From: H Lynn28 Date: 26 Jan 2000 04:41:02 GMT Subject: NEW: Flu and the Modern Woman (1/3) by H Lynn Title: Flu and the Modern Woman (1/3) Author: H Lynn (hlynn28@aol.com) Category: SR Rating: PG Archive: Yes Spoilers: Season 7, Amor Fati, Arcadia Keywords: Mild Angst, RST, Scully/Mulder POV Summary: It's that season, once again--the flu season, that is. Scully struggles with an all-too-common illness while struggling to resolve another, all-too-common dilemma. Author Notes: This originally started as a small vignette, something I could work on while I had the flu. However, M&S eventually showed me there was a lot left to be written, and it turned into a story before I knew what was happening. :) Mucho thanks to Chris T. for beta- testing...you rock! Warning: Contains fluff and flu germs, as well as spoilers for 'Jane Eyre'. Read with caution. Disclaimer: Hey, who can ignore two fictional federal agents with guns...? ********************************** Flu and the Modern Woman (1/3) January 5, 2000 Wednesday I need to make one thing very clear--I hate being sick. I hate the weakness, the dependence on other people, and worst of all, the feeling of precious time slipping away as you can do nothing else than sip juice, take medication, and watch the wasteland of "Daytime Television". So it won't surprise you to know that I denied the possibility of being sick until it became unavoidable. Or in other words, until Mulder walked into the office yesterday morning and caught me in the midst of a hacking cough. "Scully, are you all right?" was his electrifying response. "I'm fine, it's nothing," was mine. I can be a good liar when I want to be, but Mulder has always seen through my deceptions. Sometimes he calls me on it, sometimes he doesn't. Just my luck, he decided to do the former. He walked over to his desk--the one I was leaning on--and placed his hand on my forehead. I nearly laughed at the gesture, since he's never done anything like this before. Then again, it felt nice and cool against my only-slightly-too-warm skin, so I said nothing and let him leave it there. But then his hand slid down alongside my cheek, and the way he did it did nothing to cool my temperature down. Not that it was high in the first place. "You're burning up. I think you better go home, get some rest." He looked at me with deep concern, but I felt it was out of place. "I'm not that bad. I can finish the rest of the day, and if I don't feel well, I'll just call in tomorrow." He nodded, the way he does when he doesn't believe a word I've just said. It infuriated me so much that I started coughing uncontrollably; I thought my lungs were trying to turn inside out. I distantly felt him guide me into his chair, and noticed him leaving while I tried to stop my coughing fit. He came back with a mug filled with water, which I gratefully accepted and drank greedily, not having realized how thirsty I was. "Do you feel tired, at all? If you don't think you can make it home, I'll take you--" "No, thanks, really. I'll be okay. It's probably just a 24-hour virus I picked up somewhere." He gave me a doubtful look, but said nothing. He also said nothing when I ducked out of work an hour early, claiming I needed to run errands. The coughing had gotten worse, and to go along with it, I ached all over, like a giant bruise covered my entire body. But, I knew if I got some rest and a little vitamin C, I'd be ready for tomorrow. My body, however, had different plans. This morning, I woke up to the lousiest feeling I've felt in a long while. The ache was still there, as was the coughing, but more friends had joined the party. Now my head felt like it was packed with cotton balls, and I was sweating even as I wondered how it could've gotten so cold in my apartment. My throat was already beginning to feel sore, and even in the midst of this, I denied I was really, truly sick. The steam from the shower helped bring up a little of what my coughing the day before hadn't, and my hopes of a 24-hour virus sunk as I realized that I'd gotten chest congestion, too. I guess my flu shot this year wasn't of the same strain I'd gotten, which was too fitting, really. The bad part was, I was going to have to call in sick. And as much as I hate being sick, I hate calling in sick even more. I always feel like I'm letting the people I work with down, and with Mulder, the feeling is triple-fold. I'd hate to have him think less of me, or think I'm weak. I dialed up his extension, and hoped for voice mail. No such luck. "Mulder." "Uh hi, it's me. I-I'm not feeling so good, so I don't think I'll be coming in today." I expected him to be somewhat disappointed, but instead, he was relieved. "I'm glad, Scully. Not that you're sick, of course--that you're staying home. The weather's supposed to take a turn for the worse later on." "I just saw that on the news. I'm pretty sure I'll be well by tomorrow, though. See you later." I started to hang up when I heard Mulder's voice still on the line. "--wait, wait--" "Yes, Mulder?" "Uh, do you need me to bring you anything? Medicine, food...a lurid romance novel?" "I've got food and medicine, and I tend towards the classics, anyway. Of course if you want to, you can always come over and play nursemaid," I joked. The scary thing was, he seemed to consider it. "Well, if you'd be a good patient, I just might." I sighed heavily. "Honestly, Mulder, you'd probably just get sick, and then where would both of us be?" "Both sick in bed?" The leering tone to his voice was unmistakable. "See you tomorrow, Mulder." He murmured a good-bye, and I hung up the phone, to begin waiting the sickness out. It's now been 10 hours since that phone call, and I've only gotten worse. The medication I've taken only dulls the pain and lessens the symptoms. Losing my sense of smell also meant losing my sense of taste, so I've eaten little today. Thankfully I have an assortment of fluids to drink, so I won't get deathly tired of one before any of the others. My day has mostly consisted of watching my temperature fluctuate, and trying to find something on television that doesn't have Oprah, people screaming at each other on a stage, or some cook making a dish I couldn't try with my limited time and budget. Frustrated, I turn off the TV, finding no solace in either the imaginary world of soap operas, or the complaints of others. I need something more^intellectual. My copy of 'Jane Eyre' lies dutifully on my nightstand, waiting for me to finish it. I've managed to survive through Jane's childhood, endured the rise and tragic fall of her relationship with Mr. Rochester, and made it past her trials of poverty and hardship as if it were my own. If I remember correctly, I left off at the point where St. John--a handsome, polite, driven, but cold man--has asked her to marry him. I'd like to say I stopped because I had to go to sleep, or do laundry, or something worthwhile, at least. Instead, I admit that it was because the situation was hitting a little too close for comfort. Mulder and St. John have several things in common--one of which being the way their mission or quest has consumed their lives. For St. John, his proposal to Jane was not out of love, but from logic and convenience. He asked her to come along with him to be a helpmate, to serve for the greater good^in their case, missionary work in India. For Mulder and me, that would be the Truth. However, I know Mulder isn't a cold and exacting man, like St. John. He better resembles Mr. Rochester in personality, a man with no remarkable features but a sharp, keen mind, a passionate love of discussion and debate, and an audacity of wit. But, does that mean I'm Jane? I confess that she has a strength of will that reminds me of myself. She has the earmarks of a modern woman, independant and self-reliant, needing no one's help. I haven't had her childhood, but I have had my share of horror. In my case, however, there was always someone I could lean on for strength^if I allowed myself that luxury. The phone rings, but I know it's Mulder even before I answer the phone. "Scully, it's me. How are you feeling?" I smile at being right, even though I'm feeling lousy. "Not good. I was hoping I'd feel better by now, but it's not happening. I might not be in tomorrow, just so you know. Sorry." "Hey, it's not your fault. Just concentrate on getting better, okay? You sound horrible." "I *feel* horrible." My next sentence is stopped by a long cough. "Are you sure you don't want me to come over? I can bring you some dinner." "I'm not really that hungry, Mulder. But thanks." I can tell he doesn't want to take that for an answer, but he replies instead, "Okay. Take care of yourself, Scully." "You too, Mulder. G'Night." "Bye." I hear the click of the receiver, and dimly wonder if I've done something very foolish. I manage to quickly rationalize it away by reminding myself that I don't want Mulder to get sick, too, and that it may be all moot if I feel better in the morning. I end up making myself some soup and eat it listlessly, still haunted by a nagging guilt that maybe I hurt Mulder's feelings by refusing. I take some Nyquil, and soon I'm drowsy enough that I admit to myself that it wouldn't be all bad if Mulder came over, just for a little while. And before I know it, I'm fast asleep. * * * Okay, I'm starting to get worried. A little. I knew she wasn't feeling well yesterday, and even though I didn't like the thought of her not coming in today, I'd rather have her stay at home than risk getting worse by coming in. Knowing Scully, she'll whip this thing in a matter of hours, and then she'll be back here frowning at my theories in her endearing, yet frustrating, way. Or at least, that's what I've been telling myself. There's an X-File I want to investigate, but I don't want to go knowing that Scully won't be there to back me up. But if I don't, there are people who might die because I hesitated. Scully would tell me to go; I know she would. It doesn't make it any easier, though. Scully's been pretty stoic throughout this whole thing, doing the typical routine and saying she doesn't need help. Still, it hurts when she won't take a hand that's being offered. I don't care if I get sick, and I hate feeling useless. Part of me is tempted just to go over there, regardless of what she wants. The X-File sitting on my desk compels me otherwise. It's a hard choice...being there for Scully, or solving an X-File. I can imagine Scully calling me on the cell phone, needing my help while I'm hundreds of miles away, helpless to do anything for her. Or the other scenario rears its head; the deaths of countless people because I didn't do my job. I need to call Scully. Her voice comes over the line, hoarse and weak. I wince from the sound of it. "Hello?" "Uh, hi. It's me. Feeling any better?" "Not really, but it's not too bad, all things considered. Anything urgent?" I wonder for a second why she would think it's urgent, until I glance at the clock. Dammit. It's past eleven at night. Why didn't I think before I called? "Jeez, I'm sorry. I woke you up, didn't I?" "It's okay. I needed to take more Nyquil, anyway. What's wrong?" "I just wanted to let you know, that there's this X-File...I need to look into it, it shouldn't take more than a day. I was wondering if you were going to need anything while I was gone." "I'll be fine, Mulder. I'll probably be waiting for you at the office when you get back." This idea makes me smile, even though it sounds more like a bluff than a promise. "I hope so. Get well soon, and I'll see you later." "Later," her sleepy-sounding voice replies, and I hear the other end turn to nothing but dead air. * * * January 7 Friday The next day came and went with little change, my temperature the only thing that wouldn't stay fixed. I had brief illusions of my freedom from the flu when my digital thermometer showed 98.7, but they were dashed this morning when it showed 99.9. An hour later, it showed 100.3, and an hour after that, 101.6. I've been taking fever-reducing medication, but it hasn't really reduced it to the point of non-existence. Even now, in the late afternoon and only an hour after taking 1000 mg each of acetominophen and ibuprofen, my fever's running at an all-time high of 102.8. I pray it won't run any higher. Mulder called me when he got back this morning, and I tried to keep up a brave front. I wanted to be there this morning, waiting for him, but I'm still as sick as I've ever been. In a spurt of interest and courage, I grab my copy of 'Jane Eyre' and begin to read it again, finding my spot from before and regaining the rhythm of the dialect. I find that Jane rejects St. John's proposal, but in my heart I think I knew it would happen. She didn't love him, and he didn't love her--the marriage, to him, was a means to an end. She had no interest in being married to someone she didn't love, and who didn't love her. If only they loved each other the way that Jane and Mr. Rochester did, it would've been an ideal match. They would go into the missionary field, knowing they'd die prematurely, but secure in the knowledge that their work was just, that it had a purpose. And in these pages, I find a mockery of myself and Mulder. Was Diana the wife in the attic, I wonder idly? Or Miss Ingram, all guile and no mind? I try to shake these thoughts away, since it doesn't do me any good. I'm not some sort of Regency-era woman pining for something she'll never have. It must be the fever. Speaking of which, it appears that I'm running low on a couple things, and with my fever so high, I can't risk going out into the cold. I'm going to have to ask Mulder to fetch them for me, and the very thought of it eats me up inside. I hate doing this. I'm so sick of being sick, and now it's making me dependent on the one person who shouldn't feel obligated to me. The phone rings, and I feel a little guilty as I pick up the receiver, knowing who it has to be. "Hey, Scully, it's me. Still feeling lousy?" "Yeah. My temperature's up. Again," I pause as I struggle briefly with the request, but he beats me to it. "Do you need me to bring you anything?" "Yes, actually," I sigh gratefully, glad that he brought it up first. "I've run out of honey-lemon cough drops and I need more Nyquil. Could you bring some over?" "Sure. How about something to eat that's more solid than soup?" I laugh lightly, "Sure, if you want to." "Any preferences?" "Not really. Surprise me." "Will do. I'll be there in an hour." "See you then," I reply, and the line disconnects. My cool, damp washcloth isn't quite so damp nor cool any longer, so I get out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom. I manage to catch myself before I fall over, my sense of balance impaired by a stuffy head and being on my back for too long. The digital thermometer sits on the top of the sink, beckoning with the promise of a possible lower temperature. It's been twenty minutes since I checked it last. It might be better now, I think as I grab it and turn it on. Forty-five seconds later, and I've been betrayed; 103.6. "Damn," I mutter softly, more than a little concerned. With what I've taken, I won't be able to have another dose for two hours. If it gets any higher, I'll have to take a bath in tepid water to cool down. I dampen the cloth and head back to bed, stripping off the robe and peeling another layer off my bedcovers. I know it's cold in the room, but to me it feels like a sultry summer night in DC. Thank goodness the flu season isn't in the summertime--I can't imagine what I'd do if it were actually as hot as I feel. Another ten minutes go by, and after letting my body cool off thanks to the cloth and not having a lot of covers to hold in body heat, I decide to check my temperature again. This time, I brought the thermometer with me. The thermometer betrays me again; 104.0. Mulder's going to have a fit. Then again, he's not going to be here for another 50 minutes or so. I could take a quick dip in the tub to cool off. I know the possibility of a comedy of errors happening is running high, but so is my fever, and it's not like Mulder would go into my bathroom unless I was non- responsive. I get back out of bed, wobbling a bit more than I was earlier, and manage to grab my robe before stumbling into the bathroom. * * * The fact that she wants me to come over tonight has me more concerned than her recent put-offs. Before, I had the luxury of thinking that maybe she wasn't so sick after all, that I was imagining things. Now, she's pretty much confirmed that this is bigger than she can handle. I confess, I don't make for a good nursemaid. Scully's the pro at that. I just decided to pick up something she likes that she'd probably be able to eat, and went to the drugstore to pick up the medicine she wanted. I don't have any illusions that she'll let me stay, but I brought my own dinner, just in case. Traffic is pretty light--and I had no problems getting the food, for once--so I'll probably be getting there a good twenty minutes earlier than I said I would. She'll likely be a little upset, but it's not like we're on a timetable here. With my luck, she'll probably be asleep and I'll have to wake her up. * * * The tepid water feels cold against my skin--I wish it could be colder, but my body would rebel in various ways, and it's hard enough controlling what little I can right now. I'm not sure how long I ought to stay in, but I know I'll be out before Mulder gets here. Assuming, of course, that he doesn't show up early. What would happen if he did, though? I try to shake off this new line of thinking, chalking it up to the feverish delusions and musings of a woman with the flu, but either the pull of the fever is too strong, or I want to think about this more than I can admit. I didn't leave the door locked, so my imagination starts there, visualizing him opening the door and seeing his partner there in the altogether, no convenient bubbles to mask off parts he shouldn't see. My rational side gives me the answer to the question this poses. I know what he'd do, of course. What any gentleman would. He'd turn his head, apologize, and try to leave the room as fast as he could. That, of course, is not what my feverish mind wants, so I start over and concoct my own fantasy of what could happen. Not that it would, since my body is laughing at the idea of any sort of activity at all, but my mind likes to have its sport, and it's not like I haven't gotten any ideas from the past few days of daytime TV. I can feel my attention drifting from the fantasy, since I keep having this odd sensation of being caught in the act of daydreaming. However, I'm drowsy from finding some contentment at last, and I ignore the warning and continue, my thoughts drifting away as easily as my consciousness. * * * I considered knocking first, but she knows I'm coming over. I use my key to unlock the door, drop the food on the kitchen table, and grab the bag from the pharmacy. "Scully?" No answer. Maybe she's sleeping? If so, I'll have to decide whether to wake her up, or just leave the goods here. I open the bedroom door, and the smell of medicine and sickness pervades everything. I find the bed empty. She must be in the bathroom, then. "Scully, I'm here. I've got the Nyquil and lozenges. Do you feel hungry?" I'm answered by a large splash. She's taking a bath? * * * I'm suddenly very, very awake. I must have fallen asleep in the tub, and was only awakened by the sound of my partner's voice. I'm praying he doesn't come to investigate that rather loud splash of mine. "Ah, Mulder...I'm sorry, what did you say?" I can hear him just outside the door; his weight is making the floorboards on the other side creak and some part of him is brushing up against the door. My fever argues with the rational side over which part that might be. The water's tepidness has faded to something just shy of ice water, so I start to crawl out. "I said, I've got the medicine you wanted. Are you hungry enough to eat something?" "Oh, yeah. Sure. I'll be out in a minute," I cover somewhat, my voice betraying the shakes that have started. Mulder shifts restlessly at the door, but does nothing else, to his credit. "Are you okay?" "Yeah, fine. Just leave the Nyquil and the cough drops on the nightstand." "Okay," he answers dubiously, but I hear him move from the door. I pull the stopper on the tub and let the water drain out, and dry off as quickly as I can before throwing on my robe. My temperature feels like it's gone down considerably, but only the thermometer can tell me that for sure. I consider putting on the same clothes as before, but the thought of it doesn't thrill me. With company over, I'd rather put on something a little more presentable than my old sweatpants and a T-shirt from my med school days. I start running my clothing inventory through my head as I walk out of the bathroom. I almost expected Mulder to be waiting for me, but apparently he's got better sense than I thought he'd have. My fevered mind pouts in dismay as my rational side rejoices. Since my body's been rather rebellious to the idea of anything even close to being intimate, my rational side's been winning more of these arguments than it has in a long, long time. My fevered mind hopes it won't be a trend. * * * I checked the food and it's still hot, so I head back to Scully's bedroom. And I'm still thinking about the fact she was in the tub. Why? Was she too cold? Too hot? Would she tell me if I asked? Only way to know is to ask, I tell myself, and I find myself at the bedroom door, knocking to be let in. I hear a holler on the other side, then some rustling, and the door opens before me, revealing a Scully that looks half of who she should be, even if she *is* dressed like she doesn't have the flu. "Ready to eat?" I say in place of the question I really wanted to ask. "Sure," she answers nonchalantly, as if nothing were amiss. We eat in relative silence, with her nibbling on the chicken pita in- between coughs while I dig into my rib sandwich and fries. Our conversation stays monosyllabic until I bring up the bath. "Sorry to interrupt your bath, there, but traffic turned out to be better than I thought it would. Did it help any?" "Some," she replies, her face turning a little red. "How's work been?" I shrug at the change in subject. "All right, I guess. Good thing I investigated that X-File--there was a murderer posing as a psychic, predicting people's deaths when he himself was the culprit. He thought it would be good for business," Scully shakes her head in disgust, and I add, "Other than that, it's been really, really dull." "I hope you've given the pencil sharpener a rest this time, Mulder." I see the illness hasn't affected her wit. "Very funny. I'll remember that remark the next time I catch you folding my jacket." She looks at me in astonishment. Didn't she think I noticed? "You're not keeping yourself presentable, Mulder. You can't go into Skinner's office looking all wrinkled, can you?" "I've done it many times, Scully, but I appreciate it, anyway. In fact, I kind of miss it." I play a bit with the last of my food, and the words leave my mouth before I've truly considered them. "I miss *you*." She smiles, and a burden feels lifted from my shoulders. Then she says, "I've missed you, too," and honest to God, you could probably knock me over with a feather, if you wanted to. When she leans towards me, my mind goes in a thousand directions but the one she has in mind; "Mulder, you've got some barbeque sauce on that side, there," she points to the right side of her face, just below the edge of her mouth. "Here?" I reply, pointing to my right side, and I must've gotten her directions wrong, because she shakes her head. "No, not there. Here, let me," she gets up to wipe the sauce off, and I can't help noticing how unstable she is. She leans heavily on my chair and the table while she wipes the sauce away, and I can literally feel the heat radiating from her body. I grab her hand before she can pull it away--her skin feels like it's on fire. "Scully, you're hot." "Thanks for noticing," she smirks, in a tone of voice that shows she's not all there. I don't let her pull away, instead capturing her waist with my free hand and allowing the other to reach up to her face. It's much too hot for my liking. "When did you take your temperature, last?" "About...a half hour ago. I think." Her lack of clarity alarms me. By now I've gotten out of my chair, and I'm escorting her back to her room. The fact that she doesn't push me away only concerns me more. End Part 1 ********************************** Flu and the Modern Woman (2/3) by H Lynn * * * Mulder's taking me to my bedroom, and my fevered mind is happy, even though I'm fully aware it's not what I think I want. I don't need to be coddled. I can take care of myself. But apparently, he doesn't feel the same way, because he's pulling back the sheets and guiding me down onto the bed. "Mulder, I'll be all right." "Sure you will," he replies darkly as he finds the digital thermometer on the nightstand. I hear the familiar beep of it being turned on, then have a second of puzzlement at the shock and anger on his face, when I suddenly remember a small, normally insignificant fact. The digital thermometer always retains the last temperature taken in its memory. The last time I used it, my fever was at 104.0. Damn. "Scully," he looks at me, stricken. His anger bends in deference to his mounting concern. "How long has it been this high?" "The bath I took was after that reading. I'm sure it's lower now," I answer as I reach for the thermometer. He hands it to me numbly, also hoping that the reading will be lower this time, too. After a wait that must have been more than a minute, we get the results. 103.4. I want to sob in frustration. The bath didn't lower my fever as much as I had hoped, and I have another hour and a half to go before I can take any more pills. For the first time in three days, I'm not sure what to do. I can tell what Mulder thinks I ought to do, however. It's very clearly written on his face. "Scully, I think you should see a doctor." "Mulder, I *am* a doctor. I've already done everything they could possibly do for me, short of taking antibiotics." His eyes lift to meet mine when I mention the word antibiotics, but I stifle that idea right away. "I'm already resistant to several antibiotics on the market, Mulder, thanks to the tests done on me. And the only ones that will work are too powerful to waste on the flu." "But your fever's running too high--" "I know, but it has to break, sometime. It's just the flu." "The flu can kill, Scully, if you don't take care of yourself." I can't meet his eyes; they convict me with a glance. That's been the problem, hasn't it? I've been putting myself through this just to prove to Mulder that I'm fine on my own. Well, no longer--I need help. Now, I just have to summon the courage to tell him. "Mulder, I would...appreciate it if--if you would stay. Please. I know I don't have any right to--" "Shh," he stops me, sitting down on the edge of the bed, so that we're hip to hip. Taking the washcloth, he drapes it across my forehead. "I'm here, and I'm staying. And I'm glad you asked." "You are?" "Sure," he replies, "else I'd have to stay here against your will. You don't honestly think I'd leave you here to fight a 103 degree fever alone, do you?" "Well, no. I guess not." He flips the washcloth over to the cooler side. "Why isn't your mom here, by the way?" "She's in California, visiting Bill and his family," I start to stifle a cough, but Mulder looks at me and I decide to be honest. The cough lasts a little longer than it ought to, and Mulder grabs for the cough drops. "You want something to drink?" "No thanks. I had plenty with dinner. And thank you for bringing it, Mulder. I wasn't hungry enough to make myself anything." I take the offered lozenge from his hand, unwrap it, and place it in my mouth. It's bitter, tangy, and sickeningly sweet all at once, but I can already feel the tension in my lungs easing up and my throat's rawness subsiding. I look up to thank him again, and my comments die in my throat. He's looking at me with such tenderness and compassion, I can't speak. I close my eyes against it, trying to ignore what I just saw. I feel the washcloth rise off my forehead again, and this time he's using it to cool off the rest of my face. I wish he could do it everywhere, and I don't mean that in a 'NC-17' way. It's nice to visualize, but right now, getting my fever down is the main idea. The other way would probably just raise it. He must have seen something in my expression, because he suddenly pulls back and watches me, as if trying to decide something. He must've made his decision, because he then asks me an odd, simple question. "Scully, do you trust me?" "Of course I do," I answer without hesitation. "I trust you with my life." "Do you trust me...with your honor?" The phrasing is so archaic I want to laugh, but the serious look he's giving me stops that quickly enough. "Yes, I do," I respond, and that seems to satisfy him. "Why do you ask?" "Oh, well...I just had an idea. Feel free to shoot me down, here, but I thought maybe I could try to keep you cooled down, until the fever breaks." I'd think he was reading my mind, if I didn't know better. "You want to use the washcloth elsewhere, right?" Okay, I admit it; I'm having fun at Mulder's expense. And maybe at my expense, too. Of course, he's not the type to take it sitting down. "That's right. And if you're really good, I'll give you a lollipop. However, considering your temperature, I think it's time for you to change into something a little more comfortable." I'm not sure what he means until I realize I'm still wearing the other clothes I changed into when he arrived. And though it's stylish and attractive, it doesn't feel too comfortable as bedclothes, I have to concede. "There's a tank top and shorts in the top drawer of the dresser, Mulder. If you could get them for me, I'll change while you re-soak that washcloth." He gives me a weak salute, heads over the dresser, removes the very things I mentioned and tosses them to me. He then makes his way over to the bathroom with the washcloth in hand. * * * I can't believe this. I can't believe I'm in Scully's bathroom, preparing to cover a large portion of her body with nothing more than this washcloth and my hands. I know she's sick, and her fever has me terrified, but there's still this small part of me that's excited. Sickening, isn't it? I decide to dampen another washcloth, to make sure that I can switch off as needed. If this becomes a regular thing, I might have to get a bowl of water to soak the washcloths in. God, I hope it doesn't. I remember vaguely what happens to the human body when a high fever doesn't break. Brain and tissue damage. Organs fail. I know it takes a long time for that to happen, but still... If the fever breaks, there's still the threat of pneumonia settling in. Knowing Scully's method of self-treatment, there's a good chance of it happening, since I'm sure she'll try to come back to work the second she feels strong enough to stand and walk around, regardless of whether she still has a hacking cough. Considering we work in the basement, that's not where I want her to be. I know this from personal experience, having nearly gotten my own bout of pneumonia when I didn't take care of myself, back before Scully came. Skinner saved my ass that time, I guess it's my turn to do the same for Scully--to keep her from going that far. They weren't kidding when they said doctors make the worst patients. I take a deep breath as I gather the washcloths. Focus, Mulder. Stay focused, and maybe Scully won't kill you when this is over. * * * I can tell that he's nervous, but it's okay. I'm nervous as hell, too. The tank top's pretty loose on me, and that's a good thing. I can take care of the more...sensitive areas, and I won't have to undress. The shorts he grabbed are my jogging shorts, so they're higher than what you'd normally find on the department store rack. A bit provocative, but I know I look like crap, so it doesn't concern me too much what Mulder will think. It's my own responses I'm worried about. He tells me to sit up, so I do, and he slips behind me onto the bed. My fever has me a little slower than usual, so my heart responds first by nearly jumping out of my chest. I've only just settled down when his hand rests on the back of my neck, causing my heart to jump-start again. This time, it's partly due to his hands being cold, and only partly because it's unexpected. "Sorry," he murmurs into my ear, his presence as alarming as it is electrifying. "No problem," I answer, lying to save face. I can feel the washcloth now, resting along my neck, waiting to be used. I wonder what Mulder's waiting for when I feel his fingers grasp the tank top's right strap, and pull it down so it rests on my arm. I inhale sharply at the feeling of the washcloth on my skin, easing away and absorbing the heat. Maybe if I didn't feel so sick, I could have enjoyed this a little more, but the nice, cooler sensation I feel will have to do. Mulder does the same with the other side, and I'm already feeling better. But I know it's only just started, and I'm wondering where he'll go next when I feel the cloth placed underneath my top, just between my shoulder blades. The shock arches my back before I can think, and after pulling away slightly, my mind catches up and has me lean back in. The moan escapes my lips before I can even think of stopping it. * * * Christ. I don't know if I can make it through this. I know she's not enjoying this the way it sounds, or looks, but it's hard to ignore. And the fact that I've got both hands under her shirt, now, doesn't help. Focus, Mulder. Focus. She's got a fever, you need to get her temperature down. Stop letting your imagination run wild. The little pep talk helps, for a while. I manage to finish her back without too much trouble, and I give her a hint that I'm done by moving my washcloth from her lower back, to her stomach. Her reaction is instinctual, admittedly. She isn't expecting it, and so, pulls back from the sudden cold directly into me. And I hate to say it, but that's when I really notice how loose her top is. The view doesn't last long, but it nearly destroys what little control I've mustered up. * * * What is he doing? I'm trying to puzzle this out when my brain catches up. The football term "hand-off" pops into my head, and I feel a wave of chagrin and relief pass through me at the same time. He's been waiting for me to make the next move. My hand settles on top of his, and he withdraws it, slowly, making sure it's okay. I feel a sudden draft from behind me, as he gets up from the bed. A pang of regret hits me before I notice that he's merely changing his place. I move my legs so he'll sit in front of me, but he shakes his head and says, "Lie down." I'm in a mood to comply, so I follow as ordered, wondering what he plans to do. I find out as he takes the cloth from the nightstand, still cold and damp, and starts to rub down my right leg. The chill isn't as bad, but it's still somewhat awkward. I can't help feeling a bit like a prized and adored car, one whose owner is a meticulous neat freak who makes sure every nook and cranny is cleaned, waxed, and buffed to a pristine shine. Under different circumstances, I would love to be that car. Especially if Mulder were the owner, my feverish mind adds. However, the mere idea of it makes my head feel like it's filled with molasses, and does nothing for the rest of me, aside from causing the remainder of my body to feel even hotter than the fever. It's not exactly a good feeling, considering the circumstances. Therefore, I'm really trying to ignore how good of a job he's done with my upper thigh, and focus on the cooling sensation from my skin. A more prudent part of my mind reminds me that I still have possession of the other washcloth, and it's cooled off enough for me to try finishing the job Mulder left for me to do. I start to think it might be best to wait until he's left the room, but then I consider the fact that he asked me if I trusted him to not take advantage of the situation. And I said I did. It's about time I showed him some of that trust. * * * I'm almost done with the left leg when I catch movement coming from just inside my peripheral vision. I glance up to see what it is, and I instantly regret my action. Is Scully trying to kill me? Is this some sort of torture she's decided I ought to endure? It doesn't matter in the end, though. The result will be the same, if I keep watching. So, I don't. Easy to say, harder to follow through. The main thing keeping my head down is the fact that Scully trusts me. She let me do this for her, because she knows I won't do anything I shouldn't. And right now, her trust in me is more precious than any substance on earth. I wouldn't trade it for anything, especially not a vicarious thrill. But like I said, easy to say, harder to follow through. * * * He's finished on his end, and I'm finished on mine. I get up so I can put my legs under the covers, when Mulder stops me, mid-rise. I guess he's not done quite yet, though the only place left on me that's untouched is going to stay that way, thank you very much. I realize my error when he again sits down next to my right hip, and takes my left arm in his hands. "Missed the arms," he says by way of explanation, and proceeds to take the washcloth to task there, too. And in one important way, this experience is the most seductive of them all. His eyes hardly ever leave mine while his hands work, cooling off fevered skin with a now-experienced touch. What I see in those eyes, the ideas and thoughts exposed...I can't bear to look. He somehow manages to capture my gaze again as he reaches for my other arm. He won't let me go easily, this time. He wants me to see what he's feeling, how much he cares for me, and how close this has driven him to the edge. The idea scares me at first, but then a mild sense of relief flows through me. I know how he's feeling, because I feel the same way. And I know exactly what would be happening right now if it weren't for the fact that I've got the flu. I think my hatred for being sick has just raised up a notch. He smiles gently, as if he saw something within me he wanted to see. He finishes with my arms before I want him to, and lightly presses the washcloth against my neck and jawline, slowly making his way up to my hairline. My ears feel like they're on fire, and I'm about to suggest a course of action when he takes it before I can even ask. * * * I don't know why I didn't see it before, but her ears are so red they look like they're about to burst into flame. I take the washcloth in my hand and place it to one, while I reach for the other one she's holding, and apply it to the other side. The look of gratitude and astonishment she gives me is more than enough payment for my success in control. Her eyes smile before she does, and soon we both have grins on our faces. She starts to laugh--giggle, really--and I wonder why until she rolls her eyes at the washcloths. And then I chuckle in understanding, seeing the comedy in this slightly goofy and definitely unusual circumstance. Without any conscious realization of what I'm doing, I lean over and place a kiss on her forehead, just above her temple. Her skin still feels hot, but that's what I notice after I feel the tension building inside her, making my soothing action into an unintentionally excitable one. * * * I laughed because the whole thing struck me as being silly, but I don't think it's so funny, anymore. I can picture him trailing kisses from my temple down to my neck, then my jawline, teasing me until he puts his lips on mine, sealing our unspoken devotion with a kiss. And the scary thing is, I want him to do it, illness be damned. Guilt grabs me and shakes me back to reality. Do you really want to get him sick? That kiss you want so badly would guarantee him getting what you're going through now. After the wonderful way he's been taking care of you, is this the way you'd repay him? I shut my eyes in defeat. No, I wouldn't want him to get the flu. I'm about to say something when I feel his lips raise, and he whispers something onto my skin. I don't hear the words, but I feel them reverberate in my bones, my flesh. My soul. I love you. I don't think he expected me to hear it, so I say nothing when he pulls away. His gaze is tender and melancholy at the same time, and I desperately want to say something to ease his mind. My mouth opens, but the only thing that leaves is a violent, rattling cough. My eyes water from the strain, and my chest aches so badly afterwards that any comments I had are quickly banished. Mulder brushes away the tears and smooths back the strands of hair covering my face, his touch gentle and cool against my skin. He pulls the covers up to my neck, even as I hate the idea of anything trapping the heat in. Only the fact that it keeps Mulder from worrying needlessly is why I'm letting the covers stay where they are. "Can I get you anything?" He asks. "Some water, or juice?" "A cure for the flu would be nice," I respond lightly, "but I'll take some juice, if you don't mind." "Not at all. Any particular kind?" "I think I have some fruit punch left, but anything's fine, really." I smile at him in thanks, and he shrugs as he walks away. It's times like these, I don't remember all the instances when he's ditched me, or infuriated me, or left me with a strong desire to give him a permanent girlie scream. Come to think of it, I can't recall anything in recent memory that leaves a strong impression, aside from Diana--and I'm not even sure where my own feelings stand on that score, so I can't fault Mulder too badly for that. He's been attentive, concerned, and practically doting on me. He's told me he loves me, twice now. It took me the second time to believe him, when he didn't think I'd hear...versus the time he wanted me to hear, but I didn't listen. I ought to marry him. My breath freezes in my throat when I realize what I've just thought. And the worst of it is, it wasn't from the fevered side of my mind, either. I grab for my thermometer and stick it in my mouth, to try and distract myself from thinking about this too strenuously. Good idea; wrong method. My thoughts are drawn back to the book that's now face-down on my nightstand^is Mulder more like St. John, or Mr. Rochester? If I were married to Mulder, would it kill me, or would it be the best thing I've ever had in my life? The answer comes more swiftly than I expected; It would be the best of both worlds. His passion, focused not just on the quest, but on me as well. His sharp, wonderful mind that matches and yet foils mine so perfectly. Our common goals, but with a carefully maintained balance. And the knowledge that it was all from love, not courtesy. It would be like staying over at your best friend's house, but never having to leave. I've already gotten a taste of the domestic side of it from our case at Arcadia, and I'm happy to say we fooled everyone--even ourselves, on occasion. Living with someone is never easy, but I think the only person I could stand at this point *is* Mulder. As for whether I want it, I think the word needs an upgrade. Desire, covet, need...all words that fit, in my estimation. To be without him would be like an absence of air; He's my mental life support. And the gain? Spending Sunday mornings in bed, reading the newspaper-- he with the sports and the funnies, and I with the editorials page and the travel section. Making love on a rainy day in the first blush of spring. Never having another holiday season apart, and never needing excuses to spend time together. Sure, there are negatives--the working relationship might suffer, we might become more of a target, and so on. But honestly, those are just possibilities; Nothing is certain. I've pretty much convinced myself of the idea when the thermometer beeps in completion. Mulder comes in, carrying a glass of what looks to be fruit punch. I knew I had some left, I think triumphantly. I look at the display screen, and I smile; 101.8. It's still going down, and the fact that I feel like I'm burning up is actually a good sign. In one of those odd biological paradoxes, you feel chills when your fever's rising, and hot when it's declining. "Good news?" Mulder asks, and I show him the results. He cracks a smile in reply, and hands me the glass. I take a long sip, then place the glass on the nightstand, next to my book. I can tell he's about to leave again, so I grab his arm and tug gently. He takes the hint, and settles down on the bed, curious yet silent. End Part 2 ********************************** Flu and the Modern Woman (3/3) by H Lynn * * * She's up to something, I can tell. Before I can ask her what it is, or even make a joke, she sits up and places her hands over my ears. I almost say something in response, but then her lips are pressing against my forehead, in the same spot where I kissed her earlier. I smile and relax, relieved that it's just her way of evening the score. Then, I feel her lips whisper a short phrase against my skin, the words muffled thanks to her hands, but the vibrations are unmistakeable, undeniable. Unbelievable. Marry me. I grab her wrists gently but firmly, pulling them away as she draws back from me. "What?" I say dumbly, as if I didn't know what she'd just said. And then I realize that my little admission to her before didn't go unheard, as I'd thought. My sly partner used my own technique against me. She says nothing, instead looking at me with an intensity that almost frightens me, even as I'm bouncing off the stratosphere. She's not confirming what she just said, in case I don't want to hear it, giving me the chance to ignore her proposal. As if I could. She knows I love her, she loves me, and she wants to spend the rest of her life with me, despite my shortcomings. Is it the fever talking, I wonder? But no---her fever's going down, not up. The funny thing is, the question going through my head right now isn't 'Why should I marry her?', but rather, 'Why *shouldn't* I?'. My lips find hers easily, the movement not uncommon, even if its destination is. * * * I don't believe it--Mulder's kissing me. He's kissing me, and my soul rejoices, my pulse quickens and my mind can only think of one thing...he's going to get my germs. Of course, that thought is immediately obliterated by the word Mulder is whispering against my lips. Yes. And then, I just don't care, because it won't necessarily be a bad thing for us to both be sick in bed. The same one, even. Eventually, it dawns on me what's just happened here. I asked Mulder to marry me, out of the blue, and he said yes. We haven't even gone on a date. Well, not that we need to, considering we've known each other for almost seven years, but it's the principal of the thing. Mulder must have sensed I wasn't really focusing on what we were doing, because he pulls away carefully and watches me, trying to figure out what's going on inside my head. To be honest, I'd like to know that, myself. "Having second thoughts?" He says quietly, his tone soft enough that it doesn't show any possible pain he might feel. I shake my head, and say in emphasis, "No, just thinking and wondering...and maybe a little scared." Scared? Where did that come from? He rests his forehead against mine, and I feel comforted by the gesture, as if no matter what I feel, or do, or say, he'll be there by my side. "We're a pair, aren't we? Probably the only couple in the world who would kiss once in seven years, yet decide to get married." "We've kissed twice now, Mulder," I feel the need to point out. "New Year's Eve was the first, and just now was the second." "Yeah, but you proposed before the second, so it doesn't count." I look into his eyes to make my rebuttal, but find that he's smiling. "All right, Mulder. I'll let you have that one, but only because I'm not feeling up to having a good argument." "You're too kind." "I know," I say matter-of-factly, and he chuckles in amusement before turning sober. "I have to admit, I never expected this. But, I know I can't imagine my future without you there. I tried, and it was warped beyond reason, an illusion of what shouldn't be. You *are* my constant, Scully." "As you are mine," I say, recalling the same conversation. "I can't imagine that we won't be together twenty, thirty years down the line, still hunting down paranormal phenomena in our wheelchairs, still having arguments over whose theory is right. Since we'll be together anyway, we might as well make it easier on ourselves." "The tax break, you mean? Or just the ability to keep a better eye on each other, since we'll be under the same roof?" I laugh, knowing he's only half-serious. "A little of both, of course. And...more." "Ooh. I think I like what you're thinking, dearest." I flinch. "Dearest?" "Honeybunch, then?" He grins. "Don't even go there, Mulder." "Ah, come on, sweetheart. Don't you like pet names?" I shake my head in disbelief, amused in spite of myself. "You're incorrigible." "I try." I sigh in exasperation. Some might say I'm crazy for wanting to spend the rest of my life with this man, but I never claimed to be sane. * * * While it's been nice to sit here and talk, I'm conscious of the fact that Scully's been exposed to the cool air for more than a few minutes, now. I check her arms and forehead, and they've gone back to being miniature furnaces. "Isn't it about time for another dose?" I ask idly, not really sure how much time has passed. She glances at the clock, then sighs. "No, there's still another hour left. I could probably cheat at a half-hour, but considering how much I took, I wouldn't want to push it any earlier. Besides, it seems to be kicking in now." "So my attempt to cool you down didn't do anything for you?" I respond, trying to put some mock-indignation into my voice. To my surprise, she blushes and looks away. "I, uh, wouldn't say that, Mulder. Only thing is, the object was to lower the patient's temperature, not raise it." Normally I'd indulge in this moment, but the tone of her voice indicates that she found it less than enjoyable. "I didn't want to cause--" "No, no," she interrupts, "don't misunderstand. Under different circumstances..." she trails off, shaking her head. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." I know that feeling all too well. I nod in understanding, and she takes my hand in hers. "When I'm feeling better, we could give it another try." "Correction--when you're well," I answer, seeing her tendency for pushing too hard already coming around. "You know, I've been wondering where you picked this up. I don't know of any outbreak at the Bureau." "I think I know. When I flew back to DC after Christmas, the person next to me was coughing pretty badly. It must have taken a few days to incubate, so I didn't really start showing the signs until a couple days ago." "That explains it, then," I reply, then I feel a tickling in my throat, forcing me to try and cough it away. Scully's expression freezes into one of mild panic. "Oh, no." "Nah, it's nothing." "No, don't start that with me. Have you been aching at all today? Coughing?" "No, well...I have felt a little achy, but I'm not so spry anymore, you know. These things come and go. And I've only coughed a couple times today." I'm not sure if even *I* believe all that. She shuts her eyes for an instant, then looks at me in what I can only describe as guilt. "The first time you kissed me, it was a couple days after I got infected. I wasn't showing symptoms, but it's possible that I still passed it on to you. Considering it's been two days since I began the symptoms, I'd say you're about due." Damn. She's probably right. "Well, at least it's Friday." "Mulder, you always work through the weekends." "Yeah, but you don't." I can't help sighing, "Still, I was looking forward to nursing you back to health. Guess that isn't going to happen, now." "What do you mean?" She looks at me in alarm. What else does she think I mean? "After I make sure you've got enough food and medicine to last you awhile, you won't have to take care of me, as well as yourself." The way she takes it, you'd think I had told her I was taking a month long trip to Europe. "You're...going back home?" "Not right now. But if I start getting real sick, I'll just stay home, so I'm not bothering you." "You could stay here, if you wanted to." Oh, it's tempting, but I really don't want to be a burden on her. "Thanks, but my couch is a bit more comfortable than yours." "Who said anything about the couch?" I'm speechless for a few seconds, then I manage to answer, "You, ah, you mean, here?" I point to the bed beneath us. She pats the bedspread in confirmation, and my mouth goes dry. "You sure about this?" "Very sure, Mulder. It's not like we'll be in any condition to take advantage of the situation." "True enough." It still boggles my mind. When I got up this morning, if anyone had told me that Scully would propose to me, I'd accept, get the flu, then stay over at her apartment--in her bed--I'd think they were nuts. Heck, maybe *I'm* nuts. Wouldn't be the first time I've doubted my sanity. The tickling in my throat urges another cough from me, and Scully gives me the 'I told you so' look. "Guess we're going to need more medicine. I think I'll get some when I swing by and get some clothes from my place." I get up from the bed, but Scully's voice stops me. "You don't need to go home to get clothes, remember?" What's she talking about? Of course I have to go home...then I remember. "That's right. I left a T-shirt and sweatpants here, just in case..." Just in case I ever needed to change out of bloody clothes again, I finish morosely, trying to not think about the last--and only--time I stayed over. Before Scully can say a word, I head to the closet, looking for the duffel bag that had my clothes in it. I find it easily enough, but it seems a lot heavier than I remember. I glance over at Scully, and she looks very sheepish and nervous, almost afraid. "Don't worry, Scully. I'm not going to change this instant," I smile, assuming that's what has her so tense. When I unzip the bag, that assumption flies out the window. In addition to my shirt and sweatpants, it appears that several other articles of clothing have been added. As I dig my way through, I find a pair of jeans, my size and favorite brand; another T-shirt; a dark grey mock turtleneck; and a pair of nice khakis, again in my size. I'm completely and thoroughly stunned. When she gave me her set of clothing, I just put it in an out-of-way spot in my dresser and shut the drawer, never thinking of it. She...she's *added* clothing to mine. And I even like her choices, despite the odds. I look up at her, too amazed to speak. She's picking at a loose thread in the comforter, and not meeting my eyes. "Scully..." I manage to say, finally. "You didn't have to--" "I wanted to," she jumps in, still not looking up at me. "It just kind of...happened. I saw things I thought you'd like, and bought them. Although I have to admit," she glances up hesitantly, "the khakis and turtleneck were more of my personal...taste, than yours." * * * His eyes widen in surprise. "When did you buy all this, Scully? In the last year or two?" "Well, no. Not exactly." His eyes light up at that. I wonder what he's getting at when he says, "So, you've been buying clothes for me over a period of three years?" "Four," I clarify. No use shutting the barn door, now. "You mean to tell me that after all these years, you haven't thought about what I might like, or even what you'd think would look good on me?" The second that sentence leaves my mouth, I instantly regret it--asking Mulder a question like that can only be trouble. His eager expression is a bad sign, my mind tells me, but it's too late. "Well, Scully, I'd have to stay I find you most attractive in a tank top and shorts. But as for what I'd pick out for you, I'd have to go with something white. Not too lacy or feminine, but something tailored, elegant...beautiful. Like you." I smile at his boyish honesty. When I hear my reply, it comes as a whisper, more from emotion than illness. "Are we talking a regular outfit, or one for a special occasion?" "Special occasion, I'd say. One with family and friends." "Where would this be? Big building, small building?" "Small. No more than 40 to 45 people." I nod in agreement. I don't think we intended to go down this path so soon, but Mulder has approached it in such a non-confrontational way, I can't help joining in. "Might it be at someone's house? Say, my mother's?" "It might. Your mother's house would be nice, if she wouldn't mind." "I don't think she would, though I'm sure she has her heart set on a church. Would...my brother Bill be there?" "If he accepts an invitation to be there, sure," Mulder shrugs. "Would he have one?" "I would like to give him one. I think he would want to be there, despite what he says." I decide to shatter the thin, conversational illusion, so I can tell Mulder this without any sort of uncertainty. "Mulder, when I was in the hospital being treated by Dr. Scanlon, Bill came to see me. He was more angry about you not being there, than he was about me not telling him about the cancer. I think...he's afraid that you're going to take off and leave me, without taking responsibility for your actions. And I think he sees a commitment to me as one of your responsibilities." "I thought he hated me." "He hates what's happened," I clarify. "You just happen to be the focus of that hatred, because he doesn't know who else to blame. I wish we could tell him, so he can focus that hatred where it truly belongs." "He has to suspect something by now. What's happened isn't exactly normal." "I know. He's confused by what he's heard and seen. His loyalties are being torn in two...he's in the Navy, but he also knows that some part of the government is tied into what's happened to me, and to Melissa." "I remember that feeling," Mulder replies, to my astonishment. "When Byers, Frohike, and Langly first approached me with the government's duplicity, I couldn't believe it. I didn't *want* to believe it." "Wasn't Suzanne Modesky involved in that?" "Yeah, she was. You met her out in Las Vegas." Suddenly his eyes brighten, "Hey, now there's an idea--" "No. Absolutely not." He pouts, but I'm not buying it. "You haven't even heard what it is, yet." "I don't need to, Mulder. I'm not getting married by an Elvis impersonator in some tacky, pastel-colored hotel chapel." "I was thinking Area 51, actually." Oh, yeah. Now there's one for the scrapbook. "And where would the reception be, the Little Ale' Inn?" "Hey, they've got a pool table, and the food's cheap." What a stirring endorsement. However, it could be a good incentive. If my mother thought for one second that we would seriously consider it, she wouldn't hesitate to have the wedding at her house. I should feel guilty for intending to trick my mother, but I remind myself it's only a last resort. I only hope I'm right. Mulder looks at me curiously, and I tell him what I'm thinking. "Hmm. She probably *would* have a small conniption. Wouldn't even press for a church wedding, at that point. Good plan, Scully." As Mulder heads for the door, I remember I need to probably take some more medicine now, too. I look into the bag and in my shock, call out his name. "What?" He hurries back in, concern in his voice. "Did you buy out the whole pharmacy?" I hold up a large bottle of Nyquil, plus two boxes of daytime cold/flu medicine and another bag of lozenges. "Well, I thought you might need something for during the day, in case you were feeling better. I know that stuff always worked for me, so I thought you might want to give it a try. And it seems like lozenges always run out before anything else does." "Mulder, I don't think you'll need to go to the pharmacy tonight. Not for awhile, even." "You sure? I'm still feeling okay, so now's the time to ask for something." "All I want right now, Mulder, is for you to stay here." * * * Well, what Scully wants, Scully will get. "Any particular place you want me, Scully?" She raises an eyebrow at the double entendre. "Now or later?" "Ah, 'now' would be fine." Cripes. Just when I think I've got her on the ropes, she twists out of it and does me one better. "How about here?" She pats the bedcovers next to her, and I suddenly recall that in that stack of clothing, there isn't one pair of pajamas. Not even shorts. Well, it's a good thing I went with conservative underwear choices today, then. "Just let me get undressed, Scully. Then we can snuggle." She gives me an exasperated look, before downing the Nyquil and taking more Advil. "Want some?" She asks, holding out the Advil bottle. I almost don't take it, but the aches keep getting worse with time, so I grudgingly accept the bottle. "Sure, thanks." I dry-swallow a couple of pills, but Scully wordlessly holds out her glass of juice, prompting me to take a swig from it. It still amazes me, I guess, that someone would care about me like she does. It's so selfless, so guileless, that sometimes I wonder what I've done right to get someone like her. I might be a sorry sonuvabitch, but I recognize I'm also a lucky one. After some minor puttering around, finding out football scores and shutting off the lights in the kitchen and living room, I finally come back to face the prospect of sharing a bed with Scully. She only has the lamp on her nightstand on, leaving the room in half- shadows. Good. Undressing in the dark would have been better, but I'm not going to let her know that. If she finds out I'm nervous about this, she'll probably insist on me taking the couch. And while that would be a solution to the problem, it's not a solution I want. She only gives me a glance before she buries herself back into the novel she's reading. I try to make out the title, but her hand is obscuring the cover. Ah well, it's not all that important...though I wonder if Scully actually does read the classics, like she says she does. I turn my back to her, and start to unbutton my dress shirt. I suppose I could've done this in the bathroom, but it's not as if I'll be stark naked. Boxers and an undershirt are what I usually sleep in, anyway. Aside from the fact that Scully is in the room with me, there's nothing really unusual about this. Or that's what I'm telling myself, at least. I discard the shirt on to the floor, and I swear I almost hear her sigh in disapproval. So she's watching me, is she? I glance back, but her head's still buried in that book. I know I hear something from her direction when my pants hit the floor, although whether it's from my actions or not, I'm not going to hazard a guess. The socks go next, and I turn back towards the bed, still nervous but eternally grateful that the boxers aren't silk ones. That's the last thing I need right now. When I take a look at Scully, I notice that while she's furiously trying not to look my way, she's also flushed from the neck up. Maybe that sound wasn't because of me making a pile of clothes on her floor, after all. "Scully^" We don't have to do this. If you don't want me here, tell me, I implore silently. She makes contact with my eyes, but it's not an easy feat. A questioning look flickers across her face, before the understanding dawns in her eyes. "Get under the covers before you freeze, Mulder," she tells me, her voice slightly hoarse. No chance of that, I want to tell her, but I get in bed anyway. I don't realize how cold I really am until I slide underneath, the heat from her body having warmed up the sheets considerably. I reach out a hand to her shoulder, to see she's still feverish. She flinches ever so slightly from my touch. "Mulder! Your hands are ice cold." Are they? "Maybe that's a good thing," I reply, sliding my hand down her arm gently, hoping to cool her off. Her skin is practically blazing with heat, making me feel like a human popsicle in comparison. "You can warm me up, while I'll cool you down. How's that?" She wavers for a second, then nods. She turns off the light after putting the book away, but I spy the title; "Jane Eyre". Interesting choice, I have to say. I expected her to be more of the Truman Capote type. I never did read it in school--we had a choice, and no self- respecting guy in high school would choose 'Jane Eyre' over, say, '1984'. I wonder what's so interesting about it? Maybe I'll have her explain it to me once she's done. I pull myself closer to her, and my nervousness eases a bit when she meets me halfway. She settles in with her back to me, then gasps. "You all right?" I ask. "Fine, Mulder. Just a shock, that's all. You're cold all over." I drape my left arm over her tentatively, trying not to push this too far, too fast. At her contented sigh, I relax even more and pull her a little bit towards me. The warmth of her body feels like heaven against mine. I wonder if she feels the same way? "This better, Scully?" "Much better, thanks. Feels good, like you're sucking away all the excess heat." From the drowsy sound to her voice, it doesn't seem like she'll be awake for too much longer. "You getting sleepy?" I feel her nod. "Nyquil always does that to me. Takes a little while to kick in, but when it does..." she trails off in a yawn, which then turns to a short cough. "Go to sleep, then. You need your rest." "Mmm," she replies, on the verge of drifting off. I feel her breathing taper into shallow, even breaths, and when I'm sure she's asleep, I lean over to see her face. She looks so peaceful, so innocent. I wish I could erase every horrible experience from her past, so she could always be this way. "I love you," I whisper, placing a brief kiss on her neck before settling back into my own pillow. "Love you too," she mumbles sleepily, and I can't help smiling. Who would've known that getting the flu could be this good, I wonder briefly, before I feel the edges of sleep close in on me, wrapping me in a warmth and comfort that's second only to Scully. End. ************ Loved it? Hated it? Let me know at hlynn28@aol.com. :)