Title: Agnate
Author: Drovar
Email address: drovar@alltel.net
Rating: R, for potty mouth characters, some semi-sexy stuff, 
suggested violence and death.
Fandom: XF
Pairings: Spender/Fowley
Date: 11/15/98
Summary: Spender confronts the evil that is Diana Fowley and 
extracts some serious revenge.
Category: AU, Romance (sort of, but not really) Slash by 
implication?
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimers: All hail CC, these pretty toys are his, not mine.
Notes: An answer to this challenge by Coolcat350 on ATXFC:
[Okay, here it is: Write a *serious* Spender/Fowley story. No 
caricatures, gruesome deaths (at least not if they're only for the 
sake of gruesome deaths), etc., etc. Put these two in a real 
relationship.] 

Well I didn't *exactly* meet the challenge, but it's as close as 
I'm likely to get. Two things: First I had thought that Fowley 
had taken a gun shot to the head in 'The End' this story reflects 
that. I also assumed that Fowley rather than Spender was head 
of the new X-Files division.



My name is Jeffrey Spender, I am Special Agent with the FBI 
and there are two things that I am very sure of. Diana Fowley 
is dead, and her blood is on my hands. Not that I killed her 
myself. I didn't put a gun to her head and leave her brainless 
corpse sprawled in her two-flea-bit motel room. Still it remains 
a stark, livid truth that Diana Fowley is dead and that singular, 
irrefutable fact is very much my fault. 

It began in that squalid little hotel room, just outside Phoenix, 
not far from the nuke plant we were investigating. It was one 
of those incredible Arizona nights where the day had been 
hotter than God ever intended, but that chilled to bone-dead 
cold when the sun set behind the desert hills.

I was sitting on the bed, going over my case notes, all carefully 
arranged, organized, and swearing at the lamp on the 
nightstand. Every couple of minutes the damn thing would 
flicker fitfully and fade, I'd jiggle it and get a couple more 
minutes of its dim yellow light. I'd just jiggled, and settled back 
down with the notes, schematics, and photos of the nuke plant 
when Fowley sauntered in, leaving the door standing open to 
the night's chill.

She was an imposing woman, too tall, square shoulders, hard 
features, hard attitude. Diana Fowley was a ball-breaker in 
every sense of the word; my supervisor. Diana Fowley, 
department head of the fucking x-files, what a load. 

I could see the desert sky as Fowley opened the door. I'm not 
much of an artist, there's no secret poet lurking in my soul, but 
it was one of those incredible skies that you see on picture post 
cards at those desert tourist traps. It was all shot through with 
reds, yellows, and oranges; damn amazing. I don't get to see 
that in  D.C. Sunset doesn't matter much, I suppose, when you 
spend your life in a basement office, chasing another man's 
visions and hallucinations.

I was so busy staring at the sky I didn't realize that Fowley was 
standing almost in front of me. I looked up to see that crooked 
grin of hers.  It was irritating and overly familiar. She was 
holding  two cups of coffee, the vapors wafting up into her 
face. It smelled strong, and bitter, probably from sitting on the 
burner behind the clerk's desk all afternoon. Still it smelled 
great to an inveterate java-hound like me.

"I thought you might like some, it's good against the chill." She 
held out the steaming cup and smiled.

It was kind of funny, weird really. The only time you could see 
Fowley's scars was when she smiled. Her face crinkled up in a 
slightly artificial, almost plastic, way and the little white 
surgical marks at the edge of her scalp stood out ever so 
slightly. It was a little unnerving, like death had come for her, 
and missed.

"Thank you Agent Fowley," I said as I laid the case file aside 
for the moment, and took the proffered mug. The heat in my 
hands felt better than it had any right to. "Um, Diana," I 
amended as I saw consternation cross her face. It was an 
expression that didn't do good things for her. How she ever 
managed to snag Mulder, other than shared lunacy, I'll never 
have a clue.

Mollified by my acquiescence Fowley settled down in a chair 
on the other side of the nightstand. The harsh lamplight drained 
the color from her features giving her a pallid, sepulchral look. 
When the lamp began to flicker again, the effect on the woman 
was unnerving. Like some freak-show strobe light it caused her 
face to bounce in and out of the darkness, ghastly. I briefly 
considered letting the lamp fizzle and ushering her out in the 
darkness, but I needed to review those notes. I smacked the 
lamp, which sputtered, and then flared into full brightness. 

"Damn"

Fowley was staring at me wide eyed, the epitome of innocence. 
I turned away quickly before my eyes gave me away.

"Lamp just won't stay on."   I said weakly, trying to cover my 
gaffe with a strained chuckle. Fowley nodded, silent, and 
watching. I took a sip of coffee, and pretended to flip through 
the case notes. She was perhaps the most perceptive woman I 
had ever known, twisted, and duplicitous, but perceptive. 

The coffee was all bitter dregs, and darker than night. Lives 
could be like that too sometimes. I swallowed eagerly; feeling 
the steaming acidic liquid burn its way down my throat. The 
heat and irritation gave me focus.

I glanced back up at Fowley. She was sitting far back in the 
chair, one leg crossed beneath her, as if she were just some big 
teenager. She held her cup to her mouth, her lips kissing the 
edge, just so.  Her eyes were turned up, watching me, studying 
my reaction. It was a pose, carefully planned and calculated to 
manipulate and seduce. I shivered, excused myself, and got up 
to close the hotel door. 

The sky was darker, all high spectrum colors as the suns' rays 
fell through thicker air. It was colder too, and getting even 
colder, fast. I heard Fowley move quietly behind me, I was 
alert to her slightest sound, the soft even rustle of fabric on 
fabric, I tensed,  the give of bed springs, and 
relaxed.

/Shit/

I knew where she was, what she intended.

I closed the door, shutting out the open sky.

/Fuck me to hell/

Exactly

/God damn, son of a bitch/

I felt the door click solidly into place and turned back to the 
room. Presenting an undefended back to Fowley probably 
wasn't the healthiest choice, not with her, not ever.

She was sitting on the bed, near my case notes, leaving just 
enough room for me to squeeze in. I hesitated, more scared 
than a raccoon in the headlights, and likely just as dead. I could 
leave, flee, screaming into the night like I had devil himself on 
my skinny ass. I really could run, leave those hard, cold eyes 
behind forever. A quick turn, a few steps and I'd be gone.

"Don't just stand there looking stupid Jeffrey," Fowley said as 
she patted the bed next to her. "Sit, we need to talk."

So I sat, sliding past her dangling feet, past those too large 
hands, past that bitter face, and down as far toward the end of 
the bed, as I could get. I grabbed the coffee and the case file, 
anything to avoid facing. . . her, talking to her. Dreading the 
touch I knew was coming.

"Jeffrey"

A hand enveloping my thigh, too high up to be casual, too 
close, overtly intimate. I did my best not to jump.

The cold sunset beckoned through a crack in the curtains, the 
last vestiges of day. I could still run.

"Look Diana," I began. Trying to keep my voice steady, 
confident, and failing.

/Damn/

I was close to shivering, but I couldn't, I didn't dare.  One sign 
of weakness, one hint that I wasn't in total control, that's all 
she'd need.

"I really don't think this is appropriate," I stammered. "You 
*are* my supervisor."

"Relax Jeffrey, there's no one here. Just you . . " She took the 
coffee from my limp hand.

"me . . "

She tossed my case notes on the floor.  I watched, dully, as my 
carefully arranged and categorized paperwork fell and 
scattered.

". . . and the desert moon."

Her hand slid up my thigh as her lips fell close to my face. I 
could feel her breath dampening my skin, her hand already 
squeezing and demanding.

"Please, I . . ."

"No one has to know Jeffrey." Her hand fumbled at the top 
button of my suit pants.

"Were here." Suddenly her mouth was against my ear, toying 
and biting, soundlessly whispering, need and longing.

"And I've got some time to kill."

I gasped as her hand slid inside my suit pants and grabbed me, 
hard.

/Oh God, let me die/

Suddenly wandering around in the frigid desert air, lost, thirsty 
and totally alone didn't seem so bad.

I lifted my hands to her shoulders awkwardly, unsure. I tried to 
caress the unfamiliar flesh. My hands slid over bones and taut 
sinew, its hardness undiminished by the soft, expensive fabric 
of her blouse. Her lips dragged down the line of my jaw, 
slavering and biting. 

She seemed to find  this all terribly erotic. Her breath was 
beginning to quicken, her 'caresses' more demanding. Her lips 
finally enveloped mine in a hard kiss. Her tongue darted along 
the edge of my teeth, demanding entry. 

I waited, one heartbeat, then another. Hoping for some miracle 
of release, an earthquake, a phone call, anything. Right now I'd 
talk to good old Spooky Mulder like he was the best man at 
my wedding, my weekend golf partner, and my Tuesday night 
fuck-buddy.

When by the third heartbeat no rescue seemed immanent, when 
no thunderbolt from heaven seemed likely, when her efforts 
grew even more demanding, I surrendered. I felt her probing 
tongue enter, her eager hands demanding a reaction. I slid my 
hands along her back, feeling the heavy knobs of her spine 
through the thin material. Her breasts pressing against my chest.

We kissed for long moments, caressing, touching, probing. I 
opened my eyes expecting to meet her closed lids, locked in the 
passion she was feeling. Instead her eyes met mine, even as we 
kissed, those same hard, cold eyes, alive with a viscous glee 
that said 'Fuck You' in all the wrong ways.

Her hands suddenly came up to my shoulders. She pushed, 
hard. I fell backwards cracking my skull on the headboard. In 
the instant it took for my head to clear, she was standing at the 
foot of the bed, her clothes in perfect order, her smirk of 
superiority firmly in place.

/Shit . . .  again/

"What's the matter Jeffrey, don't you like girls?" She cackled as 
I hastily covered myself and rearranged my clothes.

"Go to hell," was the best I could muster.

Her smirk undiminished, she ducked into the bathroom. Her 
gun, holster and FBI jacket lay tumbled in the floor by her 
chair. 

"Don't worry Jeffrey," she called from the bathroom, sarcastic 
mirth bubbling in her voice. "Maybe I'll bring back Mulder for 
you. I understand he likes a nice bit of boy-pussy every now 
and then." A few moments later she came out of the bathroom, 
slipped on her holster, grabbed her jacket, and in a gale of 
derisive laughter was gone.

I sat in silence for long moments as the night, deepened around 
me. I gathered my notes in the flickering light, downed the still 
warm coffee, and grimaced.

/Stupid bitch/

To think that I wouldn't know where she was going, whom she 
was meeting, and what she was after. I knew well enough. 
Mulder wasn't the only one with an eidetic memory. I knew 
what she was walking into, she had hardly a clue. I'm no fool, I 
watch, I look, I listen, I learn, and I remember . . .  everything.

Diana Fowley died in that plant, that night, the next day, I'll 
never be sure. Mulder would say later, at the inquiry, that 
Fowley had gone to look for another way into a room where 
the Praise boy was trapped. Apparently she found it. Noble, 
heroic Fowley, a *true* agent of the FBI. "One of our fallen 
best" I said at her ceremony. Her guts had joined those of some 
nameless hired gun in that room. Her killer and the boy, if they 
were ever there, vanished like less than smoke.

At the funeral, I hung back from the rest, and asked the priest 
for a few moments alone with my 'partner'. The others, 
Skinner, Mulder, Scully, even the 'old man' off in the 
background, gathered at a respectful distance, their eyes heavy 
and downcast. I kneeled above the open grave and silently let 
nine bullets fall into the deep soft earth, one full SIG clip.


###

Hope you enjoyed this dark little SpenderFic

Drovar