By David Stoddard-Hunt
dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
 

CATEGORY:      S, H
KEYWORDS:      MSR, Kersh
RATING:        PG-13
SETTING:       Mid-Season 7
SUMMARY:       Managing employees successfully is all about
               speaking their language.
ARCHIVE:       Ephemeral, Gossamer, fine. Others, please ask.
DISCLAIMER:    His players, my sandlot - fair use, fair game.
FEEDBACK:      dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
 

~~~

Badinage and Damnation
By David Stoddard-Hunt
 

My plan was afoot well before they'd arrived for the inspection
of the crime scene. Reported mass sighting of unidentified
lights and certain other unexplained phenomena, outside of a bar
in Takoma Park. Bunch of drunks seeing stars is what it really
was.

Considering the official description, however, I knew he
couldn't possibly refuse the assignment. Not him. One of the
drunken mob had ended up dead, so there was a local criminal
investigation dovetailing in. Best of all, it could not
possibly be said that this was another in the string of
pointless cases I'd assigned to them simply because I found
it amusing. Not this time. I did, however, make it a point to
visit the crime scene myself. Just to see how things were
progressing. It was on my way home.

"What about the witnesses in the alley, Scully?"

He was in fighting fettle when I got there, hurdling the victim
and a crime scene tech working to preserve and ship the body.
I'm fairly certain they never noticed my arrival.

"The one nearest the street had an unobstructed view." Mulder
stood in the approximate location if not posture of the man in
question. "He looked up when the bright light came, and was
blinded and frozen in place. When he felt he could move again,
he saw the victim's body lying as is."

Hook, line and sinker. I couldn't wait to see the paperwork on
this one.

His little partner turned to face him, her stare shrinking the
height differential between them virtually down to nothing. It's
an impressive skill to have, when you're as short as she is.

"I think your so-called witness was just a little busy at the
time, Mulder. Did you see the discoloration on the lower part of
the brick-face? He, along with the two gentlemen further down,
was relieving himself in the privacy of the alley."

"Hey, we've all done *that* at one time or another. Well, okay.
Maybe not you, Scully."

Even from as far away as I was forced to stand, I could see her
mouth pucker with distaste. If it had been up to her, she would
have refused this assignment point-blank. She'd have been a force
to behold, I'd imagine.

"Look around you, Mulder. The bar had just closed, disgorging a
substantial number of patrons. Most of whom, it's safe to say,
had been drinking heavily since the start of the two "Final
Four" games six hours ago. Three dozen people out here jostling
for space on the sidewalk, with a handful in that alley
competing for a bit of unobstructed wall. I'm amazed that only
one of these people got pushed out into the path of oncoming
traffic."

"Then how come none of the witnesses reports hearing the
screeching of tires, the sound of impact or the passing of a
vehicle of any sort? And how do you explain the blinding
lights?"

He did a quick pirouette around her and strode out into the now
quiet street, arms spread. He seemed to have a lot of energy
for this late in the evening.

"Every one of them saw the same thing! How do you explain that?"

If this was part of his legendary boyish charm, then I'm
obviously immune to its effects. So, it would appear, was she.

"I don't have to. The scene speaks for itself. This is a
neighborhood bar. In a peaceful, residential neighborhood. When
thirty or more inebriated basketball fans poured out of the bar
at one in the morning, I'd imagine there was something of a
disturbance of that peace! Those blinding lights they all saw
were probably from a police helicopter dispatched to disperse
the crowd."

"But nobody heard a helicopter, Scully. Don't you think one of
the witnesses would have mentioned it had there been one?"

Oh, boy. Can I pick 'em? Several Bureau people on scene
approached me asking permission for this or that, but I
dismissed them all. I wasn't there on business, and I didn't
want to miss the show.

"Mulder, come over here." She grabbed the shoulder of his coat
and pulled him along with it. His shoes crunched over broken
glass. "There are dozens of empty bottles strewn all down the
block, not to mention the broken ones underfoot. And we're not
talking Mouton-Rothschild." She toed a green-glass bottle with
distaste.

"Oof. Thunderbird," he said. "At least the vintage is a prime
week. So, you're saying what? That they may have been too drunk
to hear a helicopter directly overhead?"

She didn't back down an inch. Just stared back at him, in silent
challenge. As I've said, very impressive. I wondered what else,
aside from a height differential, that stare could shrink?

"Okay," he said, at length. "I'll admit the possibility that
the consumption of alcoholic beverages may have been a factor."

"Gee! Y'think?!"

It was the only time that evening I'd heard her lose control
of her voice. She began to walk away from her partner, in my
general direction. I missed some of what was said, in the
process of relocating to a less conspicuous position.

"... only a factor. And it's probable that not all of the
patrons were intoxicated to the same, debilitating extent.
I'm just saying that it doesn't necessarily rule out other,
possible scenarios. And," he had to jog to keep up with her,
"that we should keep an open mind to other theories of the
case."

She rounded on him, and he stopped short. But, not quite
short enough. He bumped right into her, then backed away,
sheepish.

"Other theories? Here's the theory I want you to focus on,
Mulder. Consumption of massive, possibly toxic amounts of
liquor." She started off across the street toward their car.

"Liquor?" he said, loping after his partner. "I barely touched
her!"

If I were her, I'd have killed him. Agent Scully is too tightly
wound for that sort of reaction. She did give him a killer glare,
though. And I was grinning all the way home.

************

I decided to require their report on my desk by noon the next
day. The case wasn't significant enough to merit it. The case
wasn't significant in the least. Truth is, I was just in the
mood for a little amusement.

The clatter of bickering preceded their entry into my office.
More to the point, it was a harangue, with Agent Scully doing
all of the talking. Mulder's only response was a smug smile.
Infuriating! And I wasn't even party to the discussion. Any
wonder why I dislike the man?

They slid into the chairs in front of me without further word
or glance between them.  I kept them waiting a full minute at
least, before I looked up to acknowledge their presence.

"Agents."  I made a show of reviewing her report.

I pride myself on knowing my strengths and weaknesses. I know
full well which of those qualities has gotten me to where I am
today, and which will get me where I want to be tomorrow.
Personnel management, for example. It's not sexy, I realize.
It sounds anemic and mediocre just to speak it aloud, but
consider this. These two agents were taken away from Assistant
Director Skinner because he couldn't manage them properly. Oh,
the scuttlebutt may have been unfounded and beyond Skinner's
direct control, but there are ways in which he could have
influenced, even silenced the rumor mill by bringing these two
to heel. But, he didn't. He came to care for them, instead. A
black mark on old Walter's review sheet, for sure. It's a
mistake that will dog him all the way to St. Peter. A mistake
I do not plan on repeating.

"You found no cause for Bureau involvement out in Takoma Park,
Agent Scully?"

The keys to mastering personnel management are rather basic.
Keeping the relationship impersonal, I've already alluded to.
The art to it comes in making the personnel in question believe
the opposite, that the relationship is intensely personal. You
have to come down to their level; you have to speak their
language. Establish a connection, a rapport. If only to give
them hope that they, too, can someday achieve what you have.

With some employees, I use down-home figures of speech,
dispense folksy wisdom. "Fish or cut bait" works with some,
where "shit or get off the pot" would not. It's all in knowing
what level to come in on. Now, Agent Scully, here, is the
straightforward type. Military family, respect for authority,
regulation, and the chain of command. Well-educated, neither
folksy nor profane. I get Agent Scully, understand her
completely.

"No, sir. I did not. It was an exuberant crowd, fueled by
excess consumption of alcohol, which resulted in an unfortunate
but accidental fatality. It should have been left to local
authorities."

"But there was a reason that the Bureau's involvement was
requested, Scully, as I think the assistant director will tell
you."

Mulder is another kettle of fish. He's glib, smart-assed. Leaps
into a conversation as if he's God's Gift. He has no respect
for authority, regulation or the chain of command, and no fear
whatsoever of disciplinary action that might come his way. In
fact, he couldn't care less for what people think of him or his
work. It makes him damn near impossible to reel in.  Damn near,
but not entirely so.

"This isn't the only such sighting with this set of
circumstances. There have been a whole string of them. Sixteen,
in fact, over the past three weeks, starting with two separate
incidents in one night, about thirty miles apart, in Woonsocket,
Rhode Island, and Fall River, Massachusetts. The incident
reports have been 'moving' steadily to the southwest ever since."

He stared directly at me, daring contradiction. That's the
other thing about Mulder. The insolence! He's so cocksure of
himself, it makes people want to knock him off his pedestal.
It's almost as if he's trying to get me to make it personal.
Well, I won't be baited.  I'll let his partner do my work for
me.

"Mulder! On any given night, I'd bet there are simultaneous
occurrences of such disturbances outside bars all across the
country. Consumption of alcohol makes the user highly
suggestible to doing or seeing things she or he otherwise
would not, if unimpaired. Excessive consumption of alcohol
can easily cause a wide variety of hallucinations."

One of the main reasons for Skinner's downfall with these two
was that he fostered the damn personal and emotional intimacy
between them. Claimed it made them a better investigative unit.
Hell, all it really did was spur the talk that they were
actually doing it. Intimacy, pfft. You think I'm going to fan
those flames? Hell, no! But, neither will I act overtly to
drive them apart. That would give them a common enemy.
Definitely counterproductive. No. I'm going to steer them into
driving their own wedge into the partnership. First step?
Ensure that separate rooms stay separate.

"You're concluding, then, that the reports of unusual sightings
and lost time are all due to the alcoholic impairment of the
witnesses, Agent Scully?"

"Yes, sir."

"What of Agent Mulder's theory?"

"As you can see in my report, sir, I find no basis, evidentiary
or scientific, for the conclusions drawn by Agent Mulder... in
this instance," she added, just a moment too late. I glanced up
at him, gauging his reaction. Bastard remained blank.

"Well, before we discount it completely, there is one other
incident of similar circumstance that I want you to look into.
Took place two nights prior to the ones in Rhode Island and
Massachusetts, eh, mentioned earlier."

Now I had his attention. It had taken a lot of digging for this
particular nugget to pan out. I was gratified to see him rise
to the bait.

"It also took place in northern New England. The details are
in your packets."

I pretended to go on to other matters while they skimmed their
briefing papers.  In reality, I kept an eye on Agent Scully the
whole time. I watched the heat rise in her cheeks, flushing
almost the color of her hair. Only an agent as ballsy as Scully
would let her annoyance show so openly in front of a superior.
Then, again, maybe she really was just that pissed off. Either
way, I had to admire her grit.

At that moment, I think Agent Mulder was feeling something other
than admiration for his partner. I think he was feeling afraid.
Smart man.

In choosing their assignment, I'd weighed an assortment of
factors, relying on a wide array of sources, not the least of
which was The Weather Channel. I couldn't hope to achieve my
goal without the utmost subtlety. So, banishing them to Alaska
was out of the question. Ditto International Falls, Minnesota,
or Pocatello, Idaho. I was shooting for grinding, gnawing
misery, not sharp, stabbing punishment.

When she looked up, I knew from the look on her face that she
shared my viewing habits. Here, it was seventy degrees and the
scent of cherry blossoms was everywhere. Nice, if you like that
sort of thing. There, snow pack still covered the ground and
the only hint of Spring was that the raw, ceaseless drizzle
never quite froze. Miserable, on anyone's barometer.

"Questions?"

He had nothing to say, of course. I'd thrown him a bone, and he
was busily whittling it to suit his personal views. She had
nothing to say, as well. But only because that was the way
she'd been brought up. "If you can't say something nice..." I
could just imagine the vituperative bile - for him and for me -
that had risen in her throat, tasting the worse for having been
forced back down.

"Dismissed, then."

He leapt out of his seat, already packing his bag. She sat a
shade longer than was polite. I looked up to meet the challenge.

"Agent? Is there something you'd like to say?"

There was. Just not to me. Her anger was balled up inside,
forcibly compressed. Even her stride, as she stormed out of the
office, was tightly clenched. I doubted anyone could even slip
a word in edgewise between those thighs, not if they tried.
Even a 'wordsmith' like Mulder. Lord knew, he'd give it his all.
My confidence was high that she, on the other hand, would give
him none.

I listened with pleasure as they disappeared down the corridor
toward the elevator.

"This is all your fault, Mulder."

Ah. Music to my ears.

"Bangor, Maine? He could have sent us to Portland, or
Kennebunkport. At least they'd be picturesque. But, central
Maine, at this time of year? Is just miserable."

Thank you, Jim Cantore. And God bless Dr. Jon Nese.

"You heard the man, Scully. This isn't one of your 'simultaneous
occurrences on any given night across the country.' This just
so happens to have the precise circumstances as those in Takoma
Park. So I ask you, what are the odds?"

Even from where I sat, I could feel his smirk curdle the hair
on the back of my neck. I went to the door, opening it a crack
so that I could continue to listen in, rooting for Mulder to
take it too far. Just one step more.

"What? Another drunken mob outside a bar after closing time?
Yes, Mulder. What are the odds? A person killed while under the
influence? Look, as much as you want to believe, this isn't an
abduction scenario of any sort. The man wasn't killed by aliens.
I don't know what the circumstance was that killed him, Mulder.
But I do know why he died. He was in a stupor."

"Drunkenness does nothing to rule out the possibility of alien
abduction. You should know that as well as...Wait. What ?"

"Stupor, Mulder. A drunken stupor."

Uh, oh.

"Schtupp her? Scully, I just met her!"

Apparently, he believes this sort of humor is a real chick
magnet. Agent Scully would appear to be de-magnetized.
 
Unsatisfied simply with a dirty look, she smacked him hard, on
the arm. Good for her. Saved me the trouble.

Yessiree, Bob. It was all working out well.

Very well, indeed.

*******************

"Agents." I gestured to the chairs arrayed in front of my desk
and returned to work, sneaking a single, furtive glance at
them. Right then. That moment, I should have known something
had gone wrong.

They were relaxed, at ease.  That just shouldn't have been.

"How was your trip?"

Their return flight had been a living hell of missed connections
and puddle-jumper aircraft. I'd seen to that. By now, they
should have been pulling out hair by the root; his, hers, each
other's. Clumps of hair! There should have been hair. Hell, if
things had gone as they were supposed to, she'd be the likely
suspect in a homicide. Not that it wouldn't have been
justifiable. I'd gladly have testified to that, on her behalf.

They looked at each other before she responded.

"Fine." She looked over at him again, and he nodded his
agreement. What in Heaven's name was going on here? "It's
always nice to come home, Sir. Thanks for asking." She shrugged
with her lips and chin.

Her eyes seemed bigger somehow. A brighter blue. Damnit!

It had taken them five days to complete the investigation,
three longer than it should have. I've no doubt they could have
done it in two, but for the nor'easter. I really couldn't have
planned this trip better. Really could not have planned it
better.

"I expected you back Tuesday."

Neither responded. The storm had followed them down the
coast and, still, they'd managed to get home. Just not in a
timely fashion. They wouldn't dare offer the weather as an
excuse. They even had the grace to look suitably embarrassed
about it. This just wouldn't do.

"The case was that complex, that it took nearly a week to
investigate?"

"No, Sir. Turned out to be interesting." He turned to look at
his partner, who finished the thought.

"Interesting, yes. But not complex, no."

"Then, what? You let a little weather stop you? The storm is
here now and, as you can see, it hasn't stopped many other
federal employees from attending to their assigned tasks." I
tried to say this as pleasantly as I could. From experience, I
know that it annoys the living hell out of him. I was gratified
to see him stiffen.

"No, Sir. It wasn't because of the weather." Agent Scully
stepped into the line of fire between me and Agent Mulder.
"Not directly, anyway. We," she had to look at him and get an
approving nod before continuing, "we weren't able to rent a
car. The dealer wouldn't let us."

This stunned me; I felt it like a sock in the gut. True, I'd
set up any number of roadblocks to their progress, but none
insurmountable. Just high enough to be annoying and a source of
friction between them. But, this? An inability to rent a car?
Was evidence either of base insubordination or gross
incompetence. And the latter? From him, maybe. But from Agent
Scully?

My thoughts must have shown on my face, because Mulder jumped
now to her rescue.

"The guy said, "Not smaht to be drivin' on these icy roads.
Shoo-ah, you cahn risk it, oh-kay. But not in one of my rental
cahs, you cahn't. Come back Thursday. I'll rent you any cah you
want then. Aftah the storm passes." I wasn't sure whether
Mulder's imitation of the Mainer was accurate, but it was a
dead-on impression of the guy from those old ads for
Pepperidge Farm.

Mulder and I both looked to Scully for confirmation.

"That's what he said, ayuh." She nodded in confirmation of her
own memory, and shrugged, as if to agree in hindsight with the
local. What were we going to do? The roads were icy.

"Bangor is that large a city that you couldn't investigate on
foot? Or were the sidewalks that treacherous, as well?" I was
starting to let my irritation show, and that wasn't good. But
I was beginning to catch the disagreeable whiff of a snafu.
And I had a good idea who'd been the cause.

"Actually, sir, the incident in question happened about an
hour's drive to the north and west of Bangor, outside a bar in
Brownville Junction."

"The Cinder City of Maine," Mulder put in, trying to be helpful.
I hate it when he tries to be helpful.

"I see." I ignored Mulder and focused on Scully. It was the
only way I could think of to keep my blood pressure in check.
"So, until you could rent a car, there was no way you could
investigate the incident up in..."

"Brownville Junction," Mulder said.

"Wherever." Maybe there was a way I could raise his blood
pressure and lower mine in the process. "So, what did you do
to while away the hours, Agent Mulder, while you were stuck in
the hotel? Poker?"

Oh, he wanted to respond. He was aching to make a wisecrack, I
could tell. But she cut him off. He was proving no match for
her there, in my office. Though I suspected he'd held his own,
up in Maine. After all, what choice did he have? Hah! Hold his
own - What choice did he have - funny. Anyway.

"Actually, Sir, we were nearly able to complete the
investigation without the hour's drive. I'll know for sure when
I receive the body from the Penobscot County sheriff for a
thorough autopsy. But, the cause of death appears to have been
poisoning."

"Alcohol poisoning. That was also your hypothesis in the Takoma
Park death, was it not?"

Since this wasn't working as planned, that might be just as
well. Let it be the obvious thing, get it off my desk and get
them out of my office. Oh, Lord. If only.

"No, Sir. It wasn't alcohol poisoning. Not exactly. And this
wasn't my hypothesis."

Shit.

"It was Agent Mulder's."

He leaned forward to take over the presentation from his
partner. I half expected him to thank her, and whip out the
PowerPoint slides.

"We'd done some checking on the deceased, Sir, in the county
hall of records. Turns out, though he owned some land up in
Piscataquis County, near Brownville Junction, it was utterly
unimproved, no permanent shelter of any kind. According to
acquaintances of the deceased, other than drinking himself
blind at the nearby tavern, he went up only to use the land as
a sort of private preserve for ice fishing and hunting."

"Hunting? Bear?"

"Doubtful, Sir. It's pretty cold up there."

Although he was an alcoholic," Scully put in.

"Oh, hey, good point. Who knows how he was liable to dress?
At any rate, the deceased seems to have resided in Bangor,
although he owned no property there, or anywhere in Penobscot
County, for that matter."

Something about that exchange made no sense. I began to get the
feeling that I was being had. To top it off, against everything
I'd planned, I'd evidently handed them an interesting
investigation. Which, damnit, I would now have to see through
to the end.

"The man was homeless?"

Mulder nodded. "We did learn, however, that he was in the care
of, and occasionally resident with a local doctor."

"An herbalist, not a doctor," Scully said testily.

"A homeopath. A doctor, small 'd,' " Mulder amended, "not a
capital M, capital D doctor." He looked over equably at his
partner, who nodded once.

"Our deceased was a homeless man, who was living with a doctor?"

"On occasion."

"Just how often did the deceased bunk with this doctor, uh,
doctor..."

"Haverbush. Martin Haverbush."

"Haverbush." The odds were ever-increasing that I was being had.
"Haverbush?"

"Well, yeah," Mulder said. "Once or twice."

"I beg your pardon?" I looked at the damned man's little
partner. She just smiled pleasantly.

"The deceased. You asked how often he'd stayed with Doctor
Haverbush."

I ran my hand over my nose and mouth and took a slow breath.
"So, it's your theory that Doctor," I'd be damned if I was going
to repeat the name, "this herbalist poisoned the deceased?"

Mulder looked hurt that I'd ascribe such an absurd statement to
him.

"No, actually, it's not. The deceased had no ability to pay for
treatment of any sort. Doctor Haverbush' records note that the
man had labored breathing typical of an early stage of
emphysema or other serious, possibly life-threatening pulmonary
ailment. He'd  long been working on a whole set of his own
homeopathic treatments for many serious and or chronic
illnesses, emphysema among them. So Haverbush had the deceased
sign a waiver, in return for which the doctor would administer
his experimental course of treatment, free of charge."

"And I presume you were able to get the specifics of this
experimental treatment?"

"Yes, Sir, I was," Agent Scully said, venturing back into the
discussion as the prim and proper medic I'd been counting upon.
"It's an herbal potion, a tonic or tea, if you will, brewed
from various native plants. Primarily the leaves of a common
landscape shrub - Genus Sarcococca."

Looking at his partner as she spoke, Mulder nodded in support.

"Sweet Box."

I was at a loss for words. My temples started to throb.

"Sweet Box, Agent Scully?"

"You'll have to ask Agent Mulder about that, Sir."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, it's his theory. "

The throb became a repetitive pounding. I rubbed at it for a
moment or two. "What else?"

"The fruit of Genus Vaccinium, species ashei. A common
blueberry, Sir. They grow wild all over the southern half of
the state of Maine. Obviously not toxic in any way."

Relief! It swept over me in a wave. Maybe I'd been trumping up
this whole conspiracy in my mind. Just maybe.

"It was added for flavor," Mulder interjected, "to make the
therapy palatable, not to make it poisonous. You said yourself,
Scully, that this variety was the juiciest, most flavorful."

I knew I might end up hating myself for asking, so I asked the
question of her, in order to minimize the chances. "And what
variety is that, Agent Scully?"

"Highbush." Said with an utterly straight face. "Sir." Added as
an afterthought.

Nope. I was sure, right then, that I was being played. Now that
I knew, however, I damn well wasn't going to let them get to me.

"You said there was another element in this herbal tonic,
Agent?"

"Yes, sir. An extract from the bark of Salix chaenomeloides."

"Which is?"

Why? Time after time after time, why do I let myself get led
into these things?

Though I was looking to Agent Scully for the answer, Mulder
responded. "Giant pussy..."

I pounded my fist on the table, rattling my coffee cup and
startling everyone in the room, myself included.

"...willow," he finished softly, staring at the abused corner
of my desk.

Embarrassment prickled the back of my neck. I'd let them get to
me, and they knew it. I had to rein in my emotions and, maybe,
just maybe, I'd get out of this with my dignity intact. Is this
what Skinner had gone through? It went through my head like a
thought before dying.

"This potion, these... ingredients, they're poisonous when
consumed?"

"No, Sir," Agent Scully found voice more quickly than did her
partner. "In the short span and minute quantities administered,
Haverbush' herbal tonic may have given the deceased an upset
stomach, but no more than that."

"But poisoning was your theory of the case, am I wrong about
that, Agent Mulder?"

"No, Sir, you're not wrong."

"Then, may I at least assume that you have Haver..., that you,
that Doctor Haverbush is in custody for murder?"

"No, Sir. He is not. He had neither motive nor intent. I
sincerely believe that he hoped this tonic would be a curative.
Unfortunately, the deceased's addiction to alcohol may have not
only counteracted whatever restorative properties the herbal
tonic may have had, it may have caused a negative reaction that
resulted in his death."

"The poisoning was, what, accidental?"

Mulder nodded emphatically. "As I've said, Sir, I don't believe
the good doctor had malicious intent. Far from it. He seemed to
take pity on the deceased, letting the man live in his house
for long stretches, for example. Moreover, I doubt that the
deceased was likely to have informed him of the true extent of
his alcohol addiction, rendering it impossible for Doctor
Haverbush to check for contraindications. I believe that, in
some ways, the doctor, too, was a victim."

"A victim?"

"No sir. Since he'd done nothing illegal and is, as far as we
know, up to date on his mortgage, we had no cause to do that."

I tried to clear my head with a shake, but couldn't. Instead, I
was left with a vague ringing sound.

"And, so, the reports of lights that the deceased, er, saw?"

"We won't know for certain until after the autopsy, Sir. But,
if I had to hazard a guess, I say that the combination of the
herbal mixture and alcohol probably caused hallucinogenic side
effects before hastening some sort of internal collapse,
probably in his renal system."

I stood and moved to usher the two of them out of my office. I
wasn't feeling unnaturally polite, no. I just wanted them out
of there, before a migraine exploded behind my eyes.

"Agents, I'm sorry that there wasn't more to those reports."
And I was sorry. I was really looking forward to the clash
between the rational and irrational partners igniting into a
full-blown conflagration. They would have been far easier to
manage, then. "I'm afraid I sent you up there on a fool's
errand." Also true, but not in the way they were sure to take
it.

"Not a problem, Sir," Mulder said when we'd reached the
doorway. "I was born and raised in New England, but, believe
it or not, I'd never been to Maine before. Now, thanks to you,
I can say I got to Bangor once."

With that, both of them turned and walked down the hall. I
stood with the door a-crack, watching them go. I couldn't be
sure, but I thought I heard them snickering. To my dismay, he
rested his hand low on her waist. At the elevator, she turned
to face him, grinning.

"Bang 'er once, Mulder? As I recall, it was more like six or
seven times!"

I had to slam the door to shut out their goddamn laughter.

-end-