I'm a first year elementary school teacher and I've caught the Head and Chest Cold Plague from Hell that's been going around, and I was wondering--if you take requests!--if you could maybe write a little fic about Scully having the Head and Chest Cold Plague from Hell and Mulder taking care of her? Nothing angsty or sad, ideally; just pure fluff. My heart is too fragile for that, friend.
You’re a hero in my book. I’ve got teachers in my family and any plague teachers get is the Worst. On the other hand, in five or six years, you’ll probably have the immune system of a nurse and germs will go *clang* as they bounce off.
Scully glowered, sunk into the lapels of her emergency sweater like something emerging from a centuries-long slumber. Mulder weighed the remote of his projector in his hand. Between them, light lanced through the air, startling particles of dust.
“We can do this later,” he said.
“Do,” she told him, and sneezed violently. “Do, Bulder. I’b fid.”
“You’re barely speaking English, Scully,” he said. “Take a sick day.”
“I’b fid,” she insisted, gesturing with a handful of tissues. “Iss just cold id here.”
“The thermostat’s on 80,” he told her. “I’ve already taken off my jacket and my tie, Scully. My sleeves are rolled up as high as they can go. If it gets any warmer in here, I’m going to get indecent.”
“Tell be aboud the case,” she insisted.
He leaned down and turned off the project. “I will. At your house. Come on. I’m taking you home.”
“I’b fid!” she said, but then coughed until she had to cover her mouth with the tissues. There was an ugly hacking sound. Mulder turned away as Scully tried to discreetly rid her body of whatever probably semi-sentient gunk had clogged up her lungs and throat. He hoped she didn’t have an alien plague. They were always inconvenient.
“Fid,” she said, sounding miserable. “Tage be hobe, please, Bulder.”
He reached for his keys and just let his fingertips graze the center of her back as they walked out together. They stopped at his favorite deli for the biggest possible container of chicken soup and a loaf of bread; she quarantined herself in the car. She glanced skeptically at him as he handed her the bag. “I’m not eating saltines with this, Scully,” he said, putting the car into gear. “This is the good stuff.”
He served them out heaping bowls at her kitchen table. She sipped and snuffled her way through half of it. Mulder soaked the crust of his bread in the last slosh of broth and leaned back, satisfied, as Scully nibbled on a cracker.
“And now for the grand finale of my slide show,” Mulder said. “The perfect accompaniment to any soup or stew.”
Scully didn’t even try to laugh, but she looked a little bit less strained as she coughed. Mulder put the kettle on and carried a box of tissues to the little end table by the couch. He draped Scully in a blanket and set a steaming cup of mint tea next to her along with a dose of the cough syrup he’d found in her cabineet.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
“Dode threaden be,” she said dourly, but there was a glimmer in her eye.
He went out to the car and brought in the box with the slide projector. He set it up on her coffee table, aimed at one of the walls. He closed the blinds and turned out the lights. The image was blurred on her wall; he fiddled with the lens, adjusting it this way and that. “There’s not enough dust in here, Scully,” he said. “It’s ruining my evidence.”
“Mm,” she said, and he heard the tick as she set the empty cough syrup cup down on the table.
She made it through five slides before her slow blinks turned into slow nods, and her head slipped to her shoulder. He went and wrapped his arms around her, easing her down to the pillow he’d set on the arm of the couch. He could smell the chemical tang of the medicine on her breath, and the heat of her fever, and the faint salt of the soup. She murmured in protest or assent as he settled her gently and neatened the blanket over her.
The dim of her living room was restful. He left the projector on - the whir of it could put an insomniac in a coma - and picked a book from her shelf. He folded himself into her armchair and turned the pages her fingers had turned, listening to the congested hitch of her breathing.
The afternoon slid on like butter melting, and he waited for healing.
