From: djmckent@neo.rr.com   
      
   Title:  Getting By   
      
   Author:  mimic117   
      
   Email:  mimic117@yahoo.com   
      
   Rating:  Squeaky G   
      
   Category: V   
      
   Timeline:  Anywhere around season 6 or 7 but no spoilers.   
      
   Summary:  Sometimes it's easier to get by with a little help   
   from our friends.   
      
   Archive:  Please do.  I'll get Gossamer and Ephemeral myself.   
      
   Disclaimer:  The characters originally belonged to CC and   
   company.  The rating belongs to the MPAA.  The title was   
   inspired by a Beatles song and I don't own that either.   
      
   Author's note:  This is a very inadequate love song to my   
   husband and children, who were such angels when I gave   
   myself the lovely gift of flu for Mother's Day this year.   
      
   Thanks:  To Char, Dan Walker, and my ever-faithful Twinsy for   
   giving this the once-over and thumbs up.   
      
   Dedication:  To Nancybratt, who is unfailingly cheerful,   
   comforting and supportive of so many people.  You deserve to   
   have that same cheer, comfort and support each and every   
   day, for you are loved and appreciated more than you can ever   
   know.   
      
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
      
   Getting By   
   by mimic117   
      
      
   It was like swimming through mud, thick and clinging, clogging   
   and smothering, thoroughly unpleasant yet such a struggle to   
   break free.  Scully recognized the state between asleep and   
   awake, the gritty-mouthed, fuzzy-headed, not-quite-conscious   
   feeling of wanting to wake up but being too sick to care if she   
   did.  She floated somewhere in a hazy limbo of flu-induced   
   lethargy, vaguely aware that she was home and safe and far   
   too warm for her own good, until a noise outside the bedroom   
   caught her attention a bit more firmly than she was prepared   
   for.   
      
   Did she really want to get out of bed to see what was going on?   
   No.  At that particular moment, it didn't matter to her if an   
   entire gaggle of gray aliens was in her living room, preparing to   
   turn her apartment into a spaceship and fly her to Alpha Centauri.   
      
   Maybe the weightlessness would ease some of her muscle   
   aches.   
      
   A metallic clang rang out, muffled by the closed bedroom door,   
   but no less a death knell to any plans she'd had of remaining in   
   bed and letting her intruders wreak whatever havoc they chose.   
      
   Scully threw back the blankets and shivered as the room's air   
   contacted her hot skin.  Perfect.  The fever-and-chills stage.   
      
   She painfully levered herself up until she was sitting on the   
   edge of the bed.  Her eyes reluctantly focused, searching for   
   the robe she'd been wearing the previous night.  She wasn't   
   leaving the bedroom without her robe.  Her apartment felt like it   
   had been refrigerated overnight.  Where was her damned robe?   
      
   She looked down at her legs.  Ah.  Apparently she'd never   
   taken it off.  She held out a tired arm and studied it.  Yep.   
   That was her robe all right.  Flattened and creased and looking   
   like she'd slept in it.  Which she had.  It appeared her   
   observation skills were still intact.  Too bad she couldn't say   
   the same for her motor functions.   
      
   It took a moment to achieve upright and stable, but once she   
   did, Scully found she could shuffle with the best of the   
   octogenarians.  She'd made it around the bed, on a steady   
   course to reach the door in under twenty minutes, when she   
   remembered two things.  One, there was someone in her   
   apartment.  Chances were really good that it was just her   
   mother, who'd called the previous night and used her maternal   
   radar to deduce her child's state of health.  But two, she   
   couldn't be sure of that and her gun was safely locked away in   
   her end table.  She turned and looked.  Way back there.  On   
   the other side of the bed.   
      
   She swiveled slowly toward the door again and caught sight of   
   the baseball bat standing in the corner.  Her father had always   
   insisted a bat was an essential part of every woman's bedroom   
   decor.  Yeah.  She could take the bat.  Screw the gun.  She   
   wasn't sure she had the strength to load it anyway.  She'd just   
   take the bat with her.  Mom would understand and anyone else   
   wouldn't expect it.  Besides, it was right on her way out the   
   door so she didn't need to backtrack, which she wasn't entirely   
   sure she was capable of anyway.  Good plan.  Smart.   
   Sensible.  Where was she going again?   
      
   Scully frowned at the sound of clinking outside the door.  Oh.   
   Right.  The intruder.   
      
   More shuffling got her to the door, where she reached out and   
   grasped the handle of the bat.   
      
   Uh oh.  It was heavier than she remembered.  Probably heavier   
   than her gun.  Possibly heavier than dark matter at the   
   moment.  Could she lift it?   
      
   An experimental tug confirmed that she couldn't.  Not without a   
   forklift and at least two other people to help.   
      
   There was nothing else to do.  She'd have to drag it.   
      
   Dragging took less effort than lifting, but only because she   
   couldn't manage to lift her arms, either.  Still, she needed   
   *some* kind of protection in case of hostile entities.   
      
   She grasped the door knob and applied all her strength to   
   turning it.  A gush of air when the door opened set her   
   shivering again.   
      
   Maybe she should just cough on any intruders and give them   
   her flu.  That might be crueler than a baseball bat across the   
   knees.   
      
   The noises she could hear were louder in the hallway and   
   sounded like they coming from the kitchen.  Whoever it was   
   seemed to be trying to keep it down and not succeeding very   
   well.  She stopped shuffling when a muttered snatch of song   
   floated out to the hall.  She couldn't quite tell what it   
   was, but she recognized the baritone grumble.   
      
   No.  Not Mulder.  Please God, don't let it be Mulder.   
      
   Now she could clearly hear whispered bits of "Jailhouse Rock."   
      
   It *was* Mulder.   
      
   Why?  Why couldn't it be her mother?  Why Mulder?  She didn't   
   want him to see her this way.  She was sick and achy and   
   shivering and her hair was messy and she probably smelled   
   bad and she was wearing a wrinkled robe she'd slept in and   
   she didn't want him to see her this way, all shaky and weak and   
   sick and dragging a stupid baseball bat because she couldn't   
   stand to go back for her weapon and now she was going to cry   
   because she didn't feel good and she didn't want him to see   
   her like this --   
      
   Too late.  There he was.  Mulder.  Wearing a dark T-shirt and   
   jeans and a look of surprise on his face that changed   
   immediately to something softer and kinder.  She was so glad   
   to see him but she didn't want him there which was stupid and   
   contradictory but she couldn't help it.  He looked down at her   
   hand.   
      
   "Whoa, slugger.  I don't think you're up to playing in the game   
   today.  Maybe you'd better sit this one out."   
      
   "Mulder, what are you doing here?"   
      
   God, she hadn't sounded that whiny since she was six.  In fact,   
   she'd never sounded that whiny even when she *was* six!  She   
   really hated being sick.   
      
   "I came over to see how you were.  I thought you might like a   
   little help."  He waved a hand at the bat.  "I know you're   
   particular about housework, but I didn't realize you were *that*   
   picky.  Is this how you greet all your hired help?"   
      
   His face wavered until she blinked a couple times.  "I don't   
   remember hiring you."   
      
   "It was in the Bureau contract you signed.  You mean you didn't   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)