This was written for leaiscully's Tumblr writing challenge late last night with little editing. I just finished watching season nine last night, and I suppose this falls in some indeterminate time post-The Truth, when Mulder and Scully are on the run, with references to Scully's cancer arc.
She never eats much during hospital stays. She understands that nutrition is important, so she always eats the bare minimum required to appease her doctors, but never more. There's something about the air in the building no matter where in the world she is – no matter which medical facility is playing gracious host this time – that makes her stomach roll. That doesn't stop Mulder, though. He brings her food every time he visits, without fail. One day it's a meatball sandwich the size of her head – she takes four bites, he eats the rest. Another day it's a non-fat, Tofutti rice dreamsicle – she manages half, he throws away the rest. Alien viruses, gunshot wounds, insect borne contagions, cancer – she's seen more than her fair share of hospital rooms. They both have. And she's not eaten far more than her fair share of diligently delivered meals.
It was worst during her cancer stays. Being in the hospital was bad enough, but then the drugs and treatment took what little remained of her appetite. Mulder brought a lot of soup in those days. Simple broth, maybe some noodles and vegetables if he was feeling optimistic. Never homemade – he became a regular sight at the deli around the corner from the Hoover building – but always heartfelt. Some days she might make it through half the cup and Mulder would smile, only to pinch his face in worry later when she threw it all up. Other days she would force down a couple of spoonfuls just to humor him. Sometimes the smell alone was enough to make her throat hitch. On those days he didn't finish her leftovers. The cup and its steaming contents went straight into the trash.
Years later, in some motel off a dusty road halfway past nowhere, she's sick. Mulder's gone out for supplies and all she can do is lie in bed, wishing her stomach would settle and her fever would break. It's nothing dangerous, no worse than any other case of the flu she's had over the years, but she's miserable. When Mulder returns he dumps an armload of grocery bags on the small table beside the tv and rushes to her side of the bed.
"I got Tylenol, and orange juice, and tissues – the soft kind, with the lotion you like. And some food, even though you said you weren't hungry. Are you sure I don't need to take you to the hospital?" he asks, anxiously brushing sweat dampened strands of hair from her forehead. "You're so pale."
"Mulder, I'm okay. It's just the flu. Besides, you know as well I do that we can't risk a hospital visit. Not now. It's too dangerous."
He sighs, exasperated. But he knows she's right.
"Will you at least eat some soup? It's no D.C. deli creation, but I hear Campbell's isn't half bad for crap from a can," he jokes, trying to shape his worried face into some semblance of a smile.
She rolls her eyes and he sobers.
"Please."
There's no hint of a joke this time, and she can practically see the memories flashing through his mind.
She sighs tiredly. "Alright, fine. I'll eat some soup."
And she does. She almost finishes the bowl before falling asleep.
She throws it all up an hour later, but this time he's better prepared. When they get back in bed he places a box of saltines on the nightstand beside her water bottle. This motel is no hospital, and this time, dammit, she'll eat.