xfc: New: Feh on Fa-La-La by Gina Rain
gina...@aol.com
Author: Gina Rain gina...@aol.com
Category: M/S-something
Rating: So clean it practically squeaks. Sorry about that.
Spoilers: Some early season 6 stuff. This is set pre-How the Ghosts Stole
Christmas
Summary: Scully. The flu. Unfettered thoughts in the presence of an
interesting male nurse.
Scully dragged herself into her apartment, locked the door and tossed the
keys on the dining room table. They would probably leave a mark but she couldn't
worry about that now. All she wanted was to throw herself down on the couch
and pass out. Quickly.
Off went the coat and the shoes. Down went Scully. Face down, right into the
decorative faux suede pillow. Intellectually, she knew she should have taken
the time to suck down some Nyquil and tuck herself into her own comfortable bed
but the spirit was totally unwilling and the flesh wasn't thrilled with the
idea, either.
Okay, she could lose consciousness now.
But she knew she wouldn't. In spite of the full body-ache, sore throat and
probable raging fever, she was pretty wide-awake.
Awake to experience the joy during the Season of Joy. Joy to the world. Joy
to you and me. What a crock. And where was the Grim Reaper when you needed him?
Perhaps he could spare her the frivolities of the flu or the comfy coziness
of yet another Christmas season. But, no. Life didn't work out that way. She
had to get the flu a full week before Christmas which meant if there was a
breath in her body, she would be dragging herself out of bed Christmas morning to
experience the wonders of a Scully family Christmas.
And really, there was nothing quite as warm as spending the day with people
who offered you pitying smiles because they felt you were too . . . misguided .
. . to realize what a fucked-up life you led. Bad career choice, really bad
personal life choice, no prospects of a normal life whatsoever. Here, hold a
kid and experience for a second the joys you can never have in your miserable
barren life.
Auntie Dana.
Career Woman Dana.
Kick-ass FBI Agent Scully.
Mulder-Loving Clueless Scully.
She pushed her head further into the pillow, thankful for the faux material.
The smell of real suede would have done her in at this point. She only wished
she had had the presence of mind to grab a throw or the comforter off her bed
because she was feeling a bit chilled about now. And her cold, cold, bitter
heart did nothing to warm her up. When had she become Scully the Secret Scrooge?
Sleep. She wanted sleep so badly. She should get up off of the couch and
drink half a bottle of Nyquil. That would do it. But she hated the stuff. It made
her feel stupid the next morning, worse than a hangover. Maybe that was the
answer. Straight Scotch instead. At least the hangover was somehow more honest.
No, she would forego alcohol and count sheep. Or, better yet, go to the
deepest recesses of her mind and dig out a Mulder fantasy. That should do it.
Usually, before he even kissed her in her imagination, she would be out cold. Why
would her fantasy life be any more gratifying than her real one?
Romance and Mulder: interesting concept, that. She supposed they had had
their moments that year. That whole hallway incident. Damn bee. His lips actually
on hers when she sort of, maybe, stopped breathing for a few seconds. His warm
lips on her icy blue ones. That must have been a turn-on. She was glad her
memory of that was very, very fuzzy. Then there was that whole nakedness thing.
He got to see her naked twice. Hold back the raging hormones! Instead of just
blue lips, he saw an entire blue body covered in slime. And even though the
decontamination shower wasn't quite as bad and he did, indeed, sneak a peek, he
didn't seem all that impressed. She could tell because she snuck an eyeful
herself and, while it was an eyeful, it was an immobile eyeful. Damn.
And double damn.
Church bells were ringing.
Was it Christmas already? Good, she was still sick. Maybe she could beg off
the Scullybration.
Christmas. Such a beautiful holiday, really. Too bad real life had tainted it
for her. Her father dying around Christmas. Emily. The whole issue of future
babies and such.
She should get up and drag herself to Church. She wanted to do that. She
didn't want to see her family. No way, no how. Not this year.
Now the neighbors were hammering something. What was wrong with people?
Didn't they know it was Christmas? Or was it? She didn't remember sleeping. She
remembered throwing herself on this cold couch and thinking about Mulder's
personal parts not rising to the occasion.
"Scully?"
Auditory hallucinations. No, that wasn't the word for it. Was it?
Hallucinations were visual. No, hallucinations included all the senses. Right? No? Yes?
Damn. She should know. She knew everything.
A hand touched the back of her shoulder and she jumped a little.
"FBI. Freeze," she said in a groggy voice and let her head fall back to the
pillow.
"You're alive. Good. You had me wondering there for a moment."
Mulder was here. In her apartment. Yippee.
The hand returned. "Scully? Can I roll you over?"
Sure, baby. You can roll me over anytime. She was giggling like crazy in her
mind. She wasn't doing it really, though. Dana Scully didn't get hysterical
over a juvenile thought. She knew how to do Sick. She even knew how to do Dying.
She did it beautifully. Strong. Stoic. Scully. Of course, no one knew the
Secret Scully. The one who was whining like your finest three-year old and
feeling sorry for herself and needing a hug but never asking for one because big
girls didn't do stuff like that and she was a big girl except she was little in
stature which made her work twice as hard and . . . what was she supposed to do
again? Oh, yeah. Roll over, Rover. It took a Herculean effort but she
managed. She now had a view of the ceiling through a curtain of red hair. A now
cold hand lifted the curtain. Much better.
The cold hand stayed on her forehead for a moment.
"Just what I thought. You have a fever."
"You're not a doctor," Scully said, thinking about rolling over again into
the nice fake cow pillow, but unable to physically pull it off.
"No, but the blisters forming on my fingers gave me my first clue."
Scully made a sound that was supposed to be a proper, haughty scoffing sound
but sounded like a raspberry that ran out of air.
"What can I get for you?" he asked. He sounded concerned. She supposed he
might have that little scrunchy line between his eyes but she was too tired to
actually move her head to look at him.
"Blanket. And Tylenol. Water. For the Tylenol. And another blanket," and a
Scotch, she thought, but didn't say because everyone knew that acetaminophen and
booze didn't go and would rot your liver so even Eugene Victor Tooms wouldn't
want it.
He was back. Not Tooms, they had squished him, but Mulder.
And he was forcing her to sit up by yanking on her arm.
"Hey," she said, not able to think of anything more cutting.
"You can't relax in that blazer. I'm helping you change clothes."
Oh, sure. Why the hell not? Nakedness was nothing to him. Well, her nakedness
was nothing to him. He had one of her tee shirts and a pair of sweatpants on
top of her blankets. Who told him he could rest that pile of stuff on her
coffee table anyway?
He was pulling off her blazer but hesitated when it came to unbuttoning her
shirt.
She swatted at his hand. "Turn around. I can do it myself."
"I've technically seen you in a lot less, Scully," he said, with a small
smile.
"What a thrill that must have been for you. Now, turn around."
She took a deep breath, fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, undid them,
and pulled it off. Took another deep breath and pulled on the tee shirt. Damn,
she was freezing. Her breathing now resembled the sound a train makes when
it's puffing toward the station. She yanked down her pants and pantyhose and sat
there with her legs exposed, while she tried to find that one core center of
strength in the very depths of her being that would give her the energy to put
on her sweatpants.
Finally, she lay back down. "I'm finished," she said, meaning it literally in
every sense of the word.
"Can I turn around now?" Mulder asked with that irritating tone of amusement
in his voice.
"Turn around."
"You sure you're decent?"
"I'm gonna kick your ass," she muttered, praying for death. For her or
Mulder, she wasn't sure.
He turned around and spent a moment looking at her. Just looking at her. That
squishy line formed between his brows. She must have looked like crap.
"Open," he said, holding a thermometer in his hand. Did she ask him to
rummage through her medicine cabinet. What if she had some fascinating sexual device
in there?
Who was she kidding? And you didn't keep those things in a medicine cabinet
anyway. You kept them in the linen closet in the jumbo-sized box of tampons. Or
so she heard.
She felt the thermometer slide of her mouth.
"102.4. Good number for a radio station; not so good for body temperature,"
Mulder declared.
"Again, I repeat, you are not a doctor," Scully said, just to be ornery.
He sighed and took the Tylenol and water. He yanked at her arm again.
"Ow," she said, aiming for the witty response this time.
"I'm sorry. Let's just get some Tylenol in you and you can rest."
"Promises. Promises." She sat up, swallowed the pills and sunk back down.
Finally, he put the down comforter around her and tucked her in. He then
added another blanket over her for good measure. He leaned over her. "All warm and
toasty? Do you want some tea?"
Yuck. "No tea, Mulder. I can barely stomach the pills."
"I knew you didn't look right at work. I'm sorry. I should have told you to
go home hours ago."
"You're not a doctor, Mulder."
"You keep saying that. Okay, then, Physician, heal thyself -- although I
won't point out that members of your specialty haven't had a whole lot of success
in that area. In the meantime, I am here to serve. What else can I get you? Do
you want to watch tv?"
Mulder was here to serve. Serve Scully. That didn't sound right, somehow.
"Sure. Put something on. Anything." She just wanted the noise in case she
fell asleep and snored. Assuming she'd ever sleep again. Although she did feel a
little . . .
Hot. She felt so hot. And wet. And not in a good way.
She opened her eyes and Mulder's face loomed right over hers. He had a wash
cloth and was wiping the sweat from her face.
"I'm all wet, Mulder."
"I know. Your fever seems to be down, though. I'll check it in a minute."
"I hate having wet clothes on," she said, kicking off her blankets.
"Well, then, take them off and I'll get you new ones."
"You're always trying to get me naked," she muttered.
Mulder laughed. Great. He had to rub in just how preposterous the thought
was.
She pulled the blanket back up and took off her clothes, throwing the damp
ones on the floor. In a moment, Mulder was handing her fresh pajamas. Flannel.
Another flattering choice. If Fowley were sick (the thought instantly cheered
her), he would go into her bedroom and no doubt find some see-through lacy
thing to have her change into. That thought instantly depressed her.
"Need help?" he asked, managing to look both innocent and mischievous at the
same time. She pulled the blanket from her chin to her mouth.
"No, thank you. I'll let you know if I can't do it."
Mulder turned his back to her. "I'll just sit here in great anticipation of
your failing, then."
Yeah, right.
She could do this. It was just like a situp, really. She lifted herself up
and pulled the pajama top over her head, then pulled on the pants. Then fell
back, exhausted. Not just like a situp. More like a rag doll falling over when
someone tried to put it in an upright pose. But her head did feel a little
clearer and she was more alert than she had been earlier in the day. She had to be
thankful for that, at least.
"Scully, can I turn around now or would you like a few more minutes alone
with yourself?"
"What?"
"You're breathing pretty heavy there."
"That's amusing, Mulder."
"Can't say I don't have a charming bedside manner, can you?" He turned around
and smiled one of his rare, award-winning smiles. Jackass.
"Very charming," she said in as sarcastic a tone as she could muster.
"Now let me just get your clothes," he said, bending down to retrieve the
damp articles of clothing.
She put her hand on his arm. "Leave them."
"Why?"
She didn't want him touching her sweaty things. Fowley's clothing would
probably reek of some disgusting perfume made to drive men wild while hers would
just . . . well, reek. "Just leave them. Please."
"Oh-kay," he said, and after another round of temperature-taking, Tylenol and
tucking in, he sat down on the chair nearest the couch, which apparently had
been his "home base" while she had been sleeping.
She kicked at her blankets again. The room was very dark. Much darker than
when she first got home from work. And David Letterman was on now, which meant
she had been asleep for almost three hours.
Mulder suddenly got up, went behind the tree and plugged it in. The room was
filled with the soft glow of colored lights. He went back to Scully and sat at
the foot of the couch, pulling her feet on his lap and softly warming them
with his hands. Much better than a blanket.
"I like Christmas trees," he said suddenly.
"Really?"
"What's not to like? They smell good, have nice lights and chachkas on them.
I wouldn't necessarily want to be picking pine needles off of my floor but
it's nice to see them in someone else's house."
His hands were now kneading the instep of her right foot. Her left foot was a
bit cold, though, and she burrowed it against his sweater. She was sure he'd
say something suggestive but she just watched him smile and let the
opportunity pass. The man possessed such self control sometimes.
"I don't really know why I continue to have one," Scully found herself
admitting.
"You don't want to?"
"I don't know, " she said, surprised by her own words. "I'm not sure how I
feel about Christmas anymore. Well, actually, I know how I feel about the
holiday. I just don't know how I feel about all that surrounds it."
"Family stuff?"
"Yes."
"Can't you skip the family thing this year? Absence makes the heart grow
fonder, so they say."
"Yes, Mulder. I'm familiar with that bit of pithiness. Except, in this case,
I'm afraid that absence would become a habit and that's unacceptable. Our
family has already lost people and we don't need to fall apart completely just
because I'm not as comfortable as I once was."
"Well, what if you still aren't feeling well?"
"I'll be fine. It's a week away."
"But, what if you aren't? I must have earned an honorary medical degree by
now. I can give you a note."
"Uh-huh."
He reached over and yanked at both her arms this time.
"Mulder, what are you doing? I prefer the prone position if you don't mind."
"You'll get couch sores. Come on, lean against me and let's look at the tree
and you can tell me about your perfect 'Christmas without family' fantasy."
"I can't do that," she said, sitting up and swinging her legs the other way.
She had no choice but to lean on Mulder's shoulder. Between the dizziness and
queasiness, a firm shoulder was definitely a necessity.
"Sure you can," he said, putting an arm around her and settling her closer to
his side. She closed her eyes. It just felt too damned good. He did love her.
That much she always knew. "You're not being disloyal. You're just exploring
an alternate universe. Come on, in the spirit of extreme possibilities."
"You can try the patience of a saint," she said, closing her eyes and
pretending he was in-love with her, too.
He took the blanket and wrapped it around the both of them.
"Nice and cozy, huh? Okay. Here is another scenario that will put your
Catholic guilt to rest. The mother of all blizzards has hit the area. Planes are not
taking off, your brother and his brood are stuck in California and your
mother refuses to leave her house because, well, she can't even get out of her
house, the snow is so high. So, you are stuck making due with a different kind of
Christmas. And, I guess I decide to spend that Christmas with you. Now, go. Be
creative without guilt."
"This is crazy, Mulder," she said, liking the scenario more than she cared to
admit.
"When have I heard that before? Come on."
Okay. She had certainly gone on stranger trips with this man than the one he
was inviting her on now.
"All right. I would go to Church in the morning, if I could physically get
there -- through the blizzard and all. You don't have to go if you're
uncomfortable."
"Thanks. I wouldn't want the building falling down around me or lightening to
strike. Innocent beings might be hurt."
"And then, after Mass, I would stop somewhere and pick up donuts."
"Agent Scully. I am going to fall right off this couch from the shock of you
eating a full-fat food."
"It's Christmas. Christmas calories don't count."
"Is that your medical opinion?"
"Yes."
"Cool. Go on."
"I'd bring them back and we'd eat breakfast and look at the tree. Listen to
some Christmas carols," Scully's voice faded away with the fantasy.
Mulder gave her a soft nudge with his shoulder. "And?"
"And, nothing, Mulder. Nothing." She was suddenly sadder than she had been
all day. "I can't do this because I can't see you doing this. I can't even see
you doing *this* -- this babysitting of the sick partner. You *are* doing it
but it's so out of character. I just picture you getting a phone call and
running out of here -- singing 'Born Free' at the top of your lungs as you race down
the street without your coat."
Mulder laughed. He wasn't offended in the least, although she wasn't sure
she'd care if he were. Why couldn't he have a homey bone in his body? Just one?
"Who knew you knew such an old song?"
"Were you listening to what I said, Mulder?"
He looked her straight in the eye. "I run a lot. Run away. With you and even
from you. Yes, you were loud and clear about that. And I don't fit into any
fantasies involving the mundane, which I find both refreshing and flattering."
"You do?"
"Yes. Any man can provide you with a 'normal life.' I know you don't deserve
everything I've brought to the table but at least I haven't bored you. You are
the type of woman who needs adventure. Needs challenge. And I've delivered in
those areas."
"Is this the Oxford-educated psychologist speaking?"
"You think you're the only one who can show off a degree? No. Oxford has
nothing to do with my assessment. I speak from a superior knowledge of the
uncommon variety of Scully."
"Everyone knows me so well. Or thinks they do."
"So, I'm completely wrong? You actually want the life your family thinks you
should have?"
She was quiet for a moment. "No."
"And you'd like to celebrate Christmas with me in the way you described?"
"Definitely not. But I wouldn't mind spending Christmas with you in a
different way," she said, looking up at him. Even though her fever had gone down a
point, she suddenly felt a bit warm. She was tucked under a blanket with
Mulder, his face inches from hers, lit only by the glow from the television and the
tree.
"Like . . . " he prompted, his voice barely above a whisper.
This could get dangerous. Feelings could be exposed. She might find out that
Fowley was nothing but a passing plaything. Like a real-life blow-up doll. She
might find out that a man who had gone to the ends of the earth to save his
partner actually had deep feelings for said partner. Feelings so deep they even
caused him to ignore her nakedness so he could do what needed to be done in
order to keep her alive and take care of baser needs at a later date.
Yes, feelings could easily be revealed. And they might even be reciprocal.
Why, if he was willing, she could even, maybe, give him the flu.
But she had taken an oath to heal, not harm.
Damn it.
"I don't know," she said, finally answering his question, adding a light tone
to her voice to diffuse the situation. "Something more in keeping with your
character."
She *did* know. She wanted a great big romantic Christmas adventure only
Mulder could provide. But it was not something she could script even in her
wildest imagination. Her family was wrong. The only trouble loving Mulder brought to
Scully's life was not being able to schedule anything ahead of time. Nothing
was ever as simple as it appeared. Go to work at a certain hour, expecting
nothing but paperwork and end up in Nebraska checking the cornfields for alien
virus by nightfall. She had no indication that romance with Mulder would be any
different.
Which thrilled her. And scared her. In a good way.
But it wasn't going to happen this year. She needed to spend time with her
family at Christmas. Perhaps one day they would realize the type of person she
was now was a direct result of her upbringing and genetic makeup. That the
choices she made and the life she was living was one that suited her, even if it
wasn't one everyone else could easily embrace. Perhaps they would accept her
as she was. Accept their differences.
Or, perhaps, they wouldn't.
What they would do, though, was give her balance. A couple of days with them
would send her running to Mulder singing 'Born Free' at the top of her lungs.
And that would be the sweetest of post-Christmas carols.
The inner Scully started to giggle again.
"What's so funny, Scully?"
Oops. The outer Scully was whooping it up pretty well, too.
"It's the fever, Mulder. I'm pretty sure it's returned and I'm heading toward
delirium."
Mulder started to remove the blanket from his side. Scully put her hand down
on it. "Where are you going, Mulder? Running away?"
"Getting more Tylenol."
"Don't you dare," she said, snuggling back against his shoulder. "I'm just
fine."
And, for once, she meant it.
The End.
Author's notes:
How could I let a Christmas go by without a sappy story? I told myself I
wouldn't do it, but I lied.
By the way, in another week, Scully's flu went bye-bye and she and Mulder had
a lovely, romantic adventure with ghosts that bore an uncanny resemblance to
Ed Asner and Lily Tomlin. Sadly, Mulder did not come down with the flu.
Perhaps (for the truly delusional) he had a flu shot?
This story is dedicated to my brother because I've never dedicated anything
to him and he was my best friend growing up and is still one of the truly good
guys in this world. It doesn't matter if he doesn't actually know about this
strange little hobby of mine. It's the thought that counts <vbg>.
My second dedication (hey, I don't write much anymore -- I have to cram in
all the dedications I can) is to everyone at Beyond the Sea. I may not always
participate but I'm always paying attention. And in my quiet way, I really do
care about each and every one of you.
I wish each of them and each person reading this the most joyous of holiday
seasons and a New Year filled with good health and happiness.
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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