Trick or Treat

by Vikki3

Amanda scents trouble at the Agency.

Title: Trick or Treat

Author: Vikki

Timeframe: Season One, shortly after "Service Above And Beyond"

Disclaimer: The SMK characters and the Agency are copyrighted to Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon Productions. I'm borrowing them for my own amusement, and I'm not profiting from doing so. This story and any new characters I have created are copyrighted to me; please don't distribute or reproduce my story without permission.

Note: This story is the result of a challenge by Kim. I'll leave it to you all to figure out what the required "challenge elements" are.

Thanks to my talented Betas for their assistance. Without them, my stories would be . . . well, let's face it; my stories wouldn't be. Any remaining errors are my fault.

All feedback is welcome and appreciated.

"Billy!"

A high-pitched whine assaulted Amanda's ears as she stepped through the double glass doors into the Agency bullpen. It was unquestionably Francine Desmond's voice but without her usual haughty tone.

"You're my assistant, Desmond," was the gruff reply. "According to your job description, you're responsible for police dispatches. David Kim, over at D.C. Metro, dispatched this, so you're responsible for it. I can't keep the thing in my office."

Amanda turned toward the voices just in time to see the Field Section chief deposit a huge, multicolored urn onto his assistant's desk. Judging by the blonde agent's expression, the vessel contained something repulsive . . . maybe a venomous snake or the remains of a Middle Eastern dictator.

Surrendering to her curiosity, the civilian aide stepped further into the room. As she approached, the object which had appeared, from a distance, to be an urn morphed into an enormous cellophane bag filled with candy corn. And not just any candy corn. Amanda had seen that particular mixture advertised in one of her mother's gourmet food magazines -- a rich, sugary confection, in bright shades of orange and yellow, the larger end of each piece carefully hand-dipped in smooth Bavarian chocolate.

Amanda's mouth watered and her stomach gave a low growl. Clearly her boss had felt a similar reaction. Brand new, the bag had probably contained twenty-five pounds of the decadent treat, but a sizable portion had already vanished.

"But Billy --" Francine tried again, only to be cut off by a dismissive wave of her superior's hand.

"It'll probably be empty before the end of the day. The people in this Agency are like vultures when they scent sugar." Turning on his heel, Billy Melrose stalked back to his office without a backward glance.

Apparently needing an outlet for her ire, Francine turned disgruntled blue eyes in Amanda's direction. "What are you staring at?" she snapped.

"Nothing, Francine, except," Amanda repressed the smile trying to form on her lips and gestured toward her coworker's new desk ornament, "you must really love candy corn."

Francine took a slow, deep breath, looking as though preserving a semblance of professional demeanor was costing her dearly. "Yesterday, Billy untangled Metro from a major flap with a couple of attaches from the Russian Embassy. Today, their captain sent this over to express his gratitude," she said stiffly. "Thank you, Kim. I owe you one," she added, not quite under her breath, as she flicked the gold-embossed card dangling from the candy bag with a perfectly manicured fingernail.

Deciding against testing Francine's temper any further, Amanda looked across the aisle to Lee Stetson's vacant workstation. "Have you seen Lee this morning? I'm trying to organize these reports for him, and I need help deciphering a few of his chicken scratches," she said, riffling through the papers draped across her left arm.

Francine gave her a sarcastic smirk. "Try the steno pool. Stetson has his eye on a different kind of candy this morning."

There was no mistaking the meaning of that barb. After a short hesitation, Amanda straightened her shoulders and turned away, determined not to let the great Scarecrow's amorous activities deter her from completing her work. As she retraced her steps through the glass doors, however, she paused to glance over her shoulder at the bustling activity of the bullpen.

Billy had been right about the lure of sugar. Fred Fielder had already materialized beside Francine's desk and was helping himself to candy corn. The bag had a large flap on the side which, when raised, released a flow of candy into Fielder's waiting hand. A very heavy flow, apparently, because several pieces missed Fielder's outstretched palm and tumbled across Francine's desktop.

Fred started to reach for the spilled candies, met Francine's icy stare, and quickly withdrew his hand. With a shrug and a lopsided smile, he trotted away, munching happily. Francine, meanwhile, averted her eyes as though unable to bear the sight of the sugary morsels. However, as her gaze roamed aimlessly across the room, one slender hand moved slowly toward nearest piece. Picking it up between long, tapering fingers, she glanced again to her left and right, popped it into her mouth, and reached for another.

"Kim's candy strikes again," Amanda muttered to herself as she navigated a path toward the spacious cubicle housing the Agency's steno pool. She had to nudge her way through an opposing surge of clerks and typists, all suddenly eager to deliver various reports and transcripts to the Field Section bullpen.

When she finally reached her destination, she found the room deserted except for two people. One was a voluptuous dark-haired beauty whose shiny new Agency-issued nameplate proclaimed her to be "Candi Crawford." The other was Lee Stetson.

Lee was perched casually on the corner of the newcomer's neatly organized desk, his hazel eyes focused on Candi's low décolletage, and a wolfish smile playing around his mouth. As Amanda watched, he leaned toward his newest conquest, ran a playful finger around her necklace of shiny red beads, and then transferred his attention to the matching bobbles dangling from her earlobes. When she responded with a coquettish toss of her black curls, he bent close enough to whisper into her ear.

Amanda couldn't hear Lee's words, but she had no difficulty interpreting the sultry smile on Candi Crawfords painted lips. "Eight o'clock it is," the woman purred seductively. "I'm looking forward to it." A perfectly timed pout formed as Lee swooped in for a kiss, and she reached out run a caressing finger down the agent's chest. "You're going to be . . . discreet, aren't you? The ladies down here tend to be rather catty, and I don't want to make any enemies during my first week on the job."

"It'll be our secret mission." Lee managed to plant a quick kiss on the corner of the typist's mouth. Then he hopped off the desk with a self-satisfied grin, gave Candi a roguish wink, and began a leisurely stroll toward the doorway.

Not wanting to be accused of eavesdropping, Amanda ducked out of sight behind a portable file cabinet. After Lee sauntered past her hiding place, she began to straighten, but stopped when she heard the ring of a telephone followed by Candi's whispered voice, this time an annoyed hiss. "I told you not to call me here. Yes," she continued after a short pause, during which her nails tapped a staccato beat on the desktop, "I was hoping Stetson would be the first . . . . No, he doesn't suspect a thing." Another pause was followed by even more chilling words. "Do not worry. I have a job to do, and I have no intention of failing. "

Alarm bells ringing in her head, Amanda edged her way back out of the room.

The wall clock was ticking slowly toward the end of another workday, and Amanda once again stood just inside the entryway to the Agency bullpen. In a distorted replay of his earlier rendezvous, Lee was sitting on the corner of Francine Desmond's desk. This time, however, the pretty woman in front of him was making a visible effort to pretend he wasn't there, and he was toying, not with her jewelry, but with a handful of candy corn. One of the last handfuls, Amanda noted. Billy had been right about that, too. The bag was nearly empty. The release flap no longer functioned now that only a few ounces remained, and the crinkly covering had been ripped apart to allow access to the last few morsels.

Studying the handsome agent's profile, Amanda found herself growing increasingly annoyed. Three times during the course of the day she had tried to explain her concerns about Candi Crawford to Lee, and three times she had been rebuffed almost as soon as she began. It wasn't exactly that he hadn't believed her . . . he simply hadn't listened, brushing past her with a terse statement that he was too busy for idle chatter.

Well, he certainly didn't look busy at the moment. Amanda folded her arms across her chest and tapped a foot against the carpeted floor as she watched Lee select a piece of candy from his open palm and wave through the air like a snifter of fine brandy.

Lee had been giving Amanda the cold shoulder for several days, ever since her visit to the emergency room on the night of James Delano's party. Perhaps, in the cold light of day, he was embarrassed about having carried her down the winding stairway to the waiting ambulance or about his tenderness toward her as she drifted in and out of the drug-induced stupor. Or perhaps he was still stinging over her accusation, earlier on that case, that he had been acting like a jealous person. Which he had been, of course . . . but she probably shouldn't have pointed it out to him. Men became so rattled when confronted by evidence of their own emotions . . . . He just made her so darn angry, the way he treated her like a troublesome child or a slow-witted nuisance.

Whatever the cause of his present coolness toward her, he obviously wasn't too busy to waste time sitting on the corner of Candi Crawford's desk or plaguing his fellow agents, as he was clearly doing to Francine.

Any mother of two young boys could easily identify a case of sugar overdose: the glazed, slightly watery eyes; the pale complexion highlighted by bright spots of color high on the cheekbones; the nervous licking of the lips interrupted by periodic gulping swallows . . . . Amanda was a little surprised that Lee had noticed Francine's distress, as absorbed in his own affairs as he had been all day. Unhappily for Francine, his response was anything but sympathetic.

A little 'hair of the dog that bit you' Francine?" Lee picked up another piece of candy and held it out, inches from the other agent's nose.

"Stuff it, Scarecrow." A faint snarl twisted Francine's lips -- now devoid of the orange blossom gloss which had adorned them earlier in the day. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a piece of snowy white linen and dabbed delicately at her mouth. "Now, if you'll excuse me," she said, rising with as much dignity as a lady can display while swaying on four inch heels and valiantly trying not to retch into a lacy handkerchief, "I need to visit the ladies room."

As Francine made a shaky dash toward the nearest restroom and Lee wandered off in the direction of Billy's office, Amanda's resolve stiffened. She was going to speak to Lee about Candi Crawford, and he was going to make time to listen to her!

Marching across the bullpen, she planted herself directly in his path. "Lee, I have to talk to you," she said, trying to inject as much urgency as possible into her words.

Concern flickered through his eyes but was rapidly replaced by a studied savoir faire. "Amanda, I'm really tied up right now --"

"No, you're not tied up, and this is important." Glancing around the still crowded bullpen, she lowered her voice. "It's about your date with Candi Crawford. No!" she insisted, as he began cut her off, "I'm going to say this to you in private or I'm going to say it right here. Your choice, Lee."

Surrendering to her implied threat, Lee took her firmly by the elbow and walked rapidly toward one of the small conference rooms adjacent to Billy's office. Propelling her before him through the door, he pulled it firmly closed and then stood, legs planted and hands on hips, a repressive glare darkening his features. "A-man-da. My plans with Candi Crawford aren't anyone else's business."

Uncertain quite how to explain her worries, now that she actually had his attention, Amanda hesitated. "I just . . . well, I just wondered how much you really know about her, that's all."

"How much I know about her," her repeated, looking dumbfounded.

"Well, I mean, you know about a million things about me, and you and I are just friends, so I suppose you know even more about her . . . being that you're thinking about getting involved . . . even though I guess knowing her great-great grandmother's maiden name wouldn't tell you whether she was the kind of person you ought to date . . . if she knows her great-great grandmother's maiden name, which she'd probably wouldn't know unless she --"
"Amanda, what are you talking about?" Lee cut sharply into her flow of words. "You said you had something important to tell me, and now you're rambling about Candi's family tree. Would you get to the point? Please."

"All right." Amanda took a deep, steadying breath and pounded the side of her right hand into to her left palm. "I was on the edge of the steno pool this morning, and I overheard her on the phone, and what she said sounded suspicious to me. She said the person wasn't supposed to call her here, and that she's very good at what she does, and that she was hoping you'd be the first."

Lee rolled his eyes, managing to appear both frustrated and amused. "Amanda, think about it," he said, ticking his counter arguments off on his fingers. "First, the typists in the steno pool aren't supposed to take personal phone calls during working hours. Second, she wouldn't have been hired if she wasn't very good at what she does, and third, as for being glad that I'm the first . . . well look around you. Wouldn't you rather be asked out by someone like me rather than Fielder or old Humbug out there . . . If you were interested in dating, I mean." His tirade stumbled to a halt as he turned and pointed through the tiny conference room window at his elderly, sour-faced mentor, still crouched behind his cluttered desk.

Amanda clenched her jaw as she listened to his rant. "I just have a bad feeling about Candi Crawford," she ground out.

"Sounding like a jealous person, are we?" Lee responded in a mocking drawl. One eyebrow lifted, fueling Amanda's urge to wipe the conceited grin from his too-sensuous lips.

Balling her right hand into a fist but holding her arm stiffly at her side to prevent her from losing self-control, Amanda stamped one foot and groaned. "Stuff it, Scarecrow," she said as she pushed past him, flung open the door, and stomped away, grumbling under her breath about egotists and ingrates.

Several hours later, Amanda was still grumbling as she sat in the darkened parking lot outside Lee's apartment building. She knew Candi Crawford would be arriving any minute, and she really hadn't the faintest idea what she expected to happen or what she could possibly do to prevent it. Some instinct, however, told her that Lee was in danger.

As she became increasingly chilled by the late evening air, Amanda started to second guess herself. Did she really want to be involved in Lee Stetson's love life? Certainly not! Did she have one solid fact to support her feeling that Candi Crawford was up to no good? No, not exactly. Couldn't Lee, a trained federal agent, be expected to take care of himself? Well . . . .

She had almost decided to give up her quixotic mission and head home when she saw the glare of headlights as another car entered the lot. Scooting down in her seat to avoid being seen, she listened as the small sports car approached her station wagon and slid into the adjacent parking space. A very pricey sports car for a typist, Amanda realized.

Peering over the edge of the window frame, Amanda saw Candi Crawford turn off the ignition and drop her key into a designer handbag Francine Desmond wouldn't have spurned. After adding a thick layer of lipstick to her already ruby red mouth, the woman applied a liberal spray from a tiny crystal vial which was the signature piece of an exclusive French perfumer. Then, after checking her face in the rear view mirror, she pulled a small gun from the glove compartment and slipped the weapon into her coat pocket before exiting the vehicle.

The expensive car, the designer accessories and the perfume might not have been enough to convince Lee that Candi Crawford had more in mind than a hot date, but the surely the gun would get his attention! Waiting until the other woman had disappeared from sight, Amanda crept out of her car and into the building. Seeing that the elevator was still ascending, she turned and hurried up the stairs. Her heart was pounding -- from the uncustomary exertion, not fear, she told herself -- by the time she reached the fourth floor, and she paused for a moment to catch her breath before pushing the heavy metal door open and peering into the hallway. The elevator had already discharged its passenger, and the hall was deserted.

Moving quickly to a position outside Lee's apartment, Amanda rapped sharply on the door, shouting "Rotor Rooter -- here to unclog your pipes!" in a voice as deep and masculine as she could muster.

On the other side of the wooden portal, she heard approaching footsteps, a deep, forced chuckle, and the falsely cheerful words " . . . wrong apartment. Just make yourself comfortable while I handle this."

The door cracked open, and Lee's long, lean form appeared, casually dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt, open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves.

As his head swung in her direction, causing his golden brown hair to fall across his forehead, his expression melted from urbane coolness to ludicrous disbelief. "What are you doing here?" he said in a whispered hiss.

"Lee, I--" she began, her breathing still ragged from her dash up several flights of stairs.

"You're not still spouting that ridiculous story about Candi are you?" he demanded, cutting off any explanation she might have offered.

"Lee, she--" Amanda tried again, holding one hand to her chest as though doing so might help her gain control over her pounding heart.

"Because I don't want to hear another word about it, do you understand?"

"Lee, she--" Amanda raised her voice a few notches, hoping he wouldn't try to shout over her.

"I've had just about enough of your wild imagination and your constant mothering, Amanda King. I'm a grown man and an experienced federal agent, and I think I would know better than you if Candi Crawford --"

"--has a gun," she managed to inject into his rant.

"What?" he asked sharply, his frown deepening.

"A gun. Candi Crawford has a gun."

Lee's eyes narrowed, and his gaze shifted from Amanda's face to the inside of his apartment and back again. His arms crossed over his chest as he stared at her. "Are you sure?"

"I've been around enough guns in the past several months to recognize one. She took a gun out of her glove box . . . ." Amanda reached forward and grabbed a fistful of air then thrust her hand dramatically into the pocket of tan overcoat. "And she hid it in her coat pocket. So unless she's a lot less attracted to you than she appeared to be this morning, why do you suppose she decided to bring a gun on your date?"

"Stay here!" Lee ordered softly, pushing the door further open behind him as he gestured emphatically for her to stay where she was.

"No, I think you should both come inside," a third voice broke into their argument. Looking past Lee, Amanda saw Candi Crawford standing directly behind him, her gun pressed against the side of his neck.

Amanda squeezed as close as possible to Lee as the black-haired beauty nudged them into the apartment, closed the door, and then motioned them toward the living room, indicating they should sit on opposite ends of the sofa. She took up a position in the middle of the room, her handgun still trained on Lee.

"Candi, baby, I don't know what's going on here, but Amanda and I are just friends," Lee said, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocent supplication.

A sneer formed on Candi's red lips. "Typical American, you cannot believe that any woman would be able to resist your physical charms. It is something I will use to my advantage not only tonight but on many nights to come. I have been placed in your Agency to remove as many agents as I can, and tonight I will make a good start. Two for the price of one, as you say."

"Amanda isn't an agent," Lee said.

"You're a spy?" Amanda asked at the same time.

"I have never cared for the term 'spy,'" Candi said, turning to address Amanda. "I am an intelligence operative, working toward the triumph of Mother Russia over the decadent West."

"Amanda isn't an agent," Lee repeated more forcefully. "Let her go."

Candi turned back to him. "That is impossible; she knows I am here and would implicate me in your death. Besides which, I can make good use of her. You have rejected her, yes, and she is jealous." Nodding to herself, she moved the barrel of the gun back and forth between the pair seated before her. "She will shoot you and then, unable to face the consequences of her impulsive action, she will put a bullet through her own head . . . leaving me free to select my next target."

While Candi laid out her plans, Amanda glanced around the room. If she could create some kind of distraction, she was certain Lee would be able to disarm the Russian agent.

Lee apparently had cleaned up his apartment in expectation of his guest, because the coffee table had been cleared of its usual jumble of newspapers and fast food containers. On a small table near her left arm, however, an autographed baseball rested on a ceramic pedestal.

Meeting Lee's gaze, she shifted her eyes as nonchalantly as possible first to the baseball and then to the floor lamp behind Candi Crawford. For a few seconds, Lee appeared to be baffled. Then his eyes narrowed briefly and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod before glancing pointedly at the narrow space between the sofa and the coffee table.

Okay, Amanda concluded. Lee wanted her to throw the baseball and then duck behind the coffee table, out of the line of fire.

Lee leaned forward, resting one elbow on his thigh and balling a fist under his chin while he gesturing with his other hand. "So,tell me," he said conversationally, "how did you manage to get through all of the Agency background checks?"

The Russian agent laughed scornfully and began to describe the ease with which she had outsmarted her American employers. Realizing Lee was trying to draw Candi's attention toward himself so she could reach for the baseball, Amanda began inching her left hand toward the end table. After what seemed like an eternity, her fingers brushed the leather surface, and she quietly lifted it from its stand. With a quick twist of her wrist, she managed to send it sailing across the room; she then threw her body forward. As she hit the floor, she heard the tinkle of shattering glass, several loud thumps and the sound of a single gunshot.

For an instant, she felt as though her breath had been knocked from her lungs, but then Lee called, "You can get up, Amanda." Pulling herself quickly to her feet, she saw that Lee had a firm grip on a struggling Candi Crawford and the handgun was a safe distance away, under the dining room table.

Certain that, this time, Lee would appreciate her help, Amanda turned a relieved smile his direction.

The look Lee shot back was anything but grateful. Kicking one Italian leather shoe through the shards of glass at his feet, he gritted his teeth and groaned. "Did you have to aim at my Ming vase?"

It was nearly two hours later when Amanda completed her Agency debriefing. She was glad Lee had allowed her to call home from his apartment before the Agency team had arrived to arrest Candi Crawford. She wasn't certain her mother had believed her story about sitting up with a friend's ill German Shepherd, but at least she wouldn't be going home to a parent worried sick by another unexplained disappearance.

If she got home. She remembered with a pang that her station wagon was still parked outside Lee's apartment building; she had ridden back to IFF in the back seat of an Agency sedan.

As she emerged from the conference room, she saw Lee leaning casually against a nearby wall, arms folded across his chest and an enigmatic look in his hazel eyes.

Deciding to she was too tired to endure another lecture, and focusing on the need for a ride, she forced an apologetic smile as she approached. "I'm really sorry about your vase, Lee. I was aiming for the lamp, but I guess I was a little nervous. Being held at gunpoint is probably 'old hat' to you, but I'm not quite used to it yet."

A faint, guilty flush rose in the agent's cheeks. "No," he said, holding out a hand to stop her speech, "I'm the one who should be apologizing, Amanda. You really did," he paused, obviously struggling for words, "fine. I mean, for a civilian."

Despite her best intentions, her temper flared. "Fine . . . for a civilian," she repeated, closing her eyes and giving a tiny shake of her head. Realizing his grudging statement was as close to an apology and a "thank you" as she was likely to get from the great Scarecrow, she turned on her heel and started to walk away.

"Amanda! Wait!" Lee's voice reverberated from behind, and she stopped as she heard his footsteps rapidly overtaking her. When his hand lightly gripped her arm, she turned stiffly to face him.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded." Lee conjured up the boyish grin that never failed to worm through her defenses. "I just . . . what I meant to say is . . . ." His words trailed off as he glanced quickly around the almost deserted area, apparently checking to make sure he wouldn't be overheard. "You really helped me out tonight, and I appreciate it. I mean, I'm sure I would have caught on to Candi before she had a chance to--"

"Stop while you're ahead, Scarecrow," Amanda cut in, trying not to look amused by his stumbling apology. It was clear that Lee Stetson was a novice in the fine art of eating crow. "And you're welcome."

He gave a small shrug and dug his hands into his trouser pockets. "I'd like to do something to, you know, show you how grateful I am."

Feeling a blush rise in her cheeks, she gave him a genuine smile. "Oh, you don't have to do that."

"I want to," he said, a devilish gleam lighting his eyes. "Do you like candy corn?"

The end