From: RAnton1013@aol.com
Date: Thu, 8 Mar 2001 00:54:45 EST
Subject: Trouble Me With You (1/2) by Rachel Anton
Source: xff


Title: Trouble Me With You (1/2)

Author: Rachel Anton

E-Mail: RAnton1013@aol.com

Rating: R 

Category: S, A

Keywords: Doggett/Marita, post-ep for The Gift

Note: This is a sequel to "Shadow Wife" which can
be found here:
http://members.aol.com/ranton1013/Shadow.html 
You should probably read that before this. 

Spoilers: The Gift

Archive: Sure

Disclaimer: No, I don't own them, but I think I
should. 

Summary: He's longed for her in a very peculiar
way, and that longing is just another mystery he
can't seem to solve. She's another question, and
there are no answers in sight. 

Thanks to Laura and Cynthia- the best damn support
group/beta readers/inspirations around. 

xxxxxx

He's not a particularly religious man, but he's always
assumed, almost as a matter of course, that he had a
soul. This isn't his first dangerous job. He's been
close to death quite a few times, and the idea that
something inside him would survive and move on
once his body left the world has been a comfort to
him. It's gotten him through. It's given him courage. 

The idea that something of his son has remained, and
that someday they would be reunited has kept him
sane. 

Tonight there is no comfort. There is no sanity. He
wonders if there will be courage or if that's been
taken from him, too. 

He stands, naked from the waist up, facing himself in
a mirror attached to his bedroom wall. There is a
scar on his chest, just below his left shoulder. He
was stabbed there, back in New York. He runs his
fingers over it, baffled, but relieved by its continuing
presence. 

Then his hand travels down to a place where a scar
should be, but isn't. It's been less than forty-eight
hours since he took the bullet. It went through his
back and shattered through his chest, and now there
is nothing. Just smooth skin, same as it was last
week. No evidence that anything happened to him at
all. 

He's not sure if he'd feel better or worse to find out
the whole thing had been a vast hallucination. Would
he prefer to be a sane person in a crazy world or a
crazy person in a sane world? Did Mulder wonder
the same thing, or was he so enamored with his
ideas that they seemed completely sane to him? 

John doesn't know, and he's tired of trying to think
like Mulder, trying to be like Mulder. Whatever
Skinner might think, there's no use in it. It's not
getting him anywhere but dead. Nearly. 

Still, the man continues to haunt him, to flit in and
out of his consciousness like a song title he can
almost remember, but not quite. Something he
begins to get a handle on, but as soon as he thinks
he understands, it slips through his mind like sand
through his fingers. Frustrating, to say the least. 

And Scully. She haunts him too, even when she's
there, in the same room. Everywhere he looks he
sees her haunted, haggard eyes, always asking him
the same question: Why can't you find him? He
knows she doesn't expect him to, but he feels her
accusation weighing on him almost constantly. He
feels the weight of his uselessness when he looks at
her eyes. 

"Why can't you?" he asks himself, looking into his
own eyes, hoping to spot evidence of a remaining
soul. 

"Why can't you what?"

The voice comes from the darkness, the shadows of
his bedroom unlit by the single lamp on the dresser
beside him. He isn't disturbed, or even surprised by
it. He thought he smelled her perfume as soon as he
walked through his front door. He had a feeling
she'd been here, and he'd hoped she still was, but
now he is annoyed. 

"I have a doorbell, you know. Ringing it is probably
a lot easier than breaking in and sneaking around in
the dark."

She glides into the light behind him, and he glances
at her reflection. She looks different than last time.
Her hair is restrained on top of her head- some kind
of librarian bun, and she's wearing a suit. It's purple.
She looks more like herself, he realizes, even though
he's only seen her that one other time. This is how
she usually looks. She's still beautiful, but he doesn't
like it. 

"How are you, John?"

"I'm fine. What are you doing here?"

"I heard about the case."

"Still spying on me, then?"

His irritation is growing with every word from her
mouth. A mouth he's dreamt of kissing more than
once since the first and last time he saw her almost
two months ago. Another face that's haunted him.
He's longed for her in a very peculiar way, and that
longing is just another mystery he can't seem to
solve. She's another question, and there are no
answers in sight. Tonight, even more than usual, he
isn't up for the subterfuge or the games. 

"What do you want, Marita?"

"I just...wanted to make sure you were all right."

He catches her eyes in the mirror and looks at them
for a long time. He sees a genuine concern, and it
confuses him even further. 

"You know what happened?"

"Yes."

Of course. She knows "everything". Maybe she can
explain it to him. 

He turns around to face her, half expecting her to
disappear like another strange vision, but she is real
and she is here. 

"Why do you think they call it a soul-eater, Marita?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean...how can a person be...eaten, eaten whole,
and come back out completely intact? Don't you
think you'd lose something?"

He sighs, frustrated by his simultaneous need and
inability to discuss this. There is no definitive
explanation for what happened, and he knows she
can't answer his questions. He can't even figure out a
way to ask them. He sounds crazy and stupid, but
she is here and she's the only person he could ever
tell. 

"Do you think we even have a soul, Marita?
Because...I don't understand how it would find its
way back."

"John? Are you sure you're all right?"

He moves away from her and sits on his bed, runs
his hands over his face. He wonders if he is all right.
Physically, yes. He is better then he's been in quite
some time. But in every other way, he's not so sure. 

"Is that what you think happened to Mrs.
Hangemuhl?" she asks him "You believe that she
was...eaten?" He remembers believing that right
from the start, almost without question. Now he has
a reason, but before he really didn't. He doesn't want
to think about that. 

She sits down next to him, but not very close.
Maybe she can tell that he's losing his mind. 

"John, spontaneous healing has been known to
occur. It's possible something else caused her
recovery."

He doesn't understand why she's even thinking about
Mrs. Hangemuhl. 

"Maybe so, but I've never heard of anybody
spontaneously rising from the dead."

"Rising from the dead? John, what are you talking
about?"

"You don't know."

God, she doesn't know. And now he's going to have
to explain it to her. How can she know everything
else and not know this? It makes him angry. If she'd
known, he would have been sure it was real. 

"Don't know what?"

"Why don't you tell me what you do know."

"I know about the couple you went to see. I know
what happened when Mulder was there. I...assumed
that you'd be upset about not being any closer to
finding him."

He looks down at his lap. His hands are clenched at
his knees, clutching the fabric of his pajama pants.
He forces himself to release and wipes the sweat
from his palms. 

"I saw him. I saw what Mulder saw."

"What did Mulder see?"

"A man with a power, a power that was destroying
him, turning him into a walking sickness. I- I tried to
take him out of there, to get him away from those
people. They were using him. They were treating
him like some kinda machine. And they...they
weren't prepared to let him go. Somebody shot me.
In the back."

He lets out a deep breath, relieved at having gotten
at least some of it out. But that was the easy part. 

"John? You mean at your back."

Please, he thinks, please don't argue with me. He
can't have this argument. He has become Mulder,
telling a crazy story to a person who doesn't believe.
The difference is John barely believes it himself. He
is Mulder without the convictions. Maybe he is
Scully. 

"Somebody shot me. In the back. It went straight
through, and I was dead."

"John..."

"I was dead."

"But, John..."

"I was dead. I woke up, in that...that cavern or
whatever the hell it was, and he was dead. From me.
He took my death."

"You say woke up..."

"You don't understand. I was DEAD. Not
unconscious. Not sleeping. Dead."

If she makes him say it again, he might strangle her. 

"And you honestly believe this is what happened?
That this creature could do what they said he
could?"

"I don't have any choice but to believe it."

He looks at her face finally, expecting to see fear or
ridicule or shock, but she is smiling. She's actually
smiling. It's an enigmatic smile, a weird smile, a
creepy smile. 

"John, having experienced this, how do you feel
about the work Agent Mulder was doing on the
X-Files?"

"I could see him. I...I felt him there with me. I can't
explain it."

Her smile grows and she covers his hand with her
own. He feels suddenly like a dog who's learned a
new trick. He waits for her to pet his head and give
him a snack. 

"I don't understand why anybody would seek this
kinda thing out willingly, though. I think that he was
doing what he thought was right, and that he
honestly cared about these people, but I'm still
confused about a lot of it."

"And how do you feel about him as a man?"

"He's a good man, with a good heart. He could have
been cured, but he sacrificed his own happiness to
save another person from suffering. But...he must be
crazy. I think he must be insane."

Insane to seek this out and even more insane for
having found it. What must he have thought about,
alone at night? Did the questions follow him home?
Was he consumed with these mysteries every second
of his life? Did he ask Scully what she thought about
souls or did he keep it all to himself? 

She loves him. He must have loved her. 

Marita squeezes his hand, and asks him, "Are you
going to be all right?"

"I just don't understand how I can be the same."

"But you are the same. You have the same feelings,
the same memories, same ambitions. Don't you?"

"But I don't understand how."

"Does it matter? You're alive, you're still you."

"You never really answered my question, Marita. Do
you think there's such a thing as a soul?"

"Yes," she answers, without thought. He wonders
how it can be so easy for her. She doesn't even have
to think about it. She was raised in Mississippi.
Maybe she's very religious, but he doubts that for
some reason.  

"Do you think that it continues to exist after you
die?"

"Yes, I do believe that."

"Do you think that if you die, and get eaten, and
then come back to life, that your soul could
somehow find its way back to your body?"

She smiles again and he laughs at himself.

"I sound like a goddamn lunatic."

"No you don't, John. These are ideas you've never
had to consider before."

She was sure as hell right about that. 

"When I was dead...there was just nothing. I dunno
how to explain it. I always thought that when I died,
my soul would go floating off somewhere and that
I'd be aware."

That he'd find Luke. That he'd be happy, at peace.
He knows men who've had near death experiences.
They talk about white lights and blissful feelings.
Why is he different?

"Perhaps you just don't have the memory."

"Maybe. I dunno."

"You didn't answer my question. Are you going to
be all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

She squeezes his hand again, and then lets it go. 

"Well then, I should go."

She stands up and walks towards the door, and he
watches her numbly. 

"I still don't understand why you're here."

She stops for a moment and looks back at him.

"I told you, I wanted to make sure you were okay.
Now, I need to go. Good night."

And then she's gone, out into the darkness of the
hallway. He hears her heels clicking on the floor and
down the stairs, and he sits on his bed wondering if
he should go after her. He doesn't quite have the
energy, and he has a feeling it's a bad idea anyway,
but once again she's gotten him hooked. He wants
her to stay. 

Before he can talk himself out of it he is halfway
down the stairs, and he sees her hovering near his
front door. 

"What are you doing, Marita?" he calls to her. "Why
are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Any of this. I don't...I don't get you. Why do you
come here to find out if I'm okay when you could
have found that out without even talking to me? 
And why do you even care if I'm all right or not?
And if you do care, why are you leaving now?"

Her mouth opens and closes like a fish. Her hand
hovers over the doorknob, and she won't look at
him. He doesn't know why he cares either. He
enjoyed making love to her last time. Enjoyed the
hell out of it, and he wants to do it again, but sex
isn't worth this aggravation. There must be
something more. He doesn't want there to be
something more. 

"I need to go, John. I shouldn't be here at all."

"But you are here! And I don't understand why if..."

He stops himself, realizing that he's yelling and
there's really no reason to yell. He's sure as hell not
gonna beg her.

"I have to leave," she tells him yet again. 

"Yeah, I got that. That's fine. I guess I'll just add you
to the list."

She stops moving, and her whole body seems to
stiffen. 

"What list is that?"

"The list of things in my life that don't make any
fucking sense."

His legs are shaking, and he has to sit down. He
doesn't want to collapse in front of her. It's so
pathetic. But he can't stand to hold himself up
anymore. 

He sits on the steps and covers his face with his
hands, praying for her to just leave now. 

"John?"

She hasn't left. She's right in front of him, kneeling
down to examine him like a freaking doctor. Like
he's falling apart. 

He waves his hand in front of his face, trying to shoo
her away. 

"I'm fine."

"Yes, yes you are. I knew you would be."

She puts her hands on his knees. Touching him
again. Why is she doing this to him? What does she
want?

"The things you've done in your career, John, in
your life, you've experienced things that would break
many people. I knew that you could do this, that you
were the perfect man for it. And you are, whether or
not you believe that."

He looks down into her eyes. They're big and wet
and beautiful and full of admiration. 

"I don't even understand what 'this' is."

"You will, John. I told you. You're going to save the
world."

She's as delusional as Mulder. Or Scully. Or him. He
shakes his head.

"I can't even find one man."

"You will. And I will help you. I promise you."

He wants to shake her, to rattle her brain and make
all the information fall out so that he can look at it
and figure things out for himself. He's so tired of bits
and pieces, of threads and hints and shadows. 

"John," she whispers, low and breathy. His eyes are
drawn to her full, moist lips. He remembers them on
his body, hot and hungry. "Tell me you want me to
leave. Tell me to stay out of your life. Tell me you
don't want to have anything to do with me."

"I can't do that."

Oh how he wishes he could. Things might be a lot
simpler if he could only say those things. At least in
this area of his life. Whatever area this was.

He asks her, "Is that what you want me to do?"

She shakes her head slowly, and licks her lips. 

"What do you want me to do, Marita?"

"I...I want you to...to know that I never meant to
manipulate you in any way. That there are reasons I
can't give you everything you want."

He has a flash of Mulder in this same situation, but
he can't put the whole picture together. He can't
figure out how Mulder would react. He's not sure
why it matters, and he wonders if he's becoming
completely obsessed. He imagines himself wearing a
stupid bracelet with the letters WWMD on it. What
Would Mulder Do?

"How well did you know Agent Mulder?" he asks
her. She looks startled. He's glad. Maybe she'll think
he's still got some of his wits left, that he's not a
stupid, insecure man crumbling to pieces on a
staircase. 

"What do you mean how well?"

"I mean, what was your relationship?"

"I was a contact."

"You gave him information. Like you've given me."

"Yes."

"Was he frustrated by it? Being given bits and
pieces, but never the whole truth? Or did he eat up
every scrap that you threw him like a salivating
dog?"

Did you sleep with him too, Marita? 

The thought shouldn't bother him as much as it does.
He's not sure if it's jealousy or a need to keep a
distance, to assure himself he's not following directly
in Mulder's footsteps. 

"I'm not sure how he felt about it. He seemed glad
for the help. I think he understood that it was
dangerous for me to tell him too much."

Thankfully there isn't a trace of accusation in her
voice. He doesn't think he could stand another
woman looking at him and wishing he were
somebody else. 

"How do you feel about him? As a man?"

She tilts her head to the side, and looks at him
strangely. Which is fine, because he's feeling pretty
damn strange.

"Why on Earth would you ask me that?"

"I'm just...trying to understand you. Trying to
understand him."

"I respect him, and his work. He is a good man. But
I didn't know him very well. I didn't...care for him, if
that's what you're asking."

He nods and rises to his feet again, relatively
satisfied with at least that answer. She's still on her
knees, looking as confused as he feels. 

"So, are you gonna leave or what?" he asks.

"I...I'm not....I should go, but..."

"I want you to stay, Marita," he stops her before she
can waver any more. "I don't know why, but I do.
What I don't want...what I don't have the energy for
right now, is to chase you around the house like a
jackass trying to convince you not to leave. So, I'm
going back upstairs. You can join me if you like, or
if not... you know the way out."

xxxxxx

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