Title: Shadow Wife (1/3)
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

end chapter 1

Shadow Wife (2/3) by Rachel AntonTitle: 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

Shadow Wife (3/3) by Rachel AntonTitle: 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