From: Tesla1321@aol.com   
      
   Title:                 Trade Partners   
   Author:             Tesla and Alan Smithee   
   Email:              Tesla1321@aol.com;   
   Rating:             R   
   Category:       crossover   
   Content:         Angel and Cordelia friendship, Mulder and Scully   
   friendship   
   Summary:       Two agents come to Angel Investigations to check out   
   exsanguinations   
   Spoilers:        Angel season one; The X-Files season one   
   Disclaimer:   The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss   
   	      Whedon & David Greenwalt. The characters in The X-Files   
   belong to   
                           Chris Carter, 103 Productions, and Fox. No   
   infringement is intended, no profit is made.   
   Distribution:  Let us know, but we don't mind.   
   Notes:            this is a crossover, but since we'd have to skew   
   time   
   	     and space to pretend first season X-Files was in the   
   same time/   
                          space continuum as Angel, work with us, huh?   
   And we're ignoring   
                          the fact that another detective calls Det.   
   Lockley "Scully".   
      
   Feedback:  You're kidding, right? You're talking about Dee and Alan,   
   here!   
      
   A/N:    She told me to take her name off it, 'cause she didn't help   
           me write it, but she so did. But I caved.   
      
   Scully sat hunched in her business class seat on the jet to LA,   
   reading her pathology journals. Exsanguination---hadn't they done   
   that as an X-File before? What was it with Mulder and vampire   
   cults as the holy grail?   
      
   Mulder was sitting beside her, long legs jammed over into her space,   
   headphones on, bopping his head gently. Every time any of the cabin   
   attendents saw him, he got another Diet Coke and another package of   
   peanuts.   
      
   The pathology of vampire cults was interesting; the cultists convinced   
   themselves that they needed to drink blood. Some members had   
   elongated caps on their canines, to simulate fangs. Once in a while,   
   the literature tracked killers who drank the blood of their victims,   
   but it was almost always a very messy, disorganized kill. The   
   corpses turning up in LA were drained of nearly all their blood,   
   leaving two puncture wounds, with the occasional defensive wounding.   
      
   Mulder ate another bag of peanuts and Scully ignored him. The   
   evil son of a bitch ate everything in sight, and never gained an   
   ounce. "Let's get a hot dog, Scully." "Let's try that place on   
   Capital Hill that gives you a trough of cheese dip." "I can bring   
   you a pizza."  Scully had been on a diet since joining the Bureau,   
   but Mulder, apparently, required massive amounts of fried protein   
   and fat-slathered carbohydrates in order to maintain his sinewy   
   frame.   
      
   God, she hated Mulder.  Hated his fashion sense and the way he   
   flicked his glance over her suits, without comment; hated how fast   
   he read and how fast he typed; how waiters and waitresses always   
   refilled his coffee cups and tea glasses; hated his ability to   
   successfully amuse himself in airports, stutter-driving Beltway   
   traffic, and the Food Lion check-out line; and hated hated hated   
   how he could talk her into anything.  Including, apparently,   
   going to Los Angeles to figure out how someone could be completely   
   drained of blood at the crime scene by a neck wound, and not a   
   drop being spilled. Autopsies "R" Us, the travelling Scully road   
   show.   
      
   "It's a beautiful day in Los Angeles," came the announcement.   
   "Temperature is seventy degrees and we are approaching LAX."   
      
   Mulder caught her eyes and smiled winningly.   
      
   Oh, she hated him.   
      
   *******************   
      
   Angel hated Cordelia.   
      
   She had him cornered on the basement steps. He had just managed   
   to get back to his building through the sewers, because she had   
   borrowed the convertible for a casting call. Naturally, then,   
   he had run into a pack of idiot college kids completely unaware   
   that their hot leather chick dates were all vamps. Hijinks ensued   
   and there he was, covered in dust and draft beer, trudging through   
   the freaking sewer at dawn.  All he wanted was a pint of blood,   
   a shower, and just a couple or eight hours of sleep.   
      
   "There's no coffee upstairs, and the car is making a funny   
   noise," she informed him.   
      
   He opened his eyes (having closed them at her first barrage   
   of what she considered conversation), and said, "It wasn't making   
   a funny noise when I parked it yesterday."   
      
   "Well, I'm just sayin' that you may want to go to an all-night   
   garage and get it checked out."   
      
   "What kind of funny noise?"   
      
   "It's clunking when I turn it."   
      
   "Oh, shit, Cordy, did you run over something?"   
      
   She gave him an affronted stare. "No." She flung the keys   
   at him, and dashed back upstairs. "Take a shower, you stink."   
      
   He was actually in the shower when she pounded on the   
   bathroom door, and opened it a crack. "I'm taking money out   
   of your pants because the blood guy wants cash," she yelled.   
      
   "Okay," he said, trying to finish his shower.   
      
   "What?" she asked.   
      
   "OKAY," he said, over the shower.   
      
   "Jeeze. Don't have to yell, Mr. Crankypants." The door   
   slammed shut, and he heard something fall into the sink and   
   break.   
      
   Really, really hated her.   
      
   **************   
      
   Mulder could drive through Los Angeles traffic without   
   recourse to a map or Scully's printed directions from   
   the internet. He could do this while flicking the radio   
   to listen to the drive-time disk jockeys, eating sunflower   
   seeds, asking her how cool it would be to actually   
   interview a vampire cultist, "I couldn't keep a straight   
   face, don't wanna say 'bite me,' to that guy," and   
   suddenly spotting their exit and turning right through   
   four lanes of traffic.   
      
   Scully was devoutly happy that a cautious Bureau didn't   
   issue their agents portable blue lights for cars.   
      
   "Hey, Scully, whatja say that I drop you off at the   
   morgue and then I drive over to these people Detective   
   Lockley told me about? The PI?"   
      
   That was the thing, damn it. She *was* curious as to   
   how even a vampire fetishist could manage to drain   
   all the blood of a victim through the neck. And   
   Mulder knew it; Mulder knew her little secret was   
   that she adored these wacko murders, completely got   
   off by digging around and trying to disprove his   
   weird theories.   
      
   She stole a look at him.  He was looking out the   
   windshield, smiling to himself.   
      
   Oh, she hated him.   
      
   "No, I'll keep the car. I'm sure you can get a cab to the detectives.   
   After all, there's no telling how long the autopsy may take me."   
      
   "Oh, right," he said, unabashed. "Good thought, Scully."   
   *********************   
   "Cordy. Have you seen my-- Oh, hello, may we help you?" Wes came   
   out of Angel's office, a smelly old book in hand, his   
   half-tucked shirt smeared with something that looked   
   like spaghetti sauce. He shoved his glasses up   
   with an ink-smeared finger.   
      
   How had she ever found him attractive? "It's okay, Wes, I've got it   
   covered," she said.   
      
   He stepped into her space, totally ignoring her.   
      
   "I *have* it," she said through clenched teeth.   
      
   Those vague, blue eyes focused on her, then on the man in front   
   of them. Then Wes's mouth pursed. Dammit, he had that look.   
   The one that said, "Don't you remember the demon impregnation,   
   Cordelia?"   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)