Title: The Feh in Fa-La-La   
   Author: Gina Rain ginarain@aol.com   
   Category: M/S-something   
   Rating: So clean it practically squeaks. Sorry about that.   
   Spoilers: Some early season 6 stuff. This is set pre-How the Ghosts Stole   
   Christmas   
   Summary: Scully. The flu. Unfettered thoughts in the presence of an   
   interesting male nurse.   
      
      
   Scully dragged herself into her apartment, locked the door and tossed the   
   keys on the dining room table. They would probably leave a mark but she   
   couldn't   
   worry about that now. All she wanted was to throw herself down on the couch   
   and pass out. Quickly.   
      
   Off went the coat and the shoes. Down went Scully. Face down, right into the   
   decorative faux suede pillow. Intellectually, she knew she should have taken   
   the time to suck down some Nyquil and tuck herself into her own comfortable bed   
   but the spirit was totally unwilling and the flesh wasn't thrilled with the   
   idea, either.   
      
   Okay, she could lose consciousness now.   
      
   But she knew she wouldn't. In spite of the full body-ache, sore throat and   
   probable raging fever, she was pretty wide-awake.   
      
   Awake to experience the joy during the Season of Joy. Joy to the world. Joy   
   to you and me. What a crock. And where was the Grim Reaper when you needed him?   
   Perhaps he could spare her the frivolities of the flu or the comfy coziness   
   of yet another Christmas season. But, no. Life didn't work out that way. She   
   had to get the flu a full week before Christmas which meant if there was a   
   breath in her body, she would be dragging herself out of bed Christmas morning   
   to   
   experience the wonders of a Scully family Christmas.   
      
   And really, there was nothing quite as warm as spending the day with people   
   who offered you pitying smiles because they felt you were too . . . misguided .   
   . . to realize what a fucked-up life you led. Bad career choice, really bad   
   personal life choice, no prospects of a normal life whatsoever. Here, hold a   
   kid and experience for a second the joys you can never have in your miserable   
   barren life.   
      
   Auntie Dana.   
   Career Woman Dana.   
   Kick-ass FBI Agent Scully.   
   Mulder-Loving Clueless Scully.   
      
   She pushed her head further into the pillow, thankful for the faux material.   
   The smell of real suede would have done her in at this point. She only wished   
   she had had the presence of mind to grab a throw or the comforter off her bed   
   because she was feeling a bit chilled about now. And her cold, cold, bitter   
   heart did nothing to warm her up. When had she become Scully the Secret   
   Scrooge?   
      
   Sleep. She wanted sleep so badly. She should get up off of the couch and   
   drink half a bottle of Nyquil. That would do it. But she hated the stuff. It   
   made   
   her feel stupid the next morning, worse than a hangover. Maybe that was the   
   answer. Straight Scotch instead. At least the hangover was somehow more honest.   
      
   No, she would forego alcohol and count sheep. Or, better yet, go to the   
   deepest recesses of her mind and dig out a Mulder fantasy. That should do it.   
   Usually, before he even kissed her in her imagination, she would be out cold.   
   Why   
   would her fantasy life be any more gratifying than her real one?   
      
   Romance and Mulder: interesting concept, that. She supposed they had had   
   their moments that year. That whole hallway incident. Damn bee. His lips   
   actually   
   on hers when she sort of, maybe, stopped breathing for a few seconds. His warm   
   lips on her icy blue ones. That must have been a turn-on. She was glad her   
   memory of that was very, very fuzzy. Then there was that whole nakedness thing.   
   He got to see her naked twice. Hold back the raging hormones! Instead of just   
   blue lips, he saw an entire blue body covered in slime. And even though the   
   decontamination shower wasn't quite as bad and he did, indeed, sneak a peek, he   
   didn't seem all that impressed. She could tell because she snuck an eyeful   
   herself and, while it was an eyeful, it was an immobile eyeful. Damn.   
      
   And double damn.   
      
   Church bells were ringing.   
      
   Was it Christmas already? Good, she was still sick. Maybe she could beg off   
   the Scullybration.   
      
   Christmas. Such a beautiful holiday, really. Too bad real life had tainted it   
   for her. Her father dying around Christmas. Emily. The whole issue of future   
   babies and such.   
      
   She should get up and drag herself to Church. She wanted to do that.  She   
   didn't want to see her family. No way, no how. Not this year.   
      
   Now the neighbors were hammering something. What was wrong with people?   
   Didn't they know it was Christmas? Or was it? She didn't remember sleeping. She   
   remembered throwing herself on this cold couch and thinking about Mulder's   
   personal parts not rising to the occasion.   
      
   "Scully?"   
      
   Auditory hallucinations. No, that wasn't the word for it. Was it?   
   Hallucinations were visual. No, hallucinations included all the senses. Right?   
   No? Yes?   
   Damn. She should know. She knew everything.   
      
   A hand touched the back of her shoulder and she jumped a little.   
      
   "FBI. Freeze," she said in a groggy voice and let her head fall back to the   
   pillow.   
      
   "You're alive. Good. You had me wondering there for a moment."   
      
   Mulder was here. In her apartment. Yippee.   
      
   The hand returned. "Scully? Can I roll you over?"   
      
   Sure, baby. You can roll me over anytime. She was giggling like crazy in her   
   mind. She wasn't doing it really, though. Dana Scully didn't get hysterical   
   over a juvenile thought. She knew how to do Sick. She even knew how to do   
   Dying.   
   She did it beautifully. Strong. Stoic. Scully. Of course, no one knew the   
   Secret Scully. The one who was whining like your finest three-year old and   
   feeling sorry for herself and needing a hug but never asking for one because   
   big   
   girls didn't do stuff like that and she was a big girl except she was little in   
   stature which made her work twice as hard and . . . what was she supposed to do   
   again? Oh, yeah. Roll over, Rover.  It took a Herculean effort but she   
   managed. She now had a view of the ceiling through a curtain of red hair.  A   
   now   
   cold hand lifted the curtain. Much better.   
      
   The cold hand stayed on her forehead for a moment.   
      
   "Just what I thought. You have a fever."   
      
   "You're not a doctor," Scully said, thinking about rolling over again into   
   the nice fake cow pillow, but unable to physically pull it off.   
      
   "No, but the blisters forming on my fingers gave me my first clue."   
      
   Scully made a sound that was supposed to be a proper, haughty scoffing sound   
   but sounded like a raspberry that ran out of air.   
      
   "What can I get for you?" he asked. He sounded concerned. She supposed he   
   might have that little scrunchy line between his eyes but she was too tired to   
   actually move her head to look at him.   
      
   "Blanket. And Tylenol. Water. For the Tylenol. And another blanket," and a   
   Scotch, she thought, but didn't say because everyone knew that acetaminophen   
   and   
   booze didn't go and would rot your liver so even Eugene Victor Tooms wouldn't   
   want it.   
      
   He was back. Not Tooms, they had squished him, but Mulder.   
      
   And he was forcing her to sit up by yanking on her arm.   
      
   "Hey," she said, not able to think of anything more cutting.   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)