Summary: Deslea's rec: "Marita/Doggett romance. No-one else would try this. No-one else would dare. No-one else could do it like Rachel A."

Title: Shadow Wife (2/3)
Author: Rachel Anton
E-Mail: RAnton1013@aol.com


xxxxxxx

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."

xxxxxx

end chapter 2