Title: The Feh in Fa-La-La
Author: Gina Rain ginarain@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.