips, that are releasing shorter and shorter breaths, and louder and louder moans and yesses and right theres that make his own breath ragged and his cock twitch.
Doggett's hand follows each reverberation she utters like precise directions to the only place he can go. The only place he wants to go. The only place he's driving to, full speed ahead, the melody of Dana Scully's pleasure the only soundtrack to his journey. Her ecstasy engraved in his mind, if never meant to be engraved on his skin.
When she comes, John almost kneels in reverence at the sweet pain of it all; at fully realizing that that moment is the one he'll seek in his dreams of her for however fucking long he's meant to love her still.
"Dana", he speaks her name at the same time Mulder - now emerging but still too focused on the woman laying spent across his desk to notice him in the shadows - moans the exact same syllables, at a considerably louder volume, saving him yet again.
As Doggett redresses himself, his body still reeling from whatever power overtook his being, he remarks that the doorknob, formerly his only anchor, is now sporting some of the remnants of his release. In an impulse, he draws the sleeve of his shirt over his hand and reaches to wipe it down, stopping mere inches from the brass object, before deciding against it.
"Nah," he thinks, as he silently walks away and back towards the elevator that had brought him all the way down to what he knows will be the first and last glimpse he'll ever get of Dana Scully's wondrous abandonment.
"Let that be their next X-File."