[begin part 4 of 6, TRNT 5 - Storm]

<<EARLY THURSDAY EVENING>>

The first thing Scully said when Max opened the door was, "Is there
anything to drink?"

Max watched her as she stalked into the apartment. "Soft or hard?"

Scully took off her trenchcoat, patently furious. "Hard. _Very_ hard."

Max gently took the coat before Scully could throw it across the
livingroom. "Franjelico?"

"Double."

Max whistled. Scully liked her drinks relatively weak, and usually had no
more than two. Max started towards the kitchen. "Shit, what _else_
happened?"

"They searched our hotel rooms."

Max spun around. "Say _what_?"

Scully nodded, brushing past Max as she walked into the kitchen. Max
followed her. "You heard right. Went through the drawers, the beds, the
cabinets, our bags, our _clothes_. They looked through my _underwear_, for
God's sake!"

Max was aghast. "Who did this?" *MacKechnie, I swear to God...*

Scully pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down hard. "The field office. I
guess Renko was able to spare a few men from the militia hunt." She hit the
table with the flat of her hand. "They managed to leave _every_ _one_ of my
suits in a pile on the floor! The hotel farms out its dry-cleaning, so I'm
in these clothes til tomorrow, at least!"

Max winced. She'd done more than a few searches where she'd been casual
about other people's belongings. *At least none of my guys did this. I'd
hate to have to shoot a coworker...* "How'd they get the warrant," Max
wanted to know. "This is straight murder! The FBI can't..."

"The manager said the agents showed him a piece of paper, but he didn't
look at it closely," Scully said bitterly. "He was too busy opening up our
rooms before the Agent in charge started yelling at him again." Scully
looked out the airshaft as she pictured the manager, a nice enough
middle-aged man who looked like he wanted to crawl under his desk in the
face of Mulder's wrath.

"They had to have been bluffing," Max declared. "Feebies don't handle
domestic murder cases, so a judge wouldn't give them a warrant. At least,
not one that would stand up. It's a bogus search..."

"Goddamnit, Max, that's not the point!" Max flinched at Scully's roar.
"They're accusing us of _murder_! Of the murder of a fellow federal agent!
I don't know whether Renko really believes we did it, or he's just using
this as another way to get to me! Either way, I don't _care_!"

Max blew out a breath and went over to the cupboard and pulled out two
lowball glasses and the oddly-shaped bottle that held her favorite liqueur.
"What does Mulder have to say?"

Scully drummed her fingers on the table. "Nothing printable. He was raving
to Skinner when I left."

Max poured out two large shots of the almond liquid. *Hell, after this
news, _I_ need a double!* "Well, if Skinner is anything like Weeks, the
Feebies better have Renko's DNA on file. They'll need it to identify the
remains."

She brought Scully's glass over and put it down on the table. Scully picked
it up. Max clinked her glass with Scully's. Max drank. Scully didn't.
"That's not all I'm angry about."

"What else?"

Scully gave Max a sidelong look. "Mickey told me about Joey."

Max looked at her, then closed her eyes. *Fucked up, Maxie.* "He did, did he?"

Scully's gaze turned fully on Max. For once, it was not a pretty sight. "We
spoke every night before I came up here, and spoke again after I arrived.
I'll admit that mentioning this during our _last_ conversation would have
been mood-destroying, to say the least. But why didn't I hear it from you
_before_ that? Or before I heard it from your partner?"

Max' head pointed towards the floor, eyes still closed. "Because I didn't
have all the facts."

Scully's nostrils flared. "He was dead and you were out of danger. Those
are all the facts _I_ needed..."

Max' eyes opened. "Well, that wasn't enough for _me_."

Scully put her glass down hard. "Damn you, Max! You _knew_ how worried I
was over this..."

Max' head came up fast. "Yes! I knew! So excuse me if I didn't want to give
you something _else_ to dream about!"

"_What_ else?!"

"I'll be glad to tell you if you'll get off my fucking neck, all right?!"

Scully held up both hands. "Talk," she said quickly. "I'm listening."

Max' teeth were clenched behind her lips. She walked away from Scully,
taking a big sip of her drink. Scully watched her move, aware of how angry
she was and not caring at all. "You know Joey's dead," Max finally said.
She turned back to Scully. "But you don't know _how_ he died."

"Mickey said he'd been cut up..."

Max laughed darkly. "Mickey has a great talent for understatement." She
leaned against the sink. "He wasn't just _cut up_, Scully. He was
_tortured_. Whiner figures whoever used him for a doll worked on him for at
least a day, maybe two. Sliced, diced, whipped, burned, broken. He was
castrated. He..." She stopped, remembering Joey's face when Nicholas took
the hood off Joey's head. Remembering the duct tape, and what it kept
inside Joey's mouth. Max took a quick sip to drown the nausea and put the
glass on the counter next to the sink. Scully was usually pale. Now she was
white as a sheet. "Joey's dead," Max continued. "Fine. Good. More beer for
us. And it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." She took another sip.
"But if he died that way because of me..."

Scully looked at Max like she was speaking in tongues. "What are you
talking about?"

Max looked back at her. "Remember what Cellini said that night, when he
told Joey to step off of me? 'There is more than one way to skin a cat?'"

"Max, you don't know that's why he..."

"That's right, Scully! I _don't_ know that's why he died!" She grabbed her
glass, pushed off the sink and walked over to the table. "For all I know,
Joey swung both ways on the Bat Rope, and found the male equivalent of a
Black Widow spider. For all I know, he went home with someone who's read
too many Thomas Harris novels." She sat down in the chair next to Scully's.
"But if Joey _did_ die because he was going to settle things between us, I
need to _know_ that, if it's going to sit on my conscience for however long
it takes to forget it."

Scully took several deep breaths. The thought of Joey killing Max, and
Cellini's mild allusion to what else Joey would have wanted to do ("Joseph
is somewhat... demanding of women."), made her physically sick. "Did you
discover anything that would make you think that's what happened?"

Max shook her head. "We'd only been working it about a day and a half, and
we had less than zilch. It was Three Monkeys time: Nobody _knew_ nothing,
nobody _saw_ nothing, nobody was _saying_ nothing. 'Omerta' to the tenth
power. Joey hadn't been home for a week. His wife said that wasn't unusual
for him, so she didn't worry about it. She also wasn't real broken up about
him being gone for good. His best friend... Remember Leon, that mountain
you faced down?" Scully nodded, repressing a shudder at the image of Leon's
face in the T-sight of her Sig. "He pled Clueless, too. We were working on
him when Fun With Jell-O and the DA pulled the plug."

"Why'd they do that," Scully wondered.

Max looked down at the table. "Maybe they thought I was gonna tank the case."

"What?!"

Max waved her glass around as she shrugged. "Hey, I'm surprised I'm not a
_suspect_. They knew I had motive, or at least enough motive to make me
look decent."

Scully's anger was flaring again. "That's ludicrous!"

"You don't know the full story," Max maintained.

"Then tell me!" Scully had tried not to shout.

Max looked down at her glass, silent. She shook her head slowly. "Y'know,
sometimes I'm too good a Do Be for my own good?" She looked up at Scully.
"I told Weeks about what happened in the garage." She laughed quietly.
"Bear told me not to. He said nothing good would come of it." She made a
noncommittal gesture with her free hand. "But the rule is you report _any_
contact with Organized Crime members. _Anything_, even if you stand behind
John Gotti's second cousin while he buys a pack of gum at Store 24. You do
_not_ want that rule biting you in the butt. Anyway, I figured they might
hear about it from your people when Moncrief did his little dance on Beach
Nut." She ran a hand through her hair. "So I tell Loot. He has to tell the
Captain." She drained her glass. Her smile contained no mirth whatsoever.
"And the next thing I know, I've got Paddock and IAD on one side swearing
they _knew_ I was in bed with Cellini, Funigello and the Gangbusters on the
other side making stupid plans to _get me_ in bed with Cellini! Get him to
talk about Joel Roberge on _tape_! I would have laughed if it wasn't so
sad!"

Scully's jaw was hanging free. "Why didn't you call me about this?!"

Max couldn't look at her. "I was waiting for _you_ to call _me_, remember?"
Before Scully could say anything, Max added, "As it turned out, you backed
me up anyway."

Scully's head was spinning. "How?"

"OCU had a bug in the limo. They've got tape of our whole conversation with
Tommy C. It matched up with a deposition you gave on Beauchamp's covert job
on you. If you remember, part of your testimony included a blow-by-blow of
what we talked about with Tommy."

*Thank you, God, for making me thorough. Skinner would have told me this,
so Moncrief must have gotten the deposition to the DA. One more favor I owe
him,* Scully thought, remembering his role in covering up Scully's
relationship with Max. "And they couldn't get anything on Cellini from
that?"

Max looked supremely disgruntled. "You remember Cellini. He never got out
of the hypothetical. Or, at least, not far enough so he could get nailed on
being in bed with Joel. That's the difference between him and other bosses:
He's a lawyer, and he never forgets that."

"So what happened?"

Max shrugged. "Nothing, as it turned out. Three days later the Captain
calls me in, says I'm in the clear, and Fun With Jell-O's not going to try
and play me with Cellini because he'd be too suspicious." Her lip curled
into a snarl. "Paddock was there, too. Said I'd just fuck it up anyway. If
we'd been alone, I'd have kicked the shit out of him! Son of a bitch went
through my bank records, my phone records, talked with everyone I've ever
worked with, asking if they thought I ever tanked a case that was
Mob-related..." She smiled a small smile, giggled once. "The Bear clocked
him a good one with his cast. Popped three stitches throwing that fat
bastard out of the hospital room."

Scully took Max' hand. "Max, deposition or no deposition, you _should_ have
called me."

Max shook her head. "I was afraid."

Scully had a minor Roger Rabbit Moment. "Afraid? You?"

Max nodded. "I was afraid if you got involved, Paddock might start asking
questions about us. Start asking questions about _you_. And that might
rebound on you with the Bureau. And even if it didn't... it might have been
enough to scare you away..."

Scully squeezed Max' hand hard. "Max, look at me." Max did. "We are not You
and Me. We are _Us_. We work _together_ on these things..."

"But we _weren't_ together," Max whispered, her eyes filling up. "There
_was_ no Us. Not then! There was You who wasn't sure, and Me who was doing
a lot of wishing and hoping! And I didn't want..."

Scully got up and pulled Max into her arms, holding her while she cried.
"It's okay," she said softly, stroking Max' hair. "It's alright. It's over.
You got through it. _We_ got through it."

"Maybe," Max said into Scully's chest, trying to pull herself together.
"The other shoe hasn't dropped yet."

Scully rested her chin on Max' shoulder. "Do you really think they'll make
you a suspect?"

Max shook her head. "Whiner's guesstimate on when Joey's pain started
coincides with Chris & Neesie coming up the aisle." She laughed once,
putting on the voice of a thug. "I got a air-tight alibi."

Scully chuckled. She kissed the top of Max' head. "So what are you worried
about?"

Max looked up at her with bright red eyes. "What if Cellini did have Joey
killed because of me... and he calls me on it?"

Scully went cold. "Would he do that?" *Lord, Dana, ask _another_ stupid
question!*

Max wiped her eyes. "Well, if he does, I'm going to do one of two things...."

"And those are?"

Max sniffed. She picked a napkin off the stack in the middle of the table
and blew her nose. "I'm going to join the TAC Squad, so I can learn how to
shoot someone from a very long way away. I will _not_ be beholden to pond
scum like Tommy Cellini."

Scully wanted to laugh, but it wasn't funny at all. "And the second thing?"

Max tossed the balled-up napkin in the wastebasket. She gave Scully a
sidelong look. "Book us two seats on the Space Shuttle?"

Now Scully laughed. "I hate to fly. Always have."

"Troublemaker."

"Look who's talking." They went into each other's arms again. "Max, I pray
that it doesn't happen. But if it does, please don't go it alone, and
_please_ don't keep me out of the loop. We work _together_ on it. Okay?"

Max nodded, flooded with relief. "Together." Pause. "Forever."

Scully hugged her harder. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Max massaged Scully's back. "Hey, you had the right. I should have told you
about Joey."

"Yes. You should have." She kissed Max' cheek. "But I understand why you
didn't."

Max growled into Scully's collarbone. "I don't want to think about any of
this. I had a lousy afternoon, and pissing you off didn't make it any
better."

Scully frowned again. "Mulder was that much of a pain, huh?" *Mulder, if
you gave her the 3rd Degree...*

Max shook her head. "Mulder wasn't the problem. _He_ was terrific. I could
ride with him every day."

Scully's frown eased as she took on a Mulder Smirk. "Then this was
_obviously_ your first day as his partner."

That broke them up again. Max looked up at Scully, putting them forehead to
forehead. "I'll tell you about it, but after I do, would you please
distract me? I'd kinda like that."

Scully cocked an eyebrow at her. "Soft or hard?"

Max thought a moment. "Soft." She smiled. "For now, anyway."

Scully stroked Max' cheek. "I can do that."

<<THURSDAY NIGHT -- BOSTON>>

*It could be worse,* Mulder decided. *Boston could be having a blizzard,
and I could be walking into the wind.* He hunched his shoulders a little
further as another gust blew up his back. It was not a night for man or
beasts used to creature comforts, so the absence of personal transportation
should have kept Mulder firmly planted in his hotel. Unfortunately, his
room was still a semi-shambles, every piece of equipment in the hotel
fitness center had a half-hour wait, and drinking in one of the Hilton's
two bars would lead to no good end.

Mulder needed vicarious entertainment, Stat. His Playstation was back in
DC; AOL's Boston modems were terminally busy; the Bruins had the night off
and the Celtics were on the road; and watching Renko get chased down by a
flock of M1 tanks seemed out of the question. So that meant movies. The
problem _there_ was there was nothing worthwhile on either the cable or
pay-TV channels. (*Why do they _bother_ making soft-core porn films,*
Mulder wondered again.) The theater complex the concierge had directed him
to was close to a subway stop, but Mulder still had to walk a few blocks.
It was a two-story affair attached to a hotel/office block/strip
mall/parking garage. It had all the glamor of a high-rise Hardees. Mulder
was just across from it when his cell phone went off. *Could it be _good_
news, for once?* He ducked under the overhang of a nondescript sub shop and
pressed the 'Talk' button. "Mulder."

Skinner's first words were, "Renko's sticking by the search."

*No news is good news.* "I don't believe it," Mulder seethed.

"He maintains it's important to eliminate you and Agent Scully as
suspects," Skinner told him, Automaton Mode fully in place. "He says OPC
would do the same thing, and his people are merely saving them legwork."

"He could have saved our personal effects some wear-and-tear by waiting for
the coroner. Agent Duguay was killed between 6 and 8 this morning; Scully
and I were having breakfast in the hotel restaurant from 6:20 on. I've got
the receipt. How were we supposed to kill Duguay, dump him over a mile from
our hotel -- without transportation -- get back, get cleaned up, and be
having juice, milk and Trix twenty minutes later? The timeline doesn't
work."

Skinner sighed. "Agent Duguay's personal vehicle was found in the hotel
garage. The lab found no traces of blood, and no prints other than his.
Agent Renko insists that doesn't mean you didn't use the car to move Duguay
to where he was found. He also cites several examples where the coroner was
off on time-of-death by over two hours."

It was Mulder's turn to sigh. "Did he say anything about what Duguay might
have been doing when he got killed? Or about the warrant his search party
showed the manager?"

"Renko says whatever Duguay was doing was on personal time. I don't believe
it, but I've got nothing to back that feeling up. Yet."

Mulder Smirked in spite of his anger. *There are times when you piss me off
righteously, Mister Assistant Director. And there are times when I really
wish we could be drinking buddies.*

"He also says the manager must have been mistaken or flustered," Skinner
continued, "because there _was_ no warrant. Renko pointed out that OPC
would not have needed a warrant to search your belongings while you were on
Bureau business."

"Sounds like our interim SAC has a few issues with OPC." Mulder looked at
his watch. Ten minutes til the screening began. He moved out of the doorway
and started across the street.

"He'd better resolve them in short order," Skinner returned. "Bob Britton's
flying back from a family reunion to handle this matter personally. He
should be in the area by tomorrow morning." He sighed again, his tone
edging towards the personal. "I know this is an annoyance, Agent Mulder,
but both you and Agent Scully must be prepared to answer any questions he
may have."

*Ain't we got fun.* "I'll be sure to bring the receipt," Mulder said dryly.
"Scully and I have an eight-o'clock meeting at police headquarters. If
Britton can link up with us there, we could save everyone a lot of time."

"I'll let him know," Skinner assured him. His voice turned mildly
quizzical. "Where are you? You sound like you're in a wind tunnel."

Mulder went up the stairs of the two-level parking garage two at a time.
"Just taking my thoughts for a stroll, sir."

"Don't lose them anywhere, Agent Mulder," Skinner advised, professional
again. "This may indeed be a vindictive action by SAC Renko. But until
that's determined, these are still serious charges, and must be treated
accordingly."

Mulder came out onto the roof of the garage. The theater was on the other
side of the expanse of cars. Mulder headed towards it. "Believe me, sir, we
are both taking these charges _very_ seriously."

"I have no doubt, Agent Mulder." Skinner said quietly. "Enjoy your walk."
Click.

Mulder turned the phone off and on, listened for a dialtone, and pressed
Scully's memory button. A cheery voice came on the line: "Welcome to AT&T
Wireless Service. The cellular customer is either unavailable or out of
range..."

Mulder looked at his cell phone. *Scully turned off her phone?* Then his
mind clicked on why she would do something totally foreign to him. He
looked up at the clouds as he put the phone away. "And how do you feel
about that, Mr. Mulder," he said aloud as he entered a glass enclosure that
shielded a pair of escalators from the elements. The 'Down' escalator was
working, but the 'Up' escalator was not. Mulder groaned and started
trudging up the stairs.

For the three days prior to this assignment, Mulder & Scully had done
nothing except sit around the basement, catch up on paperwork, eat Chinese
take-out, and re-hash some of their ongoing debates: Whether it mattered if
Clinton was lying about Paula Jones; whether it was better to eat in a
diner or a McDonald's; whether paper-training a puppy with the National
Enquirer should be considered cruelty to animals. Simple, innocuous stuff.
But even in these small things, Mulder could see the change in Scully. To
others it may have seemed like all was normal, but Mulder saw the
difference.

Mulder had always hated Scully's 'Ice Queen' nickname; she was never the
liquid-oxygen-cool, emotion-free technician she was made out to be. On the
other hand, Scully was no longer the fresh-faced, naive straight-arrow who
had been sent down to the basement to debunk his work. She had loosened up
a lot, in many ways: Her thinking had become more flexible, more open to
possibilities rooted in anything other than demonstrable scientific fact.
She had also developed a subtle sense of humor that could still catch
Mulder unawares. But Scully had also hardened in the last few years; part
of it was the rigors of the job, part of it was her own personal tragedies.
And that saddened Mulder when he thought about it. Scully didn't deserve
the grief she carried, the pain they shared. And Mulder gave himself the
lion's share of the blame for the load she bore.

In the space of a month, Scully had come alive again. Everything about her
was noticeably brighter -- noticeable to him, anyway. There was less of the
weight of the world in the way she carried herself. She seemed younger,
though she could hardly be described as 'old'. She smiled more -- not
bright toothy grins, which had always been all too rare, but smiles with
more warmth, less irony. And all of it could be attributed to Max. She was
happy. Mulder was happy _for_ her. He'd said so, and he meant it.

*So why am I feeling like a 5-year old who's been told there's no Santa Claus?*

Was it jealousy? Mulder shook his head. In order to be jealous of Max,
she'd have to be a threat to him, or to any thoughts he might have of
having a relationship with Scully. He'd fantasized about Scully more than
once at the beginning of their partnership, when they were more adversaries
than colleagues. Later, he'd considered what a relationship with Scully
would be like, mostly because everyone in the Bureau seemed convinced they
were involved already. (*Thank you, Tom Colton. Hope it's cozy in South
Dakota...*) It certainly would have been easy enough; they spent almost all
their time together, and anything could happen on the road. It might have
been fun. It might even have been free of the endemic problems in his
previous relationships. Scully wasn't his ex-wife. She wasn't Diana Fowley.
She _definitely_ wasn't Phoebe Green...

But it hadn't happened. First, because they were partners. Then because
they were friends. If anything, Mulder decided, their alliance was now
closer to the kind shared by brother and sister: They were two different
people, sure in their own identities, at odds with each other more often
than not; but when the hammer came down, they had each other's back, one
defending the other by any means necessary. In many ways, Scully had
replaced Samantha. God knows he felt as protective of her. And there was no
need to protect Scully from Max. Mulder would have liked the diminutive
Homicide detective whether she was involved with Scully or not. Max was a
prize: Funny, smart, attractive, not too enamored of authority figures,
definitely as much in love with Scully as Scully was with her. Even in the
professional atmosphere of the morning meeting, Mulder could see them
together...

*Envy.*

The realization stopped Mulder in mid-march. For as far back as he could
remember, he had told himself that he neither wanted or needed a
relationship (*I'm an island by choice...*), not only because it would
interfere with his quest for the truth, but because every relationship he'd
ever entered had ended in disaster.  His last non-virtual sexual encounter
had been with a vampire during a Malibu Canyon brushfire. (*How
dysfunctional is _that_?*) Mulder had been alone so long, he wasn't sure he
even _remembered_ how to start a non-work-related conversation with a
woman. He was technically on a case when he'd met Bambi Berenbaum, but a
lot more was on his mind than killer cockroaches from outer space. He'd
sounded like a brain-dead fool when he tried to chat her up, and he wound
up getting aced out by a wheelchair-bound scientist with a fondness for
'Planet Of The Apes.'

Now Scully had what Mulder said he didn't want. Mulder saw his reflection
in the plastic covering a movie poster as he came off the escalator. *You
are jealous of Scully,* he told himself. *And it is your own damn fault.*

Mulder sighed as he entered the theater. He'd seen this film seven times,
and planned to buy the video when it was released. He disagreed with a lot
of its methodology, and its rhetoric was somewhere between a mediocre comic
book and a World War 2 propaganda film. But it was still a hell of a good
ride, and if anything was going to turn Mulder's mind off, this was it.

"Can I help you," the fresh-faced teenager behind the glass asked, her
smile automatic.

Mulder fished out his wallet. "One for 'Independence Day.'"

<<THURSDAY NIGHT -- CAMBRIDGE>>

Max' refrigerator wasn't empty by any means, but it wasn't a pretty story:
The bread was stale, the sandwich meats were gelatinous, the contents of
the mayonnaise jar qualified as a high school science project, and the
freezer looked like a miniature for a remake of 'Scott Of The Antarctic'.
The only palatable things left were two bottles of Sea Dog Blueberry Wheat
Ale, which Scully & Max drank while they listened to 10,000 Maniacs and
waited for Domino's to deliver. Scully rubbed Max' back while she told him
about her ex-husband appearing in her life for the first time in over two
years.

"I haven't seen him since we had to sign a paper terminating the lease to
our apartment," she told her. "We haven't spoken in... oh shit, I can't
_remember_ when. I mean, I knew he was _alive_, I hadn't forgotten he
existed. But hearing his name today, while I'm handling _this_ case,
just... _jarred_ me."

Scully worked on a kink in Max' left shoulder, a thought starting to nag at
her. "You don't think he's involved in this, do you?"

Max shook her head emphatically. "No way. Different case altogether.
Sansome was just trying to get some kind of official action against that
sheriff's deputy." She snorted. "That sheriff's a _real_ piece of work!
Give him a southern accent and he could be in a sequel to 'Macon County
Line.'"

"Fun guy, huh?" Scully knew the reason most Bureau personnel felt all local
law enforcement were idiots: There was always someone out there
perpetuating the stereotype.

"Barrel of laughs. Goldsmith's got to be appointed instead of elected. He's
got all the charm of a Rottweiler on crack."

The thought wouldn't go away until Scully addressed it. She stopped rubbing
Max' back and turned her so they faced each other. "Max," Scully said
softly. "Did Richard abuse you?"

Max looked shocked, then chagrined. "Oh, shit! I'm sorry. No, no, I wasn't
saying _that_. No, we fought, all right, and it got nasty towards the end,
I mean _really_ nasty." She shook her head. "But he never hit me." A bitter
half-smile tugged at her mouth. "Probably because he knew all bets were off
after that, and I was a better shot than him."

Scully stroked Max' cheek. "So what's the problem?"

Max took hold of Scully's hand. "It's no dance in the woods to walk through
a bushel of imploded marriages when you've had one yourself." She squeezed
Scully's hand. Scully squeezed back. "And even though I _know_ Richard
wouldn't have done what these men did... there's still that annoying little
voice that says...'There but for the grace of the Goddess go I?'"

"It's just transference," Scully said softly. "You're putting yourself in
the victim's place..."

Max squeezed her eyes shut. "I _know_ this. All I'm saying is... Richard
wouldn't have done it... but I'm kinda surprised he didn't."

This startled Scully. "Why?"

Max dropped Scully's hand. "Well shit, girl! How hard do think it is to
have the woman you pledged your life to tell you you're not attractive to
her, and never were?"

Scully winced at the pain that must have caused, for Max and for Richard.
For once, she followed a Mulder instinct, and went for humor. "With any
luck, I'll never know."

Max slapped Scully's shoulder, but she did smile. "Why, you, I oughta..."
They locked eyes as they laughed, then Max grabbed the back of Scully's
neck and pulled her in for a long, deep kiss. Max started to lean Scully
back against the couch cushions when the doorbell jarred the moment.

They both groaned. "Timing is everything," Scully muttered.

Max got a strange look on her face. "What time have you got?"

Scully looked at her watch. "7:26."

Max growled as she reluctantly rolled off of Scully. "I'm _never_ gonna get
a free pizza."

They ate one piece each before it was decided dinner was over and the games
could begin.

Max had to undress Scully carefully, as her outfit had to last one more
day. It was excruciating for both of them, but somehow they held it
together until everything was hung up or put away and Scully stood on the
bedroom rug, stark naked. Max had changed into a T-shirt and jeans before
Scully arrived, so undressing Max took little time and less care. They fell
onto the bed, mouths locked, hands trying to be everywhere at once. Time
stopped and the world was dismissed for the evening as Natalie Merchant
gave way to Chris Isaak:

"I still love you
  I still want you
  I still need you
  Don't hang up and say good-bye..."

Their first orgasms were hand delivered, with little finesse and
lightning-fast resolution. Being separated by a conference table had been
more agonizing than being separated by hundreds of miles. They needed
relief. They needed each other. They needed to give each other relief, and
the previous evening's phone sex had been as frustrating as it had been
satisfying. They needed to be body to body, flesh to flesh, loving the
other in every way possible. They moaned into each other's mouths as
fingers and thumbs teased, rubbed, pushed and pistoned. Max sobbed as
Scully brought her over the brink, Scully holding her tight as her own
finish came hard on Max' heels.

"Oh, please," Max cried. "Oh, please..."

"I've got you," Scully hissed. "I've got you..."

It became a ballet. As soon as they had subsided, Scully pushed Max onto
her back and slid her mouth down the tight body that had bedeviled her
concentration since they parted that morning. She licked the sheen of sweat
that was already coming from Max' pores, kneaded the muscles in Max' arms
as she suckled her lover. The salt of Max' sweat and the sweet of her juice
quenched a thirst Scully had fought all day. She savored every sigh, every
gasp, every buck she could incite out of her lover as she licked and sucked
Max' engorged clit. Max ran her fingers through Scully's hair, up and down
her own body, dizzily thinking this must be what was like to be on fire.
Scully shook with joy as Max called out her name at the point of no return,
lapping up the torrent as Max thrashed on top of the down quilt. Scully
didn't want to stop, not ever, and would have kept going if Max hadn't
murmured, "Wait... Please..."

Scully kissed Max' clit once, twice. "I need more," Scully croaked, hardly
able to recognize her own voice.

"Then come up here," Max panted.

Scully groaned, but climbed slowly up the bed, loving every touch. When
they were face to face again, Max rolled Scully on her back and crawled
down her body until they were in 69.

"Am I crushing you?"

"Yes. Please don't stop."

Max' question was slurred with desire. Scully's reply was almost
breathless; she emphasized it by hugging Max' back harder, pressing their
bodies tighter together. Even if she'd left it on, Scully couldn't have
heard her cell phone ring if she wanted to. And she definitely did not want
to. *How did I ever live without this,* Scully wondered dimly as she
started to lick Max again.

Scully thought she might die from the pressure, and was sure she would die
when Max slid her tongue deep inside. Scully mirrored the movement, the
quaking of Max' body becoming her own as she felt the fire start to build
again. She was deep in the rapture when Max' mouth left her and she started
to pull herself up.

"What...?" Scully began.

"Don't stop," Max rasped, searching for balance as she positioned herself
over Scully's face. Bewildered, Scully kept on licking as Max settled.
Scully's confusion deepened when Max took hold of her wrists and leaned
down again, placing Scully's hands on her own mound. "Play with yourself,"
Max said huskily. "Show me what you did last night."

Scully hesitated, but just barely. The thought of masturbating herself
while her lover sat on her face seemed unbelievably wanton. But she could
not deny Max anything, in or out of bed. She settled in without another
thought, one hand massaging her button while the other slipped two fingers
inside herself.

"Oh yes," Max keened. "Oh, just like that. Make yourself feel
gooooooooood." She leaned down and ran her hands over Scully's body and up
her own once again, utterly carefree. She had to force herself to keep her
eyes open so she could watch Scully, but her lover was showing incredible
coordination, her hands pleasuring herself while her mouth made exquisite
love to Max' pussy. Max' leg muscles liquified as she came up on the peak
again.

As she went over, hands holding tight to her breasts, she heard Scully's
muffled cry, "Gonna cum..."

"Oh, gotta see..." Max dropped on top of Scully, pushing the juice-slick
hands away and replacing them with her hungry mouth. The renewed pressure,
the renewed pleasure, it was all too much. It was the 4th of July behind
Scully's eyelids as Max brought her off, her tongue sliding from hole to
hole as it lapped every drop of Scully up, her hands tight on Scully's
butt, pulling her as close as she could as Scully bucked like a bronco.

They laid unmoving for minutes after it was over, the breath knocked out
and the strength long gone; neither of them even had the strength to talk.
Eventually, Max became aware of another need. *Oh, no! Not yet, you don't.*
She moved in slower-than-slow-motion, turning around so she could crawl up
Scully's body again. Max was ready for a kiss or seven, and was sure Scully
was too. She stopped short; Scully's mouth was open, her eyes closed, her
breathing shallow. She was fast asleep.

Max laughed, willing herself to do it quietly. She brushed a loose bang out
of Scully's eyes, watching her. *I'm never gonna go to Vegas, ever. I could
_never_ get this lucky twice.* Max felt her own fatigue wash over her
again. She shifted herself so her body was by Scully's side and her head
was above Scully's chest. Snuggling close, Max gently took a nipple in her
mouth, put her head against Scully's breast, and closed her eyes.

<<FRIDAY MORNING>>

"Sorry, sorry," Scully said hurriedly as she bustled into Con2. She had a
large manila envelope under one arm. "I had to pick up the results on our
subjects."

"No problem," Weeks assured her. "Mickey was just regaling us on your field
trip to Ashby. Grab a cup and join in."

Scully nodded, intensely grateful the coffee-and-donuts spread was as
extensive as it had been the day before; the breakfast options in Max'
fridge were just as minuscule as the dinner possibilities.

Scully put a bear claw on a paper plate and poured artificial cream into
her coffee while Mickey picked up where he left off. "The Circle is
officially incorporated with the state, so this isn't a hobby for Priest.
Grant Mullin insists this group is _not_ protected by any kind of
confidentiality laws; it's not AA, or any _recognized_ self-help group." He
looked discouraged. "However, if you press him, he'll say a court fight
depends on which judge we pull. Like always. And Priest made it clear that
if we make any more moves on him, he'll sic his attack lawyer on us. He
practically wet himself over the idea."

Weeks looked at Scully as she came over to the table. "What's your
assessment of this, Agent Scully?"

Scully put her cup and plate on the table and sat down next to Mickey.
Mulder sat next to Max on the other side of the table, in acknowledgment of
the new teams. From the state of his plate, Mulder must have plowed through
three donuts and was working on a fourth. Max gave Scully a quick wink; she
returned it with a slight smile. She was glad she'd had to run up four
flights again, because it gave her an excuse to blush. "Of the Circle
itself, it's not that uncommon. Groups like this have been appearing on the
radical side of the men's movement for the last few years. The tenets they
set themselves by go back to the early 1900's."

"What do men _need_ a movement for," Max muttered into her cup.

Mickey's mouth twitched at the corners. "Self-defense?"

Max lazily rubbed her left eye with a middle finger; Scully just ignored
him. "As for Priest himself, he was adamant from the first that he did not
want us around. I think the only reason he answered any questions at all
was so he could demonstrate that he cooperated with us, at least
technically. Mickey's right when he says Priest is more than eager to bring
his lawyer into the proceedings. As far as he's concerned, a legal battle
will bring free publicity and a larger membership." She brought her cup to
her lips. "If he's got something to hide, it doesn't make sense that he'd
want the media sniffing around his group."

"Maybe what he's hiding is buried really deep," Mulder commented.

Scully shook her head as she swallowed. "I think it's just governmental
xenophobia, Mulder. He sounds like one of those land-rights people in
Wyoming. He was declaring his legal rights as soon as we identified
ourselves, and that included the right not to cooperate."

"Funny he doesn't like the government," Mickey said. "He was part of it for
long enough."

"Really?"

"That's what we were talking about when you came in," Max told her.

Mickey consulted his notes again. "Uncle Sugar signed Priest's paychecks
>from '69 to '88. Retired from the Marines as a full colonel." Scully wasn't
very surprised. *He had the look.* "From '88 til last year, he worked for
something called Alliance Consulting in Langley, Virginia."

Scully glanced at Mulder. He looked almost pleased. "Lot of interesting
companies in Langley," he said off-handedly.

Max picked up on the allusion. "What, you saying this guy was CIA?"

"If he was," Scully said, still looking at Mulder, "it wouldn't be in any
official records."

Mulder put on the first Smirk of the morning. "Maybe the gnomes of Zurich
could do a little research for us."

"The _who_," Mickey asked, incredulous.

"Private joke," Scully answered, smiling inwardly at the image of the Lone
Gunmen in lederhosen.

"These are things we _don't_ know," Weeks said, bringing the meeting back
to order. "Let's focus on what we _do_ know. Agent Scully, since you took
the time to get those reports, why don't you tell us what they say."

Scully unclasped the manila envelope and pulled out several sets of papers.
"The post on Louis Satterlee revealed nothing obvious that would have
caused his behavior. I would have liked to examine his brain for tumors or
anomalies, but since he blew most of his brainpan out in his last action on
Earth, that was impossible." She glanced through the papers quickly,
confirming her first impression. "Because Scott Harland's body was, for all
intents and purposes, cremated, we were only able to get workups for four
of the five other suspects. There _are_ similarities between these four and
Satterlee, but I'd be hard-pressed to say they point to them turning into
murderers."

Mulder leaned forward. "What kind of similarities?"

"All five subjects had extreme levels of adrenaline in their systems -- not
surprising, considering what they'd done prior to their deaths. All five
tox screens show evidence of crudocyclin -- that's a natural mood elevator,
like St. John's Wart."

"Crudo-_what_," asked Mickey.

Max was taking notes. "Can you get it over the counter?"

Scully answered both questions. "Crudocyclin. It's marketed as Right Cycle,
distributed by a mail-order company in South Dakota called RightWay. You'll
see their commercials if you watch a lot of late-night television. The
company and the drug are less than two years old. According to the techs at
Northeastern, there have been no complaints lodged against RightWay, about
this drug or anything else."

"Something else for the gnomes to check out," Mulder murmured, making his
own notes.

Scully nodded slightly, still focused on her papers. "All five subjects
also had extremely high levels of blood sugar..."

"The Twinkie Defense rides again," Mickey groaned.

"Not in this case. These levels don't match up with the stomach contents of
any of our subjects. Louis Satterlee's stomach was practically empty when
he died."

"Diabetes," Max suggested.

"No evidence of it in Satterlee's organs," Scully told her. "Nothing in the
samples from the other subjects, either."

"Could it be a... what do you call it?" Weeks snapped his fingers, trying
to come up with the word. "A _by-product_ of that drug they were taking?"

Scully considered. "Possibly, but I doubt it."

Mulder had that far-off look again. "Could it be a trace element of
something else?"

Scully's expression had a healthy dose of skepticism. "Of what? The tox
screen came up negative for anything other than crudocyclin, and I think we
would have heard of anything like these murders attached to the drug."

Mulder was unfazed. "Maybe it's been found to be a good masking agent for
whatever else these men were taking. The blood sugar levels could be a
waste product they couldn't deal with."

Mickey was looking at Mulder over the top of his glasses. "You could paint
cathedral ceilings with that much reach."

Max was just as disbelieving. "Which 'they' are we talking about?"

Mulder turned his head to her. "Whoever got these men on those mood
elevators, for one."

"Mulder," Scully sighed, "nobody had to _get them_ on this drug. It's not
prescription. All they had to do to get a bottle of the stuff was dial
1-800-whatever..."

"Which would give anyone with access to RightWay's database the ability to
find susceptible subjects for any kind of project. I mean, _all five_ of
these men taking the same mail-order mood elevator? Enough to show up on
the tox screen? _That's_ a little too much coincidence for _my_ diet."

Max looked the pile of donut crumbs on Mulder's plate. "Since when do _you_
diet?"

"We're getting off-track here," Weeks announced, irritation starting to
show. "If we can find out more about this company, fine, but it doesn't
seem like a high priority at this point." He looked back at Scully &
Mickey. "What else did you two do yesterday besides look at bodies and get
yelled at by ex-Jarheads?"

Scully sipped her coffee while Mickey fielded that question. "We tried to
get info on George & Anna Pelc's marriage counselor..."

Weeks glowered at the young detective. "'Tried?'"

"Well, we got _some_ info," Mickey amended quickly. "He's a psychiatrist, a
volunteer at the Somerville Wellness Clinic. I got the idea they get a lot
of their help donated. We found out _who_ he is, and where he does his
primary voodoo, but the Clinic won't release any records without a warrant.
I talked to Mullin about that, too. He says you need a boatload of reasons
to get a judge to look past Privilege, and we don't have enough right now.
Dana put in three calls to Dr. Davenport, but the guy's hiding behind
voicem-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Max jumped in. "What's this guy's name?"

Mickey stumbled, his train of thought broken. "Davenport," Scully answered,
opening her own notebook. "Dr. Leslie Davenport."

"Yeah," Mickey said, finally catching up. "Got an office at his home in
Brookline."

Mulder & Max looked at each other. "Pretty nice home, too," Max dead panned.

A glint of triumph flickered in Mulder's eyes. "Nice _neighborhood_. The
house was a little small for me. I never liked the Cape design..."

"Would you like to share the joke with the rest of the class," Weeks said
quietly.

Max leaned past Mulder to address the rest of the group. "Dr. Leslie
Davenport spent the last two years shrinking the head of our first perp,
Michael Ceterski. He even went to the man's funeral."

Scully's mouth formed into a small 'O'. Mickey leaned back in his chair.
"Houston," he intoned, "we have a clue."

The multi-buttoned phone at the end of the table bleated. Weeks snatched up
the receiver. "Lieutenant Weeks." He listened for a moment. "Hold on." He
pressed a button and put the receiver down. "Go ahead, Davey."

Hegeman's voice was extremely tinny as it came through the phone's speaker.
"Ken Duguay checked into the Back Bay Hilton a little after nine last
night. Put it on Visa. The desk clerk remembered him because he had two
aluminum attachˇ cases with him, like sample cases. No regular luggage."

"Downtown hotel's pretty pricey for a shack-up," Mickey offered.

"He lived by himself in an apartment in Dorchester," Hegeman's voice came
back. "If he had something going on, he didn't need a hotel room to do it
in."

"Did you get a look at the room," Weeks wanted to know.

Hegeman's disgust came through clearly. "Yeah, but CSU's not gonna get
anything out of it. The Feebies left a pretty big mess."

"What?!"

"The manager says J. Edgar's finest went through Duguay's room after they
tossed our new best friends' stuff. The doorframe still has crime-scene
tape on it. They towed his car, too."

Weeks glared down the table at Mulder & Scully. "Do you know anything about
this?"

Mulder was not pleased to be the bearer of this news. "Not about Duguay
having a room of his own. AD Skinner told me the car had been examined by
the lab. Results came up negative for blood, and no prints other than
Duguay's."

"I would have liked _our_ forensics people to tell me that." Weeks' blood
was boiling. "That's two screwed-up crime scenes for the price of one!"

"Davey," Max called down the table, "did you find out _anything_ about the
car?"

"We've got a call in to the night attendant. He's a college student, a
Junior at Emerson, so he's probably in movement class or something. The day
attendant says he came on at five-thirty, and he didn't see the car until
the Feebies towed it out of there."

"Maybe it went in and out before the guy got to work," Mickey suggested.

"Uh unh," Hegeman answered. "The Hilton's garage is closed from Midnight to
6, with big metal gates sealing off entrance and exit. The gates are
computer-controlled and time-stamped. According to the Hilton's records,
the gates closed at 12:02 and didn't open until 5:59 yesterday morning."

"What's your thinking, Mickey," Weeks asked.

Scully could hear the shrug in Mickey's voice. "Whoever waxed Duguay
_could_ have got him out a service entrance. There's a loading dock in the
back of the hotel that takes deliveries 24 hours, but it's pretty busy
after 6. If Whiner's right about time of death, they had to have done him
somewhere else. No blood or blood trails in Duguay's room."

"We'll let Luminol decide that," Weeks said peremptorily. Under ultraviolet
light, Luminol could make even scrupulously-cleaned blood residue show up
like magic. "Have CSU work the room anyway. Even if all we get is lots of
Bureau fingerprints, it'll still give me ammunition when I file a formal
complaint. And work the night staff harder. _Someone_ had to see this guy
leave with someone else."

"You got it, Loot," Hegeman said promptly. The connection clicked off.

Weeks took a sip of coffee, making a face after he swallowed. No-one liked
cold coffee, and cold squadroom coffee was even worse. "All right, he's got
_his_ marching orders. Here are _yours_: Mickey, Agent Scully, this latest
connection may be enough to get a warrant for those records. Try Judge
Bruniger; he's usually law enforcement-friendly after he's had his morning
Irish Coffee. Max, Agent Mulder, go back and lean on the head-shrinker some
more. Make him aware that the shit is at waist-level and rising fast. Also,
see if those gnomes you mentioned can shed a little light on this low-rent
puppet show." He stood, causing everyone else to stand. His anger was
visible, but controlled. "I want results, people. There is precious little
clarity in any of this. Lack of clarity messes up my digestion, and I want
to eat more for lunch than warm milk and Zantac. Go fetch." He marched out
of the room, tossing his cup in a wastebasket without looking. The cup was
half-full, and some coffee splashed on the wall.

Mickey shook his head, his eyes on the door Weeks had slammed. "I hope
they've got bomb shelters at Feebie World Headquarters."

Max looked between Mulder & Scully. "What do you think?"

Scully shook her head. "We're as deep in the dark as you. Maybe more."

"Equipment," Mulder mused, not looking at either of them.

Max looked at him quizzically. "Say what?"

Mulder shoved his hands in his pockets. "Deerfield told me Duguay was
having problems with his 'equipment'. Duguay carried two metal attachˇ
cases up to his room. That was all the luggage he had." He looked at
Scully. "Where have we seen cases like that lately?"

Scully thought a moment. Her jaw fell. "The field office." Her eyes met
Mulder's. "Surveillance equipment."

"Yup," Mulder nodded.

"_Shihhhhhht_," Max breathed.

Mickey looked truly confused. "They _bugged_ you guys? Why?"

"It's a long story, bubba," Max told him.

Mickey crossed his arms. "I _love_ long stories. They pass the time oh so
well."

"I'll tell it to you on the way to the courthouse, Mickey," Scully said
over her shoulder. *Most of it, anyway.* She looked back at Mulder & Max.
"This is not good," she said softly.

Mulder shook his head in agreement. "If Duguay paid for the room himself,
he probably signed out the surveillance equipment, too. Which gives Renko
deniability."

"How nice for him," Max said disgustedly, trying not to look at Scully.

Mulder looked between the two women. "Duguay was having equipment problems,
though -- maybe some bad bugs, maybe interference from another broadcast
source. He might not have gotten anything at all."

Scully & Max had the same thought: *Let's hope not.*

<<FRIDAY AFTERNOON>>

"It's a trick question!"

"I promise you, it's not."

Mickey squinted across the car at Scully. "John Wayne and Red Buttons never
did _one_ movie together, let alone _two_! That's like saying Sylvester
Stallone and Woody Allen did two films together..."

"Or Clark Gable and Don Rickles, for that matter," Scully said lightly.

"'Run Silent, Run Deep,'" Mickey shot back. "1958! I'm a professional,
Dana, don't try this at home!"

Scully smiled in the gathering dusk. "If you're a professional, you should
know this one, too. 'Hatari' -- one of Howard Hawks' last films, by the way
-- and 'The Longest Day', both released in 1962..."

"'The Longest Day,'" Mickey hooted. "That wasn't a movie! That was a
photo-op for the Screen Actor's Guild! You could have had Bela Lugosi,
Steve Reeves and Wallace Beery in that film and you wouldn't remember it,
because everybody and his second cousin was in the cast, and they all got
_maybe_ five minutes of screen time..."

"They were in two scenes together," Scully informed him, enjoying herself
for the first time that day. She'd stumped Mulder with this question during
one of their longer stakeouts, and was pleased it had worked for her again.
"Wayne was the leader of the paratroopers, and Buttons was a soldier who
survived a massacre when his chute got caught on a church steeple."

Mickey was almost speechless. "How do you _know_ this?"

Scully's smile went nostalgic, living the memory for a moment. "When you're
in a military family, watching John Wayne films is mandatory. Whenever one
came on TV, or if one was being shown on the base, _everyone_ watched." She
chuckled softly, recalling 12-year old Billy's truly terrible imitation of
the Duke. *We laughed every time, but we always applauded...*

Mickey sat silent, trying to fume. It was hard. He liked teaming with
Scully, though it had taken some getting used to. Scully and Max were like
night and day, personally and professionally. He'd had to adjust to working
to a different rhythm; in musical terms, Max' attitude was snarling rock &
roll, while Scully's was... *Well, what?  Classical? The way she put the
Whiner in his place the other morning was classic, all right! If she ever
shows up at Happy Hour, she'll get a few free beers!* Weinglass was
respected, as well as feared. if you wanted your autopsy results before
Doomsday, you did not give the Whiner any shit. Mickey Kreutzmann would
take a smart woman over an airheaded sex goddess nine times out of ten, and
Dana Scully was _definitely_ smart. Sexy, too, in a medium cool sort of
way... but that sheen would wear off in a hurry if she kept kicking his ass
at movie trivia!

*Let's _see_ how well she knows the Duke's films!* "Okay. Name the star of
the 70's TV cop show that played opposite Wayne in one of his many World
War 2 epics. Name the movie _and__... for  five extra bonus points... name
the female lead and the two films _she_ did with Wayne."

Scully was glad it was getting dark; Mickey wouldn't be able to see how
smug her smile was becoming. "Martin Milner, who looked about twelve years
old at the time. The movie was 'Operation Pacific'. The female lead was
Patricia Neal, who was also Wayne's love interest in 'In Harm's Way.'" She
grinned across at Mickey. "I'm a Navy brat, Mickey. Don't try this at home."

Mickey pursed his lips and considered several comments. Deciding all of
them would be interpreted as sour grapes, he just turned on the car radio
and muttered, "Let's see if there's any more news on the standoff."

Scully nodded, soaking in her small victory for the moment. The day had not
gone well. Judge Bruniger was in bed with the flu, which left them to face
Judge Francine Lovell, who Mickey referred to -- with no little venom -- as
'Portia Turbo'. Lovell had sent Scully & Mickey packing halfway through
their warrant request, saying that Davenport's involvement with two
murderers was still coincidence. She based this on the fact that he'd seen
Ceterski in private practice and the Pelcs as a clinic volunteer. "Put your
perps on the _same_ couch, detectives," she'd boomed. "_Then_ maybe I'll
call your suspect Svengali."

They had even less luck getting warrants for a further search of the Circle
of Fire's facility. Ashby was out of Boston PD's jurisdiction, and the
captain of the local state police barracks said he "had better things to do
than roust one of our local organizations just because _you're_ suspicious!
Bring me something I can take to _my_ judges without getting my head handed
to me on a silver salver." Mulder had enlisted the "gnomes" after that
defeat, but they had yet to get back to him. On top of that, Mulder &
Scully wasted half an hour after the meeting waiting for AD Britton, who
never appeared. Mulder had called Skinner to confirm Britton's travel
plans, but his secretary said Skinner was "in transit" himself...

"Here it is," Mickey said, bringing Scully out of her reverie. She looked
down at the AM-FM radio in the dashboard, and the practiced baritone that
came out of it:

"...top story, two federal agencies have surrounded the southeastern
Vermont encampment of a New England militia group. With more on the
incident, here's NewsRadio 68's Jeff McCartney."

[end part 4 of 6, TRNT 5 - Storm]