Date: Thu, 26 Jun 1997 12:50:05 -0700 (PDT) From: "John L. Gilson" Subject: The Road Not Taken, by deejay (NC-17) 1/5 Greetings! This is my first attempt at X-Files fan fiction, let alone X-Files erotica, so please be gentle with me... or, at least, forgiving.:) Assorted warnings, disclaimers, and other bits of frippery: TITLE: "The Road Not Taken" AUTHOR: deejay RATING: NC17, for adult language, violence, and sexual situations (some of them quite graphic). If you're offended by any of this, go somewhere else. If you're under 18, you probably shouldn't be reading this anyway, so go somewhere else whether you like it or not!:) CLASSIFICATIONS: T, R/A (Adventure, Romance/Angst) SPOILERS: References to "Quagmire", "GenderBender", "End Game", "Anasazi" TIMELINE: Pre-Diagnosis Season 4. Takes place in Mid-October 1996. KEYWORDS: Slash story, Scully/other SUMMARY: Scully takes a long-overdue vacation, and gets a LOT more than she bargains for, including revelations about herself. ARCHIVE: Submitted to Gossamer USA and AEA. All others, please ask me first (unless I submit it to you), and include my penname when you do it. FEEDBACK: Questions, comments, flames and fanmail may be sent to drjohn@wizvax.net. "The X Files", Dana Scully (and all Scully relations and ex-boyfriends appearing herein), Fox Mulder, and Walter Skinner are all properties of Chris Carter, 10-13, and FoxTV. I do not wish to infringe on their copyright, nor do I seek monetary gain from this story in any way; if I did, I'd do it in book form and go through the proper channels! The other characters in this story, the story idea itself, and all dialogue belongs to Night Tripper Productions and the author (That's me, by the way!). All rights are reserved, and will be defended to the death! Any resemblance to real-life people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. "Possession", by Sara McLachlan (Tyde Music, 1993) is also excerpted without permission; however, if I can promote Sara's music even a little bit, it's a small price to pay! For those who want to hear the whole song, go get a copy of _Fumbling Towards Ecstacy_, available at fine CD stores everywhere! Four stars! Joe Bob sez, "Check it out!" This story appears in slightly different form on Bobbi's Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation Page. If you like your fanfic extra-spicy, check out Bobbi's little slice of erotica heaven at: http://nycmetro.com/Bobbi/main.htm For X-Philes, this is not a "case story" -- i.e. the kind of thing you'll see every Sunday night on Fox. I could never reach the level of weirdness CC and his merry band achieve every week. This is just an idea that sort of popped onto my computer and has grown to the present size. Finally, if you're a Relationshipper, fasten your seat belt. It's gonna be a bumpy ride. WHEW! Now that THAT'S out of the way... LLLLLLLLLLET'S GET READY TO RUMMMMBUHHHHHHLLLLLLLLLL... * * * * THE ROAD NOT TAKEN (1/5) by deejay <<>> Scully woke to the sound of rain. It took a moment to remember where she was -- not an unfamiliar sensation, given all the motel rooms she'd woken up in during her time with the FBI. What felt unfamiliar was the state she was in. For one thing, she was naked, her breasts exposed to the cool air in the darkened apartment. She was also in the inside part of the spoon position, with quiet breathing warming her neck and an arm draped lazily over her belly. *Oh, that's right,* she said to herself. The thought of what transpired the night before brought Scully firmly back to reality. Half of her wanted to jump into her clothes, run back to the hotel, grab her bags, and catch the next flight back to Washington; the other half wanted to roll over very, very slowly and find out how much kissing and nibbling it would take to wake her bedmate up. Scully needed to think clearly, which was clearly impossible in her present position. Moving by inches, she disentangled herself from her partner and stood barefoot on the oriental rug, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill. The quiet breathing did not change. Scully considered the two piles of clothing by the side of the bed, smiling for a second at the array of weaponry sticking out of the mix of bluejeans and designer suit. Scully cast her eyes around the room, gratefully finding a beige terrycloth robe hanging from a hook on the bedroom door. It was one of those huge, warm robes that fit anyone and felt marvelous after a shower or a bath. The one Scully had at home was white. The kitchen was neither modern or large, but it was clean and well-kept. Her eyes brightened at the sight of the black Krups coffee-maker sitting by the sink, but a quick look inside the coffee can next to it made her wince. Whole beans. Scully ached for a cup of coffee -- It had been part of her morning ritual since her undergrad days at Maryland, and the beans in the can by the coffee-maker smelled divine -- but Scully also ground her own beans, and she knew the sound a coffee-grinder makes. It wasn't just that she didn't want to wake her (*What? Friend? Partner? Lover? Oh, boy...*) up. Grinding coffee in the kitchen of someone you'd met the previous day, and had sex with the night before, was a little too domestic for Scully's taste. She settled for a glass of orange juice and walked out to the living room, plopping down in the sofa by the front window. It had been raining on and off since she'd arrived in Boston, and it was coming down steadily outside the fourth-floor apartment. Nothing moved on the tree-lined sidewalks below, and there was only a suggestion of traffic noise from Massachusetts Avenue half a block away. It was Saturday morning, and Cambridge was taking it easy. There were still plenty of leaves on the trees, red and orange and yellow, but they would not be on the branches long if the rain held steady. Scully sat sideways on the couch, her knees hiked up to her chest as she sipped her juice. This should have been a peaceful scene, but she was anything but peaceful. This vacation had been a lot of things, but peaceful was not one of them, even without the turmoil bubbling in her brain. <<>> "You sure you don't want to come?" Scully suppressed a sigh. "Mulder..." "Come on, it'll be fun," Mulder said, in that tone of voice that told her he was only being half-serious. "Beautiful scenery, friendly people, good beer..." He flashed a half-smile at her before looking back at the road. "Besides, with that hair, you'll fit right in." "Mulder, my ancestors were Irish, not Scots. And with all respect, two weeks camping out by Loch Ness in October is not my idea of a good time. It's too much like a stake-out." "Greatest stake-out in the world," Mutter said softly, maneuvering the Taurus around a slow-moving vintage Cadillac. It was doing 35 in the fast lane, and all Mulder could see of the driver was two small wrinkled hands and a snap-brim hat. Scully tried not to sound like a wet blanket, but it was hard. "Mulder, even if there IS such a thing as a Loch Ness Monster, what makes your old Oxford chum think his expedition will be any more successful than the plethora of expeditions that have attempted to locate the thing over the years?" Mulder broke out out of the mid-morning commuter traffic and took the exit for Dulles International Airport. "It's not his expedition. It's being run by a cattle baron from Amarillo, Texas. He's the one with the dream, and the money. Eammon's just the technical consultant..." "Well, whatever..." Mulder continued, undaunted as usual. "...and they think with the underwater ultra-sound equipment Eammon's developed, they have a better chance of mapping Loch Ness -- and thereby finding any anomalies on the floor of the Loch -- then any previous search attempt." Scully shook her head. "Didn't you get your fill of monster-spotting last year?" Mulder's eyes stayed on the road. "The only thing I spotted was an alligator, Scully. This time I'm hunting bigger game." Conversation was suspended as Mulder wound his way through the traffic around Dulles' international terminal, finally arriving at British Airways' departures area. There were no spaces by the sidewalk, so Mulder double-parked the Taurus and popped the trunk. Another half-smile for Scully. "Chinese fire drill," he said, jumping out of the car as he said it. Scully got out and trotted back to the trunk, though it was unnecessary to help with the luggage. Like her, Mulder was used to traveling light, and his luggage amounted to one hanging bag and his ever-present laptop. He never checked luggage, and he wouldn't this time. Mulder had it all out by the time Scully got there. They stared at each other for a moment, that familiar uncomfortable feeling appearing again. Scully was the one who broke the stare. "Got your tickets?" "Inside jacket pocket. Same place they were the last time you asked." Scully tried not to blush. "Well, I had to check. I'm the one that usually carries the tickets." That Mulder Smirk. "Why do you think I asked you to come?" Scully looked up again, smirking herself. He could be one of the most annoying men -- no, one of the most annoying _people_ -- on the face of the planet, and she could not picture what her life would be like if they hadn't met. She only knew it would have been a lot less interesting. A car horn blasted behind them. "Hey, lady," the taxi-driver Mulder had blocked in hollered. "Could ya kiss yer hubby an' move yer car? I gotta livin' ta make!" Mulder's smile got a little wider, looking from the cab driver to Scully. "Just on the cheek, honey. We're in public." Scully gave him the fish-eye, slamming the trunk closed. "Try not to fall in the Loch." Mulder chuckled. "Try not to crack up my car." Mulder started toward the sliding glass doors, intent on avoiding the long line of travelers that led to a set of underachieving skycaps. Scully walked round to the Taurus' drivers side and was just about to get in when she called out to him. "Mulder!" Mulder turned back, his expression curious. "Good hunting." Mulder just smiled at her, then turned and walked away. Scully looked after him until the cab-driver blew his horn again, a good five-second blast. Chagrined, Scully got in Mulder's car and pulled away, trying to remember the best way to Baltimore-Washington International. END OF PART ONE THE ROAD NOT TAKEN (2/5) by deejay <<>> Scully found herself holding her breath. It was as if the scene before her would crumble if she made the slightest movement. A small sailboat fought with the current as it made its way up the Seine. The clouds were puffy white on a dark blue background, and the wind made the high grass wave and the branches sway as the girl with the flowers walked by the riverbank. The flowers in the trees seemed incredibly vivid, white with pink edges, and the thought of France in early Summer made everything else seem so far away... "Amazing, isn't it?" Renoir's "The Seine River at Chatou" turned back into the impressionist masterpiece it was, and Scully snapped back into the quiet reality of the old wing of Boston's Museum Of Fine Arts. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you..." Scully turned to look at the interloper of her imagination. She tended to size up people initially the way she sized up suspects -- a by-product of her job she did not like at all. Female, a shade shorter than Scully. Light brown hair, shoulder-length, combed behind the ears, bangs feathered over the brow. Fair complexion, no makeup to speak of. Brown herringbone jacket over grey turtleneck, blue jeans, black boots, and brown eyes. Very brown. Very lively... Scully tried to smile, embarassed that she had been so engrossed in the painting. "It's all right. Not your fault. Whenever I see this work, I tend to..." She searched for words. Obviously relieved, the interloper said, "Space out?" Scully looked back at the painting. The print on her bedroom wall at home was comforting in its own way, but was a pale imitation of the real thing. "That's about right." The interloper looked at the painting. "This piece does that to me, too. Same with anything by Monet." Beat. "Did you see the Impressionists fight the Postcards last year?" Scully blinked. "The Impressionists..." The interloper made a dismissive gesture. "Sometimes I forget other people don't talk like I do. The Museum put on an exhibition last December comparing Impressionist works with State-sanctioned art of the same period. The French government of the time would only support art that put France in a good light -- rolling fields, beautiful sunsets, Paris as the jewel of Europe, that kind of thing. Basically large-scale postcards." Scully nodded, understanding now. "That must have been fascinating." The interloper nodded. "Put next to the stuff the government -- and, thereby, the Salon -- supported, you could really see why the Impressionists were as controversial as they were. They were showing poverty, suffering, loneliness, while the government wanted all of that to disappear. Sort of 'Morning In France'." Scully smiled. "So who won the war?" "The Impressionists, in a walk. For one thing, their names are universal while the Postcard painters are all long gone. For another, the end of the exhibit showed how the Postcard painters started incorporating Impressionist themes and styles into their work. After all, you can't deny the truth." Scully refrained from commenting on that last statement. Instead, she said, "So how long have you studied art?" It was a fishing trip, but this woman could be one of the eternal graduate students that made up a good portion of Boston's population. They came in all ages, sizes and sexes. And with her unlined features, she could have been anywhere from 18 to plastic surgery. The interloper laughed. "Formally, not at all. Informally, ever since my dad brought me here when I was five. He didn't know anything about art, either, but he wanted to expose me to..." She made quotation marks with her fingers. "...'the finer things.' We'd come here, like, four or five times a year. When I was old enough to ride the T myself, I'd come whenever I could. Still do, usually whenever I want to lower my stress level." Scully looked round the high-ceilinged gallery, the grey walls covered with Impressionist works she'd only seen in books. "I can understand. It's a beautiful place." The interloper gave Scully a speculative look. "They don't have something like this where you live?" Scully was surprised. "Do I look that much like a tourist?" The interloper shrugged. "Just a hunch." Scully had to break eye contact with her, and she couldn't figure out why. "Well, the National Gallery's got the artwork, alright." The interloper nodded to herself. "Farthest south I've ever been was Baltimore. Always wanted to visit D.C..." "It's an interesting city," Scully said neutrally. *Provided you don't work there,* she didn't add. She held out her hand. "Dana Scully." The interloper smiled and shook her head. "My manners truly suck. Becca Maxfield. My friends call me Max." They shook hands. Max' eyes twinkled when she smiled. Scully thought it was... What _did_ she think it was? She didn't know, and it was starting to annoy her. But instead of getting away from this feeling, she did her best to ignore it as they walked around the museum. Max hadn't asked if she could join her and Scully hadn't invited her, but they spent the next two hours together, their conversation primarily about art, as they immersed themselves in the works of Renoir and Van Gogh, Monet and Matisse. Scully didn't tell Max what she did and Max didn't ask, and when Scully asked Max what she did, she simply said, "I work for the city." They were in the new wing of the museum, near the entrance to the restaurant, when Scully realized how hungry she was. "You know everything else about this place," she said lightly. "How's the food here?" Max wrinkled her nose. "Mediocre and expensive. It's the coffee shop at Logan Airport without the ambient noise. Tell you what. There's a pub near Northeastern's campus. Not much for atmosphere, but it's got the best sandwiches in the area, if you're up for a little walking." Scully felt herself doing the Mulder Smirk. "I've just spent three hours traversing the Museum of Fine Arts. A little more walking isn't going to make much difference." "I left my coat in the Old Wing." Max smiled with very bright white teeth. *Non-smoker,* Scully noted. *Good.* *Damnit, WHY is it good?* <<>> The cloakroom in the Old Wing was in a corridor just off the entrance foyer. Being a rainy day, the line was fairly long. Max and Scully agreed one of them would retrieve the coats while the other one used the ladies room. If the line hadn't moved much, they'd switch. Scully's need was less than Max' -- surprising, considering Scully had more coffee than food on the USAir shuttle flight, plus two cups before she'd left the house that morning -- so Scully got in line while Max went off in the opposite direction. The line did move fairly quickly after the harried clerk finally found the right coat for a tremendously fat woman who seemed convinced he'd stolen it. Vacationing in Boston had been a whim, pure and simple. She'd never been there before, but Scully had heard Mulder wax poetic about its general wonderfulness too many times during dull moments in the basement. A well-respected pathologist was going to be a guest lecturer at Harvard Med the following Monday, and Scully was looking forward to attending. Plus she had always wondered about the museum that housed the original source of the print above her bed. So after checking into a high-rise Hilton next to the Prudential Center, Scully stowed her bags in the non-descript hotel room and got directions from the concierge on the best way to reach the MFA. It was surprisingly easy; a branch of the subway ("The T", as they called it here) went right by it. When Scully entered the original Museum entrance and got a Visitor button from a mousy woman wearing an MFA Volunteer badge, all she planned to do was find the original of the Renoir, then spend the rest of the afternoon wandering around the gallery. She had not expected to meet anyone, let alone spend two hours wandering the galleries discussing art with... well, with anyone. Scully's frown depened as she came up to the cloakroom counter and handed the clerk her ticket and Max'. What was the problem here? Max seemed perfectly nice. Friendly. Funny. Easy to talk to. It had been perfectly pleasant. Scully shouldn't have been hearing alarm bells. *Okay, not alarm bells, exactly,* but the sensation she got the first time she looked in Max' eyes... Scully shook her head as the clerk brought the coats. *Maybe it's just this is the first person I've had a prolonged conversation with that hasn't witnessed an alien abduction, or a vampire attack, or been possessed by demons...* She put a dollar in the tip jar and started back towards the main entrance... "...and _I_ said I don't give a FUCK what that judge said!" Scully's stopped short. Adult male, obviously distressed, and with the surrounding marble his voice echoed quite well. Arguing with a woman, though Scully couldn't make out her end of the conversation. The crowd around her murmured to each other while two other male voices joined the argument coming from the foyer. A middle-aged man in a green sweater said, "I guess someone else thinks the service around here needs work..." BANG! BANG! All conversation promptly ended as screams started coming from the foyer. Most were just unfocused screams of terror, while one was obviously the distressed male, telling whoever was around him to "GET BACK! GET BACK! GET THE FUCK BACK!" Confusion erupted behind Scully as the cloakroom line realized life had just gotten dangerous. Scully simply reacted. Suddenly the coats were in a pile by the wall and her Sig Sauer was in her hands. She had no idea why she had put it in her suitcase, and even less of an idea why she strapped it on before leaving the hotel. Scully had chalked it up to habit and left it at that. If she'd had time, she might amend that conclusion to read "divine intervention." But from the sound of the man in the foyer, and the woman who was now pleading for her life, Scully did not have time. The appearance of another gun on the scene elicited a fresh batch of screams from the cloakroom line. "GET DOWN," she barked in the Voice Of Authority she'd learned at Quantico. "STAY DOWN!" Whether it was the voice or the weapon it was attached to, the cloakroom line dropped to the marble floor with no argument. Weapon pointed towards the floor, Scully put her back to the wall and edged towards the entrance. Her mind was in Warp Speed Mode. *Small-caliber weapon, maybe a .32 or a .38. Two shots fired. Only four left if it's a revolver, and I've got a full clip and more stopping power. But no backup and no time to get any from the sound of it. And the woman sounds too close to him. If he uses her as a hostage or a shield...* Footsteps from the other end of the corridor snapped Scully out of her mental sit-rep. Max had appeared at the other side of the entrance to the foyer, leaning around a wide grey column to peep out the developing scene. Scully was about to tell her to get back, but the warning died in her throat. One reason was Max' expression -- total concentration without a trace of fear. Another was the gold badge now clipped to Max' breast pocket. The third was the Colt Python with the 4-inch barrel that she held in her left hand. Scully hissed at Max. Max looked over, annoyance quickly replaced by surprise as she focused on Scully's Sig. Max was trying to adapt as fast as she could. It went without saying that finding herself in a hostage situation in the MFA -- on her day off, yet -- was unexpected. But now she was staring across a marble doorway at an attractive, well-spoken, well-dressed woman she'd just met two hours before... who apparently felt the need to pack heavy artillery on her vacation! Max looked up at Scully. "What the fuck are you," she mouthed to her. Scully started to answer, then reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a slim black wallet and held it open. It was a photo I.D. with three blue letters on a white background: FBI. Max goggled at the letters for a moment, then nearly laughed out loud. *Good one, Maxie. For the last two hours, you've been trying to...* "Joel, please," the woman blubbered. "Please don't . Listen..." "PLEASE?! LISTEN?!? That's all I've SAID for SIX WEEKS!! 'Listen, Louise, PLEASE listen...' Well, it's a LITTLE LATE, YA KNOW?..." *Party time.* Max looked back at Scully. "On 'three'" she mouthed, holding up three fingers as she flattened her back against the wall and locked the Python in a two-handed grip. Scully nodded, her grip tightening on the Sig as she blew air out her nose. Scully had never done anything like this with anyone but Mulder. A flash of uncertainty ran through her, but it was quelled with a quick look at Max. *She's a professional,* Scully told herself, *And thank God she's with me now.* Together they mouthed, "One... Two... THREE!" And they swung into the entranceway. "FBI," Scully barked in the Voice. "DROP YOUR WEAPON!" "POLICE OFFICER," Max shouted in a Voice of her own. "FREEZE!" With his red checked lumberjack jacket and faded brown workboots, Joel wouldn't have looked out of place at a Redskins tailgate party. He was standing in the center of the foyer, left arm wrapped round the neck of the mousy volunteer, the right hand pressing the barrel of a .38 Special hard into her right temple. He'd broken her nose at some point, and she was making small keening sounds as the flow made a pretty large stain on her white buttondown shirt. Scully pegged Joel in his early 40's, balding but not grey, average height but big all around -- arms, legs, gut. His eyes worried her more than his weapon. They were wide and wild, and made it clear he'd have no more problem shooting Louise -- or Scully, or Max, or anyone else who got in his way -- than he had shooting the two security guards who lay dying by the cashier's desk. Joel was breathing through his nose, adrenaline and the extra weight of the woman making him breath heavily, but if Scully and Max' weaponry gave the man pause, he didn't show it. If anything, the stare he threw at their demands would have made most people slink away. Joel just stared at the two women for a count of five, and then he started laughing -- softly to start, then quite loudly. *Fabulous,* Scully thought furiously. *Two high-powered handguns staring him in the face and he's yukking it up.* Max kept her T-sight right on the bridge of Joel's nose. *Oh, this is gonna be big fun,* she told herself. *Where the fuck is the cavalry?* Joel was in the middle of a long guffaw when he wrenched the volunteer's neck just a little tighter. She stopped keening and started choking. "You hear THAT, Louise," he screamed down at his captive. "Your SISTERS are here! And they got guns AND badges!!" "Put the weapon down NOW," Scully ordered, sounding a lot more sure of herself than she felt. "Come on, guy," Max said, trying to sound a note of reason. "This isn't gonna solve anything..." Joel's head snapped up. Max tried not to feel like a jack-lighted deer. "REALLY?! You're telling me blowing this BITCH back to HELL... which is where she BELONGS after what she did to ME... to my LIFE... to my FAMILY... You say that won't SOLVE ANYTHING?!? It sounds like the PERFECT solution to ME..." "It's not a solution if you've got a family," Scully called out. "You have kids, sir? You want to make them orphans? Is this how you want them to remember you?" "What I HAD..." Joel snarled, "WAS A GOOD LIFE! A HOUSE! A BUSINESS! And this..." He looked down at Louise with withering hatred. "...this BITCH TOOK IT ALL AWAY! She raised a wanton little TEASE who gave it up to any boy with a CAMARO AND A LETTER JACKET!" A trickle of drool came out the side of his mouth as he looked up at Max and Scully. "I DID MY BEST! I TRIED to put her right! MAKE her see what was right! But I guess it wasn't GOOD ENOUGH, HUH, LOUISE?!" Dimly, Max could hear the sounds of sirens coming up Huntington Avenue. *About fucking time. Gotta keep him talking...* "The cavalry's almost here, Joel. Now, you're outnumbered already. You think you're gonna get out of here alive when the TAC Squad gets you in their sights?" "HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING?!?" His voice cracked from the strain of howling. "MY LIFE IS _ALREADY_ OVER! IT GOT TAKEN AWAY FROM ME! BY LAWYERS! BY JUDGES! BY SOCIAL WORKERS who thought THEY knew more about what was BEST FOR MY FAMILY then ME!" Joel yanked Louise up off the ground and spun with her, sending her legs flying as he did it! "AND THIS VICIOUS LITTLE CUNT MADE IT ALL POSSIBLE!" Even though she was a head shorter than Joel, Louise made a dandy shield. Even if he'd given Scully and Max a clear shot at his back, at this range there was no guarantee a bullet wouldn't go through Joel and plow into Louise. So if Joel had wanted to hold them off, all he had to do was keep holding onto Louise. Louder sirens and squealing brakes. *Just a few seconds more,* Scully pleaded. "Joel, listen to me..." "YOU WANNA LISTEN TO SOMETHING, BITCH?! LISTEN TO THIS!!" It all took about five seconds. Louise went flying face-first into the marble wall, her head cracking quite loudly on impact. His arm held straight out, Joel pointed the .38 at Louise's head. "NO!" Scully's shot took a big chunk out of Joel's right shoulder. Max aimed lower at the last moment, the hollow-pointed round shattering Joel's right ankle. Joel fired as he went down on his back, the bullet ricocheting off the wall a foot above Louise's head and flying up into the rafters. "It's over, Joel," Max shouted. "Stay down!" Joel bellowed like an angry grizzly bear. He had dropped the .38 when Scully blew out his shoulder, but it laid right next to him, and he grabbed it with his left hand and brought it up. Scully and Max both fired twice. Joel's body rolled once, twice, and then was still. Four large red blooms blossomed on his chest. Max flew across the floor, kicking the .38 away from Joel's body as Scully got to Louise. It was obviously academic, but Max checked the pulse out of habit. No sale. Joel's eyes were half-closed, all the rage drained from his face. *Game over. Drive home safely.* "How is she," Max wanted to know. Scully did a quick check of the pupils. Pulse rapid, breathing rapid, skin clammy, shaking like a leaf, obviously concussed. "She's in shock." "At least she's alive," Max said, more to herself. She looked over her shoulder. "SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!" "IN THE MUSEUM," a man's voice called commandingly from outside. "THIS IS THE POLICE! THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!" Max stood up, looking back at Joel's dull eyes as she re-holstered the Python. "Golly Days," she said dryly. "Why didn't _we_ think of that?" END OF PART TWO THE ROAD NOT TAKEN (3/5) by deejay <<>> Of all the many and varied theories Mulder had about life, the universe, and everything else, Scully only shared one wholeheartedly: Mulder believed every police department in the country had a contract with the same food service. It was the only explanation for why squadroom coffee was universally atrocious. But prolonged exposure built up immunity, which was why Scully was on her third cup. She had given her statement twice -- once to a tired-looking detective named Santoro, then to Max' lieutenant and three humorless-looking men from Internal Affairs. Max was not present either time. Scully was doing everything she could to be patient, but the coffee wasn't helping. Neither was being left in the olive-drab box the Homicide unit used as an interrogation room, even if it did have a window that gave her a view of the squadroom. It was the kind of thing you did to a suspect. She had been quiet for so long that the ringing of her cell phone made her start. She pulled it out of her trenchcoat and pressed the "On" button. "Scully." "I hate it when you have more fun than I do." Scully glanced at her phone, then at her watch, before she answered. "Oh, I'm having a blast, Mulder. The Homicide division of the Boston Police Department is a laugh riot, especially the interrogation rooms. Didn't anyone ever tell you making calls from an airplane is prohibitively expensive? Or is the in-flight movie that bad?" "The only movie I've seen today is a colorized version of 'Casablanca' on American Movie Classics. Normally I refuse to watch films that have been technically raped, but it was the only thing the bartender could find on his satellite dish that wasn't soap operas, talk shows, reruns, or gadget sports on ESPN2." Scully frowned in confusion. "Mulder, where are you?" If she strained, she could hear people in the background, then a muffled voice on a loudspeaker. "At the moment, I'm still at Dulles. One of the Airbus' engines blew a frammistat all over the runway. They towed us back to the terminal and I've been cooling my heels ever since. Skinner filled me in a little while ago. Are you okay?" Scully was about to run it down when she saw movement in the squadroom. Max' lieutenant was walking towards the interrogation room, accompanied by two men in identical grey suits. *Some cliches just won't die.* "I'm fine, Mulder, but I think Act Two is finally about to start. Are you going to be there for a while?" "Hey, the colorized version of 'Key Largo' just started. I'm in heaven. Besides, the only flight with room for me doesn't leave til eleven tonight." "That's five hours away. Why not go get some dinner in the city?" Mulder chuckled. "I would, but someone took my car. Call me when you can." "Thank you, Mulder." Scully rang off just as the lieutenant walked into the room, followed closely by the two suits. The lieutenant -- a biracial man named Weeks, who was on the south side of forty -- was in his shirtsleeves, his tie at half-mast, and he didn't look happy; the Young Suit's face stayed neutral, while the Old Suit had a face like a well-used hatchet. Scully didn't know the Young Suit, but she'd seen the Old Suit's picture, and knew his reputation. *I don't need this,* she groused to herself as she got to her feet. *I really don't...* "Agent Scully," Weeks said formally, "I'm sorry to keep you hanging fire like this, but your agency's SAC informed us he wanted to have a word with..." "This is an informal meeting, Agent Scully," the Old Suit said brusquely, walking around Weeks so he was standing in front of him. "But I felt it was best I speak with you while the facts were fresh in your mind." He did not offer to shake hands, and he already looked like he was trying to stare holes in Scully's head. The younger man kept his distance, standing at Parade Rest near the door. "Thank you, Lieutenant," the Old Suit said dismissively. "That'll be all." Weeks cocked his head to one side. His voice stayed deadpan, but his eyes flared like a bonfire. "Excuse me?" The Old Suit gave Scully an extra second of the killer stare before he looked over his shoulder. "That'll be all," he said, in a tone reserved for someone who wasn't that quick-witted. Weeks gave the Old Suit a stare of his own, then turned on his heels and started out of the room. The Old Suit looked back at Scully before he added, "And make sure that intercom is turned off in Observation. This conversation is just for us grownups. Close the door after him, Moncrief." Weeks stopped at the door, threw another look at the Old Suit and a glance at the stone-faced Young Suit, then stalked out of the room. Scully watched the scene without expression. Everything she'd heard about Gordon Beauchamp, the mercurial Special Agent-in-Charge of the FBI's Boston office, was displayed for her perusal in the span of ten seconds. Short with underlings, shorter with the local police, very aware of his own personal power, with no hesitation about throwing it around. The word was he'd made his bones in the 60s, wire-tapping members of the anti-war movement at Harvard and putting them away on drug charges that may or may not have been completely righteous. He went after the anti-war crowd with the same zeal J. Edgar Hoover had when he went after Dillinger in the 30's, and it earned Beauchamp the nickname "Little Hoover". Since his appointment as Regional Director fifteen years before, the nickname had been updated to "Hoover Upright". His more virulent detractors had another name for him: "SAC Of Shit". Beauchamp nodded to the chair Scully had been sitting in. "Please," he said. He walked around and sat/leaned on the edge of the table, his craggy countenenace looming over her. It was a move to intimidate, a move used on suspects. He smelled like cigarettes and his teeth were stained brown. Scully's temperature was rising steadily, but she kept her expression blank, giving him her best clinical stare as she sat. Beauchamp looked at Scully for a beat of three before he said, "I'd like an explanation." Scully blinked. "What would you like explained, sir?" Beauchamp gave her another beat of three, and then he started speaking to her softly, like a parent trying to keep his temper with his child. "I would like to know just what the hell you thought you were trying to do earlier today, Agent Scully." Scully ignored the sarcasm. "With respect, sir, I thought I was assisting a member of the Boston police department in an attempt to save a woman's life." "Really? Is that what you thought you were doing?" Beauchamp chuckled to himself, shaking his head as if he pitied Scully. He pushed off the table and started walking around the room, not even sparing her a glance. "Let me explain to you what you were _really_ doing, Agent Scully, because it's obvious to me you don't understand the implications of your actions..." Scully looked down at the table. "I wasn't aware I was doing anything else, sir..." Beauchamp whirled on her. "No? Well, let me enlighten you, _Agent_ Scully! What you were DOING was, indeed, assisting a member of this city's fine upstanding police department! An action you performed... without... my... permission!" Scully kept her eyes on the table. "Again, with respect, sir, there was hardly time to..." Beauchamp cut her off at the pass. "THINK? Isn't that what you were ABOUT to say? There wasn't time to THINK? Because it sure seems to ME like you didn't think through Thing One in this situation!" Scully's head came up. *Control, control...* "Sir, I reviewed my options as they were presented to me. I concluded there was no alternative but to proceed in the manner that I did." "Well, that is damn noble of you, Agent Scully! And in the process, you came damn close to blowing up my career, and I am NOT happy about it!" Beauchamp put both hands on the table and loomed over Scully, who was looking at him in wonder after that last statement. "That was a HOSTAGE situation you were in, Agent Scully! Two civilians were KILLED! Another civilian nearly joined them! And if you'd taken one misstep, fired your gun a second too late or too early, that woman would have been dead! Or maybe someone ELSE would have been dead! ANOTHER security guard, or an innocent bystander! There were TWELVE OTHER PEOPLE in that foyer, Agent Scully, and any one of them could have caught a bullet! From you, from your Local Yokel friend, or from the perpetrator! And do you know who would have been blamed for that, Agent Scully? Not the Boston P.D., ohhhhh NO! The FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION would have been blamed, _Agent_ Scully! Specifically, the BOSTON OFFICE of the Federal Bureau of Investigation! And THAT... MEANS... ME! I've made a lot of enemies, Agent Scully, both in the law enforcement community and in the press! And if this situation had gone wrong, this could have been the fulcrum they needed to boost me out of my JOB!!" He leaned closer to Scully. She willed herself not to lean back in the chair. "And THAT... is NOT something I APPRECIATE!!" The man by the door could have been a mannequin for all the expression he had. He'd obviously seen performances like this before. Scully had to grit her teeth to keep from shouting. "Fortunately for all of us... sir... the outcome of the situation was the best we could have hoped for. The hostage is alive and under medical care, and the perpetrator was neutralized without any further loss of life!" Beauchamp pushed off the table and walked away again. "I don't want to hear that crap! All I know is you acted precipitously in a volatile situation without informing your superior! And if you HAD informed me, I would have ORDERED YOU to stay the hell out of the way and let your friend get the glory!" Scully was reeling. "In the first place... sir... I explained to you that this situation came down to a matter of seconds, so informing ANYONE was not an option at the time. In the second place, 'glory' was never an issue. Saving that woman's life WAS!" Beauchamp was pacing the room, hands in pockets, shaking his head exaggeratedly, muttering to himself. Scully pressed on regardless. "In the third place, Detective Maxfield is not my 'friend'. I only met her this afternoon..." Beauchamp looked up at the ceiling, chuckling now, still pacing. "And FINALLY... sir... with ALL due respect, my 'superior' is Assistant Director Walter Skinner at the Hoover Building in Washington, D.C.! If you'd like, I can call him right now..." "AGENT SCULLY!" Beauchamp's roar cut Scully right off. His eyes were like Joel's, and it made Scully flinch. His voice became a hiss. "When you are in THIS neck of the woods, EYE am your superior! You will answer to ME, AGENT Scully, or I will have you before a committee of the Office Of Professional Conduct before you can CHANGE YOUR PANTIES!" He took several deep breaths, walked back to the desk, and resumed his seat on the side of the table. Scully wanted to get up and put the whole table between them -- or maybe over him -- but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Yet. "Now," he said, apparently calm again. "This brings me to my next question." Beat. beat. "Why are you _really_ here?" Scully blinked. "I'm on vacation, sir." Beauchamp was chuckling again. "Oh, I think not, Agent Scully..." A cell phone went off, its chime muffled. The young man reached for his belt. "Let it ring, Moncrief," Beauchamp said darkly, eyes locked on Scully. "Sir," Moncrief said, and resumed his Parade Rest stance. "Once again, Agent Scully... Why... are you really here?" "And once again, sir... I am on..." Beauchamp rubbed his face. "Agent Scully, I have neither the time nor the tolerance for your childish little games, so let me be frank." *Jesus Wept,* Scully thought, *what's he been up til _now_?* "I'm quite aware of your little action team, and its brief," Beauchamp continued, "as well as the space cadet who carved himself a fiefdom down in the basement of the Hoover Building and has apparently let you in on the action. I'm also aware of what occured on that farm in Steveston... or what the reports say occured, anyway. With that in mind, it's not inconceivable that Washington sent you and your partner to Massachusetts again... without my knowledge." Moncrief's phone had rung eleven times. Beauchamp's voice darkened again. "And the result of such an excursion can only make me look bad." *This is getting better by the minute.* "Sir, I assure you..." "Your assurances don't interest me in the least, Agent Scully. What _does_ interest me is where that fugitive from Behavioral Science who runs your unit is. What's his name? Mulder?" Scully ignored the assertion that Mulder _ran_ her. "Sir, Agent Mulder is on vacation, like myself. At the moment he is en route to Scotland." Which was the truth, sort of, but Scully wasn't going to get into the details with this paranoid schitzophrenic. Fifteen rings. Beauchamp gave her the mildly-annoyed-father look. "And I suppose he called you because he was worried you were catching cold in all this wonderful New England weather." "Sir..." "Please, Agent Scully, don't insult me. I heard the end of that conversation you were having. Agent Mulder is in the area. You know it. I know it. And what I want to know... and what you're going to tell me right n-DAMNIT, MONCRIEF, WILL YOU ANSWER THE PHONE?!" "Sir," Moncrief said, seemingly immune to Beauchamp's mood swings. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flip phone that looked like a _Star Trek_ communicator and started murmuring into it. Beauchamp turned back to Scully, resuming the Father Figure role. "What you are going to tell me -- while you still have a career -- is what your team is doing here, what orders you were given, who gave them, and what I can expect when MY people take over the opera-" Moncrief was by his side, holding out the phone. "Sir..." "What IS it, Moncrief?" "Asssitant Director Walter Skinner, sir," he whispered. "For you." Wonder and anger fought for position on Beauchamp's face. He looked at Moncrief, then at the cell phone, then at Scully, back at the cell phone, which he plucked out of Moncrief's hand. He walked away from the table, practically to the back of the room, before he said into the phone, "Special Agent Beauchamp." The terse, emotionless voice on the other end could have cut steel in half. "Agent Beauchamp, this is Assistant Director Walter Skinner." Beauchamp looked at himself in the two-way mirror. "Sir, this is an honor..." He didn't sound like it was an honor. "I'm not sure I can say the same, Agent Beauchamp. May I ask what you think you're doing?" Beauchamp cleared his throat softly. "Sir, I am being briefed by Agent Scully on the situation that occured at the Museum Of Fine Arts earlier today. As Special Agent-in-Charge, I feel it's important that I..." "Agent Beauchamp, has Agent Scully given a statement to the Boston police?" Beat. "Yes, sir, she has..." "And has she also discussed the situation with Lieutenant Aaron Weeks of Boston Homicide, as well as with members of the department's Internal Affairs Division?" "Yes, sir, but..." "And have you reviewed those statements?" "Yes, sir..." "And are they the same?" Beauchamp's left hand was in a tight fist, while his right threatened to crush the phone. The statements were, in fact, the same, but Beauchamp wasn't about to acknowledge that. The fact that both statements were similar was what convinced Beauchamp that Scully was covering up. "Sir, I feel there are some aspects of the hostage situation Agent Scully did not appreciate..." "Agent Beauchamp, I can assure you Agent Scully _fully_ appreciated the situation she was presented with earlier today. But if, in fact, there were some 'aspects' she did _not_ appreciate, then the person to explain those aspects to Agent Scully would be me. Not you, Agent Beauchamp. Me. Do I make myself clear?" Beauchamp couldn't hold back any longer. "Sir, as Special Agent-in-Charge for this area, I feel it is my right to be apprised of the situation by Agent Scully myself, and not be forced to rely on police reports that may be incomplete or inaccurate. It is also my right to receive full disclosure on the reasons for her prescence in this area, as well as the whereabouts of Agent Mulder, and any Bureau-related activities pertaining to..." Skinner wasn't a screamer. He didn't have to. He would simply raise the intensity a notch or two, and that was what he did now. "Then let me put your mind at rest, Agent Beauchamp. Agent Scully is on a well-deserved vacation, her first in many months. It is my understanding she intends to make the rounds of various museums and libraries, as well as attend a lecture on pathology at Harvard Medical School. She is not -- I repeat, _not_ -- in the area on Bureau business. And her partner, Agent Mulder, is nowhere near your region. He is on vacation, as well, and his whereabouts do not concern you. Have I answered all your questions, Agent Beauchamp?" Scully could see Beauchamp's complexion from the other side of the room. *If he were any redder, he'd be a fire engine.* "Yes, sir," Beauchamp rasped. "Then before you leave, Agent Beauchamp, I want to speak with Agent Scully. And Agent Beauchamp?" "Sir?" "This matter is closed. Don't make me open it again." Beauchamp stared heatedly at the phone, then turned and walked deliberately over to Scully, handing it to her without a word. If looks could kill, Scully would have been in a bodybag. Her returning stare was neutral, and she planned to keep it that way. "Yes, sir," she said into the phone. "Agent Scully," Skinner said, formal as ever, "I'm sorry for any inconvenience you may have been put through. As you've no doubt discovered, Agent Beauchamp's imagination has a tendency to run away with itself." Scully almost snorted, but she caught it in time. "I think that's safe to say, sir." "Should Agent Beauchamp decide to ignore my advice and interrupt your vacation again, please contact me immediately, and appropriate action will be taken." "I appreciate that, sir." "Not at all." A pause. "Enjoy yourself." Click. Scully closed the flip phone and offered it to Beauchamp, who hadn't moved. He looked at her with intense loathing, a man of power who just discovered how finite that power was. After a count of five he said, "Enjoy your stay," and stalked out of the room, letting the door slam against the wall as he went. Moncrief watched him go, then walked over and retrieved the phone. "Agent Scully," he said, and went out. There wasn't a hint of a smile on his face. *He's the one who has to drive back with Beauchamp,* Scully reminded herself. Just as he went out, Weeks came back in. Max was right behind him. "What a charmer," she said. "I wish he was twins, so I could have fun deciding which one to shoot first." Scully exhaled, relieved that scene was over. "He's infamous for tirades like that, but I thought they were just stories..." Weeks shook his head. "Beach Nut's the main reason we're not real fond of Feebies round these parts." He ducked his head. "Present company excepted." Scully nodded. She'd run into hostility from local law enforcement before. She hated to think there were more winners like Beauchamp fomenting it. "Lieutenant, would you have any insight into how A.D. Skinner knew about Special Agent Beauchamp's actions?" Weeks tried to look ingenuous. "Well, after my initial communication with him, I felt your supervisor should be kept apprised of the present state of our investigation, as well as the level of involvement of area Bureau personnel. Looks like it was a good call, because he seemed very interested indeed." Weeks shrugged. "I guess Mr. Skinner likes to keep on top of things." Scully stifled a smile. "That he does. Am I finished here, Lieutenant?" "You would have been finished forty-five minutes ago if it weren't for that idiot calling my captain and demanding we hold you until his helicopter could pick him up at his house in Manchester. Sorry for the holdup." He turned to Max. "See you next week, alright?" Max looked disgusted. "I guess." Weeks pointed a finger at her. "Part of the drill, Max. So stay cool. Okay?" Max laughed once, without humor. "Yes, daddy." Weeks smiled a small smile, then nodded at Scully and went out. "Thank you, Lieutenant," Scully called after him. She turned to Max. "Part of what drill?" Max shoved her hands in her pockets and looked at the floor. "I'm on the bench for a few days." "What?!" Max looked off at the wall. "No, Loot's right. It is part of the drill. Any kind of a shooting, I sit on the sidelines, I.A.D. investigates, I talk to the department shrink, and then life goes on its merry way. I've dealt with it before." "Max, I'm sorry." Max waved her away. "If you hadn't been there, the odds of me being on a slab next to Louise get pretty good." She smiled at Scully, and Scully felt her stomach drop. Before she could react to the statement or the feeling, Max quickly checked her watch. Her smile went away quick. "Oh, shit! Come on!" Max left the room at a trot. More confused than ever, Scully grabbed her coat off the hook by the door and followed her. "Where are we going now?" "I have to feed the Bear," Max said, snatching her coat off a chair as she went. "The WHAT?" "Don't worry! He won't bite!" END OF PART THREE THE ROAD NOT TAKEN (4/5) by deejay <<>> Massachusetts General Hospital was another mix of Old Wing/New Wing at the edge of Beacon Hill. Both wings were an aesthetic nightmare, but people didn't come to Mass General for the architecture. An ambulance pulled away from the building as Scully entered the Old Wing, nonchalantly carrying the long white flower box in her right arm. Habit nagged at her to check in at the Main Desk, but Max had been quite specific in her instructions when she left Scully five minutes before. Scully took the elevator up to 6 and followed the signs to 617, walking briskly by the nurses station without making eye contact. *More proof of the time-honored rule, "If you act like you know what you're doing, no-one stops you."* The door to 617 was half-open, the blinds on the interior windows drawn. Max was sitting in the long-backed green chair by the bed, sharing a joke with a middle-aged black man who must have topped out at 250 pounds. His left arm was in a cast, as was his chest, and the bed creaked when he moved. He spotted Scully first. "All right," he said, smiling big. "The mail got through! Anybody follow you?" Scully shook her head. "No problems." The big man patted his lap. "Well, put that bad boy down here. Then you can be my lookout after we shake hands." He stuck out a hand about the size of a small shovel. "Merrell Reese, Boston Homicide." "Dana Scully, FBI." Scully expected her hand to be crushed, but Reece used just the right amount of pressure. "Hot damn," he said. "A Feebie with a smile." Reese's voice reminded Scully of Paul Robeson, if Robeson had fried his vocal chords with years of cigarettes and squadroom coffee. He looked down at the box and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now, Mizz Scully, if you'd be good enough to get by those blinds and keep watch. And if you see a woman who looks like Joan Crawford on Crack, shout out. That's Nurse Wretched. She finds these little goodies, we're ALL busted!" Scully nodded and went over to the interior windows, adjusting the blinds so she could see. "Didn't think a mere nurse could grab your slack, Bear," Max said teasingly. "Ain't nobody grabbin' _my_ slack, Max," Reese said, untying the big red ribbon round the box with his good hand. "But you know The Bear. He is a mellow creature at heart, and wants as little static as possible wherever he hangs his-WHAT the fuck is _this_?" Scully looked. Reese had the box open, revealing its contents: A plastic evidence bag containing a sandwich in a greasy Burger King package. Max smiled innocently. "Broiled chicken sandwich, lettuce and tomato, light mustard, no mayo?" Reese moaned at the ceiling. "God sakes, Maxfield, you _never_ get my order right! How hard is this? Double Whopper with cheese, extra pickles. Large fries. Large chocolate shake..." "I got your order, all right, Mister Reese," Max assured him. "But I figured someone already tried to kill you once this month. I wasn't gonna finish the job." "It's Nurse Wretched and this hospital food that's killin' my chocolate-brown ass," Reese whined. Max was unmoved. "My heart bleeds. I'd like my partner back before the end of this century, and it's not gonna happen if his blood pressure pins the needle. Quit your bitching and eat what you got. There's starving people in Revere." "Nag, nag, nag," Reese muttered. But he also demolished the sandwich in about four bites. *And I thought Mulder was a junk-food junkie,* Scully mused. Reese wiped his mouth with a Kleenex, which he took from a box on the rolling table. "I been here too damned long. That actually tasted _good_." He gave the women an appraising stare. "So, my children. I hear you had a full rich day." "No doubt," Max said, throwing a smile at Scully. "Might have been a lot shorter for me if this nice lady had decided to vacation in Brussels." "Don't listen to her," Scully put in. "I doubt I could have handled the situation by myself. We had Joel dead to rights, and he laughed. If I'd been alone, he might have shot me out of hand and finished what he started on his wife." "I could say the same thing," Max pointed out. "Matter of fact, I do say the same thing." "Hey," Reese said. "It's all armchair quarterbacking. And I don't care where it happened, it was still a Domestic, and those puppies can go any which way, no matter how many people you got." He nodded to his cast, which was covered with signatures, presumably from other police officers. "I got the proof." Scully had heard the story on the way to the hospital. Eleven days before, a downsized dockworker named Freddie Mancuso showed up on his mother-in-law's doorstep, requesting to see his estranged wife Becky. They had separated five months before when Freddie's job-searching decreased and his drinking increased. According to the mother-in-law, Mancuso seemed sober and communicative, something he had not been for some time. When Becky came out to see him, Mancuso pulled out his Army-issue .45 automatic and blew her brains out. The mother-in-law -- who only caught a shoulder wound because she dove behind the living-room couch -- was still screaming when Mancuso drove away. Max and Reese tracked Mancuso down to Swampscott, where his mother lived in a triple-decker near the beach. As they walked up the stairs, Mancuso came down the street carrying a bag from the local package store. Although the autopsy report said Mancuso had a blood-alcohol content of .15, he was still quick enough to drop the bag of beer and get off three shots, blowing out Reese' collarbone before Max could clear leather and shoot Mancuso in the chest. "With today, what's that make," Reese asked Max. "Ten in the last two weeks?" "Eleven," Max said glumly. "Hegeman and MacKechnie caught your basic triple murder-suicide in J.P. early this morning. Security guard came home from third shift at Lechmere, whacked his wife and kids, ate a couple of Pop Tarts, then ate his piece." "Shame on him," Reese deadpanned. "Has he no respect for our need for overtime?" "Eleven Domestics plus our usual dance card? We got enough to keep us happy, Bear." Scully asked, "Statistically, aren't domestic disputes a major portion of any Homicide unit's caseload?" "Normally, yes," Max answered. "But, Scully, it's like it's been _raining_ Domestics lately. And the weird thing about them is the perps either had no history of violence or abuse, or only became violent very, very recently. Mancuso was a drinker, sure, but Becky's mom said he never laid a hand on her. And that restraining order on Joel was only about a day-and-a-half old..." "I thought you said he'd been messing with the daughter," Reese said. "Yeah," Max acceded. "Child Welfare says he started in on her a couple of months ago, just after she turned 15. But his focus was never on the mother, just the daughter..." "So? All that means is the mother took his sugar away when she took everything else. It's just part of the freak show, Max. It don't mean nuthin'." Max rubbed her eyes. "Yeah, maybe you're right. But there's a lesson in here somewhere..." "Yeah," Reese grumbled. "Don't ever get married." Scully was about to say something when she caught movement heading their way. Unfriendly-looking movement. "Heads up," she said. Reese moved as fast as he could, stuffing the Burger King wrapper in the box and wiping his mouth again with the Kleenex. There was no time to tie the ribbon back up, but Max did close the box and put it behind her chair before the nurse walked in. "Ahh, Nurse Wretched," Reese purred, the picture of charm. "How are we this fine evening?" Her nametag said "Nunziatto", not "Wretched". But she was a dead-ringer for Joan Crawford -- Joan Crawford in the latter stages of her career -- and she reminded Scully of the Mother Superior at her Catholic grade school: A woman who saw everything, knew everything, thought a sense of humor was frivolous, and believed transgressions should be met with punishment. She walked up to Reese and popped an electronic thermometer in his mouth. "'We' would be a lot finer if we were sticking to our diet, Detective Reese," she said, taking his pulse. "Between the stromboli your lieutenant brought for lunch yesterday and the cheese-steak sub the Arson Squad brought today, my staff is getting far more calories than they should." "Y' c'ld st'p t'king th' ff'd," Reese said around the thermometer. Nunziatto plucked the thermometer out of his mouth and logged the result on his chart. "You could tell your buddies to keep that artery-clogging junk to themselves," she said tonelessly. "If you want to kill yourself, you do it on your own time. Not on mine, and not on my ward." She was just about to leave when she stopped, staring at Reese' face hard. Reese stayed completely stoic, while Max was obviously holding her breath. Nunziatto took out another Kleenex, dabbed the corner of his mouth, and showed it to him. The Kleenex had mustard on it. "You missed a spot," she said frostily. She turned to Max and Scully. "Alright, where is it?" "Where is what," Max asked innocently. Nunziatto just shook her head and cast her eyes around the room. She found the flower box in under ten seconds, and when she saw the wrapper, her color rose a few notches. "Out," she said. "Both of you." "Hey, look..." Max began. "Out. Now." "If you knew what he _wanted_ me to bring..." "I'd be as angry as I am now," Nunziatto asserted. She started herding Max and Scully out of the room. "Out! And if you come back, be prepared for a full body search!" Reese was laughing now. "Thanks for dinner, Agent Scully. Come back soon." "Empty-handed," said Nunziatto as she pushed Scully and Max into the hallway. "Hang tough, Bear," Max called over Nunziatto's shoulder. "Don't worry, Maxie," Reese shouted as Nunziatto slammed the door behind her. "This tinhorn joint can't hold the likes'a _me_!" His laughter could be heard all the way to the elevator, which was where Nunziatto finally let them go. <<>> *No matter where you are on the globe,* Scully thought, *local TV news looks exactly the same.* The news broadcast she was watching from one of the two couches in Max' living room came from one of Boston's three UHF stations. She didn't know which one, but she'd seen a promo for Voyager just before the newscast had begun. *Mulder would love this station.* She sipped at the short glass of frangelica as a slide of the MFA appeared above Richards' left shoulder. The legend, "DEATH AT THE MUSEUM" appeared below the slide in red block letters. "A quiet day at the Museum of Fine Arts was shattered by gunfire this afternoon, as an estranged husband's attempt at revenge on his wife met a tragic end." The serious-looking black news anchor looked suitably grave. "Here with a report from Boston Police Headquarters is our own Randy Macintosh." "I wonder if he practices that look in the mirror," said Scully. "Count on it," Max said, sipping at her own glass on the other end of the couch. She had hung up her jacket, but still wore her shoulder holster over her turtleneck as she watched the broadcast with a wry expression. She thought of local news organizations as "The Doom Patrol". The scene on the screen changed to a shot outside the drab building on Berkeley Street where they'd spent most of their afternoon. A serious-looking white male stood under an umbrella, trench-coat collar snapped up to ward off the rain. "Dennis, this case was an example of happenstance foiling intent. And because of that happenstance, the mother of a Wayland teen is alive tonight, while her ex-husband... and her attacker... lies dead." "I've got goose-bumps already," Scully deadpanned. Max chuckled once. The scene changed to an exterior of the flags flying from the Old Wing of the MFA, panning down to reveal the glass-and-brass doors. Macintosh carried on, his voice laid over the scene. "At a little after 3:30 this afternoon, 42 year-old Joel Roberge entered the Museum Of Fine Arts, approached his former wife Louise, a volunteer with the Museum. Roberge -- a Dedham construction contractor -- attempted to speak with Louise, an action which violated a restraining order directing Roberge to stay at least 500 yards away from his wife. But according to Doreen Valletti, a Methuen substitute schoolteacher who had come into Boston for the day, it became quickly apparent Roberge thought little of the restraining order." The scene cut to a close-up of a heavy-set woman in her early 50's. Scully vaguely remembered the woman. She had been huddled against one of the pillars in the foyer, her knees drawn up in the fetal position. She seemed to have it together as she spoke. "He was in the line ahead of me, and when he got to the counter, he started talking with... with the woman. Telling her she had to change her mind, that she had made a mistake. When he started to get loud, two security guards asked him to leave. And that's..." She swallowed once, but did not look like she was tearing up. "That's when he did it." The scene changed to tape of Macintosh outside the MFA. The police cars and the ambulances were in the background. "What Roberge did was hit Louise across the face, then take a short-barreled 38-caliber revolver out of his jacket, and shoot the two security guards..." Macintosh refereed to a small notebook in his free hand. "...51 year-old Paul Herpin and 29 year-old Louis Phillips, both of the city of Boston. Roberge then pulled his ex-wife over the counter and out onto the floor of the foyer, obviously intending to shoot her, too..." Scully watched it all with a surprising sense of detachment: The eyewitness describing Joel's frenzy. Macintosh feverishly describing the actions of "the two heroic female law-enforcement officers." The teacher giving her own take on what went down. Louise on a stretcher being wheeled into an ambulance. Joel's bodybag, and the bodybags of the security guards, being loaded into the Coroner's station wagon. A quick shot of Santoro herding Scully and Max into an unmarked Chevy Caprice. A quick mention about how recently Louise had divorced Joel, with an allusion that sexual and physical abuse had been involved. Weeks, Max' captain, and Moncrief at a press conference detailing the estrangement of the Roberge family, as well as lauding the actions of Scully and Max, and the fine relationship the FBI had with local law enforcement. Scully and Max had a good laugh at that one. (There was no sign of Beauchamp on the dais, which surprised Scully. Beauchamp supposedly loved press conferences, and made a point of officiating them whenever the Bureau was involved in a local matter.) The report ended with Macintosh "LIVE" at Boston Police Headquarters, now looking as grave as the anchorman. *They must have gone to the same school,* Scully decided. "Both Agent Scully and Detective Maxfield were unavailable for comment. But given the reported intentions of Joel Roberge, and the results of those intentions, the detectives actions... speak louder than words." Beat. "Alison?" The pleasant Asian co-anchor came back onscreen, but her voice was muted. Max had heard enough. "Another day, another local Emmy," Max sighed, putting the remote control back on the side table. She looked over at Scully. "Ever notice when the cameras are around, the brass is always out front but we're 'unavailable for comment'?" Scully shrugged, still looking at the silent screen. "I've no desire to be famous." "Glad to hear it," Max smiled, studying Scully's face. *Now _that's_ a profile.* Max shook her head slightly and gestured at Scully's glass. "More?" Scully looked down at her glass, realizing it was empty. Scully didn't drink often, and they had already split a bottle of chardonnay earlier at a funky little bar/restaurant called Grendal's, just off Harvard Square. But Scully was finally starting to relax, and she liked the feeling. She looked at her watch, then handed the glass to Max. "A small one. And I have to make a phone call." Max gestured at the white trim-line phone on the end table. "Knock yourself out." "It's long distance," Scully said, walking across the room to her raincoat. "Besides, that's what cell phones are for." "Suit yourself," Max said over her shoulder as she walked out of the room. Scully watched her go. Scully did not need to know about the treadmill and the Ab-Roller in the alcove next to the livingroom to deduce Max worked out. If she had any excess fat, Scully couldn't see it. She let that thought go as she dialed, looking around the room. It looked like a college student's apartment. The color TV sat on top of a cinderblock bookcase next to a black one-piece CD-stereo-cassette system. At least fifty CDs sat in a particle-board case on the second shelf. None of the furniture matched, and what passed for a coffee table looked like one of those giant spools telephone repairmen use to carry cable. It had been covered with a shiny green fabric at some point. The oriental rug had seen quite a few miles, and the fake wood paneling was decorated with photographs; some of them were black-and-white pictures of Boston mounted on white cardboard, while the group of pictures above the phone was a mix of color and black-and-white, obviously of family and friends. One shot was of Reese at his desk, obviously taken without his knowledge. Another was an old shot of a portly man in a Boston PD dress uniform, shaking hands with someone who looked like a mayor. It was not hard to see his looks in Max. If Mulder was annoyed at his travel predicament, he made no sign of it. He had gritted his teeth at the colorization of 'Key Largo', read both the Post and the Washington Times from front to back, wiped out the backlog of paperwork he'd planned to work on during slack times at the campsite, indulged in the junk food available at Dulles' International terminal, and polished off the latest Tom Clancy techno-babbler. "The clerk at the newsstand must think I'm stalking her. No more separate vacations, Scully." "Be happy you weren't here, Mulder," Scully said, walking over to the window. The rain was really beating down now. "If it had been the two of us in that interrogation room, Beauchamp would probably have shot first and asked questions at the autopsy." "Is he as happy a person in real life as he is in legend?" "More so. If he were in Skinner's place, you'd be counting snowflakes in Anchorage and I'd be a civilian patholgist." She could hear him smirk. "The road not taken, Scully..." "Ha ha. That's rich." A distorted voice could be heard in the background. "That's my flight. Hey, I get to go First Class because the rubber band broke on my last airplane." "If the same thing happens with this plane, hold out for stock options." Chuckle. "See you in two weeks, Scully." "Fly safe, Mulder. Happy Monster Hunting." Click. "Monster hunting?" Scully turned round. Max stood in the doorway, a curious smile on her face. She held a glass of frangelica in each hand. Scully felt her face flush. "It's a long story." "It usually is." She held out one of the glasses. Scully walked over and took it, then replaced the cell phone in her raincoat while Max turned off the TV and started fussing with the CD player. Cello and synthesizer started floating out of the speakers as Max sat down with Scully on the couch -- not next to her, but closer than she had before. "Mmmm," Scully said, as two guitars started building a hypnotic web of chords. "This is beautiful." "Acoustic Alchemy. They're from England." She smiled, remembering the first time she heard "Oceans Apart". "I got turned on to them a few years ago. Just after my divorce." Scully sipped at the almond liqueur. *This could be habit-forming.* "How long were you married?" Max leaned her head back on the couch, her legs straight out in front of her. "Married three years, divorced three years. State cop. You speed on the Mass Pike past Springfield, Richard may be the one that pulls you over. Richard's bound for Captain, if you listen to him long enough. He transferred out there after the divorce became final." "What happened? If I can ask." Max made a 'Don't worry' gesture with her free hand. "Basically, cops shouldn't get married. It's like cousins mating. Nothing good can come of it. Bad days. Bad nights. Too much shop talk. Always jumping when the phone rings. And..." She looked down into her glass. "We weren't the people we thought we were." Beat. "Anyway, enough with that." She looked up at Scully. "So who's this Mulder when he's at home?" Scully frowned. "Just my partner." When she smiled, Max had dimples on either side of her mouth. "I like the Bear a lot, but I wouldn't call him on my vacation." Scully looked away, wondering why she was embarassed. "It's not like that." She looked into the darkened alcove across the way. "There's no way it could be." "Why?" Max had her arm on the couch, elbow bent so she could rest the side of her head in her left hand. She turned so she faced Scully, left leg crossed over her right knee. It took longer for Scully to answer than she expected. She'd considered this situation before, but it was the first time she'd verbalized it to anyone. "He's... my closest friend. I trust him with my life. He's saved my life. More than once." She took a few seconds to find more words. "I don't want anything to get in the way of that." Max looked out at the downpour. "Bear and I have been partnered since I joined Homicide. He taught me everything I know." She smiled. "He hates baseball, I love it. I hate football, he can't get enough of it. Politically, he's a shade to the left of Huey Newton. I'm your basic rock-and-roll Republican. Outside of we work, I don't think we could agree on lunch." The smile faded. "But when he got shot..." She left the sentence hanging. Scully just nodded, thinking about Mulder in the hospital bed in the Arctic Circle, recovering from the retrovirus that nearly killed him. In the motel room bed in New Mexico, recovering from the gunshot wound Scully gave him to stop him from killing Krychek with the gun that might have killed Mulder's father. "What do they say about his recovery?" Max grimaced. "They say he'll lose some use of that arm. How much depends on him, really. It's not his shooting hand, so that's not the problem, but..." She sighed. "He's got 24 years, Scully. He's thirty pounds overweight, and that's being generous, and he's got high blood pressure. They say he's borderline diabetic, though he denies it..." She ran a hand over her face, sounding tired and flat. "I just don't want him to go before I can learn everything he's got to teach." "He won't," Scully said. "Provided he doesn't get any more deliveries from Burger King." Max giggled. "Okay, okay, maybe not one of the brightest ideas I've had. But I knew about the crap his buddies were sneaking in to him. I wanted to give him a warning shot." "The only person that can change his behavior is him, Max." "Yeah," Max admitted. "Ain't that a bitch?" She slugged down half her drink and turned back to Scully. "But enough about me. Let's talk about you." She paused, then smiled. "What do _you_ think of me?" Scully laughed a nervous laugh. "That's an old line." "Best I could do on such short notice." In a way, Max' quiet gaze was more intimidating than Beauchamp's third-degree act. "So," Max said finally, taking a deep breath. "You and your partner are purely platonic. Do you have anyone to call your own?" Scully turned away, trying to focus on the alcove. She knew she was blushing. "Not at the moment," she admitted. "Why?" Scully searched for words. She fell back on old answers. "No-one intriguing enough... No time... No interest..." "No interest?" Max sounded skeptical. Her voice had a slight rasp to it, giving it a quality that Scully couldn't describe. "Sorry, Orville, that one won't fly." Scully could feel Max' eyes on her, but she couldn't turn her head. Then, softly, "Don't you get lonely?" Lonely. The word hung in front of her. She had heard it many times. Growing up on naval bases. At U of M. At Quantico. At night, in her apartment in Annapolis. Heard the word, and dismissed it. Of course she wasn't lonely. Scully was _never_ lonely. She had her family. She had her friends. She had Mulder. Her partner. Her friend. Her best friend. There was never room for anyone else, or time to find them. Yes, there had been men. Yes, there had been sex -- some of it quite good, a few times that were downright memorable. Those memories lived among the fantasies she touched on whenever she pleasured herself in her bed at home, or in the shower on the road, Bach or Vivaldi playing loud on the portable tapedeck in case the walls were thin enough for Mulder to hear her moans... Max' hand touched Scully's chin and turned her head to the right. Max' eyes were very steady and very brown. *She doesn't wear lipstick,* Scully thought, trying not to shake as Max brought her lips to Scully's. Soft lips. Soft kiss. Scully's eyes drooped closed as Max kissed her again. Max' eyes were wide open, studying Scully closely, looking for any indicator. She got one a few moments later when Scully sighed and opened her mouth slightly, accepting Max' tongue without objection. There were no words as they necked, tongues dancing, holding each other in a loose embrace as the CD played through the tracks. Max' left hand slid down and touched Scully's breast; Scully stiffened, then forced herself to relax. She could feel her nipples straining against her bra, sending sparks into her brain as Max' fingers stroked them through the layers of silky material. Scully found her hands trailing down Max' side to return her caresses. Max sighed into Scully's mouth as they tentatively explored each other. It seemed like a hundred years later when Max broke an extremely deep kiss and whispered, "I think we should go into the other room." A thousand thoughts flew through Scully's head. *I'm not a lesbian. I like men. I barely know her. I have to go. This is wrong. This is perverted. This has to stop. This is going too fast for me...* But all she could say was, "I've never..." And she couldn't say anything more. Max kissed her again, then rested her forehead on Scully's. "First, it's not rocket science. Second..." She stroked Scully's cheek. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. And third..." She sighed. Scully could hear her shudder. "You don't have to be nervous, because I'm nervous enough for the both of us." Scully laughed once. Max smiled at that. "Max..." Max pressed her fingers on Scully's mouth. "Ssshhh. Don't say anything. We can talk about this tomorrow. But right now..." Max took a deep breath. Scully could see she was shaking. Max' words came in a whispered rush. "Right now, I think we should make love." END OF PART FOUR THE ROAD NOT TAKEN (5/5) by deejay <<>> Max' bedroom was on the corner of the building, so there were windows on two sides of the room, all covered by brown wooden shades. The walls were a lighter shade of grey than the walls of the museum, the ceiling and windowsills painted white. A pastel tapestry hung from the ceiling, giving the room a red glow as it shaded the overhead light. Another worn Oriental rug lay on the hardwood floor next to the double bed, which was covered with a pale white down comforter and had four pillows arrayed against the brown wooden headboard. A Katzen print of a kitchen table hung over the bed, while an Ansel Adams portrait of a snow-covered mountainside stood on the wall next to the door. Max desperately wanted to undress Scully, but she knew she had to work at Scully's pace, and give her as much space as she could. She didn't want to spoil it, and she knew Scully could change her mind at any moment, and Max knew she could not stop her. So they stood on either end of the rug as they began to undress. Max shucked out of her shoulder holster just as Scully took off her Sig, both weapons hitting the rug at the same time. Max giggled. "What," Scully wanted to know. "Ever see 'In The Line Of Fire'?" Scully's mind raced for the reference, then remembered seeing part of it one night on HBO in some motel room: Clint Eastwood and Rene Russo, their guns falling to the floor with their clothes... Scully laughed, too, trying to relax, glad Max was trying to relax her. Scully had never been more scared in all her life. Or more aroused. And the combination of the two made her feel like she was going to float out of her body. They undressed like a mirror exercise, each revealing more to the other until they stood naked together, their clothes lying in one communal pile. Max looked Scully up and down, childlike wonder on her face. "You're sohhhh beautiful." "So are you," Scully whispered. She was. She was also shorter than Scully thought. Her boots had two inch heels, making her a shade over five-one in bare feet. Her breasts were smaller, as were her nipples, which were standing raptly at attention. They were like buttons compared to Scully's, which were the size of quarters, but Scully couldn't take her eyes off them. Seemingly on cue, they stepped to each other and kissed, Scully's hands on Max' shoulders as Max held Scully by the waist. *First time I've ever had to lean _down_ to kiss someone,* Scully noted with faint amusement. She ran her hands through Max' hair as Max's fingers traced down to Scully's ass. The music from the other room had stopped for a moment, but now it started up again, organ-laced music with electric guitar, a female vocalist with a voice like an angel. "Oh, good," Max said, more to herself. She broke the embrace and took Scully by the hand, turning back the covers and leading Scully into the bed. Scully paused at the edge. *No turning back. Dear God, what am I doing?* But she climbed into bed without waiting for an answer. "Hello," Max said softly. Scully couldn't manage more than a whisper. "Hi." Then they were in each others arms, and the talking stopped. When their breasts pressed against each other, Scully thought she might die. Her nipples were usually very sensitive, but the feeling of nipple on nipple nearly shorted out her brain. She pulled Max as close to her as she could, her hands now running down Max' back as their kissing became more and more feverish. As she stroked Max' ass for the first time, she was vaguely aware of words floating on one of the most beautiful voices she'd ever heard: "And I will be the one/To hold you down/Kiss you so hard/I'll take your breath away..." *Make this last,* Max kept telling herself. *Make it last forever.* But it was so, so hard. Max simply wanted to devour Scully. She wanted to run her tongue over every square centimeter of her. Her skin was like satin, her lips like velvet, and kissing her was such a luxurious feeling. It was so hard to break away from Scully's mouth, but Max needed to do more. She held Scully's head in her hands and pushed her onto her back. She climbed on top of Scully and kissed her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, her chin, her neck... Scully was literally seeing stars. Her eyes were closed, and every kiss seemed to bring forth a new star. She tried to think back to the good times in bed (*With men.*) and tried to remember if any of those lovers had been this caring, this tender, this... *Like _this_.* She couldn't think of any. She couldn't think. Her skin was tingling with excitement, and she had to remember to breath. Dimly she was aware that Max had moved down her neck and was tracing kisses along her collarbone. When Max took one of Scully's nipples in her mouth, Scully sucked in air through her teeth. Max nuzzled and suckled each breast, stroking one while nibbling the other. The taste, the texture of her nipples had Max dizzy. She nipped, licked, sucked, her fingers leaving trail marks on the two pale white orbs. Her left hand drifted down Scully's stomach in ever-widening circles until her fingers touched the crest of her pubic hair. Max chanced a glance up at Scully. Mouth open, eyes closed. She could feel Scully's heart beating against her breast. *Now or never, Maxie...* Her left hand dropped down between Scully's legs, sliding back up to part Scully's lips and stroke her clit. Scully's eyes flew open, a moan escaping her lips. *No-one's done this for me since...* She pushed that thought away. It had been far too long since any fingers but her own had touched her there, and none of them did it as well as Max was doing it now. Scully looked down at Max, still sucking on Scully's right breast. Their eyes met, Scully's need connecting with Max' lust. Max left Scully's breast and started kissing her way down Scully's stomach, her right hand leaving trails of fire down Scully's side. *Oh God, she's going to do it,* Scully's mind thought frantically. She shivered as Max tongued her navel. *This is so... so...* Max kissed her way round Scully's thatch and ran her mouth down Scully's right leg, pausing at the knee to move back back up the left leg. *...so GOOD!* Scully groaned as Max' fingers left her clit and slid down the backs of her legs. She could feel that familiar energy building, and now it was backing off. Then all thoughts went into the trash as Max kissed Scully's clit for the first time. Scully's hips bucked involuntarily, pressing her pussy up against Max' mouth. Max needed no encouragement, spreading Scully's legs farther apart. Scully bent her knees and shifted her pelvis, offering Max better access. Scully had been very wet when Max started fingering her, and the juices Max was drinking now made her almost crazy. *I've missed this so much,* Max thought happily as she licked and sucked. *God, she tastes sweet!* She brought her left hand back up to rub Scully's clit; Max' right hand was buried deep inside herself, the excitement too much. Scully's head started to thrash as Max dropped her mouth down to Scully's slit and Max' tongue slid inside. Scully was making little animal noises, caught up in the rapture with both hands kneading her own breasts as Max tongue-fucked her. Seeing this, Max moved her mouth back to Scully's clit and slid her hands up Scully's writhing body, leaving two trails of juice as they went. Then it was her hands on Scully's breasts and Scully's hands clasping Max' hands. The noises from Scully got louder and louder until her orgasm hit her, and all she could do was scream. Somehow Max kept her mouth on Scully, not a mean feat considering how much she thrashed about. Finally, Scully reached down and pulled at Max' arms. "Time out," she managed to say. Max moved up Scully's body, sending shocks through both of them as skin met skin again. When they were face to face, Scully kissed Max hungrily, tasting herself for the first time. There was quite a bit of juice on Max' chin. Scully kissed it, then licked it off. There was no thought to it, she just wanted it, and that was all she cared about. Max held Scully as tight as she could as they rolled onto their sides. They kept kissing until Max said, "Feel better now?" Scully laughed. "I think that's safe to say." They kissed some more until she asked, "How do _you_ feel?" "Not bad," Max said, eyes half closed with a half-smile on her face. "Not bad at all." Her left hand was between her legs now, Scully's juices mixing with her own. Scully watched her for a moment before she reached down and pulled Max' hand away. "Let me." Max looked sideways at Scully. "You don't have to..." Scully rolled Max onto her back, eyes glowing. "I know," she whispered. Scully had a little over twelve pounds on Max, and she was bigger-boned. That weight felt fantastic to Max as Scully laid on top of her, her hands running down Max' body as they frenched each other. Max wrapped a leg around Scully, the heel of her left foot tracing down the back of Scully's right leg. Scully's head was swimming, the phrase *I can't believe I'm doing this* occasionally floating out of the fog of emotion that clouded her mind. It appeared again as she started kissing her way slowly down Max' neck, reveling in the feel and the smell and the taste of her partner. Presently she was parallel with Max' left breast. She paused only a moment before taking the small pink nipple into her mouth. Scully was much more tentative than Max as she gently sucked on the tit, holding Max' breast as if it were a precious artifact. For her, it was. Her inexperience made no difference to Max, who was literally humming with desire. She curled her fingers in Scully's hair as the redhead moved from one breast to the other, growing bolder with each moment. She tried to control her breathing as Scully's left hand slid slowly down Max' stomach and through her sparse pubic hair. When Scully pressed two fingers against Max' clit, Max made a hissing noise that sounded like, "Yessss..." Scully was going on instinct -- what felt good to her when she was alone and the need pressed in. From all indicators, Scully deduced she was doing pretty well. Scully would have been happy suckling Max for the rest of the night, but she reluctantly pulled away, rolled onto her right side and started kissing her way down Max' stomach. She paused at Max' navel and watched her fingers massage Max' swollen button. She had never had a problem with performing oral sex with men, provided it was a man she really wanted to do it for. She wanted to return the pleasure Max had given her. Wanted to badly. *But this is... I don't know if I...* Max reached down and turned Scully's gaze to her. "It's alright," Max said softly, smiling beatifically. "What you're doing is just fine." Scully smiled back, happy she was pleasing Max, happier that she understood. *Still,* Scully decided, *let's see if we can improve on "just fine."* She slid the two fingers inside Max, prompting a loud moan from the policewoman. That moan became a series of moans as Scully began working Max' clit with her thumb, her fingers slowly pistoning in and out. "Oh, yes ma'am," Max growled. "Just like that." Scully alternated her gaze between her own juice-slick fingers and Max' enraptured expression. Max' hands were clutching and releasing the sheet, breathing through her mouth as she licked her lips. With her free hand, Scully reached up and locked her fingers in Max'. Max gripped Scully's hand tightly. Scully increased her movements, fucking Max a little faster every second. Scully added another finger; it was a tight fit, but Max didn't complain. Scully's pinky inadvertantly grazed Max' asshole. Max jumped like she'd been hit with a live wire. "Sorry," Scully said. "Don't be," Max said, with great sincerity. Scully's fingers were pounding into Max now. Scully hiked herself back up to Max' breasts and sucked a nipple eagerly into her mouth. Max' chest was heaving up and down as she came closer and closer. Scully thought she could feel it welling up inside her. "Sc... Sc... Sculleeeeee..." Max breathed. "Nnnnnowwwww..." Without any thought, Scully plunged her little finger inside Max' ass. Max bounced off the mattress again and again, babbling incoherently as her orgasm hit her like the proverbial freight train. Her nipple popped out of Scully's mouth, but Scully quickly tracked it down, sucking and biting while her fingers still pumped hard. Scully slowed the pace as Max seemed to come down, panting like a racehorse after a hard workout. Max finally pulled at Scully, who came up expecting -- and wanting -- another long, slow kiss. Max did kiss her, but quickly, and only once. "Sit up," Max rasped. "Please." "Why-" Max was struggling into a sitting position. "I want to take you to heaven." Scully was just reacting now. Whatever Max wanted was fine with her. Scully shifted up to the head of the bed while Max crabbed around until they faced each other. At Max' direction, Scully sat with her legs spread, the right leg bent at the knee. Max slid her left leg under Scully's right leg and put her right leg over Scully's left. Looking Scully in the eye, Max put her hands behind her and pushed herself forward until they were joined at the hips, their clits pressed together. Scully's jaw fell open. Of all the things she thought would happen, she'd never even considered this. Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when Max took a deep breath and moved her hips imperceptibly, rubbing her clit upwards against Scully's. "Oh, my..." Scully breathed. Max just laughed quietly, loving the look on Scully's face. Even if she wanted to, Scully couldn't say anything else. Max' mouth on her mound was a sensation she would never forget, but this was off the scale. The friction Max was making had Scully's head spinning. Scully braced her arms and tried to match that movement, moving up as Max moved down. "Oh yeah, Scully," Max urged. "Fuck me back, please!" It took concentration Scully didn't think she had left, but they finally found each other's rhythm. There were no more words, just the cries that filled up the room. Scully drank in the sight of Max, head thrown back in ecstacy, her jaw hanging slack. Every inch of Scully's skin was on fire. Scully bit her lip as hard as she could, and Max dug her nails into her palms, trying to forestall the inevitable. Neither of them wanted this to end. But nature would not be denied as Scully and Max came together, pain and pleasure mixing like the sweat and the juice that soaked the sheets. When it was over, they were both on their backs, legs still entwined. Scully stared up at the ceiling, neon tracers still dotting her eyes. She heard a noise coming from Max that could have been laughter, but when Scully twisted round and crawled down the bed, she found tears coming down Max' face. Scully stroked her cheek, concerned. "S'okay," Max managed to say. "I do happy differently than most people." Touched, Scully wiped the tears from Max' cheeks and kissed her gently. "Do it up here." She guided Max up to the head of the bed and wrapped her arms around her, holding her close until they both dozed off. <<>> "Help. Police." Scully didn't jump, but her head did whip around. "Somebody stole my bathrobe." Max was leaning against the doorway to the back of the apartment, smiling casually. Her hair was brushed, she was wearing grey sweatpants and a black Peace Frog t-shirt, and she was barefoot. Scully started to get up. "I'm sorry..." Max waved her back down as she walked across the room. "Sit. Sit. On you, it looks good. Anyway, I don't have a guest bathrobe, so what's mine is yours." Scully settled back, trying to smile. "Thank you." Max came over to the other end of the couch, hands in pockets. "How you doing?" "Fine," Scully said, a little too quickly. Max smiled out at the rain for a moment. "Okay," she said, looking back at Scully. "Now count to five, and tell the truth." Scully's smile faded, her gaze dropping down to focus on the back of the couch. She shook her head. "Max, I'm damned if I know." Max nodded slightly, then sat cross-legged on the couch facing Scully, making sure to give her space. After a moment Max said, "You didn't do anything wrong." Scully's gaze didn't waver, but she couldn't keep the smirk off her face. "Glad my technique was up to snuff." "You know what I mean," Max said quietly. "Max..." Scully started, then stopped. *You've been thinking it for the last half-hour. Now say it.* "It's not that I did anything _wrong_..." "Then what?" Scully looked up at the spider plant hanging from the hook over Max' head, then out at the rain. *Say it!* "It's that it felt so _right_. " *Steady, Maxie. This can still go South in a hurry.* Max held herself very still. It was a tremendous effort. She had wanted to jump Scully the moment she saw her sitting by the window, and her last statement made Max' heart beat like a bass drum. "Had you ever thought about..." Scully shook her head firmly. "No." *Never did it, never thought about it.* Her fantasies had always (*Always!*) been about men -- either the few men who had made sex special for her (Jack Willis figured prominently in that group, much to Scully's chagrin), or strangers she saw in the course of a day or a case. A few times Mulder had been her fantasy, and one memorable morning in a Minnesota motel, Skinner got cast in the role. She always pictured Mulder as a gentle, caring lover, but she'd made herself stop because continuing the fantasy might make her want to investigate the reality. The wild sex she believed Skinner capable of was almost as intense as her orgasm that morning in Minnesota, but she had lost her footing at the point of no return and nearly cracked her skull on the tiles. She hadn't revisited that scenario since. Max kept her voice even. "How has sex with men been for you?" Scully laughed once, quietly, looking around the room. "Normal, I guess... whatever that means. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bad. A few times, it was fireworks and brass bands." *Like last night...* Max looked down at the couch. "At least you had that. You're one up on me." Scully finally looked at Max. "It never worked for you?" Max shook her head, gaze still down as she spoke. "It was annoying. You hear sex is great. You hear you're supposed to like it. Guys are supposed to go with girls, and the two of you are supposed to make the magic happen, because that's the way the world works, and it's all supposed to just...." Pause. "You wonder if there's something wrong with you. That it's your fault. That you're doing something that's messing it up -- for you, for him, for both of you..." "That was why you and Richard broke up?" Max snorted. "That was only _one_ of our problems. There, we had an excuse: Job-related stress. And he had as big a problem there as I did. That just drove the marriage over the cliff a little faster, that's all." She plucked at a loose thread on her sweatpants. "And that really hurt. He loved me. I loved him. That's supposed to conquer all, right?" "It doesn't always," Scully pointed out. "Even in the best marriages." "Well, it sure didn't do the job that time," Max said, a little bitterly. Scully paused before she asked, "Did Richard know..." Max slapped her thighs in frustration. "Hell, Scully, _I_ didn't even know! I mean, it wasn't even an _option_! All those sex-ed classes they threw at us in middle school barely covered the possibility! The teachers were too busy giving us the technical specs for procreation!" Scully laughed, knowing exactly what she meant. "So how did you... find out?" Max considered this for a second. "Every September, the Charles Street Merchants Association holds a street fair. Great day. Food, music, t-shirt vendors for miles. I had a day off, I didn't have anything to do because I had no life, even though I'd been divorced for over a year. So I went." There was a little more orange juice in Scully's glass. Max picked it up and drank it. "I'd seen her around, talked to her a few times." She smiled. "Mostly I remember what a hard time she gave Bear on the witness stand." "She was a lawyer?" Max laughed. "Oh, not _just_ a lawyer! A Public Defender, no less! Scourge of every Homicide detective. Or so they think. Most of them aren't very good -- they're just starting out, learning the ropes, making mistakes. If you ever get busted, spend the money and get a real lawyer." She paused, remembering. "DeeDee was a natural, though. Tough, fast, funny when she had to be. Pretty, which helped a lot with male judges and jury members. She did not make Bear look good that time. I mean, it was a sketchy case, anyway. Lots of circumstantial, and we both knew that, but Bear was hell to live with for about a week afterwards." She smiled at the thought, then shook her head as if to clear it. "Anyway, we bumped into each other. I'm trying to be polite, but DeeDee seems really glad to see me." Shrug. "So we walk around for awhile. Watch the bands. Watch the tourists. Watch the Freshmen." She laughed at that. "They all come to the Fair because they've been out of the nest for less than a month and they're still celebrating their freedom. Been watching it for years, and it never changes..." Scully stayed quiet, her chin on her knees, hugging her legs as she watched Max talk. She was vaguely aware of a bubbling sound, and she thought she smelled coffee. "Well, it's a hot day," Max went on. "So after we make it through the crowds, we duck into this bar we both know on Cambridge Street and have a glass of wine. And another glass of wine. And another. And another. And we're arguing about the justice system, and we're both bitching about everything that makes our jobs ridiculous, or impossible, and we both blame each other for some of it. And we talk a lot of shit about how we're going to change it... and pretty soon it's evening, and we're both very buzzed. She has an apartment up on the Hill, not far from the bar. She says we ought to eat, so let's go up and she'll cook dinner. We stagger up there, she cooks me dinner, we drink some more, one thing leads to another..." She looked back down at the couch, index finger tracing the pattern on the cushion. Scully didn't say anything, leaving her to re-live the memory. Finally Max said, "I figured, 'It's got to be the wine. Of course. Diminished capacity. Yeah. That's the ticket.'" Beat. "Then we did it it the next morning, stone cold sober, hangover and all. And it was..." Max looked up, still lost in the memory. "I was okay, you know? I wasn't this... this passionless person Richard said I was. That _I_ decided I was. It was..." She looked around the room, struggling for words. "A door opening," Scully said softly. Max considered that for a second, then nodded. "Yeah, I guess that covers it." "Are you still together?" Scully said carefully. Max was working on that loose thread again. "She got a job with a firm in Baltimore last March. DeeDee was the bonus baby for their Criminal Law division. A young, gifted, and politically correct hire. Big salary, townhouse by the waterfront, lease on a Saab 9000, the whole nine yards." She knew the answer, but she asked the question anyway. "Do you still see each other?" "A friend of hers from Albany Law works at the same firm," she said simply. "I'm sorry..." *Damn, I'm saying that a lot...* Max shook her head, flicking the stitch away. "Don't be. If anything, that relationship was more dysfunctional than my marriage. DeeDee and I cared for each other a lot, but we also argued more than we made love. And being involved with her didn't make dealing with her on a professional level any easier. It wasn't as bad as having a thing with someone in the squadroom, but it was in the same ballpark." "Don't you miss her?" Max looked up and laid her right arm out on the couch, hand extended. "Not today." The sparkle in her eyes made Scully shiver. She reached out and took Max' hand, fingers interlocked. "I don't know what to do about this." Max started to speak, stopped, then pointed at Scully's cleavage with her free hand. "Is that what's messing with you?" Scully looked down at the small gold cross hanging from her neck. She shook her head. "No, I'm far enough away from the church that it's not an issue. Even if that wasn't the case, I still don't think it would be an issue." "Then what?" Scully laughed without any humor. "Oh God, where to begin." To say that her father would not have approved would be a gross understatement. He had loved her -- *He was my father* -- but she could hear his voice quite clearly on this subject: *"Dana Katherine Scully, this simply _will_ _not_ _do_!"* Her sister would have been just the opposite. This would be an alternate lifestyle, a way of doing things outside the norm. She would have given her a hug and said Scully had finally "found herself", or some such. *Don't think unworthy thoughts. Melissa would have been the most supportive of all the family. Certainly more supportive than Billy or Charles would be. I love them, but they're their father's sons.* Her mother? She would be confused, certainly, and might even think it was her fault. But in the end, Scully suspected all she would care about was Scully's happiness. *Though she'll have to shelve her fantasy of Mulder and me on top of a wedding cake...* Then there was work. If anything, that was worse than home. She doubted Skinner would care -- or, at least, would make an issue of it, provided it didn't affect her job performance. All Skinner really cared about was the bottom line. But even though the Bureau had come a long way from the days of Hoover, there were still plenty of Beauchamps (and worse) in the hierarchy that could make things difficult, for her and for Skinner. And then there was Mulder. Her partner. Her friend. Although they'd worked together for over three years, and been through all manner of weirdness, there were still times when she didn't know what he was thinking, or what he would say. What would he say about this? What would it do to them? She knew how she felt about him, or how she had decided to feel about him. How did he feel about _her_? When Scully hadn't spoken, Max said, "Look, I won't even pretend to have all the answers on this subject. But I do know this doesn't have to be an either/or situation. If you've actually had good relations with men prior to last night, then there's a good chance you're _bi_-sexual." Scully didn't say anything, but it was obvious this idea didn't mitigate her angst. Max swallowed, trying to keep it light. "Or it could have been diminished capacity..." Scully shook her head firmly. "I know my body well enough to know last night was real." Max couldn't suppress the sigh of relief, though she did quiet it down. Then Scully raised an eyebrow. "Besides, how do _you_ know my capacity? This was only our first date!" Max tried to look grave, but was obviously having difficulty. "Giving in on the first date. This country's going to Hell in a handbasket..." "I'm on vacation," Scully shot back. "I'm allowed." They both laughed, the tension finally broken. Max tugged at Scully's arm. "C'mere, you." Without hesitation, Scully shifted around and moved down the couch until they were in each others arms. Their kiss was as tender as their first kiss, their tongues now familiar with each other. Scully put her head on Max' chest, Max stroking her hair. The gesture soothed them both. "How long are you staying in Boston," Max finally asked. Scully thought a moment. "I'd planned on a week." *But now...* Max kissed the top of Scully's head. "You don't have to make any decisions right now. You don't have to make any promises, and I'm not asking for any. I'm still adjusting to all this myself." Scully looked up, surprised. "You are?" Max looked at her seriously. "Scully, I don't do this every day. Fact is, I haven't been with anyone since DeeDee. And I don't cruise the museum looking for beautiful, unsuspecting tourists." The word 'beautiful' made Scully want to melt. "I never expected you to say 'Hello' to me, let alone what actually happened." "Please don't sell yourself short in my prescence," Scully interjected. Max bit her bottom lip as she smiled. "So this is all an open road to me, and I have no idea what's at the other end." Max kissed her again. "But I'd really like to find out." Scully looked into Max' deep brown eyes. She wanted to swim in them, they looked so warm and safe. "I'd like that, too," she whispered. "Very much." Max closed her eyes and sighed again, hugging Scully a little harder. "All right," she said softly. Then she made her voice a little firmer. "Okay. This is your vacation. And as you are my guest, and I am your host, what is your pleasure? What would you like to do?" *Go back to bed. No, don't be flip. Besides, there'll be plenty of time for that later.* "Well," Scully finally said, "what do you usually do on a Saturday?" Max laughed. "An indulgent guest. I like that. Usually, I work. But that's off the agenda. Besides, I don't think Loot would appreciate us holding hands in the squadroom." "True," Scully agreed. "Normally on off days I sleep a little later, work out a little longer, maybe run the neighborhood if the weather's nice." She looked ruefully out at the rain, which seemed to get stronger. "Then I head over to Harvard Square and catch some breakfast, or brunch, or whatever's being served by the time I get there." Scully's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. "Breakfast sounds like a really good idea." "You want some coffee? It should be brewed by now." Scully's eyebrows went up. "You made coffee? I didn't hear you." "Got it ready last night while you were on the phone. I like to just throw the switch in the morning. Besides, that grinder is worse than nails on a blackboard." Scully smiled, pleased that she'd been right. "Good strategy." "I thought so." Max kissed Scully quickly on the lips before she got up. "What do you take in your coffee?" Scully got up, too. "Cream, no sugar. Want company?" Max smiled, biting her lip again. "Without a doubt." Scully took Max' hand as they walked into the kitchen. The coffee smelled wonderful. <<>> Dana Scully & Rebecca Maxfield will return, in: "THE ROAD NOT TAKEN 2: SNAPSHOTS" Be there. Aloha.