At Stake

by Madeleine Partous
partous@parkpub.com



A little piece of mind candy to help me recover. Also, perhaps,
a grudging nod to CC's greatest fear if our duo did get
together. Rated R.


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DISCLAIMER: X-Files and characters are the property of Fox
and Chris Carter. Used lovingly without permission and no
ulterior motive.

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"Mulder."



"Hmm?"



"What time is it?"



Shift. A pinpoint of light then darkness once more.



"3:30."



A groan. A shift.



"Mulder. We've been sitting in the damn car for six hours."



"So sleep, Scully. God knows you usually do."



"I can't."



"Wow. It's an X-File. Call 'Unsolved Mysteries.'"



A hollow thump of bone against flesh and a muffled laugh.



"Don't hit me, Scully. I'm very fragile."



A snort. "Oh, right. I keep forgetting." A pause. "It's so

dark, Mulder. I can't see a thing."



"Mmm. Any more sandwiches?"



"You already ate them all. Even though I went out of my way to

make ones you hate."



"But they were made with love. I could taste it, Scully."



"That was the poison. It should kick in any minute now."



"I think it already has. I'm blind, Scully!"



A sigh.



"You know, I think I've had it with you, Mulder."



"You've said that before."



Another sigh and a rustle of clothes against vinyl.



"This time it's true. It's Friday night, for God's sake."



"Actually, it's Saturday morning. You should've told me you

had other plans. But take it from me: if he loves you, he'll

wait."



"Have I told you lately what a schmuck you are, Mulder?"



"You don't have to, Scully. I can read it in your eyes."



"You can't even *see* my eyes. Jesus. How the hell did I ever

get stuck with you?"



A stifled yawn.



"Told you when I met you. You must've pissed someone off."



"As I recall, you used a more polite term."



"I didn't know you well enough then to use indelicate

language, Scully."



"I see. Familiarity breeds contempt."



"Among other things."



Silence.



"It's so dark, Mulder."



"All the more reason to sleep."



"I told you. I can't."



"Why not?"



"I don't know."



Silence.



"You never sleep, do you, Mulder?"



"Not true. I sleep all day at the office."



"That's called a coma and it's caused by the slide shows. And

by your monotone. I know. I've been slipping in and out of

consciousness down there for four years."



"You're saying I'm boring."



"No. Even boring people usually have a few facial

expressions."



"So what are you saying?"



"I'm saying you're not boring, Mulder."



"Are you sure?"



"I'm sure. You're more interesting than anyone I know. Of

course, I should point out that I don't know anyone else

anymore."



Silence and a stirring.



"Jackson's bound to leave the place soon, Scully."



"Hope he brought his own light source. God. Why is it so

dark?"



A rustle.



"No moon. Smog. Bad neighbourhood."



"I hate Washington, Mulder."



Silence.



Then: a crinkle of paper.



"What's that, Scully?"



"Nuffimm."



"Excuse me?"



"Ah faid nufin."



"Scully. I can smell it. It's chocolate, isn't it?"



Nothing.



"Scully?"



A moist gulp.



"Gimme."



"No."



"I said gimme, Scully."



A frantic scuffle amid breathless giggles. A rain of soft blows.

A gasp. A sharp inhalation.



"Mulder. Watch your hands."



"Sorry. Can't see."



"That's hard to believe considering where you've put them."



"Gimme some chocolate, Scully."



"Not until you move your hands."



Another gasp.



"Not like that, Mulder."



"You said move them."



"Away. Move them away."



"Chocolate, Scully."



A squeak. "Mulder!"



Breathing.



A shaky cough. "Okay, okay. Here."



"Thank you."



Silence.



"You really are a pig, Mulder."



Oinking sounds thick with chocolate.



A muffled chortle. "Idiot."



"Want me to touch you there again, Scully?"



"Only if you've forgotten I'm armed, Mulder."



A swallow and a rustle.



"What are you doing?"



"I'm stretching, Scully."



Silence.



"Just that one arm, Mulder?"



"It's asleep."



"Wish you were."



A murmur. "It's cold, Scully."



"No, it isn't. Not even remotely."



"I'm cold. Maybe I have a fever."



Silence.



"Scully? Feel my forehead."



Silence.



"I think I have a fever."



"Even Frohike wouldn't stoop this low, Mulder."



The sound of teeth chattering. A low moan.



"Scully. I think I'm really sick. Must be the poison."



"Mulder..."



"I just need to warm up. You're a doctor. Feel my forehead."



"You're perfectly cool. Now let me go."



"Cold. I'm cold. Use your lips. My mother always said you

can't really tell if someone has a fever unless you press your

lips against their forehead."



"That's ridiculous."



"Lips are more sensitive than hands, Scully."



"I'm a doctor. I don't need my lips."



Another murmur.



"What?"



"I said I do. What I mean is, I don't think you're taking the

proper steps to ensure an accurate diagnosis."



Silence.



"Mulder." Danger.



"You'd do it if I were a stranger, Scully."



"I would not."



A shift. The sound of cloth against cloth.



"You would too. You'd be all over a sick stranger. I've seen

you do it."



A sigh. "You're not sick, Mulder. You're just trying to pull a

fast one."



"Me? Never. I'm a highly trained professional."



A resigned sigh. "If that's true, I'd hate to meet your

teachers."



Silence. Settling. The squeal of a car in the distance.



A pause.



"Um, Scully? Is it my imagination or have you stopped trying

to get away?"



"I'm too tired to fight."



A gasp. "Uh, careful. Watch your knee."



A chuckle. "Sorry. Can't see."



"Uhhhh. Sculleeee...."



"Mmmmm?"



"What are you doing?"



"As it happens, I'm also a highly trained professional,

Mulder."



A startled moan.



"God. Oh... Scully."



"Yes?"



"Come... come here."



"I *am* here."



"No. Here."



"Here?"



"Mmmmyesss."



Low laughter and a groan.



"Feeling better, Mulder?"



"Yhhhesssssss..."



A breathless snigger. Fumbling. The rasp of a zipper.



A sudden intake of breath. "Scully. Don't do that."



"Make up your mind, Mulduummm..."



"Ohhhh. Oh, God...."









Anton Jackson peered from the doorway at the dark blue car in

front of the house. The street was pitch black; a solitary lamp

post flickered dully a block away, its light almost

imperceptible.



The feds had been staking him for hours, but he was used to

waiting.



Jackson squinted at the car's darkened windows. He could see

no shadows, no movement, no silhouettes.



Wait. Some movement.



The car was rocking. Gently.



He tried not to laugh out loud.



Jackson slipped the package under his arm and melted into the

night.









END