TITLE: Everything in Her Life AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@A... DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like--just tell me where. DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I borrowed 'em for a bit. SPOILER WARNING: Gethsemene, Redux RATING: PG CONTENT: Third party POV, M/S UST CLASSIFICATION: S SUMMARY: Sometimes we are allowed to be present at important moments in strangers' lives. COMMENTS: This story occurred to me during my triptophan coma during the FX 1999 Thanksgiving marathon. Thanks go to Kestabrook for her beta-reading and friendship. Reposted for the After_the_Fact post ep challenge. Visit my stories at: http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm Everything in Her Life (01 of 01) by Michelle Kiefer I've always been fascinated by the role of chance in our lives. If it hadn't been for that hellish meeting at my lawyer's office, I might never have seen her again. If I hadn't been too upset to go back to the lab, I might not have been in that coffee shop on E Street at the precise moment she walked in the door, hair tousled and skin kissed by the wind. My lawyer had presented me with the preliminary divorce papers, and the weight of failure had dropped on me like a baby grand piano. It's not an original story by any means: nice Italian boy meets nice Italian girl and marries same in a nice Catholic church, and they proceed to have nice Italian babies. Only the nice Italian girl decided that this wasn't the life she wanted after all. As I sat nursing a cooling cup of coffee, a woman I thought had died scans the room as if looking for someone. She notices me, and though I am quite sure I am not the person she for whom she looks, she strides across the shop and extends her hand. "Dr. Vitigliano, it's so good to see you again." Her smile is genuine and blinding in its beauty. I struggle to find my feet and stand to offer her my hand. "Dr. Scully, I...I don't know what to say. You look wonderful. Please...uh...will you join me?" I find myself tongue-tied, and I see that she has a puzzled look on her face. Suddenly, she realizes why I am amazed at her vibrant appearance. "Literally, back from the dead, huh?" She says as she takes a seat across the table from me. "That was a dark time." From the little I know about it, I don't imagine that that is an understatement. I saw her for the first time two years ago, and I remember being only slightly aware that she was a beautiful woman. I was so entranced by the unbelievable puzzle she had presented me that my senses were too overloaded to absorb more. For evaluation, she had sent ice core samples identified as being from a site in the Yukon territory and surrounding the remains of what appeared to be an alien being. I was asked to verify the age of the sample and had discovered hybrid cells embedded in the ice. My hands itched to get the chimeras under an electron microscope, and I was giddy with excitement when she agreed. I heard later that an FBI agent had been attacked in the stairwell near my lab during the attempted theft of the samples from the refrigerator. In my male chauvinism, I never made the connection to the small woman I had met. Further testing in a nutrient media had brought such remarkable results that I had asked her to come to the lab. When I'd seen the bruises on her face, only partially covered by makeup, I'd realized she had, indeed, been the agent assaulted in the stairwell. It seemed a desecration to mar such beauty, and it reminded me how outraged my father had been when, years ago, a vandal had damaged the Pieta. She seemed to burn with a bright light like a candle just before it gutters out. I could see now that her face, though beautiful, was gaunt, and her skin was pale against the vivid color of her hair and eyes. It was her eyes that would haunt me, though; they flashed with intensity and a terrible fierceness. She needed tests run against her DNA, a time-consuming, painstaking test that would land in a long queue at the lab. Her look of desperation at that news had stunned me. "It's got to happen. Everything in my life depends on it." For months, those words would echo in my mind. Everything in her life. I wondered what specific set of events could have transpired to make the results of one test that important. Her skin, as I drew blood for the test, seemed papery and feverish. Without her jacket, I could see she had a nice figure but seemed too thin for her clothes. As I began to prepare her samples for testing, her attention was drawn to some movement in the hall, and she stalked out of the room. I could hear voices raised in anger and through the door's window, glimpsed her arguing with a powerfully built bald man. I'm not proud to say that I moved closer to the door, a pathetic voyeur. Though he towered over her, the man seemed almost afraid of her, the sorrow in his eyes belying the harshness of his voice. She was shaking when she returned, her face drained of whatever color she had. She gripped the counter with white knuckled fingers, and I was afraid she would pass out. Her nose began to bleed, and this seemed to unnerve her as she searched her pocket for a tissue, tears glittering in her eyes. She insisted on performing the Southern Blot herself--said it would calm her. What kind of woman was this? After making sure she had everything she needed for the test, I slipped away. I still curse myself for the cowardice of that escape. To tell the truth, she terrified me. Ordinary people aren't supposed to look upon fiery angels. I forced myself later to return to the lab, shame burning in my throat. She held the X-Ray film up against the light. "There it is." A stony resolve had settled upon her. "My DNA hybridized with the viral DNA from the cell culture." I couldn't even begin to fathom the implications of that. Her face was grave, all angles and planes under the pallor as she told me that she had been exposed to the material in the ice core sample and that it had made her ill. Terminally ill. She looked at the clock on the wall and announced that she was late. She left with the test results in hand, and I did something I hadn't done outside of church since I was a kid. I knelt on the hard linoleum floor of the lab, made the sign of the cross, and prayed that God protect her. The next day I called to ask her how she wanted the samples dealt with and was rerouted to her superior's office. A woman I assumed was his secretary told me that Agent Scully was not at work. When I pressed further as to when she might return, the woman told me in a voice thick with tears that she didn't know when Agent Scully would be back. I never called again, afraid of what I might learn. But now, the woman sitting across from me glows incandescent with health, her face fuller and skin flawless. She burns with intensity still, but from a steady flame. She smiles again. "I never got a chance to thank you, Dr. Vitigliano." "Tony. Please call me Tony." I am out of practice in flirting with pretty women and feel as awkward as the middle school geek I used to be. "Well then, thank you, Tony, for helping me back then. You helped solve a puzzle and bring some crimes to light." I find myself unable to look away from her incredible mouth and even white teeth. "Maybe we could have dinner some night. You can tell me all about it." She smiles like she knows a secret, and I remember the "let 'em down easy" look. "That sounds really nice, but unfortunately, I never know when we'll be called out of town on a case." I wonder who the other half of "we" might be. From the look on her face as she spots someone entering the coffee shop, I figure I won't have to wait long to find out. With a quick smile and handshake, she rises and makes her apologies. The guy who entered looks at her as if he just crossed the desert and spotted a pitcher of cool, fresh water. He is tall and thin and probably what women would call attractive. I think his nose is too big, but that could be jealousy talking. She walks across the room to him, and as they stand in the doorway, I see her look up into his eyes with an expression that Ann Marie used to have for me before bitterness and recriminations changed her. I am struck with the memory of all that I had and all that I am losing. Feelings of envy war with feelings of relief for her health, and I don't know which one will win. The coffee shop door makes a small jingle as they exit, and I can see through the window that they are standing in the brisk, cold air, still smiling and talking. His hand is curved around the back of her neck in a gesture of such intimacy and tenderness that I have to look away for a moment. They start to walk down the street, and I move over to the window. He takes her hand as they walk, and I press a hand to the cold glass as if to wave good-bye. I watch them until they disappear into the distance. End