From: Finding Fiji Date: Sun, 5 Jan 2003 19:21:33 -0800 (PST) Subject: Playing Doctor Source: direct TITLE: Playing Doctor AUTHOR: Finding Fiji EMAIL: findingfiji@yahoo.com SPOILERS: Sometime mid-season six. You can pick the exact spot. FEEDBACK: Please! RATING: PG-13 (Can you believe it??) CLASS: VR MSR DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never were. SUMMARY: His speech broke, just for a second, and then he continued, "I'm not asking if you would like to quit the bureau and practice medicine, I'm just wondering if you ever wish your patients were a bit more...treatable? Talkative? Alive?" NOTES: I know, I know...it's not NC-17! I don't know what got into me, and I certainly can't promise it'll never happen again. I do plan on having a Part Two to this story, and rest your hearts, that will be a typical Fiji smut-fest. Any thoughts or comments are always more then welcome. Thanks for reading!! Scully softly turned the handle before closing the door, taking every precaution not to wake the man in the next room. Normally, she would have stayed longer, but she couldn't wait to rid herself of her medical attire. Confident that her patient was sleeping contentedly, she left without making a sound. As expected, Mulder was waiting for her in the hallway, displaying his own personalized version of patience. He was in a constant state of motion, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, finger-combing his hair with one hand and popping sunflower seeds into his mouth with the other. She considered where the empty hulls were winding up with both hands seemingly occupied with their individual chores, but then decided she didn't really want to know. The corners of his mouth twitched upward when he saw her emerge, but his litany of movements didn't stop for even a moment. Scully understood that he wasn't really being impatient; Mulder always struggles with the ability to sit still, and after a difficult case that quirk increases tenfold. "Mr. Chu is resting well," she told him by way of greeting. He said nothing in response, instead swinging his hips in a hula motion in order to bring the bag hanging from his shoulder into her line of sight. She recognized it immediately. "My overnight bag!" It was the most excited she'd been about anything in days. They had spent an agonizing three days trapped in a small cabin in the woods with Yung Chu, who had been far too ill to be moved. As soon as the rescue team had found them, they were rushed from the forest to the hospital, where she had immediately changed into scrubs to assist in the aid to Mr. Chu. If it hadn't been for her, he would have died almost immediately from the medical center's doctors treating him for advanced streptococcus. Thankfully, she had been able to put together the pieces and know the proper prognosis for what may, or may not have been, an alien virus. Mulder smiled at her, recognizing that he had done something very good. He once asked her what she thought was the most romantic thing he had ever done for her. Prepared to hear a stereotypical response like one of their few candlelit dinners together, or their short weekend getaway to the beach, or maybe even the mother ring he had purchased for her last Christmas, with Emily's birthstone embedded in it. Surprisingly, it was none of these. After they had finally taken the step from platonic partners to lovers, Scully had been struggling. He always knew she would. Generally a reserved and introverted person, opening herself up and becoming vulnerable to him sexually had taken a tremendous personal effort. In the wake of their first night together she had been doubtful, insecure, worried, and embarrassed. In short, when Mulder had asked her how she was, she responded, "I'm fine, Mulder." He had allowed her all the space she needed, knowing that pushing her then would only push her away. When she had requested that she go help in Quantico for a week, conducting autopsies and teaching a refresher course, he was entirely supportive. He stayed out of her way and tried his hardest not to call her with questions about their 302 forms and latest case reports. He had, however, insisted on lunch together every day. It was not a verbal command, he simply showed up with food...her food, bee pollen and yogurt, tofu and soy, and sat down to eat with her. They never spoke of their relationship or sex, and he just waited it out, bearing gifts of food and friendship. That, she said, was the most romantic thing he had ever done for her was. "You knew me so well, Mulder," she had confessed in a late-night whisper. "You knew me and accepted me and loved me for exactly who I am, with all the fears and faults included. If you hadn't done that, I don't know if we would be here now." She punctuated her words with an open-mouthed kiss to his chest. Watching her excitement over clean clothes, Mulder knew he had just accomplished a similar feat. Apparently, Scully's ideals existed beyond the realm of typical female niceties. Instead, it was just knowing the woman behind the agent, the doctor, and the façade. She took the bag from his shoulder and dug through it, triumphantly retrieving black dress pants and a sea-foam green blouse. "I'll never understand that about you, Scully. Most people find scrubs comfortable. I had a flatmate my junior year at Oxford who used to sleep in them." It is because of all the horrible memories that coincide with the outfit, she wanted to tell him. It is the times she's seen him near death, hovered over his body, wondered if she would be able to save him this time. It is because of Emily. It is because of Melissa. It is because she can't even remember all the names or faces of the bodies she's autopsied wearing them, many of their wrongful deaths still not avenged. They seem, to her, to be a passport to pain. Her ability to don them is a backstage pass to heinous crimes. She wanted to tell him all of this, but instead stuffed the clothes back into the bag, and said nothing. They paused at the nursing counter so she could sign the requisite paperwork. A petite nurse with brown hair and a pregnant belly handed her the clipboard. She signed, initialed, signed again, and then initialed four more times. Dropping her business card on top of the papers, she forced a painful smile at the expecting nurse. "Call me if you need anything else. My cell number is on the back of the card." The girl smiled back and absent mindedly scratched her belly. Scully grabbed her bag and headed toward the doctor's lounge; she could not rid herself of those clothes quickly enough. One hour into the drive home, Mulder dove back into his sunflower seeds, spitting the shells onto the well trafficked pavement of I95. Two hours, and his bag of snack food and gas tank were close to empty. Fifteen minutes after that, both were filled again. Meanwhile, Scully waited. Over the years it had become obvious to her when Mulder's mind was conjuring up a query, it was as if the wheels in the back of his head became directly visible. That particular ability had only increased since their newfound intimacy. It wasn't until they were through Baltimore that he finally turned to her, adjusting the radio volume so they were no longer listening to the best hits of the 80's, 90's, and today. "Do you ever miss the idea of being a doctor, Scully?" He kept his eyes on the road, but leaned towards her, as if she might decide to whisper her response. "What do you mean?" Clarification on this question was key. It was always hard to tell with her partner whether he was idly curious or desperately concerned. "The whole 'aiding the wounded, tending the ill', do you miss the idea of it?" His speech broke, just for a second, and then he continued, "I'm not asking if you would like to quit the bureau and practice medicine, I'm just wondering if you ever wish your patients were a bit more...treatable? Talkative? Alive?" She grinned a bit. "Nah. I don't have to worry about my bedside manner this way." Mulder, in response, groaned. "Scully, that's a bad pathologist's joke and I've already heard variations of it 100 times. Try again." Giving her reply a bit more thought this time, she finally answered, "I still say no. There are times when I've wondered what it would be like to be able to save people's lives that way, to make that kind of difference. In the end though, I think I have the most worth right where I am." "You do save people's lives, ya'know." Mulder offered as he passed a tractor trailer on the right and spit a hull at it as they passed. There was relative silence in the car as the radio played quietly, wind rushed through partly opened windows, and sunflower seeds were taken, husked, consumed. "After Emily," Scully started, and then stopped. She once told Mulder there were two kinds of sentences: ones that started with "After Emily," and then all the others. He had rubbed his finger along the frame he kept Samantha's picture in and looked up at her with sad eyes. He hadn't said anything; there was nothing to be said. "After Emily," she began again, "I thought about what it would be like to be a doctor in pediatric medicine. What would it be like to be able to save parents this agony? Wouldn't it be worth it if I could help just one 3-year-old girl live...and to see the love and relief reflected in her mother's eyes? And then, then I thought of the opposite. What if I didn't...couldn't..." Scully choked on her words. A large hand, covered in salt from the seeds and sweat from the weight of the conversation, found hers and squeezed it. "You are a wonderful doctor, Scully." She could have kissed him for his words, and for choosing to say 'are' and not 'were'. Shaking herself free of the weight this conversation carried, she looked at him with a smile and replied, "Yes, I am. And I would love to be given the opportunity to miss it, but until you stop getting shot, stabbed, scraped, and scuffed I don't think I'm going to have that opportunity." Male chuckles filled the car and chased away lingering ghosts. "Oh, don't think I believe that! You croon at the chance to doctor me whenever I have the slightest ailment." Then, effecting a painfully squeaky falsetto, he continued, "Oh, Mulder! You feel warm; let me take your temperature? Oh, Mulder! You have a cut; let me rub some Neosporin on it. Oh, Mulder! You banged your head; let me run my fingers through your hair..." His words were cut off mid-sentence by a playful slap on his arm. With a teasing grin and leer, he couldn't help but interject one more example. "Oh, Mulder! Your penis is limp; let me suck it for you!" Her surprised scream and his hearty laughter were all the medicine either of them needed.