Work Text:
Scully woke up with a headache that started out dull and quickly turned throbbing when she crawled, a little dazedly, out of bed. It seemed even just the act of standing in place was enough to make her head feel like it was being painfully jostled. The light pouring in from her windows was trying to kill her. The scent of her lemon hibiscus hand soap had crossed the line from mildly unpleasant all the way into ontologically evil. It was going to be one of those days.
She downed four ibuprofen with her morning glass of water and allowed herself two minutes with an ice pack pressed to her head before it was time to get going. In the parking garage, she permitted herself an additional blissful five minutes with her face buried in her jacket, blocking out all light. In a better world, she could've stayed there all day. In a truly perfect world, she would never need to subject herself to the torturous cruelties of light ever again. But unfortunately, she lived in this world, and she had work today.
By the time she made it to the entrance of the Hoover building, she'd fully collected herself, her mask of professionalism firmly in place. She planned on keeping her migraine a secret from her colleagues. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to realize something was wrong and ask her if she was okay. She was running on pure momentum right now, and being halted in her tracks with an "aww, you poor thing" might be enough to send her crashing back down to the ground altogether. Besides, she didn't need anyone questioning her ability to do her job, not for any reason. It was a slippery slope from "Give some extra grace to Agent Scully today, she has a migraine" to "We must watch out for the female agent's Delicate and Feminine Constitution while she does the Dangerous and Unclean Man's Work."
Scully made it through the entrance, to the elevator, and down to the basement with no one looking at her strange or asking her what was wrong, and she'd even successfully said all the necessary good mornings to the right people. By the time she was opening the door to the basement office, she almost felt normal again, having gotten herself properly accustomed to putting on a straight face and ignoring the pain. There was nothing like faking it until you made it.
The final obstacle was Fox Mulder. But her odds were good of escaping his notice; he could be so oblivious sometimes. Of course, if he knew she was in pain, he'd make a bigger fuss about it than anyone else would, but he'd have to look up from his blurry photographs of so-called "UFOs" long enough to notice.
When she walked through the basement door, the first thing that came out of his mouth was, "Scully, are you feeling okay? You're holding yourself weird."
She paused on the threshold, feeling wrong-footed. He wasn't supposed to say that; this wasn't how she'd rehearsed this interaction. "I'm fine," she said, a good long moment after someone who was actually fine would have said it.
He stood up and walked over to her, grabbing onto her face as if he meant to check her for head injuries, but the minute he'd tipped her chin up to get a better look, she was hit with a flash of hot breath hot hands too much touch toomuchtoomuchtoomuch so intense that she jolted away from him. She let out an involuntary whimper as the movement caused another wave of throbbing pain in her skull. Mulder backed off immediately, lifting his hands up in the universal "I'm innocent" sign.
Scully stared at him for a second as the wave subsided. The jig was up. "I have a minor migraine," she admitted begrudgingly.
Mulder had his hand on the small of her back and was gently shepherding her out the door before she even saw him move—not that her vision was particularly sharp or even all that decipherable today. He had the good sense to stand further away than he usually did when he pulled this maneuver, having apparently noticed that having another human being in her personal space was currently akin to severe torture for her (even if it was only Mulder.) "You're gonna go home and take a hot bath and rest in the dark," he said, his tone brooking no room for argument.
"I want to stay," Scully said. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded small and childish, like a kid trailing after Bill and his friends again, begging for them to take her on their adventures. But she just couldn't help herself. "You said we have a new case to work."
"It can wait," Mulder said firmly. "I'll call you if it looks like anyone's gonna get murdered or abducted or turned into a vampire, but it's non-urgent right now. You're taking the rest of the day off, and I'm staying behind to get ahead on paperwork."
"You are not," she said disbelievingly. "You hate paperwork."
"And you hate taking sick days," Mulder said. "We're both getting out of our comfort zones today."
"You really won't go off investigating without me?" Scully's eyes were falling shut as he guided her out the door.
"Promise," he said. "Case'll still be here when you're better."
Surely this was too good to be true. "You'd be lost going off without me, anyway," she reminded him, just to be sure he didn't get any ideas.
"Of course," he said, sincere and earnest where Scully had been half-joking. "I'll see you tomorrow, Scully, okay?"
And then the basement door was shut behind her and she was picking her way back to the elevator, her head full of thoughts of hot baths and peaceful quiet and no one at all to bother her. He'd probably call her in a couple hours when he was bored out of his mind and needed someone to listen to him ramble on about aliens, of course. But strangely, she was almost looking forward to it.