HEADS UP! HOT BOILERPLATE, COMIN' THROUGH! MAKE A HOLE, MAKE IT WIDE...

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..."

[end part 1 of 6, TRNT 5 - Storm]