XxXxX

Exhausted, Scully left the labs at Quantico eight hours 
later, with more questions than she had answers.  The crystal 
chill of the night air woke her up a bit as she walked across 
the parking lot, but the heft of her briefcase, loaded with 
thick new files, still weighed her down.  

"Some expert," she muttered, slamming the car door shut 
behind her.  The discolored neurons in Elizabeth Kinney's 
brain were as foreign to her as they had been to Beasley's 
team.  She leaned her head back and sighed.  It had taken six 
years, but she'd finally realized that her knowledge alone 
was never going to be enough; her science needed his 
hypotheses.  She picked up the phone.

"Mulder," he said a minute later.

"Mulder, it's me."

"Scully, hey.  Are you still over at Quantico?  How's it 
going?"

"We're done for now, but Beasley was right that there is an 
odd discoloration on parts of Elizabeth Kinney's visual 
cortex.  It could be evidence of an old injury, I suppose, or 
a viral infection, but we didn't find any evidence of this in 
her medical records."

"Why don't you bring what you have over here?  We can take a 
look at it."

She glanced at her dashboard clock.  "It's late, Mulder."

"Come over," he urged.  "I...I have something I want to talk 
to you about, too."

She took a deep breath and made up her mind.  "Okay, fine.  
But I'm going to need food."

"It will be here before you will," he promised, and she hung 
up the phone.  

She leaned forward, about to turn the key in the ignition, 
when she noticed her glove box was not closed properly.  
Twisting around, she scanned her car for anything else out of 
place.  Nothing.  She hesitated a moment longer, then shut 
the door on the glove box so it latched.  

By the time she reached Mulder's apartment building, she had 
forgotten the incident entirely.

His hallway smelled like disinfectant, but even the dim light 
couldn't disguise the fact that it never looked any cleaner.  
There was a draft coming through the vents, and Scully 
shivered as she knocked.  Mulder opened the door an instant 
later, his dark figure surrounded by buttery light and 
warmth.  "Hey," he said as he took her elbow and drew her 
inside.

"It's freezing out there," she said, shedding her coat and 
slipping off her high heels.  She flexed her sore toes.  "How 
can it be this cold so early in November?"

"Have some tea," he suggested.  "It'll warm you up."

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a mug of 
green tea.  She wrapped her hands around it and sniffed 
experimentally.  He was still standing by her side, watching, 
so she took a small sip.  She didn't have the heart to tell 
him she had OD'd on green tea during her battle with cancer; 
it had been one of the few things she could keep down at the 
time, and just the scent of it called up memories of nausea 
and a thousand red hot needles pressing behind her eyes.

"Better?" he asked as she swallowed another taste.  The cup 
burned against her palms, which were raw from the dry air and 
repeated washings, but she clutched it tighter.  

"Yes, thank you."

"Good.  Let's eat first, okay?  I got Chinese."

They sat on his couch, facing one another with plates of 
spicy chicken and tofu on their laps.  Beside them, his 
coffee table was a collage of shoe pictures, dozens of 
dazzling high heels, and she recognized some of them as those 
believed to belong to the murdered women.  Her gaze slid from 
the array of shiny photos over to her own shoes sitting 
neatly under her coat.  "It's the shoes that do it for him, 
isn't it," she said.

"Yes," he said without hesitation.  "At the root of this 
guy's psychosis is a garden variety shoe fetish.  Last time 
we tried to get to him that way, chasing down leads in sex 
shops, shoe stores, that sort of thing.  Nothing panned out."  
He popped another bite in his mouth.  "You wouldn't believe 
how many people out there are into shoes, and I mean *really* 
into shoes."

Scully picked up one photo, a close-up of a navy pump covered 
in sequined flowers.  The tag at the bottom said it had 
belonged to Jessica Gellar.  "The shoe fetish is quite 
common," she said.  "The theory is that it's because our 
brains are wired so that that sensory processing from the 
feet is right next to the processing for the genitals.  In 
some people, the two regions may actually overlap."

"And the shopping region?" he asked.  "Do women have that one 
right next to the shoe neurons, too?"

She frowned.  "Mulder."

"Scully."  He mimicked her tone, but he was smiling.  "Have 
you looked in your closet lately?"

She considered her four racks of shoes and finally smiled, 
too.  "Okay, you have a point.  I like shoes."

"Why?" he asked, looking genuinely curious.  He cleared his 
throat.  "Is it...is it what you said about..."

"No!" she answered in a rush.  "No, that's not it."

"Then what?"

She thought a moment, glancing over at her shoes again.  She 
took in their delicate slope down to the toes, their solid 
heels, the way the light gleamed off the soft leather.  "They 
have such personality," she said at last, turning back 
towards Mulder.  He didn't look at her like she was crazy, so 
she continued.  "They make me feel stronger, in a way, like I 
take up more space in the world."

He smiled.  "In those shoes, Scully, you certainly do."

"It's not just the height," she said.  "That matters, yes, 
but it's the sound, too.  The rhythm goes all the way through 
me -- I feel it, I hear it.  It's like an extension of what's 
inside me."  She broke off and shook her head.  "I'm afraid 
I'm not explaining this very well."

He extended his leg until he touched her stocking-clad foot 
with his toes.  "No, I get it."

She pressed back with her toes and smiled at him.  "Plus, 
they look cool."

"No argument here."

Their dinner over, she put aside her plate and shifted so her 
feet were on the ground.  She saw he had several pages of 
notes to go along with the shoe pictures, but the handwriting 
was cramped and awkward.  Concerned, she studied his face for 
signs of fatigue.   There were lines around his eyes.  
"Mulder, are you doing okay?  We can always talk about this 
tomorrow."

He shook his head, moving so that his position mirrored her 
own.  "No, I'm all right.  It's been easier than I expected 
actually."  He paused.  "The only strange thing is that I'm 
still getting these weird sensations in my right hand."  He 
held it out for demonstration.  "It's like someone has an 
electric razor buzzing under my skin."

She took his hand in hers, holding tight.  "Is it doing it 
now?"

"No."

"Squeeze," she said, and his fingers curled around her palm.  
She released him and held up one finger.  "Can you touch my 
fingertip with yours?  Good, how about now?  And over here?"

"Give it to me straight, Doc," he said after a few rounds.  
"How long have I got?"

"Not funny." She refused to meet his eyes.

"Scully," he said, demonstrating excellent dexterity as he 
captured her fretful hands in his.  He leaned over so that 
their foreheads touched.  "I'm okay.  I promise."

She forced herself to nod.  "But you weren't," she whispered.  
He didn't remember being on that cold table in the DOD, 
didn't even remember his rescue.  She had to live with those 
images alone.

"I know," he murmured near her ear.  "I know."

After another minute, she pulled away, breaking contact, and 
they both sat back.  "So," she said, "what did you find out 
from Elizabeth's friends?"

"Nothing that really stands out as a lead right now," he 
admitted.  "Except for one thing -- Richard Arkin knew her.  
She interviewed him for the school paper a couple of months 
ago."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope.  His sister is a student there."

"Then what the hell is he doing on this case?"

Mulder shrugged.  "He said he was okay with it, that their 
contact was brief and that he didn't know anything that would 
be important to the case."

"Strange that he wouldn't mention it before."

"Yeah, he agrees that was a mistake."  He reached under the 
table and pulled out a book.  "We also found this among 
Beth's things.  It contains the photograph found on her body.  
Could be a coincidence -- she bought this book for a class 
last year -- but the fact that she'd actually marked the 
pages seemed strange to me."

"Who's Irene?" Scully asked, looking at the section on 
Tanzini's photos.

"Don't know yet.  I've got Arkin working on that one." He 
paused.  "We ran into Tanzini on the campus."

"You what?"

"He was hanging around the dorm, probably after another 
prize.  I told him to get lost."

She eyed him.  "With words, I hope."

He grinned.  "I was a good boy, don't worry."

Scully closed the book with a sigh and reached for her 
briefcase.  "I just wish Vee could have been more help."

"Well, there's the mask information we didn't have before.  
That's something."  He shook his head.  "A homicidal maniac 
in a Richard Nixon get-up.  Only in DC."

"Here's what we found in the autopsy," she said, handing him 
a folder.  "The top ones are coronal sections of her brain, 
near the back.  Occipital cortex."

"Vision stuff, right?" he asked as he scanned them.

"Yes, and these are the original samples.  They have not been 
stained with anything."

"Then what are these purplish lines, here?"

"I don't know," she replied.  "I've never seen anything like 
it before.  The cells aren't decayed, just discolored.  Her 
blood and other tissue samples came back normal."

"Huh," Mulder said, holding one of the photos closer to the 
light.  "Looks like a long, curved line here...a circle here.  
Any sort of pattern that you saw?"

"None we could decipher."  She looked at him hopefully.  "Any 
theories?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but not at this time.  I can check 
the computer and let you know."

She let out a long breath and leaned back against the couch.  
"Okay, your turn.  What did you want to talk about?"

He set down her folder and took his place next to her.  "This 
guy is good, Scully.  He's the best I've ever seen.  We can 
wait around for him to make a mistake, but who knows how many 
girls could die before that happens?"

"I agree.  But what choice to we have?"

"I've been thinking.  How did he get so good?  How did he 
just show up here twelve years ago and start killing people 
in such a way that the entire DC police force and the FBI 
couldn't catch *one* break on the case?  The answer is 
practice.  Kerri Ann Talbot can't have been the first person 
he murdered.  He was already skilled by then."

"You think there are others."

"I know there are," he said, excited now.  "And that has to 
be the way to nail him.  Find the first victims, back when he 
was just learning and still sloppy.  It's the one thing we 
didn't try eleven years ago.  These days, information systems 
among local PDs are much more integrated.  We can have them 
comb their old files for any murders that might fit this 
guy's general MO."

"Not a bad idea," she agreed.

"Glad you approve," he answered.  "Because if I get a hit, 
I'll need someone to come with me."

"Of course."  She yawned and propped her feet up on his 
table, knowing it was time to go home but unwilling to move.  
Her shoes waited for her by the door.

"Here, feel," he said suddenly, placing a hand on her belly.  
"It's doing it now."

She froze under his touch, not even breathing.  His palm 
print melted through her blouse onto her skin, and he began a 
slow sweep of his thumb, catching one of the delicate buttons 
on each rhythmic pass. 

"Feel that?" he murmured.

Her mouth went dry.  "I...yes."

"Tingles," he said, as if she weren't already buzzing from 
head to toe.  Heat curled up the back of her neck, making her 
ears burn.  

"Mulder..."

"What?"  The button popped free under his rubbing, and his 
thumb slid under the loose cloth.  She felt every ridge of 
his fingertip as it teased the skin above her bellybutton.  

"I need to go."  Another button broke free, and he began 
stroking her with all fingers, his golden skin half-hidden by 
the white edges of her blouse. 

 Does it still count if you keep your clothes on? she 
wondered.  

"Stay," he coaxed, his breathing warm and heavy near her ear.  
She could feel his exhales on her neck.

"I can't."  She placed her hand over his but didn't still his 
movements.  After another second, he stopped and tangled his 
fingers with hers.  She turned her head to look at him, to 
make sure he wasn't taking her no as a rejection, and found 
him dark-eyed and hungry.  His hair stood on end near the 
scar at his left temple, which combined with the heat and 
power of his rigid muscles as he held himself in check, made 
him look slightly dangerous.  She had never seen him quite 
this way, and he sight both thrilled and terrified her.

This was not Mulder, her friend.

Not her partner, Mulder.

This was a Mulder she didn't know yet.

He squeezed her hand, where it rested with his on her 
stomach.  "You should know by now, Scully, that I have 
possibly the world's worst timing."

"No, it's not you.  Mulder..."

"What?"  He had relaxed back into his familiar self, but her 
heart was still quivering inside her chest.

"Things are different for me now," she murmured.  "After 
Africa, after you being gone like that.  It's like you said 
in your dream -- the world is turned upside down."

He nodded slowly.  "Except for me," he said with a smile.  
"I'm still here."

She cupped his cheek and smiled back.  "Exactly."

"Scully, I hope you know," he said, ducking his head, "that's 
not going to change.  I mean, no matter what."

"I know."

He nodded again, then used their joined hands to pull her 
with him as he stood.  She refastened her blouse and gathered 
her things.  At the door, he watched her slip on her shoes.  
"Those have one distinct advantage I don't think you've 
considered," he said as they lingered by the door.

"Yeah?" she asked.  "What's that?"

"They make you the perfect height to do this."  He leaned 
down and kissed her gently, just long enough for her to feel 
the soft pressure of his lips and his heat against her face.  
Before she could kiss him back, he was busy opening the door.

"Night, Scully," he said, looking awfully pleased with 
himself.

She stood dumb-struck another moment before collecting her 
swirling senses.  She paused in front of him on her way out 
the door.  "Good night, Mulder," she murmured, and pecked him 
on the corner of his cheeky grin.  

His eyes widened as she pulled away.  "You're right," she 
agreed.  "The perfect height."

And she maintained her cheeky grin all the way to the car.

XxXxX

It was possibly the most risky thing he'd ever done, entering 
her home.  His heart was beating so fast that the beats ran 
together, and he could feel the hot rush of blood in his 
face.  In the closet, the smell of her perfume lingered on 
her clothes.  His shoulder brushed the plastic of a dry-
cleaning bag as he climbed inside the cramped space.  With 
shaking fingers, he turned on the light.

And gasped.

Four rows of shoes, in perfect alignment.  He got hard at 
just the sight of them.

She is the perfect one, he thought, the one to show them all.  
Surely Russell, Grenier and Mulder would come back to find 
the man who killed a pretty FBI agent.  

He selected a black, open-toed sandal and rubbed it against 
his cheek.  

His mind made up, he began going through the rest of her 
things in an effort to know the best way to grab her.  Not in 
her home.  Never there.  He expected her to scream and there 
was no way the neighbors wouldn't hear.

Carl pulled down a box from the shelf and pawed through the 
papers inside.  Some letters, cards.  Wait.  

A picture.

She was outside, wearing an FBI jacket and talking to...

He couldn't believe it.

Mulder.

Shit.  He trembled so much he nearly dropped the box.  It was 
almost too good to be true.  Planning, he thought, it would 
take more planning.  He kept the picture but shoved the box 
back up on its shelf.  On his way out, he stopped, hesitated; 
he took the sandals, too.

XxXxX

End Chapter Five.  Continued in chapter six.

Beta thanks:  Alanna and Alicia, for grace under pressure and 
not laughing at my own version of sickfic. <G>  To Jerry for 
picking up all kinds of slips.  And thank you to Diana, for 
just-for-the-hell-of-it beta.  Arkin thanks you, too. ;-)

Feedback: yes, please!   Comments help me shape the story.  I 
would love to hear from you at syn_tax6@yahoo.com