Work Text:
FBI Headquarters
Washington DC
0927
When Dana Scully arrived in their basement office at 8 AM on the dot and Mulder wasn’t already there, waiting for her with a new case or some ridiculous slideshow, it was unusual, but not unprecedented. She figured he was probably just out getting coffee.
By 8:30, she was a little concerned but not overly so. Maybe he just overslept for once.
By 9, she had called his home phone three times and his cell twice. No answer. She was trying not to look like she was waiting by the phone for a call back.
When the clock hit 9:30 she was out the door and in her car, driving to Mulder’s apartment, trying and failing to resist going just a little over the speed limit.
Her knocks at his door go just as unanswered as her phone calls had. She’s just about to turn away, maybe call the Gunmen to see if they know where he is, when she hears a muffled thump inside, followed by silence. She knocks again. “Mulder? Mulder, are you in there?” What might be a “Scully?” comes from inside, and Scully fumbles with her keys, trying to locate the spare Mulder had given her years ago.
Finally, she gets the door open, stumbling a little across the threshold in her haste to get inside. The sight that greets her brings her to a halt. Mulder is sprawled on the floor outside his bathroom, naked except for a towel barely hanging onto his hips, body glistening with what she guesses must be water from the shower.
He must’ve slipped and hit his head trying to get out when he heard the door, she thinks to herself, sliding to her knees by his side and starting to flip him over, only to recoil at how hot his skin is. Fuck, he’s burning up!
She pauses, leaning back to take further stock of his condition. Flushed, pale skin, covered not in water but sweat. She swears quietly to herself, carefully laying him on his back. Further examination, thankfully, reveals no visible head wounds or other external trauma. Just a fever, then, she thinks. Better get the thermometer.
Scully smooths her hand over his forehead before rising to get the medical bag she keeps underneath the sink in his bathroom. One too many times trying to tend to his wounds without adequate supplies had led to its placement there; she’s not even sure if he’d consistently owned so much as a bandaid before he met her.
Returning to his side, she locates and turns on the thermometer, placing it under his tongue after the beep. She uses the couple minutes it takes to get the reading to fill a bowl with cool water and locate some washcloths.
The beep-beep of the thermometer summons her back. She glances at the readout - 104. Damn. Much higher than she’d been hoping. “Okay, Mulder, back in the shower with you,” she sighs. “We have to get this fever down.”
Not without effort, Scully maneuvers him into the shower, settling him against the back wall. She turns the water to a lukewarm temperature, not wanting to shock his system too badly.
The sudden blast of water startles him awake. “‘cull-ee?” Comes his confused voice.
“Mulder,” Scully responds, relieved. “How are you feeling?”
“‘m cold,” he whines, his teeth starting to chatter. “Th’ water is cold. Can you make it warm?”
She doesn’t correct him -- tell him that, in fact, the water isn’t cold, he’s just hot -- she just shakes her head, smiling sympathetically. “Sorry, Mulder, we’ve gotta get your fever down.”
“Fever?” Mulder frowns. “But ‘m cold. ‘s why I took a hot shower earlier,” he tells her.
Well, she supposes, that does make some kind of sense. And it explains why his fever was so high. “Fevers sometimes make you feel cold,” she explains. “But your hot shower brought your temperature up pretty high. I had to get it back down quickly.” He’s still frowning, but he nods, accepting her reasoning. After a couple of minutes, she lets her hand waver on his shoulder. “Will you be able to stay up on your own if I step away to get the thermometer?”
“I think so,” he says, making a show of steadying himself against the wall.
She’s gone and back in a flash, thermometer in hand. “Open up,” she prompts, and he obeys. “Much better,” she says when the reading comes back. “102. Still high, but much better.”
Shivering, Mulder looks at her hopefully, puppy-dog eyes at full force. “Does that mean I can get out now?”
“Yeah,” she says, laughing a little. He’s so cute. “I think it’s safe to get you into bed now.”
Scully turns off the water, pulling a big towel off the rack and wrapping him up in it. She leans him against the counter to dry him off before leading him to his bedroom. Mulder tugs on her arm. “Scully…”
She smiles reassuringly at him, thinking maybe it’s a mess and he’s embarrassed to have her see it, only to open the door to stacks of boxes, no bed in sight. “Mulder,” she turns to him, “please tell me you have a bed.”
Huddled in his towel, Mulder looks chagrined. “Um.”
Scully rolls her eyes before sighing and seeming to come to a decision. “Okay. Do you at least have a dresser in here somewhere?” He nods, pointing. Scully moves toward it and pulls out what looks comfortable. “Okay. We’re going to get you dressed, then we’re going to my place.”
“Scully, you don’t have to --”
“Mulder. You don’t have a bed.” Her tone brooks no argument.
Mulder acquiesces, shivering as Scully helps him dress. His blush is belated as he realizes Scully is seeing him naked, but Scully either doesn’t see or chooses not to comment on his embarrassment.
Together, make their way out of his bedroom -- although perhaps “boxroom” would be more accurate, Scully muses. She supports him as they walk past the mess made of the bathroom. She stops them. “Mulder,” she begins, “if I sit you down on the couch for a few minutes, do you think you can get back up later? I’d like to clean up the mess we made before we leave.”
Mulder considers this, then nods. Scully leads him to the couch, sitting him down and squeezing his shoulder before making short work of the cleaning -- putting away the medical bag, towels, and bowl she got out earlier, then mopping up the bathroom floor and hanging the wet towels over the shower rod.
When she gets back, Mulder is leaned against the arm of the couch, dozing lightly. She smiles. He’s the picture of innocence; huddled in clothes a little too big for him, looking sick, yet face soft and untroubled for the moment. She’s loathe to wake him.
Luckily, she doesn’t have to; as if sensing her gaze, he stirs, looking at her with sleepy eyes. “Good?” He asks, voice muzzy.
“Good,” she replies, running her fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes, leaning into her touch. She chuckles, then slides her hands under his armpits and hauls him up. “Okay, sleepyhead, let’s get you to the car before I have to carry you.”
-
Scully’s Apartment Complex
Washington DC
1130
Mulder sleeps for the entire drive to her apartment. Scully watches him when they’re stopped at red lights, struck again and again by just how soft he looks in sleep. It cuts deep, this innocent look. She's overwhelmed with the need to protect him however she can.
When they pull up outside of her complex, Mulder is still asleep. He snoozes his way through the opening and shutting of her door, then the opening of his own, and her soft, amused, “Mulder, we’re here.”
Ultimately, she doesn’t try too hard to wake him. He needs the rest, and she’s confident that she can carry him to her apartment -- thanks, in no small part, to the complex’s elevator, but also due to her regular workout routine (she’s not a gym rat by any means, but she’d known after their first case together that, one way or another, she’d be carrying his ass out of trouble on a regular basis; so she’d estimated his weight and trained until she could carry it short distances).
She hauls him bodily out of the car and into her arms, grunting with effort as she shifts him into a bridal carry and shuts the car door with her foot.
Her first roadblock comes in the form of the door to her apartment complex; she hadn’t considered how she was going to get it open without any free arms.
She stands there, stumped for a moment, before sending a silent apology to Mulder and putting him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Even this doesn’t wake him, she notes, amused. He must really be out.
The shoulder carry is much easier on her, and she makes it into her apartment with minimal setbacks; however, he is heavy, and she ends up dumping him rather unceremoniously onto her bed when they finally reach it.
“Oof,” he says, waking up as his back hits the bed.
“Sorry,” Scully says, smiling at his ruffled look. “I had to carry you up here, and you were getting heavy.”
Mulder gazes up at her dreamily, as if this happens every day. “Thanks, babe.”
She splutters a little at the pet name, but he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s said it, so she lets it go, pulling him up further into the bed and tucking him in.
He grabs her arm when she gets up to leave. “Wait. Don’t go, please,” he says, giving her those damn puppy-dog eyes.
Scully sighs. Sometimes she thinks she might give him the world if he flashes her that damn look.
She sits back down next to him, and before she knows it, his arms are wrapped around her waist and his face is snuggled into her stomach. “Mulder…” she protests, but runs her fingers through his hair anyway.
He shivers a little and burrows further into her arms. His skin is still superheated to the touch, and Scully can tell his fever hasn’t passed. But she can’t bring herself to disturb him. He’s not dangerously hot; he’ll be okay for now.
She wriggles down further into the bed so his head rests on her shoulder and presses a kiss to his forehead, still running her fingers through his hair.
He blinks up at her, soft and adoring. “Scully?”
“Yeah, Mulder?”
“I love you.”
Her fingers don’t pause. “I know.” Then, because she’s sure he won’t remember the next time he wakes up, “I love you too, Mulder.”