Title: Shadow Wife Author: Rachel Anton Feedback: Good? Bad? Sick? I can take it. RAnton1013@aol.com Rating: NC-17 Archive: Sure. Just let me know where it's going. Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Summary: Does anybody have fun on New Year's Eve? Keywords: Doggett/Somebody who isn't Scully. Sorry, but I think being more specific might ruin certain aspects of the story. Thanks: To Laura for encouragement, brainstorming, title help, and everything else. To Cynthia for beta, and everything else. And to my Doggett-readers, Isa, Mel, Azar, and Holly- you guys are the best. xxxxxx Light is an unwelcome intruder in the dark sanctuary of his bedroom. Dark walls, dark floor, dark wood everywhere, and a warm dark blanket covering her. The blinds covering his windows are dark too, but the morning light is seeping through the cracks and she resents it. "You have to work today, don't you?" she asks, but it's not really a question. She knows his schedule better than a secretary would- if he had a secretary. "I've got a couple hours left." A dark, scratchy voice- raw from hours of talking, yelling, moaning- is caressing her ear and she thinks she'd die if she never heard that voice again. His arms are heavy and warm around her body. His skin is dark and she feels safe. Safer than she should. "You've got a meeting with Kersh at ten. You need to be there," she reminds him gently. "I'll be there. Relax." But that's the problem. This is too dangerous and it's all wrong, but she is relaxed. "I should go, John." His grip tightens and his nose is in her hair. "Don't go. Not yet. You smell so good." She smells like sex. The whole room smells like sex. How long will it be before he washes his sheets? Will he strip the bed as soon as she leaves or will he leave it, come home to it and relive the night through his keen sense of smell? "I really have to go, John. So do you." "When am I gonna see you again?" "I don't know..." "How 'bout this weekend? I could take you to dinner or something." Weekend. Dinner. A date. She hasn't been on a date since she was sixteen years old. A date would be nice. "I don't think so, John." "How come?" "Because this...it isn't going to be like that." "Well how's it gonna be then?" She doesn't know how it's going to be, other than bad. There is no good that can come from this, no possible outcome that will not hurt them both. That's why she never meant to get caught. xxxxxx "Hey, Jake. How ya doin' buddy?" "What? Who is this?" There was noise in the background- loud music, laughing girls, party sounds. John had called Jake's cell phone- Christmas present last year- and he wondered whose house his son was at. It didn't sound like there were any adults in the vicinity. "It's your dad, Jake," he said, raising his voice to compete with the racket. "Dad? What's wrong? I'm kinda busy." "Yeah, I know, I know. Nothing's wrong. Just wanted to say happy New Year." "What?" "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" There was more he wanted to say to his son, but that would have to do. "Yeah, happy New Year, Dad. I've gotta go." "Okay, I'll call you soon, okay?" "Yeah. Bye, Dad." "Be safe, Jake," he added, but it was too late. He was left with a dial tone and the renewed understanding that he had next to no connection with Jake. Add to that the sickening sense that his sixteen-year-old son stood a better chance of getting laid this New Years than he did, and it all made for one hell of a crappy phone call. John hung up the phone thinking the call had been a mistake. His mood had been dark since that morning, and talking to his son was as good as rubbing salt in wounds. He's not a man prone to self-pity, and it's a practice he finds repulsive in others, but occasionally the weight of his mistakes hits him like a brick and he just has to stop. Stop trying, stop moving, stop doing. It usually happens on holidays. This time of year was the most difficult- a quadruple punch. First, Luke's birthday on the twenty-first, then his own on the twenty-fourth, Christmas on the twenty-fifth, and New Years tonight. Most agents requested Christmas week off. He'd been relieved to have been called out of town on a case this year. But that was over, and there were no more distractions. There had been invitations tonight- parties of his own, potential dates- but staying home was a choice he felt compelled to make. God knows, he wouldn't have brightened anyone's celebration in his current state and there was zero to no chance of him cheering up. He'd thought maybe talking to Jake would help, but he should have known better. The picture next to his sofa drew his attention, and he picked it up knowing full well where it would lead. A smiling family looked back at him; a beautiful wife, two young boys, and the proudest damn father on the face of the planet. Perfect. Not even a hint of the storm that would hit them so soon. Not a cloud in the sky. Before long he'd pulled out the old photo albums, the love letters, the book report on Where The Wild Things Are, hand-written, the words "Luke Doggett, grade two" scrawled on the cover. Soon he was surrounded with the remains of his life, and drinking himself to stupidity. An hour passed, maybe two, and pretty soon the ball would be dropping. He thought of the only person he knew who might be also be feeling lonely tonight, and he called her. She was home, alone, and for some reason that didn't make him feel any better. "Agent Scully, it's Doggett." "Agent Doggett? Is something wrong?" Why do people think he only calls when there's something wrong? "No, no, just wanted to wish you a happy New Year. Make sure everything was okay." "Why wouldn't everything be okay?" "No reason. Just...happy New Year, Agent Scully." She was quiet for a long time, and he thought he might shoot himself in the head if she didn't say something. Anything. Finally she whispered, "Thank you." She sounded incredibly sad. It was too much for him because he didn't know how to make it better. Wouldn't even know where to start. "Take care, Agent Scully." "Thanks. You too. Happy New Year." He hung up the phone, considered ripping the jack out of the wall so he wouldn't be tempted to call anyone else, but decided against it. Maybe it was just time to go to bed. He turned out all the lights in his house, and settled down in front of the muted TV, hoping the images of joy and frivolity on the screen would lull him to sleep. Another beer wouldn't hurt either. About a half-hour before midnight his eyelids began to feel heavy, and his thoughts turned muddled and dreamlike. Just as he began to drift off, a scratching sound broke the spell. Something was in the house. A bug or a rat or maybe, just maybe, a person. He looked around, immediately alert, and spotted the source of the noise. A yellow manila folder was being slipped under his front door. Another mysterious delivery. He pulled on his sneakers, slipped his weapon under the waistband of his jeans, and opened the door. There were neighbors on the street, shooting off fireworks and drinking. It was an unseasonably warm night, and people were enjoying the holiday. His mailman stood out like a sore thumb in this suburban landscape. A small guy, in a black hooded sweatshirt and black jeans, running down the sidewalk, slipping into the bushes. Doggett ran through the crowd of befuddled revelers, his maudlin mood cast off in the thrill of the chase, and followed his subject through backyards and over fences. It felt good to be outside, to be moving again. The guy was faster than anticipated, and it took Doggett a while to catch up with him. There was no stress in it, though. He knew he'd get him eventually. He doesn't let anybody get away from him anymore. It took about ten minutes- a zig-zagging chase through the neighborhood John knows like the back of his hand- for him to catch the guy. Long time, but that was okay. The payoff might be worth it. He cornered his prey trying to climb a fence at the end of a winding driveway. "Freeze! Hands in the air!" he called from several feet away, pointing his weapon at the man's back. The small dark form dropped to the ground and raised its hands. Doggett approached and patted his suspect down from behind, searching for a weapon. Something was off. Something felt wrong, smelled wrong. There was no weapon, but... "Turn around," Doggett said, backing off a little. His eyes trailed down the body as it turned, taking note of the curve in the ass, the high-heeled boots. And then back up again, to the most stunning face he'd seen in quite some time, framed by the hood of the sweatshirt. "What's your name?" he asked as harshly as he could manage, attempting to cover his surprise. He'd never come so close to being outrun by a woman before. She didn't answer, just looked back at him with a strange, icy stare. Lights filled the sky and people were yelling. It was suddenly very loud and very bright, and he realized it was finally midnight. "Who are you?" he tried again. Still no answer. He grabbed her arm and pulled it behind her, pressing his gun into the small of her back. "Okay, you wanna play it that way, you're coming with me." He gave her a small shove and she started walking silently. "We're going back to my house. I know you know the way." xxxxxx "I'm not gonna let you leave here without making love to you again," he tells her. She feels the beginning of an erection pressing into her lower back. Her resolve is melting fast. How can he want her this way? It still seems like a dream, an alternate reality where happiness isn't something foreign, but rather a flavor she has tasted once and will never be allowed to sample again. Tantalizing and out of her reach. She knew he would be good- passionate and gentle, just aggressive enough- but she never expected this kind of desire, this lust he seems to have for her. "This meeting is important. He's testing you. You need to be there." "Shh, I told you. I'm not gonna miss it." He kisses a hot trail down her neck and she squirms. "We don't...there's no time for...mmm..." No time. No time for the kind of love he gives. That particular gift lasts for hours and hours. The gift that keeps on giving. "I can do a quickie too if that's what you're worried about," he whispers into the crook of her neck, rocking against her. His hand moves across her stomach at a leisurely pace. She turns in his arms and kisses him with a hunger so vast, she fears it will consume her. Perhaps it already has. xxxxxxx He almost regretted bringing her back here, showing her the scattered remnants of his evening of self-immolation, but from the cold glare coming off her, he doubted she'd noticed or cared. He cuffed her hands in front of her, and seated her in a chair in his living room. The hood had fallen back and revealed a head full of golden hair reaching her shoulders. In the light of his house he could see that she was wearing makeup. Makeup, to skulk around slipping secrets under his door. He had the eerie sense that he'd brought home a mannequin, and when she spoke, it was almost more creepy than her silence. "Am I under arrest?" was the first thing she said to him. Her voice sent a chill through his bones. "Maybe." "I haven't committed any crimes, Agent Doggett." "What's your name?" "My name is irrelevant." "Not to me, it's not," he said, backing towards the envelope lying unopened next to his door. His gun still held in her direction, he bent down and retrieved it. "What is this?" "The truth," she said, and he had to try really hard not to kill her. "What IS it?" "Why don't you open it and find out?" He opened the envelope, glanced briefly at the contents and then back at her. "Where did you get this information?" She gave him another emotionless, silent stare in response. He was unnerved and found his discomfort confusing. Interrogation is one of his strong suits and it takes a hell of a lot to fluster him, but this woman had him on edge. He couldn't figure out an approach, a way to break through to her. "What's your name?" he asked for the sixth or seventh time, raising his gun again. She must have known he'd never shoot a woman for refusing to tell him her name though, because she was utterly unfazed. "What the hell kinda BS is this? You give me this information and expect me to believe it when you won't even tell me your name or your source or why you're even giving it to me?" "I'm giving it to you because I expect you'll know how to use it, Agent Doggett. For me to reveal my sources would be extremely dangerous, for you as well as me. And even for Agent Scully, and her unborn child." "What are you talking about, her unborn child?" "She's pregnant, Agent Doggett." "No she's not." "Yes. She is." No, she's not, he thought. She can't be. This woman was lying to him. Or crazy. But there were pieces of a puzzle clicking into place- overly long hospital stays, the crackers and the frequent visits to the ladies room, the itch in the back of his brain telling him that his partner was keeping more than one secret from him. "This isn't making any sense to me. Who are you?" "Someone with a great deal of interest vested in the work you and Agent Scully are doing." "What interest? Who do you work for?" "The question is not who, but what," she said, giving him a look that he figured was supposed to be meaningful and profound, but it just pissed him off. He wasn't interested in semantics. "All right then, what?" "I'm not sure you're ready to hear and understand what I know just yet." This was the final straw. There was nothing he hated more than being told what he could and couldn't handle, what he should and shouldn't know. He'd heard enough of it from Scully and Skinner, and there was no way in hell he was going to hear it from this woman too. He moved purposefully across the room, stood a hair's breadth away from her and pressed the barrel of his gun into the crook of her porcelain neck. "Look, lady, I'm about at the end of my rope here. I don't need you to patronize me right now. I think it would be in your best interest to tell me what the hell you're talking about." She wasn't afraid of him. Not even a little bit. He didn't understand it. She was like a robot. What did he have to do? "What I'm talking about, Agent Doggett, is a planned invasion. Colonization. I work for a group that is trying to stop it." "Planned invasion of what? By who?" "Of this planet by an alien race." More of this alien BS. Exactly what he didn't need. He was almost disappointed. He'd expected something more from her somehow. He backed away from her, irritated. "And giving me Kersh's dirty laundry is supposed to help with that how?" "I'm trying to help you, Agent Doggett. To open your eyes." "Why? What do you want from me?" "Just that you continue the work, the X-Files." "Shouldn't you be talking to Agent Scully about that?" he asked, but soon realized the answer. If Agent Scully were pregnant, she might not be able to continue the work for much longer. How could she have kept that from him? He tried not to let the anger fill him, to push it back for later when he could do something about it, but it continued to distract him. "I'm gonna find Agent Mulder. Soon enough he'll be back to take over his department again." "I hope that you do, Agent. But for now, you *are* the X-Files and it's important that you realize how significant a position that is." He circled her, staring silently for a few minutes, trying to penetrate the barrier of eyes as icy and hooded as his own. "I think you've got the wrong idea about me, lady. I'm not the X-Files, and I don't wanna be." He continued to stare her down, and suddenly there was a red dot. On her forehead. And a line of light, the same color, leading from her right to his window. "Get down!" he ordered her. Quickly and without question she fell to her knees and onto the floor. The bullet pierced and cracked his window, but missed her head by a few feet and lodged itself into his wall. The gun must have had a silencer because there was no sound of a shot. "Stay down," he told her, and headed for the door. "Agent Doggett, no! You can't go out there," she called to him from the floor. "I can't go out there? Somebody just shot a bullet through my window!" "Please! Please, don't go out there. You won't be able to find them and you'll be putting us both in more danger. Please, just stay here." She was speaking frantically, sounded very upset, and her eyes were watering. It was more emotion than he'd seen from her so far and he found something oddly compelling in it. "Please, John. Please." "Who ARE you?" "My name is Marita Covarrubias." xxxxxx She thinks his house is a shrine to the past, and not just because of the pictures on his living room floor. He has a phonograph, and a collection of record albums- jazz and classical and just a little bit of rock and roll. He has lots and lots of books, and last night she noticed that most of them are historical. Fiction and non-fiction, but all centered on the past. He has some movies under his VCR, and she recognized the titles. Almost all of them are in black and white. He is old-fashioned, in every sense of the word. She never thought to look for that in a man, never thought it was a trait she'd find endearing. Lying in his bed, letting him kiss her and run his hands reverently over her body, she thinks there is great virtue in it. He was an old-fashioned lover last night; sweeping her off her feet like some dime-store romance heroine, bringing her to his bedroom and finishing undressing her with an almost ridiculous adoration. "I don't usually do this kinda thing," he'd felt the need to tell her, unfastening the clasps on her French, mail-order, lavender bra with adeptness. She almost laughed because what was this kind of thing anyway? She'd certainly never had an experience quite like this one. But she knew what he meant; that it wasn't usual form for him to take a strange woman to bed the first night he met her. She nodded and told him, "I know, John." He worshipped at the altar of her body, repeatedly reassuring her of her beauty and his desire for her. He lay her down on the bed and kissed her everywhere, bringing her to a shattering orgasm with his mouth, and then repeating the action at her shy request. No one had ever made her come that way, and she'd been immediately desperate to experience it again. She hadn't expected it, but he'd been even more enthusiastic the second time around. When he finally entered her for the first time he pinned her wrists to the mattress, but his thrusts were gentle enough for a virgin. She wasn't a virgin, though, and she soon found herself begging him for more. He gave it to her. He gave her whatever she asked for. When she came from that, she expected it to end, but he continued relentlessly. With the stamina of a racehorse, the endurance he applied to every other aspect of his life, he brought her to yet another orgasm and continued on even after that for another twenty minutes or so. She is usually glad to see the end of intercourse, and the two-hour-long sessions he gives are another thing she wouldn't have expected to want or enjoy. But in this case, she'd actually been sorry when he stopped. She cried when he came, not only because it was one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen, but because she feared it would be the last time she'd see it. Now she knows that fear was unnecessary. He's already made love to her once more, and it seems he intends to do so again this morning. Perhaps it's selfish of her not to stop him. "You really need to get ready for work, John." "Uh-huh," he answers, but he is licking the inside of her ear. His cock is pressing against her stomach, and it feels like fire. How could someone like this want someone like her? xxxxxx In the end, he did what she asked. If he has one weakness, it's a crying woman. Shed a few tears and there's nothing he won't do. He stayed in his house with Marita Covarrubias and let whoever had taken a shot at her escape into the night because there were tears in her eyes, but he did so grudgingly. Donning a latex glove, he pulled the bullet from his wall and dropped it into a zip-lock bag as she rose awkwardly from the floor. Once it was too late for him to leave, the tears disappeared and the cool facade seemed to be firmly back in place. He wondered though, if the tears had been the real facade. "I've given you what you asked for, Agent Doggett. You know who I am and why I came here. Am I free to go?" "What do you know about Agent Mulder's whereabouts?" She gave him a strange little smile and tilted her head. "The same thing you do. You just haven't accepted it yet." She walked over to him, planted herself directly in front of him and held up her hands. She was closer than she needed to be. His photo albums were still on the floor and he wondered again if she'd noticed. "If you're withholding information from me you could be in a lot of trouble." "He's in a spaceship, with a bunch of aliens." He rolled his eyes and dug through his pocket for the key that would release her. She was obviously not going to be any use, but still, inexplicably, he wanted her to stay. "You're going to have to accept it sooner or later, Agent. I can help you, but you have to be willing to let me." He reached over and unlocked her and his fingers lingered on her skin, but only for a second. Her wrists were red and, once freed, she began massaging them. "You okay?" he asked, fearing the cuffs had been too tight and cut off her circulation. "I'm fine, Agent Doggett." "Your wrists..." "They're a little raw, but I'll live." "Do you think they meant to kill you? Whoever shot at you?" "I think it was a warning." "You should come in and make a statement." She laughed through her nose, but without a smile. "You've got a lot to learn, Agent Doggett." She turned away from him then, started walking towards the door, and a strange panic overtook him. He really didn't want her to go. "I'll be in touch," she told him, her hand on the door. "How? More secret file deliveries?" "Perhaps." "Well...how will I know they're from you?" For some reason it made a difference. It shouldn't have. She was talking crazy and the information she'd given him tonight seemed sketchy at best, but somehow it made a difference. Somehow, he realized, he trusted her. It was ridiculous, he knew. But he'd learned through experience to trust his instincts, and at that moment his instincts were telling him that she was worthy of his trust. She turned to him and looked into his eyes, and there was something there, something he hadn't seen or noticed before. He couldn't pin it down, but it was something. She took the file she'd given him from the kitchen table and sat on his couch with it, gesturing with her hand for him to join her. He sat down, closer than he needed to. She held the file on her lap for a moment or two and then brought it to his face, waving it under his nose. He looked over at her, confused, and she replaced the envelope with her wrist. He inhaled the scent of her perfume deeply, memorizing it. It had been on the file, too. In fact, it seemed to be everywhere. It was familiar to him in a way he couldn't place or explain. "Understand?" she asked quietly, letting her wrist linger under his nose for a moment. He nodded mutely, though there was very little that he understood about this, least of all his own reactions. "Is there anything else, Agent Doggett? I really should be going..." "Do you..." The question popped into his head, seemingly out of thin air, and he almost didn't ask it. He wasn't sure he wanted the answer, and he didn't want her to see his uncertainty and concern. Still, his instincts were telling him that she knew, that she could tell him what he'd been wondering about for months. He couldn't let the opportunity pass. "Do you know why I was assigned to the X-Files?" She looked startled, and instantly he knew that he was right. She had the answer and she hadn't expected him to think to ask. "I...I suppose that it's because you're the most qualified man for the job." "No, I'm not. I'm not the most qualified. Surely there are agents who know more about this stuff than I do. Who are at least interested in it." "Okay, then...why do you think you were chosen?" She was backing away from him slowly, one inch at a time. Her thigh wasn't pressing against his anymore and he missed it. "The information you've given me tonight seems to indict AD Kersh. You're trying to tell me that he's corrupt. If that's true, don't you think it's more likely that he chose me to fail? Stick me down in the basement so I won't be a threat to his power?" "Agent Doggett, you are now in a greater position to threaten his power than you have ever been before." "Then why? Why did he choose me?" Why does it have to be me, he thought, but didn't ask. No reason to get whiny about it. She didn't say anything for a very long time, just sat there staring at some picture on his wall. "Miss Covarrubias?" "He didn't choose you, Agent Doggett. I did." xxxxxx She has imagined him here. During her surveillance, she'd been tempted to watch, to view him in this private act, but somehow it always seemed too great a violation, disrespectful, unnecessarily intrusive. Still, she imagined. His bathroom is dark too, and the water is hot. Nearly scalding. She knew he'd like it that way. He stands behind her, massaging shampoo into her hair, rubbing her scalp with his gentle fingers, and she melts into his touch. She forgets that there is an angry world outside, a world that might not forgive them this indiscretion. She lets the water rinse her clean and she touches him. She remembers the night she found him, three years ago now. She'd been sifting through piles of pictures and resumes in her apartment. A million and one FBI agents, and it was all a blur until she came across John Doggett. Something in his eyes had called to her, almost jumped off the paper, and his face had been with her ever since. She has wondered many times since then if she is stricken with an unhealthy obsession, if she's crossed the line from Consortium lackey to crazed stalker. She has also wondered how it would feel to be this close, to breathe this air and touch this body. Nothing- no photograph or video or work history- could have prepared her for his beauty, for the hot, hard feel of his skin under her hands. Her research couldn't convey the press of his lips against hers, the tension that coils in her belly as his tongue slips inside her mouth. Even her deepest, most secret fantasies underestimated the thrill she feels as he lifts her up and presses her against the shower tiles entering her with confidence and ease, as if he'd always belonged there. "You feel real good, honey," he whispers against her ear, burying himself in her to the hilt. "Yes..." she sighs, clutching his shoulders. Yes, she feels good. So very good. And as he begins to move in her with a slow and subtle urgency, she feels better and better still. So good that it brings sudden and unexpected tears to her eyes. Again. She has imagined him many times, but never has she allowed herself to imagine this. She wonders how many times she will cry because of him. xxxxxx "I don't understand." He was so tired of saying that. To her and to everyone else. He wasn't used to this, to being so lost and confused about so damn much. Usually he chose to ignore the things he couldn't understand and focus on what makes sense, but this time nothing made sense. "I'm in a position of some authority in these matters," she said, as if that were some kind of explanation. "Authority over Kersh?" "Indirectly, yes." "What are you, Janet Reno's sister or something?" She smirked a bit at that, and he did too. No way in hell Janet Reno had a sister with legs like Marita's. Still, the thought of this woman-beautiful or not- controlling his destiny from behind the scenes was more than a little unsettling. "Okay, so you've got some power in the bureau. Great. That still doesn't tell me the answer to my question. Why me?" "I told you. You're the most qualified for the job." Her cheeks were red and she wouldn't look at him when she spoke. Maybe he'd found the chink in her armor. "What makes you so sure of that?" She turned her head completely away from him at that, and seemed to be staring at the picture sitting on the table next to his sofa. The picture of him and his two boys. He felt an irrational urge to flip the picture over and hide his family from her. "I...I've been following your career for some time," she told him almost absently, as if she were thinking of something else entirely. "My career?" He wondered what in his career could have possibly made her think he'd have any interest or expertise in chasing batmen and superslugs. "Yes, you've...you've got a long history of, of bravery and strength. Honesty. P-Passion. I felt that those traits were important for this position." "Those traits aren't exactly written on my resume, Miss Covarrubias. How closely have you been following me?" "I...I'm in a position to know many things." "What kind of things?" She didn't answer him. He wanted to touch her. It didn't make any sense. "What kind of things, Marita?" She looked at him finally, and her eyes were wide and frightened and watery. "Everything," she whispered shakily. He didn't think he'd ever felt so simultaneously aroused, angry, comforted, and completely creeped out in his life. "Have you been watching me, Marita?" The comfort was the strangest thing. "I...yes, somewhat." "Somewhat?" "Yes, yes I have." "Here? In my house?" "Not...not so much. Mostly at work. It wasn't me, personally, most of the time. There are pictures, videos...everyone's being watched, Agent Doggett. All the time." Not so much, she said. Which meant yes, occasionally. Occasionally someone had watched him here, spied on him in his own home, doing...everything. "Did you watch me here?" He hoped it had been her. Against all better judgment and sanity, he wanted it to be her. "I..." She ducked her head and her entire face was a blush. It was answer enough for him, but it didn't explain anything. "Why, Marita? Why me?" "You...you're right for this job. You're the perfect man...for it." He couldn't stand it anymore. He had to touch her. A strange dizziness overtook him and he held her chin in his palm, tilting her head up to look in her eyes. "What gives you the right to make that decision for me?" he asked her. She opened her mouth and a tiny sound- almost a whimper- escaped. She wanted him. Very very badly. He could almost smell her excitement. Was this what it came down to? Had his current predicament, his fate even, been chosen on the basis of a woman's desire for him? A woman who was, presumably quite unstable. He should have been alarmed. "Tell me something about yourself, Marita." "What...what do you want to know?" "Anything. Tell me anything." "What...why?" "Because I wanna kiss you, but before I do that I wanna know something about you other than the alien-fighting organization you belong to and the fact that you like to spy on me." She looked shocked. He was glad. Now they were in the same boat. "I don't....understand," she said. He smirked at the irony, and thrilled in her shortness of breath. "What's to understand? I wanna kiss you. You obviously wanna be kissed. All you've gotta do is tell me one single, honest thing about yourself." Their eyes were locked in what should have been a battle of wills, but was quickly-at least on his part- turning into a searing, almost random desire. He wanted to throw her off her game, yes, but more than that he really did want to kiss her. Was it the flattery, he wondered. Was he really so vain, so shallow, that her apparent and peculiar fascination with him was enough to set his hormones raging? No, he'd been raging since his first look at her. "I...I don't know...what to tell you," she whispered. "I told you. Anything. Tell me your favorite color, your favorite movie, the name of the boy you lost your virginity to, anything." "I don't...remember." "You don't remember your favorite color?" "I...Steven. I mean, purple. I mean...I don't see many movies." Good enough, he supposed. At least for a kiss. He leaned towards her and moved his hand from her chin to her hair. It was soft, silky even. He noticed her breath catching, her lips parting in anticipation, and as he pressed his mouth to hers he kept his eyes open. So did she. The contact was stiff at first, uncomfortable and strange. He hadn't kissed a woman in what seemed like years, although it was probably only months, and this was no ordinary woman. It certainly wasn't an ordinary situation. But sooner than expected, he found himself relaxing into the kiss, closing his eyes and letting the sensation wash over him. It was electric. It was a few hours late, and it was weird as hell, but he was getting his New Year's kiss. At the first touch of his tongue against hers she whimpered, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, clutching his shirt. Yes, she wanted him, and he was now certain that this was the reason he was here. This was the reason he'd been put in such a frustrating, no-win, crap-tacular situation. He should have hated her for it, but he didn't. In fact, he liked kissing her so much, he thought that maybe this was a good enough reason. He pulled back at that thought. It scared him. "Tell me about Steven." He was breathing heavily already. He wanted more, but he needed to know more first. "You want to know about Steven?" she asked, slightly breathless. Her pretty green eyes looked prettily glazed over. She was still holding onto his shirt. "Yeah, I wanna know about Steven." "We grew up together. He used to walk me to school." "Where did you grow up?" "Mississippi." She almost spat the word. "You? You're from Mississippi?" He couldn't believe it. He'd guessed she was covering some sort of accent with her affected way of speech, but he never would've pegged her as a Southern belle. "Yes, I am. Why are you asking me about this? What does any of it matter?" She looked eager to abort the conversation and get back to the kissing, which wasn't a bad thing by any means, but his curiosity was growing with every word out of her mouth. "I'm asking because I don't really think it's fair for you to know 'everything' about me and for me to know nothing about you. Especially not if we're gonna make love." "Oh, and what makes you think we're going to do that?" He ran his thumb over her bottom lip and watched her shudder. "Just a hunch." xxxxxxx She has never known anything like this. Some part of her- the wistful, nearly romantic side that she hides even from herself most days- would like to believe that there has never been anything like this. Her more practical side tells her the truth. She has just been unfortunate. Deprived. Alex was brutal and quick, passionate, but never was that passion directed at her unless it was in the form of hatred. Her other lovers had been inept, mystified by her beauty, but unable to put their desires to any good use. No one had given her this kind of care, this kind of attention. John was different. She has realized that she doesn't know everything about him. Not even close. But she knows what has drawn her to him. She knows that he was born and raised in a white-trash hell on Earth, just as she was, that when his father died he took on the responsibility of caring for his alcoholic mother and four younger siblings at the age of fifteen. She knows that he left the marines with a shattered knee, acquired during the Hezbollah bombing, and that he didn't want to go. It took him nearly two years of physical therapy to completely regain the use of his leg, and she knows that he had something resembling a nervous breakdown during that time. She knows that his marriage fell apart when his youngest boy was taken from him by a criminal with a vengeance against the cop who'd sent him to prison. She knows that he couldn't let go of the boy, couldn't stop looking, and lost touch with everything else in his life. By the time Luke was found buried in the woods nearly three years later, John's wife had stopped loving him. She knows his work record and the details of the latest case he was on. She knows how he approaches his investigations, interrogates his suspects. She knows who he talks to on the phone and what he says to them. She knows that he runs every morning and tries to go to the gym every night. She knows that he drinks coffee with too much sugar, sometimes at two or three in the morning, to keep himself going. She knows that most nights he gets home very late and goes to bed almost immediately, but some nights he doesn't. Some nights he reads, or does research on his computer, or writes letters. Some nights, like last night, he looks at pictures of his broken family, his dead son, and he looks very sad on those nights. Sometimes he drinks. One night she watched him eat an entire large pepperoni pizza by himself in front of the television, and she wondered if he was lonely. She knows he has some friends who he sees on occasion, some family members he keeps in touch with, but there doesn't seem to be anyone he's particularly close to. No one who comes to visit a lot or calls him on the phone just to talk. No one to share that pizza with. There seemed to be an empty space beside him on the couch that night, and she remembers wanting to fill it. At the time she realized it was a dangerous thought and it has grown even more dangerous in its potential reality. She knows his strengths and his weaknesses. She knows she could manipulate him if she chose. She knows a lot, but she doesn't know everything. She doesn't know if he really was lonely that night or if she was projecting her own feelings of isolation, but now more than ever she wants to know. "John, you are a beautiful man," she sighs, still holding his shoulders for support as she recovers from the fourth- or fifth or sixth or seventh- orgasm he's given her. The water beats against them still, and she notices that he has a smattering of freckles all across his upper back. Something else she hadn't known before now. He laughs into her throat, and says "No, I'm not." But he is. She thinks he is probably the most beautiful man she's ever known, from the inside out. "You are. It's dangerous. I shouldn't be here at all." "Dangerous for you or dangerous for me?" he asks, helping her plant her feet down on the floor of his shower. "Dangerous for everyone." He doesn't have time for this, and neither does she. There's no room for it, no way their lives could possibly bend to accommodate it, but yet it's there. She doesn't have any idea what to do with it that won't get them both killed. xxxxxx "Why don't you tell me what you think?" she asked. His fingers were in her hair, twining and twisting. He wondered why she wanted it to be so white. "What I think about what?" "About me." "So you're gonna make me guess?" "I want to know what you see." It was a good question, really. What did he see that made him think this was, in any way, a good idea? She'd managed to lift him out of his depression somehow. He supposed that was something. "You're a very interesting woman, Marita." "Yes, I know." "Yes, you know?" He chuckled a bit. She seemed to have regained her bearing and gotten used to the idea of him touching her. "Confident, too, I suppose." "It's a matter of survival. I'm sure you can relate." "Yeah, I can. It's important to know your assets." And she certainly had some...assets. The corners of her lips turned up in a subtle smile. God, he wanted to kiss her again. "I guess you also know that you're a very beautiful woman, then." Her smile grew, and she nodded slightly. He could tell though, from the way her eyes sparkled, that she didn't hear it very often, and that surprised him. "I think that you're worthy of trust, but I'm not sure why. Just an instinct I guess, but my instincts are usually right." "Lucky for you." "It's one of my assets." "So what else are your instincts telling you, Agent Doggett?" He ran his fingers through her hair again, and then let them drop to her neck. Her skin there was hot and red. He wanted to bury his face in it. "That you're a whole mess of trouble." "I'm sure you're right about that." "That there's a lot more to you than meets the eye. A lot that you work really hard to cover up." "Perhaps..." "I think you're very focused, very intense. That maybe you don't let yourself have fun very often." She was having fun now, though. Her hand was on his knee, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, and her breathing was getting deeper and shorter. He pressed his lips softly to her cheek, and then kissed a trail to her ear. It occurred to him that he might as well have been describing himself. Maybe they had more in common than he'd originally thought. "I think that you're probably phenomenal in bed," he whispered. "That's...um, quite a supposition. What...what makes you think that?" "Your hair," he answered, sniffing at the strands near her ear. It wasn't the only clue, but it was the one he was thinking about at that moment. "My...hair?" "Your shampoo, actually. You chose it because of the way it smells, didn't you?" "I suppose, maybe. I don't know." "It's different. Different than everything else you put on yourself. Your make-up is like a mask, and your perfume is...nice, but sort of cold. But your shampoo...it gives you away." The hand on his knee was moving steadily upwards, and now her other one was in his hair, on his scalp. Her nails tickled his skin and she tilted her head back, allowing him more access to her neck. "Gives me away?" she breathed. "Gives away your passion. It's musky and...deep. It smells like sex. Your hair smells like sex." "John...I...." He ran his tongue over the patch of skin under her ear, and her whole body seemed to shake. "This sweatshirt, it isn't your style at all," he said, touching the bottom of the garment, pushing it up a little to expose her waist. The feel of his hands on her bare flesh caused an unexpected tremor to run through him. "Mmmno...it's not." "I'll bet you usually wear little tailored suits. Silk blouses and pantyhose. No, stockings." He wanted to take the stupid sweatshirt off. He felt almost insane with the need. "You are good," she sighed, squeezing the inside of his thigh. God, he was hard. "And I'll bet even though you weren't expecting this tonight, you're wearing silk underwear. I'll bet your bra matches your panties and they're probably both...pink." At least, that's what he was imagining in his rapidly escalating fantasies. "Close," she told him. "Light blue?" "Why don't you see for yourself?" Slow, he reminded himself, slow and steady wins the race. But when he pulled the shirt over her head, and tossed it to the side, when he saw smooth, creamy skin, a flat, soft stomach, and a pair of perfectly round, perfectly touchable breasts, just barely covered in lavender silk, he wasn't sure if slow was going to cut it. "I knew it was an Easter color," he told her, letting his fingers glide along her belly. "Victoria's Secret? Or no, no somewhere more...French." "A mail-order house in Paris, yes." "Oo la la." Her eyes slipped shut, and she let out a sigh as his hands traveled over the material. Her nipples were rock hard. He kissed her again. "Agent Doggett...you do realize how...ill-advised this is." "Ill-advised. Right. I got that part." Her neck tasted sweet, and he began devouring it. "I just want...oh God....John." "Hmm, what do you want?" "I don't...re..." "You taste good." He knew what he wanted. He wanted more of this. He wanted this all night. None of the rest mattered. He was pretty sure she wanted it too, and when he lifted her off the couch and carried her to his bedroom, she didn't complain. xxxxxx She sits on his bathroom counter, wrapped in a small white towel, watching him shave. "You gonna' give me a phone number at least?" he asks her, scraping a straight razor down the side of his face. No electric for him, she thinks. He has to do everything the hard way. She wonders if this is love, and if so, why anyone would want to feel it. "I don't think that would be a good idea, John." "Don't call me, I'll call you?" "No. It's not like that. I'd like you to call me. It's just...." "Complicated? No, wait, dangerous, right?" He winks at her, and her insides turn to jelly all over again. He's wearing a towel too. His skin is still covered in tiny water droplets from the shower. She watches them with longing as they slide down his stomach muscles. She doesn't understand how she can still want him. She's never wanted a man after sex. "Don't you find this a bit unusual, John? Aren't you at all confused or bothered by this situation? You're acting as if I'm someone you picked up in a bar last night." He flicks some shaving cream off his razor and into the sink, then shrugs. "I dunno. Maybe I don't know the etiquette for this particular situation. How am I supposed to be acting?" She remembers kissing Mulder. It only happened once. He'd been needy and she'd mistakenly assumed she could be there for him. The situation had been entirely different- she didn't have this kind of desire for Mulder, he certainly had none for her- but it was the closest comparison she had. How had Mulder acted after that kiss? The same, she realized. Like nothing had happened at all. Maybe that's what she expected. "You just don't seem to realize...I'm on your side, John, but we can't be...there's just no way." She wasn't making any sense. He had her flustered again. Alex would laugh if he could see her. "I just wanna see you again, honey. I'm not asking you to move in." "We will see each other again, John. I'm certain of that." It may not be under promising circumstances, but she knows she will see him again. She just hopes he doesn't despise her by then. She can hardly begin to understand why he wants to see her now. He is too good, too honest and too...normal. He will never be able to understand her life, and she doesn't want him to. She doesn't want to darken and twist him, but she realizes it might be too late for that. Everyone who comes into contact with this is darkened. Still, further contact with her can only speed up the process. She wonders if he'd take it if she offered him an out. She came here to give him more motivation to stay with the X-Files, but now she is almost desperate for him to run far, far away. Yet another reason this is all such a terrible idea. "I didn't intend for this to happen, John. I think it might have been a mistake." He runs a washtowel over his face, rubbing it almost raw, and then moves to stand in front of her, between her legs, touching her knees. "Do you regret it, Marita?" What a difficult question to answer, not knowing the repercussions. There is no telling how this one night will change things for both of them, and there can be no regret without consequences. Still, she knows that she has never been touched like this, so gently and so deeply, and maybe that alone makes the consequences inconsequential. She is sure that the wondering would have driven her mad if she'd never found out if the reality of him matched the fantasy in her head. She never expected him to surpass her image, though. "No, no I don't regret it." "Then it wasn't a mistake." "Just remember you said that." He smiles- that infrequent, but staggering smile- and kisses her. If only things were as simple as he wants them to be. In another life, she thinks, she could have been his wife. She could have been happy with that, and he would have been too. "Happy New Year, Agent Doggett," she whispers. "I have to go to work now," he mumbles into her ear. "Yes, you do. You've got a world to save." He sniffs in disbelief. "You really think the X-Files are that important?" She looks into his eyes sadly, seeing all that is there and all that's to come. "I think that you are that important." xxxxxx end 1