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: Trouble Me With You (2/2)
Author: Rachel Anton
E-Mail: RAnton1013@aol.com

xxxxxx

She hates choices like this, choices between what
she wants to do and what she should do. She didn't
expect this at all. She didn't expect him to make it so
easy for her to leave.

She thought that he'd seduce her, like last time. She
wouldn't have put up much of a fight. Past a certain
point, she'd have been unable to say no. All he had
to do was try, but he's not trying. He's gone, back up
to his bedroom, leaving her on his doorstep to make
up her own mind. She doesn't want to make up her
own mind.

He's right. She doesn't make any fucking sense.

Or maybe she's just weak. Saddled with a fear that
keeps her from pursuing what she desires, hoping
that he will be able to guess and force his way in so
that she will be blameless. So that when she looks
back on this, after everything has gone to hell, she'll
be able to say "I didn't choose this. It wasn't my
fault."

He's forcing her to be strong. He's forcing her to
take responsibility, or, if she is unable to do that, to
leave here and never come back. That is the choice
she's faced with, the choice he's given her with his
deceptively simple ultimatum.

Deceptively simple. Like everything else about him.

She covets that simplicity, worships his gorgeous
inability to deceive and connive. It puts him so out
of place in her world, yet so entirely right for it. She
thinks his straightforward approach is exactly what
they've needed. Exactly what she's needed.

Alex mistakes John's frankness for stupidity, but
Alex should understand, better than anyone else, the
dangers of underestimating people. They
underestimated Alex, too.

Marita knows that John isn't stupid. He's just
operating on another level, a better level.

She should leave. He is too good for this, too good
for her. Her hand hovers over the doorknob. It
would be so easy. Just walk out that door and don't
ever come back. Give him information if the need
arises, the same way she did before. Anonymously.

She'd never have to lie to him, to hurt him. It could
be just like it was with Mulder. Simple.

But the memory of his beauty is too fresh. She
shouldn't have come here at all. Shouldn't have hid
in the darkness of his bedroom and watched him
undress, watched him pull his pajama pants over his
bare legs and his bare ass, start to put a T-shirt on,
but stop, look at his chest, look in the mirror. She
wondered as she watched what it was that held him
so rapt with fascination. His body was fascinating to
her, but she couldn't imagine why he'd be staring at
himself so intently. Now she knows why, and the
image is even more poignant. He looked so
vulnerable, so human. She practically ached with the
need to touch him.

She shouldn't have let him tell her what happened to
him, open himself up that way. She's sure he hasn't
told anyone else, and probably won't. Ever. It's a
bond between them that shouldn't be there. She
shouldn't encourage it, certainly shouldn't let it
grow.

God help him if he grows as attached to her as she is
to him.

God help her because her attachment is keeping her
here, and she doesn't think she has the strength to
leave any more than she has the strength to stay.

She looks at her watch to see how long she's been
dawdling in his foyer. Almost twenty minutes. It's
getting ridiculous. He's probably fallen asleep by
now.

He said he wanted her to stay, she reminds herself as
she walks back up the stairs. He knows that this is
dangerous. She's given him ample warning. As much
as she may feel she doesn't belong here, he seems to
think she does. Maybe some of his boldness will rub
off on her.

She stands in the doorway to his bedroom, watching
him again. He's in bed, reading. He's put on a shirt,
long-sleeved and gray, perhaps to stop himself from
poking at his chest. Perhaps to make it clear that he's
not sitting around waiting for her to grope him.

He's wearing reading glasses. How did he know she
had a weakness for men in glasses? Or does she?
She can't remember being particularly aroused by
that before. But God, her breath catches in her
throat just looking at him.

He peers up over the rims to glance at her, and she
sways a little. She feels like a child standing there,
like a fool. He reminds her of the father she never
had, but always wanted. She's glad he's not her
father.

She doesn't know what to say to him. She's waiting
for permission to come in.

When she says nothing for an awkward amount of
time, he looks back at his book. She wonders if he'd
like it if she begged. She could beg. She really could.

After a few more painful moments pass, he closes
the book and sets it on the table beside his bed.

"Were you planning on hovering there all night or
are you gonna come in?" he asks her.

She walks to the foot of the bed on trembling legs.
His face is tired and soft.

"You really want me to stay?"

"I told you I did."

"I know, I just...I know myself, and I fear what will
happen if I stay again this time."

"Something different than last time?"

She can hear the humor in his voice, but she isn't
making a joke. She sighs and walks to the side of his
bed, looks out the window, wonders how to tell him
she's afraid she's fallen in love with him and that it
will only get worse if she stays.

"I thought last time could be the last. I thought it
could end with that. I know...I know that it should."

"So why are you still here?"

"Because... I can't leave," she whispers. She can see
the stars when she looks out his window, and she
wonders if there's a planet somewhere out there that
they could move to and be happy. She traces
patterns in the condensation on the glass. It's cold
out there tonight, but so warm in here.

"Well, I don't see what harm it could do. You're
already here. Anyone who might be watching you
knows that, they know you were here last time."

He doesn't understand. He thinks she's still talking
about the physical dangers. He doesn't know that's
the easy part.

"Because, after this I won't be able to end it. There's
the harm."

Of course, he might be able to end it. He might want
to end it. She's not sure if she should hope for that
or not.

"Perhaps I'm being vain, though. Perhaps all you'll
want is one more night." She turns her head over her
shoulder, back in his direction. His arms are crossed
over his chest, and he is smirking.

"Perhaps," he says, and her heart drops. And then he
adds, "But probably not," and her stomach twists
itself into a knot.

She returns her gaze to the window.

"I wish I could show you what kind of trouble I
might end up causing you if we continue this. I don't
want to hurt you, John."

"Then don't."

"So simple, hmm?"

"Should be. I don't bruise easy."

She doesn't think he's ever met anyone with the
potential to bruise him as deeply as she could.
Maybe she's wrong about that, though. There are
still some things she doesn't know.

"John, this is all..."

"I know. Complicated, dangerous, etceteras. Look,
all I ask is for you to be honest with me."

Oh, is that all? She tries not to laugh. She tries not
to cry. She sits down on the bed next to him and
tries to think of a delicate way to tell him that
sometimes honesty isn't an option.

"I can only promise to try, John."

"Try hard."

She nods and resolves to do just that. They turn
towards each other at the same time, and she sees
herself reflected in his glasses. She looks like a bitch.

"Why don't you start by telling me why you really
came here tonight," he suggests.

"I told you. I was concerned for you."

That is the truth, but perhaps not all of it. She finds
herself justifying it, telling herself that he doesn't
need to know the whole truth in this case. And
maybe he doesn't, but that doesn't change the fact
that she is breaking her promise seconds after
making it.

"You sure that's the only reason?" he asks.

"You sound like you've got another one in mind.
Why do you think I came?"

She realizes suddenly that she despises herself. How
did she become such a convoluted person?

"I dunno," he shrugs, taking off his glasses and
placing them next to his book. "Maybe this is just
me being vain, but I was wondering if maybe it was
because you missed me."

"Did you miss me?" The words come out of her
mouth so fast, and she feels almost powerless to
stop it. She doesn't know if she's flirting or playing
games with him, and it's become quite painful.

"Yes," he answers, and she is genuinely shocked.
"I've been thinking about you. A lot. In fact, I
uh...did a little research of my own."

Her heart skips a beat, and she hopes the panic
doesn't show on her face. He is an excellent
detective. Perhaps she should have chosen someone
a little less adept.

"What...what kind of research?"

"Don't worry. I didn't find the bodies." He smiles,
but she is not amused. That just isn't funny at all.
"Actually," he continues, oblivious to her sense of
doom, "your record is pretty spotless. Pretty damn
impressive, to tell you the truth."

She remains silent, wondering what he's seen, not
wanting to reveal more than she has to. She wishes
he hadn't done this. Yes, it's unfair. She investigated
him to the teeth and it's only right and logical that he
do the same to her, but still...she wishes he hadn't.

"What happened at Fort Marlene?" he asks. She
feels dizzy and sick. Why can't he just kiss her?
"There's some stuff about it in Mulder's files, but it's
not very clear. What happened to you there?"

She takes a deep breath, and wonders how much to
tell him. How much can she tell him without
breaking down or disclosing something awful about
herself?

"Teriible things. Tests...I can't...I don't like to think
of it."

He brushes her cheek softly with his fingers. Just
kiss me, John, she silently begs him. Just kiss me and
stop talking.

"Just tell me who," he whispers urgently. His eyes
are locked onto hers, and they are so blue. They
glow and sparkle like nothing she's ever seen. He'd
kill the men who hurt her. She sees it in those eyes.

"A man named Spender was responsible. He's dead
now, John."

"Good."

"Yes, it is good." But it doesn't take away the
memories. Nothing could. Still, the memory of the
old bastard prone and pitiful, dying the most
undignified death imaginable, is sometimes enough
to balance the horror.

She wishes she could be angry with him for asking
about this, but it's impossible. He's incapable of
arousing her anger.

His hand moves to the top of her head, petting
gently, and she leans into his touch like a feline.

"M'sorry, honey. I shouldn't have brought it up. Just
made me angry to read about it. And I felt strange
knowing and not telling you."

"It's okay, John. Really, it's okay."

Some errant strands of hair have escaped her bun,
and he brushes them away from her eyes, leaning in
close to peer at her sad face. "Are you gonna be
okay?"

She nods, but she's not entirely sure. It's ridiculous
that thoughts of that long ago time still haunt her,
but they do. He pulls her into his arms, his warm,
safe, strong arms, and she tries to bury herself inside
his chest.

He smells clean and sweet, like fresh laundry. He
feels like a place she'd like to live. God, he feels
alive. So incredibly alive. So kind. He would never
allow anything like that to happen to her again.

She's never known a man like him. She's not sure if
there are other men like this. Men who can soothe
away years of pain with a simple gesture, a simple
hug. His hugs are like a salvation. Because he means
them, just like everything else he does.

"You've still got a soul, John," she whispers into his
neck. "And I love you."

Stupid, stupid words. She wishes immediately that
she could take them back. She wishes she'd left a
long time ago. She knew he'd unravel her eventually.

His body stiffens a bit, but he doesn't let her go. She
holds onto the dim hope that he didn't hear her until
he asks quietly, "You do?"

She knows it's insane to feel this way, that he must
be convinced now, if he wasn't before, that she's a
complete lunatic. The hours they've spent together
don't even add up to a day. But she knew, even
before she met him. She's always known. That's why
she's really here. And this is where his precious
honesty gets her. Feeling like a fool.

"You don't have to say anything. I don't expect you
to say anything." Please, don't say anything. She
knows he doesn't love her. How could he? He
knows even less of her than she knows of him. He
doesn't have the benefit of three years worth of
stalking behind him.

It would probably kill her if he said it back out of
pity. She thinks "I love you, too" is the worst thing
she could ever hear.

"Are you sure you're not just in love with the person
you think I am?"

She was wrong. This is worse. He doesn't believe
her. He thinks she's mentally ill, obsessed, wrong.
The most upsetting part is that he could be right.

She pulls out of his embrace, humiliated.

"You don't think I could love you," she says, biting
the inside of her cheek. Physical pain is a good
distraction. "You think I've just got some kind of
childish crush, that I'm too naive or stupid to know
the difference between that and love."

He closes his eyes and his face falls. He looks
suddenly devastated, like he's realized he's made a
huge mistake. Her instinct is to comfort him, but
that doesn't make any sense. She curses him, curses
herself for this emotional version of the Tilt-a-Whirl
they seem unable to avoid in each other's company.

"I didn't say that, Marita." His voice is tender and a
little bit broken. He strokes her cheek with his
thumb, looks at her with...what? Pity? She can't tell,
but it doesn't feel that way. "I believe you. I
just...don't wanna let you down. I don't want you to
think I'm something I'm not. However you may feel,
you don't really know me that well."

She wants to ask him what he thinks about destiny,
if he believes in love at first sight, but she knows he
doesn't believe in those things, and she'd only feel
more foolish for saying that she does. That he's
made her believe somehow.

"Look, Marita...I've gotta admit, something's drawn
me to you, right from the start. Another thing I can't
explain. I just don't want you to get hurt."

He kisses her then, and she is glad. She doesn't want
to talk anymore. His lips are soft and warm, and
they communicate more to her than his words ever
could.

His tongue travels through the inside of her mouth
with tenderness and desire and a genuine need for
closeness. Intimacy. His hands are in her hair,
tugging gently, and she starts to hear little clicks on
the floor as he drops the bobby pins holding her
carefully constructed appearance together.

He does love her. He just hasn't realized it yet. And
that is, possibly, the very worst thing that could have
happened.

xxxxxx

I'm alive again, he thinks, pushing himself deep
inside her. He is on top of her, and it feels like every
part of him is touching every part of her. There is no
air, no space between them. His hands are holding
hers against the mattress, her breasts pressed tightly
to his chest, legs tangled and tongues intertwined.
The position doesn't allow him maximum freedom of
movement, and he is making love to her slowly and
softly. Which is exactly what he needs.

He's been floating, disconnected from his body, his
thoughts and feelings residing somewhere in outer
space. Everything in him has been scattered since he
died. She is pulling the pieces back together. She's
bringing him back to Earth.

Every thrust, every drop of sweat shared between
them, grounds him further. It seems to make her fly.

She is shattering beneath him, shaking and crying
and moaning. She feels like heaven and she feels like
life.

The world tightens around him. Her heels dig into
his backside and her teeth bite at his lips. He hears
his name sobbed over and over. She may be the
death of him yet.

He must have a soul, because this strange,
bewildering woman has touched it tonight.

His orgasm is long and powerful, and in it he feels
the truth of her love, and the danger of it. He could
fall so easily. He's only loved once before, and it
wasn't easy at all. It was so, so terribly hard. He was
hard, even in love. She doesn't know what he can be
like.

When it's over, he keeps her in his arms and holds
her tight, wanting to protect her from everything,
including him. Including herself.

"I think you brought me back to life, kitten," he
sighs into her hair.

"Who's a kitten?" she asks, tracing patterns with her
nails on his chest.

"You are."

She purrs and snuggles against him. He closes his
eyes and lets himself rest, finally.

As he's drifting into sleep she says, "If you ever want
out of this, any of it, I want you to tell me. I don't
want you to feel trapped."

"I'm not gonna quit," he tells her. He doesn't quit.

When he wakes the sun is up and she is gone. He's
not surprised, but he is disappointed. He wonders if
he hurt her, if his instinct to protect felt like a
rejection. He's not unwilling to accept her love, but
he wants it to be given with absolute knowledge of
everything he is, and everything he can be. He
doesn't think she's seen enough of his bad side.

He's going to have to tell Agent Scully about this.

He finds a letter on his bedside table, under his
glasses.

John,
I'm sorry I had to leave. Many things to do. You
looked so peaceful, I didn't want to wake you. I
promise, I'll be in touch soon. Be safe. I still love
you. Believe it or not.

He folds the paper in half and places it in a drawer
for safe keeping. He doesn't think he'll ever throw it
away. He'd fight a pack of wild wolves to keep it.

He wishes she'd left a number. He'd like to call her
sometime, to be able to talk to her on a normal day,
when he's not on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
There's so much he doesn't know about her, so much
he'd like to know, so much he's afraid to know. He
wonders what it would be like to spend real time
with her, to take her out to dinner or a movie, to
relax, to laugh.

He wonders if she ever laughs.

She thinks he can save the world, but he thinks that
maybe she's the one who needs to be saved. He
hopes that he can do that, too.

xxxxxx

end