Chapter 5.


Doggett picked at the meal. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, but his 
appetite seemed to have taken a dislike to the surroundings. 
He glanced around him. The hall was full of noise, shouting men, 
crashing cutlery, and scraping chairs. The relentless racket was 
seriously getting on his nerves. 
There didn't seem to have been a moment's peace since he got here. 
Rebadow seemed intent on talking him into a coma and the rest of the 
animals in the zoo were incapable of maintaining any semblance of 
quiet. If he were ever to be locked away for more than a couple of 
weeks, he'd be a complete basket case.
His fork poked his potatoes, lukewarm and lumpy. No way he was about 
to abuse his stomach with it, but at least the juice was cold. He 
swigged back on the carton, smiling inside at how that would irritate 
Skinner. 

"Hey."
Someone was standing behind him. Doggett put the carton down 
carefully.
"I said, hey!" His chair was kicked. 
Tensing, Doggett curled his hand around his plastic knife. 
"Yo' in my seat, man."
"That so?" He deliberately didn't turn around.

"Yeah. Move y'ass."
Slowly sucking the food from his back teeth, Doggett leaned back and 
put a deliberate drawl in his voice. "Well, I don't see your name on 
it."
The other men at the table fell silent. Doggett stared ahead watching 
their reactions, wondering if this was the way to go about acclimate 
himself. Too late to second guess that, now.
The man behind him sputtered in disbelief. "Wha' you say, fool?"
Doggett moistened his lips. "You heard." 

Seeing the man opposite flinch, hearing the sudden intake of breath, 
Doggett quickly shoved the chair back and sprang up just as a loaded 
dinner-tray sailed past his face. Two seconds later and he'd have 
been sucking soup through a straw for a month.
There was less than a heartbeat to register the fact that he was 
pissing off an absolutely huge black guy with arms the size of his 
own damned thighs, before realizing it was way too late to back off 
now.

He plunged forward, his outstretched fists striking the man in the 
chest, pushing him backwards, and caught off balance, the man 
staggered back into the small crowd at his heels.
He stood up straight. Doggett didn't much care for what he saw in 
those eyes. He swallowed.
The man opened his mouth and screamed. 
"You stupid motherfucker!" 


chapter 6

"You need to eat, sir."
"I am, Agent Scully."
She looked pointedly at the half-eaten cannelloni.
Skinner smiled. "Yes, mom. And it's Walter, off duty." He stabbed 
another forkful and put it in his mouth, raising his eyebrows as if 
to say, see?
Scully nodded, satisfied, watching while he chewed, as if suspecting 
he'd spit it out.
Swallowing, Skinner sighed. "I'm eating, okay? You don't have to 
watch."
"Maybe."
Across the table, Mulder grunted. "See what I have to put up with? 
It's like having the food police around you."
Scully turned. "If you had anything like a sensible diet, Mulder, I 
wouldn't need to nag."
"I eat sensibly," he protested.
"No, you don't," Skinner said, swallowing another forkful. 
Throwing his napkin down, Mulder rolled his eyes. "This from the man 
who's being force-fed!"
Skinner paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.

Scully sighed. "I nag because I care," she said, looking at both men 
in turn. 
Skinner had the grace to looke abashed, Mulder just grunted and 
fiddled with his plate.
"Thank you," Skinner said quietly. 
Nodding, Sully smiled slightly. "John wouldn't be pleased if I 
allowed you to get sick."
At the mention of the name, Skinner's eyes dropped to his plate. He 
placed his fork down. 
He had been adamant not to let his thoughts turn morose, but it felt 
like the second John was out of his sight, all he could do was focus 
on the negative. He hated the whole idea of Doggett being in a place 
like Oz. Hated it.

Scully reached across to touch his hand. "Walt, relax. He'll be fine."
Skinner didn't reply. Under the table, Scully kicked Mulder's leg. 
She could do with some back-up.
"Yeah," he said, scowling at her vicious prompt. "Doggett knows how 
to look after himself." He reached to rub his shin. "Trust me, I 
know."

As Skinner and Scully both turned to look at him, Mulder colored up. 
"I don't think I want you alluding..." Skinner began.
"I wasn't..."
Skinner made a strange warning noise in the back of his throat. 
It had taken him a long time to be able to look at Mulder without 
wanting to punch his teeth down his throat. Every dull throbbing 
ache in his arm was a reminder of what Mulder had done in the 
showers. Or rather what he had wnated to do, which was worse, 
because his imagination insisted on supplying images of a naked 
Mulder, which was distressing enough in itself, without the added 
aspect of a dripping wet Doggett in the mix.

Sitting in meetings staring across a table at him during the last six 
months had been a trial; a battle of nerves he wasn't sure he had 
entirely conquered. Doggett had begged him to let it go, and he had 
lied to his lover on more than one occasion that he was over it. 
Truth was, had they been in any other profession, he could have taken 
Mulder out behind the parking lot and made his feelings about 
invading his territory perfectly clear. As it was, he hadn't had any 
completion and Mulder knew it, creeping around him on his belly like 
some damned subseviant mongrel. 
It was driving him crazy. 

"What I meant was..." Mulder ploughed on. "Well...He's a trained 
officer. He knows what to do."
"Uh-huh." 
The two men stared at one another. Skinner briefly contemplated 
reaching over to crush Mulder's throat, the thought of being sent to 
jail for it, coming in second to how it would upset Scully. He 
rubbed his eyes. Damn. This was going to give him an ulcer. Maybe he 
should just follw John's advice and let it go.
Eventually, he sighed, forcing himself to relax.
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I guess I'm just a little on edge right now."
"Okay. No problem." 

Skinner stared into the table lamp. "John's tough. And he's sensible. 
I trust him not to take any stupid risks."


chapter 7


Doggett had a split second to wonder exactly how badly he was going 
to be hurt, then his eyes widened as the man threw himself across the 
space separating them, grabbing at his throat, knees sharp, viciously 
seeking out his balls. 
He tried to grab the arms as they came for him, knowing if he allowed 
this man to get a good grip, it would be all over before he got 
chance to get another punch in.
There was chewing gum on the man's breath, hissing into his face.

The two of them fell back onto the dining table, crushing the remains 
of Doggett's meal. 
Letting go of the big forearms, Doggett started swinging punches, 
recalling every fight he'd ever been in, all his years of training 
and all the boxing techniques his father had pummeled into him.
His tray was digging into his back. He wanted to reach around and 
pull it out, but his head was thumping against the table-top under a 
rain of blows that were rapidly stunning him. 
All this was for sitting in someone's seat? Black spots danced behind 
his eyes; he couldn't breathe, squashed under several hundred pounds 
of sweating, furious flesh. A fist caught him across the face and 
blood blossomed on his tongue. 

That broke the spell of his training, the restraint of a civilized 
upbringing. With a hoarse cry, he brought up the hand that held the 
plastic knife and slammed it against the side of the man's head, over 
and over again.
The man leaned back with a howl clutching his head, easing up the 
pressure on Doggett's throat just enough for him to land a decent 
follow-up punch in the grimacing face. 
There was a spray of blood as the lip under his knuckles split open. 
Doggett screwed his eyes up in disgust, clamping his mouth shut.
Bringing his knees up, he pushed the soles of his feet against the 
man's belly and shoved hard, sending him staggering backwards. 

He could hear the assembled crowd roar at his escape, but didn't stop 
to bask in their approval as he scrambled over the table, landing on 
the floor in an undignified heap.
Somewhere, a whistle was blowing. Doggett could just about hear it 
over the pounding of his head and the harsh whistle of his breath 
coursing through his abused throat.
He held the front of his neck as he struggled to his feet. A surge 
of black uniforms signaled the arrival of the guards. Relief flooded 
his body.
Fuckin' hell! Hardly been here long enough to draw breath and he was 
already in trouble.

"Back the fuck off!" The whistle blew; bodies were roughly grabbed 
and shoved aside.
"What the hell's going on?!" 
Coughing, Doggett stepped forward to say something and found himself 
grabbed and slammed face-first onto the table.
"Don't move, scumbag!" 
Doggett's eyes widened. A woman?
"I was just... "
Something hit him in the kidney, hard enough to make his eyes 
water. "Don't say a fuckin' word, sweetcheeks."
Doggett held his tongue, his back throbbing. He stared at the 
spattered remains of his meal, feeling a trickle of blood working its 
way out of his mouth. Sharp fingers held him down by the scruff of 
his neck.
Jesus Christ. 
Looks like he'd made a major mistake. HE was the number one guy he 
should be watching out for.


Chapter 8.



"I'll be fine. Honestly." Skinner stood in the parking-lot of the 
restaurant, holding his hands out in front of him. 
"Are you sure you don't want company?"
He shook his head. "No, but thank you. I'm not very good company 
right now. I think I'm just going to straighten up the place, then 
go to bed early."

There was a snort from Mulder, leaning up against the car. "Like your 
place is gonna be a mess, what with you and Mister Tidy living there."
Skinner looked at the lounging man, his skin and grinning teeth a 
sickly yellow from the light of the street lamp. He wondered if that 
kind of lighting did anyone any favors. 
Maybe it did for him, tonight. Might disguise the fact he was on the 
edge of throwing up.
"Agent Doggett doesn't live with me, Mulder," he said tightly.
Again with the snort. "Yeah right."
Skinner sighed and repeated the liturgy, fighting the urge to walk 
over to the man and simply punch his teeth down his throat. "John has 
his own home." 

Mulder nodded. "Sure. Whatever." Digging in his pocket, he fished 
out a sunflower seed and popped it in his mouth, oblivious to the 
look on Skinner's face.
Scully leaned over and spoke quietly, as close to Mulder's ear as she 
could. "Get in the car, Mulder."
"Why?"
"We're done here."
"But..."
"Get in the car. Now."
Sighing with all the panache of an Oscar-winning drama-queen, Mulder 
flounced off the hood of the car and went to get in. 
"God... You're just such a control freak, Scully." He waved a 
hand. "See you tomorrow, sir. Have a nice time tidying." The car door 
slammed on anything Skinner might have said.

Scully turned to the big man. "I'm sorry."
Skinner raised an eyebrow. "I know. You don't have to be."
"I feel responsible."
"I know." He looked down at his feet. "I appreciate your efforts 
tonight." He toed a cigarette butt. "It's kind of you to think of 
me." He smiled slightly. "And it's good of you to try to sort things 
out between Mulder and me, too."
"Nonsense."
Skinner looked up at her brusque tone.
"Mulder aside, you're a friend. So is John. Friends look out for one 
another. Friends care about each other, Walter."
He reached out and touched her arm. "Thanks." His fingers grasped 
hers and squeezed. 
"You'll try and get some sleep, yes?" She peered up at him. "He'll be 
back before you know it. And you'll be no good to him utterly 
exhausted."

Skinner hoped the lamplight hid the color that he knew was racing 
into his cheeks. Sometimes the fact that she knew exactly what kind 
of relationship he and John enjoyed made him go warm with 
embarrassment. And he could hardly believe he'd kissed Doggett like 
that in front of her. Although the smile she'd given him as John 
walked away had reassured him a little.
"I'll try," he said. 
"Do more than try," she scolded.
Laughing gently, he found his keys and started to walk to his 
car. "Mulder's right about one thing," he said.
"Oh?"
"You are relentless."
Scully smiled. "Better believe it. I'll see you tomorrow, 
Walter. `Night."


Chapter 9.


"Just what the hell was going on down there?" Tim McManus shouted. 
He had stopped pacing long enough to throw his pen down on his desk.
"This motherfucker was in ma' place, man."
"And you feel this gives you permission to start a fight in the 
dinner-hall?"
"You bet yo ass!"
"Jesus, Malachi." Lifting a hand to the guard, McManus shook his 
head. "You're already on your last warning..." He pointed to the 
door. "Take him to the Hole."
"Awww... man!!"
"Shut up, Malachi. I don't want to hear another word. I'm just about 
sick of your voice. Get him out." He sighed. "Ten days."
"McManus..."
"OUT!"

Doggett watched as the big man was dragged out of the office kicking 
and yelling. Obviously, the Hole wasn't a great place to be. He 
wondered how long he was going to get in there.
"You..." Shuffling papers, McManus searched for his admission slip. 
"Costello," Doggett said, trying to be helpful.
The baton hit him across the back of his knees. 
"Fuck!" He stumbled, clutching his leg. 
Behind him, the woman officer pulled him back by the neck of his tee 
shirt. "Funny...I didn't hear you being asked anything."

McManus frowned. "Okay, Howell, that's enough." He found the paper 
and scanned it back and front. "Costello, Jack. Fifteen years. No 
possibility of parole for eight." His face didn't betray his thoughts 
on either the fictitious crime or the sentence. "Not a great start, 
is it, Jack?"
Glancing behind at Howell, Doggett shook his head. "I guess not," he 
muttered, wary of another blow.
"So..." 
McManus folded his arms and leaned on the desk. Doggett watched him, 
trying to keep tabs on the woman behind him. His knee throbbed almost 
as badly as where she'd hit him on the back. 
"Tell me, Jack. D'you think you're a tough guy?"

Doggett thought carefully about what to say. This man didn't know he 
was a Fed. As far as McManus was concerned, he was just a low-life 
scumbag who had already been more trouble than he was worth. Much as 
a trip to solitary might keep him safe, he couldn't find his target 
and do his job, locked away on his own.
He looked into McManus' eyes. 
"I get by."
"Well, I tell you, unless you smarten up a bit, you're not gonna `get 
by' in here. I've seen bigger and meaner guys than you come through 
Oz..." He stepped forward and closed in on Doggett. "And none of 
them are half as big and mean as they thought after a spell in the 
Hole. I've got my eye on you, Costello. One more episode like this 
and you're gonna be seeing the inside of there, first hand. Am I 
making myself clear?"
Doggett met the man's stare. "Crystal."
They eyeballed one another for a moment longer. "Glad to hear it." 
McManus nodded at Howell. "Get out him the hell of here."

Turning, Doggett allowed Howell to pull him out of the office and 
down the stairs without a struggle. That went better than he'd 
thought. In fact he'd gotten off without punishment at all.
Not bad, considering.
They clattered down the stairs into a wide corridor. He absently 
probed his mouth with his finger. The cut had just about stopped 
bleeding. All his teeth seemed to be in place. Not a bad result all 
round.
He had almost reached the end of the corridor when the fingers on his 
arm dug in cruelly and he was pulled back.

"Hey, Costello..." Howell turned him to face her. "You gotta know 
something."
Doggett scowled. "Yeah? An' what's that?" 
Howell leaned forward, pushing him roughly up against the wall. 
Doggett braced himself for another blow from the stick. It didn't 
appear. Instead she leaned even closer, her breath wafting on his 
face. 
He wasn't the type to think about punching a woman, but there was 
something about this one that made his hackles stand up. 
"I like fresh meat," she whispered. Her baton snaked between 
Doggett's legs, sliding up to meet his crotch. 
His eyes widened. 
"You and me are gonna get better acquainted real soon, Jackie-boy."

Holding his breath, Doggett kept his eyes on hers, not backing down, 
not allowing her to see the fear that was crawling up his spine. 
There was no-one about. She could say he attacked her, she could do 
anything. No-one was going to take his side against hers, not after 
what he'd just been involved with.
He said nothing. Did nothing. Stood perfectly still while her baton 
caressed between his legs.
She nudged high up on his thigh, encouraging his legs further apart. 
After a moment, he obeyed, parting his feet a touch more.
A triumphant smile spread over Howell's face.
"That's my boy." The wooden stick rubbed against his balls for a 
second, then pulled away.

A rough shove between his shoulder-blades and he was pushed away 
towards the pods. Glancing back at her grinning face, Doggett knew 
that wasn't going to be the end of it, not by a long way.
He just had to make sure he was never caught out alone with her.
And there he was thinking it was the other prisoners that he was 
going to have to worry about.


Chapter 10.


Skinner sighed as he put away the cut-glass whiskey decanter. 
He told himself he was only going to have one drink and already he'd 
had two more than that. It hadn't helped at all. He thought it might 
have taken the edge of missing Doggett, but he'd been wrong. Eating 
out with the others had, though strangely. Even though he missed 
having John at his side, being with Dana and Mulder had helped a 
little, even Mulder was his usual irritating self. But being 
irritated had taken his mind off other things that seemed determined 
to color his world a dull gray; however now he was alone in his 
apartment, there were bits of Doggett lying all around, taunting him.

He'd discovered a pair of discarded socks that had been forgotten in 
the throes of the previous night's passion, stuffed under the arm of 
his chair and it had in turn made him both smile and frown. He balled 
them up for the laundry.
How was Doggett feeling on his first night in prison? Was he safe? 
Skinner hadn't like the whole set-up. It seemed half-assed to him, 
that only Glynn knew about the operation. With no-one to look out for 
him, would Doggett be able to keep from being swallowed whole by a 
system that was designed for the worst criminal element the country 
could produce?
It didn't bear thinking about, but that was all he seemed to be able 
to do; think about it.

In a haze, he showered, brushed his teeth and got into bed. True, 
Doggett had his own place. True he didn't live here full-time. But 
fact was, he spent so much time here, it made no difference. 
Mulder was right, Doggett lived with him.
Punching his pillow to make a dent, Skinner flopped down in a flurry 
of duvet. 
He would not think about John. 
He would not think about anything.

An hour later he was still staring at the ceiling, shoving each 
passing thought of Doggett out of his head as quickly as they crept 
in. 
Turning his head, he could just about make out the empty pillow next 
to him.
Shit. 
This was hopeless. Reaching out, he snagged Doggett's pillow and 
curled up to it, wrapping his arms tightly around it. Sighing, he 
inhaled the scent in the material.
Doggett's smell lingered.
Not caring that it might be considered a little strange for a fifty-
year-old to go to sleep hugging someone else's pillow, Skinner shut 
his eyes and lay there breathing in, finding small comfort in the 
scent his lover had left behind. 
He figured it would be a while before he could get to sleep, but 
within minutes, he had drifted off.


Chapter 11.

Doggett lay on his back staring at the underside of Rebadow's bunk. 
Lights out had come about two hours ago and he hadn't moved or spoken 
since. 
Rebadow, on the other hand, had been chatty enough, telling Doggett 
more than he'd ever wanted to know about his family, the prison 
routine and life in general. If it hadn't been just a little bit 
comforting to hear someone else's voice, Doggett might have begged 
him to shut up.
As it was, the sound of his voice had kept thoughts of Skinner at 
bay, and more importantly, thoughts of Officer Howell away.

The soft clank of the pod door as it locked had shaken him more 
deeply than he had imagined. The abstract idea of being shut away 
wasn't a patch on the reality. 
This small, impersonal space was where he was going to have to sleep, 
shit and live for the duration of this case suddenly seemed horribly 
claustrophobic. 
Locked up with a stranger. 
God... Despite the years in the Marines, sleeping in bunkhouses and 
camps, the thought of it gave him the willies. 

"Sleep well." Rebadow's voice floated down from near the ceiling.
"I doubt it," Doggett muttered, turning over to try and get comfy.
The bed above creaked. "You'll settle in okay. Eventually."
The temptation was immense to snap at Rebadow and tell him not to 
worry, he wasn't staying. He buried his face in the pillow and 
screwed his eyes up. 
Damn. 
It smelled wrong. All institutionalized and harsh. Not a hint of 
cologne or musk from another body. Sighing, he turned on to the other 
side. The side he normally lay on, spooned behind Skinner. He opened 
his eyes. No. This wouldn't do. He turned over again.
Focus on the job, agent. Focus. He frowned into the dim light, 
wondering how he was going to find, and get close to the man he was 
here for. 
Who was this man, Chris Keller, he wondered?
He hoped he wasn't going to be some crazy-assed crack-head. Just a 
straight-forward murderer would do. Just so he could do his job and 
get out of this madhouse.

The upper bunk shifted. "Are you okay?"
"I suppose so."
"Having trouble getting to sleep?"
Doggett sighed. "I guess."
"It took me years to get used to this."
Doggett suppressed a shudder at the thought of `years'. He supposed a 
man could get used to just about anything, given time. But he'd 
rather not find out how.


Chapter 12.


From the moment Doggett opened his tired eyes, the morning was a 
nightmare.
Roll-call was held on the landing outside the pod, with him in only 
his underwear and tee shirt, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It had 
felt like five minutes since he actually got to sleep.
He'd stumbled back into the pod and fell onto the bed, wondering if 
he could get another fifteen minutes of sleep in.
"You might want to get your towel and razor and come to the showers 
early," Rebadow said. 
Doggett groaned, covering his eyes. 
"Well, you suit yourself, but it's always quietest before breakfast, 
and considering your little adventure yesterday, you might want to 
consider that."

Through narrowed eyes, Doggett watched the older man leave. Damn. He 
was right. Might be wise to keep a low profile for a while. At least 
while he got to know the ropes and found out where the target was. 
Sighing, he pulled himself up and dug around for his things.

It didn't take him long to find the showers, he could have done it 
blindfold, listening to the singing that was echoing off the damp 
walls. Someone was a big Doors fan, he smiled, stripping quickly and 
hanging his towel on a hook. His bare skin goosed up, despite the 
steam.
There was a spare faucet at the end of the line and he made his way 
over to it, careful to keep his eyes on the floor. He had the feeling 
that the locker-room etiquette of not making eye contact would be 
paramount in this place.
He passed men of all shapes and sizes, black ones, Hispanic ones, 
white ones. All soaking wet, all ignoring each other, all the best in 
the system and the worst America had to offer.
He stuck his head under the water and began to lather up. At least 
the water was hot and the soap plentiful. It felt good to get clean.

"Hey..."
Shit. Someone was addressing him. Doggett wiped the soap from his 
eyes and squinted.
"What?"
"You the new guy? The one that got Malachi sent to the hole?"
Doggett nodded cautiously. "Uh-huh."
The man under the shower on his left was impressively built. Not a 
scrap of spare flesh. His chest muscles bulged as he ran a hand over 
them. Doggett maintained eye-contact, determined not toe stare. 
A sudden grin spread over the wet face. "That's cool, man. `Bout time 
that mutherfucka went down!"

Doggett just nodded, wondering if he had just made a friend, or 
someone who was going to get him hurt later. In spite of his better 
judgment, he watched as the guy rubbed a handful of soap into a 
muscular chest. 
"So what's y'name?"
"D..." Doggett snapped his mouth shut. Shit! He made a fuss of 
wiping the water from his face, recovering himself.
"Costello," he said. "Jack Costello."
The man rolled his eyes. "God! Another damned Italian. Just what Oz 
needs." A soapy hand stuck a finger out under Doggett's nose. "You 
are a wop, yeah?"
Doggett stared at the hand. 
"Cause you don' exactly look like one, y'know what I mean?"

This was more than a little surreal. Stark naked and being quizzed 
about his ethnicity. 
Clearly, he had a quick decision to make. A choice about which side 
he was going to be on. 
He suddenly decided he wasn't sure he wanted to be partisan with 
anyone in particular.

"I'm not."
"What?"
"Italian."
"You gotta be kiddin' me... With a name like that!"
Doggett shrugged.

Careful, John, he thought. Now was not the time to piss anyone off. 
He'd already gotten one inmate sent to the Hole, and he was damned 
sure the rest of the black community wasn't going to take kindly to 
that. He didn't need a whole new set of enemies. 
Not so soon in the game, not so soon in the morning and definitely 
not before breakfast.

Doggett shrugged again. "I was abandoned as a child," he lied. "Some 
joker at the children's home was a big fan of black and white 
comedies." He pulled a face. 
"Your shittin' me?"
Doggett bit the inside of his cheek. The guy was standing open-
mouthed, the soap from his hair trickling into his mouth. The urge 
to laugh was overwhelming.
"Nah. S'true," he lied. "The other kid brought in earlier that week 
got called Abbott."

Doggett turned back to the water and stuck his face in the stream. 
Well, looked like his sense of the ridiculous was still intact. 
Whatever possessed him to make that up? He scrubbed at his hair so 
his face was hidden. Skinner would love this, when he told him. 

"Fuck me..." The man shook his head sadly. "God, that really sucks, 
man."
"Doesn't it?" Doggett shrugged. 
"Sucks, but it's kinda funny, too." 

Oh, shit, he was going to have to get out of here real quick, before 
he fell over with hysterics. 
He quickly soaped the rest of his body down, trying not to think of 
the other man standing so close as he washed between his legs. Just 
like the gym, John, he told himself. Just like the gym.
Finishing, he turned the water off. 
He was hungry. Didn't think he would be, but the lack of dinner last 
night was telling on his belly. It growled indignantly. A quick shave 
then into the dining hall. 

The man next to him turned around to shut off the water, showing 
Doggett his left shoulder in the process. The unhappy face of the 
crucified Christ gazed back at him.
Christopher Keller. 
Shit! Shit! Shit!
He'd been having a Goddamned conversation with the target. Doggett 
opened his mouth to say something, anything to deepen the connection 
with the other man, but he was already moving off, shouting at 
someone, laughing and snapping his towel like he was in the world's 
strangest locker-room.
Shit. 

Wrapping the towel around himself, Doggett picked out a sink and ran 
the water to shave, thinking furiously, would he recognize him again 
with his tattoo covered? He frowned, trying to recall the face.
Watching the bowl fill up, he became aware of someone standing very 
close to him. Slowly, he raised his eyes to the mirror.
A black man stood at his shoulder. Doggett resisted the urge to sigh. 
It was never-ending. 
Was this pay-back for yesterday?
"What?" he snapped. "You want somethin'?"
"Uh-huh."
This guy wasn't as well-built as Malachi, but had muscles that were 
so defined they looked cut from ebony. Wet dreadlocks hung in 
curtains.
Doggett tilted his chin up. "Yeah?" He twisted the water off and 
picked up the soap. "What?"

The man stared at the side of Doggett's face, eyes unblinking, not 
moving. It was seriously unnerving. He could feel the trickle of 
water down his face, running out of his hair. His mouth was dry. 
Hungry, tired and more than a little cranky, he wasn't in the mood 
for another confrontation. Certainly wasn't in the mood for another 
helping of pain.
The man slowly held out his hand. 

"I want that."
Doggett stared at the other man. What was he talking about? He knew 
his face must have some stupid blank expression on it.
"Huh?"
"That." 
Looking down, Doggett thought for one crazy moment he meant his 
towel. Then he realized he was holding something in his hand. He held 
it up. 
"This?" He had to be kidding. It was just some crappy plastic thing 
the hacks gave out. Everyone got one. He looked at the little item in 
his hand.
"You want this?" he repeated, incredulous.
The man's hand stayed outstretched. "Give it to me."

Jesus! What the fuck?
"No," he scowled. It might not be much, but it was his, goddamnit. He 
hadn't even had a chance to use it yet. The other man stepped even 
closer.
"Give." The one word seemed to hold a wealth of threats.

Shaking his head, Doggett heaved a big sigh. Fuck. He didn't want to 
get into this. He looked at the plastic razor, then up into the 
mirror at his reflection. Was it worth it? Was it worth getting a 
thumping from this guy?
His tongue probed the small cut on the inside of his cheek, still 
sore from the night before.
It was only a razor. He could live without shaving while he was in 
here. Might be quite a nice change, not having to bother.
"Here y'go, big guy," he said, grinning and tossing the razor over 
and walking away. The black man fumbled slightly, taken by surprise.
"Knock yourself out, y'hear?"