Have a Nice Trip

By A. Kelley Nolan
akelleynolan@yahoo.com


DISTRIBUTION:  I'd be tickled pink.  Just let me know.

RATING:  R for innuendo (some) and language (lots)
CATEGORIES:  VRH
KEYWORDS:  Mulder/Scully romance, Humor (I hope)
SPOILERS:  Anasazi, but that was years ago.

SUMMARY:  Mulder gets slipped a mickey.

FEEDBACK:  Is good karma.

Disclaimer:  I don't own Mulder, Scully, Skinner, the
Hoover Building, Tylenol, or Advil.  I do own
Rondonjohn and the FBI Doctor Lady, but I'm willing to
share.

Thanks:  To tree, for declaring it snort-worthy, and
for agreeing with me that "mindfuckingly" is so a word.

Author's notes at the end.

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

PART 1: MULDER

Scully's hair looks as bright as a penny.  I mean, I
think.  I've never really seen it, what with that whole
colorblind thing, but this guy down in the lab -- that
young, geeky kid, what the hell's his name? -- told me
once that it's the color of a new penny.  He said it
with this kind of heartfelt sigh, if I remember
correctly, and got a little misty-eyed.  She has that
effect on the lab rats.  I think every one of them
would chirp "which one?" if she told them to cut off an
arm, and I'm including that girl with the fierce hair
and rather frightening musculature.

But she's sitting here next to *me*, looking like newly
minted currency in the middle of an ass-numbingly boring
divisional meeting in Skinner's office.  I wonder who
you have to screw to get an office like this.  You could
play a decent game of flag football on this conference
table, not to mention the things you could do to a
penny-haired pathologist on it.  Wonder if Skinner and
Kim ever...nah.

I sneak a look at her and almost snort coffee out my
nose.  She's got on her "I'm so interested" face -- she's
even pulled out the thoughtful little frown between her
eyebrows.  I know this look.  I get it sometimes
mid-slide show, and what it really means is "If you'd
just shut up I could slip into a full-on coma without
seeming rude."  Mrs. Scully raised her kids to be polite,
as well as mule stubborn.  And this particular little
Scully is even pretending to take notes on whatever the
hell Pencil Dick, the accounting boy wonder, is talking
about.  I bet she's already listed all the presidents and
is working on states and capitals now.  I look at her
notepad.  Shit, she's going for alphabetical instead of
geographical.  She really is bored.  I think of a couple
of highly effective ways to get her attention.  Well,
highly effective up against the door of my apartment last
night, anyway, but I bet it would work anywhere.

I'm sort of sliding across the small area of table between
us when I feel a sharp little toe in my shin.  I know this
toe, too.  It means business.  It means "don't even think
about fucking with me -- or fucking me -- because you know
I don't have any serious qualms about shooting you."  She's
a damn good shot, too.  She could take out Little Mulder at
50 yards.  I slump back in my chair and throw my head back
to look at the ceiling.  Hey, the chair kind of spins.  You
can swing back and forth, and if you let your eyes go a
little hazy all the little squiggles on the ceiling tiles
look like writing.  Like Reticulan, maybe.  Shit, my head
feels heavy.  I'm having a nice, floaty flashback to an
excellent trip in a punt on the Thames.

There is a sudden, sharp pain in my thigh, and I bolt upright
in my chair.  She fucking stabbed me with her pencil!  Ever
hear of lead poisoning, Scully?  Graphite poisoning,
whatever.  I shoot a glare at her, rubbing my wounded person,
but she just angles her notepad so I can see it better.  PAY
ATTENTION.  All caps.  Underlined.  Oh, right, like we're
going to be tested on the capital of Wisconsin later.  I sit
back again and start dreaming up ways to make her pay.  That
thing up against my door comes to mind again.  I'm starting
to feel a little tingly.

Shit.  When did it get so hard to focus?  And now my whole
body feels kind of heavy.  Good heavy.  Like...post-coital
heavy.  Fuck.  Why am I swearing so much?  Whatever.  This is
the best stuck-in-a-bullshit-meeting sensation I can remember.
She's still sitting there next to me, neat as a pin in that
little black suit, and I flash a proud smile around the table
because I know exactly what she looks like under it.  Skinner
catches it and scowls even more.  Oh, if you only knew, Skinman.
That big lantern jaw of yours would hit the floor.  I swallow a
snicker and look back at her.  One of those awful, Federally
Approved Decor spotlights over the conference table is shining
right down on her.  It makes her hair kind of glow, and her
skin seems even more translucent than usual.  She looks like
she's being beamed up.  No...shit, she looks like an angel.
Oh, wow.  I'm in love with an angel.  Isn't that a song?

She's so pretty.  That isn't news.  I lay next to her and look
at her all night sometimes, thinking about how pretty she is.
But that's in a general, God-damn-my-life-is-good kind of way,
and right now I'm noticing the specifics.  With really
startling clarity, in fact.  It's intense, like when you can
hear colors.  She really is mindfuckingly pretty.  Look at
those eyes.  Man, I'm glad I can see blue.  Who has eyes that
clear?  They're like air.  No -- like the Caribbean.  Wait,
I've never seen the Caribbean.  They're like...like...swimming
pools.  Yeah.  Big and wet and blue like Las Vegas swimming
pools.  Damn, that's really poetic.  She likes poetry.  I
wonder if she'd like to hear that?  Yeah, I bet she would.

"You have great eyes, Scully."

I have to say it in kind of a stage whisper to make sure she
hears me.  The guy on the other side of her -- Ron?  Don?
John? -- leans forward and looks at me with his eyebrows
jiggling all over his forehead.  One of them seems to be
spelunking while the other's on its own personal Eiger quest.
"Hey," I say amiably and look back at Scully.  She has gone all
still like she does when she thinks there's a bug on her.  I've
seen her calmly count the maggots in a corpse's eyeball, but
mention the possibility of a spider in her immediate personal
vicinity and she totally wigs out.  She hasn't moved a muscle.
Maybe she didn't hear me?  Rondonjohn heard me.  Maybe she needs
me to clarify.

"They're so big and blue," I elaborate, and there is a definite
dreamy quality in my voice.  "Like swimming pools."

"Agent Mulder?"  Skinner is doing that laser eye thing he does,
and I give him a little wave.  That's my name, don't wear it out.

A tiny muscle twitches in Scully's jaw, and she darts a glance
at me that, if that hadn't been so fucking poetic, I would think
meant serious imminent danger to my person.  There is a skitter
of sound around the table, like autumn leaves blowing down the
sidewalk, but Scully doesn't say anything.  She does turn kind
of a leafy color, though, and bites -- hard -- on her lip.

Oh, Scully, you don't have to remind me.  I love that mouth.  I
love the crazy-ass scientific bullshit that comes out of it.  I
love the way it tilts up into a thousand-watt smile when I say
just the right thing.  I really, really love the way it closes
around a straw, or around me.  I am suddenly just totally
fucking overcome by my love for her.  I lean closer to her.
"Your mouth is beautiful," I whisper.  "Have I ever told you
that?"

"Not in a room full of people," she hisses.

What people?  Fuck 'em.  My poetic soul is on fire, and she's
got a mouth like a naughty Victorian postcard.  I feel a little
swoony.  "It's shaped just like a heart."

"Agent Mulder, what the hell is going on?"

I look at Rondonjohn to see what the problem is, but he kind
of twitches in Skinner's direction.  Oh.  I can't help
grinning.  Skinner looks like he's about to have a coronary.
Not that coronary's are funny, per se, but I can practically
see steam coming out of his ears, like that cartoon bull on
the whatsisname show.  I can feel Scully looking at me now,
too.  I don't mean metaphorically, either.  I can feel two
little hotspots on my face where her eyes are landing.

"Mulder, look at me," she says quietly.  I do, of course,
because she's Scully and I'd do anything for her.  And there
she is, looking at me.  I feel a little misty myself, just like
that geeky kid in the lab.  Scully looks deep into my eyes.  Oh,
hey, baby.  I'm right here.  She frowns a little.

"Agent Scully?" Skinner prompts.  "He'd better be having a
stroke."

She doesn't even glance his way.  That's my girl.  Keep it all
on me, Scully.  "No, sir.  But from the look of his pupils, I'd
say he's on something."  On something?  It must be some seriously
good shit.  "Mulder, how do you feel?"

"I feel excellent," I smile, and lean forward for a
conspiratorial wink.  "How do you feel?"

She frowns a little deeper, but it's not her "you're a dead man"
frown.  It's her "as soon as I figure out what the hell's wrong
with you and get you better, you're a dead man" frown.  "Did you
take something -- some kind of medication?"

Medication?  Oh, wait, that's ringing some distant bells.  Like
church bells.  Sanctuary...sanctuary...  I shake my head to try
to dislodge the fog and the hunchback that have taken up
residence there.  "No, you know...just some Tylenol or
something.  Had kind of a headache."  An idea occurs to me, and
it's absolutely fucking brilliant.  "I bet you could kiss it and
make it go away, though.  You know, like when you --"

Skinner bellows from across the table.  Toro, toro! I think, and
a giggle slips past my lips.  "Agent Scully, he's obviously in
no shape to be here.  Find out what he's on and where it came
from."

"Yes, sir."

I don't know why, but she looks a little relieved.  Oh, hey,
she's yanking me out of my chair and dragging me toward the
door.  We're getting out of the meeting?  Hell, now I'm
relieved, too.  I'm a little worried about that medication thing
they were talking about, though.  "Hey, Scully, do you really
think somebody slipped me something?"

"Looks like it," she says through completely clenched teeth.
Wow, impressive.

"Well, the last time that happened, I seem to recall that you
shot me."

"I'd say that's the best case scenario this time," she answers,
and that doesn't seem all that comforting all of a sudden.  In
fact, I'm not feeling the love at all here.  "Come on, Mulder."

"I'll follow you anywhere," I say in my most agreeable voice.
Because, you know, I would.  "Shouldn't talk about that in front
of Skinner, though -- he's got a thing for you.  Did you know
that, Scully?"

"Get him out of here!" Skinner roars, and I swear a totally new
vein pops out on his forehead.

*********

PART 2:  THE FBI DOCTOR LADY

You'd think I'd have met a guy who gets hurts this much, but
this is the first time Fox Mulder has ever walked into my clinic.
He certainly is a cool drink of water.  Too bad he's every bit as
crazy as I'd heard.

All right, to be fair the guy's completely stoned.  But seriously,
only Mulder could manage to get stoned, against his will, inside
the Hoover building.

His partner I know.  She's a woman, she's a doctor -- we stick
together.  Not that Dana Scully and I are the best of friends,
but we've had lunch once or twice and always stop for a chat when
we see each other in the halls.  She's the kind of woman who makes
the rest of us look good.  Cool, competent, easy to respect.  I
don't know why she's kept this particular six foot albatross
around her neck, because there's nothing like the stink of dead
albatross to shoot your career to hell.

Mulder is poking around among the cotton balls and thermometers,
and Scully is ignoring him with the practiced indifference of the
mother of a toddler.  It's been a while since I've had toddlers,
so apparently my tolerance level isn't what it was.  "Agent Mulder,
why don't you have a seat on the table?"

He looks up at me with lovely, totally vacant eyes, then looks over
at Scully.  Apparently he expects any order he really has to follow
to come from her.  She arches one eyebrow skyward, and he meekly
climbs onto the examining table, all fidgets and twitches and
knee-jiggling energy.  She's good.  She turns back to me with an
expression that makes me want to give her a gift certificate for a
massage, or at least a double of scotch.  "So what have you found
out?"

"The urine tox screen didn't tell us much," I reply.  I flip
through the paperwork to show her the results, and she frowns at
the lack of useful information.

"What's this?" she asks, immediately zeroing in on the one out of
place fact.  Like I said, she's good.

"It's some kind of alkaloid.  Probably plant-derived, but I don't
really know anything else yet.  I sent it to the lab along with
that Tylenol bottle you brought to have it analyzed.  I'd like to
pull some blood and do some tests.  Might give us a clearer idea."

She nods and heaves a weary sigh.  I get the distinct impression
this isn't the first time she's been in this situation.

"Okay, Agent Mulder, time for the fun stuff."  I walk over to him
with the phlebotomy kit, and he looks immediately suspicious.
"We're just going to run some blood tests to see if we can figure
out what you've got in your system.  Would you hold out your arm,
please?"

He doesn't.  In fact, he pulls it closer to him protectively.  "I
want you to do it, Scully."  He finds her eyes, and her eyebrow
arches up infinitesimally.  He pulls out a puppy dog look that I'm
sure has been working for him his entire life.  My 10-year-old has
that same look.  There's no defense against it that I know of.  "You
always know where to put the needle so it doesn't hurt."

Scully sighs and moves toward him.  "He gets hurt a lot," she says,
with a glance in my direction.

"I've heard," I nod, and see Mulder's head nodding along with me.

"I've run a lot of IV lines on him.  He claims to have very
sensitive nerves."  His head bobs up and down earnestly, and she
obviously can't help the small smile that lands on her mouth.  She
ties on a tourniquet with practiced ease, then takes his wrist,
turns his arm over, and starts scrubbing the site on the inside of
his elbow.

"That feels pretty good," he murmurs, smiling drowsily at the top
of her head.

She runs a fingertip over the skin.  Good veins.  Should be easy.
She reaches for a needle and uncaps it carefully.  "Dr. Scully?"
They both look up at me, startled.  I hold out a pair of gloves.
"Universal precautions?"

Scully blushes.  "Oh, um..."

"Oh, man," Mulder laughs.  "You forgot to snap on the latex!
That's supposed to be my job."  She winces, and glances at me
helplessly.  Mulder sees her discomfort and apparently totally
misunderstands it.  I hope he's not this dense when he's sober.
"Not much point, doc," he elaborates helpfully, as if it's possible
not to get what's going on.  "Anything I've got, she's got."

Scully turns her eyes to the ceiling and either says a prayer or
counts to ten.  Either way, she jabs that needle in his elbow
pretty good.

About an hour later the results come back from the lab, and I go to
find them in the tiny waiting area.  It's really just four chairs in
the outer office.  They are sitting in the two closest to the wall,
and he is picking at her.  Reaching over and touching her
repeatedly -- just like my ten-year-old, but unlike my ten-year-old
he's trying to snake those rather nice hands of his into places they
just don't belong, at least not in a government office.  As I open
the door, she swats at him with an expression of deep exasperation
and hisses, "Would you *stop* that?  Don't think I won't shoot you
again, Mulder.  And I won't feel guilty this time."

I make a mental note to check that out in the files, because it has
to be a good story.  "How's he doing?" I ask from the doorway.

Scully looks harried and completely annoyed.  Mulder still just
looks stoned.  "Whatever it is, it's got quite a kick.  The effects
don't seem to have lessened at all.  His pupils are still pinpoints,
and his inhibitions are still not nearly inhibited enough."  She
shoots him a warning glare as his hand edges toward her again, and
he wisely backs off.  "Have you found anything out?"

Mulder makes a brave face he must have seen on daytime television.
"Give it to me straight," he says seriously.  "Am I pregnant?"

"Oh, for God's sake," she sighs, and he flashes her an unrepentant
smile.  I bet that's worked all his life, too.

I clear my throat in a show of solidarity with his long-suffering
partner.  "I don't know what's going on, Agent Mulder, although I
feel fairly confident that you're not pregnant.  Whatever this
substance is, it matches the contents of the Tylenol bottle, and
it's similar to morphine or codeine.  It's not something I've ever
seen before, but at this point my best guess is that the effects
will be roughly the same as an opioid.  So you'll be higher than a
kite for a while -- how long depends on the dose and how this stuff
is metabolized -- and then you'll come down.  Probably."

"How sure are you?" Scully asks warily.

"About...85%."  She looks like she doesn't think those odds are
good enough, and I shrug apologetically.  I feel for her.  She's
got a 180 pound pre-teen on her hands.  "I think you've got a very
long night ahead of you, Dr. Scully."

**********

PART 3:  SCULLY

"Jesus, Mulder, it's not bad enough that you immediately stick
your hand into any disgusting shit that presents itself?  Now you
have to put mysterious crap in your mouth, too?"

"I *told* you, Scully," he whines.  "I thought they were yours."

I stop in my tracks and feel my hands fisting on my hips.  Oh,
God, it's true.  You do turn into your mother.  He keeps going for
a couple of steps, notices I'm not next to him anymore, and trails
back.  I don't care how good-looking he is.  Right now I could rip
that pretty head off and stuff it down his throat.  "How many times
have you seen me take Tylenol?" I demand.  He gets a panic face,
and I can practically see him scanning through his memory and
looking desperately for name brands on every pill bottle he's ever
seen in my hand.  "I'll give you a hint -- none.  I only take Advil,
because Tylenol gives me hives."  He stares at me a minute, and
then his eyes widen and his mouth drops open a little, not
unattractively.  I snort.  "Some profiler."

"Scully --"

I hold up a hand to stop the pity party.  "Has that ever worked?"

"Several times, as a matter of fact," he says stiffly.  Or what
would be stiffly, if he wasn't swaying lightly to some internal
music.

Damn it, he's right.  "Well, it won't this time."

I take off down the hall again.  Smart boy that he is, he trots
after me.  I don't even look back at the muffled thud as he veers
into a fake ficus.  "Why are you so pissed off at me?" he asks
when he finally catches up.  "I'm sick!  I've been taken advantage
of!  What if this stuff had been lethal?"

I stop again, and he halts his forward momentum with the help of a
handy doorknob.  "Exactly," I say, leaning up into his face.  It's
my fierce voice, and that little glimmer of fear in his beautiful
eyes tells me he recognizes it.  "One of these days, Mulder, it be
lethal.  You're going to run out of luck, and there's not going to
be a damn thing I can do to save you.  And then you'll be gone, and
I'll be alone, and I'll spend the rest of my life railing against
the injustice of losing you not to an international conspiracy or
even interstellar colonization but to a mysterious bucket of pretty
pink goo."

His eyes drop to his shoes, shamefaced.  "I'm sorry, Scully," he
says softly.  "I didn't think."

"No shit."  And looking up at me through those ridiculously long
lashes isn't going to work, either.  He frowns, but apparently
thinks better of saying anything.  Or maybe he's reliving the Stones
at Altamont in his private little fantasy world.  It's impossible to
tell even on a good day.  I feel myself relenting slightly.  He's an
idiot, but I do love him.  Far beyond reason, I sometimes think.  I
tug at his sleeve, a much nicer tug than the one I was thinking of
giving him earlier, and he looks up hopefully.  Well, that did it.
He hasn't yet figured out the value of that look, but I'm such a
sucker for it.  "Come on," I say, with just the hint of a smile.
"Let's get out of here."

"Where are we going?"

"My place."

"Ooh, Scully --"

I stop him with an eyebrow.  "If you think you're getting lucky
tonight, I'm taking you straight to the hospital, because you're
beyond delusional.  You're going to lay down and sleep it off where
I can keep an eye on you."

"Will you tuck me in?"

"Mulder."  It's impossible to miss the warning in my voice, but
somehow he does.

"Will you rub my head until I fall asleep?  You know -- either one."

I stop and glare at him.  "It was the left shoulder last time,
right?  You want a matched set?"

He squints at me a minute, fuzzily, and then I see just the slightest
clearing in the drug haze.  "No, ma'am," he mumbles.  Normally that
would make me kick his fantastic ass, but this time he's got it just
right.

By the time we get to my place he's semi-conscious, at best.  I
stagger up to the door under the dead weight of his arm and shove him
none too gently into my bedroom.  It's like trying to wrestle a
freshly killed deer onto the hood.  Well, I imagine it is.  I've
never killed a deer, but I'm starting to see the attraction of
shooting large, wild, hairy things.  My own personal Bambi topples
onto the bed in a move closer to a Sequoia than anything animate.

I slip off his tie and his gunboat shoes, open the collar and cuffs
on his shirt.  I wonder if I should roll him onto his side so he
doesn't choke on his tongue?  A quick calculation of the inertia
represented by six feet of unconscious man makes me decide it's
worth the risk.  I'll just stay nearby so I can hear the gurgles.
I pull a blanket up over him, and I can't help smiling at the low,
snuffly nonsense that comes out of his gorgeous mouth.  "Night,
sleeping beauty," I whisper, and plant a soft kiss on his forehead.

Except of course this stuff turns out to be toxic.  He sleeps like
the dead for hours, never even twitching a muscle, and then shortly
after midnight the moaning starts.  I'm stretched out next to him,
and I lift up to see him grimacing in pain.  "Mulder, what's wrong?"

He turns and looks at me, and his eyes are lucid but fever bright.
"I don't feel good," he whispers.

"Talk to me."  I go into trauma mode for about the thirtieth time
since I've known him.  He's enough to keep my emergency certification
current.  "What hurts?"

"My stomach."

"Where?  High?  Mid?  Low?"

"The whole fucking thing," he groans, gasping a little at what must
be a particularly vicious pain.

His skin is clammy, and I have a sinking suspicion I know what's
coming next.  "Do you need to throw up?"

His eyes widen.  He hates throwing up.  I mean, nobody likes it, but
he really, really hates it.  "Oh -- Jesus!"

He staggers off the bed and into the bathroom just before the
retching hits.  I wince at the sound of him emptying his stomach
violently.  This is not going to improve his disposition.  I pad
into the kitchen for a glass of water and a cool compress.

He's slumped on the floor of the bathroom when I return, leaning
his head back against the wall with his eyes closed and a grimace
of absolute disgust on his face.  He takes the water with a murmured
thanks while I check him out.  Sweaty and -- let's face it -- fairly
icky, but his pupils are getting back to normal, and the intelligence
has returned to his face.  I'm surprised to realize that I like sick,
gross, brilliant Mulder more than beautiful, clean, vapid Mulder.
His pulse is a little fast, but strong and regular.

"I hate puking," he groans.

"I know."

"Am I dying?"

I smile and brush back his damp hair.  God, I hope that's sweat.
"No, you're not dying."

"Are you sure?  Because I think I'd welcome that right now."

"You're getting better," I assure him.

"Oh, obviously."

Note to self:  Mulder is an incredibly irritating patient.  "You're
just heaving up everything you've eaten today," I tell him
cheerfully.  "There's probably more where that came from."

He eyes me with something like loathing, and I feel quite a bit
better.

Unfortunately, I'm right.  For the next hour he alternately hurls
into my formerly pristine toilet and whimpers on the floor of my
bathroom, but finally he seems to have gotten rid of everything in
his system.  Including, possibly, his pancreas, judging from that
last round of heaves.  I shuffle him slowly back to bed and sponge
over his smooth, golden, trembling body like I'm Florence freaking
Nightingale.  He's miserable, he's a pain in the ass, but he's
better.  Oh, yeah -- and I love him.  Because you know it's love
when you're cleaning up puke at 2 a.m.

"Scully?" he rasps, reaching for my hand to draw me closer to his
mouth.  Thank God I remembered to make him brush his teeth.

"Yeah, Mulder?"

"Next time this happens..."  He looks at me with deep, sparkling
green eyes.

"Yeah?" I prompt.

"Would you please just shoot me right at the beginning and cut out
the middle man?"

I smile and pat his cheek tenderly.  "Sure, sweetie."

-Fin-

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

Author's Note:  My apologies to the good people at Tylenol.  This
should in no way be taken as a denigration of their fine product or
an endorsement of Advil, although those Advil Liqui-Gels are the
best thing to happen to over the counter analgesia since salicylic
acid.  Also, Mulder's bad trip only slightly resembles the actual
symptoms of an opioid overdose.  Call it poetic license.  Oh, yeah,
and it's probably not a good idea to get stoned and go punting on
the Thames.  (I happen to know that when you do it on the Cam you
seriously up your odds of slipping on a muddy riverbank and winding
up in a leg cast, and this probably holds true on other rivers, as
well.)

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