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

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