By Jean Robinson
Jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
 

Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property
of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television
Network. All others are the property of the author. No
infringement is intended.
Rating: PG-13
Classification: S
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: Up through "Tithonus"
Summary: There's more than one cure for what ails you.
Feedback: Gratefully appreciated at
jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end
*****************************
 

COLD COMFORT
By Jean Robinson
 

The tingling sensation swelled from deep within her core,
radiating out to ignite nerve endings all the way to the
very ends of her fingertips, making her toes curl in
reaction. It started as a mere tickle, then exploded up her
spine, surging through her entire being and setting off
starflashes of color behind her closed eyelids.

"AH-CHOO!!"

The perky-looking nurse at the admitting desk favored
Scully with a sympathetic smile. "Bless you."

That made four "Bless yous" to add to the count of eight
"God bless yous" and two "Gesundheits" she'd received
since starting out from the motel this morning. Not to
mention the four scowls from assorted strangers who all
shared the same opinion about individuals with colds;
namely that they should be safely locked away from the
otherwise healthy public.

The nurse's expression slowly shifted from "May I help
you, poor unfortunate soul?" to "Begone from my
hospital, foul plague carrier" as Scully explained the
purpose of her visit involved visiting a patient rather than
admitting herself for voluntary quarantine.

"Ms. Scully, if you're sick, you really shouldn't be here. .
." the woman began.

Scully cut her off. "It's =Doctor= Scully," she said firmly,
well aware that the authoritarian tone she was striving
for was considerably diluted by the foggy, nasal quality of
her voice. She'd been blowing her nose until it was the
same shade as her hair with no noticeable improvement.
Mucus prevailed. "Or Agent Scully. I'm here to see Agent
Mulder, my partner. He was admitted last evening with a
head injury. Where is he?"

The nurse finally relented in the face of government
intervention. She typed a few commands into her
computer and answered, "Room 421. Elevators are to
your left."

"Thank you."

In the elevator she drew more scathing looks from two
interns as she fished out a fresh tissue for yet another
futile attempt to clear her clogged sinuses enough to
breathe normally. They edged as far away from her as
possible, tossing uneasy glances at the lighted numbers
on the display, clearly hoping she was getting off before
them.

It's not my fault! she wanted to yell at them. I'm a doctor;
I KNOW I shouldn't be here endangering patients whose
immune systems are already compromised. If I had my
way I would be home in bed, or at least confining my
bacteria to the one building in Washington DC where I
contracted them in the first place!

The "cold and flu season" had struck the Hoover building
with a vengeance after her return and recovery from New
York. A.D. Kersh had, for two glorious days, lost his voice
completely. Outside Skinner's office, Kimberly snuffled
and coughed in a most unladylike fashion while inside
the A.D.'s Marine-sized sneezes were powerful enough to
shake not only his broad shoulders but the plaques on
his wall as well. In Communications, Holly's pleasant alto
was reduced to a froggy croak over her headset,
punctuated by frequent liquid sniffles. A roll of toilet
paper filched from the men's restroom decorated the
desk of one of the other agents in their bullpen space; a
standard box of tissues couldn't keep up with the
streaming discharge from the poor man's nose.

Scully tried her damnedest. She washed her hands every
time she passed the ladies' room. She wiped down her
desk, computer and telephone handset with Lysol in her
own nightly ritual of witchcraft to ward off the evil germ
spirits. She drank orange juice and sucked on zinc
tablets until her tongue protested.

All her preventative ministrations were in vain. On the
flight out she'd felt the first onset of symptoms with a
mild headache; by the time they landed she'd needed to
stop at the airport gift shop to replenish her supply of
travel-size tissue packs to staunch the flow caused by
her newly-hatched rhinovirus.

Thanks to Mulder's impulsiveness, they'd come out here
in a rush, and the only available seats on the big 747
had been in the middle of five-person rows. Sandwiched
between a coughing, watery-eyed businessman and his
aspirin-dispensing wife on one side and two pre-
adolescent brothers on the other, Scully didn't have any
sympathy to spare for her long-legged partner, squashed
in his own center seat from hell some eight rows behind
her. Dodging the misty sprays of virus-laden droplets
from the hacking Xerox representative at her left elbow
would have been annoying but tolerable except for the
color commentary going on between the boys on her
right.

"You're such a snothead, Joey."

"I am not! You're the snothead."

"You're the biggest snothead in the world."

"MOM!!! MIKE IS CALLING ME A SNOTHEAD!!!"

A weary female voice drifted faintly across the aisle in
response. "Mike, stop calling your brother a snothead."

Five minutes of silence. Then, a crafty whisper:

"You're a snothead =and= a tattletale, Joey."

And so it had gone for the entire six hours of the non-
stop journey to Seattle.

The pretense of their trip was shaky to begin with;
chasing cases assigned to other agents was not Scully's
idea of a profitable work day when she was healthy.
Doing so while fighting a losing battle against
overcompensating mucus membranes was more than
enough to stretch her patience beyond the breaking
point.

The elevator clanked to a stop at the third floor and the
interns fled, leaving her alone for the final chug to the
fourth floor.

Mulder's room was empty.

Sighing, Scully took in the rumpled bedclothes and
decided that her errant partner had done what he
usually did when bored ­ gone wandering.

Which meant he was probably about five minutes away
from getting into trouble, so she'd better be on her way to
find him.

Mulder hadn't gone far, and the reason he'd stayed close
to home base was obvious the second she spotted him in
the small lounge area at the end of the hallway.

Adept at detecting potential troublemakers among their
patients, the hospital staff had employed their usual
tactic to keep the wounded in bed where they belonged
instead of roaming the hallways disrupting the medical
routine.

They'd swapped his clothes for a thin cotton gown and
"forgotten" to issue him a paper robe. He stood facing
away from her, looking out the window, seemingly
unaware of his starring role in a one-man peep show.
She thought he would have noticed the breeze wafting up
the backs of his thighs and caressing his buttocks, but
the heat in the hospital =was= cranked up to the point of
nuclear meltdown.

Or maybe she was starting to run a fever to go along with
the cold.

Mulder appeared to be chatting with someone, although
from her vantage point Scully couldn't see just who had
captured his attention. She doubted it was the small,
gray-haired lady in the wheelchair who also occupied the
lounge. The elderly patient was enjoying his company
even if she wasn't included in the dialogue; the lascivious
expression on her wrinkled face indicated that Mulder's
backview presented the most entertaining vista she'd
seen in ages.

Then Mulder stepped slightly sideways, revealing his
conversation companion.

Diana Fowley.

Scully grimaced, feeling her headache ratchet up a notch
beyond what Tylenol Cold and Flu formula could pacify.
She stepped into the little room.

"Mulder."

He turned around. "Scully! What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you were doing." She nodded civilly to
Diana. "Agent Fowley."

"Agent Scully."

All nice and polite. But like it or not, Mulder wasn't the
only one who needed to rest. "Agent Fowley, I thought the
ER staff told you to go back to the motel and get off your
feet." She put on her doctor face, again all too aware that
someone whose vocal resonance now matched that of the
departure horn on the Bainbridge Island ferry was in a
bad bargaining position to dictate medical advice to
others.

Please, God, don't let me sneeze again now. If I do, it's all
over.

God was kind for once. Diana looked chagrined and
acquiesced without protest. The past day had been hard
on her, too. "I'm leaving now. I just wanted to explain to
Fox about the case." She squeezed his hand in farewell
and said, "Take care of yourself, Fox. I'll see you
tomorrow."

"Thanks, Diana."

She slipped out of the room, her arms now wrapped
around her waist, her gait measured and careful. The
slow, deliberate click of her heels echoed down the
hallway, and then she was gone.

The elderly lady, who had been following the entire
exchange with avid interest, suddenly snorted with
laughter. "Mittelschmerz!" she exclaimed in delight,
pointing down the hallway in the direction Diana had
taken.

Scully had to smile. "I don't think so, ma'am."

Mulder looked from his partner to the wheelchair patient
in such utter confusion that they both started laughing
anew. "What?" he demanded. "Mrs. Kravitz, are you
making fun of me again?"

"Hardly, Agent Mulder." Her sharp brown eyes twinkled
merrily. The woman might be old and infirm, but Scully
decided there was nothing wrong with her mind. "I was
just making an observation about your other lady friend."

"THERE you are!" All three of them jumped slightly at the
new voice and turned to see a nurse standing in the
doorway, legs spread, hands planted firmly on her hips.
"Agent Mulder, if you don't get back into bed THIS
MINUTE. . ." she trailed off, glaring at him, radiating
anger and the promise of dire consequences from the
soles of her soft white shoes to the roots of her short
sandy-blond hair.

"I'll see him back to his room," Scully promised. She laid
a hand on her partner's arm. "Come on, Mulder. Let's
go."

"All right," he grumbled. "But I feel fine."

"You have a serious head injury. You shouldn't be
walking around."

As they moved out into the hallway, Mrs. Kravitz called
after them, "Agent Mulder, you might want to fix those
ties. You've got a very cute backside, but I'm afraid you'll
catch a chill with it hanging out like that!"

Mulder snatched the edges of the gown closed behind
him. "Scully, how long were you peeking?" he accused.

"I've seen it all before, Mulder." She coughed into her
cupped palm, feeling a dull ache in her chest as thick
sluggish gobs of phlegm rose up and then settled back in
her throat. So far she'd been unsuccessful at expelling
any of it no matter what combination of cold remedy she
poured into her system.

"You don't sound so good yourself. Maybe you should go
back to the motel, too." They'd reached his room and he
obediently climbed back into bed.

"I'm fine. It's just a cold. I'm more worried about you. Has
the doctor been in to see you since you were admitted?"

Mulder gingerly rubbed the visible lump above his right
ear. "Yeah. Concussion. Nothing more, nothing less. They
won't let me out until tomorrow; they want me to stay
here for observation to make sure I don't keel over or
forget to wake up or something."

"There's no reason for the sarcasm. It's a sensible pre. . ."
her nose tickled again, and the word evaporated into a
sneeze. "AH-CHOO!"

"God bless you."

"Nine," she muttered to herself.

"What?"

"Nothing. I mean it's just a sensible precaution. You hit a
marble floor. You lost consciousness."

He glowered at her. "I didn't start it."

"Am I accusing you of anything?"

Silence. Scully took the opportunity to disinfect her
hands yet again in his bathroom.

When she returned to perch in the visitor's chair,
Mulder's hostility had dissipated in favor of his curiosity.
"What was Mrs. Kravitz talking about? 'Mittelschmerz?'
What's that?"

"It's German. It loosely translates to 'middle pain.'"

He blinked. "I don't get it."

Scully sighed. "It means I think the rational explanation
for Diana's discomfort can be traced back to the fact that
she was kicked forcibly in the stomach by one of the
Mummenschantz troupe while trying to extricate you
from the fray. Mrs. Kravitz was trying to attribute her
slightly hunched posture to the occasional abdominal
pain felt by some women during ovulation."

He winced. "I'm sorry I asked."

"I thought you would be."

"Scully, you're mad I brought you out here, aren't you?"

"What do you think, Mulder? We are not on the X-Files
anymore, yet you persist in following Diana Fowley and
Jeffrey Spender on cases that you have no jurisdiction
over. Yesterday afternoon you incited a minor riot in the
main lobby of the Seattle Convention Center during the
opening ceremonies of the Mimes, International
conference by arguing with Agent Spender about how
such organizations were the perfect place for
extraterrestrials to secrete themselves. The mimes in
attendance took offense at being called aliens. Much as I
abhor their particular form of entertainment, I can't say I
blame them this time."

"Agent Spender was being an idiot. He doesn't care about
the X-Files."

She stood up, suddenly overwhelmed by anger. "And you
think your behavior was any more honorable? That this
is the way to win back the department? Mulder, they had
to call the police to quell the disturbance! You're here
with a concussion, Diana's got a bruise the size and
shape of a size twelve Reebok sneaker sole across her
stomach, and someone wielding a bottle of Manischevitz
from the wine and cheese buffet clubbed Spender hard
enough to crack two of his ribs!"

"He should be thankful it wasn't a jug of Ernst and Julio
Gallo."

She stared at him in disbelief. "Is that all you can say?
They arrested sixteen people for assault, and some of
those charges are going to be federal because WE were
the ones being assaulted! A bunch of pantomime artists
will be saddled with criminal records because you and
Spender can't stop playing these ridiculous macho
territorial games, and all you can do is make stupid
jokes? What the hell's wrong with you??"

She'd initially dismissed the high, buzzing whine in her
ears as simply another odd radiator noise from the old
unit on the far side of his room. That same heater had
provided a convenient explanation for the sweat beading
along her hairline. Now as her hoarse voice cracked into
yet another register and the ache in her chest intensified
into a sharp, lancing pain, she suddenly realized the
symptoms could not be blamed on the ancient machinery
warming the hospital room.

At the same instant, her nose and throat sealed
themselves off completely, all airways solidly blocked.

She couldn't breathe.

"Scully?" His voice sounded panicked but faint, as
though he were calling to her from across a vast
distance. An ocean, perhaps.

The same ocean she could hear roaring in her ears,
crashing through her head.

"SCULLY?!?"

The same one washing over her vision with soothing
waves of silvered whiteness, whispering that it didn't
matter, don't worry about not being able to inhale,
there's no need to breathe at the bottom of the ocean.

No need at all.

"SCULLY!! NURSE!! SOMEONE!! I NEED SOME HELP IN
HERE!!!"

She'd been leaning over the foot of his bed, bracing her
arms on the mattress as she unleashed her frustrations
at him. Elbows and knees now buckled simultaneously;
she felt herself falling but never saw him lunge off the
bed to grab her.

She knew only that she'd been spared the hard kiss of
the blue and white tiled floor. Mulder was suddenly
behind her, one arm locked about her waist, allowing her
torso to slump forward over that supporting arm to
enable gravity to assist him with his next unorthodox
maneuver.

He slammed her in the back between her shoulder blades
with the heel of his free hand. Once, twice, three times,
and then some minute particle of the heavy mass wedged
in her throat shifted, allowing a tiny trickle of oxygen to
filter down to her lungs.

Her entire respiratory apparatus heaved in a body-
wrenching cough, dislodging a mouthful of mucus.

Air.

Oh, thank God, air.

Scully began breathing in great, ragged gasps, still
hanging over Mulder's arm. The pounding roar of the
ocean receded to the gentle whisper of the mildest surf.
And abruptly, the room was filled with the thud of
running feet and a cacophony of concerned voices, all
registering only vaguely on the extreme outer edge of her
consciousness.

". . . a stretcher!"

"Christ, she's burning up."

"Call downstairs!"

"Dr. Scully? . . . hear me?"

Hands on her face, prying her bleary eyes open. More
hands pulling at her blouse, the sudden chill of a
stethoscope on her chest. Then they were tugging her
away from Mulder, lifting her onto something soft and
solid.

His strident voice cut through the chaos in her head. "Is
she all right? Where are you taking her?"

A sharp, heated argument, with his voice rising above the
others in finality. "No, I'm not staying here! I don't care
what the rules are, I'm going with my partner!"

Whatever she was lying on began to move, rolling swiftly
out of his room and toward some unknown destination. If
she focused hard enough, she could just make out the
fluorescent lights scrolling by overhead.

But it was much more comforting to focus on the familiar
hand that gripped hers throughout the journey.
________________________
 

Walking pneumonia, they told her when she woke up a
day later, a steady cocktail of antibiotics, antihistamines
and decongestants dripping down the IV line embedded
in her left arm. Lucky you were here when it happened.

She endured a brief, awkward visit from Diana and
Spender, on their way back to DC to nurse their bruises
and their grudges. Another reprimand would no doubt be
waiting when she and Mulder returned for butting in
again where they had no business being.

Scully wanted to tell the hospital staff they were deluded
if they thought they could rid themselves of Fox Mulder
by discharging him once she'd been admitted. He merely
insinuated himself in the ICU, intent on becoming as
permanent a fixture as the heart monitors, respirators
and crash carts. Eventually they gave up trying to chase
him away.

She couldn't speak comfortably for three days; any
attempt at polysyllabic words triggered alarmingly
painful coughing spasms. By day four, she was recovered
enough to be moved to a regular room and carry on a
short conversation.

That was a quick role reversal, she thought wearily,
observing him in a visitor's chair similar to the one she
had occupied in his room not so many days ago. Usually
we have a few weeks between hospital duty.

He looked tired. No, actually he looked exhausted. He
probably hadn't closed his eyes since her collapse.

"Feeling better?"

She nodded.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

She smiled slightly. "Good."

"Mimes, International has dropped their charges against
us. So has the Seattle Convention Center, and the city of
Seattle. In exchange, the Justice Department has agreed
to drop the federal assault charges for the mimes
involved in the. . . um, incident."

"And the bad?"

He stared at the floor for a second, then met her eyes.
"Kersh is over his laryngitis. He was quite vocal on the
phone with me this morning, in fact. You'd never know
he was sick."

"Oh. That bad?"

"You could say that."

He was quiet for a moment, staring moodily at the floor
again. Scully reached out and took his hand. "Mulder,"
she said softly.

"What?"

"We can get the files back. But this isn't the way. I know
what you think of procedure and protocol. But. . ." she
paused to inhale carefully, fighting back the urge to
cough, "antagonizing Kersh and harassing Fowley and
Spender will just make matters that much worse in the
long run."

He remained silent, his thumb rubbing gently over her
knuckles, reminding her of countless other times he'd
held her hand in countless other hospitals.

Amazing how wonderfully soothing it felt. If they could
capture the sensation of that simple touch and seal it in
an IV bag, it would put the pharmaceutical companies
out of business in a heartbeat.

"Okay, Mulder?" she persisted, knowing neither her voice
nor her energy were going to hold out much longer.

He finally looked at her again, finally produced that
small, wry smile that spoke of shared trials and
tribulations past and those still to come. "Okay, Scully,"
he agreed, wrapping his fingers more securely around
her hand.

And she allowed herself to fall asleep, knowing he
wouldn't let her go.
 

End
 

Author's notes: Thanks to my friends. . . and I use the
term loosely <g>. . . at Scullyfic, the Improv elements I
received to use in this story were: 1. Snot, and lots of it;
2. Mulder in a hospital gown that really does gap open in
the back, with Scully getting a full view; 3.
Mummenschantz; 4. Manischevitz; and 5. mittelschmerz,
graciously defined for me as the pain experienced during
ovulation. I love you all for doing this to me. Really.
<vbg> Many thanks to Shari, who agreed to beta-read
this without realizing she was about to be drenched in
goo. ;-) And yes, the Bainbridge Island ferry in
Washington State really does have quite a departure
horn; please take a page from my personal experience
and do not stand next to it when it blows. My brother
almost had to fish me out of Puget Sound. ;-)

Feedback to jeanrobinson@yahoo.com