From: mimic117@yahoo.com
Date: Sun, 5 Jun 2005 18:20:54 -0400
Subject: NEW:  Getting By  1/1
Source: direct

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 
read the fine print?"

She had to smile.  She couldn't stop herself.  He was so goofy 
and silly and endearing and he was exactly what she needed 
even if she'd rather he didn't see her when she was sick but 
she was feeling better already just from looking at him.  

He smiled back.  She jumped when his cold fingers touched 
her cheek.  How did he do that?  He hadn't moved.  Had he?

Mulder stopped smiling and frowned.  His hand moved from her 
cheek to her forehead, then to her cheek again but he was 
touching her with the back of his hand instead of his palm and 
then he leaned closer and kissed her forehead.  

They'd progressed to the kissing part?  How did she miss that?

"You have a fever, Martha Stewart.  Let's get you some Tylenol 
and put you back in bed."

Huh.  She had a fever?  A shiver tickled her neck and set her 
whole body shaking.  Oh yeah.  Fever and chills.  She should 
have taken something for that.  Why hadn't she though of it 
instead of waiting for Mulder to find out with his cold, smooth 
fingers and his kisses?

He grabbed her shoulders and slowly turned her back toward 
her bedroom.  It was so far away.  She really didn't know if she 
could walk aaalll that way back again.

"You want me to carry you, Scully?"

Now there was a picture.  Mulder carrying her like Scarlet 
O'Hara, with her in a wrinkled, smelly robe and messy hair, 
dangling a baseball bat from her fingers.

Nope.  She could probably walk, but she didn't think she could 
drag that bat another step.  She looked over her shoulder and 
waited for his face to come into focus.

"I can walk.  But you could carry the bat for me."

He smiled again and gently took it from her hand. 

"I think I can do that.  Now let's get you settled.  Why 
were you out of bed in the first place?"

She was shuffling down the hallway before she remembered 
moving.  What was the question again?  She couldn't 
remember that, either.

Out of bed!  Right.  Why *was* she out of bed?

"Because I heard someone moving around and I didn't know 
who it was."

"Sorry about that.  I didn't mean to wake you."

"I don't think I was really asleep anyway, Mulder.  I was just 
sort of... not sleeping."

"Rough night?"

They'd made it to the bed.  Thank God.  Scully couldn't 
remember it ever looking so inviting before.  "You could say 
that."  

She gingerly bent her aching legs and sat on the side of the 
mattress.  When she blinked, Mulder had disappeared but he 
was back when she blinked again, this time holding a glass of 
water, two pills and her electronic thermometer.

"Whassat?"  Damn.  She wasn't even forming whole sentences 
anymore.  That probably wasn't good but she couldn't be sure.

"I'm gonna take your temp.  Then you're going to take these 
Tylenol and crawl back into bed.  Or are you hungry?  You 
want something to eat while the pills kick in?"

"Not hungry.  Just tired and sore."  She must be really sick.  
Usually she wouldn't admit something like that to herself, let 
alone Mulder.

"How's your stomach?"

"Empty.  But not sick.  I'll eat later."

"Okay.  There's some chicken soup keeping warm on the 
stove.  Let's see if you can blow the bulb off the thermometer 
and then you can get some more sleep."

She opened her mouth to tell him that electronic thermometers 
don't have bulbs or even mercury, but he stuck the end of it 
under her tongue before she could say anything.  It was cold 
and tasted plasticky and she wanted to spit it out but she just 
didn't have the energy.  

It beeped and Mulder slid it back out of her mouth.  Blech.  
Nasty thing.

"Good one, partner.  A hundred and one point five.  I'd say 
you're officially sick."

"Was that your only clue?"

He chuckled softly.

"That and the glazed eyes.  Here.  Take the Tylenol and crawl 
under the covers.  You should feel better in about fifteen 
minutes."

"Is that your educated opinion as a physician, Dr. Mulder?"  
She took the pills one at a time and washed them down with as 
much water as she could stand, which wasn't much but it got 
the job done.  He was smiling again when she handed back the 
glass.

"That's my educated opinion as your friend, Agent Scully, 
based on years of experience and observation."  

He held the covers open and helped her to swing her feet 
underneath.  He fluffed up the pillow, then guided her down to 
it, tucking the blankets in at her shoulders.  She wanted to 
tell him how much she appreciated his concern and tender care, 
but she was already getting sleepy.  She hadn't realized that 
her eyes were closed until the sound of his voice caused them 
to open again.

"You planning to sleep in your robe?  I can help you take it off."

She snuggled her cheek into the pillow, closed her eyes, and 
sighed.  "That's okay, Mulder.  I've slept in it since last night.  
It can't get any more wrinkled than it already is."

She felt his breath huff against her face as he quietly laughed, 
followed by his lips on her cheek once more.  

"Okay.  You just get some rest.  If you need anything, I'll be out 
in the living room ordering dirty pay-per-view movies from your 
cable company.  I hope you feel better soon."

"Actually, I feel pretty good right now."

Another fleeting touch of his hand on her face and then she 
heard the bedroom door close.

She really did feel better.  Not great, but better.  The pain 
reliever was starting to kick in and her muscles weren't quite so 
achy.  Her head felt clearer, as well, but she was too tired to 
stay up much longer.  

Maybe having Mulder around wasn't such a bad thing.  It wasn't 
like he hadn't seen her sick before.  Or injured.  Angry.  Dirty, 
not at her prettiest.  It hadn't bothered him before.  Why should 
she let it bother her now?  He was her friend.  They were best 
friends, really.  And taking care of each other was what friends 
did.  She might just be able to get through this stupid flu with a 
little help from her friend.  

She fell asleep with the Beatles tune running through her head.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE END

Feedback:  mimic117@yahoo.com

Homepage:  http://www.mimicsmusings.com