Jesse's One-Night Stand of Max-imum Importance.

When Jesse came in this morning, she ignored a small fleet of interns in Executive lugging papers for her to sign in favor of Emily. Both because she liked Emily, and she's the only one calling her by her first name. Everyone else would rather call her "Director", "Director Faden", or "Ma'am." "P7" was also on the list of names, and while Jesse wasn't the type to **** her authority, everyone in Containment learned by example that calling her "P7" was a one-way trip to a demotion.

"Hey Emily, what's up?"

"Hey Jesse," said Emily. "I know you're busy, but we need you down in Research."

"Whatever it is, I'm on it," said Jesse, brandishing her Service Weapon. Things have gotten really boring at HQ, and she wasn't looking forward to another day of budgeting. Shooting something otherworldly would definitely help.

"No, that's not the help we need. There's an altered item we need you to sign off on."

"Oh. Well, don't you need Langston to do that?"

"No, see, we just got this item today from outside the Oldest House, and we sorta kinda... need your permission. To take it."

Emily's face was bright red.

Jesse cocked an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Emily."

"Hm?"

"What is this?"

Emily had talked Jesse into following her to the Ritual Department in Research.

The object was a phallus made from black waterproof silicone attached to a set of leather-straps and buckles. It stood straight up on a pedestal in a Black Rock-lined Altered Item containment cell, accompanied by a pair of Bureau staff in hazmat suits, scanning it with equipment as if it were a brick of uranium.

"We... uh..." Emily looked all over the room except at Jesse, as though the words were written on the walls and the ceiling. "We have reason to believe that this... object... had come into contact with a Class-5 Quantum-Singular Parautilitarian and we need it for data collection."

"Data colle-- this was in my apartment," said Jesse, incredulous. "You guys broke into my apartment and took my things? Am I the Director or aren't I?"

"We didn't 'break in.' Your condo is technically Bureau-property and we have leeway to enter in case of emergencies. Trench implemented that rule."

Like the Service Weapon, there were a few things Jesse inherited when she became director, including Trench's apartment. A new lock on the door may be warranted. Yet another thing to add to the list.

Jesse pinched between her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose.

"You already have full access to me. Why do you need to break into my apartment and steal my sex toys? Every hear about asking?"

The strap-on wasn't her only sex toy. She had a brief fling with one of her classmates in high school -- a real punkish stereotype of a butch lesbian -- and she had left it with Jesse before foster care took Jesse to a different town. The other one was a vibrator she used for "me time" that she had bought a few years ago.

"What? No! You're not the parautilitarian I meant," clarified Emily. She grabbed a folder bursting with papers, her face flushing red. "I mean, you are. Kind of. No, I'm talking about your, uh, 'partner'." She gave Jesse the folder.

Jesse cocked a brow at the label.

'P12.'

This was from the Prime Candidate Program. Jesse wanted to gut the Program completely after they ended the lockdown, and half the Bureau agreed when she declassified the whole thing. Some even demanded to see Darling just to lynch him.

Emily managed to talk her out of it, instead convincing her to reform it into a surveillance program for any parautilitarians of interest. Apparently, resources for finding candidates for parautility were woefully underfunded and more art than science before Trench and Darling put the Program together.

Jesse opened the folder, and before she could even read any of it, her eyes locked onto a photograph.

Jesse knew the girl in the picture.

She met her last night.

The Oh Doe wasn't Greenwich's only bar. It wasn't the best, or even the cleanest, but Jesse spent a very brief time tending bar there before Polaris revealed the Oldest House to her. Greenwich had much more lively lesbian bars, but Jesse liked how quiet it could be and would visit sometimes to unwind after a long, hard day of desk work.

Sometimes she wanted to quit being Director and go back to bartending, but she knew that wasn't an option.

The bar was mostly empty outside of a few regulars, but Jesse caught an unfamiliar face at a barstool. She was a brunette in a pair of jeans and a bright pink sweatshirt. She was on her third Cosmopolitan and already looked like she might throw up.

"Hey. You okay?" asked Jesse, already asking herself why she's bothering this poor woman.

"Yeah. Celebrating," said the woman.

People don't celebrate alone at a bar, Jesse thought sarcastically.

"Celebrating what?"

"My new job. I'm gonna be teachin' in Caledon U. In Colorado."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh. Finally gonna be one of those adults with a job," said the woman, taking another sip. "I mean, my shows have been doing pretty well. Even got to meet Alice Wake. Love her Dark Place series. New York loves me, but it doesn't love me enough for Health Insurance."

"New York is the kind of place that makes you love it," said Jesse. "I moved in, like, half a year ago, and I haven't even visited Lady Liberty because that's the kind of thing tourists do."

"Oh shit, me neither," slurred the brunette, squinting a little at the neon reflecting off the many bottles behind the counter. "I should do that before I go. And the Ghostbusters Firehouse. That's in New York, right?"

"I think so," laughed Jesse. "I'm Jesse."

"Maxine. But don't call me that. Never call me that. Call me Max."

The two of them continued to talk. Jesse had a few Gin and Tonics while Max finished her third Cosmopolitan and refused another one.

Eventually, they ran out of things to talk about, and Jesse asked if she needed a ride. Or that's what she should have done. Instead, she brought her to her apartment to sleep it off. Her apartment was much closer than the shoebox Max had been staying in. Jesse had just barely started fiddling with her keys when Max started kissing Jesse, who was kissing back.

They managed to get the door open and left a trail of clothes to Jesse's bed.

Max had never been strapped before and agreed to it out of curiosity, and they went at it for at least an hour before the late hours, sex, and **** exhausted both of them into unconsciousness.

The morning after was awkward, though thankfully the hangovers were light. They shared some coffee in her kitchen island in silence. Max had dressed back into the clothes Jesse had found her in at the bar, while Jesse was in her usual pajamas: a t-shirt and her underwear.

Taking initiative, Max took a candid picture of Jesse that she had on her, found a pen, and scribbled her phone number under it.

"I'm not staying," said Max. "But I just wanted you to know that I had a good time. I think I needed it."

"Yeah. Me too," said Jesse.

"I'm moving in a few weeks, but I wouldn't mind if we talked some more. You know. Over lunch or something."

She hated the face she made in the picture, but she was touched all the same.

"I think I'd like that."

------

The photo paperclipped to the files looked about ten years off, but Jesse would recognize those freckles and haunted blue eyes anywhere. Especially since her face was still fresh in her mind.

And in all the bars in all the towns in all the worlds, Jesse just had to happen upon a Class-5 Quantum-Singular Parautilitarian, whatever that means, and had a one-night stand with her.

What are the odds?

Something fell out from between the files and onto the floor. She bent over, careful not to drop anything else, and picked it up.

It was the picture Max took of her. It still had the phone number.

Emily wasn't a field agent, and Jesse knew that. She knew that Emily wasn't the one who took her stuff. But until she found out who specifically, Emily was going to be the one getting glared at for this breach in privacy.