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Five Percent Pan Dulce
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by push

The X Files belong to Chris Carter. No one is paying me. Maybe I can
be paid to not write fic. <vbeg>

Early season 6 -- disregard all references to Mulder having a waterbed.
<g>

PG, mild MT

Special thanks, hugs and a home cooked meal go to my blue sweater
clad beta, who has a special way with endings. <g>

Friday 4:19 p.m
Wal Mart
Alexandria, Virginia

"Mommy! Can we get these, please?"

Three year old Hugh Reed called out to his mother while clinging to a
package of Pan Dulce De Snack cakes. This was right after he sneezed
all over the Wal Mart snack cake display area, generously spraying little
droplets of viral bombs for the next lucky customer to pick up.

"Sweetie, put those back. We are getting the Little Debbies that daddy
likes."

"But I like these!" Hugh cried plaintively as he sneezed and sniffled
again, still clutching the package in his communicable disease-laden little
hands.

"You have never had them before. How do you know if you like them?"

"Mommy, I hate Wittle Debbies! I like these!" Hugh whined louder, as
if volume had any impact on his mother's nutritional decision-making
processes.

Hillary Reed silently cursed whatever entity was responsible for turning
her normally well-behaved three year old boy into a contrary,
demanding little demon every time they set foot in this store. She
decided her best option would be to make a fast exit to forestall the
coming meltdown.

"Come on, let's put these back, Hugh," Hillary said while reaching for
the package in her son's hand.

"NOOOOOOOO! MOMMY, I WANT TO GET THESE!" he
screamed while avoiding his mother's grasp.

"It's time to go home, Hugh." She sighed, conceding defeat. Any
chance of making a quiet exit now was gone.

"I don't wanna go home. MOMMY NOOOOO!!!!!!!" he wailed at
eardrum-piercing pitch.

"Too bad! Put those back and let's go home." Hillary was trying very
hard to keep her cool as she reached for her son's hand and took away
his prize.

Poor little Hugh could take no more. As he felt his mother's grasp, he
collapsed on the floor and began screaming and crying out his
displeasure. Hillary was sure that everyone in Wal Mart had branded
her an unfit parent by now. Feeling very embarrassed, she promptly
picked up her son and placed the snack cake package that precipitated
this whole incident back on the shelf.

Friday 6:09 p.m.
Wal Mart
Alexandria, Virginia

Videos procured and safely tucked into his shopping basket, Mulder
began scanning the grocery section of his friendly neighborhood Wal
Mart. He was searching for snackable sustenance suitable for the
upcoming, very exciting weekend. In typical la vida loca fashion, he
was planning to spend all weekend locked in his apartment watching
horror flicks. Shocker, Children of the Corn, and A Bucket of Blood
were on the viewing agenda.

Now that he was longer on the X-Files, Mulder's weekends were
amazingly free, leaving him feeling kind of lost and unsure of what to do
with himself. He normally could expect to spend at least part of one day
with Scully. He would conjure up some excuse to drop in, and they
would invariably wind up eating dinner together and watching some
television.

This weekend, however, dropping in on Scully would not be a good
idea. At exactly five o'clock on the dot this afternoon, she packed up
her stuff, shot him a glare, and left the bullpen area. No goodbye, see
you later or have a nice weekend, Mulder. Nada.

Yes, he could feel a disturbance in the force.

Granted, he probably shouldn't have spent all morning arguing with that
jerk Nature Boy at the ESPN message boards. But it was more fun
than reading the literature provided to them so that they could correctly
assess the fertilizer usage and forage crop yield reports of random dairy
farms in the state of Maryland, as Kersh had assigned to them. He
sighed loudly. Why does he waste his time playing on the Internet?
One could theorize that he was just taking out his job frustrations on
random internet message board pea-brains, since he couldn't exactly
open up a can of whup-ass in Kersh's office. Displacement. How
Psych 101! But in truth, he was just bored.

He did make an effort to read the research materials, but after ten
minutes he gave up and tossed them aside.
Besides, he knew Scully would have read the stuff. She would know it
backwards and forwards, like she always does, so why should he waste
his time with it? It was much easier and more efficient for him to just
ask Scully about anything he was vague on. That was standard
operating procedure and she knew it! She's just jealous because she
didn't get time to play. Not like he always has time to play, either, but at
least Scully got to spend a couple of days out of the bullpen on a
consult. He was chained to his desk making phone calls those days, so
what the hell was her beef?

Fine, then. He would play by himself all weekend. He didn't need her
to entertain him. Scully will fume and sulk for two days, soak in her tub,
down a couple pints of ice cream, and will have forgotten about the
whole thing by Monday morning. This is all par for the course.
Absolutely nothing for him to worry about.

Hmmm. Naked Scully, in her tub with ice cream, all weekend.

No, he shouldn't be thinking about that. This was an "avoid all things
female" -- er, make that an "avoid all things Scully" weekend.
Nowadays, he tended to lump all females of the species into one
category with Scully, so to shun one he had to shun them all. Not
necessarily a good idea, even though there weren't any other women in
his life at the moment. In truth, he just needed to avoid her, the most
potent member of the gender.

Too bad the guys were out of town on some black ops low intensity
warfare tactics seminar. Hanging out with them would have simplified
things greatly. Upon arriving at the chips aisle, he grabbed a bag of
Cool Ranch Doritos, some zesty nacho cheese dip, a box of microwave
popcorn, and a jumbo bag of seeds. Next up, desserts. Twinkies
sounded good, in case he needed a hokey criminal defense (and who
doesn't?), so he walked to the baked goods aisle to pick some up.

Next to the box of Twinkies that Mulder was going to grab were a
beautiful array of Pan Dulce De Snack cakes. Three packages for a
dollar. Three different varieties. Conchas, Pastelitos Con Crema, and
Sorpresas. "Mmmmm pan dulces." He eyed them lustfully.

After a few seconds of thought, Mulder pushed three of each kind in his
basket and went to check out.

Friday 6:09 p.m.
Georgetown, Maryland

Ice cream. I need ice cream and lots of it, thought Scully as she
explored her freezer for the correct flavor to match her mood. She
discovered six pints in differing stages of consumption. Two that were
over a year old she tossed in the trash, then she selected an unopened
pint of mocha fudge ripple to vent her frustrations on.

Scully had endured a rough week.

An hour-long chewing out by Kersh on Monday for not completing the
requisite number of reports verifying the actual ammonium nitrate
requirements for forage crops on Maryland dairy farms.

Then three days to autopsy a very decomposed and bloated corpse that
had been pulled from the Potomac river, only to have that work be all
for naught. The corpse was indeed a victim of foul play, most likely an
organized crime hit, but of course at the last minute all charges were
dropped in the case. A plea bargain, or turning state's evidence, most
likely. The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act,
"RICO" Suave strikes again.

Finally, today she was able to get started on Kersh's grunt work.
Mulder, who was supposed to have read the necessary information to
correctly fill out said reports, had in fact done nothing.

She knew this because it seemed he had a question to ask her every five
minutes.

"Hey Scully, do we include alfalfa in the total amount of forage crops
requiring ammonium nitrate?"

"No, alfalfa is a legume and produces its own nitrogen from a symbiotic
relationship with the bactieum Rhizobium in the nodules found on the
roots."

"What about triticale?"

"Yes."

"Bird's foot trefoil?"

"No."

"Hairy vetch?"

"Again, no."

"What kind of weirdo names a grass 'hairy vetch'?"

"It's a legume, Mulder, not a grass. And the 'hairy' part of the name
most likely comes from some sort of physical characteristic of the plant."

"Still, it sounds bizarre. Not to mention, slightly kinky."

"Not any more bizarre than the concept of you and I, who are quite
ignorant in the science of agronomy, being made to fill out these
goddamned reports."

"Meow."

"Shut up, Mulder."

At least Mulder was very intelligent, and she only had to answer his
questions once. After he spent a few hours filling out forms, he would
be as knowledgeable as almost any County Extension Agent about the
proper fertilizer requirements of almost any forage plant species.

She was glad that she could get away from it all for a couple of days.
Ice cream in hand, she left to prepare her bath.

Sunday 11:51 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia

Mulder had been watching A Bucket of Blood when he drifted off.
Normally, he never went to sleep until at least 2 a.m. Tonight he fell
asleep, sprawled out in the middle of his bed, less than halfway through
the movie. Dick Miller showing off his cat sculpture to the beatniks was
the last of the movie that he remembered.

His thoughts morphed into a bizarre dream that he and Scully had gotten
the files back. They were down in the basement getting the office back
in order. Scully was bringing him stacks of files and he was loading
them into the cabinets. For some strange reason, Scully was only clad
in a bra and a silky little half-slip. Both were black lace, and she had on
a three-inch pair of black dress pumps, the ones she wore when they
had their OPR hearing after the bombing of the federal building in
Dallas. Oh yeah, he loved seeing her in those shoes.

She dumped a pile of folders on his desk, which he then hurriedly
stuffed in the drawer. When he turned around, Scully was back with
more. Mulder wanted to watch her walk into and out of the office but
was never fast enough. She was always back dumping another load
every time he turned around. On the up side, he was managing to get a
nice view of her cleavage every time she bent over. But he wanted to
see her walking in those shoes. Faster he went, but he was never fast
enough. The office started to spin and Mulder felt himself falling.

He awoke with a start, soaked in sweat. It took a moment for him to
realize he was in his bed and not face down on the office floor. His
body ached as he rolled over to hunt for the remote, finally locating it
buried under a pile of cellophane detritus. God he felt like shit, he
thought, as he sent the glaring blue screen of his television into oblivion.

Tossing the remote aside, Mulder decided to go take a shower. Maybe
it would make him feel better. He sat up and was overtaken by a
sudden surge of nausea. Mulder wasn't even up on his feet before his
stomach voided itself of its contents. He stumbled into the bathroom
and began retching again. Out of breath and his body shaking, he
flushed the toilet. Then he hauled himself up to the sink to rinse the
awful taste of regurgitated junk food out of his mouth.

He plodded back in the bedroom to attempt to clean up the mess he
made, but quickly changed his mind. The bed could wait. Mulder was
freezing and felt very weak. He needed to lie down and call Scully. But
she was pissed at him and was probably screening her calls, thinking he
was calling about some sort of paranormal nonsense, which under
normal circumstances he probably would be. Well, she will feel bad
when she finds my dead, shriveled up carcass here on the sofa in a few
days, he thought. Serves her right for screening her calls.

Dizzy, exhausted, and mentally projecting the guilt trip of all guilt trips
upon his partner, he collapsed on his sofa, wrapped a blanket around
himself, and quickly fell asleep.

Monday 8:07 a.m.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.

Good he isn't here yet, Scully thought to herself as she booted up her
computer. Maybe I can get some actual work done this morning.
Taking a sip of her grande latte, she started to whittle away at the never
ending stack of ammonium nitrate usage forms assigned to her.

She was interrupted some time later by the ringing of her phone.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, please hold for the Assistant Director."

Oh shit, what has Mulder done this time? Scully tapped her toe
nervously as she waited for A.D. Kersh to address her on the phone.

"Agent Scully?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know anything about the whereabouts of Agent Mulder?"

"No sir, I haven't seen him since Friday. Is there something the matter?"

"He hasn't signed in, nor has he called in sick this morning, and my
assistant hasn't been able to reach him by phone."

"I will begin looking for him immediately, sir."

"If he has undertaken another unauthorized investigation please inform
him that he need not bother to come back."

"I understand, sir. I'll get on it right away."

As soon as she hung up with Kersh, she dialed Mulder's home number
on the off chance that they had missed him while he was out on a run.

"Come on, be home," she muttered as she listened to his phone ring.
Nothing. The answering machine picked up after 10 rings.

Next she tried his cell. Again, no answer.

"Damn you, Mulder," she said under her breath as she donned her coat,
grabbed her keys and hurriedly left the bullpen.

Monday 10:40 a.m.
Alexandria, Virginia

Scully ran up the stairs of Mulder's building, much too impatient to wait
for the elevator. She saw his car parked out front, and was now really
worried. She wasn't sure which would be worse: to find that some
nefarious characters had dropped by over the weekend and finished
long unfinished business, or to discover that he had ditched her to chase
Bigfoot, and left his car here to throw her off the scent.

If it was the former, he was probably dead. If it was the latter, she was
going to kill him herself.

Finally she reached the fourth floor. She trotted to Mulder's door and
immediately used her key to get in.

"Mulder, are you here?" she called out as she stepped inside. The
apartment was quiet and smelled like the bathroom of a college
dormitory after a party-heavy weekend. She walked towards the living
room and saw him bundled up on the couch.

"Hey, are you okay?"

He groaned in reply.

Scully felt his forehead.

"You're burning up. Come on, wake up," she said as she tried to rouse
him.

"I feel like shit, Scully," he said without opening his eyes.

"How long have you been sick?"

"Last night, think I got food poisoning, or something," Mulder slurred.

"What did you eat?"

"This stuff." Mulder pointed to an empty Pan Dulce De Snack cake
wrapper. Scully picked up the cellophane and quickly looked over the
ingredients.

"Mulder, I doubt anything in this, given the amount of preservatives it
contains, could have gone bad and given you food poisoning. What else
have you eaten?"

"I'm dying, Scully." Mulder groaned then rose up and dry heaved into
the wastebasket that he had left close to the sofa.

"I'm sorry," she said, as she rubbed his heaving back.

Finished, Mulder collapsed back on the couch. "Been puking since last
night. Can't keep anything down."

"You seem to be running a fever. Any diarrhea?" Mulder shook his
head no.

"Maybe you caught the flu."

"Whatever it is, it's kicking my ass."

"First thing we need to do is get that nausea under control. You're on
the verge of severe dehydration."

Mulder groaned again.

Scully picked up the wastebasket and held it while Mulder retched
again. Then, she went into the kitchen for a wet washrag and gently
placed it on his forehead.

"Do you have a thermometer, Mulder?"

"Somewhere. Bathroom, most likely."

"Okay, I'll go look for it."

On her way to the bathroom, Scully noticed that his bedroom was
ground zero for his illness, and decided she would tackle it later. First
things first: his health.

"Here, put this under your tongue."

Good thing I have an oral thermometer, Mulder thought. How sick does
a guy have to be in order to not mind when someone is sticking a lubed
instrument up your butt?

Pretty damn sick, he decided. Probably near dead, in my case, unless
it's part of some pervy sex thing.

Now that's a thought to wake up the near dead, he mused.

A minute later she took the oral thermometer it out and checked it. It
read 102.

"Mulder, I'm going to take off for a while. I'm going to go and get you
some medicine for that nausea, and some fluids. Once we get the
nausea under control, you can take some Tylenol to reduce that fever.
And then you will start to feel better."

"Whatever you say, Scully," he grumbled miserably.

An hour later she returned to find that Mulder hadn't moved an inch.

"I'm back," Scully called out from the kitchen as she emptied her
shopping bags. He moaned pitifully in reply. She picked up the box of
Compazine, a pair of latex gloves, and went to the living room.

Mulder spied the gloves and his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Do I want to know what those gloves are for?"

Scully thought for a minute before answering.

"You have 2 choices: One, you can allow me to treat you. Or two, we
can go to the ER, spend several hours waiting and filling out multiple
insurance forms, only to have them administer the same treatment and
toss in an IV just to make you feel special. It's all up to you," Scully
said, sitting on the coffee table waiting for Mulder to make up his mind.

"Either way, I'm going to be getting it in the ass," Mulder said wearily.

"Yup." Scully nodded. She could tell he wasn't crazy about either
option, and neither was she.

This is what I get for taking the oral thermometer's name in vain, he
figured.

"This will only take a few seconds. Try to relax as much as you can."

"Easy for you to say."

"You're being difficult . . ." she warned.

"You aren't the one getting a huge pill shoved up your ass."

"It's not that big, and I suppose you don't want to hear about my last
pelvic exam, do you?"

"Just get it over with. But be gentle with me," Mulder said, as he rolled
over and pulled his sweat pants and boxers down to his knees.

Scully pulled on the gloves, suppressing the urge to let them snap.

Mulder felt one of her hands on his left butt cheek as she gently lifted it,
and then felt a light pressure in his anus as she inserted the suppository.
It was smooth and slightly cold as it slid in, but it warmed up
immediately. A shiver went up his spine. He developed a slight boner
despite himself, he realized much to his own mortification.

"Okay, all done. That wasn't so bad, was it?" She said and gave his
butt a quick pat.

"Guess not," he whined softly, pulling his sweats back on. He rolled
back over to see Scully wadding up the used gloves and then taking
them into the kitchen to toss in the trash.

She returned with a bottle of Gatorade.

"In a few minutes try to drink this. Just small sips at first. Hopefully, it
will stay down. Or I can make you some peppermint tea, if you would
like," she said handing him the bottle.

"This will be fine."

Scully sat again on the coffee table and ran her hand through his damp
hair.

"I'm sorry you feel so bad, but, I think you will be better in a little while."
She pulled her hand away and rose.

"Now to tackle your bedroom."

"Scully, you don't have to clean that up. I'm okay here on the couch."

"You need to be in bed. I guarantee you will be more comfortable
there. I've dealt with worse things."

Back in the bedroom, Scully quickly removed the pillowcases. Mulder
had managed to spew all over both of them. The sheets were toast too.
Then there were a few odd bits to clean from the floor and night stand.
Twenty minutes later, she stuffed the soiled bedding in a trash bag. She
would take it down to wash later.

Next she located Mulder's linen stack on the far end of his dresser,
grabbed clean bedding and made the bed, then returned to check on
Mulder. He was sitting up and had already drunk about a fourth of his
Gatorade.

"Still dizzy?"

"Yeah, but not as bad."

"Think you can keep some Tylenol down?"

"Maybe."

"Be back in a second."

In the kitchen, Scully shook out two capsules, then walked out and
handed them to Mulder, who quickly downed them and then looked like
he wished he hadn't.

"Okay, Mulder? Or do I need to grab the can?"

"Just need a minute. Think if I don't move suddenly I'll be alright."

"Take your time then."

"But I really gotta pee Scully."

"Well, that is a problem," she replied, barely repressing a giggle.

"Thanks for caring."

"I'm sorry, can I help you up?"

Mulder nodded. Scully extended her hand and slowly pulled him erect.
After a taking few moments to find his balance, he shuffled off to the
bathroom.

Scully was waiting by the door when he exited and steered him towards
the bed.

"I put your drink on the night stand. You probably should drink some
more before you go to sleep," Scully said as she drew the covers over
him and smoothed his hair back. "I'll be back in a while. I'm going
down to put your soiled bedding in the wash. Do you want the TV on?"

"Yeah, just hand me the remote. Thanks, Scully."

She went and retrieved the remote from his entertainment center.

"Uh, Scully?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for helping me out. I really appreciate your being here,
taking care of me." His voice broke as he went on, "I'd be lost without
you." He was looking deeply into her eyes as he said this, allowing her
to see the tears in the corners of his eyes, hear the sincerity in his voice,
and feel the multitude of unvoiced emotions swimming in the silence
between them.

Then he ruined it by looking down and mumbling, "And sorry I was
being an ass on Friday, making you do all the work."

"It's okay. It wasn't entirely your fault that I'd had a bad week. I admit
I was angry and I took it all out on you. I know you are frustrated now
that we no longer have the X-Files."

"You have no idea."

"I'm frustrated, too. We shouldn't have to do background checks or
head the poo poo patrol, as the rest of the agents are inclined to call it."

"Poo poo patrol?" Mulder laughed.

"Yeah, it's silly, since ammonium nitrate fertilizer is not in any way
composed of animal manure."

"Are you coming on to me or something, Scully?"

Clearly, he was feeling better. She smiled back.

"Get some rest. I'll be back in a while."

Monday 12:47 p.m.
Wal Mart
Alexandria, Virginia

Scully grabbed two more cans of chicken noodle soup off the shelf and
placed them into her already half-full cart. Bread, Jell-O, orange
popsicles, and other soothing get-well foods were on her list.

As she was heading down the drinks aisle, intent upon purchasing more
Gatorade for Mulder, she almost ran into a little toddler racing around
the store.

"Hugh! Get back here right now, young man."

A poor, harried mother struggled to keep up with her son. She gave
Scully an apologetic look as she noticed little Hugh making a beeline for
the popsicles in her cart.

"No, Hugh. We don't touch other people's things without permission,
remember?"

Scully was startled to see the little towhead attempting to scale the front
of her grocery cart like Mount Everest.

"Hi there," she said with a smile, leaning down to his level.

"Hi! Popsicles!" he squealed in delight, hand outstretched. He had
beautiful hazel eyes that twinkled in mischief, and two perfect dimples in
his chubby little cheeks.

"No, Hugh! I'm so sorry, ma'am." Hillary Reed grabbed Hugh's hand
back before he could reach the brightly colored box of popsicles in
Scully's cart.

"A popsicle fan, is he?" Scully laughed.

"Not really. He's just unusually fixated on popsicles today. Friday it
was Pan Dulce De Snack cakes. He had a fit when I wouldn't buy him
any. Ninety-five percent of the time he is a wonderful little guy, but it's
always that other five percent that drives me nuts." She blew her bangs
off her forehead with a frustrated sigh.

"Oh, how cute," Scully murmured, feeling simultaneously envious and
sympathetic. "I can sort of relate, having a
. . . friend . . . who also develops unusual fixations on the oddest things.
He's got that five percent problem, too."

Both women laughed.

"Good luck to you then. But if things work out between you and your
friend, just be warned. His dad is exactly like this." She stressed on the
word 'exactly.' "I should have known our child would be a chip off the
old block," Hillary said with an exasperated roll of the eyes. "But I can't
complain, even with the five percent factored in, times two for father and
son. At the end of the day, I may have a sore back, tired feet, and a
headache, but my heart is full of love."

"I love you!" squealed little Hugh from his base camp halfway up Mount
Everest, also known as Scully's grocery cart. It was unclear whether he
was saying this to Scully, his mother, or the box of popsicles he was
lusting after.

Hillary Reed carefully pried her grinning son off the metal grocery cart
and waved goodbye to Scully with a smile.

On her way out of the store, car keys in hand, Scully thought about the
adorable little boy, and his five percent problem. Conservatively, she
would assign Mulder a little more than just five percent. He's more of a
seven percent problem, she estimated, chuckling to herself. Possibly
even eight, but who's counting?

The stressed-out young mother was right. At the end of the day,
despite all the annoyance, the constant chagrin, and the endless
exasperation he brings into her life, she has never doubted Mulder's
friendship, his loyalty, or his love. With a heart so full, she could afford
to focus on the other ninety-five percent.

Or ninety-three, she chuckled to herself.

Possibly even ninety-two, but who's counting?

*end*