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"Noli Me Tangere II: Flipped" by Katherine F. "...a stone butch is a woman who will not allow herself to be touched during sex, and who gets her pleasure from servicing her partner. If a stone butch allows her partner to be sexually active, she is said to have been _flipped_." -- William Stewart, _Cassell's Queer Companion_

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I'm floating somewhere in the borderland between sleep and waking. It's a comfortable place, a familiar place; the dreams I find here do not disturb me. There is music, and warmth; a sense of fullness and a faint impression of sunlight. I shift a little, and focus my attention (such as it is) on the song I can hear playing.

**she's tryna focus on me with a pinhead vicious kiss psychopotamus potamus obvious have to get out have to get out have to get out**

It's weird. It's so weird I must be dreaming it. That's happened to me before.

I ponder for a moment that stretches out like a summer afternoon whether I will listen to this strange, strange music my subconscious has cooked up for a while longer, or just wake up properly and get breakfast.

There's no rush. I know this. If today was a working day, this sweet heaviness wouldn't have settled on me, mind and body alike. I would be alert instantly, ready to don my G-woman suit and protect the citizens of this fine country from ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggity beasties and things that go bump in the night. Or, failing that, common or garden criminals. As it is, I feel utterly comfortable and loose. I could lie here forever.

But there's something wrong.

It's not a *bad* wrongness. I don't feel threatened or scared, and believe me, I've spent long enough in the field to have very sharp instincts about that kind of thing. It's just that something feels ...not right. Out of kilter, somehow. Did I leave the TV on in the living room? Or maybe it's the sheets; maybe I forgot to change them.

I roll over onto my back and stretch my legs.And then it hits me. This isn't my bed.

Now, waking up in an unfamiliar bed is a very common experience for me. I sometimes feel as if I spend more time in motels than I do at home. But if this were a motel, I'd be working a case. And if I were working a case, I'd be awake right now. As I said, this heaviness, this sweet leisurely ease, is not something I feel when I'm working.

So. If it isn't my bed, and I'm not on a case...where am I?

The music stops and I can hear the sound of a tape being taken out of a stereo.

I wasn't dreaming it, then.

And then I know where I am, and what has happened. It isn't a sudden revelation, a thunder-clap or a tearing-away of a veil. Rather, the knowledge seeps into me like water being sucked up by the roots of a tree; and with the knowledge comes fear, and a terrible, terrible shame.

This has never happened before. Ever. Every time, I would leave before she could wake up, whoever *she* was. I've always had the ability to sleep for as much or as little time as I wanted; it's a very useful gift. Last night I thought -- I was *sure* I would be awake an hour after I turned off the light. Two hours, tops. I don't sleep late. I *don't*.

But... but I just have, haven't I?

Dear God, what do I do now?

For about ten seconds, I let myself panic. I let the fear take me over, paralysing me completely and turning my bones to mush. Then I take a deep breath and will my heart to slow down and my muscles to relax.

I can hear Flipper rooting around in the cardboard boxes, singing softly to herself. She has a sweet voice. The sheets on this bed are cotton, a little stiff, probably brand new. Through my closed eyelids I can sense the sunlight, coming from somewhere behind me and to my right.

Nothing to be afraid of.

All I have to do is make small talk, pretend like I do this all the time, then make my excuses and leave. I've never done it before -- not with a woman, at any rate -- but how hard can it be?

So I take a deep breath, and open my eyes. Flipper's room is bigger than I thought. It's bright and airy and there's a poster on the wall to my left with a picture of some cartoon character I don't recognise saying "Time for bed". To my right there's a bedside table with a pile of books stacked haphazardly on it. I read the spines: _We'Moon Diary '97_. _The Divided Self_. _Sabotage In The American Workplace_. A very worn copy of _Patience and Sarah_. An even more worn copy of _Finn Family Moomintroll_.

I should be able to draw conclusions from this odd combination. I suspect Mulder would be able to reconstruct her entire life story from just these books and the clothes she was wearing last night. But I'm disoriented. This whole situation is so strange to me; I can't say for sure what my name is now, whether I am Dana Scully, FBI agent, or Danny, mysterious lover-in-darkness. Or some unnamed amalgam of both. It's not a pleasant feeling. It makes me think of all the cases Mulder and I had to shelve, no matter how serious the incidents were, because the evidence was either too sparse or too self-contradictory to form the basis of any conclusion.

Damn it. I'm thinking about work. I'm thinking about Mulder. That's *not* going to help me get out of this.

Flipper's stopped singing now; from the sound of it I think she's making coffee. And the smell. Very enticing. And it might help me, too, might dispel this cloud of languor that has settled on me.

If only I felt a little less comfortable lying in her bed --

If only I couldn't still taste her in my mouth --

If only I hadn't fallen asleep last night --

If only the sky fell, then we could all catch larks.

My father's words. My father's wisdom. Yeah, that's it, Dana, *now* you can be sensible, now that the damage has been done.

Jesus. Stop this. It isn't helping. Think!

Okay. I'll ask her for coffee. I'll drink it. We'll make small talk; if she asks personal questions I'll -- well, I've never been good at lying on short notice, so I'd better stick to the truth. An edited version, of course. I'll say I have to meet someone for lunch. If she asks for my phone number...I'll say my phone is broken, or that I just moved and don't have one, or something.

I'll think of something.

I sit up, a little too abruptly; the sudden dizziness is almost enough to flatten me.

"Oh, you're awake," says Flipper, moving into view. She's naked except for a white t-shirt with "We Are The People Our Parents Warned Us About" written on it in big black letters. Her hair is mussed-up and sticks out in odd directions; the soles of her feet are black with dust; the sunlight makes her face look pale.

She looks sexier than ever.

I blink and clear my throat. "Yeah... Is that coffee you're making? I could use some."

"Mmmhmm. You want something to eat, too? Although I don't have much -- it's dry white toast or stale donuts, I'm afraid."

I give a mock-grimace. "I think I'll pass."

She grins and moves away to the kitchen area. "How do you like it?"

"Uh...straight black, please."

"No prob."

I'm trying really hard not to watch her ass move while she walks. I didn't get a good look last night, so it's difficult to resist, but I have to. I have to think with my brain, not my hormones, or I'll never get out of this.

She starts singing again.

"You're a water sign I'm an air sign With sweet FA to do today Sweet FA to do today..."

She's just taking out the coffee mugs when she turns to me abruptly and says, "When were you born?"

It's so unexpected that I answer without thinking. "February 23rd."

"Ah!" And her face lights up with a grin brighter than the sunlight. "That would make you a Pisces. Mysterious, even to herself," she waves a mug in the air for emphasis, "emotional, artistic, intuitive, sensitive -- sometimes too sensitive for her own good. A loyal friend, a frustrating employee, a friendly boss, a considerate lover." She puts the mug down and starts pouring the coffee. "Whereas I am a Virgo. Finicky, perfectionist, plays by the book, control freak."

I look around pointedly at the chaos in the apartment. "This is why I don't believe in astrology."

"You don't? How disappointing. I'll have to convert you then." She comes over with the coffees and sits down on the bed. I wish she had a chair. She's so close that I'm having difficulty not touching her. If I just hold on to the mug with both hands, I'll be OK.

"I'm not really like a Virgo," she says, a small frown crinkling her brow. "But that's because I have a Scorpio moon and Cancer ascendent. They cancel out the more obvious Virgo traits."

I have no idea what she's talking about. I don't care. She is so lovely. Her face is focussed, intent, with an almost childlike seriousness of expression. I'm captivated. I'm entranced.

I'm terrified.

I take a sip of coffee. It's harsh and bitter and only just avoids searing my mouth. I seldom drink it this strong and I never drink it black, but I need it now. I need the shock it gives my system. Suppressing a shudder, I say as casually as I can manage, "Is that what you do? Horoscopes?" I don't really want to know. I know too much about her already. But I have to say *something*.

"No...well, sometimes. To make ends meet. But I'm a musician mostly."

"Really? What do you play?"

"Violin. It's around here somewhere," she adds, frowning again, distracted this time, her eyes roaming the room. "Rule number one of moving house: do your own packing. I let Katina pack for me, and now I can't find a damn thing."

I smile into my coffee. I know exactly what she's talking about. When I moved apartments after the Tooms thing, I let Missy help me. I don't know what she thought she was doing with my stuff. I do know that I was eating off of paper plates for weeks afterwards. On the plus side, it did offer me an insight into the way her mind works.

Worked.

Grief floods into me without warning. God *damn* it. I don't need this, now of all times. I don't need to be reminded of all I've lost and all I've never had.

Flipper is studying me now, I realise. As I raise my eyes to meet hers I notice that they are not all green, as I had thought; there is a trickle of golden brown around the pupil, so subtle it would be easy to miss. Her eyes are grave now, considering; not sad, but a little wary.

She holds out her left hand to me, palm up. "You can ask," she says. And that has me blushing, because I've been staring and I didn't even realise it.

I don't need to ask how she got the scars. I know a suicide cut when I see one. I could probably tell her more about this kind of injury than she knows herself. But that she should *say* that -- I don't know what it means. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. And I don't even know which of those options scares me more.

I set down the mug and take her hand in mine, my heart thumping against my ribcage. She trembles as I trace the scars gently with my fingertips. "How -- " My voice breaks. I clear my throat and try again. "How old were you?"

She licks her lips. "Sixteen." Her voice is husky and ragged with unshed tears. "It was -- well, you see, I'd lived in Ireland since I was five. Then Dad got transferred or... or something -- I wasn't really paying attention, you understand -- and we moved back to Baltimore. Where I was born. And I had to leave behind everything, my friends, my girlfriend, my school -- everything...and...I just didn't see the point any more." She laughs, and the laughter is not bitter or false, but it is shot through with tears. "Sounds silly, I suppose, but...I was depressed anyway. Y'know, the whole coming-to- terms-with-your-sexuality thing. And I missed Grainne, and I couldn't see her, and I couldn't even *tell* anyone about it. It just got to be too much."

She is close to tears, and so am I. I don't want to hear this, it's too much, I don't need to know why she tried to kill herself or what she does for a living or what kind of books she reads. I never wanted her to be human. I never wanted her to be real.

I close my eyes and clench my teeth so tight I'm surprised my jaw doesn't break. I won't cry. I *won't* cry.

But despite myself, a tear slides down my cheek, and I cannot stop her from leaning forward and kissing it away. I lean into the kiss and arousal melts the lump in my throat, loosens my jaw. Her lips move slowly, gently, across my face, brushing my eyelids, my forehead, my other cheek, my chin. My lips. A soft and cautious kiss, this one, making no assumptions and no demands. I could leave it at that. Pull away. Smile at her and say goodbye.

I open my mouth to hers and deepen the kiss. And oh, it is sweet, it is sweet and it is bitter, for her mouth tastes of coffee as strong as mine and her tongue is gentle and thorough and her hand has snaked around to the back of my neck and she's running her fingers through my hair and I am a hair's breadth away from weeping at how wonderful it is.

This isn't like that kiss last night, which was hasty, rushed, a thing of pure need; this is sorrow and comfort and tenderness and sex all rolled into one glorious package. I have never encountered this. I have no defences against it. And I can't even tell if that bothers me.

When she moves her hand under my top and cups my breast, the breath catches in my throat. I think she feels it; she smiles and moves her mouth to my neck, her thumb caressing my nipple in slow lazy circles. My head tips back to bare more of my throat. The motions of her lips and tongue against my skin are a sweet torture; I want her to stop right now, I want her to go on forever.

I am lost in the feel of her lips, her fingers, her hair brushing against my skin. I am...drowning in honey, stingless. I don't surface until I feel her pulling at my boxers. She's got them halfway down my thighs before I realise I'm on my back and my top is somewhere on the floor. I must surely have cooperated; she couldn't have got it off of me without my help; and yet...

I don't want this, do I? I have never allowed myself to want this before. I have never -- never --

I have never felt like this...

She is naked too, her skin pressed against mine, and oh Jesus this is amazing but it's too fucking much it's going to kill me I can't stand it I can't --*Oh* -- her hand is *there*, right there, and I'm slick as a seal and aching for more but it's, it's, I can't --

"Please," I say, half a moan, half a sob, meaning: *stop*.

Stop before it gets to be too much.

Stop before I fall into the abyss.

Stop before --

Before it becomes real.

She covers my mouth with hers and for an instant I think she has understood. She will stop, just as I want her to, and I will not fall and my life will go on as it always has. And for that instant my heart throbs with a gratitude so intense it hurts.

And then she is gone, her weight no longer over me, my skin on fire where it isn't touching hers, and for a second I want to scream out loud that I didn't mean it, didn't mean it at all, and then --

And then --

Oh...Oh *God*...

Her lips on me. Her tongue on me. Her fingers stroking slow and sure. I thought she was killing me before; now I know it.

This is a death I could welcome.

This is a death I could love.

It is fire and ice and a sweetness beyond measure and a pain beyond telling. It stretches my nerves to breaking point. It teaches my body to sing a song I never even knew existed.

And afterwards there is a moment of perfect stillness when all thoughts cease and I find a richer peace than any I have known.

***

There is a stain on her ceiling shaped like a swan. I ponder this profound insight while she gets up and goes for a shower, singing softly to herself. Water damage, most likely. The room above this one is probably a bathroom.

What just happened? Did I -- did I -- well, *did* I?

I feel full, as if I've just eaten a huge meal. I feel disembodied. I feel -- *good*...I think.

I sit up, still a little dazed. I'm starving. The fullness and the hunger don't contradict each other, which is weird. Practically an X-file. I could really go for one of those stale donuts right now. I get up off the bed, stretch my back, and look around for my boxers.

Then I see it. It's tiny. No bigger than a penny. If I didn't know better I'd think it was nothing. I might not even notice it.

Blood.

And reality crashes down on me faster than a bombed building.

I can't do this. I *can't*. I can't let her into my life. I can't let her touch me again. Most of all, I can't let her see *this*.

Jesus Christ, how could I let that happen? A moment of weakness, and I fell asleep in her arms. Another moment of weakness, and I -- I let her *touch* me.

Never again. Never again.

My hands are shaking as I pull up my boxers and jeans. If I'm quick I can be gone before she's finished with her shower. I pull the top over my head carefully so as not to stain it with the blood on my nose.

By the time I've pulled it down, she is there in front of me. Her eyes are wide, her mouth an O of surprise.

"Danny! Danny, are you -- are you OK?"

She's concerned. Fuck that. I don't need her fucking pity. I grit my teeth. "I'm fine." Oh fuck, my voice isn't working. Oh fuck, I'm crying. I can't look away from her. She looks beautiful, stark naked, her hair clinging to her scalp, droplets of water gleaming on her skin. Her hands are reaching towards me and her eyes --

I tear myself away and run through the door, down the stairs, around the corner, away. I don't know where I'm going and I don't care. Sooner or later I'll come to my senses, and when that happens I can think about finding my car and driving back home.

When I get home, I'll burn the boxers. I'll burn the top. I'll give the jeans to Goodwill. I'll shower in water so hot it will scrape away the memory of her touch. I'll make an appointment with the oncologist.

It's cold; my arms are covered in goosebumps. I left my jacket in Flipper's room. I hope she likes it.

God *damn* it, why am I still crying?

I made a mistake, that's all. I thought I could go hunting for the rest of my life and never let it touch me, but I was wrong. I suppose it was just a matter of time.

Now I can never go hunting again.

Never again.

I wipe my eyes and nose and compose myself.

A moment of silence, please, ladies and gentlemen. Danny is dead.

There will be no funeral.

[end]

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Kathrine F.