The first time Doc meets Deputy Marshal Dolls, he hates him on instinct. Something about the man screams wrong —he moves too smoothly, talks too little, is a crackshot, and can't smile if a gun were held to his head. He reminds Doc too much and too little of himself at the same time, and it makes his skin itch and crawl.
The worst of it is that Wynonna—fiery, opinionated, headstrong Wynonna—seems to lose her wit when she sees the man so much as show a sliver of neck. It's annoying. Dolls isn't even that impressive a specimen of male physique.
At least, that's what Doc thinks, until he walks in on the two of them training. Wynonna had mentioned it, offhandedly, and Doc had made an obligatory innuendo of it, making her laugh—which had been the point of it—, and then he had more or less let the matter drop from his mind.
Until now. Now, he walks in, carrying a newfangled tray-like apparatus made of compressed paper, with three cups from the only Starbucks in town that Waverley had thrust upon him and insisted he had to take into the office. When asked why it had to be him and not her, she had just smiled mysteriously, wiggled her eyebrows, and swept off.
The point is—he walks in, greeted suddenly by the sight of Wynonna in tight pants, stripped down to a bra, strands of hair slicked to her forehead by sweat, muscles rippling as she charges at Dolls, a stick of wood in hand. She looks, to put it simply, delectable . Doc has always had a sore spot for the athletic ones.
A second later, his gaze flits to Dolls, and he has to clench his fingers voluntarily to stop the tray from dropping to the floor and spilling their drinks. Dolls is dressed similarly to Wynonna, but sans any items of clothing covering his torso. Dips and grooves across his abdomen hint at firm muscles beneath the layer of skin and fat, a sheen of sweat making his dark skin fairly glow, and when he moves, it's like a pit viper, hard and fast.
Doc gropes for a chair with his free hand, unable to take his eyes off the fight; finds one, finally, and drops into it like a stone.
At that moment, Dolls slams Wynonna against the mats, forearm pressing against her throat; and Wynonna lets her head loll to the side; catches sight of Doc and the tray of drinks, expression brightening. "Doc!" she exclaims happily, shoving Dolls off, and bouncing right back up. "You brought me coffee!"
"Unless you plan to drink all three, then no, I did not," Doc drawls, but lets her snatch one up, admiring her messy hair and sweat-slicked skin. Dolls comes over, and for a moment, Doc's gaze is glued firmly to his muscular arms, before he manages to snap out of it and offers the tray to the deputy marshal.
Dolly's gaze bores into him for a long moment, and then he nods; takes one of the two remaining cups, and settles in the chair next Doc.
"Slow day?" Doc asks, mouth dry. "Not that I am complaining, mind," he adds, tossing an admiring glance at Wynonna and only just barely stopping himself from doing the same to Dolls.
Wynonna snorts inelegantly; takes a sip from her cup. "I'm convinced the revenants are planning something," she says. "We haven't had any issues with them since Monday, and that's, like, ages ago."
"Only three days," Dolls says, slowly sipping his own coffee. "But unfortunately, I have to agree with you on this. Holliday, you hear anything?"
Doc frowns. "Now that you mention it, there have been whispers about some of the revenants not affiliated with Bobo trying to enact a ritual to allow them to leave the Triangle. Something about blood of the Heir, tooth of the dragon, hair of the undying man."
Dolls twitches at the second item. Interesting. A moment later, though, he settled back into his regular posture, that of a large, deadly feline, poised to rip out a throat. It is an unfairly attractive look on him. "Okay," he says, "well, we'll just make sure none of them get at you or Wynonna."
Doc offers a smile. "Shouldn't be too hard." And then he flees to the bathrooms to splash water on his face and stare at his reflection, pondering every decision in his life that has led up to this point.
He's no stranger to the concept of men being attracted to other men, or even, hell, going to bed with them; he had simply never assumed that it applied to him. Actually, now, looking back on it, some of his loyalty toward Wyatt had probably been born of repressed attraction. Damn it all to hell. He turns the water on and lets it run, frigid, over his fingers until they go numb.
There's probably a bit of shame and guilt somewhere sitting in his gut, but Doc is more than willing to ignore it and try and pretend like he doesn't have a— thing for the man he sometimes sort of works under. It's unprofessional, nevermind that doc has definitely done worse. He's turning over a new leaf starting this very moment.
Unsurprisingly, that doesn't last. They manage to track down the revenants after about a week, by which point all they're missing is blood of a dragon, and, predictably, they get into a bit of a shootout. Doc knocks down three of the eight, Dolls gets three, and Wynonna gets the last two on the first try, before dispatching the others. They stand, watching as the last of them is dragged down to hell, the flames flickering in their eyes—and, without really meaning to, Doc allows his gaze to slide over to Dolls; catches sight of the almost...grim pleasure reflected there. It makes a shiver go down his spine.
"Well," says Wynonna, breaking the silence, "how do you guys feel about going back to the homestead and having a drink?"
"Currently? Favourable," Dolls says, and Doc finds himself nodding along; tells himself it's because of the promise of whiskey.
They drive back to the homestead in Wynonna's beat up blue truck, Doc tucked in between Dolls and Wynonna. It's a good thing he's not a very large man, because otherwise, it would be uncomfortable. As it is, it's still a tight fit.
When they get back, the only lights on are the ones in Waverley's room, shining dimly through the white curtains; and Wynonna pops inside to grab the alcohol and glasses and sets Doc and Dolls to starting the fire.
After a few minutes of watching Dolls try and start the flame with only two sticks and some dry moss, Doc takes pity on him, digging around in his coat for a lighter. "Here," he says, holding it out.
Dolls takes it; their fingers brushing for a brief, eternal moment; warm skin against his own, the edges of calloused from handling guns. Doc shivers for the second time that night, and it becomes hard to deny the cause of them anymore.
Thankfully, that's when Wynonna returns with the whiskey. "Only one glass, sorry," she says. "I swear, something is stealing them. You two will just have to share the bottle."
"Hardly the behaviour of a lady," Doc teases; which, surprisingly, makes Dolls laugh. Wynonna glares at the two of them and pours herself a measure, settling down on the log.
Doc and Dolls settle down a moment later, this time with Dolls in the middle, and he takes the bottle from Wynonna, passing it to Doc. "No drink?" Doc questions; and Dolls shakes his head.
"Tastes awful," is the only thing he says.
Soon enough, though, he gives in, sipping from the rim, the two of them passing it back and forth and occasionally refilling Wynonna's glass. Doc wonders if Dolls can taste the residual tobacco from his cigarillos; banishes the thought as soon as it forms, heat rising to his cheeks.
As it turns out, the real reason Dolls doesn't drink is because he's a lightweight, a fact that has Wynonna guffawing when he tries to stand up and trips over his own feet, nearly going face first into the fire, saved only by Doc's arm shooting out and stopping his descent. He pulls the other back down onto the log, and reclaims the bottle. "You," he says, "cannot hold your liquor for shit ."
That starts another round of guffawing. "You tell 'im, Doc," Wynonna says, grinning. "This is the most relaxed I've seen him since— ever . 's kinda cute, I dig it."
"He is a sight for sore eyes," Doc agrees, a smile at his own lips.
Dolls, who's plastered against his side, head resting on his shoulder, groans. "I hate you both."
"Keep telling yourself that," Wynonna shoots back.
They—or rather, Doc and Wynonna—keep drinking into the early hours, and then, finally, they stumble to their feet—not that Doc would admit to such a lack of coordination.
"Well," he says, "I had better get the good Deputy Marshal here back to his..." he gazes blankly at Dolls for a moment, who makes no move to answer.
Wynonna shakes her head. "Take the barn," she says. "I've got a bed set up out there—I can sleep on the couch inside."
"Ever gracious," Doc drawls, tipping the brim of his hat to her.
"You're both insufferable," Dolls mutters, apparently deciding to join the land of the living, finally. "And I have a hotel room."
"I am absolutely not letting either of you try and drive a car," Wynonna says firmly. "Barn or outdoors, you pick."
It's not a hard decision, especially with how easy it is to manhandle the drunken deputy marshal, ignoring what sound like fairly token protests. He stops trying to argue when Doc lets him down onto the bed, though, just sinks into the mattress.
Doc sets down the now-empty bottle on one of the crates and joins him. In the darkness, he hears, rather than sees, Dolls' chest rising and falling; realises, suddenly, just how much trust it must take for Dolls to have allowed himself to be vulnerable like this, in front of them. In front of him.
He lets out a shuddering breath; presses his eyes closed. Soon, Doll's even, shallow breaths lull him to sleep.
He wakes up with an arm draped over his torso, pressing heavy against his skin. In the night, they've turned to face each other, and Dolls's eyes flicker beneath his eyelids, face mere inches from Doc's own. Like this, he looks peaceful. Delicate, almost, in a way that almost makes him forget that Dolls could take on four men in a fight and win. Beautiful, he realises, is the word he's looking for.
"Well, shit," he mutters to himself; laying there for a moment, before he jerks himself out from under the other's grasp as quickly as he can, rolling to the edge of the bed and swinging his legs over; hoping Dolls doesn't realise the compromising position they had just been in.
Behind him, there's a groan. Doc tugs on his boots and shoves himself to his feet. "You should get up. There's probably work to get to." It's a lie, but it disguises the way his voice is shaking. He makes his way to the door, and then, without really meaning to, cats a glance over his shoulder.
Dolls is spread eagle on the bedspread, one hand pressing against his eyes, and, in just an undershirt and pants—Doc had convinced him to shed his t-shirt and jacket before getting into bed—he looks a sight.
Doc drags his gaze away; hurries out the door, and tries to put the sight out of his mind.
A few cases later, they wind up stuck in a walk in freezer by a revenant who's a butcher, and also probably a cannibal to boot. "Could this be any more creepy?" Dolls grumbles, in what sounds endearingly like phrasing he picked up from Wynonna. To be fair, they are surrounded by animal carcasses dangling from meat hooks—probably sheep, going by the size. He leans against the wall, shivering. It's getting towards the warmer seasons, so he's foregone a jacket, wearing only pants and a t-shirt—unfortunate, given the situation. Doc, at least, has a few layers to protect him.
The minutes drag on, and soon, Dolls' teeth are chattering. Doc sweeps off his coat and offers it to the other. Dolls shakes his head. "N—no, you'll b—b—be cold," he says. His lips have started to turn blue.
Doc sighs. "You self sacrificing idiot," he grumbles. "Do you really think me that selfless?" He sidles up to Dolls, draping the garment so it covers both of them. Dolls is slightly taller than him, so it's at a bit of an angle, but they press together, shoulder to arm, trying to conserve heat. Doc's skin, beneath his neatly buttoned shirt and waistcoat, is burning. "There," he says, weakly. "Now the world won't be robbed of your handsome face." And chest. And arms. And probably thighs as well, not that Doc has had opportunity to observe them.
Dolls turns his head to look at him, unblinking; and opens his mouth to say something.
Of course, that's when the door's kicked in. "Hey, losers!" Wynonna greets, "guess who just killed Hannibal Lecter!" She holsters her gun and takes another look at them, wiggling her brows. "You guys having some alone time? "
Doc springs away from Dolls as if stung; grabbing his coat along the way, shrugging it back on. "Merely conserving body heat," he says, gruffly.
Wynonna shrugs. "Whatever you say, dude. Come on, let's blow this joint—I'm hungry, and not for anything in this shithole."
Dolls, who has been silent up until then, mutters an agreement; and they make their way outside, Doc piling into Wynonna's truck rather than Dolls' car. She raises a brow, but thankfully doesn't comment.
They wind up getting Chinese, bickering lightheartedly over chopsticks and bottles of soy sauce and black vinegar; and Doc does his best to not freeze up any time Dolls brushes against him. It's almost like Dolls keeps touching him just to test him, which is a conclusion that invites too many answers; so instead, he does his best to convince himself it's merely accidental.
He succeeds, mostly.
Months later, Doc is, once again, lounging on one of the chairs in the rooms commandeered for Black Badge and related business, heels propped up on the desk, a cigarillo between his lips as custom. Wynonna sits across from him, scrolling her phone, relaxed. Waverley's off with Officer Haught on a date , and so the only person they're missing is Dolls.
"Do you think he's been kidnapped?" Wynonna asks lazily without looking up. "He's usually not this late."
No, he isn't. In fact, he's the type who thinks on time is as bad as an hour late —a belief Doc is just itching to dissuade him of. "No idea," he says. "Have you tried calling him?"
"I'm busy," she says with a scowl. "You do it."
"I'd rather not," he says, laconically; but a few more minutes drag on and, finally, he gives in. It goes to voicemail. He tries again. Same result. "Darlin', have you by any chance placed a tracker on Dolls' person?"
She makes a face. "No, what do you take me for? ...I put it in his car."
"Excellent. Would you mind taking a look at where our deputy marshal is?"
Wynonna raises a brow; scoffs. " Our might be a bit strong," she says. "Yours, sure. Mine? Not so much."
"What does that even—you know what, nevermind." He stubs the cigarillo out and tosses it in the trash can in the hallway—Dolls checks the ones in the room and gets testy if he finds evidence of this particular vice.
He lets Wynonna drive—she handles the truck better than him, loathe as he is to admit to it—, and takes her phone in exchange, keeping an eye on the red dot to ensure it hasn't moved. When they get there, it's the parking lot for a Shari's, mostly empty, lit by the lights coming through the windows. He can see the outline of Dolls in one of them, sat alone in a booth.
Wynonna reclaims her phone. "Go," she says, pushing him forward.
"Aren't you—?"
She shakes her head. "Something tells me you're going to be better for whatever this is. And, hey—stay safe." She tacks a wink on to the end, ruining any sentimentality that would normally be implied by the phrase.
Doc huffs. "You are a bane upon my existence."
"Uh huh. Now go get him, cowboy."
"I resent that remark." Nevertheless, he takes a deep breath and makes his way towards the diner, pushing the doors open. Too late to turn back now.
He smiles to the waitress behind the counter. "Excuse me, ma'am, I'm here to meet a friend, but I'm running a tad bit late. Do you mind—?"
"Go right ahead," she says, returning his smile slightly dazedly. He doffs his hat to her, heading down towards Dolls' table.
When he slides into the seat opposite Dolls, the other glances up and offers a wan smile. "Come to drag me back to headquarters?"
"Probably not," Doc admits. "But you were late, so I—we were worried. Came to see you're alright."
"Well, now you've seen," Dolls says. "No more obligation." His voice is flat.
Doc frowns; picks up the menu from where it was laying before the other. "That you think you are merely an obligation speaks to how blind you are to others' devotion towards you," he says; and then realises what he's said and buries himself behind the menu, rereading the omelette section over and over to avoid saying something truly idiotic, or at least, more idiotic.
There's a long beat of silence, and then the waitress comes to take their orders. Dolls rattles off what sounds like a well memorised order, and Doc throws out the first thing his eye lands on—the spring omelette.
When the food comes, they eat in silence; and then Doc walks him to his car.
Out of the blue, Dolls says, "Tonight is the anniversary."
Doc almost asks of what before he remembers there's only one thing he can think of that would warrant this. "Oh," he says, and then, before he can think too hard about it, he reaches out to pat Dolls' shoulder.
Without warning, Dolls drags him into a hug; chin hooked over his shoulder, arms tight; and for a moment, Doc stands there, bewildered, stiff as a board, before he reciprocates, rubbing calming circles against the other's back.
For a long moment, they stay like that; and then Dolls pulls away, wiping at his cheeks. "Sorry," he says, roughly, "I don't know what came over me."
Doc offers a comforting smile. "Even the strongest of men must at some point admit to their burden," he intones, and Dolls laughs.
"You sound like a motivational poster," he teases; face still wet; but it's better than before. Then, hesitating a beat, he says, "Stop me if I've been reading this wrong, but—" and closes the distance between then in a few, quick steps, pressing his lips to Doc's own.
Theres's the faintest hint of maple syrup and fire, and Doc finds himself pressing against the other, hands coming up to grasp his jaw. Dolls' go to his waist, holding him against him.
When they break apart, Doc says, feeling strangely calm, "I had thought it might be a bit harder."
"What, with men?" Dolls raises a brow; clearly only pretending at nonchalance by how his hands are twitching at Doc's waist.
"With you," Doc corrects. "I—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "That doesn't matter. You should get back to your room, get some sleep. My prowess is not so great as to be any more than but a temporary balm against your grief. You need sleep."
"This is when I tell you sleep is for other men."
"No, this is when you listen to your doctor and go to sleep," Doc corrects.
Dolls scoffs. "You were a dentist. "
"I had basic anatomy lessons," Doc says, smoothly. "Now get into the car."
Dolls does, reluctance clearly partially for show; and they drive over to his hotel room. Doc only realises his lapse of judgement when they're at the doorstep—he's forgotten to secure a way back for himself.
The other reads his mind, or probably, more likely, simply comes to the same conclusion. "Stay," he says, unlocking the door and holding it open. Doc hesitates a moment before stepping inside.
The inside is—Spartan, but what little there is can hardly be described as organised. And yet, as Dolls shucks off his shoes and sits down on the bed with a sigh, Doc realises it suits him quite well.
He divests himself of his own shoes, and saunters over to the other. Dolls' tracks his movements, which is rather pleasing. Still, they do nothing; just lay down, side by side, and fall asleep.
The next day, Doc gets up early and catches the bus to the station, in part because he had woken up face to face with Dolls' own, and hadn't really known how to deal with that , especially since they hadn't actually had sex, and partially because it seems like it would be less incriminating if they arrived separately.
Wynonna is already there, surprisingly, as are Waverly and Officer Haught, and he tips his hat to them before going for the box of doughnuts. "Morning, ladies."
"You look chipper," Wynonna says, bluntly.
"You know, you're right," Waverly says, thoughtfully. "Practically glowing." And then, grinning, adds, "did you go out on a date? "
"Absolutely not," Doc says. Absolutely yes, his traitorous brain says. Thankfully, that's when Dolls walks in with the newest case file, and the conversation is forgotten.
Or at least, that general school of thought is forgotten until everyone else leaves the room and then Dolls is approaching him like one would a frightened horse, a comparison which Doc does not appreciate, which he expresses by shoving himself off the wall and at Dolls, grabbing him by the lapels and backing him up until his knees hit the table and he's forced to sit down. When he pulls away, Dolls is smiling. "So much for it not being a date."
"I never said that, you ignorant ass," Doc rebuffs, and kisses him again, this time more deeply; enough so that Dolls is clutching onto him by the time they break apart. Doc slips his hands under his shirt, spreading his palms across the other's chest. Dolls shivers.
"We should...probably get to work," he says, but he doesn't sound very convinced.
Doc grins. "I have a better idea, darlin'," he drawls, pulling back and ignoring Dolls' soft huff of disappointment, and locks the door.
When he turns around, Dolls is eyeing him with interest. Excellent.
Over the next few weeks, it becomes routine—in front of the others, they're professional as ever—or, in Doc's case, irreverent—, but behind closed doors, be they vacated BBD headquarters, closets, or Dolls' hotel room, they are as free as they please.
They don't really talk about it—Doc's never been one to address such things with words, and he suspects Dolls would rather die than do so, which suits them both just fine. Besides, the kissing and the sex are really good, and they like each other, so it's a win-win in Doc's book. He grows—accustomed to it.
So accustomed, in fact, that, during a debrief, he barely thinks about what he's doing before leaning in to whisper into Dolls' ear, pressing his lips to skin for the briefest moment, surely undetectable to all but the two of them.
Instead, when he pulls back, he finds the others staring at them.
Wynonna speaks first. "I knew it," she practically shrieks, turning to Waverly and Officer Haught. "You both owe me a ten."
"Have you been—betting on our dating life?" Doc says, trying to decide whether he feels panicked, amused, or annoyed. Or all of the above. Dolls is frozen, which only makes things worse.
"On Dolls', actually," Waverly says, sounding cheerful even as she hands over her portion of the bet. Wynonna pockets the money.
"I'm surprised it took this long," Officer Haught says, sounding amused. "I swear, you could cut through the tension between the two of you with a knife from day one."
"Well, I'm off to get some doughnuts," Wynonna announces. "Reinvest in the economy, or whatever. You two coming?" She makes her way to the door, the other two following after her.
As soon as it swings closed, Doc bites out, "Damn their perceptiveness."
"They hardly need to be perceptive when you go and do that ," Dolls points out, before falling back into silence.
It reigns between them for a few moments, and then Doc says, "If this means you would like to end our arrangement—" just as Dolls says, "The paperwork is going to be a nightmare— " and then they both stop, staring at each other.
"You think I want to stop—seeing you just because the others know now?" Dolls asks.
Doc shrugs. "I assumed the secrecy was part of the draw. You'd be willing to file paperwork for me?"
Dolls rolls his eyes. "That's not the draw ," he says, sounding put-upon. "And I figured it was only a matter of time before this happened. I've prepared myself for filling out a god-awful number of forms."
Doc considers that for a moment, and then tilts his head to kiss Dolls properly. "It has been a long time since anyone went to such lengths for me," he drawls, heart pounding.
Dolls smiles, and kisses him again—which is, unfortunately, when the door swings back open, and Wynonna calls, "Alright, keep it in your pants, loverboys."
They break apart, smiling, and Doc sits down and grabs one of the doughnuts, listening to Dolls continue, their hands twined beneath the table.