Aches and Pangs

Tesla

Keywords: MSR

Rating: Rx 

Spoilers: After Dreamland 

Summary: Fluff 

Disclaimers: All hail Fox, 1013, and Chris Carter!

Mulder looked up from his "News of the World" one day and watched Scully dunking her teabag into hot water. She stuck her tongue out at the corner of her mouth in concentration, and then looked up at him. He felt as hot as though he was the teabag.

Her mouth uncurled in a grin. "What, was I making a face? My mom always laughs when I make tea, but she won't tell me why."

"You stick your tongue out," he said. He hoped he didn't look as stupid as he felt.

Scully surprised him by laughing. "I got it from her, then. She does it."

But Mulder was dumbstruck, because it had just occurred to him that he was in love. In love with Scully. In love with Scully, whom he had just convinced to go out last night with Danny's new office partner, a man who was working on his Ph.D dissertation.

And here was Scully looking pleased with the world, making little jokes....oh, no. He groaned out loud.

Scully looked up, her brow getting those little lines of concern. "I told you not to eat that pizza from yesterday. I don't think the refrigerator works."

Mulder felt miserable.

"Uh, it's not that. But do you want to go to lunch?"

She smiled. "I have a lunch date, Mulder."

Now his stomach really did hurt.

***************

Mulder went for a walk along the Tidal Basin, not looking at the cherry blossoms. How Japanese of the District people, he usually mused, now we walk and look at the blossoms. This time he just walked, without seeing the flowers.

He walked with his jacket slung over one shoulder, kicking at tiny pebbles and twigs on the sidewalk. Of all the bad timing in the universe, why? Why? Why? Why did he get this revelation after he had spent a week talking Scully into returning this Jim's phone call?

Now his stomach hurt so much he sat down on a park bench, doubled over. Great. An ulcer. No, he wouldn't be lucky enough to have an actual ailment so he could get Scully to doctor him. This was stress indigestion. It had happened before. If he didn't take something, he would get gas, and God knew that was attractive.

What the hell had gotten into him? Some kind of subconscious sabotaging of his happiness? Did his lizard brain really feel better totally alone in his apartment with the fish?

He groaned aloud again, but it was such a comic sound that a passing couple started laughing.

Wonderful. A day when everyone laughed but him. Next thing, Skinner would be cracking jokes in the elevator.

****************

Skinner didn't crack jokes, but the next day, he had Mulder come to a departmental report meeting. Scully was in a terrific mood, sitting there with her foot pat-pat-patting on the floor as if she was hearing wonderful inner melodies. Mulder felt so miserable that he wasn't surprised that Skinner stopped him on his way out of the office.

"All right, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked him.

"Peachy, sir. I'll have those figures for you by the end of the week."

"That's not what I meant, Mulder. Are you all right? You look....sick."

"Indigestion, sir. I'm just too old to be eating hot dogs. Scully's been telling me that for years." He dredged up a smile from somewhere, but it must have been a bad effort, because Skinner almost took a step backwards.

"Well, watch the junk food, then, agent." Hey, what else could the man say? Recommend charcoal tablets?

Mulder went to the vending machines on the second floor and bought some antacids. He was going to have to buy them in bulk, at this rate. Stupid bastard. So what, was he just going to be frozen in this agony? Do something, man. Think of something.

He went back down to the basement, and began looking for some case to take them out of town. Some place with nice hotels and good restaurants, and all the amenities Scully claimed she wanted. Instead of cows crashing into rooftops, or vibrating beds and pizza- delivering vampires. He was so engrossed that when Scully stepped up beside him, he dropped the files. How did she do that?

"You're edgy today. What was Skinner asking you about?"

"He asked me if I felt sick," Mulder said, trying to look pathetic. "And I kind of do."

Excellent. She immediately turned into Doctor Dana, and felt his forehead.

"You're hot," she frowned. "What do you feel like?"

"My stomach hurts," he said. He tried to think of another symptom, but one that wouldn't land him in the emergency room having a bunch of tests done and nurses handing him plastic cups to pee in. "I've got a headache, too."

"There's a lot of stomach flu going around," she frowned. "You should go home, and start drinking a lot of Gatorade. I'll check on you later."

Mulder restrained himself from doing a little happy dance.

So it was really pathetic when he got home, and found himself sweating and having to run to the toilet to be sick. He had at least stocked up the refrigerator, but he didn't have Gatorade. He had Coke. He threw his suit on the bed, and managed to get his shoes off before the Coke came up.

He staggered back and got into bed. So much for playing doctor tonight.

His cell phone rang. "Mulder."

"What's happening, Mulder?" asked Scully.

He wanted to say, I'm trapped in an episode of "Friends", Scully, and I'm a bad combination of Ross and Chandler.

"It's all bad, Scully," he said. "It's the stomach thing. I'm in bed."

"Do you want me to bring you anything?"

"NO," he almost shouted, and his stomach lurched alarmingly. "No," he repeated, more calmly. "I'm in bed. I have Coke and saltines."

"Well, I'll check with you after dinner," she said. "I'm having dinner in Alexandria tonight."

"Okay," he said, and turned off his phone. Oh, good, she had another date. He was sweaty and smelled of vomit. Excellent. He turned the television on to ESPN, and went uneasily to sleep.

He smelled Scully before he opened his eyes. "Mulder," she said, sitting gingerly on the side of the bed and removing the remote from his hand. "I've never seen you this bad." She had changed her shoes from her plain pumps to strappy sandals and taken off her jacket. She had sprayed on more cologne than she usually wore. He shivered, his teeth chattering. He felt her cool hands on his face. "Maybe I should stay here tonight."

Oh, good. Now she'd hold his head while he threw up. That should seduce her. "You'll get sick," he muttered, unable to meet her eyes.

"I got my flu shot," she said, letting go of him and standing up. "Let me make you more comfortable." (He felt so awful, that he didn't think of a double entendre until three days later.) She shoved back the blankets and began straightening the sheets and unsquashing the pillows. She pulled the covers back over him, up to his chin. She smelled delicious. He lay there, looking up at her like some pathetic wimp. Which he was.

"How was your date?" he asked stupidly.

She smiled. "Okay, Mulder. It was dinner. We ate." She looked over her shoulder. "Do you need sports on?"

"It keeps my mind off my stomach," he said. "That's why I listen to talk shows in the car. I get carsick when I don't drive."

"You liar, Mulder!"

"Yes, I do. Don't make me think about cars," he groaned. She put her hands on her hips and studied him.

"You're definitely feverish," she said. "I'm going to bring you a little Coke."

She took forever; when she returned, she had raided his laundry basket. He was glad he had finally started using the "Wash 'n' Fold", because she was wearing a pair of his sweatpants, pants cuffs rolled up, topped by one of his flannel shirts. She was carrying a small glass of warm Coke for him and a large, iced glass for herself. God.

Somebody up there hated him, to present him with a delicious Scully dressed in his clothes, prepared to spend the night with him, and yet he had to keep from throwing up into his blankets. He didn't have the strength to fight her for the remote. And his mouth tasted sour. His breath must be awful.

Incredibly, she curled herself at his side, tucking red-polished toes neatly under her crossed legs.

Kill me now, Lord, Mulder begged. Stop torturing me.

"I think if you watch something boring, yet annoying, you'll go to sleep," she said.

"No," he said weakly. "I thought we were friends."

"We are, Mulder. That's why I'm putting it on Lifetime."

But she was right. He lay on his side, lulled by the murmurs of women telling each other secrets and bonding, and went into a half- doze. That must be why he dreamed Scully was stroking his hair back from his face, why she propped herself up beside him and put her feet under the blankets, why she slid cool fingers inside the neck of his shirt to feel his pulse.

And because it was a dream, he relaxed back against her, nudging her hip with his butt. When the movie was over, Scully leaned over him, checking his breathing, and he felt the soft bump of her breasts on his upper arm. If he had been awake, he would have done something, anything, when Scully kissed the side of his jaw, before turning off the light.

It was all a dream, because when he woke up, she was gone, and even the glasses of Coke were gone, and the television was back on ESPN.

But his sheets smelled of her cologne.

******************

Scully was amused at the situation. Here she was, in Mulder's bed, and it was like a girls' sleepover, complete with Lifetime Channel. She didn't really like it that much, but it had a tremendous soporific effect on her.

What was bothering her was how sensual she felt, wearing Mulder's clothes. His old flannel shirt and sweatpants were soft from age and washing, but smelled wonderfully clean.

Mulder snuffled in his sleep, his statement reminding her of one of her nephews at the end of a long day. But then again, not really. Her nephew didn't have violet shadows under his eyes, or a growth of beard. Poor Jimmy, as interesting as his thesis had been, and as sweet and attentive he had been, couldn't generate one tenth of Mulder's sexiness.

She almost jumped. Yes, he was still sexy, even feverish and miserable and making noises in his sleep. He had snuggled up to her side, and his butt---God, even his butt was toned---rested against her hip. It was endearing.

She leaned over him to check his fever and his pulse. He stirred slightly, but didn't wake up. She allowed herself the luxury of running her fingers across his throat, then lightly kissed him below his ear. God, she felt guilty for enjoying it when he was ill. It was the only time he dropped his guard around her, the only time he let her take care of him.

She turned off the television, and was reaching for the light, when she saw the mirrored ceiling. Whoa. She felt a surge of heat between her thighs.

Somehow, even if she got the flu, she had to wangle another night in Mulder's bed. She had to.

**************

Mulder was mistaken that Scully was gone for the day.

He heard the scrape of a key in the lock, and she was back, laden with groceries in plastic bags. "Don't get up," she called.

He wished she had suggested that before he got dizzy and crashed onto his carpet. He was on his hands and knees, picking himself up, and he saw her feet, incongruous in strappy sandals below....she was still wearing his sweatpants, rolled up.

"Get back in bed," she ordered, and what could he do but snort.

"Why, Scully, I never knew you felt---" she grabbed his collar and began pulling him up. He hastily lost the smirk, and obediently crawled back into bed. She settled the blankets around him, satisfied.

"That's better. I have my laptop, and I have you out on another sick day."

"Scully, I feel a lot better," he said weakly. "I gotta go to the bathroom, okay? Brush my teeth."

"You're going to have another full day of bedrest, if I have to stay in here with you," she said. Was she really making these suggestive remarks? It wasn't like her. She was sitting on the foot of the bed waiting for him, while he staggered into the bath and managed to pee, wash his face, and brush his teeth. Important not to mix up the order of those events, he told himself. Shut up, he thought.

She was still sitting there when he came back to bed.

Go with it, Mulder. "I feel kind of dizzy," he said, shutting his eyes for a moment. "Could I have another Coke?"

"Sure, Mulder. I'm going to make some soup later. I know you don't eat breakfast, but I think you should have some soup. .I left the television on your sports channel." She bustled out, radiating efficiency.

Bedside manner definitely improving there, Scully, Mulder thought, pulling the pillow up behind his neck. What made it worse, though, was that she was right. He felt drained, just from getting out of bed. But if she came back and got in bed with him with those cherry- red toenails, and started crawling on him, he thought he could muster some strength. Surely, she knew what she was doing, didn't she? Didn't she? It was kind of deflating.

By the time Scully returned with their glasses, he had decided that she felt a sisterly/doctorly affection for him. He was just old buddy Mulder. Like those married couples that were more like roommates than lovers.

She had kicked off the shoes and was walking around with her bare feet and that pedicure. She was carrying two glasses, and some clothes under her arm. "I think you should change clothes, Mulder," she said briskly.

He clutched the covers to his chin, like a maiden aunt. "What?" he squeaked.

"Well, you can't be comfortable," she said, putting the glasses on the bedside table, and clambering in bed. She held up another pair of pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved tee-shirt. "How about just the shirt?" she said dulcetly.

He sat up, cautiously, and pulled his shirt off his head. Scully was holding up the other shirt, her face so close to his that he couldn't stand it.

"Scully," he said huskily, "don't---"

He could hardly believe it, but she had a gleam in her eye. "Don't what, Mulder?" she whispered, inching closer to him, the shirt in one hand.

"Don't whisper," he said, whispering himself. "I---you---oh, hell." Carefully, to give her time to reconsider, he leaned forward and kissed her. She slid both of her hands up his chest and around his neck, and he shivered as they kissed.

"You're cold," she said, and let go of him to get under the covers. She had unbuttoned her--his--shirt, and he saw a flash of her breasts.

That did it, and he rolled over on top of her; she spread her legs so

he could lie between them. "Jesus," he said, kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, her neck. And it was Scully, his Scully, not some fantasy in the middle of the night, arching her back and pulling off her pants....pulling off her pants! so he could touch her heat. When she felt his hand between her legs, she groaned, and writhed.

"God, Mulder," she said, through clenched teeth, "right there, right there," and he opened his eyes to see her staring up past him, at their reflections in the mirrors. Her eyes were bright and she had spots of color high on her cheeks.

"Do you like seeing that?" he murmured into her ear, wriggling out of his pants. She groaned, and he put an exploratory finger between her lips. God. She was ready. "Watch us, Scully," he said, "Watch me inside you," and guided himself inside her. Incredibly, Scully sucked in her breath in a long gasp, and grabbed his shoulders and came; and her climax made Mulder come.

Well, he had been sick, he thought, when he could think. He raised his head, to see Scully smiling at their reflections. 

She caught his eyes in the mirror. "Mulder, you just keep unfolding like a flower."

Mulder didn't try to explain about the mirror. There were other things he could do with his time. 

And he did them.