From: "Katherine F." <katherinef@softhome.net>

Title: "Noli Me Tangere IV: Fate"
Author: Katherine F.
Disclaimer: Dana Scully is Chris Carter's; Flipper is mine.
Spoilers: "Christmas Carol", "Emily"; vague ones for "Beyond The Sea"
and "Paper Clip".
Feedback: pleeeeeease! katherinef@softhome.net
Archive/distribution: OK to ScullySlash, others please ask.
Summary: Paths cross and decisions are made.
Notes: Sequel to the first three NMT stories and "If Only"; only NMT
I and II are really necessary to understand this story. The previous 
stories can be found on the ScullySlash archive or my website:

http://netdump.com/users/purity_brown/purity.htm

Takes place a short time after "Emily".


	"Noli Me Tangere IV: Fate"
	by Katherine F.

It's winter in Georgetown and I'm cold. I'm walking the streets as I 
have been since morning, trying to make sense of what's happened to me. 
This is loss, and I've known loss before, but it isn't like losing Ahab 
or Melissa, or the time I thought Mulder was dead. 

It's so very difficult to mourn for her, my daughter -- and she *was* 
my daughter; I still have to remind myself of that. I hardly knew her.
I didn't get the chance to do more than reach out for her hand and try
to stop her from falling.

Oh, I wanted so much to love her! And I did, I think I did, but even 
so it isn't really *her* I'm mourning right now. 

When I looked at her I saw so many different things; someone who 
needed my help, a mirror-image of my sister, a way to cheat death, a 
future filled with love and warmth. A child. A child who would love me 
and let me love her. 

I turn around a corner and shove my hands deep into my pockets.

She wasn't meant for this world, my daughter, my Emily. I never used 
to be able to say things like that without cringing, but I have come 
to believe that there's more to fate than a simple accumulation of 
choices. I've seen the workings of the invisible hands of conspiracy
many times before, and felt an aching powerlessness as once again the
evidence disappears and justice is mocked; but this is different. It
was a conspiracy that made Emily, but it was something -- someone 
*else* who gave her to me. I was meant to find her. I was meant to 
save her.

Did I do the right thing? 

I think I'll be asking myself that question until the day I die. I 
wanted so much to save her life -- I wanted that to be what I was
meant to do; but not for her sake. I wanted to save her so that I
could be with her, because I'd already opened myself up to her, and 
dammit, I wanted the risk to pay off. 

And now here I am, wandering through the streets, grieving for all the
possibilities I lost when I let her go. 

I hear music, a single violin, and I walk towards it. 

I was ready for Emily, I would have given up the FBI to be with her, 
and that means that I have changed. Not that the fear is gone -- I 
don't think it ever will be -- but I didn't let it stop me. Can it be 
that I am becoming brave?

I turn round another corner and see where the music is coming from.

She looks a little different than she did the last time I saw her. Her
hair is an inch or two longer and the ends are tipped with scarlet; 
she's lost some weight she could hardly spare. But it's her. Dear God, 
it's really her.

I'm crying. Funny, I thought I was all cried out; I think I've cried 
more in the past two weeks than in the past two years. These aren't 
the kind of tears I've been crying for Emily, though, the choking, 
sobbing kind that rise from somewhere deep in my guts and have to force 
their way past a lump of gall in my throat. No, these tears are polite, 
even gentle, slipping from my eyes as if it were the most natural thing 
in the world. Like breathing. 

Her eyes are closed; she is wearing gloves with cut-off fingers. Like 
Frohike's, I think, and the incongruity of the thought makes me laugh,
but not enough to block the tears. Some part of my mind is asking the
usual questions -- what is she doing in Georgetown, why is she playing
at a street-corner, did she see me, does she remember me -- but they 
are distant, unimportant; I am caught up in the music, as she is, and 
by the sight of her.

I think of all the times I only *thought* I had seen her -- how my 
fists would clench and my stomach flutter, how I would find myself 
itching in places that aren't supposed to itch, like my bones and the
palms of my hands, and all the places where she had touched me. I 
would feel myself frozen, torn between two opposite urges, each as 
strong as the other: to run to her, to run away from her. 

I don't feel that way now; the itch is there, all right, but it's only
a memory of itself, and there is none of the desperation that always 
accompanied it. I think I know, now, what I'm going to do. I think I'm 
strong enough to do it. I think I'm ready.

The song comes to an end, and she opens her eyes; and I'm standing on 
the edge of the cliff again, daring myself to jump. 

I steel myself, clench my fists and unclench them, and call out, 
"Flipper!"

She looks up from the violin case and looks around, startled, her eyes
darting this way and that, not settling on me at first. When she sees 
me she frowns as if she doesn't recognise me. I did look very 
different the last time we were together.

I step forward and make an attempt at a smile. "How are you doing?"
An inane comment, I know, but I just can't think of anything else.

Her eyes widen -- God, those eyes, those beautiful eyes -- then narrow
in suspicion. "Danny?" she says as she packs up her violin, her eyes 
still on me. 

She remembers. 

"Yeah, it's me. I thought -- " 

But I don't have time to finish that sentence before she's picked up 
the violin case and set off at a run. I follow her, and it feels like 
falling. 

I catch up to her easily. She's wearing more sensible shoes than I am, 
but the violin case isn't properly closed, and keeping the violin from
falling out onto the ground slows her down. I grab hold of her 
shoulder and she jerks away as if my hand were hot.

"What?" she says, spitting out the word as if it tasted bad.

"Flipper, I -- I just want to talk. Please. Don't run."

She raises her eyebrows and steps back, sizing me up. The way she 
looks at me makes me feel naked and overdressed at the same time. I
want to hide from her eyes, cover myself up; and at the same time I 
want to get out of these ridiculous high-heeled shoes, wipe off my 
makeup and show her the face she saw before. Danny didn't wear makeup.
And I thought -- I honestly believed, for so long, that Danny wasn't 
really me. Christ, I was blind. 

"Why not?" she says at last, shrugging and looking away. "You did."

I wince at that. It's a slap in the face, and it's meant to be; but 
even though it stings, it makes my heart beat faster to think that she 
*cares*. If she hadn't recognised me, if she'd smiled vaguely and said
"Do I know you from somewhere?" -- that would have been a knife to my
heart.

"Not this time." Not ever again. "Please?"

She shifts the violin case from one hand to the other, looks at me and 
away and back again. 

"Coffee," she says finally. "At the place round the corner. You're 
paying."

My heart unclenches and I nod. She sets off at a brisk pace; I have to
lengthen my strides to keep up with her. When we get to the coffee 
shop her cheeks are flushed from the cold. And... something else? I 
don't know; I don't dare guess. But it looks good on her.

She sits down at a table near the window and I follow suit. There is a
moment when I don't need to speak, when we're both waiting for service
and I can just watch her, the way she fiddles with the catch on her 
violin case, the way she picks at her fingernails, the way her eyes 
are never still. It's only when they come to rest on me that I realise 
I've been staring. She blinks, pushes her hair behind her ear, then 
looks away abruptly as if afraid to reveal too much. 

I want to believe that that means something, I really do; but I, of 
all people, should know how dangerous belief can be. Belief can drive 
you mad, if you let it. Belief can make you see what's not there. I 
want to believe, but only in what's true.

The coffees arrive and she takes hers, cupping it in her hands as if 
to warm them and inhaling the steam with her eyes closed. She has the 
same intent expression that she had when she was explaining to me why 
she wasn't a typical Virgo; she's lost in what she's doing the way she
was when she ripped me down and rebuilt me with the touch of her 
fingers on my skin. 

I was going to say how sorry I was to leave her and how much I've been
thinking about her. I was going to ask for her forgiveness; I was 
going to explain why I ran away and why I never looked for her. But 
what comes out of my mouth is "I want you."

Her eyes fly open and fix on mine, hard and unforgiving. "Really?" she
says. "Like Homer wants donuts? Like a dog wants rid of his fleas? 
You're going to have to do better than that." 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -- I mean, I -- "

"Forget it. I'm not offended. I just -- Are you Catholic?"

I frown. I'm not wearing my cross today; I couldn't bear it, it made 
me think of Emily and her empty coffin. "Yes. How did you -- "

"Takes one to know one." She takes a sip of her coffee. "It never 
quite leaves you, does it? No matter how hard you try to leave it 
behind, it always catches up sooner or later. And then, bam! Like a 
ton of bricks. And it's like you're seven again, at your first 
Confession." She sniffs and rubs her nose with the back of her hand. 
"What's your name, anyway? It's not Danny."

"Dana," I say. "Dana Scully."

"Danny suits you better." 

Silence. She stares at her coffee and I stare at her, until it starts 
to hurt too much and I have to look away. I want to touch her so 
badly; but I don't know what she's thinking, or if she'll meet me 
halfway. 

But that's not the point, is it? I have to jump, even if it kills me.
And maybe it will. But maybe, just maybe, I will learn to fly before I
hit the ground. 

"I've been thinking about you," I say, my voice almost whispering.

Her eyes dart up to meet mine briefly, then look away. She shrugs.
"Could have fooled me."

It's not encouragement, exactly, but it'll do. "I kept replaying that
morning in my head, thinking of ways I could have done better -- "

"Like not disappearing? Like giving me a fucking *reason*?" She's 
angry now, her colour high and her eyes blazing. "Yeah, you could have
done better, Danny. You could have done a lot better. Do you do that a
lot, anyway?"

"What do you -- "

"I mean, exactly how often is it that you pick up a woman, give her a 
mind-blowing orgasm and then bolt when she tries to return the 
favour? Once a week? More?"

"No!" I can feel tears burgeoning somewhere in my chest; I push them 
down as best as I can. "I never -- I mean, I used to pick up women 
every now and then, but I never -- nobody ever -- " Jesus, this is 
harder than I thought.

"I'm listening."

I take a deep breath and say it. "Nobody ever touched me like that 
before." 

Silence. 

"I mean -- " I close my eyes; I can't look at her. "All my life, I've 
been distant, I've tried to keep people from getting too close, but 
recently I...I became very ill, in fact I almost died, and I started 
to think about the things I shut myself off from by being that way. I 
don't want to do that any more. I want to be -- open. And I -- I -- "

Silence. I open my eyes and stare at my cold coffee.

"Flipper, I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I never -- I didn't want to hurt 
you, I was just...afraid."

Silence. Then fingers on my cheek, and suddenly I can't breathe. I 
lean into the touch, her skin on mine a balm and an electric current
and everything I've been praying for. She cups my cheek in her palm, 
runs her thumb gently over my lips. 

"God, Danny," she says, her voice low and tired, "you just have to 
make things complicated, don't you?"

She takes her hand away -- and there it is, the desperate itch I 
haven't been feeling, back. With a goddamned vengeance. I breathe out 
and meet her eyes.

They are much as I remember them. Green and big, bulging slightly, 
with gold flecks around the pupil. Only the expression is new; a blend
of tiredness and sympathy and -- 

"I was just about to get over you," she says, shrugging and pulling 
her hands into the sleeves of her jacket.

Her jacket. My God...

"Listen, Flipper," I say quickly, before I can lose my nerve, "if it's
what you want, I can just walk out that door and you will never see me
again. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But I don't think that
is what you want."

"And why the fuck not?" The words are belligerent, but the tone is 
just weary; a token protest and nothing more.

"Because you're wearing my jacket."

With those words said, she -- 

Dear God, is she -- 

Yes. She *smiles*. She smiles *that* smile, that sunrise smile, that
beautiful, heart-rending smile. And she reaches out to me, her hands 
on either side of my face, and rests her forehead on mine. 

"This is...nuts," she says, her lips a bare half-inch away from mine. 
I lace my fingers with hers. 

"I know," I say, breathing the words into her mouth like the kiss of
life, "I know it doesn't make sense, but I think -- I think sometimes
you have to stop expecting life to make sense and just...take what it
gives you."

"What it gives you." She leans back, keeping hold of my hands, her eyes 
narrowed. "You weren't looking for me, were you? You just found me by 
accident. Why were you walking around like that, anyway?"

"I -- it's a long story." *Chicken*, I think to myself, even as I 
stroke the palm of her hand with my thumb. But I'm not ready to tell 
her everything, not just yet. "I might ask you the same thing. Why 
were you playing at a street corner?"

"Well, I -- " she begins, then smiles ruefully. "It's a long story."

"But it doesn't matter, anyway. We're here now."

"Yeah. Yeah, we are. But where are we gonna go? That's what I want to
know." She sighs and leans back, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her
left hand. "I don't -- I mean, I -- I don't know if I'm ready for 
this. Whatever it is. I need...I need time. I need to think this 
over." 

"Well, I don't want to push you into anything," I say, cautious, my 
heart racing. "But I *am* ready. I've never felt more ready in my 
life."

For a long moment she just stares at me, a steady, opaque gaze. I hold 
her eyes with mine, unwilling or unable to look away, afraid that if I
do, she will disappear, or, worse, change her mind. 

Abruptly she looks away, shaking her head as if to break a spell. 
"Here," she says, reaching into her pocket and handing me a piece of 
crumpled paper, "I -- I have to go. I'll see you." 

"Flipper -- "

"Please!" There's a note of anguish in her voice; I realise that I'm 
still holding her hand. I don't want to let go. Not now that I've 
found her. 

"Please, let me go," she says, tears rising in her eyes. "I *will* be
around. I *will* be in touch. I promise. I just need time. That's all.
Please?"

Letting her go is the hardest thing I have ever had to do, harder than
burying my sister, harder than opening Emily's coffin, harder even 
than staring down at Luis Cardinal and not pulling the trigger. I know
it's what she needs me to do, but, Jesus, the thought terrifies me 
that when she walks out that door there is nothing to stop her from 
staying away from me forever. I have to trust her. I know that. 

I just wish I believed I could.

I let go of her hand and she nods; a slow and thoughtful nod. "I'll be
around," she says softly.

And then she's gone. 

I look down and stare at my coffee, which is practically congealing. 

She *will* be around. I don't know that, I have no way of proving it; 
but I believe it.

I have to.

[end]


--
Katherine F.
Church of Alex Krycek, OBSSE, League of Outraged Noromos, Serge
http://netdump.com/users/purity_brown/purity.htm
Today's Quote: "...national anthems only ever have one verse, or
rather, all have the same second verse, which goes 'nur...hnur...
mur...nur nur, hnur...nur hnur'..." -- Terry Pratchett, _Carpe 
Jugulum_