Colds + Fluff

The first thing Mulder hears when he lets himself into Scully’s apartment with his spare key and steps inside is a sneeze —

“Huhh’ESSCHhiiuew!”

— that comes from the direction of the living room. It’s loud enough that he thinks she may well have not heard the door open, and is almost immediately followed by a second one, desperately smothered into what sounds like several tissues at once.

“—huhp'tTSCHieew! …nguhh..”  

Judging by the weary, nasal little groan that follows, Mulder suspects he has caught only the tail end of what was likely a much longer sequence. The couch faces away from his vantage point in her front entryway, its high back concealing everything but an uneven pile of blankets at one end, beneath which he further suspects must be one very miserable Dana Scully indeed.

“Gesundheit,” Mulder calls out by way of announcing himself. He closes the door behind him and sets the keys on the entry table. 

“That key is for emergencies,” the blanket pile grumbles. There's a rustling of fabric and Scully’s head pops up over the edge of the couch, looking flushed and rumpled and not at all pleased to see him. He can’t blame her, really.

Four days ago, it had been Mulder who was marooned on his couch beneath the two blankets he owns, his bones aching and his head throbbing — while Scully plied him with soup, decongestants, and an endless supply of Kleenex. She had checked his temperature, bullied him into drinking both water and orange juice, and stayed until he fell asleep.

She had also, he recalls with a fresh wave of guilt, sat beside him while he coughed, sneezed, and thoroughly contaminated every breathable molecule of air and surface within a ten-foot radius.

By Friday morning – the first day he’d begun to feel remotely human again – Scully had looked pale and drawn, and had proceeded to sniffle her way through the day while operating on increasingly terse, hoarse assertions that she was perfectly fine each and every time he had dared to ask. By lunchtime her voice had acquired a soft, telltale huskiness, and by the end of the day she looked about ready to drop.

Mulder doesn’t know how she does it, but he has long suspected Scully schedules her illnesses – or at least holds them at bay through some inexplicable act of physiological disciplinary will – for weekends and federal holidays, when she can both suffer and convalesce in private.

The same cold that had laid him out for most of the previous week must have been circling her for days, biding its time until the weekend — because sure enough, it’s now Saturday afternoon, and Scully appears to have been wholly struck. 

"I tried calling you twice,” Mulder replies, “but you didn’t answer.” He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch, keeping it easily accessible should she require another layer anytime soon. He glances across the room at her desk, where the light on her answering machine is blinking red. “It could have easily been an emergency."

“I was sleeping,” she scowls, retreating further beneath her blankets again.

Now that he has rounded the couch, Mulder can properly survey what remains of his always-so-put-together partner. Only her face is visible among the nest of blankets Scully has made for herself – her hair mussed from sleep, her nose rubbed a vivid, tender pink, and her lips set in a chapped little pout. She looks, to Mulder’s private and considerable delight, unbearably dear, and in that moment he wants nothing more than to kiss that pout away. Still, he knows better than to try. Not yet, anyway.

The coffee table is littered with the evidence of a battle valiantly fought and lost – a bottle of Tylenol, two types of vitamin supplements, a box of tissues, and a half-empty roll of cough drops. A medical journal is being used as a coaster for a nearly-finished glass of orange juice and an empty mug of tea.

Scully eyes him warily as he surveys the scene.

“Go away, Bulder," she sniffles thickly.

Mulder does just the opposite, plopping down on the couch next to her and causing the cushions – and Scully along with them – to dip towards him. She makes a sound not unlike a disgruntled kitten as he presses the back of his hand to her forehead and tries to pull away, but she’s too thoroughly cocooned to get very far.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, brushing her hair back from her forehead with his fingertips. “You must feel about as bad as you look.”

Scully fixes him with a dark, wounded glare, and Mulder immediately winces. 

“That...came out wrong," he explains, offering her a sheepish little smile. He doesn’t add what he really thinks, which is that even feverish and scarlet-nosed and glowering at him from the depths of her blanket fortress, she looks more beautiful than anyone has any right to when in a state of abject misery.

Scully draws in a breath – presumably to tell him precisely where he can put his spare key and his bedside manner – but it catches suddenly, her eyelids fluttering shut as she shakes her head urgently, turning away as much as she can. Mulder hastily withdraws his hand and reaches for the tissue box on the coffee table, but she is already ducking into the blankets and burying her face in the soft folds, muffling another pair of helplessly congested sneezes.

“—Hihh-'ihh....?! —hiih'mpttTSCHhh! ...hehh’EtTSHHiieu!”

"Bless you," he replies, offering her a tiny, sympathetic smile he knows she can't see.

Scully sniffles miserably and doesn't immediately emerge, uttering a muffled little grunt of acknowledgement from inside the blanket. It’s unclear to Mulder whether it’s a sound of appreciation or disdain, and he waits patiently for her to resurface. After a few long seconds she does, looking considerably more flushed, but readily accepting the wad of tissues he’s holding out for her without comment. She blows her nose with all of them, then tucks them into the open top of a second, empty box of tissues nestled between her and the side of the couch.

Mulder glances at the makeshift wastebasket and smiles. She’s nothing if not resourceful.

Scully gives him a tired look and sinks back against the cushions, tugging one of the blankets back up beneath her chin. Mulder lifts his arm so she can settle closer, and after a brief moment of hesitation, she relents and curls against him, her head finding the familiar place beneath his chin. She yawns, and it ends in a sigh that becomes a shiver, and he draws her a little closer, keeping the tissue box within easy reach of them both.

 “How’s that cold of yours?” Mulder asks carefully. He knows better than to ask how she’s feeling outright, knowing the answer will be that she is fine, regardless of the truth behind it.

“It’s not my cold,” Scully mumbles grumpily against his chest, nestling herself even closer. “It’s yours.”

Mulder smiles and presses an apologetic kiss to the top of her head, feeling absurdly grateful that, for the first time in days, his nose is clear enough to breathe in the familiar scent of her shampoo.

Twice, without saying a word, she has leaned forward to turn up the car's heater. He's already shed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves – and sweat is now starting to bead at the back of his neck – but beside him, Scully keeps tucking her chin down, tightening her shoulders against another chill, and tugging the sleeves of her coat down until her hands disappear entirely, so he says nothing.

Mulder is considering whether to at least offer her his jacket – long-since abandoned in the back seat – when she draws in a series of small, shaky breaths and turns sharply toward the window, burying her face in her sleeve with a pair of tightly-muffled sneezes.

"Hhh’mffKTtsch! ...’mpktSSCHhh!"

Instinctively expecting a third sneeze and finding himself curious in its absence, Mulder glances over to check on her. Their eyes meet briefly before Scully quickly drops her gaze, the back of one hand still curled lightly under her nose.

“...Excuse me,” she exhales quietly, still sniffling behind her hand.

It’s the first thing either of them has said in nearly an hour, he realizes, and although part of him is relieved just to hear her voice, he hates that she sounds both exhausted and apologetic.

It’s not your fault you’re sick, he wants to say, but since coming back, Scully has seemed determined to prove – To him? To herself? To the Bureau? To whoever took her? He isn’t quite sure – that she’s fine. That she’s capable. He wants to tell her she’s the most capable person he’s ever known, but can’t ever seem to find the words. 

“Bless you,” Mulder says instead, just as quietly.

She nods, sniffles, and leans forward to turn up the temperature dial again. For a moment, he is almost incredulous – there is no possible way she could still be cold – and then he notices her hand trembling before she tucks it away again.

Acting on an instinct he wasn’t aware he had, Mulder reaches over and presses the back of his hand lightly to her forehead. He’s not particularly well-versed in assessing illness, but even he can tell she feels too warm to the touch.

Scully makes a small, congested sound of protest, and he’s already lowering his hand when she starts to push it away.

“Yeah,” he confirms gently, for his sake as much as hers. “That’s a fever.”

Scully hunches further into her coat and faces forward, a tiny frown settling over her features.

God, how he’s missed that stubborn little crease between her eyebrows.

“I’b fide,” she mutters stuffily, staring straight ahead through the windshield. 

He can hear the cold settling into her voice now, congestion thickening the cadence of her breathing, and wonders how much effort she’s been putting in to try and stave it off.

Mulder glances over at her again, one eyebrow raised in silent dissent. Scully turns her head just enough to meet his gaze, then rolls her eyes at his expression before turning away. 

He smiles faintly to himself as he looks back out at the road ahead. It’s been months since he's seen that eye roll. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it —

"...hhh’ngxtTScHh'ieEw!"