Author: spookycc

Rating: PG-13, same as on the tube

Classification: V A SDF

Summary: PWP w/o sex <g> First Person Scully POV

Spoilers: Generally for US Season 8

Disclaimer: No characters, human or canine, are mine. <g> And no dogs were harmed in the making of this fanfic. :)

Timeline: Sometime during the search for Mulder

Feedback welcomed at spookycc@earthlink.net

Written as part of the series: Chicken Soup for the SHODDS soul

This is spookycc’s portion – dedicated, as are all portions, to our fearless leader, DB.
 

*****
 

I’ve been waiting in the coffee shop, for want of a better term, of this dumpy motel for about twenty minutes. I know this, having just looked at my watch for about the twentieth time in that period. Agent Doggett should have been down here by now.

I try his cell phone, for the second time. It rings, but as before, there is no answer. Something is niggling at the back of my mind, and I throw a couple dollars on the table to cover the coffee – they should have paid me to drink it.

My knocks on Agent Doggett’s door go unanswered. Becoming more alarmed than annoyed now, I catch the maid with her cart in the hall, and tell her I lost my key. She unlocks his door for me, and I nod, dismissing her.

Closing the door immediately behind me, I reach over and flip on the light switch. Before me, on the double bed, in a tangle of bed-sheets and blankets, my partner lies face down, motionless. I cross the space between us, and roll him gently over onto his back. A muffled groan greets my ears.

I reach down, and tap him gently on his cheek. “Agent Doggett.”

No response, other than another grumble.

I slap him a bit harder this time. “Agent Doggett!”

His eyes fly open, and a strong hand closes around my wrist.

“It’s ok, Agent Doggett – it’s me, Scully.”

His hand releases my arm immediately, and falls limply back atop the blankets. He closes his eyes once more.

I lay a hand on his forehead – he’s burning up. His spiky hair is slick with sweat, and he opens his eyes again. Their color is different – now but a pale glimmer of their normal intense steel blue.

“Agent Doggett, can you hear me?” He nods, but does not speak. A sigh escapes his lips, and he runs a tongue tentatively across them. I bring him a cup of water from the bathroom. I tip it gently while he takes a few sips, letting my hand slide beneath his head, to support it. I can feel the heat radiating from the skin of his neck, and the muscles are tightly knotted.

He raises a hand – he’s had enough to drink – and I let him rest against the pillows once more. Making another trip to the suite’s bathroom, I dampen washcloths with cool water, and bring them back to his bed.

I move the rumpled blankets to sit beside him, and lay a washcloth gently across his forehead. His eyes open once more. They look infinitely tired.

“What’sa matter with me?” his words are slurred.

“I don’t know. You’ve got a high fever. Are you experiencing any pain?”

He tests his limbs tentatively, then shakes his head. “No. Kinda achy, but no major pain.”

“Do you remember what happened before you went to bed? Did you feel sick?”

“No.”

I rule out food poisoning, since we ate the same greasy hamburgers last night, and I’m not sick – at least not yet.

“I guess it could be the flu. It seems to be going around.”

As if on cue, he clutches his stomach with a hand. He nods at me to move, and I get out of his way as me makes a beeline for the bathroom.

I flip the TV on – we’ve never been on a case when either of us was sick before, and I think it’ll make us both more comfortable if I drown out the noises coming from the bathroom. God knows I’ve spent enough mornings worshipping the porcelain throne. I shake my head to rid it of those thoughts.

After a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the morning news show on the TV. I step to the bathroom door, and tap on it lightly.

“Agent Doggett? You ok in there?”

There is no response. Hesitantly, I tap on the door again, still hearing nothing. Finally I open the door, just a crack.

Doggett has rocked back on his heels, and he’s leaning against the bathroom wall, head back, eyes shut, grabbing great greedy gulps of air.

“Hey – you ok?”

He realizes that I’m in the room, and is instantly embarrassed.  “Yeah - I’m ok, Agent Scully. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Does this man ever think of himself? “Agent Doggett, you’re sick. This is nothing you have any control over. Let me help you back to bed.”

A comment like that made to Mulder, sick or not, would bring some type of witty remark or lewd suggestion, but Doggett just nods. I slide my hands under his arms, and help him to his feet. He wobbles unsteadily, and I wrap an arm around his waist to steady him. As a doctor, I’m detachedly noting the symptoms of whatever ails my partner. As a woman, I can’t help but notice how well muscled the body beside me is.

Doggett leans as little weight on me as he can. I’m glad he accepts whatever help I can offer – he’s secure in himself, without the emotional baggage that I’m accustomed to dealing with.

We make our way slowly back into the bedroom of the tiny suite, and I sit him down on the side of his bed. He is unsettled. “What about that lead on Mulder? Did you get a chance to check up on it?”

I shake my head. “It was a dead-end. Agent Doggett, you need to lie down and rest.”

He heaves a huge sigh, and allows me to guide his head toward the pillows, my hand behind his neck. He’s too damned hot. I settle him in, and he is as comfortable as he is going to get without OTC meds. I check the yellow pages in the desk and find a nearby pharmacy.

“Agent Doggett, I’m gonna run out and get something for you, ok?”

No response. He’s fallen into a fitful, fever-induced sleep.  I take his room key from the nightstand, and let myself out.

****

I’m back within an hour, and Agent Doggett is just as I left him. I set the bag of cold and flu remedies on the nightstand, and throw my coat on the chair by the door.

I almost hate to wake him, because he certainly looks more comfortable now, when he’s sleeping, but I need to get something in him to bring his fever down. I rest a hand on his shoulder. “Agent Doggett?”

He opens sleepy, dazed eyes. “Agent Scully?”

“It’s ok – I just brought you some medicine. I want to try and get that fever down, ok?”

He nods, half-heartedly. I’m sure he doesn’t really care what I’ve brought, but he sits up a bit, so he can just get it over with. At least he doesn’t fight tooth and nail against taking meds, like Mulder always did. Like Mulder always does, I correct myself. I lay a couple of extra-strength Tylenol into his hand, and he throws them in his mouth and swallows before I can hand him the cup.

I smile a bit, and he shrugs. “Haven’t always had water handy when I had to take meds before. It’s a reflex now.”

I nod thoughtfully, unbidden visions of Marines in battle invading my mind. I mix a cup of Thera-Flu and water to stick in the microwave. When it’s ready, he accepts it meekly, and wraps both hands around the cup, draining it in two gulps.

I take the empty cup and lay it aside, grabbing a washcloth and re-cooling it in the bathroom sink. That done, I pull a chair over beside his bed. I fuss over him – I’ll admit that only to myself – and settle him back into his cocoon of sheets and blankets. I lay a hand on his forehead again – still hot, but the meds haven’t had time enough to help with the fever, not yet. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply.

Before I place the newly dampened washcloth on his forehead, I take a moment to look at my partner. I haven’t really done that, not much. Never allowed myself to, I guess.

Relieved of their usual tense facial expressions, the lines in his brow even out and almost disappear completely. He looks younger than his 41 years – I remember his birth year from my foray into the FBI database after he was assigned as Kersh’s bitch.

How wrong was I about that, as well? I thought I had this man pegged, right from the cup of water. Instead, I seemed to have watered a seed of concern that has only grown stronger, during our search for Mulder.

Our search for Mulder. It is ours. What was once my search, this man has made his own. No one asked him to take on the FBI, protocol and Kersh, in trying to “do the damned job”, as Agent Doggett would say himself. But he did. His selflessness amazes me, perplexes me, inspires me.

Blinking back the first of stinging tears, happy tears for once, I lay the washcloth gently on his forehead. He opens his eyes, and looks into mine. The smallest of smiles tries to etch its way onto his tired features. “Thanks.”

I smile in return, at this man who I once thought would be “the big bad wolf”. “You’re welcome. Get some rest.”

He nods, and his eyes slip closed once more. I find a comfortable position in the chair, to watch him, to watch over him. It’s the least I can do. As soon as his fever drops below 100 degrees, he’ll be pacing and fretting over each new clue to Mulder’s whereabouts, each lead, however unlikely.

For now, though, he lies quietly, like a child, weak as a Rottie pup. It took quite an illness to reduce him to sleeping when he would normally be working, searching…

I guess even Superman had his kryptonite.

~fini~
 

Author’s notes: I’m not a doctor or a pharmacist – so the meds Scully gave to Doggett may not even be mixable. Don’t take these meds in conjunction with each other at home, before reading label instructions. <g>

Feedback welcomed at spookycc@earthlink.net