Synopsis: Scully drops in on Mulder, who has come down with the
          flu.  Rated G.

jsmichel@io.org
95-03-25
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                    ***  Care Package  ***
 

     Dana tapped lightly on the door.  "Mulder?"  she called
softly.

     Nothing but the muted sounds of a television.  Maybe,
miracle of miracles, he was actually asleep...  She shifted the
plastic grocery bag to her left hand, fished a key from the inner
pocket of her trenchcoat, then quietly unlocked the door.

     The light from the hall illuminated the apartment for a
brief moment, then receded as she closed the door behind her.
The air was stuffy and warm, and had the distinct, familiar scent
of... of Mulder.   There was no other way to describe it.  Not
cologne, not aftershave.  Something earthy.  It conjured images
of sleepy stake-outs, of late-night brainstorms in small-town
motels, of cramped airplanes delayed for landing yet again...
Trying situations, made more bearable by his presence.  It was a
comforting scent.

     Dana allowed a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the
gloom.  The flickering TV screen, with some help from the fish
tank, cast a faint glow on the sea of crumpled newspaper which
littered the floor.  She puzzled over the mess for an instant,
then gave up; any explanation her brain concocted could never do
justice to whatever bizarre activity he'd been up to.

     Dana waded through the ankle-deep flood of paper balls and
set the shopping bag down on the living room table.  She glanced
curiously at the television -- passionate moans and tangled limbs
-- then turned her attention to the couch where a rumpled form
was nestled,  VCR remote clutched possessively against a white T-
shirt.

     She'd noticed that his youthful innocence was especially
pronounced when he slept.  Hard to believe that the mind behind
those gentle features had penetrated the psyche of some of the
nation's most violent killers.  He looks like a little boy, she
sighed in silent amusement.  A thirty-four-year-old little boy
who snuck out of bed to watch the late show and fell asleep
before the first commercial.

     Mulder grunted, shifting slightly, and she reached out to
rest her fingers on his cheek:  still on the warm side, but a
marked improvement since her last visit.

     Eyes still shut, Mulder croaked a reproach.  "It's Friday
night, Scully.  Don't you have a life?"

     Dana forced herself to repress a smile at the old mocking
taunt.  "Obviously my mother doesn't think so," she replied
quietly.  "She figures I've got nothing better to do than
delivering her care packages."

     Mulder opened his eyes, blinking dazedly before spotting the
grocery bag on the table.  "She's spoiling me.  How can I go back
to my rugged bachelor cooking after this?"

     Again she stifled the urge to smile.  "Mulder, tearing open
a pack of sunflower seeds with your teeth may be rugged but it's
hardly cooking."

     Mulder gave a sheepish grin, then closed his eyes with a
sigh.  "She shouldn't be going to so much trouble.  It's not like
I've been keeping very much down anyways.  It's an insult to her
cooking."

     Dana eyed him sympathetically.  He was rarely sick, but
somehow he'd been hit hard by the flu that was going around. She
suspected his defense system was still weakened from that
retrovirus.  He'd been off work for over a week now, his longest
non-injury-related absence at the Bureau.  No sunflower seeds for
this boy for a while...

          *              *              *              *

     Dana had ordered him home on Thursday of the previous week.
Leave it to Mulder to come to work with a fever of 102.  She'd
dropped by on Saturday afternoon to check on him, see if he
needed anything.  He'd insisted he was fine, told her to go home,
but he'd looked rather green.  Soon she'd found herself sitting
on the edge of the tub, gently holding his head while he heaved
the contents of his stomach:  pepperoni pizza and what appeared
to be several bags of undigested sunflower seeds.

     Pizza and seeds!  The doctor in her had been appalled.  But,
slumped wearily against the toilet bowl, eyes closed, forehead
drenched with sweat, he'd looked so miserable she hadn't had the
heart to chew him out.  She'd settled for a disbelieving shake of
the head, remarking quietly,  "Pizza, Mulder?  You've got the flu
-- ever heard of taking it easy?"

     "I *was* taking it easy," he'd mumbled, his face pressed
against the cool porcelain.  "What could be easier than pizza?
You pick up the phone... describe what you want... and then..."
he'd paused, smiling weakly, "...and then it shows up on your
doorstep... I just doesn't get any easier than that, Scully."

     She'd simply sighed and brushed the damp strands of hair off
his forehead.  After he'd rinsed his face and mouth she'd guided
him back to "bed" on the couch and then had slipped into the
kitchen to do a quick inventory of his cupboards.

     The search had resulted in an exasperated dash to the corner
Qwik-Mart, and Margaret Scully's care packages had started
arriving two days later.
 

          *              *              *              *
 

     "How're you feeling?" she asked him, carefully ignoring his
hint that her mother was going to too much trouble for him.

     "Better.  Bored, mostly," Mulder replied glumly.  He
scratched his stubble-covered chin.

     Since the Duane Barry incident her mother asked Dana about
"Fox" whenever they spoke.  Mrs. Scully certainly never pried,
barely even hinted, but Dana detected heartfelt emotion beneath
the casual inquiries.  Whatever had transpired between her mother
and her partner, it was obvious that Mulder had earned the
woman's respect.

     Respect.  That was all there was to these care packages, of
course, but Dana could see how it easily could be misconstrued.
She hoped Mulder didn't suspect her mother of ulterior motives.

     Dana glanced casually at the wads of newspaper strewn about
the floor.  "Redecorating, huh?  Nice job."

     "One-on-one.  Mulder vs. Mulder.  You missed some great
action, Scully."  Without moving from the couch he reached for a
sheet of newspaper from the stack at his side, crumpled it up and
tossed it expertly towards an overflowing wastepaper basket
across the room.  It bounced off the summit, creating a small
avalanche of paper balls. "Shame you weren't here, we could've
used a cheerleader."  He gave her his best comical leer.

     Straight-faced, Dana turned to the TV.  "Sorry Mulder, I
retired my pompoms at the end of junior-high."  Of course,
basketball.  Now why didn't I figure that one out?

     Naked, gasping bodies writhed on the screen.  "Another
Oscar-winner, I see," she remarked in a neutral tone.

     "Yeah well, you missed the best part."  He sat up stiffly to
give her some room on the couch, dropping the VCR remote in the
process.  It clattered to the floor.  Dana bent to pick it up,
then sat back, arms folded across her chest.  She watched the
scene for a moment.  She could feel Mulder's amused gaze and
stubbornly refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

     "You want me to rewind, or should I just fill you in on what
happened so far?"  he asked, his voice laced with humour.

     She glanced at him, allowing herself a smile at last.  "I
think I can figure it out, thanks."

     Mulder nodded sagely, eyes twinkling, and gazed back at the
screen.  There followed a comfortable silence.  Too comfortable,
she realized after a minute, considering she was sitting next to
Mulder in a darkened room watching Fabio and Bubbles frolicking
in glorious technicolor.

     "You hungry?" she asked, moving away from his warmth and
reaching for the grocery bag.

     "Well, maybe a little."  Again, the innocent-little-boy
look.  It worked like a charm, though as far as she could tell he
wasn't even aware he was doing it; he tried so hard to be tough.
But with a face like that...

     She pulled a Tupperware container from the bag, examined it.
"How about some carrot soup?  Pre-blended, no chewing required."
It was one of her mother's "flu-time" specialties.

     "Sure.  You gonna join me?"  He took the container from her
and began wobbling to his feet.   Dana pushed him back down,
gently.

     "I'll get it.  Watch your movie."  She took back the
container, carrying it and the grocery bag into the tiny kitchen.

     Strange, what Mulder could get away with.  Any other guy who
collected porn videos and skin magazines might've come across
as... As what?  she asked herself.  Pathetic?  Perverted?  No,
too harsh.  Don't be such a prude, Dana.  Adolescent, maybe?
Repressed?

     Well, she wasn't sure what, exactly, but whatever it was,
for some reason it just didn't seem to apply to Mulder.  Maybe
because he was so completely casual about it.  He betrayed no
hint of embarrassment, made no attempt at concealment.

     Dana spooned some of the soup into a bowl and stuck it in
the microwave, then began putting the contents of the grocery bag
into the refrigerator.

     It would've been rather more disturbing if she'd stumbled
across his cache of videos carefully hidden in a paper bag behind
a filing cabinet.  Or if she'd walked in to find him nervously
tucking a magazine centerfold back between the pages of some
technical journal.  But there was no camouflage, no guilty look
when discovered, no stammered excuses unless meant in jest.  He
trusted her not to judge him.  It was refreshingly honest, she
had to admit.  It was even appealing, in a Mulderish sort of way.

     It was also, she'd discovered, his own unique attempt at
trying to elicit a reaction from her.  Growing up with brothers,
she'd had plenty of opportunity to perfect the "impassive look"
but Mulder seemed undeterred by it.  He  apparently enjoyed the
futile challenge of trying to get her riled, or shocked.  Or
amused, or pissed, or... or something.

     Some of it might even be considered flirting.  Or testing
the waters, maybe?  She shook the dangerous thought away.  No,
no.  Not something either of them could afford to consider, she
reminded herself firmly as she stored the last of her mother's
containers in the fridge.  Time to change gears, Dana, lose this
train of thought.

     He would've made a terrific older brother.  Then the sad
flash of rememberance struck: he *was* an older brother.  Or at
least, he *had* been...

     The microwave beeped.

     Dana was stirring the warmed soup when Mulder shuffled into
the kitchen in his socks...  Fox in socks, the words sprang to
her mind.  She smiled at the ancient rhyme, bit her lip.

     "What're you doing up?"  she chided gently.  "Get back
there, I'll bring it out to you."  He looked lost.  His hair
stuck out at crazy angles.

     "No, I'm okay," he insisted, squinting in the relative
brightness of the kitchen.  "I could use the change of scenery."
His black sweatpants hung loosely on his hips and he absently
hitched them up; he'd lost weight.

     "Movie over already?"

     Mulder shook his head, looking sheepish.  "I know how it
ends."  He sat down rather clumsily.  Dana placed the bowl and
spoon before him and took the opposite seat.  He picked up the
spoon, raised a questioning eyebrow.  "Aren't you having any?"

     She shook her head.  "I already ate.  Careful, it's hot..."
she warned as he burned his tongue with a soft "Ow!" and a
grimace.

     Dana watched him stir the soup a bit as he waited for it to
cool.  During his fight for life against the retrovirus he'd had
no visitors.  Nobody.  No family, no one from the Bureau, nobody.
Understandable perhaps while he was still in Alaska; less so once
he'd been transported back to Washington.  In Alaska, with Mulder
unconscious and in critical condition, she'd tried to reach his
father, listed as next-of-kin in his Bureau record.  No one home,
just an answering machine.  She'd left a message.  Nobody had
called back.  She'd called again.  Nothing.

     She hadn't tried a third time.  She'd made no mention of it
to Mulder, and he hadn't asked.  Once again she'd been saddened
by the fact that he appeared completely alone.  The words often
came back to her:  <<I still have my work...  I still have you...
I still have myself...>>

     "Scully?"  Mulder was smiling inquisitively, spoon suspended
halfway to his mouth.

     She blinked, realizing she'd been staring blankly.  "Hmmm?
Sorry, just thinking."

     He eyed her for a long moment, then looked down at his soup.
"You look tired, Scully.  You should go home.  Don't ruin your
evening on account of me."  He stirred the orange liquid,
swallowed another spoonful.

     She knew him better than that.  He was speaking the words,
but they lacked conviction.  "You trying to get rid of me,
Mulder?"

     He looked back up at her, shook his head with an almost
embarrassed smile.  I'm glad you're here, his expression answered
her plainly.  Then he averted his eyes.  "Your mom's a great
cook," he said instead.

     "I'll tell her you said so."  Dana looked down at the
nearly-empty bowl.  "You want a bit more?"

     He nodded, and she rose to heat up a second serving.  Then
they talked casually about work as she watched him eat.
 

          *              *              *              *
 

     She sat with him for a while on the couch, watching one of
those B-grade horror things he had a talent for finding among the
scores of cable channels.  She kept a safe distance, but again
his presence was a very comfortable feeling, and instead of
dwelling on it this time she just absorbed it, let it flow.  No
need to analyze everything to death.

     Eventually Mulder's head tipped back, eyes closed, his
breathing quiet and steady.  Dana noted with relief that he had
managed to keep the soup down and he was definitely looking
better, though still pale even for Mulder.  She was glad tomorrow
was Saturday.  He wasn't quite ready for work yet, and she didn't
relish the thought of arguing the matter with him.

     Dana reached for the blanket that was lying in a tangled
heap on the floor.  She shook it out lightly, then carefully
covered him with it.  His mouth was slightly open, his lower lip
quivering almost imperceptibly with each breath.  God, he looked
so vulnerable...

     You're losing it, Dana.  Go home.

     Mulder shifted, snuggling into the blanket.  "Were you
really a cheerleader in high-school, Scully?" he mumbled
sleepily.

     She smiled, touched his hair affectionately.  "G'night,
Mulder."

     He muttered a soft, incomprehensible response.

     The remote control and TV-Guide were nowhere in sight.  He
must be sitting on them, she thought, picking up her coat.  As
she passed the television she lowered the volume a notch, but
left the set tuned to channel 47 -- what she hoped was an all-
night movie station.  Despite the flu, he probably wouldn't sleep
for more than a few hours and she didn't want to imagine Mulder
waking again to an empty, silent apartment.  Maybe there'd be a
cheesy movie on to keep him company.

     She closed the apartment door softly behind her, blinking in
the sudden harsh light of the hallway.  Her mind still pictured
the tousled-haired shape on the couch as she turned the key in
the lock.  He's okay, Dana.  Just go home.  Go home.

     She drove home.  Too tired now for a shower, she was in bed
within minutes. But a thought nagged at her and she got up again,
made a quick trip to the living room, then came back to bed with
a satisfied feeling.  According to the TV-Guide, channel 47 would
be airing "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" at three.  He'd enjoy
that one.

     She fell asleep, the scent of Mulder's apartment still in
her hair.

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jsmichel@io.org                                "J'm'en fous pas mal..."
                                                         - Edith Piaf
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