DeClenche's Rule
by Pares

The lovely Ms. Scully once asked me just how often we met to play poker. I told her once a month, Mulder permitting.

She smiled.

I think she was relieved that Mulder had a hobby that didn't directly involve anything weirder than us. Hey, if it were up to me, we'd have him over for chili dogs twice a week. But Mulder's a loner, pretty much, and Langly gets all hot shot for three days after, and that gets on my nerves. Punk ass.

I don't think that Langly's completely accepted his geek status. I got used to it years ago, and Byers is basically a tattle tale momma's boy. We're nobody's idea of glamour, but we have the brains to keep our ears up and our heads down-- but Langly, in my opinion, is a show off and a wannabe. Well, not all the time. I'm not saying the kid lacks talent; hell, his kung fu is the best, not that I'll be admitting that again before I die. But underneath that Eat The Rich T-shirt is a wish to run with the In-Crowd. How he came up with the idea that Mulder is a part of a group like that is anybody's guess.

Not that Mulder's not a great guy to hang out with. Byers isn't as persnickety when he's around, and Langly spends less free time thinking up subtle and amusing ways to screw with my net access. Mulder gives us focus, I guess. But he's no socialite; he just looks good in the uniform. As long as you remember to gel your hair in the morning, people tend to believe you're sane. And the money he comes from helps keep him on the eccentric side of the fence. I'd bet that Mulder would've been in a ward somewhere three times over if it wasn't for the fact that he can afford to dress like a cover boy.

Speaking of betting, I need to raise Byers again. I'm holding three ladies this time out, and I'm going to squeeze Mr. John Fitzgerald for the cash for the pie Langly just called in. Ugh. How can he put pineapple on a pizza? Everybody knows a pizza just isn't a pizza without anchovies-- Heh. Take that, Byers.

"I raise you five bucks."

"I see your five, and raise you five more."

He sips his Diet Coke all demure like and I can see the way his too-tight tie knot bobs a little as he swallows. He's cool as a cucumber. Maybe he's got better than a threesome? Damn. But he's already bluffed me once tonight. The smirk Langly gave him made he think I'd been fleeced. I'll stick to my guns.

"There's your five, and I call. Show me what you got, Byers my man."

He lays a full house on the table, and I choke a little around my Slim Jim.

"Huh. Well. I think I'll go check on Mulder," I say, glancing at my watch. It's been forty minutes or so since Skinner stuck his head in. He needs to be woken up for a bit, anyway, and it'll give me time to strategize.

I get to my feet and do my best not to let on about how ticked off I am. Three hands in a row, lost to Byers. He hardly even enjoys winning. He just sits there practicing his posture and looking at you softly with those glassy little blue eyes. Weasel.

Mulder's arm is thrown over his eyes. His sweats are bunched up on his calves and he's kind of bandagey looking.

I shake his shoulder.

"Mulder."

He sleeps on, or else ignores me with a skill born of long practice.

"Mulder, c'mon, wake up."

Groggily, he stirs and drags the pillow over his face.

"What is it?" he grouses from the depths of his pillow.

"Just checking to see that you're still waking up."

"But that defeats the whole purpose of sleep, Frohike."

"You're not the only one who's going to be up all night, Mulder. We promised Agent Scully that we'd wake you every hour on the hour. And if you think I'm going to disappoint her, you've got another think coming."

"Preserve me from the ministrations of geeklove--"

"Open your eyes, Mulder. I mean it."

Blearily, Mulder eventually focused on me.

"There. Now leave me alone."

Now, far be it from me to try to wheedle information from Mr. Laconic himself, but Langly and me had a bet on a certain piece of information-- And I was stalling, anyway.

"Mulder," I said, all Gary Cooper casual regard, "You and Scully-- you're just-- partners right?"

Damn. Even with a lump the size of an ostrich egg, Mulder's no kitten. He gets that curly smile, and I resign myself.

"Frohike, you sly dog you. You'd ask ungentlemanly questions of an injured man?" He clucks mildly, and I briefly considered a light tap to the bandage above his eye-- "I have a strict policy of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, buddy." He looks suddenly green, maybe even apologetic.

"Let's just say she's the person closest to me. D'ya think I could get back to sleep now?"

I feel a bit of sympathy and shuffle out of the room. Back to face the music... and lose yet another round of poker.

*

With a little flourish of that bony wrist of his, Byers lay down his 6th winning hand of the night-three 10s, a jack of hearts and a deuce of spades. I lean over, nab the jack and the 10 of hearts and spread a full house on the table. Then I start raking in the dough.

"What are you doing?" Byers gets that squeak in his voice when he's tweaked... which is about every time Langly opens his mouth these days. Definitely something going on between those two. I wonder if ol' Ringo owes Byers money?

"DeClenche's Rule," I shrug, counting my cash. I lick my thumb, pause and shoot a look at Langly.

"DeClenche's Rule!?" sputters Johnny.

"DeClenche's Rule," Langly agrees. He's a good kid; and he catches on fast. Completely deadpan, he says, "If the caller can make a winning hand out of his opponent's cards, he gets the pot."

Fuming, Byers throws a look of appeal to Skinner. The bald dude shrugs like an earthquake, spreads his hands and takes the stogie out of his mouth just long enough to say, "DeClenche's Rule."

Not bad for a fibbie desk jockey. Maybe he's on the level after all.

END