=========== Chapter Eight ===========

Iowa City Civic Center 
Saturday, October 3, 1998 
11:49 a.m. 

"Agent Scully, may I have a word with you?" 

Scully sighed in resignation and stopped on her way out of the conference
room at the sound of Agent Conyers' voice.  The morning briefing had
dragged on interminably, and she was already late to meet Mulder for
lunch.  In retrospect, she knew she should have expected the meeting to
run long -- Conyers seemed to love the sound of his own voice, and with a
new murder to discuss there actually was a legitimate reason for things to
take a little longer. 

But three hours? 

She sighed again, and turned back to face the task force leader.  "Yes,
Agent Conyers?" 

He stood looking at her for a moment, and Scully stared right back at him. 
Conyers was tall and burly, with a blond crew cut and hard, masculine
features.  He looked, in fact, very much like the stereotypical FBI Agent,
and he had the deep, serious voice
 to go with his appearance. 

He also reminded Scully of Jack Willis, and she was somewhat bemused at
being confronted by the fact that she had once been attracted to this sort
of man.  Of course, Jack had been intelligent and sensitive, once you got
past his public persona; Conyers s eemed to have neither of those
qualities. 

"Agent Scully," Conyers said at last, "I am told that you were seen at the
crime scene last night, conversing with a man no one else seemed to know. 
May I inquire as to his identity?" 

Shit.  She knew she was going to have to face this question, but she
didn't have a really good explanation for Mulder's presence at the crime
scene.  She realized now that the message she left for him at the motel
the night before hadn't been as clear as she might have wished, and that
she'd failed to take into account Mulder's innate curiousity and urge to
meddle.  Now she was going to have to deal with it, and --

"Agent Scully!"  Conyers said sharply.  "Answer the question.  Who were
you speaking to last night?" 

Scully sighed.  "It was Special Agent Fox Mulder," she said.  "He's my
partner at the Bureau, and he had just arrived in Iowa --" 

"I'm aware of your ... history ... with Agent Mulder," Conyers
interrupted.  "But he is not assigned to this task force.  Can you explain
his presence at the crime scene last night?" 

"Sir, it was a misunderstanding," Scully replied calmly.  She knew Conyers
was trying to get her goat, and she was determined not to let that happen. 
"I had left a message informing Agent Mulder of the situation, so that he
would know why I was late.  Un fortunately, he thought I was asking him to
assist, when that was not my intention.  As soon as I saw him at the crime
scene, I asked him to leave." 

"Did you admit him to the crime scene, Agent Scully?" 

"No, I did not." 

"Why did you not inform me of this infraction of regulations?" Conyers
persisted. 

"Sir, Agent Mulder's presence did not in any way impede the investigation,
and he did not disturb or remove any evidence."  Scully suppressed the
urge to wince as she remembered the magazine Mulder had been handling when
she approached him -- but surely t hat was of no importance.  She had
immediately put the magazine back on the end table with the others, and
Mulder had been wearing gloves, in any case.  She continued, "It was my
judgment that the technical violation of *protocol* did not warrant making
a
 report, since we all had more important matters to deal with." 

Conyers' eyes flashed briefly at her stress on the word "protocol", and
for a moment he seemed to consider her statement while looking idly down
at the papers on the table in front of him.  Finally, he turned his gaze
back up to Scully.  "Agent Scully, ar e you aware that Assistant Director
Kersh has been trying to locate Agent Mulder for the past two days?" 

Scully nodded.  "I have spoken with A.D. Kersh," she said, keeping her
tone noncommittal. 

"So have I," Conyers replied, his tone flat and expressionless.  "Have you
informed the Assistant Director of Agent Mulder's presence in Iowa?" 

Scully hesitated, not sure what to say.  The fact was that she had not
called Kersh, and although this disobedience bothered her conscience only
slightly, she was not prepared to discuss the matter with anyone --
certainly not with Conyers. 

At last, she said, "Sir, other than his inadvertent attendance at the
crime scene last night, Agent Mulder's presence in Iowa is in no way
relevant to the work of the task force."  Before Conyers could respond,
she looked him right in the eye, and added, "And the substance of any
conversations I may have with my supervisor are of no concern to you." 

Conyers looked back at her coldly for a moment, and Scully realized that
he was trying to decide how much further to push her.  Finally, he simply
nodded, and said, "Very well, Agent Scully.  You are dismissed." 

Without another word, Scully turned and put her hand on the doornknob --
and Conyers added, "Please be advised that I will be making my own report
to Assistant Director Kersh.  Including the subtance of *this*
conversation." 

Scully pulled the door open and left the room. 

#            #          #

Iowa City, IA
Downtown Pedestrian Mall
12:02 p.m.

Scully was still doing a slow boil a few minutes later when she reached
the center of the pedestrian mall, where she was supposed to meet Mulder
for lunch.  She wasn't quite sure who she was most angry with -- Conyers,
Kersh, Mulder -- or herself.  But sh e'd had a short night and a miserable
morning, and she knew that if she wasn't careful she was going to wind up
yelling at someone. 

Mostly she was mad at herself, she decided, as she scanned the passing
crowd, looking for her partner.  She really should have left a clearer
message; she *knew* better than to leave temptation dangling in front of
Mulder like that.  And if she had spoken
 more plainly, and he had simply stayed away, none of the rest of it would
have happened. 

Scully sighed, and tried to push the thoughts away.  What was done was
done, and she really didn't want to spend her lunch break -- which was
probably the only free time she'd have today to spend with Mulder --
fuming about things that couldn't be changed . 

She'd been only mildly surprised to find Mulder asleep in the other bed
when she finally got back to her room last night, long after midnight.  A
small part of her had been alarmed at the discovery, but she'd been tired,
and hadn't seen any point in wakin g him up and kicking him out.  He
wasn't on per diem, after all; he was paying for this trip out of pocket. 
Surely they could sleep in the same room without causing any problems. 

In the morning when she'd awakened, he was gone -- but his bag was still
there, leaving Scully to conclude he must have gone for a run.  She
puttered around as long as she dared, getting ready for the morning
briefing, and even kept Oliver waiting for a f ew minutes without
explanation, hoping that Mulder would come back in time to have breakfast
with her.  But in the end he had not, and finally she'd left a note
suggesting they meet for lunch, and gone off to the briefing. 

So now here she was, in the place she'd suggested, but more than an hour
late.  And Mulder, of course, had either come and gone already, or was
even later than she was. 

And then she saw him. 

He was about fifty feet away, his back to her and his hands in his
pockets, watching a small group of children clambering about on a piece of
playground equipment.  He was standing perfectly still. 

For a moment Scully also stood still, watching her partner as he watched
the children at play.  He seemed to be entirely absorbed by the scene
before him, and she couldn't help wondering why it had drawn his attention
so.  Was it reminding him of Samanth a?  Or of Emily?  Or was he thinking
of something completely different, with the playground activity simply
serving as a backdrop for his thoughts? 

And she realized that she didn't know *what* Mulder was thinking about. 
This was a subject -- a part of life -- which the two of them didn't talk
about very often. 

Children. 

Family. 

Normal life. 

Well, there were some good reasons they never talked about it, Scully
thought, surprised at the bitterness of her own thoughts as she finally
started walking towards her partner.  She and Mulder were most likely
never going to have any of those things.  T he bastards they were fighting
had done everything in their power to batter and bruise the two agents,
and had nearly broken their spirits in the process. 

Sometimes it seemed to Scully that their enemies wouldn't be satisifed
until nothing was left at all.  Nothing but two angry, bitter people, each
of them too hurt and wounded to stand alone, but also too fearful and
distrusting to reach out to each other for support. 

And fuck them all anyway, she thought angrily, lengthening her stride as
she came closer to Mulder.  And fuck Kersh and Conyers and even Skinner,
and all the other petty bureaucrats who helped make her life and Mulder's
rougher than they had to be.  She a nd Mulder needed each other, and in a
moment of crystal clarity Scully was determined not to let anything stand
in their way. 

She came to a halt a couple of feet from her partner, and for a few
seconds she studied his face in profile.  He was still watching the
children, but Scully knew that he was aware of her presence.  He was
*always* aware of her presence. 

Just as she was always aware of his. 

On an impulse, Scully stepped around in front of her partner and leaned in
slightly against him.  She saw a flicker of surprise start to appear on
his face -- and then she wrapped an arm around his neck and went up on her
toes and kissed him. 

Their lips had barely touched when Scully began to feel a warm wave of
calm and contentment spreading through her.  She had missed this; God, she
had missed it.  Had it really been only a little over a week since the
last time they kissed?  Suddenly it se emed like an eternity.  If only
they could stay like this, she thought.  If only the rest of the world
would just go away and leave them alone.  If only they could be allowed
some time for themselves and each other, they could work out all their
problems; 
 Scully was sure of it. 

If only .... 

Finally, with great reluctance, Scully ended the kiss.  She drew back from
her partner and looked up and studied his face.  He seemed solemn, and
slightly puzzled. 

"That was for the future," she told him quietly.  "Because we are going to
have a future, Mulder.  And God help anybody who tries to prevent it." 
She continued to study his face, waiting ... until finally he nodded
slightly, showing his understanding -- and, she hoped, his agreement. 
Scully smiled. 

"Come on," she said at last, taking his hand decisively in her own.  "I'm
starved, and you owe me lunch." 

==========END CHAPTER EIGHT==========

===========
Chapter Nine
===========

Iowa City, IA
The India Cafe
Saturday, October 3, 1998
12:33 p.m.

"So why don't you want to tell me about the case?" 

Scully looked up from her tandoori chicken and glanced across the table at
her partner.  His own food had barely been touched, and he was looking
right back at her -- and Scully had the impression he'd been watching her
for some little while. 

"Mulder, you're food's gonna get cold," she replied, gesturing with her
fork at his plate. 

Her partner shook his head.  "Come on, Scully," he said.  "You've been
putting me off ever since I got here.  Since Tuesday, really.  I don't
want to interfere; I just want to know what's going on.  See if maybe I
can help." 

Scully hesitated, and found herself biting her lip.  She really had been
putting him off; the problem was that she didn't understand why.  He was
her partner; her best friend.  There was no reason why she shouldn't
discuss the investigation with him, and he really might be able to offer
some useful insights. 

Scully took another bite of her chicken while she thought about it.  She
was acutely aware of Mulder sitting quietly on the other side of the
table, continuing to watch her, waiting for her answer.  She wished she
could understand why it was making her so
 uncomfortable, and why she felt so much as if she were being put on the
spot. 

She shook her head in annoyance, and swallowed the mouthful of chicken. 
"Okay," she said.  "You've read the files, right?" 

Her partner nodded.  "Yes.  But I don't know what you've been thinking
about that you haven't put in writing.  And of course, I don't know what
was found at the site last night." 

Scully nodded, and took a sip of her coffee.  She'd been running on too
little sleep since before the trip to Arizona, and she'd found herself
upping her caffeine intake as a result.  "Marjorie Adamson," she said. 
"Fifty year old widow.  Lived alone.  He r husband died three years ago in
a car accident -- his vehicle went off the road and hit a concrete bridge
support, head on.  He'd been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer two weeks
earlier, which unfortunately had already metastasized pretty widely by the
time he went in for treatment." 

"Suicide?" Mulder asked. 

Scully nodded, and found herself warming to the subject, falling back into
the comfortable, familiar pattern of discussion.  "Probably, but no one
was able to prove it, and the insurance company eventually paid the
claim." 

"Go on." 

"Mrs. Adamson has lived alone since her husband's death," Scully
continued.  "She seems to have had a pretty normal social life:  church
functions, community theater, that sort of thing.  She occasionally took a
class at the University.  Nothing out of th e ordinary has surfaced, at
least so far.  Of course, we've only been looking for twelve hours or so,
and it's possible that an extended background check will turn something
up." 

"But not likely," Mulder commented. 

Scully looked him in the eye, and shrugged.  "No.  Not likely." 

"What about the site?" her partner asked.  "Anything there?" 

Scully nodded, and took another bite of chicken, taking a moment to chew
and swallow before she responded.  "There've been a few variances.  We're
not sure whether any of it will be important, but we're hopeful." 

"What sort of variances?" 

"Mostly the cleanup.  It wasn't as thorough this time.  Some of the rooms
didn't seem to have been vacuumed.  The dishwasher had been loaded, but it
hadn't been run, apparently because the victim was out of detergent."  She
shrugged.  "We found a yellow f lower petal, which didn't match any of the
plants in the house, and didn't match the flowers piled on the body.  It's
probably a dead end, but it's being FedExed to the crime lab in D.C.  A
few more latent prints than at the other sites.  Like I said, not
 much." 

Mulder sat quietly for a moment or two, seemingly lost in thought, and
Scully could almost hear the wheels turning in his head.  Finally:  "The
place wasn't as tidied up as the others.  That's interesting.  I wonder
why?" 

"Maybe he just got sloppy," Scully offered.  "At least, that seemed to be
the prevailing theory at the morning briefing." 

Mulder shook his head.  "No.  Serial killers don't get sloppy."  He raised
his hand before she could protest.  "Oh, they make mistakes, certainly. 
If they didn't, we'd never catch them.  And they aren't automatons.  But
everything they do, they do for a reason, and they're usually pretty
inflexible once they get into a pattern."  He paused, and once again
seemed to be thinking.  "I wonder if he just ran out of time.  Have they
established a time of death?" 

Scully shook her head.  "Not yet."  She glanced at her watch, and saw that
it was nearly one o'clock.  "The post should be done soon, and we'll have
the preliminary report an hour or two after that.  Right now, though, all
we've got is that the victim was
 last seen on Wednesday afternoon.  The body was found yesterday early
evening, just before I called you." 

"Who found it?" 

"Mrs. Adamson's daughter.  She lives in West Branch, about twenty miles
from here, and had been trying to call her mother for a couple of days. 
She finally got worried enough to drive over and check." 

"A couple of days," Mulder murmured.  "So probably Wednesday evening." 

"Probably," Scully agreed.  "As I said, we'll know more in an hour or
two." 

Her partner fell silent while he digested this information, and once again
Scully waited patiently.  She knew from long experience not to interrupt
when he went into this mode.  He was holding his body perfectly still, and
his gaze appeared to be directed
 at something far, far away -- something only he could see.  At last, his
eyes seemed to focus again, and he looked back across the table at her. 

"Did the victim have a tattoo?" 

Scully blinked.  Where had *that* come from?  "A tattoo?  I have no idea. 
Why do you ask?" 

"That magazine," Mulder explained.  "You remember?  'The Illustrated
Person'?  I was starting to show it to you last night?" 

Scully felt herself flushing slightly.  Of course she remembered the
magazine, but she hadn't given him a chance to show her whatever it was
he'd found, and after he left she'd become so involved in other parts of
the investigation that she never got back
 to it.  "What about it?" 

"There was a personal ad in it that someone had circled.  I wondered if it
might have been intended for the victim."  He closed his eyes for a
moment, then opened them again and recited, "'Serpent slithering / Silent
through the autumn heat / In the tall,
 dry grass.' And it was signed 'Tebori'." 

"A haiku?"  Scully shook her head.  "I don't get it.  What's the
significance?" 

"It's not the haiku, as such," Mulder replied.  "It's the forum.  'The
Illustrated Person' is a body art magazine -- and not a high class one,
either.  But it was there in this respectable, upper middle class home, in
a place where visitors might see it, and it had a personal ad that had
attracted someone's attention.  Which suggests --" 

"There's nothing wrong with body art, Mulder," Scully said, more sharply
than she had intended.  She felt herself flushing again, and she shifted
slightly in her chair.  She knew Mulder hadn't meant those comments the
way they sounded, but they still anno yed her.  "It's perfectly
respectable," she added, a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.  "It happens to
the nicest people sometimes." 

For a moment her partner was silent, while the tension seemed to build
between them, like a living thing.  Finally, Mulder said, very quietly,
"Sorry, Scully.  I didn't mean it that way.  I simply meant that
particular magazine was out of place in that pa rticular house.  I didn't
intend to bring up ... well, I didn't intend to upset you." 

For a moment or two he sat quietly, watching her, apparently waiting for a
response, but Scully simply couldn't think of anything to say.  Finally he
sighed.  "Anyway, I thought there might be something there.  The victims
are being skinned, and, well ...  ."

His voice trailed off, and again there was silence.  In contrast to the
warm, comfortable feelings which she'd had on the mall, Scully now felt as
if the walls were closing in on her.  Something about the turn the
conversation had taken was making her acu tely uncomfortable, and she
needed to get out of here; she needed to get away from Mulder, at least
for the moment.  She glanced at her watch, and then back up at her
partner. 

"Mulder, " she said, "I'm sorry, but I've got to go.  I'm supposed to meet
Detective Oliver so we can plan our activities for the rest of the day." 

He nodded slowly.  "Okay," he said.  "More interviews?" 

"Yeah," she replied.  "They've divided up the list of Marjorie Adamson's
friends and acquaintances.  I'll probably be out late again.  I'm sorry." 
She picked up her suit jacket from where she'd draped it over the back of
her chair, and shrugged into it.
 And then for a moment she simply stood there, looking at her partner. 

She wanted to kiss him again.  She wanted to recapture the feelings she'd
had when she kissed him on the mall, and push away the unpleasantness that
had suddenly reappeared between them.  She wanted to reassure him, and
herself, that everything really was
 going to be okay. 

But for some reason she couldn't.  Scully didn't understand why, but
somehow kissing Mulder right now seemed like a really bad idea.  Finally,
she just said, "I'll take care of the check, since I'm on per diem." 

Scully started to turn away, but then she stopped and sighed.  There was
one other thing she had to tell him, and she couldn't just walk off and
leave it unsaid.  She turned back to face her partner.  "Oh, Mulder?  I
had a conversation with Special Agent Conyers this morning.  He's aware
that you're in Iowa, and he knows that Kersh is looking for you.  You'd
probably better call in." 

Scully stood quietly for just a moment longer, looking at Mulder, waiting
for some sort of response, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming.  And at
last she shrugged slightly, and turned and walked away. 

#          #          #

Iowa City, IA
Electric Head Tattoo
1:12 p.m.

Mulder paused for a moment before going inside, and glanced around at his
surroundings.  The sign at street level had called this "The Hall Mall",
but it was really just the renovated second floor of an old office
building.  Not very renovated at that, he thought -- the floorboards
creaked when he walked, and the walls looked as if they hadn't been
painted in years.

The Hall Mall boasted half a dozen shops in all, and all of them were
alternative culture sorts of places:  an occult bookstore, a
barely-disguised head shop ... and a tattoo parlor.  Mulder had spotted
the place earlier, while he was waiting on the pedes trian mall for Scully
to arrive, and had made a mental note to visit, in hopes they might be
able to provide some information about 'The Illustrated Person'. 

Mulder realized that he was stalling, and after just a moment of puzzling
he realized why:  it was the damned tattoo. 

Scully's tattoo. 

Shit. 

Mulder angrily shook his head, and tried to push the thoughts away.  He
knew he'd screwed up by his choice of words when he spoke to Scully about
this issue over lunch, but that was all it had been -- poor phrasing. 

Unfortunately, just as the discussion had clearly brought back unpleasant
memories for her, it had also dredged up a few things that Mulder
preferred not to dwell on.  He didn't like remembering that week; there
really was nothing good or cheerful there f or him.  And right now he just
didn't have the time. 

With a sigh of frustration he pushed the door open and stepped into the
shop. 

The interior of the Electric Head was surprisingly well cared for.  Mulder
had never been in such an establishment before, and carried in his head
the stereotype of tattoo parlors as being dark, seedy places -- and the
photographs he'd seen of the one in Philadelphia, where Scully had been
tattooed, had done nothing to make him revise that impression. 

But this place was different.  It was clean, orderly and well-lit, and put
Mulder more in mind of a hair salon than of a bordello. 

"May I help you?" 

Mulder glanced over at the reception desk.  An attractive young woman,
perhaps 23 or 24, stood behind the counter.  She was neatly but casually
dressed, with long brown hair and a friendly smile.  Each ear appeared to
have been pierced at least three time s, as well as her nose -- and
looking a little closer, Mulder realized that she had a small tattoo of a
flower on her left cheek. 

Before Mulder could say anything, she went on, "I'm Alexa.  Greg is out of
the shop for the afternoon, unfortunately.  He's the actual artist, and
you'd need to talk to him about an appointment.  But you're more than
welcome to browse through our design b ooks, if you're looking for an
idea." 

Mulder found himself warming to the young woman, and he returned her smile
as he moved up to the counter.  "Actually, Alexa, I'm afraid I'm not here
as a customer."  He drew out his badge and showed it to her.  "My name is
Fox Mulder, and I'd like to ask you a few questions." 

He saw her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and her face took on a guarded
look.  "FBI?" she said.  "Uh, sure.  That is ... what's this all about?" 

"It has nothing to do with you or the shop," he assured her as he put his
badge away.  "I'm working on a case, and I'm following up on some leads. 
It won't take very long, and your name won't be mentioned in my report." 

"The skin freak," she said flatly.  "There was another one last night; I
read about it in the paper.  And they said there were some Feds in town to
work on it." 

Mulder nodded.  "That's right," he replied.  "We're trying to catch the
guy before he hurts anyone else, and I need to ask you a few questions." 

"Anything," she said, the wariness of a few seconds earlier apparently
completely forgotten.  "I'll tell you how I lost my virginity, if it'll
help you catch that motherfucker." 

Mulder laughed.  "That won't be necessary," he replied, and Alexa smiled
in response.  "I'm just trying to find someone who can tell me about a
magazine called 'The Illustrated Person'." 

Alexa's eyebrows shot up in apparent surprise.  "The IP?" she said. 
"Sure.  We publish it.  What do you want to know?" 

Mulder felt his own eyebrows moving up his forehead.  "You publish it?" he
said.  "Here?" 

"Yeah."  She pointed to a small stack of magazines sitting on the end of
the counter.  "That's what's left of last week's run."  Mulder picked one
up, and recognized it as the same edition he'd seen in Marjorie Adamson's
home the night before.  Alexa went
 on, "We put out two hundred and fifty of them every Monday.  About half
of them go to subscribers, the rest get distributed to local businesses as
promotions.  Greg does it all himself."  She shrugged.  "Kind of a sloppy
job, but he's not real good with computers.  And he won't let anyone help
him." 

Mulder leafed through the magazine until he came to the personals, and let
his finger skim down the column until he found the ad that had been
circled in Marjorie Adamson's copy.  "Do you know anything about this?" he
asked. 

Alexa glanced at it, and nodded.  "Sure," she responded.  "The Tebori ads. 
They've been running for about a month now.  Sometimes different,
sometimes the same.  What about them?" 

Mulder shook his head noncommittally.  "Nothing much, really.  One of the
victims seems to have been a subscriber, and we're following up on it." 

"Sounds like you're grasping at straws,"  the young woman commented.  She
glanced back down at the ad, then back up at Mulder.  "I don't know how
much I can really tell you.  I've never seen the guy who places those ads;
they come in by mail, with a twent y dollar bill to cover the cost.  Which
is actually a little more than necessary." 

"Do you still have the original of this ad, or the envelope?" the agent
asked.

Alexa shook her head.  "No.  Greg doesn't keep any of that stuff.  As soon
as he types it into the computer, he pitches it." 

"Do you remember anything about the original?" 

The receptionist frowned, then shook her head again.  "Not really.  The
Tebori ads are always typed out on a plain three by five card.  The
outside of the envelope just says, 'Attention: IP', with the shop's
address on it.  No name or anything, and he alw ays pays in cash." 

Mulder thought about that for a moment.  Probably there would be nothing
gained even if the original still existed, but he was still frustrated at
the near miss.  He asked, "You said these ads have been running for a
month.  Do you have any back issues I could look at?" 

"Now *that* I can help you with," Alexa replied.  She bent down behind the
counter, and a moment later reappeared with a medium sized cardboard box. 
"We always hang on to a few copies of each issue; sometimes one of our
regulars comes in looking for one. 
  I presume you're just interested in the ones with the Tebori ads?" 

Mulder nodded, and waited patiently while she rooted through the haphazard
collection of magazines.  Finally, she pulled out three, and handed them
over.  "There you go." 

Mulder took the three magazines and glanced at them briefly.  In addition
to the one he'd found at Marjorie Adamson's, there was one for each of the
previous three weeks, the oldest being dated September 7.  He separated
that one from the others, and turn ed to the personals ... and immediately
found what he was looking for. 

     Green frog,
     Is your body also
     freshly painted? 

     -Tebori

"Find it?" 

Mulder looked up to see Alexa watching him.  He nodded. 

"What do you think it means?" the young woman persisted. 

Mulder hesitated, then shook his head.  "Too soon to say," he replied
cautiously.  He quickly looked through the other two magazines, and found
personal ads from 'Tebori' in each of them.  The first of the poems was
about a slug, while the other was the s ame as the one which had been
found at Marjorie Adamson's. 

Mulder shook his head in puzzlement.  That didn't make sense.  Why would
the first three poems be different, but the fourth be a repeat?  He looked
up at Alexa. 

"Alexa," he said, "have you received an ad for the next edition?" 

She nodded.  "Yeah.  It was in today's mail.  But Greg took all the IP
stuff with him when he left."  She glanced up at the clock.  "The
printer's deadline isn't until tomorrow morning, but Greg's a little lazy,
at least with that stuff.  He'll probably b e up half the night struggling
and swearing over it." 

"Is there any way I can get in touch with him?" Mulder asked. 

This time Alexa shook her head.  "No.  When he takes off to work on the
IP, I don't know where he goes.  Just him and the copy and his laptop.  He
claims he can't get any work done with people around.  I know he doesn't
go home; I've tried calling him the re a couple of times when a customer
had a question." 

Mulder shook his own head in frustration; events seemed to be conspiring
against him this afternoon.  "Did you see the new ad?" he asked. 

"No.  I knew what it was, and I just handed it over to Greg." 

Mulder sighed in resignation.  Apparently this was as far as the trail was
going to lead, at least for the moment.  He pulled out one of his business
cards and handed it to Alexa.  "Okay," he said.  "You've been very
helpful, but I really need to talk to your boss as soon as possible. 
When's the next time you expect to see him?" 

The young woman shrugged.  "Probably tomorrow.  We're not going to be
open, but I have to come in and work on inventory and the books for awhile
in the morning.  He said he might be around." 

Mulder nodded.  "Okay," he repeated.  "Can you make sure he gets my card? 
And tell him not to dial the first number -- that's my office in
Washington.  Tell him to call my cell phone.  Anytime of the day or night. 
It could be very important." 

"I'll tell him," Alexa replied.  "I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."  She
hesitated.  "Do you think the guy placing the ads is the skin freak?" 

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't know," he said.  "I'm just ... following
up on some leads." 

==========END CHAPTER NINE==========

===========
Chapter Ten
===========

Near Kalona, IA
Southbound on Iowa State Highway 1
Saturday, October 3, 1998
1:48 p.m.

"So where were you at lunch?" 

Scully looked away from the highway just long enough to glance over at
Oliver, who was sitting in the passenger seat for once and allowing Scully
to drive.  The detective was looking back at her, a neutral expression on
her face.  The two women had lunche

d together every day since Scully's arrival, and Scully suddenly realized
that she hadn't told Oliver she had other plans today. 

"I had a lunch date," Scully explained.  "I'm sorry; I should have said
something." 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the detective nod slightly.  "That's
okay," the other woman replied, in a tone that said it wasn't *quite*
okay.  "We might have been able to hit the road a little sooner if we'd
worked out a plan over lunch.  But I ma

naged."  She was silent for a moment, then added, "It was that guy, wasn't
it?  From last night?" 

Scully sighed, and nodded.  "It was," she said.  "He's my partner from the
Bureau, and he just got into town last night."  She stopped and tried to
think of what else to say.  She really didn't want to get into this with
Oliver -- especially since her "lunch date" with Mulder had ended on a
sour note.

"You know, you really gotta watch that stuff," the detective commented --
and Scully was surprised at the softness of her tone.  She glanced away
from the highway for a moment, and saw that Oliver was now looking out the
window, and seemed to be gazing at

 something far off in the distance.  "I mean, I know I was out of line
last night, but ...."  She shook her head and looked back at Scully.  "You
let those guys inside, and they just keep on taking until there's nothing
left." 

Oliver fell silent again, and Scully was sorely tempted just to let the
subject drop.  She had enough problems of her own, she thought, and she
didn't have the time or energy to deal with someone else's. 

At the same time, she didn't want to leave Oliver with a bad impression of
Mulder.  No matter how many issues needed to be worked out between the two
of them, he was still her partner, her friend and, she hoped, her lover,
and she wasn't really willing to

 sit by and let outsiders -- people who didn't know him -- tear him down. 
Scully sighed again, and shook her head. 

"It's not like that," she said quietly.  "It's not like that at all. 
Mulder and I ... well, we've been working together for a long time, and
--" 

"You've been working together for a long time," Oliver mimicked, her voice
suddenly full of anger and bitterness.  "And he's said all these wonderful
things, about how essential you are, and how he can't imagine working with
anyone but you, and all that crap."  She paused, and took a deep breath. 
"Well take it from someone who knows, Agent Scully.  These kinds of things
never work out in the woman's favor; you're riding for a fall."

Something inside Scully finally snapped.  She'd been on edge ever since
she and Mulder had returned from Arizona, and she'd been putting up with
this woman's attitude problems since Tuesday, and this intrusion into her
personal life was the final straw.

She opened her mouth for a sharp retort, but before she could get a word
out, her cell phone rang. 

Scully grunted in frustration, and fumbled in her jacket pocket for the
phone, keeping her other hand on the wheel.  Finally, she had it open in
her hand, and punched the connect button with her thumb just before it
could ring for the third time. 

"Scully." 

"Agent Scully, this is Special Agent Wu," came a smooth feminine voice. 
Wu was Conyers' deputy, and was just about the only member of the task
force from whom Scully had sensed any positive feelings.  "I hope I'm not
interrupting anything important?" 

Scully shook her head.  "No, that's fine.  We're just about to arrive in
Kalona for our first interview.  Something come up?" 

"Nothing major," Wu replied.  "We just got an add-on for your interview
list.  Got a pencil handy?" 

"Just a sec," Scully said.  "I'm driving.  I'll let you talk to Oliver." 
She handed the phone over, and said, "Add-on." 

Oliver took the phone without comment, and exchanged a few words with Wu. 
She then drew a small notebook from her pocket and scribbled in it for a
moment, before ending the call and handing the phone back to Scully. 

"Well?" Scully asked. 

Oliver shrugged.  "Nothing major," she said, echoing Wu's choice of words. 
"As you said, an add-on.  Guy up in Riverside; his name came back on the
preliminary report on the latent prints from last night.  Probably turn
out to be Adamson's plumber or som

ething." 

"Where's Riverside?" Scully asked, slowing the car as they finally reached
the outskirts of Kalona. 

"Just south of town," Oliver replied.  "South of Iowa City, I mean.  Ten
miles or so.  We've already got a pretty full plate for today; I figure
we'll just add this one to the list for tomorrow.  That okay?" 

Scully nodded, concentrating for a moment on steering past a horse and
buggy.  Kalona had a large Amish population, she rememberd, from the
sketchy background she'd been given on the area the day after she'd
arrived.  "What was the guy's name?" she asked,
 not really caring about the answer, but trying to make conversation. 
Oliver's anger of a few minutes before seemed to have evaporated, and
Scully wanted to reestablish a little professional contact.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the detective flip her notebook open
again.  "Farrier," she said.  "Alexander Farrier.  No priors; they pulled
the I.D. off his military service record."  She closed her notebook again
and put it away.  "Like I said: 
probably a plumber." 

#          #          #

Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
10:01 p.m.

Mulder lay on his back in Scully's motel room, staring at the ceiling. 
He'd been there for quite some time. 

After leaving the Electric Head, he'd walked around the downtown area for
awhile, trying to get a feel for the city.  This was part of his
orientation process, a habit carried over from his profiling days.  By
absorbing the character and ambience of a town, he seemed better able to
fill in the background as he tried to build a picture of the UNSUB in his
mind.

He realized that he'd fallen back into profiling mode.  He hadn't used
those skills much since leaving the VCU -- just intermittently, when a
particular situation called for it, and usually when Scully was in
trouble.  But the old ways of thinking came back to him surprisingly
easily, and before long he found himself sinking down into the darkness. 

Unfortunately, the excursion hadn't netted him much.  He was still sure
that the case had something to do with tattoos, and obviously the UNSUB's
pattern of cleaning the victim's home was important as well.  But he
hadn't been able to make any real connections; he needed more information,
and at the moment he was cut off from his usual sources. 

All except for Scully, of course. 

Which was why he was just lying here, waiting for her to come back.  He
knew he'd been pushing things by visiting the Electric Head, and he'd only
done that much because it didn't sound as if anyone else was going to do
it.  And now here he was, back at the motel.  He'd gone through all the
files and notes Scully had accumulated since her arrival, but nothing had
leapt out at him, and now he was just waiting. 

At last he heard a key in the lock.  The sun had long since set, but
Mulder hadn't bothered to turn on the lights.  And so when the door
opened, he felt rather than saw her move into the room. 

"Mulder?  Are you awake?" 

Her voice was barely audible. 

"Yeah, Scully.  Over here.  Don't turn on the light."  For some reason the
darkness seemed appropriate. 

There was a short pause.  Then:  "Okay."  There was another moment of
silence, interrupted only by brief rustlings and soft bumps, which Mulder
interpreted as Scully getting out of her suit jacket and shoes and putting
away her briefcase.  A few seconds later, a shadowy form moved over
between the beds and sat down on the edge of the other bed, across from
where Mulder was lying.  And for a few minutes the two of them sat
together in silence. 

"So," Mulder finally said, when it became apparent that his partner was
not going to start the conversation.  "How did it go today?" 

Scully's shadowy form shrugged.  "Okay, I guess.  Pretty routine."  She
sighed.  "We did five interviews in six hours, with four more to do
tomorrow.  So far, nobody seems to know anything useful.  And then we
spent another two hours writing up our notes. 

All of which is going to go into a file somewhere and probably never be
read by anyone." 

Mulder chuckled softly.  "You better watch that stuff, Scully.  You're
starting to sound like me." 

Scully laughed in return, and Mulder felt his breathing coming a little
easier at this first evidence of her underlying mood.  "Tell me about it," 
she replied.  There was another brief pause.  Then:  "Mulder, I'm sorry. 
About this afternoon at lunch, I mean.  I knew you didn't mean ... what it
sounded like you meant.  I'm sorry."  He saw a bit of movement, and
realized she was shaking her head.  "I've just been on edge, lately.  So
much has happened ..." 

Her voice trailed off, and for a moment the two of them were quiet again. 
Mulder wasn't quite sure how to respond.  He knew how much it must have
cost her to say those words; his partner was self-contained almost to a
fault.  For her to have offered even that much .... 

On an impulse, he reached out a hand in her direction, and whispered,
"Come here, Scully." 

"Mulder, I don't know --" 

"It's okay," he said quickly, upon hearing the reticence in her voice,
trying to keep the tension out of his tone.  "I'm not going to ravish
you."  He forced a slight chuckle.  "Well, not unless you want me to."  He
forced himself to be serious again.  "I just want to hold you.  Talk to
you."

For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse, but then she rose up off
the other bed and stepped across to his, and a few seconds later she was
snuggling down next to him and slipping her arms around his waist.  Mulder
cupped his hand behind her head and drew it down to his chest, and for a
few minutes they simply lay there, holding each other and breathing
softly. 

This was what Mulder really lived for.  These few, quiet moments, when he
and Scully were alone together, Mulder was almost able to forget that the
rest of the world existed.  He was almost able to forget about Samantha,
about his quest for the truth which had now become Scully's, as well --
even the threat of impending Colonization seemed to recede a bit when they
were in each other's arms. 

It didn't entirely go away, of course.  Nothing was quite that good a
soporific, and Mulder didn't really want one.  Those other things were
also important, and he would be loathe to simply let them slip away.  And
tonight, of course, he and Scully had ot her issues they needed to
address, as well -- personal issues.  But for a few minutes, at least, he
could take comfort in her warm embrace, even as she was taking comfort in
his. 

"I thought we were going to talk," Scully said at last.  Her voice seemed
more relaxed than when she'd first come in.  She also sounded a bit
drowsy, reminding Mulder that her day had been even longer and more taxing
than his own. 

"We are," he said, bending down to briefly kiss the top of her head.  "But
I'd like to suggest something a little different, if that's okay."  She
nodded silently against his chest, and he continued, "Can you hear my
heart, Scully?  Can you hear it beating?" 

She nodded again.  "Yes."  Her voice was soft and muffled against his
shirt. 

"That's me you're listening to," he said, very softly.  "And that's also
the part of me that most wants to listen to you."  He swallowed, and took
the plunge.  This could very well turn out to be still another painful,
destructive conversation, but somehow they had to work through all of
this.  And so he said, "Tell me what's wrong, Scully; tell me what's
bothering you.  I know you think I should already understand it, but I
don't.  And until I do understand, I won't be able to fix it."

He lowered his voice still further, and finished, "Talk to my heart,
Scully." 

==========END CHAPTER TEN==========

===========
Chapter Eleven
===========

Iowa City, IA
Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
Sunday, October 4, 1998
7:11 a.m.

Scully sat patiently at the table, watching her partner as he stood at the
counter, waiting for their order to be filled. 

What a difference a couple of days could make, she thought.  On Friday
afternoon she had been nearly as pessimistic as she'd ever been about the
status of her partnership with Mulder.  She hadn't been anywhere near
ready to give up on it -- but she hadn't
 been at all sure that *he* had the strength left to fight and save what
they'd built together. 

Then he'd shown up at the motel, and things had started to get gradually
better.  There'd been a couple of rough spots, but the simple fact that he
had run *to* her rather than *away* from her told Scully all she really
needed to know. 

And last night he'd really opened up.  They both had.  Lying there,
wrapped in his embrace with the lights out, Scully had for the first time
since Arizona felt completely comfortable talking to Mulder.  Just talking
-- telling him about the things that had been bothering her, and listening
to his worries and concerns as well. 

//You asking me to make a choice?//

//I'm asking you to trust my judgment.  To trust me.//

Mulder's question, and her response, spoken at the end of the Gibson
Praise case, echoed in Scully's head.  Neither of them had referred
directly to that conversation last night; the wounds were still too fresh
and raw.  Nevertheless, their words had hove red around them, seeming
almost to beg for resolution. 

//You have to understand, Scully,// Mulder had said the night before. 
//Diana was my partner, too.  Before I even knew you.  She was with me in
the beginning, and she supported me when nobody else would.  I can't just
walk away from that.//

God, it hurt to hear him say those things.  It had been all Scully could
do to hold back the tears and keep her voice calm and level.  Even now,
part of her wanted to push him away, and run as far and as fast as she
could.  But she had stayed, and listene d, and tried to understand. 

//Sometimes you seem so stubborn.// Another of Mulder's grievances from
last night came floating back to haunt her.  His arms were tight around
her at that point, as if he was afraid she might bolt -- and that fact
alone spoke volumes about his feelings. 

  //Sometimes it seems as if nothing will persuade you, as if no evidence
will ever be good enough.  I don't mind having to work to prove what I
believe is true, but sometimes it seems as if you have the deck stacked
against me.  Diana, at least, believes what she sees with her own eyes.//

Was it really that bad?  Last night the emotional pain had been too strong
for Scully to consider the matter.  The shock of being directly compared
to Fowley, and coming off second best in Mulder's eyes, seared her heart.
But this morning the ache had re ceded slightly, and Scully tried
resolutely to put herself into her partner's head, and see her
relationship with him from his point of view.

And yes, it really was that bad. 

From his point of view. 

Which was not, of course, the only point of view, Scully reminded herself. 
She had her own wounds to tend to, and not all of them were self-inflicted
-- nor was Agent Fowley someone deserving of the trust Mulder insisted on
putting in her.  Scully now un derstood the reasons for that trust -- but
that did not mean she condoned it, and it did nothing to ameliorate the
hurt she felt each time she considered the place the other woman had once
held in Mulder's life -- and in his heart. 

"Is this seat taken?" 

Scully smiled at the old, familiar line, and she looked up to see Mulder
standing next to the table, a tray full of bagels and coffee cups in his
hands, and a slight smile of his own on his face.  She hadn't seen him
smile like that in a long time.  Years

"Yes, it is," she said softly.  "I'm saving it for someone." 

It wasn't often that Scully had her partner at a loss for words, and she
found herself laughing at the expression of surprise on his face.  "Close
your mouth and sit down, Mulder," she said, in tones of amused affection. 
"The coffee's getting cold." 

She waited in silence as Mulder distributed the coffee and bagels and took
his seat across the table from her.  Before he had a chance to say
anything, she continued, "So.  Why don't you tell me what you've found so
far?" 

Mulder's eyebrows shot up in obvious surprise, and Scully laughed again. 
"Come on, Mulder.  You really think I'd believe you just went back to the
motel and watched TV until I got back last night?" 

Mulder smiled ruefully and shook his head.  "No, I guess not," he said. 
He hesitated, and added, "You sure you want to get into this, though?" 

Scully immediately sobered, and nodded.  "I'm sure," she said quietly.  It
was a fair question, considering her reaction yesterday when he'd tried to
tell her about his theory.  She reached across the table to give his hand
a quick squeeze.  "We have to f ix this part, too, Mulder," she added. 
"We have to fix *all* of it." 

Her partner nodded slowly, and took a sip of his coffee, apparently
considering her words -- and Scully felt a sudden rush of guilt.  Had she
really been so hard on him that he wasn't sure he could trust her with his
ideas?  She was suddenly anxious, unsu re of his response, but she
resisted the urge to prod him a little.  Mulder was going to have to make
this decision for himself. 

Finally, he nodded again.  "Okay," he said, matching her quiet, serious
tone of voice.  "Here's what I've got." 

Mulder proceeded to sketch an outline of his activities from the day
before.  As Scully had suspected, after the somewhat abrupt end of their
lunch date yesterday, he had attempted to follow up on his belief that the
killings were in some way related to b ody art, and had visited a local
tattoo parlor in hopes of obtaining further information about the magazine
he'd found at Marjorie Adamson's home. 

"And I hit paydirt," he said, his natural enthusiasm for the chase
apparently overriding his earlier reticence -- and Scully found herself
getting caught up in the old, familiar pattern, as she started preparing
her rebuttal even before he had finished hi s initial argument.  "The
owner of the Electric Head turns out also to be the publisher of 'The
Illustrated Person'.  The receptionist or assistant or whatever she was
showed me some back issues.  Care to guess what was in them?" 

Scully suppressed a smile.  "Since you put it that way, I won't even try." 

Mulder leaned forward slightly, as if in emphasis.  "Each of the past four
issues contained a personal ad of the same type.  A poem, signed by
'Tebori'." 

Scully hesitated, then shrugged.  "I guess I don't get it," she replied. 
"Why is that significant?" 

"Don't you see, Scully?" her partner asked.  His face now wore the
intense, insistent expression that meant he was in full investigative
mode.  "This is a body art magazine, and the victims are being skinned,
and at least one of the poems has already been linked to one of the
victims -- to Marjorie Adamson."

He paused for just a moment, apparently trying to remember, then he
recited:  "'Green frog / Is your body also / freshly painted?' That was
the first one, in the issue of the magazine dated two days before Angela
D'Amato disappeared.  The next issue had another poem, this time about a
slug:  'A large slug slides / slowly, glistening over / abandoned armor'." 

"That was the second one?"  Scully frowned thoughtfully.  There was
something familiar here, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it
was. 

"Yeah, the second one," Mulder confirmed, nodding.  "Again, this one hit
the streets just before Vanessa Haynes was reported missing.  Then the
third one -- you've already heard that one.  It's the one I told you about
yesterday." 

Scully felt her frown deepen.  "I thought that was from *this* week," she
objected.  That fragment of a memory -- if that's what it was -- was still
niggling at her.  Something from her childhood -- and somehow her father
was involved.  Dammit!  What was it? 

"That's right, it was," Mulder said, apparently oblivious to her attempt
at concentration.  "But the same poem was also run the *previous* week --
the issue that came out right before Vanessa Harnes was killed.  And they
were all signed by the same person :  'Tebori'." 

Scully blinked in surprise, momentarily diverted from pursuing the other
matter.  "Mulder, that's not a name.  That's a Japanese word." 

Her partner raised an eyebrow, and Scully hastened to explain, "My father
was stationed in Yokahama for awhile when I was a kid.  Mom and Dad made
us learn a little bit about the culture whenever we were overseas,
although I've forgotten most of it.  But for some reason, that word stuck
with me."  She shrugged, suddenly feeling the same discomfort that had
come over her at lunch the day before.  She really didn't want to get into
this --

"What does it mean?" 

Scully was unsure she wanted to answer that question.  Still, now that
Mulder knew where to look, it wouldn't take him long to find it on his
own.  And she couldn't very well lie to him, in any case -- not even by
omission.  She shrugged again. 

"'Tebori' refers to the traditional Japanese art of tattoo," she said. 
"As distinct from the modern forms, which as you probably know are done
with semi-automated equipment."  Scully suppressed a brief, intense memory
of her own tattooing, the better pa rt of two years before.  "The literal
translation," she concluded, "is 'carved by hand'." 

Mulder sat in silence for a long moment, simply sitting there and looking
at her.  Finally, he repeated, "'Carved by hand?'"  Scully nodded, willing
herself not to say anything.  "And it refers to the art of tattoo?"  She
nodded again, still maintaining h er own silence.  "And you still think
this is all a coincidence?" 

Scully sighed in exasperation.  "Yes, I do."  Before her partner could
interrupt, she went on, "What else could it be, Mulder?  Other than
Marjorie Adamson, there is no connection between any of these women and
the ads you've found.  And we have no eviden ce -- none -- that any of
these women had tattoos in the first place." 

"No one's asked about that," he pointed out.  "No one's been looking for
it." 

"That's true," Scully admitted.  And again there was a moment of silence. 
There was still something she wasn't quite getting; some connection she
wasn't quite able to make.  It involved those poems, and she was
reasonably sure it had something to do with her father's tour in Japan, as
well.  Scully shook her head and sighed;  it just wasn't coming to her. 

"Okay," she said at last.  "I'll try to check on that for you."  Mulder's
face lit up, and she raised one hand.  "When I have time, Mulder.  Which
may not be until tomorrow, or even Tuesday.  Oliver and I still have a lot
of interviews we're responsible f or." 

"I could --" 

"No!"  Scully reached across the table and touched the back of his hand,
trying to remove the sting from the rebuke.  "Sorry," she said, much more
quietly.  "I didn't mean to be that sharp.  But it really isn't a good
idea, Mulder.  You're already in hot water with Assistant Director Kersh;
don't make it any worse than it already is."  She wanted to ask him if
he'd called in, but decided that was just a little too much like a mother
checking on an errant child.  "Please?" 

Mulder hesitated just a fraction of a second, then he took her hand in his
and gently squeezed it.  "Okay," he replied.  "Okay.  I won't make any
phone calls."  He squeezed her hand again, then let it go.  "Honest
Injun." 

Scully smiled.  "Thanks," she said.  "I really think it's for the best. 
And I will check for you; I promise."  She really didn't need this, she
thought.  She was already getting more than enough of these sorts of
mind-numbing assignments from Conyers.  B ut all she was promising was
that she'd make a few phone calls, she reminded herself.  And at least
this way she could make sure her partner's theory was carefully checked
and thoroughly disposed of -- and maybe it would keep Mulder from getting
into even more trouble than he already was in.

Scully shook her head, and realized she'd been woolgathering.  She glanced
briefly at her watch, and saw that it was almost eight.  "And
unfortunately," she said, "the morning briefing is in less than ten
minutes.  I'd better get going." 

Scully rose to her feet, and Mulder did likewise.  For a moment, neither
of them spoke or moved.  At last, Mulder reached out and hesitantly laid
his hand on her shoulder ... and Scully smiled, and stepped forward into
his embrace. 

For the first few seconds the kiss was warm and affectionate, but
completely chaste.  Scully felt a warm wave of contentment spreading
rapidly through her -- a feeling even more intense and consuming than that
which she'd experienced the previous day when she'd kissed him on the
pedestrian mall.

She felt her partner's arms tightening around her, drawing her nearer, and
she cooperated, pressing her body again his and barely suppressing a moan
of happiness.  She allowed her lips to part, and then his mouth opened
too, and for a brief instant Scully was in heaven .... 

Finally, she ended the kiss, but for just another moment she stayed in
Mulder's arms.  She was distantly aware that some of the other customers
in the bagel shop were looking at them a bit askance, and she found
herself blushing as she gently but firmly d isentangled herself from his
embrace. 

"Sorry," she murmured -- to her partner, not to the other patrons.  "That
wasn't a very good idea."  Seeing the look on his face, she hastened to
add, "I mean, it wasn't a very well chosen place." 

Mulder's expression became one of relief, and he chuckled softly. 
"Possibly not," he admitted, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair
behind her ear.  "Although if you'd kissed me like that back at the motel,
we might not have made it to breakfast at all." 

Scully laughed and shook her head.  "I dunno, Mulder," she replied, still
feeling slightly giddy from the aftereffects of the kiss.  "You know what
I'm like when I don't get my morning coffee.  That might not have been a
very good idea at all."  She went up on her toes and kissed him lightly on
the cheek.  "Maybe when I get back tonight," she whispered in his ear. 
"If I'm not too tired, okay?" 

And it occurred to Scully, as she grabbed her briefcase and turned and
headed for the door, that she'd just been arguing with her partner about
the case again. 

But this time, despite the aggravation that inevitably went with the
territory when she worked with Mulder, she'd been having fun. 

==========END CHAPTER ELEVEN==========

===========
Chapter Twelve
===========

Iowa City, IA
The Electric Head Tattoo
Sunday, October 4, 1998
8:12 a.m.

The lights were on at the Electric Head, but the "Closed" sign was hanging
on the door, and Mulder had to knock three times before Alexa finally
answered the door. 

"Fox Mulder," Mulder said, flipping his badge at her.  "You remember ...
from yesterday?  Sorry to bother you again, but I --" 

"Oh, that's okay," she said cheerfully, stepping to one side to allow him
to enter.  She shut the door behind him, then moved back over to the
reception counter, which was covered with ledgers, shipping invoices, and
other assorted paperwork.  "As you can see, I'm up to my elbows in this
crap," she went on, waving at the mass of papers.  She turned to face
Mulder again.  "So did Greg get in touch with you?" 

Mulder felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  "No.  Was he supposed to
have called?" 

Alexa looked a little puzzled.  "Yeah.  He actually stopped by yesterday
afternoon, not too long after you were here.  I was surprised to see him,
but he said he'd forgotten something.  I gave him your card, and he said
he was going to call you." 

Mulder shook his head.  "He didn't." 

"That's not like him," Alexa said.  She shook her head apologetically. 
"Sorry." 

"Look, Alexa, I really need to talk to him," Mulder said.  "Is there any
way I can reach him this morning?  Can you give me his home number?" 

Alexa shrugged.  "I can give it to you," she replied.  "But it's not going
to do you any good.  He came by early last night to tell me he'd actually
put the IP to bed early, and was going out of town for the rest of the
weekend.  He didn't say where." 

Mulder swore.  "When do you expect him back?" 

"Not until Tuesday morning, probably," the young woman said.  "We're
closed Mondays."  She shrugged again.  "Sorry.  I know this is important,
but I couldn't even begin to tell you where to look." 

Mulder sighed in frustration.  "That's okay," he said.  He glanced idly
around the shop, and then back at Alexa.  "Look, is there any chance he
left his materials here?  The original copy, I mean?" 

"There's a chance," Alexa said.  "He did have that folder with him when he
was here, but I didn't notice whether it was full or empty.  And as I told
you yesterday, he usually throws that stuff out as soon as he's done with
it.  Which is bad, because a co uple of times we've had complaints from
advertisers that he didn't run an ad the way they wanted it.  But he's not
good with paperwork," she added, nodding at the pile of papers on the
reception counter.  "Which is why I do the inventory and the books." 

"Are you absolutely sure?" Mulder persisted.  "Because you're right; this
really is important.  A look at the latest Tebori ad could be very helpful
to the investigation." 

The young woman shrugged yet again.  "I suppose I could look in back, just
in case."  Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the room. 

Alexa had not been gone long before Mulder started getting restless.  He
tried to squelch the feeling, but knew from long experience that fighting
his own impatience would be an uphill battle.  And before very long, he
was wandering around the room. 

It looked very much like the waiting room in a doctor's office, right down
to the uncomfortable-looking straight chairs and the haphazard pile of
magazines stacked on an end table.  A waist-high counter running two
thirds of the width of the room served a s the reception desk, and in
addition to the piles of papers and ledgers which he had noticed sitting
on it earlier, there was also a small stack of loose-leaf binders. 

Mulder moved over to the end of the counter and picked up the top binder. 
There were four binders in all, each handsomely and colorfully decorated,
apparently by hand, and labelled in elegant calligraphy.  The one in his
hand was entitled "Military". 

For lack of anything better to do, he began leafing through the binder,
and was unsurprised to find that it consisted of a collection of sketches
of such things as stylized military insignia, naval vessels, jet planes
and the like.  The artwork was compet

ent, but to Mulder's admittedly uneducated eye appeared to be nothing
special -- nor were any of the designs particularly eye-catching.  And
after just a moment he closed the book, and reached for the one labelled
"Animals". 

The designs in this book were somewhat more interesting, Mulder had to
admit.  He'd never cared much for body art, and after Scully's excursion
to Philadelphia he'd become even more negative on the subject.  But these
sketches were really quite good, and showed considerable thought and
originality. 

As he turned the pages, Mulder noticed that some of the animals depicted
were actually mythological.  There was a gryphon, several styles of
unicorns, a representation of Quetzlcoatl, the feathered serpent .... 

And an Oroborous. 

Mulder stopped when he came to that picture, and looked a little closer,
trying to suppress all the negative feelings and images that were suddenly
clamoring for attention.  It was really quite an attractive design, he
grudgingly admitted.  There were app arently two versions available:  one
done in blue and green, with silver highlights, and the other in red,
orange and yellow. 

"That's Greg's latest.  Pretty good, huh?" 

Mulder looked around sharply, to see Alexa standing a couple of feet to
one side.  He carefully closed the book, and said, "Yes, it is.  I, uh, I
have a friend who has one very much like it." 

The young woman laughed.  "Well don't tell Greg; he's terribly proud of
that design, and he'll be crushed if he finds out that someone else
thought of it first."  She moved past Mulder, and stepped behind the
counter.  "He came back from lunch last Wednes day, and said it just came
to him, all at once -- and then he was up half the night getting it down
on paper.  It's quite popular, too; a number of people have commented on
it, and we've actually placed two of them already." 

Alexa stopped speaking for a moment as she straightened the stack of
binders, then looked back up at Mulder.  "Anyway," she went on, "I looked
around back there, and I didn't find anything.  I'm sorry."  She smiled
ruefully, and added, "The IP will be ava ilable tomorrow morning.  We'll
be closed, but you should be able to pick up a copy at Prairie Lights --
that's a bookstore, over on Dubuque Street.  They open at 10 a.m." 

Mulder sighed in resignation.  "I guess that'll have to do," he said. 

#          #          #

Riverside, IA
Residence of Alexander Farrier
8:19 p.m.

Scully sat quietly on the sofa in Alexander Farrier's living room.  To
outward appearances, as she knew from long practice and experience, she
appeared to be calm and at ease.  The cool, self-assured FBI agent,
killing a few minutes while she waited for h er interview subject to
return from whatever chore he had been engaged in when she arrived.  The
consummate professional. 

The truth, however, was another matter.  Inside, Scully felt tired and
distracted and frustrated.  It had been a long, apparently unproductive
day.  The series of interviews she and Oliver had planned was taking far
longer than they had expected, and was yielding little in the way of
useful information. 

No one they'd spoken to seemed to know anything that advanced their
understanding of the case.  As far as they'd been able to determine,
Marjorie Adamson had had no enemies, she had exhibited no strange
behavior, and she had nothing in common with any of the other victims,
aside from her gender and her city of residence. 

Scully and Oliver had finally split up in late afternoon, after it became
clear that they weren't going to be able to finish their interview list if
they stayed together.  It was not good police procedure, but when Oliver
had suggested taking the step, Sc ully had jumped at the chance to get
away from the detective and her attitude for a few hours. 

But it wasn't really helping.  Scully's own attitude continued to be poor. 
She recognized the importance of the work she was doing, but that didn't
stop it from seeming like a tedious waste of time. 

The real problems were that it wasn't an X-File -- and that she wasn't
working with Mulder. 

Scully rose from the sofa, trying to push such thoughts from her mind. 
She wasn't here for her own convenience, she reminded herself.  She was
here to help put a stop to a series of murders.  She had to stay focused
on that; lives could depend on it, and she had to do her very best, for
the sake of saving those lives. 

Alexander Farrier's living room appeared to be completely unremarkable. 
The overstuffed sofa Scully had been sitting on was flanked by a recliner
and an old wooden rocking chair; a low coffee table completed the
ensemble.  The furniture didn't actually m atch, but it looked as if it
had been carefully selected so as to present an overall pleasing effect. 

Scully sighed, and moved restlessly across the room.  A three shelf
bookcase, apparently handmade, stood against one wall, and she stopped in
front of it to examine the titles.  Farrier, it seemed, had an interest in
art, especially art from the Far East. 

There were also a few books on Oriental philosophy and history. 

A small stack of papers sat on top of the bookcase.  At first Scully
thought they were letters or bills, but upon looking closer, she realized
they were sketches, done in colored pencil.  On an impulse, she picked
them up and started leafing through them. 

Most were of animals, and although they were primitive in style, there was
nevertheless something compelling about them.  A snail, a toad.  A couple
of different snakes ... 

Scully paused in her examination of the sketches and thought for a moment. 
There was something familiar about the sketches, but she couldn't quite
place it.  She stood still for a moment, trying to concentrate -- and then
she had it.  The poems Mulder ha d recited at breakfast.  That was it. 
There had been one about a toad, one about a slug, and one about a snake. 
Of course, the middle drawing in this set was a snail, but Mulder would
probably think that was close enough. 

The drawings also seemed to be tied, somehow, to the memory she'd been
trying to dredge up that morning.  She hadn't really thought about it
since leaving Mulder at the bagel shop, but now the niggling feeling that
she was missing something was back again .  It was so damned frustrating. 
Scully shook her head, and turned to the next sketch --

An Oroborous. 

Scully stopped in surprise when she came to that one.  At first glance,
the drawing appeared remarkably similar to the design of her tattoo.  It
seemed to be about the same size and was in the same style -- the colors
were even a fairly close match, inclu ding the bright red which had
originally attracted her attention in the tattoo parlor in Philadelphia. 

Looking a little closer, though, she started noticing several small
differences.  The pattern of scales on this drawing was different, for one
thing, and the body of the snake seemed to undulate slightly.  This
rendering also seemed to be more menacing th an the one on her lower back,
although she couldn't quite put her finger on why that was so. 

"I've recently become rather interested in the Oroborous."  Scully turned,
the drawing still in her hand, to see that Farrier had returned, and was
standing a few feet away, almost directly behind her.  She felt an itchy
sensation at the base of her spine, and somehow had the impression he'd
been watching her for some time.  And his gaze was so intense ... almost
as if her were looking inside her .... 

"It's quite fascinating, actually," Farrier said, moving forward and
taking the sketch from her hand.  He was tall and had dark brown hair,
with light gray eyes.  Scully remembered from the sketchy report she and
Oliver had received that he was 28 years old, but his features had an
ageless quality that would have made it difficult to guess his years if
the information had not been provided. 

"This isn't my usual area of interest," the man continued, stepping
forward to stand next to Scully and nodding down at the bookcase.  "As you
can see, my principal attraction is to the Far East.  But something about
this --" he gestured with the sketch "  -- has diverted me."  He looked
away from the books, and directed his gaze at Scully.  "Do you understand
the symbolism of the Oroborous, Agent Scully?"

Without quite knowing why, Scully found herself feeling distinctly
uncomfortable, but she couldn't seem to find the words to redirect the
conversation.  This wasn't why she was here, she reminded herself.  She
was supposed to be asking Farrier why his fingerprints had been found in
Marjorie Adamson's home.  But somehow he had seized the initiative, and
taken control of the subject matter.  His gaze and his voice were both
unusually compelling --

"It represents eternity," Farrier said after a brief pause, apparently
interpreting her silence as permission to continue.  "Especially eternal
life.  It dates back to the ancient Near East -- the Greeks, the Persians,
the Egyptians."  He took a step closer, and Scully had to fight the urge
to back away.  "Of course, from time to time that meaning has been
corrupted or misunderstood, but --" 

"Mr. Farrier," Scully said firmly, finally finding her voice and stepping
decisively away from the man.  "I, uh, I want to thank you for taking the
time to talk to me this evening."  She reached the sofa and turned to face
Farrier, to see that he was still standing by the bookcase, watching her
intently -- so intently that Scully once again had the impression that he
was somehow peering *inside* her. 

"That's quite all right, Agent Scully," the man replied calmly, finally
moving away from the bookcase.  He stopped when he came to the old wooden
rocker, and gestured for Scully to sit down before taking a seat himself.
"And how may I assist the FBI this evening?" 

He was still looking at her -- staring, really, she realized -- and it was
starting to annoy her.  She shifted slightly in her seat, and replied, "As
I mentioned on the phone, I'm investigating the recent series of murders
in the local area.  I'm sure you read about them in the paper or have seen
reports on --"

"I don't pay much attention to the news, Agent Scully," Farrier
interrupted.  "At least, not as a general rule.  I find the media to be
very ... superficial.  They seldom seem to get to the heart of the matter. 
But I have heard of these crimes, of course."  He shook his head.  "Such
terrible tragedies." 

Scully nodded.  "Yes, they are," she agreed, suppressing a sigh.  She
really did feel compassion for the victims and their families, of course,
but along with everything else, she was growing weary of the obligatory
expressions of sympathy.  "The one I'm particularly looking into at the
moment is the death of Marjorie Adamson." 

She paused to see if there would be a reaction, but there was none. 
Farrier was sitting perched on the edge of his seat, looking at her with
an expression of curious attentiveness -- about like a child waiting for
the teacher to ask a question.  After a few seconds of silence, she went
on, "Were you acquainted with Marjorie Adamson, Mr. Farrier?" 

That got a reaction, but it wasn't the one she was expecting.  Farrier's
eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he shook his head.  "No, Agent Scully. 
I've never met the woman."  His brow furrowed slightly.  "Is that why
you're here?  Were you under the impression that I knew that poor lady?" 

Scully hesitated then nodded.  "Yes.  We have some evidence that seemed to
indicate that." 

"May I inquire as to the nature of that evidence?" Farrier asked, a little
diffidently. 

Scully hesitated again, and this time she shook her head.  "I'm sorry, Mr. 
Farrier, but right now that information is confidential."  She tried to
make her voice as reassuring as she could.  "I'm sure you understand; at
this stage of an investigation, we try to keep as much to ourselves as we
can." 

Farrier nodded.  "I guess I can see that," he replied.  "But it does leave
me at something of a loss."  He spread his hands.  "I can't refute
something if I don't know what it is.  All I can do is repeat that I did
not know this woman.  Marjorie Adamson." 

The two of them sat in silence for a moment or two, while Scully tried to
decide how to proceed.  She had a number of followup questions, but they
all depended on Farrier having acknowledged an acquaintence with the dead
woman.  She could think of a number of reasons why the man might want to
conceal such an assocation -- anything from a clandestine love affair to
an estrangement which now might seem to cast suspicion on him. 

But there really wasn't any way to pursue those issues, unless she wanted
to start treating Farrier like a suspect rather than a witness, which was
a step she really didn't care to take on the spur of the moment --
especially at the end of a long day, when she was tired and her feet hurt. 
Better to cut her losses, talk the matter over with Oliver -- and maybe
Mulder -- and come back another day when she was better prepared. 

A few minutes later she was in her car and headed back to Iowa City. 

==========END CHAPTER TWELVE==========

===========
Chapter Thirteen
===========

Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
Sunday, October 4, 1998
11:02 p.m.

The lights in her motel room were out when Scully finally got back from
the last interview.  She had met with two more people after finishing with
Farrier, and then spent another hour at the Civic Center dealing with
paperwork.  The reports still weren't done, but she had reached the point
where she was too tired to go any further. 

Mulder appeared to be asleep, and Scully sighed softly in frustration. 
She'd actually been looking forward to seeing him -- she had, in fact,
gotten through the final interview partly by reminding herself that she'd
get to spend some time with him when she was finished.  She was really too
tired to follow through on the semi-promise she'd made that morning at
breakfast, but it would have been nice just to cuddle in his arms and talk
for awhile. 

Scully sighed again, and made her way carefully across the darkened room
to the bathroom, grabbing her pajamas off the bureau as she went by.  Once
inside, she closed the door and turned on the light.  And for a moment she
just stood there, looking at herself in the mirror. 

God, she was exhausted -- and seeing her reflection staring back at her
really drove the point home.  She'd been getting by on too little sleep
for too many days, and it was finally catching up with her.  There were
bags under her eyes that no amount of foundation would conceal, and her
hair -- well, the less said about her hair, the better.

Scully shrugged out of her suit jacket and hung it carefully on the hook
on the back of the door.  She then went to work on the buttons of her
blouse, swearing softly as her fingers refused to cooperate.  At last she
was successful, and she slipped out of the blouse.  Her bra and slacks
followed a moment later. 

She hesitated then, and glanced with longing at the bathtub.  A long, hot
soak would be so relaxing right now -- but she just couldn't afford the
time.  Conyers had moved up tomorrow's morning briefing to 6:30, and
Scully would have to be up and getting ready no later than five.  All of
which meant that she was already going to be short of sleep, and she
simply couldn't spare any time for a bath. 

No Mulder, no bath, and not enough sleep, she thought grumpily.  Events
seemed to be conspiring against her this evening to deprive her of the
rest and comfort that she wanted.  Well, she'd just have to manage, she
decided.  It wasn't as if this was even close to the worst that had ever
happened to her.  And she turned away from the bathtub and reached for her
pajamas. 

She paused in mid-reach as she caught sight of one of Mulder's t-shirts,
lying crumpled up on the back corner of the washstand.  She hesitated just
an instant, then picked up the t-shirt and brought it to her nose and
sniffed. 

It smelled good.  It smelled of Mulder's sweat, and his cologne, and it
reminded Scully vividly of the handful of times they had made love, back
before the Gibson Praise case in Arizona had come between them.  She
missed the closeness they had been building, and she knew Mulder did, too. 
The last two days they had made a lot of progress, and it had all been
possible because both of them wanted to get back to where they had been. 
But they still had a long way to go. 

She suddenly wondered if Mulder would mind if she wore his shirt to bed. 
It wouldn't be the same as snuggling into his arms, but at least it would
be something.  Back when she was dating Jack Willis she had enjoyed
wearing his clothes whenever they spent a night together; it had always
made her feel warm and happy, and a little special.  And Jack had seemed
to like seeing her that way .... 

Scully smiled and slipped the shirt on over her head.  Mulder wouldn't
object to this; she was just sorry that he wasn't awake to see her wearing
it.  She shook her head slightly in regret, then turned her attention to
brushing her teeth. 

A few minutes later, she clicked off the light and stepped back into the
main room.  Pausing for a moment to allow her eyes to readjust to the
dark, she moved over to stand between the two beds, and simply stood
there, looking down at her partner. 

He was really a lovely man, she thought.  Scully rarely permitted herself
the luxury of looking at Mulder this way, but he truly was beautiful.  And
seeing him asleep like this, with his face calm and relaxed, and free of
worry -- to see him like this was a gift beyond price. 

She knelt down next to the bed, trying to get a better look at her
partner's face.  His eyelids were flickering slightly, telling her that he
was dreaming.  So many times his dreams were bad; she had heard him crying
in his sleep on countless occasions over the years, and sometimes he'd
sounded so raw and plaintive she'd thought her heart would break.  But
tonight, it seemed, he was at peace. 

Scully sighed softly.  She needed to get some rest, too.  It was almost
11:30, and morning was going to come far too soon for her taste.  And so
she leaned forward and planted a soft goodnight kiss on Mulder's forehead. 

His eyes fluttered open.  "Scully?"  His voice was thick with sleep. 

"Shh," she whispered.  "I just got back.  Didn't mean to wake you.  Go
back to sleep." 

He smiled drowsily, and something in his eyes made her heart beat a little
faster.  "I don't want to sleep, now that you're here," he replied, his
voice sounding a little stronger. 

Scully chuckled softly, and gently stroked his hair.  "Neither do I," she
admitted.  "But it's very late, and I have to get up early.  And we both
need to rest."  It suddenly occurred to her that, as far as she knew,
Mulder never had gotten around to calling Kersh -- but then she pushed the
unhappy thought away.  Time enough for that in the morning. 

"Sleep with me, Scully."  She turned her attention back to her partner,
and saw that he had scooted over a bit and now was holding the covers up
in an obvious invitation. 

She shook her head.  "I said I'm tired, Mulder," she said with a smile,
trying her damnedest to project warmth and affection rather than
rejection.  He was so sensitive and insecure --

"Sleep with me," her partner insisted, wearing a slight smile of his own. 
"Just sleep.  That's all I meant.  That's all I'm asking." 

Scully thought about that for a few seconds.  She and Mulder had made love
a few times in the past month, but they had never actually spent the night
together.  Each time it had seemed like a pragmatic decision:  on three
occasions it had been a work night, and on the fourth Scully had wanted to
go to early Mass the next day. 

But in retrospect, she couldn't help wondering if the two of them hadn't
been avoiding a deeper form of intimacy.  Even last night, she had
eventually gotten out of Mulder's bed and gone to sleep in her own.  She'd
been putting some distance between them, she realized -- both emotional
and physical.  And Mulder had let her do it. 

To hell with that. 

"Okay," she said simply.  Mulder's eyebrows raised slightly, but then his
smile broadened, and he moved over a little farther as Scully slid into
bed next to him. 

For a minute or two after she got settled, Scully just lay there on her
back, her head resting on the pillow, staring at the ceiling.  This was
decidedly odd, she thought.  Oh, she had slept in the same bed with a man
before, although not for many years.  But this was the first time, so far
as she could recall, that she had gotten in bed with a man with the sole
intention of going to sleep, and it was giving her a strange, almost
domestic feeling.

Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be enough to allow her to drop off --
and the more she tried to relax, the more the events of the day kept
intruding on her thoughts.  The interview with Alexander Farrier had
bothered her more than she had first realized, and now the episode was
beginning to gnaw at her --

"You look tense, Scully." 

Scully started at the sound of her partner's voice, then got control of
herself and turned on her side to face him.  He had his head propped on
his hand, and wore a gentle smile on his face.  Just seeing him like that,
his features still softened by sleep and all of his attention focused on
her, helped her relax a bit.  And after another moment, she was able to
return his smile. 

"Sorry," she said.  "I guess I'm a little nervous." 

He nodded, and replied, very softly and solemnly, "I understand.  I'm not
always an easy guy to be around." 

Scully shook her head, and moved a little closer to him, until their
bodies were almost touching.  "That's not it," she said.  "I'm not nervous
about *you*.  It's just ...."  She hesitated, not sure how much she ought
to tell him -- which was ridiculous, she realized.  This was her partner
lying next to her.  She didn't need to keep things from him; half the
problems they'd been having were due to one or the other of them holding
back. 

*More* than half their problems .... 

"Want to tell me about it?" Mulder prompted. 

"Yeah," she replied at last.  Again Mulder's eyebrows moved up in apparent
surprise, and Scully couldn't help but smile.  If she'd known it was this
easy to please him, she would have done it long ago.  She went on, "It's
just that ... it's been a long five days.  Long hours, short of sleep --
all the usual stuff.  You know?" 

Mulder nodded.  Scully continued, "And tonight I had an interview --
Oliver and I had split up, because we were running behind -- and the guy
was just, I dunno.  He bothered me.  Very intense.  And --" she swallowed; 
this was the hard part "-- it almost seemed as if he knew things about me. 
It was very unnerving."

Mulder's eyebrows knitted in apparent concern.  "What do you mean?" 

She sighed and shook her head.  Reviewing her conversation with Farrier in
her mind, Scully suddenly wasn't sure this was such a good idea after all.
Her tattoo, and the events surrounding it, was one subject she and Mulder
had *never* talked about -- not since the day she got back from
Philadelphia.  Finally, she just said, "I don't know; nothing specific, I
guess.  I think it must just be stress." 

Mulder was quiet for a minute, and from the expression on his face it was
clear he didn't entirely believe her.  At last, though, he simply
shrugged, and asked, "Are you sure?" 

And there it was; the real challenge.  Scully knew she should pick it up
and tell him what was really bothering her, but she just wasn't up to it. 
It had been such a long, day, and she was so tired --

"It's okay, Scully," her partner said, very softly.  "We don't have to
talk about it now, if you don't feel like it."  He slipped his arms around
her waist, and drew her in close.  "Just relax," he whispered.  "Close
your eyes, and relax." 

Scully closed her eyes and laid her head down on his shoulder, and tried
to do as he'd suggested.  His body against hers was warm and friendly, and
his arms around her made her feel grounded and secure.  Any minute now,
she should be dropping off to sleep -- she really was exhausted.  Any
minute now ....

"You really are tense, aren't you?" 

Scully sighed and opened her eyes, to see Mulder looking at her from a few
inches away.  "I guess I am," she admitted, and reluctantly started to
disentangle herself from his embrace.  "I don't want to, but I'd probably
better move.  I have to be up at five." 

She felt her partner's arms tighten around her.  "Just a sec, Scully," he
said.  "Maybe there's a way we can deal with this." 

After a brief hesitation, Scully allowed Mulder to draw her back down on
the bed.  She really didn't want to be away from him, and she truly was
tired.  Perhaps if she just gave it a few more minutes .... 

"That's it."  Her partner's voice was warm and soft, and his breath
tickled her ear.  "Close your eyes, Scully," he went on.  "Close your
eyes, and lie as still as you can.  Leave the driving to me." 

Scully did as she was told, and after a moment she felt Mulder's fingers
start to gently touch and caress her face.  She sighed slightly, and
leaned into his touch.  "That feels nice," she murmured. 

"Shh," Mulder whispered.  "No talking."  His hands continued to gently
stroke her face, moving across her forehead, tracing the outline of her
nose and eyes.  His fingertips passed across her lips, and she smiled. 

"You really have a beautiful face, Scully," he said softly.  "Did you know
that?"  Scully felt herself blushing as her partner continued to speak,
while his hands continued to move across her features.  "I could sit and
look at your face for hours," he went on.  "I would never get tired of
looking at it.  It's the first thing I noticed about you, all those years
ago:  how strong and intelligent and sensitive your face was.  Is. 
Especially how intelligent.  You're so smart you scare me sometimes." 

He stopped speaking for a moment, and the fingers of one hand moved back
to tangle in her hair, while the other slipped behind her to cup the back
of her head, the fingers gently massaging her scalp.  "Your hair was the
next thing I noticed," he said after a moment.  "It's so fine and soft.  I
didn't get to touch it very often, especially in the early years, but I
loved it right from the beginning.  And I always knew it would feel like
this." 

Scully felt a slight tug on her scalp, and then heard Mulder inhaling
deeply, and realized that he was sniffing at a lock of her hair.  Somehow
the knowledge caused a shiver to run down her spine, and she shifted her
position slightly, bringing her hip in to contact with his.  And all the
while, his fingers continued to stroke and massage her scalp.  Scully
sighed. 

At last his fingers left her scalp, and slid down past her ears to stroke
and caress her neck.  Automatically, she tilted her head, exposing more
skin for his attention.  Mulder chuckled, and she felt him shift slightly
on the bed ... and then something w arm and moist lightly touched the base
of her neck. 

"Mmmm," Scully breathed, as the contact was repeated.  Already she felt a
warm tingle beginning in her abdomen and between her thighs.  "I thought
you were trying to help me relax." 

"I am," Mulder assured her, continuing to stroke the side of her neck with
his fingers.  He planted another soft kiss just beneath her ear, then ran
his tongue down her neck to where it joined her shoulder.  "Just let it
happen, Scully.  Let me give this to you.  You don't have to do anything." 

Again he pressed his lips against the side of her neck, flicking her skin
lightly with the tip of his tongue as he did so.  His hand left her neck
and skimmed down her body, lightly brushing the side of her breast through
the thin material of the t-shirt as it did so, and finally coming to rest
on the swell of her hip. 

She briefly considered asking him to stop.  She was so tired, and she had
another short night and no doubt a long day to look forward to.  But it
just felt too good, and she couldn't bring herself to say the words -- not
with his thumb lightly tracing the ridge of her hipbone, and his lips and
tongue continuing to explore the dips and curves of her neck. 

Not when they'd both worked so hard to get back to this point. 

"I used to look at you all the time, Scully," Mulder said after a moment. 
His hand was now slowly stroking the outside of her thigh, while his words
were whispered against the base of her neck.  "I know you caught me
sometimes, but much more often, you didn't." 

His hand crept lower, and at last found the hem of the shirt, just above
her knee.  Scully shivered as Mulder's fingers finally touched her bare
flesh, and again she moved a little closer to him, parting her legs
slightly as she did so.  The warm tingling between her thighs was growing
stronger, and it was all she could do not to climb on top of her partner
and start grinding her body against his.

"Easy, Scully," her partner whispered in her ear as his hand traced slow,
random patterns on her inner thigh, just above the knee.  "Take it nice
and easy.  Nice and slow."  His hand moved gradually upward, his
fingertips brushing lightly against her skin as he bent his head to nibble
on her earlobe.

Scully gasped as Mulder's fingers touched the fabric of her panties, and
she abruptly reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to
pull his body closer.  She needed more contact .... 

Mulder chuckled again, and nuzzled his nose in her hair -- and this time
she could feel it as well as hear it when he inhaled deeply.  And his
fingers continued their slow, erotic dance. 

Scully could no longer remain completely passive.  She turned her head and
parted her lips ... and an instant later was rewarded by the featherlight
touch of Mulder's mouth against her own.  She moaned softly as his tongue
caressed her upper lip, and then her lower, and she opened her mouth wider
to admit him.  It was so good;  it was so perfect.  It was just what she
needed ....

At last, Mulder's hand slipped under the elastic of her panties, and
Scully broke the kiss and gasped as his fingers began to explore her most
intimate place.  She tightened her arms around his neck, and arched her
hips against his hand, trying to increase the pressure, wanting greater
friction and more contact. 

She heard someone moaning, and realized that it was her own voice. 
Mulder's fingers seemed to be everywhere, sliding through her folds,
caressing her and touching her and stroking her.  She turned her head
again, seeking his mouth, and was rewarded with another deep, erotic kiss,
Mulder's tongue slipping into her mouth at the same instant that two of
his fingers were entering her core. 

Scully's hips bucked frantically as Mulder began to pump his fingers into
her in earnest.  She was close, so close, and somehow he seemed to know
it.  She rotated her hips, trying to help him find the perfect spot --

There!  Oh, God!  That was it!  That was perfect!  She heard the words
echoing in her ears and in her head, and realized that she was no longer
kissing Mulder -- she was talking to him, babbling really, a steady stream
of semi-coherent words and parts of words.  She was so close; so very,
very close, and then her partner's thumb lightly stroked the tight bundle
of nerves at her very center --

Some unmeasured eternity later, Scully felt herself gradually settling
back to earth.  Mulder's arms were wrapped securely around her, and his
body was pressed gently but firmly against her.  His voice was in her ear,
and she realized he must have been talking her through it, grounding her,
holding on to her and giving her an anchor.  She recalled fragments of the
things he had said, here and there, but most important was just the sound
of his voice, low and rich and full of promise, saying her name over and
over and over: 

"Scully ... Scully ... Scully ... Scully ...." 

Scully slept. 

==========END CHAPTER THIRTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Fourteen
===========

Iowa City Civic Center
Monday, October 5, 1998
6:18 a.m.

Five hours of sleep was not enough, Scully thought grumpily, as she walked
down the hallway towards the conference room where the morning briefing
would be held.  Not when she had already been working long hours, and no
doubt had another long day ahead of her.  She had gotten by on less when
she was in med school, and during her residency -- but she wasn't 25
anymore. 

Thank God for Mulder, though; if it weren't for him, she would've been in
even worse shape than she was.  Somehow, last night he had known just what
she needed, and had stepped in and given it to her. 

She would never have been able to ask him for that; not even if their
relationship were on more stable ground.  The same internal censors that
kept her from talking about her emotions also made it difficult -- usually
impossible -- for Scully to express her sexual needs.  Even with Jack
Willis, her one long-term lover, she had found herself accepting whatever
he chose to offer -- and the frustration that had caused for both of them
had contributed greatly to their eventual breakup. 

Scully sighed, and shook her head.  That wasn't going to happen this time
-- not if she had anything to say about it.  Somehow, she was going to
find a way to get past the wall of reserve she had built around herself.
Mulder deserved better than that; th ey both did. 

She sighed again, and pushed those thoughts away.  She was going to have
to deal with that -- they both were -- along with a long list of other
problems that still lay unresolved in their relationship.  But now was not
the time.  Right now, she had a job to do. 

Scully pulled open the door to the conference room and stepped inside. 
About half a dozen people were already there, including Detective Oliver,
who was sitting about half-way down the long table, a styrofoam cup of
coffee in front of her.  Scully nodded to her slightly, then moved over to
the coffee machine to draw her own cup before taking her seat next to the
detective. 

"Morning," Oliver said briefly, and again Scully simply nodded.  Her
relationship with the other woman had been a little strained ever since
the detective's outburst in the car on Saturday afternoon.  More strained
than usual, Scully amended, as she took her first sip of coffee and began
skimming the printed agenda.

"Two and a half pages," Oliver commented, as Scully reached the bottom of
the first sheet.  "I'm guessing at least ninety minutes.  And you're gonna
*love* what they've cooked up for the two of us to do today." 

Scully glanced at Oliver and raised an eyebrow, then looked back to the
agenda and turned to the last page, where the day's assignments were
usually listed.  She let her gaze slide down the lines of text until she
found her name and Oliver's -- and her eyebrows rose even higher. 

"Flower shops?" she asked, looking back up at the detective. 

"Yep."  The other woman nodded.  "And not the chrysanthemum angle --
they've already got that covered. 

"Then why?" 

The detective seemed to be enjoying Scully's confusion.  "Late last
night," she explained with deliberation, "the preliminary report on that
yellow flower petal came back.  You remember?  The one that was found at
Marjorie Adamson's place on Friday night? " 

Scully nodded, and Oliver continued, "Well it turns out to be from
gelsemium sempervirens -- that's yellow jasmine to those of us who are
botanically challenged.  And it doesn't grow around here -- it likes a
warmer climate.  So ...."  The detective's voice trailed off, and she
shrugged. 

"So we get to go around to all the florists in town, and see if anybody
suspicious-looking has bought any yellow jasmine recently," Scully
finished, struggling to keep the tone of disbelief out of her voice. 

"That's right," the detective replied.  "Cedar Rapids, too."  She shrugged
again.  "It turns out that yellow jasmine is the source of a drug called
gelsemium, which is a potent painkiller -- you grind up the roots and make
soup, or some such.  The thinking this morning is that maybe the killer
uses it to pacify his victims.  Supposedly it has a bitter taste, so it'd
probably have to be mixed with something sweet, at least for the initial
dose."  Oliver took a sip of her coffee and winced.  "Can't be any worse
than this shit, though," she added.

Scully nodded, and took another sip of her own coffee.  It really was
pretty bad, but she desperately needed the caffeine.  She took one more
sip, then went back to reading the agenda. 

#          #          #

Iowa City, IA
7:21 a.m.

As Mulder rounded the last corner on his way back to the Heartland Inn, he
checked his watch:  four miles in just over thirty minutes.  Not a bad
time, and he wasn't even really winded.  Today was shaping up to be a good
day. 

Of course, last night had been a good night.  Mulder had been disappointed
-- but not surprised -- when Scully failed to return at a reasonable hour.
But when she finally did arrive, he'd been delighted by her willingness to
crawl into bed with him -- and he'd been profoundly awed when she allowed
him to give her the release she so obviously needed.  He'd recognized her
acceptance of his attention as a sign of trust, and a promise that things
would continue to get better. 

A small part of him had, of course, been wistfully hopeful that Scully
might become sufficiently aroused to make love to him -- but he hadn't
really expected it, and it hadn't happened.  She had fallen asleep almost
before he withdrew his hand from her body -- and somewhat to his surprise,
he found himself following her into slumber a few minutes later, despite
the frustration of his own unrelieved physical desire.  And for once he
had slept well, and hadn't had any nightmares. 

So, yeah -- it had been a good night. 

Mulder slowed to a walk as he closed to within fifty yards of the motel. 
His muscles felt warm and loose, and his stride was free and easy.  In
fact, his entire body seemed vigorous and alive, as if his physical being
had experienced some sort of renewal in the past 36 hours, even as his
spirit was being resurrected. 

Well, maybe it had. 

As Mulder was reaching for his keycard, he heard the phone start ringing
inside the room.  He hastily jammed the card into the slot and worked the
handle; a moment later he was scooping up the receiver and flopping down
on the unused bed.  Probably it was Scully, calling to let him know
whether she'd be free for lunch .... 

"Mulder." 

There was a moment of silence at the other end; then a man's voice spoke. 
"Agent Mulder?  This is Assistant Director Kersh." 

Shit. 

"I must say I'm not entirely surprised to find you answering this number,"
the A.D. went on, after a brief pause.  "I presume that Agent Scully has
made you aware of my previous inquiries as to your whereabouts." 

Mulder gritted his teeth at the man's condescending tone, but simply said,
"Yes, sir." 

There was another silence, longer than the last, while Kersh apparently
considered his alternatives.  Or maybe he wasn't considering, Mulder
thought.  The son of a bitch probably already knew exactly what he was
going to do, and just wanted to leave Mulder hanging in limbo for a minute
--

"Agent Mulder," Kersh said suddenly, "I assume that your absence from the
Hoover Building on Thursday and Friday was due to having suddenly become
involved in professional activities, and that these activities precluded a
more timely report to my office." 

"Sir --" 

"This is the only reason I can think of why you would have failed to
contact me sooner, Agent Mulder," Kersh said sharply.  "The alternative is
that you have been AWOL since Thursday morning.  If that's the case, I
would have no choice but to forward the matter to the OPR for their
consideration."  Kersh paused, and Mulder resisted the urge to tell him
what the OPR could do with their consideration.  "You do remember that
you're on probation, don't you, Agent Mulder?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Very well," the A.D. said calmly.  "In order that I may be properly
updated on your professional activities, I am directing you to submit a
written report to my office, detailing your actions since last Thursday
morning."  Mulder could almost hear Kersh looking at his watch.  "I
believe it is now 7:31 in Iowa; I will inform Special Agent in Charge
Conyers to expect you in 29 minutes." 

"Conyers?"  Mulder's jaw dropped.  "Why --" 

"Agent Conyers will provide you with working space and the necessary
materials," Kersh continued implacably, as if he hadn't heard the
interruption.  "I will expect your narrative on my desk no later than
three p.m., East coast time.  You will then report back to Agent Conyers
for further assignment.  Is all of that clear, Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder clenched his jaw, but he managed to grind out, "Yes.  Sir." 

"Very well, Agent Mulder.  That will be all, then."  And the connection
was broken. 

# # #

Iowa City Civic Center
5:49 p.m.

"Someone said I'd find you here." 

Mulder winced at hearing his partner's voice.  He'd known since he'd hung
up the phone with Kersh that morning that it was inevitable she'd find out
-- and that she'd track him down once she knew.  But he hadn't been
looking forward to facing her.  He didn't expect to enjoy the
recriminations that were almost certain to ensue. 

"Mulder?" 

He heard Scully take a couple of tentative-sounding steps closer, and bent
his head over the file he was working on.  Go away, Scully, he thought. 
You don't want to be around me right now.  Not after what Kersh and
Conyers have done.  I'm in no mood to be around anyone I care about. 

"Mulder ... " He heard her take a few more steps.  "Mulder, it's just me." 

Keeping his eyes resolutely on the file he was pretending to read, Mulder
said, "Better keep your distance, Scully.  I've got cooties."  He risked a
glance over his shoulder, and saw that she was standing about five feet
behind him, a look of confusion on her face.  "Also," he added, looking
back at the file, and not even trying to hide the anger in his voice,
"you're standing in Conyers' spot." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Every hour on the hour," Mulder said, in short, clipped tones, "He comes
in here, stands right where you're standing, and watches me.  Doesn't say
a word.  After a few minutes, he goes away." 

Scully was silent for a few seconds -- and then he heard her footsteps
again, coming nearer still.  He closed his eyes, and in his imagination he
could see the expression of pity on her face.  The footsteps stopped, but
he could still see her.  She was lifting her hand, reaching out to touch
him --

"Don't," he said, very softly. 

There was another moment of silence.  Then:  "Okay."  A second or two
later, she went on, "Mulder, what's wrong?  What are you doing here?" 

Mulder shrugged.  Apparently there was no escaping this -- he was going to
have to talk to her about it.  "Kersh finally got hold of me this
morning," he said.  "This is my punishment." 

"Kersh thinks assigning you to the task force is punishment?"  Now there
was amusement in her voice.  "He doesn't know you very well, does he?" 

"I'm not assigned to the task force!" Mulder snapped.  "I've been assigned
to act as Conyers' personal asswipe."  He stopped, and struggled to regain
control.  A half a dozen additional angry comments flashed through his
mind, but somehow he managed to suppress them. 

Scully sighed.  "Mulder."  He could almost hear her shaking her head.  "If
you just would have called Kersh and asked for a few days off before you
headed out here ...." 

"Yeah, you're probably right," he said grimly, deliberately
misinterpreting her statement.  "You probably would have been better off
if I'd just stayed away." 

"That's not what I meant," she said quietly.  "And you know it."  After a
moment she went on, "Look, I've just got a few loose ends to tie up, and
then I'm done for the day.  And I have to type up my notes from today, but
that can wait.  Why don't you and I go grab something to eat?" 

"I'm afraid Agent Mulder won't be able to make it."  Mulder closed his
eyes in despair at hearing Agent Conyers' voice coming from the direction
of the doorway, followed immediately by the sound of heavy footsteps
approaching.  A second or two later, a new pile of folders was deposited
on the desk in front of him. 

"As you seem to have discovered, Agent Mulder," the SAC went on, "the
teams have started returning from the field for the day.  These are the
notes of those who have checked in so far.  I'll expect to find them typed
and on my desk when I come in tomorrow.  Oh six hundred." 

"But those are clerical duties!"  That was Scully objecting, and Mulder
clenched his fists, willing her to just shut up and stay out of it.  He'd
already tangled with Conyers several times today, and had learned the hard
way that pushing the man only made him worse.  But she was still talking: 
"You can't possibly --" 

"Agent Scully!"  Conyers' voice was sharp and peremptory.  "I appreciate
your concern for your ... partner's professional perquisites.  However, in
this instance I have deemed it desirable to have the transcriptions
prepared by an experienced field agent.  Fortunately, Agent Mulder has
been made available to the task force by Assistant Director Kersh."

"But --" 

"Just leave it, Scully," Mulder said sharply.  "it's not worth it, and
nothing you can say or do is going to change anything." 

"Mulder, I --" 

"I said leave it!" he snapped.  "Just ... get the hell out, Scully, and
leave me alone.  I've got work to do."  He grimly turned his attention
back to the open file in front of him, and made a show of trying to
concentrate. 

"That sounds like excellent advice, Agent Scully."  Mulder could hear the
smirk in Agent Conyers' voice.  "I suggest you take it." 

There was yet another period of silence, broken only by the rustling of
paper as Mulder idly turned the pages of the file he was supposed to be
reviewing.  At last, Scully spoke, very softly.  "Mulder?  Are you sure
that's what you want?  Could I at least bring you something to eat?" 

"No," he said curtly.  He knew he was hurting her by his behavior, and
deep inside it was tearing him up, but he just couldn't face her right
now, and he couldn't seem to find any other way to get her to leave. 

"Okay."  Pause.  "I guess I'll see you later, then."  He heard her start
to walk towards the door and in another moment she was gone. 

After awhile, Conyers left, too. 

==========END CHAPTER FOURTEEN==========