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. 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
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