Home/QuickSearch :: Advanced Search :: Submissions :: Email Lists :: Gallery :: Contact

TITLE: "The Road Not Taken 5: Storm"
AUTHOR: deejay
CLASSIFICATION: T, R/A (Adventure, Romance/Angst)
RATING: NC-17, for sexual situations and adult language. This is an election year, so if reading this stuff will get you (or me) arrested or put on a political ad, go somewhere else. Also, if you're under 18, you probably shouldn't be reading this, either, so go do something healthy, like lurk in an AOL chatroom, or applying for a White House internship.:)
KEYWORDS: Slash story, Scully/Other.
SPOILERS: "War Of The Copraphages", "3"
SUMMARY: The fifth chapter in "The Road Not Taken" series. The shooting that brought Scully and Max together becomes part of an X File when it is linked to five Domestic murders. Mulder & Scully join forces with Max and her new partner, Mickey Kreutzmann, to find the key to this mystery, and Scully meets a new enemy that is determined to bring her down for her role in the demise of Special Agent Gordon Beauchamp.
TIMELINE: Pre-diagnosis Season 4. Takes place the second week of November 1996.
ARCHIVE: Submitted to Gossamer and xff. If you're at the controls of xff, PLEASE post to atxc. This story will be part of a trilogy submission to the Annex, probably sometime around the turn of the century. (Hang in there, 'tasha!<g>). All others, please ask me first, unless I submit it to you. If either case happens, please use only my _penname_.
FEEDBACK: Questions, comments, flames and fanmail to drjohn@wizvax.net. This story is open for discussion on atxc.
Dana Scully (and any Scullys that happen to get mentioned), Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Tom Colton, Bambi Berenbaum, Dr. Ivanov, and the poster boy for Black Lung Disease belong to Chris Carter, 10-13 Productions, and FoxTV. They aren't mine; if they were, it'd be _me_ going to conventions and making snide comments about fanfic. (Well, MSR fanfic, anyway...<g>) Rebecca Maxfield, Mickey Kreutzmann, Aaron Weeks, Merrill "The Bear" Reese, and all other characters in this story belong to Night Tripper Productions and the author, who _is_ me. If you steal these characters and you own a horse, better leave room for its head when you go to bed at night. Any resemblance to real-life people, in this world or the next one, is a complete surprise to me.
The following music has also been excerpted without permission (Remember, guys, I'm doing this for free, so suing me will get you nothing but bad publicity. I'm trying to give you good publicity, so cool your jets, 'kay?):
* Chris Isaak is a great songwriter and a pretty damn good guitar player, but all everyone remembers him for is the black-and-white video with the topless girl that Calvin Klein has been ripping off for its print ads. Don't follow fashion, and go get _San Francisco Days_, the title track of which is excerpted here.
* Speaking of guitar players, you can lay all the modern-day guitar gods end-to-end, and they _still_ won't be better than Jimi Hendrix! He wrote stunning music of his own, and took other people's music and made it better. "Crosstown Traffic" doesn't get played a lot, even on Classic Rock stations... which is too bad, because you don't hear kazoo much in rock music these days...
* You can argue about which period was the Beatles' best, and you'd probably be right, whichever age you pick. They're all so different, and all so good. "If I Fell" comes from the early years. I first heard it when I saw _A Hard Day's Night_, which has stayed on my Top 10 Films list for over twenty-five years. If you've never seen the movie, rent it and see where MTV got its inspiration.
Well, it took four stories and about 160 pages, but I _finally_ got around to doing a case story! Frankly, I'd been avoiding it, because I was more interested in the relationship aspects of Scully's life -- her developing romance with Max, her friendship with Mulder, and her interaction with Skinner, which has all the angst you can deadlift. Her relationship with her family will be one of the things I'll touch on in TRNT6. For now, here's a little idea I cooked up a year ago that was part of the original concept for TRNT. You'll excuse me if I close my eyes and cross my fingers while you read this. There are people who can write great case stories at the drop of a hat, and this is my first attempt, so we're breaking new ground again.
Oh, and for all the Shippers in the house? Go find an archive of stories about The Kiss In The Hall, because the pain continues. Sorry about that.
This one goes out to Saundra Mitchell -- my friend, collaborator, accidental beta reader, and fellow traveler in the Slash/NoRoMo Conspiracy. She makes my writing better because she's a hell of a writer herself, and she makes me laugh at least once a day. Rock on, girlfriend! You're the best... and all the _best_ people know it!:)
As usual, I've gone on long enough. So, as Mills Lane used to say before he moved on to People's Court Lite, or whatever his show's called... LET'S GET IT ON!

--------

"THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 5: STORM"
by deejay

<<TUESDAY MORNING>>

Mickey Kreutzmann stuck his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I'm getting bored, Leon."

Leon looked at the far end of Interrogation Room 2, arms folded, a large mass at rest. "Gee," he rumbled disinterestedly. "And I thought it was just me."

Mickey turned it up a notch. "You're right, Leon, it _is_ just you. _I'm_ getting bored because _you_ aren't helping this situation..."

"How many ways do you want me to say it," Leon said tiredly, massaging his forehead with a big beefy hand. "I did not kill Joey. I do not _know_ who killed Joey. And even if I _wanted_ to kill Joey, I was in Miami watching the Pats get their asses kicked when he got waxed. You want me to do it in Italian now?"

Mickey leaned forward. "You can do it in Flemmish, for all I care, Leon. Crap in any other language still smells like crap. You don't know _anything_ about this? You were Joey's best friend, Leon! Everybody we talked to said so! Wherever _you_ were, _he_ was! Wherever _he_ was, _you_ were..."

Leon paused his scalp massage; his hand stayed on his head and his eyes stayed closed. "And that makes us bosom buddies?"

Mickey spread his arms out. "Okay, how would _you_ describe it?"

Leon brought his hand off his forehead, holding the hand out like a traffic cop stopping an oncoming car. He opened his mouth, paused, and said, "You ever watch Cartoon Network?"

"Usually I just surf the home shopping channels," Mickey said dryly.

"I've seen it." Max leaned against the wall of Interview 2, hands in her pockets. She hadn't moved from that position since the interrogation started. She'd let Mickey take the lead, for his own professional growth, as well as for her own reasons. She hadn't had to save him or re-direct things once.

"Okay." Leon talked with his hands, which were large and scarred. "There's this pissed-off lookin' bulldog marchin' down the street, wearin' a torn-up sweater and a derby. This little white dog's runnin' alongside him, jumpin' over him, bouncin' in front'a him, talkin' a mile a minute like he just did a couple lines'a really good blow. And he's goin'..." His voice jumped half an octave and his eyes went wide. "'Whatta ya wanna do today, Spike? Whatta ya wanna do? You wanna dig fer bones, Spike? That'd be fun, wouldn't it? How 'bout we go chase cars? That'd be fun, wouldn't it, Spike? Huh? Huh? Huh?'" Leon put his arms on the table, reverting to his original rock-like demeanor. "Joey was the little white dog. Twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five."

"So he was annoying," Mickey snorted. "That's a reason for offing him?"

"I dunno, Mickey," Max said, almost approaching sympathy. "I know _I_ might think about getting my gun if _you_ were that much of a pain in the ass."

Leon gave Max a withering look. "Yeah, right. Joey annoyed me so much, I developed the power to be in two places at once so I could kill him _and_ watch Dan Marino carve the Pats' secondary like Thanksgiving turkey. Whatever you're paying the guy who writes your jokes, you're gettin' robbed."

Mickey made a helpless gesture. "Leon, all we've got is your word and a ticket stub. Two days since the game. You could have gotten that stub from anywhere."

Leon smirked. "How 'bout a _plane_ ticket stub? Delta Airlines, First Class, round trip from Boston to Miami. No, I don't remember the flight numbers. Ticket's in my other suit if you wanna check."

"Count on it," Mickey shot back.

"Why'd you fly commercial, Mickey," Max asked. "Tommy C's Gulfstream break a rubber band, or something?"

"Mister Cellini doesn't let the help borrow his baby," Leon said derisively. "An' even if he did, we couldn't have used it anyway. He's been down in Cozumel since Thursday, catchin' marlin and soakin' up sun."

"He must think a lot of you guys," Max observed. "Giving you First Class tickets and all."

"He gave _nobody_ First Class. Winston'n'me, the seats in Tourist don't match up with our dainty little bodies. We upgraded to First, paid the difference ourselves."

"What kind of plastic you put it on," Mickey asked sharply.

Leon shook his head. "Don't carry plastic. Too many ways it can get fucked up. I paid cash. So did Winston."

"Receipt?"

Leon shrugged. "Girl behind the counter was swamped. I gave her a break an' didn't ask for one. 'Sides, what am I gonna do, deduct the trip as a business expense?"

Max pushed herself off the wall and walked toward the desk where Mickey and Leon sat. Max thought they looked like a Before and After picture, because they both wore the same color scheme: All Black, right down to the shirts and ties. She knew it was a signature with Mickey, but with Leon, it had to be a vain attempt to look slim. Max mentally shook her head. *That's like putting vertical stripes on Government Center.* "Okay, Leon, you sold us. You didn't kill Joey, and you don't know who did..."

"_Finally_," Leon said, putting his hands on the armrests to push himself out of the chair.

Max held up a hand. "But maybe you can still help us out here." Leon froze in mid-rise, sighed, and sat back down as Max went on. "I mean, you gotta have some insight into _why_ Joey got it..."

Leon gave Max a hooded stare. "I don't get paid for my insight."

"That doesn't stop you from thinking," Max said evenly, sitting on the edge of the desk. "Maybe some other crew's trying to send Tommy C a message..."

Leon made a sound that might have been laughter. "Anyone tries to give Mister Cellini a message, it gets stamped 'Return To Sender'. Hard." He shook his head. "Ain't nobody sendin' us nuthin'."

"Okay, so it's not professional," Mickey chimed in, picking up Max' thread. "How about personal? Joey piss anybody off lately? He have a beef with anyone...?"

Exasperated, Leon barked, "Joey had a beef with the _world_! With his old lady, with his girlfriend, with the mailman, with the bartender who Joey thought was short-pouring him, with any chick on the street who blew him off when he thought he was bein' charming! Joey had a hard-on for anyone who he thought was giving him shit!" He shrugged again. "Maybe he stuck it someplace he wasn't supposed to, and got it handed to him!"

Mickey looked up at Max, who was still looking down at Leon. "Interesting choice of words."

The door flew open, banging against the wall and startling both detectives. Max turned to see three men standing in the doorway. One was their commander, Aaron Weeks, and he didn't look happy. The second was Grant Mullin, a Middlesex County Assistant DA Max knew only by reputation. The third was Andy Funigello, the hard-charging commander of the Organized Crime Unit. *Fuck!*

Funigello wasted no time with niceties. "Out," he said peremptorily, striding to the middle of Interview 2.

Mickey turned round in his chair, a disbelieving look on his face. "Say again?"

"You heard me," the slick-haired Gangbuster said, making a gesture like an umpire calling Mo Vaughan out at the plate. "Everybody out of the pool. This interview is over."

Max' blood was boiling. "Now wait just a fucking..."

Weeks interposed himself between Max and Funigello. "We'll discuss this outside, Detectives. Pack it up." Max & Mickey started to speak at once. The lean, graying mixed-race man cut their objections off with a razor-sharp look. "Now."

Leon wasn't smiling, but the look in his eyes broadcast pure merriment. He started to get up again. "Look, if you girls wanna talk amongst yourselves..."

Funigello stabbed a finger at Leon. "Sit," he snapped. "We'll get to _you_ in a minute!" Leon gave him a look that would have turned lesser men to stone before he eased himself back down into the chair. Funigello turned to Max & Mickey and pointed towards the door. "You heard the man."

The looks Max & Mickey gave him were anything but neutral. They passed a glance between themselves and then stormed out the door, Mickey grabbing up the case file before he got up.

As soon as the door closed behind them all, Mullin started in. "As of now," the balding pinstriped lawyer informed them, "this case is under the auspices of OCU."

"What-"

Mullin kept on rolling. "Excuse me, but this is not a point for debate, Detective Maxfield. This comes from On High. That's Command and the Middlesex DA's office to you."

"A 'why' would be nice," Mickey said, dripping a pool of sarcasm.

"Hey, you don't _rate_..." Funigello began.

Mullin ignored him. "One, OCU believes there's enough evidence to indicate Joseph Colarito's death was related to Cellini activities, possibly as a precursor to a gang war. My office agrees with that assessment. Two, your investigation -- specifically, the interview you were conducting -- could jeapordize our ongoing investigation of the Cellini organization. Three, even if there _wasn't_ enough evidence to think Colarito was hit, the fact that he was a Cellini soldier allows OCU to take charge. Your involvement is over. End of story. End of argument." He held out a hand. "Case file."

Max & Mickey shot imploring looks at Weeks; the mixed-race man nodded, doing a poor job of hiding his feelings about this turn of events. "Go on, you two," he said quietly. "In my office."

The detectives passed another disgusted glance. Max sighed loudly and turned on her heel. Mickey slapped the case file into Mullin's hand and started to follow. Funigello followed Mickey. "Yo! What'd you get out of Leon?"

Mickey didn't even slow down. "Noise and frustration. Says he's clueless about it."

Funigello caught up with Mickey and grabbed his arm. "That's not good enough, Detective," he said menacingly.

Mickey stopped, looking at the hand squeezing his bicep. He briefly considered turning into the hold and re-arranging the shorter man's lungs. Instead, he gave Funigello a smile that said he relished any upcoming confrontation. "He said Dexter Gordon was the greatest tenor sax player who ever lived. I'm a Coltrane man myself, so we agreed to disagree."

Funigello's mouth curled into a snarl. "Don't give _me_ that shit, De-"

Max stuck her face between him and Mickey. "Hey," she said pointedly. "We did not get anything out of him. You want to go fishing? Bait your own hook. Now, kindly unhand my partner."

Funigello went beet-red. He was about to snap Max' head off when Mullin stepped up and touched his shoulder. Funigello glared at him for a moment, and then took a deep breath. He morphed his snarl into a smirk and let go of Mickey's arm. Mickey brushed off his sleeve and continued on to Weeks' office. Max traded hard looks with Funigello before she followed.

Funigello watched her go. *Why do the worst bitches have the best asses?* "That little cunt's lucky I've got a sense of humor," he said quietly, smirk firmly in place. It faded quickly when Weeks stepped in front of him.

"You want to speak with my people," Weeks told him, eyes blazing. "You keep your hands to yourself and a civil tongue in your head. Is that clear?"

"Look, Ron..."

That was as far as Funigello got. "Is. That. Clear?"

Funigello opened his mouth, then looked to Mullin for support. The ADA just shrugged; he wasn't having any. Funigello turned back to Weeks and nodded, palms out. "Sure, Ron. Whatever you say."

Weeks glowered at Funigello, debating whether to tell him (*For the fiftieth time...*) that his first name was Aaron. Deciding that was as hopeless as Funigello himself, Weeks spun around and marched into his office, closing the door behind him. Mickey was in one of the two chairs in front of Weeks' desk, while Max had her usual perch on the edge of one of the file cabinets. Weeks rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand, shoulders leaning against the door's frosted glass window. "It started out as a nice day," he said to no-one in particular.

"This can't suck enough, Loot," Max said bitterly.

"Doesn't give you leeway to get in Fun With Jell-O's face, Max," Weeks told her without rancor. "He still outranks you, and he could still have you written up."

"He's an all-World asshole," Max retorted.

"I'm aware, Max. I'm aware." Weeks walked behind his desk and sat in the high-backed grey swivel chair. "I'm also aware that Mullin is right: OCU's mission statement lets them pull moves like this, and the DA always backs them up, even if there's only a scintilla of a chance it could lead them closer to Tommy C." He smiled thinly. "Besides, it's partially your fault. You had me call the Gangbusters when you saw who the vic was."

Max tried to stare a hole in the floor. "Serves me right for following procedure."

"This doesn't have to be a mob hit, boss," Mickey complained. "The perp could just be some psycho."

Weeks gave Mickey a pitying look. "Your perp is _definitely_ a psycho, Kreutzmann. Normal people don't use human flesh when they want to whittle." Max snickered, in spite of herself. Mickey looked sheepish, saying nothing as Weeks went on. "But even if Joey Colarito fell foul of some Hannibal Lecter wannabe, there's still enough room for OCU to take control."

Max looked up at the dropped ceiling and made a loud, inarticulate sound of frustration. Weeks almost chuckled, running thumb and forefinger over his full moustache. "Anyway," he went on, "be happy Elliott Less decided to play King Of The Mountain. You two have bigger fish to fillet."

Max' ears pricked up. "Like what?"

Weeks pulled a file folder out of his 'In' tray. "You know how you've been saying Domestics have been way out of line?" Max nodded quickly. The increase in domestic-related murders had been her pet hobbyhorse for over a month. "Well, I ran the numbers over the weekend, and you were right. The overall Domestics rate is up 13 percent over this time last year, and 30 percent over '95's fourth quarter."

"Maybe the rate of men leaving their underwear on the floor's gone up, too," Mickey put in, trying to lighten the mood.

Either Weeks didn't hear the joke or he was ignoring it. "This is men killing women we're talking about. The rate of women killing men is about the same, maybe even a few points lower." He offered the folder to Max, who got up to take it. "So, curious bastard that I am, I had Evidence Control look over what we had on Domestics over the past 60 days. One of the probationers came up with that."

Max opened the file and scanned the top page. It was a list of serial numbers and the case files they were attached to. Six pairs of numbers were highlighted out of a set of 52. The third case file stopped Max dead in her tracks.

"Hohhhhhleeeee shihhhht," Max singsonged. *Scully, the sonofabitch just won't die...*

<<WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON>>

Scully was only half-listening as Skinner ran down the case file. She couldn't take her eyes off the picture of Joel Roberge lying on the floor of the Old Wing of Boston's Museum of Fine Arts, his checked shirt soaked with blood, his face at peace.

"...someone in Boston PD Evidence Control found the weapons' serial numbers on an NCIC Hot Sheet. They were part of a hijacked arms shipment that was bound for a gun dealer in South Carolina last August. It's a general purchase made every fiscal quarter, but the time and route of the delivery is always changed, and is _supposed_ to be a secret."

"What does ATF have to say?" Mulder was trying not to fidget. He planned to hook up with the Lone Gunmen and go to a Capitals game at USAir Arena that night, and getting to Landover at Rush Hour was definitely not half the fun.

Skinner answered without looking at the case file. The Assistant Director had studied it before summoning them to his office. "Because of the paramilitary nature of the hijacking, ATF concluded it was carried out by a militia group. Their investigation was ongoing when the Boston field office contacted us about this matter."

Scully's eyes flicked up to meet Skinner's. *The Boston field office...* "Militia groups aren't limited to Michigan and Wyoming," she said. "In fact, a group would have to be either inexperienced or suicidal to mount an operation like this in their own backyard."

Skinner nodded. "ATF has re-focused their investigation onto known groups in the Atlantic Coast region. The field office is assisting their efforts, looking into any possible involvement by established groups within the New England area, as well as the possibile creation of a new group, or splinter group."

"So why do they need us," Mulder wanted to know. "Surely the Boston office has the manpower to handle that kind of task."

Skinner took a second to answer. "The interim SAC felt your team was best suited to investigate the anomalies in this case."

"Anomalies?"

"All six cases were domestic in nature -- a husband murdering, or attempting to murder his estranged wife. All six cases ended with the death of the perpetrator. And except for the weapons, there are no obvious links between the perpetrators. Different ages, races, upbringings, educations, professions. No history of violence, domestic or otherwise. And no links to any known militia groups. Two of the six men were in the military, but different services and different conflicts."

Mulder wore that faraway look he got when presented with a puzzle. "Military alumni associations?"

Skinner shook his head. "They usually stay within one service, or one conflict. Plus these men were support personnel, not combatants. The first man on your list was a catapult operator on the USS Saratoga during the Gulf War; the last man worked in Army Intelligence at the Pentagon during Vietnam." Skinner picked up a pen off his blotter and started tapping it idly. "But even if they _did_ meet at some point, that doesn't explain the link with the other four men."

Scully was thinking about the incident at the Museum of Fine Arts. *'Incident'. Talk about an ineffectual word! On the first day of my vacation, I stop a murder attempt with the help of a Boston Homicide detective. That detective becomes my lover -- my _lesbian_ lover -- by the end of the day. A week later we find out from one of Boston's larger organized crime figures that the man we shot was in the process of being mobbed up...*

She gave the list of weapons a quick once-over. "All the weapons used were high-caliber, military-style weapons. All except the .38 used in the museum incident."

"That weapon wasn't part of the shipment itself," Skinner told her. "It belonged to a security guard named George Sidaris, a retired police officer from Richmond, Virginia. The .38 was his service revolver, and he was using it as a hideout weapon when the shipment was hijacked. He was killed along with the driver. The hijackers took their weapons and ammunition, in addition to the shipment."

"Waste not, want not," Mulder mused.

Scully ignored him. "Sir, do you think the request for our services is linked to my role in OPC's investigation of SAC Beauchamp?" When Skinner hesitated, Scully added, "I've briefed Agent Mulder on the particulars."

Skinner nodded, emitting a barely-audible sigh. "The only questionable aspect of the request was that it specifically called for you to report to Boston alone, and that Agent Mulder's presence was not required." A faint smirk flashed across Skinner's face. "I explained to Special Agent Renko that you were a package deal, and that Agent Mulder could find some way to make himself useful."

Mulder trotted out his patented Smirk. "Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir."

"I wouldn't be too quick to smile, Agent Mulder." He looked at Scully. "Charles Renko has been Gordon Beauchamp's #2 man since Beauchamp became Special Agent-In-Charge. Before that, they were partners for thirteen years. I have a feeling the welcome you receive will be less than cordial."

*Wonderful.* Scully's headache was getting worse.

Skinner leaned back in his chair. "If it's any consolation, Agents, you won't be working directly under the Boston office. You'll be part of a special detail organized by Boston PD's Homicide unit."

Scully fought to keep her mask on. The thought of seeing Max again, and so soon, pleased and excited her. But could they work together? Yes, their sudden partnership at the MFA had gone as well as could be expected: They had stopped Joel Roberge from murdering his estranged wife Louise, killing Joel in the process. But this would be an actual, structured case. *We love each other, but we're very different people. Can we work together without people finding out about us? And what will working together _do_ to us?*

Skinner straightened up, his tone indicating the meeting was wrapping up. "In any case, you have your marching orders, and Special Agent Renko expects you to report to him by this evening." Mulder barely suppressed a groan; he'd have to eat the cost of his ticket, since there was no time to pass it off to Frohike and company. "If you do run into any roadblocks," Skinner went on, "let me know and I'll do my best to knock them over." Mulder & Scully nodded and were getting up when Skinner added, "Agent Scully, if you could stay behind a moment."

They gave Skinner a mild look of surprise, then Mulder gave Scully the same look. Scully was back to expressionless, having guessed what Skinner wanted to talk about. "See you downstairs," she murmured, her tone assuring Mulder everything was under control.

Mulder was still uncertain, and nearly said something to that effect. Instead he nodded to her, nodded to Skinner, and headed for the door as Scully sat back down. Scully & Skinner watched Mulder go, neither of them speaking as he closed the door behind him.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Skinner leaned forward again, crossing his arms on his desk. His tone-of-voice went from businesslike to borderline-personal, with a side order of reluctance. "I thought you should be aware of the current status of OPC's investigation of Gordon Beauchamp."

Scully's brow furrowed at the word 'current'. She had given her deposition to the Office of Professional Conduct over two weeks before, and had heard nothing since. "I was under the impression the investigation was complete."

Skinner sighed. "The _investigation_ is complete. However, the disciplinary phase is on hold, pending an inquiry into Agent Moncrief's investigative tactics."

Scully's left eyebrow nearly disappeared into her hairline. Brian Moncrief was an OPC mole assigned to the Boston office. He was acting as Beauchamp's personal assistant when the Special Agent-in-Charge ordered him to conduct covert surveillance on Scully. "Are they suggesting Agent Moncrief acted improperly?"

Skinner locked his fingers and addressed his blotter. "Agent Beauchamp's attorneys contend Moncrief's report was driven by feelings of revenge, stemming from being sexually rejected by Beauchamp."

Scully's eyes went wide. "He's claiming Agent Moncrief _came on_ to him?"

Skinner nodded. "Not once, but on several occasions. The attorneys say Beauchamp never reported this because he didn't want to endanger Agent Moncrief's career. Needless to say, there were no witnesses to these events, but the attorneys say this is common in most cases of sexual harrassment."

Scully was astounded. "What about the harassment complaints against Beauchamp? They were the reason OPC placed Moncrief in the Boston office..."

"The attorneys maintain those allegations are false, and Agent Moncrief developed bogus evidence to advance a liberal, homosexual-friendly agenda by a group of unnamed individuals in the Bureau."

Scully's face flushed red with anger. "That's utterly absurd."

Skinner unlocked his hands long enough to make a helpless gesture. "I agree, as does Bob Britton at OPC. However, Beauchamp has enough support in the upper echelon of the Bureau to put any disciplinary action on the back burner while the allegations against Agent Moncrief are investigated."

Scully closed her eyes and shook her head. *The Old Boy Network strikes again.* That night in the parking garage, Moncrief intimated he had faced allegations about his sexual orientation once before. *Someone must have found out about that, and gave it to Beauchamp for his defense.* "What does Agent Beauchamp have to say about ordering Agent Moncrief to keep me under surveillance?"

"Beauchamp's attorneys claim he never gave the order. That it's a blatant lie by Moncrief to manufacture an overt act that would get Beauchamp cashiered. Furthermore, they claim your deposition contains the words of either an unwitting accomplice..." Skinner looked like he had an incredibly bad taste in his mouth. "...or a fellow member of the conspiracy."

Scully had to bear down hard to stay expressionless. "He's claiming I'm gay, too?"

Skinner kept it in Automaton mode, but he was patently livid about the situation. "His attorneys haven't said that in so many words. However, they _are_ questioning the timing of your appearance in the Boston area."

*Control, Dana, control...* "What about the timing of Joel Roberge's attack on his wife? Did I have something to do with that, as well?"

Skinner's smile was rubber-band tight. "Beauchamp's attorneys have all the bases covered. If you _were_ part of the conspiracy, you would have done your best to entrap their client in some way, and the incident was an unforeseen circumstance that worked in your favor. If you _weren't_ Moncrief's accomplice, then Moncrief used the incident as an excuse to mount a lie bigger than the lies perpetrated by a handful of bitter ex-employees."

Scully's smirk was small, mostly because of the fear that hung over her. "That's a bit of a stretch."

"No argument from me," Skinner said quickly. "But as I said, Beauchamp has enough support to give these theories a closer look."

Scully looked over Skinner's shoulder at the gathering darkness. "Unbelievable," she muttered.

Skinner's eyes were back on his blotter. "I just felt you should be aware of the present situation. Allegations like these can make life in the Bureau... difficult." He lifted his gaze to her. "Some people will assume the worst. Even in the face of the facts."

Scully kept her voice level, which was a bigger job than keeping her poker face. "The facts are, sir, that anyone presented with these allegations should consider their source. Gordon Beauchamp's feelings toward non-white-males in the Bureau -- and women in particular -- are well documented. And if anyone decides sexual orientation is more important than credibility, then they are just as vile as Agent Beauchamp, and should be ranked in the same class."

Skinner had a good poker face, too, and he needed it now. He had expected outrage from Scully, and that's what he got. But the wording of her last statement took him by surprise. It was _too_ down the middle, too much of a "non-denial denial." Several questions came to Skinner's mind, but they never got as far as his mouth. "As I said, I just wanted you to know the current state of play." He stood. "If there are any further developments in the case, I'll be sure to pass them on to you."

Scully nodded as she rose. "I appreciate that, sir."

Skinner nodded. The questions hovered in front of him. "That's all, Agent Scully."

"Thank you, sir," she said, nodding in deference. She did not look at him as she went out, closing the door behind her. Skinner stared at the door, lost in thought, until he realized he hadn't moved for over a minute. He sat down and tried to focus on his paperwork. He was not successful.

<<WEDNESDAY EVENING>>

"So, Scully," Mulder murmured, leaning over so he could speak into her ear. "You think this is a tactic to break our will?"

Scully smiled faintly, glancing over at Special Agent Tom Deerfield sitting at the workstation. He was giving Mulder a disapproving glare over a dog-eared copy of U.S. News & World Report; when he noticed Scully was looking at him, he extended the disapproval to include her, then went back to his reading.

A red light blinked steadily over the mahogany double doors next to the workstation. It was blinking when Deerfield led them into the outer office of the Boston Special Agent-In-Charge. Deerfield took one look at the light and ordered Mulder & Scully to take a seat. That was 20 minutes ago.

Mulder & Scully had not expected a reception like this. In fact, they hadn't expected a reception at all, and were prepared to go through the normal drill once the USAir shuttle landed at Logan International Airport: Scully would sort out the rental car while Mulder checked the usual suspect motels. Instead, Deerfield had met them at the gate and bundled them into a double-parked Crown Victoria, which drove them directly to the Boston field office. The painfully-serious, military-cut young agent was impervious to all conversational gambits, including those about the case; his replies ranged from a monosyllabic grunt to a sentence Scully had come to think of as Deerfield's mantra: "Special Agent Renko will speak to you about that." Deerfield was positively gabby compared to Agent Ken Duguay, the equally-young, equally-trimmed blond agent who drove the unmarked Ford. Except for a few hushed exchanges with Deerfield, he never spoke a word.

Scully looked down at the month-old copy of Time in her lap. She looked furtively at her watch. 9:43. Scully had tried to call Max on the way to National Airport; whoever answered her extension said she was down on the firing range. Scully had planned to call again after they touched down, but current circumstances made that impossible.

The red light stopped blinking. Deerfield immediately picked up the extension and dialed a three-digit number. He spoke quietly into the phone, eyes on Mulder & Scully all the time. After a moment, he said, "Yes sir," hung up, and stood up. "Special Agent Renko will see you now," he told them. His tone was akin to a royal courtier announcing that the King would grant them an audience, and they should be extremely grateful. Deerfield held the door for them. He wore the same hostile look he'd given them before.

The office was gloomily lit, so area was hard to judge, but it was obvious the room was twice the size of Skinner's office. It was definitely more luxurious: Wall sconces gave off a glow not half as bright as the one coming from the two expensive table lamps sitting on opposite ends of the executive-size desk at the far end of the room. The Back Bay blinked at the office from the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Special Agent Charles Renko was scribbling hastily on a gray legal pad with a gold Cross pen when Mulder & Scully walked in. He offered up a quick smile. "Please have a seat," he said, pointing with his pen at the short-backed chairs in front of the desk. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Mulder & Scully exchanged a look after they sat down. "Ouch," Mulder mouthed. Scully wasn't surprised that the chairs had minimal padding. This had been Gordon Beauchamp's office, and it would be right in character for Beauchamp to get an edge on anyone he met with by making them uncomfortable before the first word was spoken. She looked Renko over as he wrote. He was the same age as Beauchamp, but the similarities ended there. While Beauchamp's face reminded you of a well-used hatchet, Renko's was the unlined face of a choirboy. He wore his clothes well, his gray-to-almost-white hair was professionally styled, and his tie was a bright red paisley. He was the Good Cop to Beauchamp's Bad Cop.

Renko wrote in silence for another minute before he put his pen down and looked up at Mulder & Scully. "Welcome to Boston." His smile didn't seem forced, but it also didn't touch his eyes. "I must say I expected you earlier, though. Was there a problem getting transportation?"

Mulder willed himself to sit still. "Rush Hour traffic in the District made us miss the earliest-available plane."

"We have the same problem here," Renko said off-handedly. "Still, I've no doubt you'll rebound from this poor start."

Scully could feel Mulder's spine going rigid. "We'll certainly do our best, sir," she said neutrally.

"I'm sure you will, Agent Scully. We prize results in this office." Renko gave Mulder a smile that had all the warmth of a creamsicle. "Your supervisor feels you have many outstanding qualities, Agent Mulder. Even though I assured Assistant Director Skinner that only Agent Scully's presence was required, he seemed to feel your expertise was necessary to the conclusion of this case." He leaned back, elbows on armrests, and tented his fingers. "I must say I'm puzzled by that. These are simple domestic homicides we're dealing with, not little green men from Mars." Deerfield laughed at his own joke.

Mulder didn't even smile, opting for the expressionless pose Scully had taken. "I'll try to live up to AD Skinner's faith in me. Sir."

Renko stopped laughing, though his smile remained. "In any case, it's probably a good thing you're both here. Between our normal duties and our involvement with ATF on their militia group investigation, my office doesn't have the manpower to help the Boston Police Department clean up an investigation they themselves botched."

Scully's voice was flat as a pancake. "You feel they should have seen the connection to these murders before?"

Renko looked puzzled. "I would have thought that was obvious, Agent Scully. There were aspects to these cases their Homicide unit should have discovered before we were forced to make it our problem." He held his hands palms up for a moment, then put them back on his chest. "Please don't misunderstand. I'm sure Boston PD is just as dedicated to protecting the public as the Bureau. Unfortunately, like most local police departments, their knowledge and methods are not as... complete as they could be. I'm sure you'll be able to work around that, though."

It was typical Bureau thinking: The Local Yokels couldn't find their butts with both hands and a compass. It still stung Scully to the core. "We'll be sure to do that, sir," she assured him.

"Fine." His tone turned apologetic. "Now, I'm afraid you'll have to get all your transportation from the PD. My motor pool was overtaxed _before_ ATF came to town. Also, our policy here prohibits agents from renting automobiles unless all other official avenues are closed. That means if all of the PD's units are in use or on fire, you can rent a car. This city also has a marvelous public transportation system, so taxicabs will not be necessary unless it's an absolute, demonstrable emergency. Understood?"

It wasn't just Mulder's butt that was getting sore. "Sir, if I may-

Renko acted like no-one had spoken. "Also, while you are supposed to be working as a separate unit, I believe in keeping on top of all operations happening in my sphere. Therefore, I will require daily progress reports from you." His smile faded like it was on a dimmer switch. "I prefer these be done in person, preferably much earlier than the current hour."

Mulder cleared his throat. "With respect... sir... our activities in the field may make personal sit-reps difficult. Especially when we won't be in control of our transportation..." Scully looked at Mulder out of the corner of her eye. He could have been the Lincoln Memorial, he sat so still. She heard the nuance in that measured, dead-fish tone, though. Mulder was furious, but was damned if he'd show it.

Renko looked perplexed again. "I was under the impression you were a man of many talents, Agent Mulder. I'm quite sure you could apply those talents to _taking_ control of your transportation. After all, we are doing the police department a favor. Surely they could return that favor by delivering you to your assigned appointments -- in this case, to this office at..." He glanced at his watch, a digital model with a large face. "...6pm at the latest. Every day." He gave Mulder a fatherly smile. "Do you think you can accomplish that, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder looked right through him. "I'll do my level best. Sir."

"Excellent," Renko said, quite pleased that the problem was solved. "Now, if you'll please wait outside, I wish to speak with Agent Scully on another matter." Mulder was about to object, but Renko cut him off at the pass. "_Now_, if you please, Agent Mulder."

Mulder looked over at Scully. She nodded towards the door. *Go ahead. I'll be okay.* Mulder considered a second, then nodded curtly to Renko and got up. He resisted the childish urge to slam the door behind him as he walked out of the office.

Renko stared at the closed door for a moment before he re-focused on Scully. He still had a slight smile on his face, but there was a look in his eyes Scully couldn't identify. "This is not my office," he said quietly.

"I'm aware of that, sir," Scully said. She felt like she was sitting on a marble slab, her butt and back hurt that badly.

"Are you, now?" Renko pushed himself out of his chair, buttoning his jacket as he stood. "Are you also aware that interim SACs must use the office of the agent they're replacing, regardless of whether the circumstances are temporary or permanent?"

"No, sir," Scully allowed, not reacting to the cracks that were beginning to show in Renko's veneer.

Renko walked around the desk and leaned on the front edge, looking down on Scully with arms folded. His tone remained the same, but a closer look at his eyes let Scully identify what was in them: Pure, undiluted hatred. "But you _do_ understand how, depending on the circumstances..." He made an offhand gesture. "...say, if the interim SAC was a close friend of the man he was replacing..." His smile widened for a brief moment. "You could understand how that kind of situation could be somewhat... _disquieting_..."

"Sir," Scully said, as professionally as possible. "I feel this conversation is inappropriate..."

"Do you know what _I_ find inappropriate, Agent Scully?" Scully started to get up. "_Please_ sit down."

Scully froze, hands on the armrests. You could have twanged Renko's smile, it was so tight. He had obviously wanted to scream those last three words. *Never show fear to a growling dog,* Scully told herself. She slowly came to her feet, hands at her sides, making no move to leave.

Renko squinted at her. "Are you hard of hearing, Agent Scully?"

Scully's face was a stone vizard, unmoving, unreadable. "No, sir. My hearing is perfect. You were saying something about inappropriate behavior?"

Renko's eyes flicked towards the door, obviously calculating possibilities. His smile had completely disappeared. Scully shifted her stance as casually as she could. *Watch his hands.* Finally Renko spoke, his tone conversational, his eyes no less dangerous. "A man who has given the better part of his life to this country is sitting in his house in Manchester, unsure of whether he is going to have a job tomorrow. All because of a growing list of untruths -- most of them told by people who are not even on the government payroll, all of them exaggerated by a man with a grudge and an agenda." He put his hands on the desk behind him. "_That_ is what I find inappropriate."

Scully nodded, as if she understood completely. "So you're saying every accusation made against Special Agent Beauchamp is a lie."

Renko addressed the ceiling. "I am saying that some people have no concept of _real_ leadership. That there are still some people who believe the Old School is still the best place to learn how to do one's job. The Old School was not out of style as far as Gordon Beauchamp was concerned." Renko turned his smile on and off, like he controlled it with a lightswitch. "Some past employees simply could not adjust."

Scully was able to hold back a Mulder Smirk, but she couldn't stop her eyebrow from shooting up. "Does the Old School teach someone to order covert surveillance on members of his own organization?"

Renko's smile didn't go away this time. "It does if he feels that person may be engaged in untoward, illegal, damaging, or embarrassing activities."

Scully forced herself to maintain eye contact. "Such as?"

Renko shrugged. "Oh, I wouldn't know, Agent Scully. It doesn't matter, in any case, since that order was never given." Renko feigned confusion. "Hadn't you considered that Agent Moncrief might have been misleading you? Or had a game plan separate from his assignment?"

Scully didn't blink. "I don't believe Agent Moncrief has any reason to lie."

Renko's expression set records for pomposity. "_Everyone_ has a reason to lie, Agent Scully."

The Smirk Scully was repressing tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind, sir. Is there anything else?"

Renko seemed to freeze. When he spoke again, his voice was a shade darker. "Despite your partner's presence, Agent Scully, I am considering this to be _your_ case. Its success -- or failure -- rides on your shoulders. I'd be sure to keep _that_ in mind, if I were you." Beat. "That's all, Agent Scully."

Scully nearly said "Thank you, sir," but managed to head off the reflex. Instead she gave him a slight nod and walked out of the office. She could feel his eyes on her back as she went through the door.

Mulder and Deerfield were in their former positions when Scully came out of the office. There was a metal briefcase on the desk now. Deerfield opened it as he stood. Mulder stood too, starting towards Scully. "Now then, Agents," Deerfield said officiously. "If you'll step over here and surrender your cell phones."

Mulder's head snapped around. "Pardon me?"

Deerfield took two cellular phones and two pagers out of the briefcase and laid them on the desk. He opened one of the file drawers and started rummaging through it. "Field office policy states all visiting agents will use _our_ communications equipment while operating within our area of influence. These phones are locked into the local network. It saves the Bureau money, and allows us to stay in contact with you at all times. The pagers are a necessary backup, in case you're on the phone when we need you-Ah, here it is." He pulled what looked like a release form out of the drawer and put it next to the briefcase. Then he held out his hand. "Your cell phones. Please."

Mulder gave Scully a disbelieving look. Scully wasn't sure if he was going to burst out laughing or burst into flame. Mulder walked over to the workstation and put his hands on the desk, his face inches away from Deerfield's. Mulder's tone was casual, but there wasn't a trace of humor. "You can have my cell phone when you can pry it out of my cold, dead fingers."

Deerfield started to speak, but something in Mulder's eyes made him close his mouth. He glanced at the double doors. "I'm following procedure, Agent Mulder," he said, trying to sound reasonable.

"And so you have." Mulder took out a pen and made a few alterations on the release form. Deerfield looked mortified at Mulder's corrections. Mulder signed the form, picked up one pager and pocketed the other. Scully walked up to the desk and signed the form without comment. She took the other pager from Mulder and fell in step with him as he started towards the elevators.

Deerfield hastily packed the cell phones back in the briefcase. "The office doesn't have _your_ cell phone numbers, Agent Mulder."

"Dial 411," Mulder said over his shoulder. "Come on, Scully, let's get to the hotel."

Deerfield closed the case and went after them. "Actually, Agents, I'm supposed to _take you_ to your hotel."

Mulder looked remarkably weary as he turned around. "Deerfield, don't take this the wrong way, but..."

Deerfield walked up to him. "Agent Mulder, I'm _already_ going to take it in the shorts for your refusal to surrender your equipment. I'd really appreciate it if you'd let me follow the rest of my orders. I don't want my hide to be any more tan than it's going to be tomorrow morning." He stepped around Mulder, brushing his shoulder ever so slightly, and pressed the 'Down' button.

Mulder glanced at him for a moment before he looked at Scully, a pleased Smirk on his face. For the benefit of what was left of Agent Deerfield's ego, Scully stayed deadpan. There was enough laughter in her eyes. *If they were trying to break our will, they failed miserably.*

<<WEDNESDAY NIGHT>>

Scully was trying to decide whether her blue suit was wrinkled enough to steam when there was a knock on her door. "Scully, it's me."

"One second, Mulder." She decided it was still serviceable, hung it with her gray suit and her maroon jacket, and reached over to open the door.

Mulder walked in, tie at half mast, suit jacket unbuttoned. He looked over the non-descript hotel room, hands in his pockets. "Really coming up in the world, aren't we?"

Scully closed the closet door. "Don't ever say they don't treat you right in this town. What did Skinner say?"

There was a round table and four swivel chairs by the window, but Mulder sat on one of the two double beds out of habit. "Renko's already making noise about us. We refuse to follow standard protocol. We reject his theories on the case out of hand. We are generally disrespectful to field office personnel." His Smirk had no starch in it. "He also says you have a real problem with authority."

Scully sat on the other bed and kicked off her shoes. "Oh, I'm nothing but trouble." She looked at her watch. "Renko must have called Skinner as soon as I left the room."

Mulder nodded, his elbows on his knees. "Called him at home, in fact. The AD is not a happy camper."

"With us or with Renko?"

"Renko. Skinner says proceed as normal, and he'll catch what flak he can." He ran a hand through his unruly hair. "However, I did get the impression he would get uncommonly stressed if this went on for any length of time. He also wants your side of your 1-on-1 with Renko."

Scully groaned. "Now?"

Mulder shook his head. "He said call him early tomorrow." Scully groaned again. *Early for Skinner is thirty seconds after the cock crows.* A dull ache was forming behind her eyebrows. She massaged them with thumb and forefinger. Mulder looked around the room again. "Did you get Max?"

Scully shook her head, still trying to rub the pain away. "Missed her by fifteen minutes. Called her apartment and left a message." Scully sighed heavily, leaning back on one elbow. "Mulder, I'm sorry I got you involved in all this."

Mulder frowned. "In all what?"

Scully stopped rubbing her eyebrows and looked up at the ceiling. "If everything with Beauchamp hadn't happened, I doubt Renko would have requested us. He's obviously going to make things as difficult as possible, and if the case doesn't get solved, he's going to make sure the Bureau comes down hard."

Mulder gave her a mid-range Smirk. "Hey, I told you I hate it when you have more fun than I do." He turned serious. "Besides, Beauchamp only happened because you chose to go to the MFA that day. If you hadn't done that, Louise Roberge would be dead. And you wouldn't have met Max. And I wouldn't get to meet her so soon."

The mention of Max made Scully's headache ease. "This is true," she allowed. She brought her head up and gave Mulder an appraising look. "Are you still okay about this? About me and Max, I mean."

Mulder looked down at the carpet. "Scully, you've had to sacrifice a lot working with me. It's hurt you personally, it hasn't helped you professionally, and you haven't had much of a life since you came down to the basement four years ago..."

Scully did a head shrug. "That assumes I had a life to begin with."

Mulder paused before he said, "You had Jack Willis." He regretted it before Scully sighed. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "That was out-of-line."

Scully waved him off. "It's all right. I'm not mad." She sighed again. "I used to think about Jack a lot. About what we had before..." She shook her head quickly, banishing the memory of their last time together. "And when I look at it honestly, the best thing I can say about our relationship was... we didn't crowd each other? I didn't ask anything of _him_, he didn't ask anything of _me_, we could date other people if we wanted to..." She thought some more. "And that was okay, because that was the way I wanted it at the time." Beat. "But if I were presented with the same situation today, I'd run a mile, no matter how I felt about the person."

"Monogamy's a good thing, especially nowadays," Mulder allowed. "How's that going to work on a long-distance basis, though?"

"I don't know," Scully said honestly. "But I'm going to do whatever it takes to _make_ it work." She looked at Mulder, as solemn as a soloist in a church choir. "I love her, Mulder. I'm not going to mess that up."

"I know you're not." He was smiling, not Smirking. "What I'm trying to say is... I _am_ okay about it... but it doesn't matter whether I am or not. Scully, your happiness is a hell of a lot more important than my comfort zone. But more than that? You shouldn't have to live life like I do." His smile dimmed a little. "I'm an island by choice. You've had that life thrust upon you. And I've always felt bad about that."

"I could have requested a transfer if I didn't want to deal with it any more."

It was Mulder's turn to look tentative. "Why didn't you? Most people would have cut and run a long time ago."

Scully cocked her head back, left eyebrow held high. "_I_ am not most people."

Mulder laughed quietly. "No. You're not."

Scully smiled, but did not laugh. "I haven't run because I owe you a lot. Not just because you saved my life, or that your fight has become my fight... or that you've become one of the best friends I've ever had..." Mulder's smile stretched a little wider. He bobbed his head in acceptance of the compliment. "All that would be true. But above all that... This is going to sound terrible..."

Mulder leaned back, mirroring her position. "Try me."

Scully considered. "The fact is... I wouldn't be the agent I am now _without_ the last four years. Yes, it's been hard." She laughed once, without humor. *That's a major understatement. Losing three months of my life. Losing Melissa...* She shook her head again, dismissing those thoughts. "But after this... I know I can do _anything_. And I have you to thank for that."

"The power was always in you, Dorothy," Mulder said lightly.

Scully did her best deadpan. "Yes, but would I have found that out if the house hadn't landed in Oz?"

There was no answer for that, so Mulder just laughed. *Besides, what I owe you, I can never repay. Though I'll do my best to try...*

They would have shared smiles and silence for some time if the phone hadn't rang. Mulder looked at it, the Smirk returning. "Exit Mulder," he said, getting up. "Stage Right."

Scully moved over to the phone, watching him as he walked out. "Sleep well, Mulder."

He gave her an over-the-shoulder Smirk. "Tell her I said hi."

Scully waited until the door closed before she picked up. "Scully."

"Music to my ears." Max. A very tired Max.

A gentle radiance lit off in Scully's stomach. "You're a hard woman to get a hold of."

"Never thought I'd hear you say _that_," Max cracked, despite her obvious fatigue. "Today has been a total clusterfuck. Phone calls all morning. Meetings with the brass all afternoon. Then I had to work on a goddamn _presentation_ for three fucking hours. I haven't done a presentation since BU! I only got to play with my new toy for an hour or so."

Scully sat with her back against the headboard, her legs straight out in front of her. "Which toy is that?"

"Loot's laid down the law: I carry a 9-mill like everyone else. I've got 60 days to qualify, or he sends me out on the street with a slingshot and a bag of rocks. Today was my first day."

Scully winced. The Colt Python Max carried was her father's service revolver. That carrying it meant a lot to Max went without saying. "What did you get?"

She could hear Max smile. "Sig Sauer. It came highly recommended."

*My gun.* Scully wondered if using the same weapon as your lover could be defined as 'too cute.' "How'd you do?"

"I can hit the broad side of a barn, as long as the barn doesn't duck behind a tree." She paused. "Hey. I dialed a local number just now."

Scully Smirked. "You _must_ be beat if you only figured that out now."

"I just got a second wind." Max was fully alert. "Where the hell are you?"

"Believe it or not, the Back Bay Hilton..."

"No shit!"

"No shit. We checked in a little while ago."

Max let out a loud war whoop. Then she said, "Whoa. What's this 'we' crap, white girl?"

"Mulder's here, too. He says hi, by the way."

"You're _both_... What, ET double-park the Mothership on Boston Common?"

"A little more earthbound than that," Scully said. A slight sense of apprehension came over her. "It involves Joel Roberge."

Max gasped. "_You're_ the heavy hitters the Feebies are giving us?!"

"Afraid so," Scully said, ignoring the pejorative.

Max was silent. Then she said, "Woof!"

"At least." Max didn't say anything. "You see the problem."

"Welllllllllllllll..." Max was as tentative as Scully had ever heard her. "It's not like we haven't worked together before..."

"Max, it's not the same thing. This is an actual _case_, with checks and balances and people looking over our shoulders. Plus we have a revenge factor to deal with..."

---

Scully gave Max a quick overview of her meeting with Renko, as well as a rundown on what was happening with Beauchamp and Moncrief. When she was finished, Max was fuming. "I want to slap people who say the Patriarchy is a Liberal myth." Scully heard a muffled thump. *Max must have hit the couch.* "SHIT!" More thumps. "Goddamn desk-riding, no-nothing, limp-dick mother_fuckers_..."

"I know," Scully said quickly. "I agree. But there's nothing we can do about that now. And who told me you can't cry about things you can't change?"

"You've got too good a memory," Max grumbled. Silence. "There is _one_ thing we can do, though..."

"I'm listening."

"We can put this fucking case _down_. Make those pinstriped shitheels eat a crowburger with fries. That'd improve _my_ outlook on life. How 'bout you?"

Scully laughed. *You are the greatest.* "Definitely."

"Okay," Max said, resolve coursing through her voice. "Okay. We handle this like any other problem. We think it through. We talk it out. We work _together_. Agree when we can, compromise when we have to. Deal?"

"Deal," Scully said firmly.

Max sighed. "Scully, I'm glad it's you and Mulder helping on this. The local Feebies act like we're retards with guns. This case is _already_ a hairball, and we haven't even gotten off the ground!"

Scully pushed her hair out of her eyes. "We looked over the case file on the flight up. It's a puzzle, alright."

"More like a Rubric's Cube." She sighed again. "Fuck it. We'll go at it fresh tomorrow. Loot wants us all to meet at start of shift. That's 8am."

"We'll be there."

"Cool." The smile came back in her voice. "Did you get the same room as last time?"

Scully felt herself blush. "Two floors down, other side of the building. The view's not very good."

"Such a shame." Pause. "Is Mulder there right now?"

"He headed off to bed when you called."

Beat. Beat. Beat. "What are you wearing?"

*Oh my...* "Maroon skirt, white top."

"Shoes?"

"Stockings." The room was getting very warm. "I'm sitting on the bed."

"Mmmmmmm... Can I call you back in ten minutes? I still smell like cordite, and I want to be clean before this conversation continues."

"I'll be right here."

"So near, yet so far."

<<TWELVE MINUTES LATER>>

Scully picked up on the fourth ring. "Hello," she said hurriedly.

"You sound out of breath," Max said impishly. "Did you start without me?"

"No," Scully answered, the smile in her voice obvious. "Ran in from the bathroom. I was just toweling off when you called."

"You showered, too?"

"Well, if you could, it was the least I could do."

Max nestled back into the pillows. "If I was there, I'd help you dry your hair."

Scully's quiet laugh was deep in her throat. "If you were here, we'd still be in the shower, risking life and limb."

"What a way to go," Max giggled. "Next time we ought to try a bath. Smaller risk of head injuries."

"Bigger risk of drowning."

"Nah." Her giggle upgraded to a laugh. "Though my downstairs neighbors might think Cambridge got hit by a tidal wave."

Scully had the giggles now. "'Honey, the building's struck an iceberg!'"

"'Women and dance bands first!'" The laughter felt so good. A happy glow suffused Max. "Have I ever told you how much I love your voice?"

"Really?" Scully sounded astonished.

"Swear to God. I hear you on the phone, or you come up behind me and say something, and I just swoooooooon..."

"I think you've got a better voice than I do."

"No!"

"Yes. My voice is flat. It can't carry a tune in a bucket. _Your_ voice has got this wonderful, smoky quality, like... I don't know _what_ it's like..."

Max dropped her voice as low as it would go. "You mean like this?"

"Talk normal, you goof," Scully laughed. "Your regular voice is enough to make me have to change my underwear."

"Are you _wearing_ underwear?"

"What do _you_ think?"

*Oh, baby.* "Will you please go to bed with me?"

"Gladly." Max heard a rustle of covers. "Mmmmm. I love clean sheets."

Max hummed. "You're so warm."

Scully gasped. "Can you feel me? I swear I can feel you."

"Power of positive thinking."

"More like wishful thinking." She let out a low growl. "Wish I was there."

"Isn't that supposed to be 'Wish you were _here_?'"

"Uh unh. Wish I was _there_."

"Tomorrow night, baby. Just you and me, and the rest of the world can go to hell."

"It can go to hell right now." Her voice became a murmur. "Please kiss me."

"C'mere." Max opened her mouth and closed her eyes. Her tongue tingled, twitched, like it was dancing with a like member. They both moaned. Max' hand was moving down her stomach in slow circles. "Oh damnit, Scully, I want you so bahhhhhd!"

"I'm yours, Max," Scully said, her voice hoarse. "All yours."

"I'm kissing my way down your neck..."

"I'm liking that a lot..."

"Licking your collarbone... Stroking your tits..." Max swallowed once, twice. "Sucking a nipple..."

"Ohhhhhhhh..."

Max worked her lips and tongue, eyes still closed, easily calling up the sensation of Scully's bullet-hard cap between her lips. "I love your breasts," she whispered. "I want to wake up with your tit in my mouth..."

"Oh God yes..."

"I'm touching you... Rubbing your clit with my fingers..."

"Ahhhhhhhh... Love your touch..."

"I love _you_."

"I love you, too." Scully's breathing was ragged. "Nice slow circles..."

"There's an idea... Oooh! A very _gooooood_ idea."

Happy noises came down the line, and then Scully's words came in a rush. "I want you inside me."

Max' voice shook. "Me too you."

"How many...?"

"Let's start with... two."

"Okay...Mmmmmmohhhhhhhhyeah..."

"Oh, that is _so_ nice... Ohhh, you've got nice thumbs..."

"Slowwwwwwwwww," Scully moaned.

"You too... Make this... last..."

"That... was my plan..."

"Hehehe... Mmm! Oh!" The stars behind Max' eyelids were unusually bright. "You want another?"

"Oh please... Oh, yes.... You get one, toooooooo..."

"Ooooooh, thank you... Oh, right there! _Right_ fucking there, yes _ma'am_... Little faster..."

"Yehhhsss... Oh damn, that's great... Oh, fuck me, Max..."

"You fuck me back," Max hissed.

The line was filled with only guttural sounds now. Max' fingers were soaked. She could swear she heard Scully's fingers sliding in and out. "When I get you alone, I'm gonna lick you til you _scream_..."

"Oh my..."

"Drink every drop... Make you cum so hard, you'll think you're in an earthquake...."

"Oh, honey, I wish I could taste you..."

Max felt herself smile. "You could lick my hand tomorrow..."

Scully was either giggling or panting. "T-t-too obvious..."

Their laughter did nothing to slow down their actions. Max was biting her lip hard enough to cause pain. "Scully," Max moaned. "Put one in my ass."

Only the slightest pause. "Here..."

Max used the pillow to hold the phone in place. Her moan turned to a groan, then into a small howl as she slid her middle finger inside. "Oh, yehhhhhhhhhhhsssss..."

"Give... give me one, too..."

"Y-you sure?"

"Uh hunh..."

Max could hardly breathe. "Okay..."

"Uhhhhnnnnnnh!!!!"

"Just relax..."

Scully sounded strangled. "So tight..."

"You don't have to-"

"No! No! It's all right... Oh, it's so all right..."

"Yes, yes, yes," Max breathed in time with her thrusts. She could feel her fingers touching each other.

Scully's voice started rising. "So close..."

Max doubled her pace. "Please, please let me cum with you!"

"Gahhhhd... Kiss meeeee!"

Max opened her mouth as wide as she could, aching for the flavor of Scully as their moans got louder and louder until they were yelling unintelligibly down the line, writhing like landed marlins, fingers pistoning and stimulating, bedspreads being kicked off, revealing them both as they went off the same peak.

They came down like leaves in autumn, fluttering slowly to the earth as their breathing came back to normal. Scully was able to speak first. "Oh yes... Yes, please hold me."

Max' eyes flew open. "How did you know...?"

"I... I could feel your arms going around me."

Max laugh was very weak. "What did you say about telekinesis?"

"What did _you_ say about wishful thinking?"

"I said _positive_ thinking. _You_ said wishful thinking."

"Sorry... Kind of lost track of things..."

"One can only wonder why." Her laugh was getting stronger. Scully joined in blissfully. "Thank Christ you can laugh in bed."

"Doesn't it feel good?"

"Mmmmmmmmm. _You_ feel good."

"So do you." Beat. "I can't wait to see you."

"Too bad the next time has to be in a meeting," Max groused.

"I know." The imp crawled into Scully's voice. "Just remember, the best thing to do when giving a speech is to imagine your audience completely naked."

"Oh, _great_! Now I'm gonna sound like Porky Pig! Thanks a whole bunch, girl!"

They laughed a little more. "Go to sleep, honey. We've got a long day tomorrow."

"Got that right." Max paused. "Can you stay tomorrow night?"

"If I do the early morning subway thing, I can."

"I can live with that." Another pause. "I love you."

No pause. "I love you, too. Sleep tight."

"You too."

<<THURSDAY MORNING -- START OF SHIFT>>>

The gray-haired man looked impassively at Mulder & Scully as they sprinted towards him. He had decorations on his blue dress uniform, silver eagles on his shirt lapels, gold braid on the brim of his cap. He made no move to hold the doors, which closed in their faces as they reached the elevator.

"I'm not making any friends in this town at all," Mulder remarked.

Scully looked hectically at her watch. "Homicide's on the second floor. Let's walk." The stairs were to the left of the elevator. She started up without waiting for Mulder.

Traffic on the stairs was fast and heavy. Mulder had to hustle to keep up with Scully, who was practically in the back of the person in front of her. She had been going full-bore since she banged on his door at 6am, dressed and ready for breakfast. Mulder had tried joking and teasing to lighten her mood, but a stern stare over half a grapefruit put an end to that strategy. She was on the phone with Skinner for most of breakfast, and the conversation hadn't helped her disposition.

Homicide's squadroom hadn't changed in the month since Scully had spent a long afternoon in Interview 1, reviewing and re-reviewing the MFA shooting with multiple groups of people. The long high-ceilinged chamber was still an antiseptic green, off-white cartoon-decorated PCs offering sharp contrast to the film-noir gray steel desks they sat on. Neither Max or Weeks was in evidence when Mulder & Scully came into the room. Two detectives stood by the desk nearest the entrance, discussing the contents of a notebook. One was freshly-showered with every hair in place, while the other looked like an unmade bed. *Day Shift and Night Shift,* Mulder decided. "Excuse me," he said, stepping towards them. "We're looking for Lieutenant Weeks."

Day Shift looked up at them curiously, while Night Shift kept staring at the notebook. "He's in a meeting right now," Day Shift informed them. "Can I help you?"

Mulder pulled out his ID; Scully did likewise. "Actually, we're the people he's supposed to be meeting with. Agents Mulder and Scully, FBI."

Day Shift's expression closed down. Night Shift looked at them without bringing his head up. "Lieutenant's in Conference Room 2. Fourth floor."

"Thanks," Mulder said pleasantly, ignoring the usual bad vibes. Scully was already out the door by the time Mulder turned to go.

"Hold the elevator, please," she called out, running down the hall. Whoever was in the elevator either hadn't heard or didn't care, because the doors closed before she got there. Scully raised a fist like she was going to hit the doors, but she just sighed hard and dropped her hand to her side.

Mulder jogged up to her. "Think we're still asleep, and this is a Work Dream?"

Scully moved quickly towards the stairs. "If it was, we'd be in our underwear."

"My Work Dreams are better than your Work Dreams."

Scully didn't have time to give him a dirty look.

The fourth floor was more sedate, with the feeling of a recently-refurbished management suite. The walls were off-white with brown wood paneling on the wainscoting. A black plastic, white-lettered sign directed visitors to the various conference rooms and offices. The door to Conference Room 2 was across from the stairs. Scully pulled up in front of the door. She had been running hard to make the meeting on time; now that she was here, she felt almost paralyzed.

Mulder stepped up beside her, observing her expression, sensing the panic. "Scully." She reacted so slowly, he thought she might not have heard him; he was going to repeat her name when her head snapped round to face him. "It'll be okay," he assured her quietly.

Scully started to speak, then just smiled and nodded, grateful for the support. She straightened her suit jacket, knocked twice, and opened the door.

Con 2 was done up in the same style as the hallway. It was a windowless room with a whiteboard and projection screen on one end and an overhead imaging system mounted on the ceiling. Legal pads and pencils had been placed in front of every chair around the long conference table that bisected the room. A stack of six file folders sat in front of him. Coffee and donuts were laid out on a table at the other end of the room, perpetuating the legendary police archetype; a man Scully didn't recognize was pouring himself a cup. Max was over by the screen, going over handwritten notes with a woman sitting at a computer terminal. Weeks sat on the other side of the table, sipping on a cup of his own. Scully made sure to focus on him. "Lieutenant Weeks?"

Weeks smiled as he rose. "Agent Scully, please come in. It's good to see you again."

Scully gave him a professional smile as they shook hands. "Good to see you too, Lieutenant. This is my partner, Fox Mulder."

Mulder offered his hand. "Lieutenant."

Weeks' grip was firm but not crushing. "Agent Mulder," he said formally. The other man came over, sipping some coffee. His tall, lanky body and monochromatic wardrobe made Mulder think of a praying mantis in mourning. "This is Detective Michael Kreutzmann, one of the officers you'll be working with."

"Charmed," Mickey said. He was shaking hands with Mulder but speaking to Scully.

Max came over to Weeks. Scully was extremely glad the table was between them, because Max looked good enough to devour. She was wearing all Earth tones: Light brown tweed jacket, dark brown blouse, khaki slacks, brown boots. She'd also spent time on her hair, something Scully knew she hated doing every day. Max held a hand out to Scully. Her smile was the kind you gave to a colleague, or a casual acquaintance -- friendly, but no more. "How you doing, Scully?"

"Good, Max," Scully managed to say in a normal tone. "Yourself?" Until that moment, she never knew how frustrating a handshake could be.

Max shrugged. "Can't complain. Wouldn't help, anyway." Scully thought she'd have to force herself to let go. Fortunately, Max let go first and moved to shake Mulder's hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Agent Mulder."

Mulder gave her a Level 3 Smirk. "Well, either all of it's true or none of it's true."

Max gave him a smile and a chuckle. "I'll remember that."

Weeks resumed his seat, causing everyone else to sit down. "I must say, Agent Scully, I was surprised when Max told me you and your partner were going to be working with us. I thought we were going to have to deal with the local office on this." His tone clearly said he'd been unhappy with the prospect.

"The field office is working with ATF on their original militia-group theory," Scully explained. "Our assignment is to find a connection from the other end, by examining the murders themselves."

Weeks picked up a pencil and started twirling it like a baton with his fingers. "A fresh perspective couldn't hurt. I know I'm stumped." He gave the pencil one more revolution until the point was on the pad. "Well, you are here and we are here, so let's get started. All yours, Max."

Max nodded, picking up a small stack of papers as she stood. Scully thought she saw Max' hands tremble. "Okay. I know you've both studied the case file. But just so we're all on the same page, I'd like to go over the highlights of each incident before we start breaking everything down."

"Sounds good," Mulder said. Scully nodded, already holding a pencil.

Max gave them a little smile, then nodded to the computer tech. "Mickey, could you get the light?" Mickey got up and walked over to a row of switches by the door. It took him two tries, but he finally killed the lights nearest the projection screen, leaving everyone with enough light to make notes.

The PowerPoint presentation was short on frills, long on information. Max ran through the cases with an ease that belied her nervousness. Max could be gregarious to a fault, but formal public speaking was not her strong suit. She had never worked with PowerPoint before, and would have preferred to keep that record intact, but the Captain had insisted she use it. ("We've got to show these people we're not some podunk PD still living in the Stone Age," he'd harrumphed.) The Information Services tech -- a bright young civilian named Bonnie -- had been extremely helpful, so the presentation was not the problem. The problem was giving it to a group of people that included the new-found love of her life, and not being able to acknowledge it. Mulder may have been in on the secret, but no-one else in the room was, or would be any time soon. *These are not ideal working conditions,* Max thought unhappily.

After Max finished the last case, the tech put up a multi-column screen, with the perpetrators listed in the far left column. Max addressed the screen. "When we discovered the weapons connection, we looked for any other correlation between the perps. We checked families, places of birth, ethnic background, religious affiliation, educations, occupations, social organizations, military service, and arrest record, if any. No matches for all six, and what few matches we _do_ have are sketchy. Two guys were in the military, but different services and wars. Two others went to UMASS-Boston, but twelve years apart."

She nodded to Bonnie. "So, having gotten nowhere with the perps, we decided to take a look at the victims." The tech put up a screen like the first one, only it listed the names of six women. "We kept the same general parameters -- personal, educational, social. Same results, pretty much. A couple of BU grads, but years' difference. Two secretaries, but different businesses, different parts of the city. All of them work out, none at the same place."

Max sighed, turning to face her audience. "So we were back at square one. All weapons used were part of that hijacked shipment, and all the shooters are dead." She took a deep breath, averting her eyes from Scully. "But I couldn't sleep last night, so I looked over the files again. And while this may not be a connection, exactly, it is a factor we might want to consider."

"What's that, Max," Weeks asked, sounding surprised.

Max signaled the tech, who brought up the screen they were working on when Mulder & Scully walked in. "All the incidents occurred in public places. _Very_ public places: The MFA. Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Copley Square at lunch hour. A Mexican restaurant on Newbury Street. A department store in Cambridge. The lobby of the Orpheum Theatre..."

"Crime happens in the open, too," Mickey put in.

Weeks nodded in agreement. "And it's not like husbands haven't taken out their wives in public before, Max."

Max held up a hand. "Sure. At the wives' jobs, at their offices, in parking lots, that kind of thing. Not in front of God and everybody in broad daylight. And the hubbys who kill their wives at work are usually the batterers, the restraining-order types. Joel Roberge had a restraining order against him, but not for domestic violence. There's no history of spousal abuse in _any_ of these cases..."

"No _reported_ abuse," Scully said, somewhat reluctantly. "Most domestic violence goes _un_reported, either by the victims or by their families and friends."

"But if someone gets _killed_, the truth usually comes out after the fact," Max countered. "A friend, a relative, a co-worker, _someone_ gets the guilts and says, 'If only I'd _done_ something, _said_ something, yadda yadda yadda...' It happens. I've seen it. And there's nothing like that here."

"So, what?" Mickey had an elbow on the table and his head in his hand. "The He-Man Women-Haters Club's cross-breeding with the Mafia?"

Max didn't hesitate. "If Wiseguys got hit like this, we'd have Fun With Jell-O and the Gangbusters hanging from the ceiling, swearing someone was sending somebody a message."

Scully didn't say anything, but her expression showed she was torn; she didn't like arguing with Max, and knew her hypothesis was based on professional experience, but the scenario just didn't ring true.

Max couldn't read minds, but she could read faces. Weeks and Mickey wore the same dubious expression, while Mulder sat stone-faced. "Look," she said, "I _know_ it's a reach. But the only other explanation is that six guys from six different parts of Greater Boston -- most of whom wouldn't know where to get a hot gun if their lives depended on it -- went to the same gun dealer that bought guns from the same hijacked shipment, which makes the dealer dirty, as well." She shook her head firmly. "That's wayyyyy too much coincidence for _my_ low-fat diet."

Scully had scribbled a few notes on her legal pad. "Were all the couples divorced, or in the midst of divorce, when the shootings happened?"

Max consulted her notes, irritation itching at her. It sounded like Scully was trying to change the subject, and that rankled, no matter what they'd agreed on the night before. "One divorce, finalized eight months before the shooting. Three couples going through the process..." Her eyes flicked up to Scully. "Joel and Louise was one of them..." Scully nodded. Max went back to her notes. "One was in the fourth month of a legal separation, and the last couple was in counseling."

Scully's eyes flicked up from her own notes. "But they hadn't talked to lawyers yet?"

"No," Max said patiently, "but you don't ask an umpire for help unless the game's turned lousy." Max and Richard had gone through three months of counseling before they gave up and filed papers. Max stayed in bed for two days after she signed.

Scully looked at Weeks and Mickey. "We ought to see what the counselor has to say. Maybe he or she knows something the relatives don't." She looked over her shoulder at Mulder. "Also see if any of the killers was getting private counseling."

Mulder looked distracted, as usual, but nodded. "Okay, I'll buy that," Max said grudgingly. *Agree when we can, compromise when we have to...*

Mulder spoke up for the first time. "Do you have autopsy reports on the shooters?"

Max looked confused. "The perps? I suppose so. It's procedure. But their deaths were pretty cut-and-dried, Agent Mulder. Two were cut down by cops, three if you count me and Scully. Two ate their guns after the murder. One burned to death after his Porsche was T-boned by a bus while escaping..."

Mulder raised his hand to stop her. "Actually, I'm more interested in what might have happened to them prior to the last day of their lives."

Scully's eyebrow lifted off. "Are you saying their actions may have been _physiologically_ driven?"

"Talk about a reach," Max chimed in, her doubt undisguised.

Mulder didn't bat an eye. "Your reach should exceed your grasp."

Max gave Mulder a look Scully knew all too well. It was the look local cops and field-office personnel gave him when he introduced a line of investigation that made no earthly sense. "Ohhhhhhhhhkay," Max replied. "The Whiner... Doctor Weinglass, medical examiner, would have all that."

Mulder nodded. "Any of the bodies still on hand?"

Max laughed once, idly wondering what planet this polite, well-dressed man came from. "Three went into the ground over the last couple of months. Joel was buried week before last, and there wasn't enough left of the stunt driver to take home in a doggie bag. The last guy..." She glanced at her notes. "...a Louis Satterlee, retired Army colonel. He was one who took himself out, late last Thursday night. He might still be on ice."

Mulder looked at Scully. "Would you please...?"

Scully sighed, her eyes on her notes. "It's why I get paid the big money."

"If you're gonna deal with the Whiner, you'll earn it," Mickey said as an aside.

His comment got smiles from the rest of the room. Weeks' smile was the smallest. He pulled a file out of the stack and handed it across to Scully. "Anything else, Max?" Max shook her head, resuming her seat. "Well, this has been a wonderfully bonding experience. But we're not going to put this down unless we knock on some doors. Command, the DA, the mayor's office, they all want this closed soonest, with a minimum of pub. You've got theories, follow them, but don't get locked into anything. There's a reason why this happened, and it may be one we've talked about." He gave Max a look that wasn't censuring, but wasn't apologetic, either. "But it may _not_. Whatever, if you need something from anyone in the department, tell 'em the request comes from the top. If they don't believe you, call me, and I'll make sure it _does_ come from the top." Weeks addressed Mulder & Scully. "Now, I know you two came as a package. However, I want all parts of this group to have the benefit of both perspectives. Therefore, I'm splitting up the existing teams." He looked around, not waiting for an objection. "Anyone have a problem with keeping the pairings boy-girl boy-girl?"

Mulder grinned at Max. "I know I don't." His tone was a little more than friendly. Max came close to replicating a Mulder Smirk.

"No problem here," Mickey added. He'd been with the squad long enough to know it wouldn't matter if he had a problem or not; what Weeks wanted, Weeks got. Scully just shook her head, relieved the decision had been made for her. For once, she was sorry she hadn't worn heels. *I'm going to look like a midget next to Mickey.*

"Excellent," Weeks beamed. He picked up the remaining file folders and laid them out side-by-side. "Five more cases. Who does what?"

Max took a quick look at the files and grabbed the middle one -- the Roberge file. She glanced at Scully, waving a hand over the remaining files. "Pick two." Scully dropped her gaze quickly down to the table. After a moment's consideration, she took a folder from each end. Mulder picked up the last two files.

Weeks stood. So did everyone else. "The brass is riding me like a racehorse, people. Help me keep them happy. Keep me informed, keep each other informed, and keep turning the stones, regardless of the hour. Overtime budget's been approved -- get it while it's hot, get it while it's buttered. Any developments, good or bad, call me immediately. Otherwise, we meet here every morning, same bat time, same bat channel. Questions?" There were none. Weeks put his hands on his hips. "Work it."

<<LATER THAT MORNING>>

"You two don't mind if I stand over here, do you?"

"Don't be bashful, Detective Kreutzmann," Weinglass chided, pulling on a pair of long black gloves. "Step up. You might learn something." His tone made it clear he doubted that would happen.

Mickey leaned against a long counter at the far end of the room, striving to look nonchalant. "I don't need to find out what my food looks like after I've eaten it. I spent four years at Holy Cross learning that lesson."

Weinglass rolled his eyes at Scully. "Detectives can be so infantile."

Scully had already masked up, so she couldn't have smiled at Weinglass if she wanted to. Which she didn't. She examined the body in front of them with clinical detachment. Colonel Louis Satterlee, US Army (Ret.), was in marvelous condition for his age: Tight muscletone, flat stomach, good leg-muscle definition. *Stairmaster? No, he'd run. Might even have done a marathon or two. He was in shape for it...* If it weren't for the fist-sized exit wound on the back of his skull, Scully would have been hard pressed to explain why the West Point graduate wasn't still up and around.

"I honestly don't see why you have to re-examine these cases, Dr. Scully," Weinglass complained. He had refused to address her as 'Agent Scully' from the moment he found out she was a fellow pathologist. "I've been at this job 22 years, and I haven't botched a post yet."

"No-one's accusing you of that, Dr. Weinglass," Scully assured him again. "I'm afraid my partner is rather adamant about confirming whether something may have physically occurred to these men that caused their behavior, and their deaths. And he insists I be as thorough as possible." *Blame It On My Partner.* Mulder & Scully had used each other as excuses for so long, neither of them gave it a second thought.

"You want to know what caused their deaths, Dr. Scully?" Weinglass picked up a scalpel and idly tapped the exit wound. "Lead poisoning." He dropped the scalpel. "Except for the one who shuffled off while doing a poor imitation of Steve McQueen." He pulled on a mask, tugging the straps until they lay comfortably. "What caused their _behavior_ was an inability to control their private lives. Just like most of the poor former souls who roll through my door." He nodded at Satterlee's corpse. "You want blood and tissue from this one, too?"

Scully nodded, already tired of this terminally-crusty man. "Plus any anomalies we may discover. Northeastern Medical will provide the courier."

"They'd better not bill me," he grumbled. "That camera over there _should_ be loaded. Why don't you play shutterbug. My assistant called in sick. Again." Scully picked up the Polaroid camera, automatically checking the flash attachment. Weinglass' eyes flared when she pulled out her pocket Dictaphone. "My office will give you a transcript of the post."

Scully switched on the recorder and put it on a high stool next to the table. "Turnaround time on this case is very short," she said, giving him both barrels of The Ice Queen. "Shall we proceed?"

Weinglass gave a world-weary sigh, turned on the water jets and flicked a switch on the microphone hanging above the table. "Eleven-eleven-ninety six, 9:24am. Subject is a 62 year-old male Caucasian..."

--------

"I'm sorry," Leslie Davenport, Ph.D repeated. "But I'm afraid my hands are tied on this matter."

"I don't see why," Max insisted. "Your patient is dead. Privilege isn't an issue."

"Would that were true." The bespectacled psychiatrist made a helpless gesture from behind his antique mahogany desk. The desk took up a third of the small wood-paneled room he used as an office. "My patient may be dead, but there is the question of his family to consider. They may not want details of his sessions to emerge..."

Max wanted to leap over the desk and throttle the self-possession out of this man. "Doctor, the man _has_ no family. He stopped having a family when he blew Doreen O'Connor's brains all over Copley Square..."

Davenport held up a finger. "On the contrary," he corrected her. "Michael Ceterski's mother is alive and well and living the life of a retired middle school principal in Yuma, Arizona. Michael was devoted to her. I met her at the funeral, in fact. She was quite distraught, as you can imagine..."

"Excuse me," Mulder cut in, his brow furrowed. "You went to your patient's funeral?"

Davenport gave Mulder an enigmatic smile. "I counseled Michael for over two years. I'd like to think we became friends."

"Okay," Max said carefully. "What can you tell us about your _friend_?"

Davenport chuckled, his hands on his sweater-covered belly. "I'm sorry, Detective. I know you have a job to do, and are trying to do it without sullying my oath. Michael was my friend, true, but first and foremost, he was my patient. And I cannot -- and will not -- betray the trust a patient invests in me. Even from the grave."

"Doctor, we're not the tabloids," Max said, her desperation bubbling over. "I assure you anything you tell us will remain in confidence..."

Davenport shook his head, his expression implacable. "You can make all the assuring noises you wish, Detective Maxfield. But unless you can produce a legal release from Michael Ceterski's family, I refuse to give up the right of Privilege."

Max was close to exploding. She was about to threaten Davenport with arrest as a material witness when Mulder spoke up. "We understand your position on discussing past and present patients, Dr. Davenport," he said reasonably. "However, I'm wondering what your position is on _hypothetical_ patients."

Davenport regarded Mulder with mild interest. "I'm listening."

Mulder paused, his mind racing. "A patient is divorced from his second wife. His first wife has been dead for some years. A significant amount of time passes after the divorce..."

"How significant," Davenport asked.

Mulder gave him a weak smile. "Less than a year." He looked around the room, his hand following his gaze. What wall space that wasn't covered with overloaded bookcases was inundated with diplomas, plaques and pictures. "Eight months, for the sake of argument."

Davenport's smile was thin as a sheet of paper. His salt-and-pepper hair was very curly, long in the back, and badly in need of cutting. "For the sake of argument. Though you must admit, Agent Mulder, that's not really a very long time."

Mulder nodded, conceding the point. "A moment in the grand universal scheme. But an eternity for someone who's in love. Or whose love has been rejected."

Condescension seemed to come easy for Davenport. "I wouldn't listen to talk radio so much, Agent Mulder. It's not helping your view of the human condition."

Mulder let that pass. "Would a patient like that develop enough rage to commit murder?"

Davenport considered the air in front of him. "It's not out of the question. Though he could develop any number of emotions in that time."

"Like what," Max wanted to know.

Davenport didn't look at her. "Sorrow, for one. If, as you say, this was the patient's second marriage, and the patient had been alone for some time prior to this marriage, it's more than likely that the patient believed he would never be alone again. He would be partners once again. If that partnership is taken away unexpectedly, and nothing can be done to recoup that, the patient could turn inward, not lash outward."

"What would destroy a partnership like that," Mulder asked impassively.

Davenport started scanning his desk. Between notepads, pens, pictures, a small ship's clock and a Gateway PC, the tabletop was very crowded. "It is a clichŽ, but it is possible to love too much." His gaze landed on a picture in a gold frame for a moment, then looked at the two people sitting across from him. "It would not be unheard of for the patient, now part of a pair once again, to do everything to make sure his partner was happy and content. But while it does take maintenance to make a successful relationship, it is possible to work _too_ hard. Stay _too_ close. Without space, a person can suffocate."

"So good intentions can be just as damaging as bad ones," Max offered.

Davenport looked at her like the class dunce had just figured out the answer to the problem. "They can, indeed."

"The rejection of those kind of intentions could be doubly damaging, though, couldn't they?"

Davenport held his palms together, as if in prayer. "It is possible. Depending on how a patient channeled that rejection."

"If the patient channeled that rejection successfully, and did nothing for a long period of time..." Mulder began.

"How long?"

Mulder knew he was being played with, but went on anyway. "Possibly eight months?"

Davenport smiled, firm in the knowledge that he was in control. "Very well. Your question was...?"

Mulder looked him right in the eye. "What would cause the patient to abandon this process and take sudden, violent action?"

Davenport seemed to think a moment, then shook his head. "It would be difficult to form an analysis without more facts. The patient's actions could stem from a single, seemingly-innocuous incident, to a deep-seeded sense of betrayal that could no longer be denied. Of course, you would have to speak with someone who knew the patient intimately to divine that."

Max' voice was hard as a rock, and almost as flat. "Like his psychiatrist?"

Davenport did an exaggerated double take. "Well, that would be one course you could pursue." He shook his head. "Mind you, I don't know any psychiatrist who would discuss his patients' mental condition, even though the patient was no longer with us." He was the picture of artlessness. "I know _I_ wouldn't."

--------

Of all the buzzwords that floated through the 90's, Scully hated "wellness" the most. She thought it was a Boomer-inspired piece of nonsense that cheapened the cause of medicine; it offered up visions of Nehru-jacketed 'healers' that worshipped crystals and savored herbal tea. The woman behind the main desk of the Somerville Wellness Clinic was anything but a holistic hippie, but she wasn't much of a help, either.

"I don't care if you're trying to solve the murder of Martin Luther King," she said sharply. "I cannot give out that information."

"We're not asking to look at your patients' secret journals," Mickey said evenly. "We just want to speak with whoever handled the counseling of George and Anna Pelc."

The hard-eyed woman whose nametag identified her as "Melanie Radcliffe --Assistant Administrator" held her pose : Arms folded, chin cocked, mouth set. "We do not release the names of our staff to _anyone_," she repeated. "Nor do we release any information about their treatment of patients. That is our policy."

"We are not just _anyone_, Ms. Radcliffe..."

"That's right," Radcliffe agreed snippily. "_You_ are the people who are supposed to protect and serve us poor downtrodden citizens." She flicked her eyes at Scully. "_She_ is the people who keep us poor downtrodden citizens safe from terrorists and revolutionaries. And my question to you both is this: What have you done for _me_ lately?"

Kreutzmann felt stupid smiling in the face of this abuse. "A little cooperation goes a long way, Ms. Radcliffe..."

"Is that so?" The frizzy-haired matron pointed towards the front door. "You know those people who accosted you on the way in here?" She gave Scully a hard look. "The ones who gave you those leaflets you dumped in my waiting-room trashcan? Those are the fabulous folks from Operation Rescue -- you know, the happy people who chain themselves to the entrances of abortion clinics? Put clinic employees' faces on 'Wanted' posters? Applaud the killing of doctors serving their patients' needs? Their primary target is the Planned Parenthood office four doors down. We do not do abortions here; however, we _do_ have two OB-GYNs on staff, both part-time volunteers. So the protesters waylay every single woman who comes through our door, just to make sure Planned Parenthood isn't outsourcing some of its workload." She re-focused her wrath on Mickey. "The number of complaints I have made to the police is getting close to three figures. The number of times you have done anything about this ongoing harassment is still sitting on zero." She smiled. It was not a nice smile. "So you'll excuse me if I'm not brimming with the spirit of cooperation."

Mickey was starting to steam. "I see you're the Assistant Administrator. May we speak with the _Chief_ Administrator?"

"Certainly," Radcliffe said bitterly. "Get in your car, go to Logan Airport, and catch the next plane to Maui. That's where she's spending her honeymoon. If you'd rather wait, she should be back in, oh..." She glanced at her watch. "...eleven days." Her smile didn't get any nicer.

Mickey gave her an equally unfriendly grin. He stepped up to the desk and leaned his elbows on the counter. "Here's how our relationship is going to work," he said quietly. "I take my federal friend and leave this happy place. I come back with a warrant the size of the Hancock Tower, ordering you to surrender every single piece of paperwork anyone has done in the history of this establishment. I will need to do this because you will not tell me who this mystery doctor is, or what he's done, or who he's done it _to_, because that is your policy. So, to redeem myself in the eyes of my superiors -- who frown upon detectives being rebuffed by mere office staff -- I have to be meticulous as hell and examine anything Doctor X may have written, dictated, touched, seen, smelled, or tasted."

Radcliffe looked like the top of her head was going to pop off. Mickey continued as if she wasn't even there. "When I finally find the information I need, we will return this truckload of files and dump them _right_ _here_..." He rapped his knuckles twice on the counter. "...because the Boston Police Department does a lot for its citizens, but it doesn't do windows, and it doesn't file any paperwork other than its own." He leaned forward a little. Radcliffe automatically leaned back; she was shorter than Scully, so Mickey towered over her. "Which means the task of putting everything back in its proper place... will be _yours_." He flashed his grin again. "Now. Do we want to go through all that, or do we want to be best friends?"

Radcliffe breathed through her nose. She appeared to be grinding her teeth. "Are you always this delightful, Detective Kreutzmann?"

"You should see me when the moon is full. I come all undone." Mickey's smile didn't dim one watt.

Radcliffe shot daggers out her eyes at Mickey for another few seconds, then bent over and opened up a king-size Rolodex. She gave the cards a short spin, thumbed through a few, pulled one out and showed it to Mickey. When Mickey reached for it, she pulled it away. "Look," she said tersely. "Don't touch."

Scully stepped forward and jotted down the doctor's name and phone number. "What does the blue dot mean," Mickey wanted to know.

Radcliffe's voice was deadly quiet. "He's a part-time volunteer," she explained, her fingertips white as she clutched the card. "Three afternoons a week. No, I don't have his schedule."

Scully wrote that down, too. "Is this number home or work?"

"I believe he works out of his home." Radcliffe said, biting off the words.

Mickey noted the three-digit exchange. *Brookline.* "May we use your phone," he asked politely.

The multi-buttoned phone bleated an electronic ring. "It's out of order," Radcliffe dead panned. She picked up the phone. "Somerville Wellness Clinic, this is Melanie. How may I help you?"

Mickey smiled and started for the door. Scully whispered "Thank you," to Radcliffe and followed, pulling out her cell phone and dialing the number on her notepad.

Mickey held the door for Scully. "Maybe I should have said 'Please.'"

Scully gave him the look she saved for when Mulder was being immature. She listened as they came down the stairs, ignoring the leaflet-waving people rushing towards them. "Voicemail," she muttered. *Doesn't anyone answer their phone any more?*

---

Indian Summer was holding on by its fingernails in Massachusetts; the temperature was in the low 40s, and any snow that had fallen was long gone. It made the Wayland neighborhood look drab and cheerless, matching Max' mood perfectly as she came back down the blacktop walkway. "Well," she finally said, "that was a bit of fun."

Mulder walked next to her. "It's not your fault."

Max pushed her open trenchcoat behind her and stuffed her hands in her pants pockets. "Sure sounded like it to me." The screamout she'd received >from Louise Roberge's sister still rang quite loudly.

"They're grieving."

Max stopped at the foot of the walkway and turned on Mulder. "And that makes _no_ fucking sense at all! The guy molests his daughter, tries to kill her mother, and they're _crying_ about the man?! If _my_ husband ever messed with my daughter, he'd be a notch on my gun, no questions asked!"

"Different people, different ways," Mulder told her, ignoring the dichotomy she'd just presented. "How many cases have you handled where the murderer is crying for the person he killed?"

Max looked up at the battleship-gray sky. "More than a few."

"All right, then..."

"But this isn't the same thing," Max insisted. "A murder was _prevented_! And the villain was the one who went down! I mean, I understand why Louise is still tranked up a month later. I can even understand why her daughter swallowed a fistful of those tranks and tried to punch her own ticket. But it sounded back there like they were _mourning_ for Joel." She started for the car again. "He lost all his mourning privileges, in my humble opinion."

Mulder walked after her. "Sixteen years is a long time, Max. Some things don't just disappear, no matter what happens."

"I guess," Max said, still not convinced.

"Besides," Mulder reasoned, "they're angry at the media, not at you."

"How you figure _that_?" Max looked both ways before crossing the street.

"If the marriage was breaking up because Joel was having sex with his daughter, the family was probably keeping the details very quiet. This case was all over the front page and on every TV station. And they didn't leave one detail out, did they?"

Max was searching for her keys. "Nope," she said morosely. The news report Scully & Max had watched that first night only touched on the details; other stations were not so circumspect, and the Herald had used Judy Roberge's suicide attempt as inspiration for a 5-part series on incest. It was almost enough to make Max buy a bird, so she'd need something to line the cage.

"This all would have come out whether you'd stopped Joel or not." Mulder walked around to the passenger side. "Springer and Geraldo aside, most people like to keep their private lives private."

"Ain't that the truth." Max got behind the wheel and slammed the door, leaning over to unlock Mulder's side. She sighed as he got in. "Think the girl's getting help?"

Mulder put on his seat belt and tried to get comfortable. Max needed the bench seat close to the dashboard in order to drive, which did not mesh well with Mulder's long legs. "One would hope. If Judy attempted suicide, she'd probably need to receive counseling to avoid prosecution. Looks like the family's trying to shove everything under the rug, though."

"Great." Max pressed her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Look, this next place is out on the South Shore. That's a ways from here. Want to catch some lunch before we head out?"

Mulder waved at the street. "You're the driver."

Max held the steering wheel but didn't start the engine. "Well, this vehicle belongs to the City of Boston. That means a city employee has to drive."

Mulder looked over at her. "I understand."

Max paused. "I hate to drive."

A Smirk started to form. "I hate riding shotgun."

Max turned her head towards him. "You break it, you bought it," she warned after a few moments.

"If that's the case," Mulder returned, "someone owes the city a lot of money."

Max broke up as she popped her belt. The three-year-old unmarked Caprice had seen more than its share of Bondo. Mulder scooted behind the wheel and adjusted the seat as Max got out and walked around the front of the car.

<<LUNCHTIME>>

Scully's eyebrow stayed cocked from the moment Mickey ordered it until the waitress went away. "A Fribble?"

Mickey cocked an eyebrow of his own. "Greatest milkshake on the planet. Don't knock it til you've tried it."

"I'm not. I'm just amazed anyone could buy any food product that sounds like an indiscreet bodily function."

"It's just Stupid-Name Marketing," Mickey maintained. "American as Chicken McNuggets." He pointed a finger at her, assuming a mock-accusing tone. "Are you now or have you ever ordered a Choco Taco? Biggie Fries? A Whopper Junior, with extra cheese?"

Scully shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mickey, but _none_ of those match up to the inanity of 'Fribble'. It sounds like you should excuse yourself after you order one."

Mickey waved her off, putting his napkin in his lap. "Ahh, you're an out-of-towner. If you grew up here, you could order Fribbles, frappes, and bottles of pop without a second thought." He changed from light to earnest. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't ask you if this place was okay for lunch. You federal types must be used to better."

Scully laughed softly, looking around the cheerful-with-extreme-prejudice restaurant, the hubbub barely drowning out the drone of Route 1. "Compared to some of the greasy spoons Mulder and I have had to stomach, this is a 4-star bistro. It's fine, don't worry."

Mickey looked relieved. "I should have gone somewhere else, anyway. I could use the change-of-pace. Max and I have been doing Friendly's for the last ten days. It's the only place we seem to agree on for lunch."

--------

"I haven't been to Friendly's in years," Mulder said, adding sugar to his coffee.

Max took a sip of iced tea. "Oh yeah! Scully said you used to live here."

"Chilmark, out on the Vineyard. Never had the pleasure of living in the city. My dad used to bring me into town to see the Sox, though."

Max perked up at the mention of her beloved Red Sox. "When was the last time you saw a game?"

Mulder's grin was beyond boyish. "1975."

She smiled wide. "A classic year. Who'd they play?"

Mulder ducked his head. "You'll hit me."

Max frowned, but still smiled. "No, I won't."

"The Reds."

Max blinked. "The R-"

"Pudge hit a homer off Pat Darcy in the bottom of the twelfth."

If Max' jaw had dropped any farther, it would have broken the table. "You were at Game Six?!"

"Twelve rows back from the visitors' bullpen." Mulder could almost hear the cheers, smell the popcorn, see Carlton Fisk wave the game-winning dinger around the foul pole. "Greatest World Series game ever played."

Max leaned back with her arms folded, looking at Mulder with evident respect. "Well, color me _impressed_!"

Mulder Smirked. "What color _is_ that, anyway?"

"Green." Her look turned speculative. "You want to talk sports... or do you wanna _talk_?"

The Smirk shut down almost immediately. He took a breath and said, "Talk, I think."

Max nodded. She had been expecting him to say something, ask something, do something all morning. It had kept her on tenterhooks. Now that the discussion was finally about to begin, she was one step away from taking flight. She took another sip to steady herself. "So," she said in a softer tone. "Am I what you expected?"

Mulder looked at her quizzically. "What was I supposed to expect?"

Max shrugged. "Oh, you know. The ass-kicking, man-hating, bull-moose diesel dyke that lured your partner into a life of unholy carnality."

Mulder wasn't remotely fazed. "I just figured you saved the motorcycle jacket and hobnailed boots for weekends."

The Framingham Friendly's was packed and noisy, but Max' unbridled laughter was loud enough to make people in adjoining booths glance at her as she banged the table with her hand. Mulder smiled wanly at the spectators. "Okay," she wheezed, when she gained enough control. "We can get along." Their orders arrived. Max had almost caught her breath, but she waited until the waitress left before she said, "I assume you have questions."

Mulder looked at his chicken sandwich. It had seemed like a good choice when he ordered it. "A few." *More like a thousand...*

Max poured steak sauce on her burger. "Fire away."

Mulder nodded, but didn't start. He wasn't scared, but the moment was more than a little intimidating. Mulder hadn't expected Max to be a "diesel dyke" (*Scully would have run like hell before the first kiss was even attempted...*), but he had always been under the impression that beautiful lesbians only lived in his video collection. Max wasn't centerfold-beautiful by any means, but there was a quality about her that could definitely turn a head or two. *It's in her eyes, her smile,* he decided. *Just like Scully.*

Mulder decided to start small. "Scully says you're a second-generation cop."

Max nodded, swallowing. "Only one in the brood. We got a doctor, an architect, a high school football coach, and your classic suburban soccer mom. Me? I wanted to wear blue for a living."

"Was your dad Plainclothes, too?"

Max shook her head. "Uniform. Worked the streets eighteen years, then was a Desk Sergeant. 34 years total, with a pension and a hearty handshake."

"He must have been proud when you made Detective," he observed.

Max smiled into her burger. "That he was."

"And you've been on the force how long?"

"Eight years. I got drafted as a decoy for Vice my second year. The shift commander liked how I handled myself, made the transfer permanent five months later."

"Not bad," Mulder observed.

Max looked depressed for a moment. "Well, I love it, it's my life. But if I had my druthers, I druther have waited a couple years more before it happened."

"Resentment?" Mulder's tone said he knew it wasn't much of a guess.

Max took a ferocious bite out of her burger. She nodded as she chewed. "Part of it was me coming in too fast, part of it was I replaced a cop who'd been at the same desk since LBJ was President..." She sighed. "And part of it was the age-old problem." She hunched her shoulders and put on a gruff voice. "'No Girls Allowed In The Treehouse.'"

Mulder ate some coleslaw. It was a little too bland for his taste, so he added some pepper. "And you've been in Homicide...?"

"Three years next February."

"It looks like you thrive in it." *_God_, that sounds feeble!*

Max picked up her glass and toasted the air. "'When they care enough to send the very best.' That's what my partner says."

"Mickey? Is that his name?"

Max looked confused, then abashed. "Oh! Sorry. No, not Mickey. The Bear... Merrill Reese. _He's_ my partner." She put the glass down, going from embarrassed to pensive. "Well, he's my _ex_-partner, actually, but I'd like to wait til he makes it official before I call him that."

"Is he retiring?"

Max made a face. "That's the less-attractive option. The better one, which he'll probably take, is promotion and a desk job. He got wounded in the line of duty back in September. The brass told him he's only got two ways to go when he leaves the hospital: Up or Out."

"I'm sorry." Mulder didn't know what he'd do if he ever lost Scully that way. *Or any way.*

Max forked some french fries, dipped them in steak sauce, and ate them. "It could be worse," she said, still chewing. "Mickey's cool. He's gonna be all right." She washed the fries down with some water. "He doesn't ask stupid questions. He knows enough movie trivia to keep a stakeout tolerable." She smiled. "And he likes to drive."

"Important qualities in a peace officer," Mulder declared, trying to look serious.

"Yes, they are." She still smiled, but she was giving Mulder that ruminating look again. "You're not asking the questions you _want_ to ask."

Mulder hedged. "Like...?"

Max waved her empty fork around. "Oh, like... 'Why Scully?'"

*She's very good.* Mulder nodded in compliance. "Okay. Why Scully?"

Max considered her own question. "Because... I had to? I mean, I was just walking through the MFA, chilling out on my day off, when I get to my favorite picture in the museum, this great Renoir of the Seine... And there she was. And I..." The words left her. Mulder waited, hands folded on the table, knowing more would come. They did, in softer tones again. "I've only been in one other relationship before this. No intermediate stops. No one-nighters. I don't go to museums to cruise." She shook her head, addressing the space between them. "I was just... _petrified_. If she hadn't been so locked into the painting, and had seen me before I said anything, I'd have turned into the Roadrunner." She flattened out her free hand and shot it off to one side, like a cartoon character making tracks before the anvil hits the highway. Mulder chuckled; Max didn't. "But I had to speak to her. I _had_ to." She looked up, amazement in her eyes, searching for words again. "I would have been happy just to get the time of day. I _never_ expected..." She looked off at the other side of the restaurant, shaking her head at all of it.

"She loves you, you know," Mulder said quietly.

Max laughed softly, still looking off. "Ain't _that_ a kick in the ass," she said, more to herself than him.

Mulder's gaze was very intent. "How do you feel about that?"

Max pondered a little. "Like I won Lotto? Like someone died and left me my own personal diamond mine? Like the Goddess came down from Heaven and said, 'You've been a good little biped, here's a present?'" Mulder said nothing. Her expression solidified. "You're afraid I'll hurt her."

"No," Mulder said quickly. *Not any more.* "But I am afraid she _will_ be hurt."

Max stirred the remains of her iced tea with her straw. "You're talking about her family."

"Has she told you anything about them?"

"Enough to know it's gonna be a hard sell," she admitted.

Mulder nodded. "Yes."

"Well..." She licked her lips. "I guess they're just gonna have to get used to having me around." Max looked up at Mulder. Her eyes were dark with seriousness. "I've been waiting all my life for her, Mulder," she said simply. "Words haven't been invented to describe how much I love her. And I will wade through blood, shit, fire, famine, plague, pestilence... and the IRS... if that's what it takes to keep her." She drained her glass, sucking the last bits of condensation out with her straw. "Any more questions?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "Want to split a sundae?"

--------

"...I'm never home, she's on the road. Neither of us wants children. Both of us get long glowing messages on our voicemail. And the reunions are truly spectacular. It's the perfect anti-marriage."

Scully tried not to ruin Mickey's twisted domestic fantasy. *Everyone's allowed to be in love,* she reminded herself. "Well, she's local. That helps, I guess. It sounds like you were lucky to even meet her in the first place."

Mickey's smile oozed self-congratulation. "Never waited by a stage door before. Hell, I just wanted to tell her I'd enjoyed her routine. If I'd known she was going to say anything other than 'Buzz off,' I would've dressed better."

Scully sucked some Fribble through her straw; she had ordered it against her better judgment. It was chocolate, and it was terrific. *But then, is there such a thing as _bad_ chocolate?* "Doesn't being engaged to a stand-up comic automatically put you in her routine?"

Mickey didn't seem bothered. "Great. I'll become a famous invisible man, like Steadman or Fang." He drank some water. "Hey, you known Max long?"

Alarm bells didn't go off, but Scully did become guarded. "About a month. Why?"

"You know if she's going out with someone?"

Scully forced herself to be off-hand. "Why? You interested?"

Mickey waved both arms, laughing. "_God_, no! I mean, don't get me wrong, we get along and all. She's a great partner, she's teaching me new stuff every day, but... well, even if I _wasn't_ attached, I wouldn't want Max to be my partner twenty-four seven, you know?"

"That's a good thought," Scully answered, dreading the direction of this conversation. She decided to take hold of it. "What makes you think she's going out with someone?"

The waitress dropped the check on the way by. "Thank you," she called over her shoulder.

Mickey examined the check as he spoke. "Well, look, don't tell her I told you, but... She's been in this all-star funk the last couple of weeks, right? Not with me so much, but I could see it with other people. Cops, perps, even Boss Weeks. You don't mind if we do Dutch, do you?" Scully nodded, annoyed at the aside. She took the check and calculated her half of lunch and tip. "Anyway," Mickey continued, "Monday morning she comes in..." He laughed again. "And she's not dancing on the tables singing 'Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah,' but if bluebirds had started landing on her shoulder, I wouldn't have been surprised."

Scully kept a straight face, but inside she was divided between singing and terror. She rejoiced at Max' jubilant demeanor, but cringed at the fact Mickey had picked up on it. "Maybe she just had a good weekend." *God knows we both did.*

Mickey shook his head. "Unh unh. No way. That's what _she_ said, but I've gotta think a guy was involved."

Scully's back muscles stopped bunching at the word 'guy'. She reached for her wallet. "She's single too, Mickey. She's entitled." She adopted an advising tone of voice. "And she's also entitled to her privacy. If she wants to tell you about it, I'm sure she will." *Dana, you are a manipulative minx,* she scolded herself, laughing internally in spite of her relatively dishonest stratagem.

"Yeah, I suppose." He paused, then made a disgusted face. "Yuck."

Scully looked surprised. "What?"

"Good thing I'm finished. I just lost my appetite."

"Thinking about the autopsy again," she asked sympathetically.

"Naw. Thinking about Monday."

"Why?"

"We got first call out of the box. Some sawed-off little Wiseguy got turned into julienne fries. Pretty it was _not_."

Scully could hear her pulse pound. "Sawed-off little wiseguy...?"

Mickey nodded, putting a ten on the table. "Foot soldier in the Cellini organization. They're the local branch of The Outfit. Guy was short _before_ they started cutting stuff off. You want to make it a ten-spot a piece? That's just about twenty percent."

Scully just nodded. Her appetite had vanished, too.

--------

Max was halfway to the car when she stopped. Mulder was trailing, and nearly ran into her. "What," he asked.

Max turned around, a shy smile on her face. "I almost forgot." She got up on tiptoe and kissed Mulder lightly on the lips.

Mulder looked like someone had hit him in the face with a fish. "What-"

"That's for saving Scully's life." She grabbed his hand and squeezed it once. "Do it a lot."

Mulder grinned. "Well, if that's the going reward..." He leaned down and kissed her back. She was beaming as he straightened up. "Shall we go?"

Max waved at the Caprice. "You're the driver," she said playfully.

They were only five minutes away from the Mass Pike. The gray Mystique maintained a four-car cushion all the way through the tollbooth and onto the highway. The man behind the wheel was about to follow them onto Route 128, congratulating himself on a textbook tail-job, when his carphone rang. The orders were terse, the explanation shocking. A UPS 26-wheeler commented on the Mystique's abrupt course change with an angry blast of its air-horn.

<<THURSDAY AFTERNOON>>

Scully tapped her temple with her finger. "Think anyone's home?"

"With a set-up like this," Mickey said, pressing the buzzer again, "it probably takes a minute for Jeeves to answer the bell."

Mickey looked over the steering wheel at the tall iron gates, the electronic keypad, the state-of-the-art surveillance cameras, the black metal sign welded to the gate that said 'COF -- Private' in bright red letters. The directions in Jeffrey Shultz' Dayrunner had brought them to this rolling hill country two miles north of Ashby. They appeared below the note 'COF, 8pm', written in Shultz' seismograph-like script; after that, the initials and time appeared once a week for six months, with no amendments.

The buzzer was part of a small black speaker mounted on a pole next to the keypad. Mickey had tried various combinations of buzzes -- Shave and a Haircut, the Mexican Hat Dance -- and was halfway through the first chorus of the Macarena when a metallic voice came out of the speaker. "Can I help you," it barked.

Mickey almost ordered a Whopper Junior with extra cheese, but decided the person on the other end wouldn't appreciate the joke. "Yes," he said. "You can lower the drawbridge and let us in."

"This is private property, sir," the speaker informed him. "I'm afraid you'll have to turn around."

Sighing, Mickey showed his badge to the camera. "I'm afraid _you're_ mistaken. _This_ is police business. Open 'em up." The speaker went silent and stayed silent. "Someone's talking to someone," Mickey singsonged.

"Mm hm." Scully had been less than talkative since Mickey told her about Max' first case of the week. She hadn't decided on an emotion yet; Shock, Anger, and Relief were all in the running.

The speaker crackled to life again. Even through the static, Scully could tell a new person had come to the intercom. "Once again, this is private property. Unless you have a warrant, there is no compunction on our part to open these gates. We have our rights, and we will exercise them. Good day." There was a blast of static and nothing more.

Scully got out and walked around the back of the car. Mickey watched her in the rear view mirror, trying to fathom her hardened expression. *What the fuck, over?* His curiosity turned to consternation when Scully walked up to the speaker, pressed the white button and held it.

"I don't think deafening them is the way to go," Mickey said, trying to sound helpful.

Scully ignored him, counting to herself. She was up to 'twenty-three-one-thousand' when the last voice came back on the line. "I will not repeat myself..."

"Fine," Scully said sharply. "Neither will I." She pulled out her ID and showed it to the camera. "You've seen _his_ badge. Now see _mine_. Detective Kreutzmann and I are here for the same reason. My presence makes it a _federal_ reason. We appreciate you have your rights, sir, but we have a job to do. Part of that job is asking you questions about a man who came to this address over a period of several months. Now, we can do this one of two ways: You open the gates, we come in and ask our questions, and we go away. _Or_ you keep the gates shut, we go away _mad_, and come back with the most generally