Welcome To The Harem
Trouble Me With You by Rachel Anton Part 1 of 2
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 prequel Shadow Wife.
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
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