Welcome To The Harem

Shadow Wife by Rachel Anton Part 1 of 3
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." See also sequel Trouble Me With You.

Title: Shadow Wife (1/3)
Author: Rachel Anton
Feedback: Good? Bad? Sick? I can take it.
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
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.


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

"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.


"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."



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

"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

"Okay, you wanna play it that way, you're coming
with me."

He gave her a small shove and she started walking

"We're going back to my house. I know you know
the way."


"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.


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.


"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

"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

"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."


end chapter 1