Disclaimer: They belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, and the
disgustingly talented actors who portray them, not me

Thanks: To my good friend Robin for the beta, even through
her PC troubles. And Circe for housing my fic at her lovely
site: http://tlynn.invidiosa.com

Author's notes: at end

* * *

The anger coursed through his veins. It propelled him
forward, lifted each foot and pumped each knee with
remarkable ease. He'd always enjoyed running, the solitude
of it, the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement in a
rhythmic beat, the opportunity to observe the world around
him at his own leisure. Tonight was different, the sounds
and sights around him blurring from recognition, any sense
of solitude bitterly invaded by an assault of mental
images, imagined scenarios and endless questions.

<Was it her idea? Or did he have to convince her? Did she
lie down during the process? Or sit up? Afterward, at his
apartment, did he look at it? Did she turn around and lift
her shirt so he could examine it? Did he touch her then? Or
was it later?>

He couldn't escape, no matter how fast he ran.

He'd read her report, but, of course, such details were
nowhere to be found within its pages. He'd read that she'd
met Ed Jerse in the tattoo parlor and that he'd given her
his card. He read that he took her back to the same parlor
for her own pursuit and that she'd taken him home after.
Then he read that she'd stayed the night and opened his
door to police officers the following morning. Details were
missing, he felt. The absence of explanation screamed out
at him from the pages, its cries irrepressible amidst the
concise completeness of her account.

He abruptly stopped his strides and pulled over from the
sidewalk to an illuminated streetlamp. His chest heaved
with labored gasps, each exhalation as acute as the
inhalation preceding it. He leaned over, placing his hands
on his knees for support, and he bent his head down until
he could catch his breath. Each muscle in his body twitched
from overexertion, the sensation almost unnatural despite
knowledge of the contrary.

He'd seen the pictures, too. He'd seen Ed Jerse's face,
seen the man who'd slammed his partner's head against a
wall, knocking her unconscious. He'd seen the disquiet look
in his eyes, the restlessness that still brewed despite his
"removal" of the source. He'd seen a picture of her as
well, of the permanent reminder of all that had transpired;
the ourobus, simultaneously self-sustaining and self-
destructive, was a stark contrast against her body and was
still healing on the expanse of her skin.

<Why? What led her to her decision? Was it Jerse? What was
it that attracted her to it? To him? Did he know how out of
character it was for her? Why that spot on her body? Was it
a conscious decision to purposefully place it there so she
couldn't easily see it? Was the tattoo itself merely an
impulse or one spurred by the apparently intoxicating
presence of an interested stranger? Did it hurt? Did she
enjoy the pain?>

He wanted more than pictures. He needed more. He needed to
see it on her for himself. He'd hoped for the chance while
she was in the hospital, but found he couldn't progress
past mere pleasantries and assurances when he saw her. He
couldn't help the sarcasm that spewed from his mouth this
morning either. The quiet demeanor she'd presented
throughout spoke volumes of her embarrassment and he took
advantage of it to make sure she knew just how upset he
was; he knew he was being as asshole, but words leapt from
his mouth before he had a chance to think about them. He
was anticipating an apology of some sort when she finally
spoke, an explanation to assuage any confusion he had about
her actions.

'Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life.'

The words hit him square in the chest. She wouldn't be
letting him win this round. 'Yes, but it's m...' he'd tried
to say. But the words that so freely flowed just seconds
before vanished as her eyes questioned him. It was battle
he had no right to enter in to, let alone a chance of
winning. But neither seemed able to let it go and they'd
spent the remainder of the day steeped in uncomfortable
silences. More than once she'd been turned away from him as
she pushed papers and he couldn't help but let his eyes
drift to the spot on her lower back where, beneath layers
of wool and silk, he'd read the tattoo had been placed.

He needed to see it.

He glanced at his watch and quickly jogged back home.

* * *

Sheets tangled at her feet, she felt herself float in and
out of sleep.

She blinked rapidly, tongue darting out to taste the salty
condensation that had gathered in the indentation of her
upper lip. The pads of her fingertips registered the body
hovering over her as they raked up and down in opposite
time with its movements. But images were hazy, as if
through a thick fog, blurring details and, in turn,
amplifying sound; she heard deep breaths alternating with
restrained cries and recognized them as her own. It was all
so familiar. The realization washed over her slowly, as her
hand lifted to rest atop the dark head that rocked back and
forth next to her. She knew she was dreaming, knew she
didn't want to be dreaming about this, but the sensations
were real enough to keep her where she was. She felt the
burn of a new tattoo as her body rasped against the sheets.
She tightened her grip, grabbing a fistful of hair between
her fingers as his movements increased; she was close, so
close. He jerked his head up at the force and her eyes
met...

'Mulder...' she breathed.

She startled awake, her pulse racing and her brow sweating.
She sat up slowly, slightly disoriented, and pushed her
hair back from her face, flinching as her fingers brushed
over the bruise on her forehead. Her head ached.

She pulled the covers back and reached for the robe she'd
left at the foot of the bed, pulling it on as her feet hit
the floor. The essence of the dream lingered and she shook
her head in an effort to rid herself of it. Resolutely
ignored was the dull throb centered deep between her legs
as she stood and walked out of the room.

The dreams about him weren't new, despite the lengths she
took to push him out of her mind, but to have a scenario
based in reality, one she could slip him into without any
effort was intense, more so than she would have realized.
She couldn't escape him, even in sleep. He'd looked so smug
that morning, his eyes again telling her exactly how
careless he felt she'd been. She hated the sense of relief
she felt despite it, though, preferring it to his near
refusal to meet her eyes in the hospital the night before.
Bad attention was better than no attention, wasn't it? She
chided herself for her weakness and resented him for it.

She'd taken a step out of line, the one she had drawn
herself or the one he had drawn for her, she didn't know
anymore, and found herself in a state of uncertainty. She'd
steeped herself in the recklessness and let her adrenaline
guide her along the way, surprising even herself at the
lengths she'd go to prove her life was her own. If nothing
else, the attention she didn't know she craved so severely
was worth the final outcome. It invigorated her, even if it
wasn't from the source she longed for, and reminded her of
her options. She would be damned if he was going to take
that away from her no matter how indignant he felt he had
the right to be.

She had just passed the threshold of the kitchen, flipped
the light on and allowed her eyes to adjust to the sudden
brightness, when the knock sounded. She furrowed her brow
and tightened her robe as she carefully walked over to the
door. Irrational as it was, the brief image of her would-
be-killer standing in her hallway flashed through her mind
and a small panic rose inside, only to be quickly, and
gratefully, dampened with a look through the peephole.

"Mulder, what are you doing here?" she asked as she opened
the door.

"Can I come in?" he responded.

She opened the door further in an invitation and he brushed
past her into the living room and watched her as she closed
the door behind him.

"It's late."

"You're awake," he remarked. "It can't be too late."

"If you're here about that case in Arlington, I told you
I'd--"

"How's your head?" he interrupted.

"It hurts," she sighed. "And I'm tired, Mulder. So again,
what are you doing here?"

"How's your back?" he asked then, gaze intent on her.

The area of skin emblazoned with her tattoo tingled at his
words as if it had been listening and waiting for the
acknowledgment, then a phantom burn mimicking that which
she felt in her dream as he stroked in and out of her.

"It's fine."

The blush was slight, but unmistakable on her cheeks.

* * *

He saw her flush.

<Was his mouth rough upon hers? Was she completely nude?
Did his hands touch her breasts? Did he call her Dana? Did
he make her come?>

He couldn't ask those questions. He didn't think he could
hear the answers if he did. He could imagine himself
covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut as she said
'yes' to all of them. He suddenly felt supremely possessive
of her.

"Can I see it?"

Silence. He watched the wheels turn in her head, trying to
figure out his motive, her eyes never breaking from his.
She seemed as eager to oblige as to throw him out of
her apartment. Several long beats passed before finally,
almost hesitantly, she turned until her back faced him.

She took her robe off first, dropping it to the floor, the
light creeping in from the kitchen casting long shadows
around her as she moved. His eyes darted to watch her hands
reach around to the hem of her silk pajama top and
carefully bunch the smooth material in her fingers. She
held it there for a moment.

"It's still healing, of course," she said.

"Of course," he agreed.

Slowly she lifted her hands up her back, taking the shirt
with them and revealed herself.

* * *

She shivered. Perhaps it was because of the cool air
against her bare skin. Or perhaps because of his
unexpectedly close proximity. He was just behind her now,
his voice a low rumble in her ear.

"May I?" he asked.

She nodded.

He crouched down until eye level with the small of her
back. She felt his scrutiny of her marked flesh and
remembered the last time she'd been in this position, just
a few years ago, years that now felt like a lifetime ago.
Her fear then had been of unknown abductions and the
fantastic theories behind them. The scenario may have
changed, but her fear was just as palpable now.

He crowded her as best he could from his position. She felt
soft puffs of his breath whispering against her, warming
her skin. She startled as he placed a finger against her,
just above the snake's head and traced a circle around the
perimeter of the design. His touch was light against her,
tickling her receptors and causing each hair on her body to
stand on end. She shuddered again.

"It's beautiful," he said, his voice low, but firm.

She heard the rustle of him rising again, her senses both
grateful and mournful of his withdrawal. She released her
shirt and let it glide back down to spill over the curve of
her hip before turning to him again. His eyes were dark,
but not threatening, and the question she'd seen in them
earlier that day was gone, something resembling curiosity
there now.

"Did it hurt?" he asked.

"A little."

"Do you regret it?"

She considered the question, for her its meaning rife with
layers she had no intention of delving into anytime soon.
She wouldn't let herself contemplate the possibility it had
just as much significance for him.

"No."

He challenged her for a moment, his eyes boring into her,
before nodding his acceptance. She didn't move to follow
him as he walked to the door and opened it to leave.

"See you in the morning?" he asked, one last glance thrown
her way.

"It is morning," she reminded him. "12:30 in the morning to
be exact."

"So it is," he said, one corner of his mouth lifted for a
crooked grin, softening his face. "See you later today
then?"

The man was infectious. She smiled softly and nodded.

"See you later, yes."

Relief was shared as they each retreated back their
neighboring comfort zones, self-sustaining and self-
destroying, unable, for now, to break through and meet
halfway.

"Good," he said and stepped out into the hallway.
"Goodnight, Scully." He pulled the door to a close.

"Goodnight, Mulder."

* * *
end

Notes: Dana Scully and Ed Jerse: did they or didn't they? I
like to think they did, obviously, despite being the devout
'shipper that I am. I secretly delighted in seeing the
struggle between she and Mulder in that final scene,
especially with the events to come, events that would have
made it all insignificant, forgettable even, were it not
for the tattoo. Ah, that tattoo. The act itself perhaps
wasn't what we would have expected from our favorite female
agent, but I think her choice of design spoke volumes.

"De novo" is Latin for "anew".