The Persistence of Memory

by Foxsong


Fill-in-the-blank for 'Amor Fati.'

Rated PG for some necessary gore.

Spoilers: I wouldn't call it a 'spoiler' per se, but if by some strange chance you haven't seen 'Amor Fati,' you will be utterly baffled.

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Disclaimers: The X-Files and the characters thereof are the property of Ten Thirteen and Fox, and if they won't tell us everything that happens, how can they blame us for trying to figure it out? Inquiring minds want to know! No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: Diana Fowley's death scene. You know you wanted it. You should have known I couldn't give it to you without a twist.



She ought to have been more careful when she came home.

If she hadn't been thinking so distractedly about so many things, she might have sensed him lurking there; she might even have heard him moving around near her. By the time she realized he was waiting it was far too late.

She had, in truth, expected retribution, and had expected it to be swift. But as the days had passed she had begun to think she might escape. She knew they didn't need her anymore. They were done with her as surely as they were done now with poor Fox. And she had always been a favorite of the elder Spender's; he knew she would keep the secrets. It seemed she was free to simply disappear again, as she had done years ago, as she had done the first time she left Fox.

She had received her reassignment only two hours ago. There was precious little time to pack, but she didn't need much. She had come back to find Fox, and had found instead that she'd already lost him. She hadn't needed to be told what Fox and his partner meant to each other. She could see it every time she saw them together. When she'd slipped her keycard and the letter under Scully's door she was giving up more than the Project. She was giving Fox up for the last time.

She would leave this place. She would reinvent herself somewhere else. She would -- no. She would never forget him.

She pushed the apartment door open. Her arms full of file folders from her office, she didn't bother to turn on the light; she turned in the darkness with easy familiarity toward the low table in the hallway. Before she could set the papers down she froze, holding her breath. Something -- someone -- was behind her --

She whirled around, letting the folders spill to the floor in a shuffling heap, reaching for her gun, but she was not quick enough. The first blow forced the breath from her lungs in a rushing gasp; the second knocked her off her feet, and she fell backward, sprawling on the papers splayed around her. She heard the front door close as if by someone's hand.

The bruising pain in her chest and her side grew rapidly sharper, radiating in great hot waves through her body. She couldn't catch enough breath to cry out. She felt blindly for her weapon, but it must have fallen; clawing at the floor around her, she felt a warm, thick wetness over the scattered papers, and when she put her fingers to her side she found the jagged slices in the fabric, and the blood flowing from the wounds.

She panted for air, but couldn't take enough in. She could smell the iron tang of the blood, could taste it in her mouth, and she coughed, curling her body around the white-hot pain that lanced through her when she did. Somehow her hand found her cell phone, but she had no strength to pick it up. The blood was thick in her mouth. Her struggles grew feebler.



... And finally it was only the two of them in her hospital room: just the two of them, and a doctor and a nurse who stood back, waiting, knowing they could do no more. This last downturn in her condition had been so rapid that even their children hadn't been able to come in time. He sat beside her bed, and held her hand, and stroked her forehead, and her last conscious thought as her vision dimmed was of how grey his hair had grown just in the year since she'd been diagnosed.

She felt the bed shift under her husband's weight as he sat down beside her. She felt him gathering her up into his arms. She could not move or speak to tell him how grateful she was, but she hoped he knew. She was sure he knew.

The last thing she felt was the soft touch of Fox's hand on her brow, stroking, soothing. The last thing she heard was his gentle murmur: "Sleep, Diana. It's all right now. I'm right here. Sleep..."



Krycek stepped out of the shadows and leaned over her. He wanted to be sure. It wouldn't do to leave this half-done. Reaching down, he rolled her lifeless body over.

It was finished. He straightened up and slipped silently from the apartment.