Hi I’m the elementary school teacher tumblr who requested sick!scully fic last year & also told you about jack-o-lantern roast & my 4th graders got me sick & it turned into an inner ear infection & bronchitis & it’s my spring break & I’m v grumpy about it & all of this is to say you’re one of my top 3 favorite fic writers ever {not counting my girlfriend of course} & if you have the time/inclination I would kindof love a mulder caring for sick!scully fic & sorry this is so wordy & yeah I’m done
“I hate your house,” Mulder said. He jabbed his finger at the keypad of the security system, 0223 over and over. The alarm was still shrieking.
“The feeling seems mutual,” Scully said down the hall, and then coughed.
“What’s the code?” Mulder asked.
“My birthday,” Scully said. “I know you don’t remember it every year.”
“February 23rd,” Mulder said. “0223. Just because I never bought you presents doesn’t mean I didn’t remember.”
“Remembering without acknowledging doesn’t count,” Scully said. She appeared in the open door of her bedroom, wrapped in a thin jersey robe, and shuffled down the hall in her fleecy slippers. She stretched up to punch in the code: 0223. The alarm cut out abruptly, leaving a faint ringing in Mulder’s ears.
“That’s what I did,” he protested.
“Maybe you didn’t do it right,” she said.
“I did it exactly the way you did it,” he insisted. “Your house is wrong.”
“I honestly don’t know why I let them talk me into the security system,” she said. “Leftover paranoia, I suppose. Not that any security ever stopped anything bad from happening back then.”
“Now it’s the security system itself you have to worry about,” he said.
“Undertipped any killer robots lately?” Scully teased, then coughed again.
“No,” Mulder said. “Say what you will, Scully, but I don’t make the same mistake twice if it’s going to get me murdered.”
“That’s not even a little bit true,” she said in a raspy voice.
“You want some tea?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “No. It’s too hot. I hate spring colds.” She sighed. “Yes.”
He went into the kitchen and turned on the electric kettle. She had a box of teabags on the counter. He looked through them, something about the way they fell forward under his fingertips bringing back summers in the library, flipping through the cards in the card catalog as Sam clamored for more ghost stories. Memory was a city with no urban planning whose streets never led to the same place twice. He flicked through the entire box of tea.
“Green? Echinacea? Peppermint? Something called Breathe Easy?” he offered.
“Peppermint,” she said. “At least there’s something cool about it.” He glanced into the living room. She was curled up on the couch, looking miserable.
“Coming right up,” he said. He ripped open the pouch and put the teabag in one of the mugs he knew she liked.
The water in the kettle sounded like a storm. He poured it into the mug, the mint leaves instantly staining the water a pale amber. He carried it into the living room, picking up a bottle of cold medicine on the way. Scully made a face, but poured herself a dose and slugged it back. He took the little cup from her and handed her the mug of tea. She pulled the sleeves of her robes over her hands and cupped the mug between her palms. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her gently against him. She sighed.
“Better?” he said.
“Better,” she said. She closed her eyes. “I should have gotten an audiobook or something.”
“We have podcasts now, Scully,” he joked.
“Well, then, put one on,” she said without opening her eyes.
Mulder thumbed his phone on, scrolled through his apps, and hit play. “A small desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep,” said a low soothing voice. “Welcome to Night Vale.”
“Hmm,” Scully said, but she didn’t move except to raise the tea to her lips and blow on it. They sat together on the couch, half-hypnotized, Scully occasionally sipping at her tea.
“Mulder?” she said drowsily as the ending credits played. “I hate this house too. I thought it would feel clean, but it just feels sterile. And I don’t know why there’s a fish pond under the sidewalk. I wanted a change and this felt like a change, but it doesn’t feel like a home..”
“Well, if you want to get rid of it, I have a extra room if you need to crash,” he said.
“Maybe we could get a new place,” she said. “One that feels like both of us.”
“I’ve heard more extreme possibilities,” he said.
“When I’m over this cold,” she said. “We can start looking.”
“I’d like that,” he said. He took the empty mug from her and set it on the table.
“Is there more of the podcast?” she asked, nestling into his side.
“There is,” he said, and let the story spin out.