hhhyacinthgreen

The hum of the refrigerator is too loud. So is the bubbling of the fish tank, and the wet sound of tires driving through puddles outside the window, and the stuttering of the baseboards every time the heat kicks on. The noises slice through his skull, feeding the headache that’s pounding behind his squeezed-shut eyelids. He can’t sleep, but every time he tries to open his eyes, the room starts spinning again. A shudder runs up and down his spine, and he pulls the blanket tighter around himself. The room is too cold, the pillowcase under his head feels scratchy against his skin, and everything is too loud, loud, loud. 

Mulder has no idea what time it is. He knows that his living room is still dark, as dark as it was when he first lay down on his couch hours ago. At least he thinks it’s been hours. Sleep has been coming in fits and starts; as soon as he feels himself drifting off, he’s jerking awake because of a noise or a full-body shiver or a weird, distorted flashback of his last case popping into his brain. He knows, rationally, that it’s just from the fever. He also knows a glass of water would help his raging thirst and sore throat, but he can’t convince the rest of his body to cooperate with him long enough to get one from the kitchen. His aching joints and dizzy head keep him glued to the couch, and he swears he’s sinking into it.

He thinks it wouldn’t be so bad if he could just get warm. He hasn’t felt warm in days. A chill settled deep into his bones the moment he sloshed into that icy river to haul the unresponsive body of a 15 year old girl out of the water. He remembers being distantly aware that his toes felt numb as he was performing CPR. His hands shook while she coughed up river water, and his teeth chattered as he knelt by Lucy’s lifeless corpse in the winter drizzle, and he kept right on shaking even after Scully had coaxed him away from the gurney and into the heated car. He’s been shivering ever since. At first, he thought it was the combination of the abysmally bad weather and the stress of the case. As the body aches and exhaustion settled in, and the confusing, anxiety-riddled dreams about Lucy plagued what little sleep he could get, he thought that maybe someone had tampered with his building’s water again. Either that or he was finally, genuinely starting to lose it. It was almost a relief when he woke up that morning with a scratchy ache in his throat. Everything made sense now; he was just getting sick.

This fact did not go unnoticed by his partner, as he trudged through the workday running on nothing but fumes and bitter tea from the staff break area. He attempted to hide the raspiness of his voice by being uncharacteristically quiet, which triggered alarm bells in Scully’s mind, apparently. Her sharp eyes took in his greyish pallor and hunched shoulders as he braced himself against yet another chill. She asked him several times throughout the day if he was feeling alright, and sighed skeptically every time he answered that he was fine, it was just a headache, he was just tired, that’s all. She handed him some ibuprofen, got him more tea from upstairs, and fretted about him silently from across the room. It wasn’t until five pm eventually rolled around and she had packed up her things that Scully dared to approach his desk and snake a hand under his forelock of hair. 

“What…?” Mulder had been so out of it he startled at the contact.

“Mulder, you have a fever,” Scully said softly, managing to sound both concerned and exasperated. 

“‘M fine,” he responded, his voice strained. 

She raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow at him and cocked her head in what he had come to refer to as her you’re so full of shit look. “You’re coming down with something. You need to promise me you’re going to get some rest and take care of yourself this weekend.”

“I promise, Scully.” He glanced up at her and attempted to smile. The fluorescent lights on the basement ceiling hurt his head.

She looked at him doubtfully for a few seconds, then sighed and squeezed his arm. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

To Mulder’s credit, he had every intention of making good on his promise upon arriving at his apartment. He hoped that he could eat some soup, curl up on his couch, and sleep off whatever bug had infiltrated his system. His ailing body had other ideas, however, and he felt worse and worse as the minutes ticked by, resulting in the uncomfortable, leaden, feverish purgatory he’s suffering through now. 

He coughs weakly, and it wheezes through his chest. Maybe this is punishment for how the case wrapped up. Sure, one victim made it out alive, but now she would be riddled with post-traumatic stress disorder for possibly the rest of her life. He could have found her sooner, and maybe if he had, Lucy wouldn’t have had to make the sacrifice she did, and she would be alive too. Poor Lucy. He was just trying to help her. She knew that, right?

Her face swims in front of his vision; her skin pale and her lips tinged blue. She’s dead but her eyes are open. She whispers, “This is all your fault. Your fault.” Water pours out of her open mouth, and it’s coming so fast that it’s submerging everything in the room. He doesn’t have the energy to swim or try to keep his head above the rising tide. Is he going to drown in his own home? Everything looks distorted underwater. Or maybe he’s just dreaming. He must be dreaming; he must be asleep, he thinks. Isn’t sleep what he wanted? 

He drifts and drifts, until suddenly, he’s back in his parents’ living room in the 70’s. The television is on, and it’s nighttime, and there’s a board game on the floor. He knows what happens every time his dreams send him back here. He has to relive the worst moment of his life for the something-thousandth time. He’s going to have to watch Samantha get taken again. But when he turns his head, it’s Lucy sitting next to him. There’s blood leaking out of her nose; she’s wearing his sister’s nightgown, and it’s staining the fabric, and all he can think about is how mad his mother is going to be that Sam’s clothes are ruined. He can hear the phone ringing from the other room. He knows he should get up and answer it, but he’s rooted to the spot, and he can’t tear his eyes away from Lucy. 

“Don’t let him take me,” she says. Her face is as white as snow. “Don’t let him take me.”

A flash of light fills the big picture window. He knows what happens next and he can’t do anything to stop it. He’s frozen in place; his limbs are so cold he can’t move them an inch. Panic fills his chest but he’s unable to scream. They’re going to take her and nobody will believe him and then he’ll be all alone…

In the blink of an eye, she’s gone, and he’s all alone.

The phone is ringing again. He needs to get the phone, he needs to tell someone what happened…

His childhood living room changes colors and shapes until he doesn’t recognize it anymore. All he knows is that it’s still freezing out. He can’t stop shivering. He thinks he’s in the woods now? How did he get outside? He walks and walks and doesn’t get anywhere. He just wants to lay down. It’s dark. His mind starts to drift again, and then the stars blink out.

*****

At some point, he feels a hand in his hair, stroking it back over and over again. It’s small and cool and he figures it must be Samantha’s. It feels so nice. It makes him feel a little calmer, a little more tethered to reality. He can hear her saying his name, but she sounds so far away. He realizes, belatedly, that she’s calling him Mulder, which doesn’t make any sense. Samantha never called him that. Also, Sam has been gone for a long, long time…

“Mulder? Can you wake up for me?”

He pries his eyes open, even though it’s a struggle. Everything is blurry and tilting a little. His window blinds are still pulled down, but he can see muted light filtering through, so it must be daytime. Two bright blue eyes are staring down at him, and he can still feel the hand in his hair. 

“There you are,” Scully says. She’s sitting on his coffee table. Her winter coat is on.

“What…” Mulder’s voice comes out as barely a whisper. He swallows thickly against the dryness in his throat and tries again. “What are you doing here?” 

“I tried calling you a few times, but you didn’t answer your phone. I got worried.” 

He’s so confused. Shouldn’t she be at work right now? He must have slept through his alarm, and she came to get him. But why is she wearing jeans? Christ, what day is it? 

“We need to get your fever down,” she continues, and he feels her touch his burning cheek. “Do you think you can sit up for a minute?”

He’s not sure he can do anything at this point, but he’ll try for her. He’ll try just about anything for Scully. He nods.

She takes his shoulders in her hands and helps haul him up. He shuts his eyes as the room spins dangerously and his headache throbs. He tries to take a deep breath as two pills are pressed into his hand. “You need to take these,” Scully says softly, “and drink all this water. You’re dehydrated.”

He reopens his bloodshot eyes to see his partner holding a full water glass in front of him. After popping the pills into his mouth, he shakily takes the glass and starts to drink. He can do this, he thinks to himself, even as he worries it might come back up. He can drink a whole glass of water, can’t he? God, he’s so tired. 

It seems like it takes him forever to finish it. When he does, Scully takes the glass back and sets it on the table. “Lay back down and rest, okay? You’ll start feeling better soon.” She eases him down onto his pillow and pulls the blanket up to his chin. Her hand is back in his hair.

Mulder feels as though he has completely lost control of the situation. A voice in his head replies that he was never in control of it to begin with. Eventually, his eyes flutter shut, and he starts to drift. He can hear all the same noises as he did last night, but they’re growing quieter. He thinks he can hear her moving around the apartment, and then he feels a cool cloth being placed on his forehead. She’s being so nice to him. He feels so awful and she’s being so nice to him. He wonders what he ever did to deserve it. 

He falls asleep again, and this time it’s peaceful. He dreams of nothing.

*****

The next time he comes to, the room is a little bit brighter. It must have finally stopped raining. He can hear the gentle rustle of a page being turned. He feels warm and comfortable, which has been a foreign concept the past few days. His limbs feel weak and heavy and there’s a sharp sting in his throat when he swallows, but his head feels better. Less foggy. He remembers that it’s Saturday and he has nowhere he has to be.

“Hey sleepyhead,” comes a quiet voice to his right. Scully is sitting on his desk chair, a book with yellowing pages open in front of her. The mid-morning (or was it afternoon?) sunlight illuminates her, and she looks like a painting; one that people pay money to look at in a museum, commenting on the brushstrokes, composition, and other art terms he didn’t really understand the significance of. Her hair looks golden red in the sun, and her oversized sweater matches her eyes. If she were a painting in a museum, she would be the most beautiful one, and that he is sure of.

“Time izzit?” He tries to clear his throat and it sounds like a bad muffler.

“Almost one,” Scully gets up out of the chair and returns to her perch on the coffee table. She reaches out to feel his forehead again. “Your fever’s gone way down, thankfully. Do you feel a little better?”

“Yeah,” he answers truthfully, although he feels quite guilty that she’s evidently wasted half her day off looking after him. As he begins to worry that he’s going to get her sick too, he realizes there’s a second blanket on top of him that wasn’t there before. It’s a thick, soft quilt. He had forgotten about this quilt. She must have found it in his closet, which means she entered his bedroom (or the Den of Shame, as his subconscious called it) and he can’t say he’s thrilled about that idea. Who knows what else she saw in there as she was rummaging about. The quilt is cozy and warm though, and doesn’t smell too bad of mothballs, so he’s grateful for it. “I’m sorry you’ve been here all day. I really was resting. I didn’t break my promise.”

She smiles at him, and oh, it’s like watching a sunrise. “I believe you,” she soothes. “I think you have the flu. You’re probably going to be down for the count for a few days at least.”

At this, he groans hoarsely. “I can’t miss work Scully, I-“

“Yes, you can,” she interrupts sternly. “We’re not on any active cases right now, and I know for a fact that you have plenty of sick time. You’re going to have to use some of it.”

He huffs in response. She’s right, as usual. “I’m going to get very bored and whiny.”

“I expect nothing less from you,” she says as she ruffles his hair. “Stop talking, now. You need to rest your voice. I’ll go make you some tea for your throat.” She stands and starts to make her way to the kitchen. “And some toast,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. “You need to try to eat something.”

Normally, Mulder would be quite annoyed to hear his partner rattle off all the things he needs to do, but under the groggy weight of illness, he doesn’t mind. He knows the only reason he feels any better at all is because she’s here, and she’s here because she cares about him, and if he thinks about that fact for too long, his throat will start to hurt in a different way. So he decides he won’t. Instead, he sits up gingerly and is relieved that the world doesn’t respond by turning into a tilt-a-whirl. 

When Scully returns with a steaming mug of tea that pleasantly warms his hands and his chest, she lifts the quilt off his lap and wraps it snugly around his shoulders. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He reaches out a hand and grabs her arm before she can head back for the toast that’s popped out of the toaster. “No, Scully, wait - I mean…I mean, thank you. For everything. For taking care of my sorry ass again. For being here.”

I do actually recommend the X///file/s for anyone who likes storylines full of plot holes, slow burn romance and whump, i stfg the writers were all secretly into it because every episode is basically a whumptober prompt

After pleading with them for several hours, Character A eventually manages to convince their exhausted and cold-ridden partner, B, to take a nap. They've been sneezing and wiping their horrifically runny nose all day, and when they finally succumb to exhaustion, they pass out hard.

B's head is pillowed in A's lap, their congested breathing competing with the sound from the television. It's cozy like this; both partners snuggled up in blankets and A's arm gently rubbing B's shoulder. A has been keeping an eye on B's nose - their head is angled to give A a full view of their tender, pink nostrils. The runniness that has been relentlessly plaguing them does not abate in their sleep, and A has had to carefully wipe first one nostril and then the next, over and over for the duration of their nap. It's been hard to keep up, and A feels like as soon as they toss one used tissue in the wastebasket they're already reaching for another to catch more driplets creeping out of B's nose.

With a sigh, A pulls yet another tissue from the box on the couch. Both of B's nostrils are dripping simultaneously now, and quickly, as the little twin rivers have already reached their chapped cupid's bow. A tries to dab at the mess as lightly as they can to not irritate B any further, but their nose flares and twitches and their stuffy breathing stutters. A barely has time to pull their hand out of the way before -

"hhhh-tssch!"