"Hey Scully, ever had the chickenpox?"
"Melissa gave it to me when we were kids. Why do you...Mulder no."
He spins his chair to face her, revealing a number of angry red bumps covering his face and neck.
She sighs, feeling a stress-induced headache forming behind her left eye. It's eight o'clock on a Monday morning and already she's exasperated. "Mulder, why on Earth would you think it would be a good idea to come into work with chickenpox? It's a highly contagious disease that can cause serious complications when contracted by adults."
"Relax, Scully," he replies, standing up and walking toward her. "There's no one down here for me to infect except for you." Placing his hands on her shoulders, he gives her what he must think is a reassuring smile. "Besides, we have a big case in Texas. I've been reading over the file and I think that El Chupacabra might be involved."
"No. Absolutely not." She wiggles out of his grip and before he has time to protest she has his coat in hand, slipping his arm into the sleeve. "You shouldn't even be in the office, let alone on an airplane. Go home."
He shoves his other arm into the coat before turning to face her. "El Chupacabra, Scully. If you send me home now we'll be missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
Rolling her eyes, she hands him his briefcase. "I'm sure there will be plenty of other Chupacabras Mulder, we'll just have to sit this one out." She begins pushing him towards the door. "Right now, you need to rest. I'll come check on you after I'm done here to make sure you're doing alright."
Accepting defeat, he allows himself to be pushed. "I look forward to your visit, Dr. Scully," he smirks as, with a final shove, she gets him out of the office and shuts the door behind him.
It's nearly four o'clock when Skinner comes down to send her home. Having heard of Mulder's ailment he decided it was best that she get out of the office as well, lest she be infected and spread it to other agents. Of course, she neglects to mention that she's already had the chickenpox, but she doubts that the FBI will suffer if it loses an hour of her paperwork-filing services.
After going home to shower and change into a sweatshirt and sweatpants, she's back in car, on her way to his apartment. There's a bag on her passenger's seat containing calamine lotion, Tylenol, and chicken noodle soup. Being all too aware of his questionable health habits, she figures it's best that she come prepared.
Using the key he gave her, she lets herself into the apartment. She hopes to find him asleep on the couch but instead he's sitting up, the contents of a file spread across his coffee table. The only evidence that he's done any kind of relaxing is the fact that he's wearing pajamas. "Mulder that better not be the Chupacabra file."
He looks up from the papers, a grin spreading across his face. "You know me too well, Scully."
"Take two of these," she says, reaching into the bag and tossing him the bottle of Tylenol. "It'll help with the fever."
"How do you know I have a fever? And how do you know that I haven't already taken anything for it?"
"I know you too well," she calls from the kitchen, digging in the cupboards for a pot to make the soup in.
"You don't have to do this, you know." Standing behind her, he reaches for a glass from the cabinet above her head. "I can take care of myself."
Unphased, she empties the can of soup into the pot and turns on the stove. "I'd love to believe you Mulder, I really would. But I'm going to take a guess and say that since you left the office you've been reading that file, eating junk food, and watching a movie from the collection in your office."
"You told me to relax," he laughs in a way that tells her she's right.
"No, I told you to rest," she turns to face him, hands on her hips. "And since I know you so well, I know that you won't do anything that could be considered taking care of yourself unless I force you to."
"Are you going to feed me soup and rub calamine lotion all over me?"
She pretends not to notice the way her heart skips a beat at the thought of running her hands over his body. "No, but I am going to tape oven mitts to your hands if you don't stop scratching."
His hand stills at the back of his neck. "But it itches."
She hides her grin by turning around to check the soup. "I know it does, but if I could restrain myself from scratching at the age of four, I think a grown man can handle it."
"Well you've always been more mature than me."
This time she rewards him with a laugh. He walks over to the sink and fills the glass with water to chase down the Tylenol. She tells him to go sit down, turns off the burner, and ladles the soup into two bowls. Back in the living room he's found the lotion she brought, applying it to all the exposed portions of his skin. She sets the bowls on the coffee table and he nods toward the remote.
"Since you don't seem to like any of my movies, you can find something to watch," he says with a smirk.
Choosing not to dignify his comment with a response, she picks up the remote and starts flipping through the channels. She stops when she finds a documentary on urban legends. It's not her first choice, not by a longshot, but she figures it might make him feel better. They eat their soup in relative silence, speaking only to comment on the outrageousness of the documentary.
"That looks nothing like The Jersey Devil," she remarks at an artist's rendition of the creature.
He nods. "They can never seem to get the hair right."
After they've finished their soup and the documentary has ended, she looks over at him. He looks exhausted. The clock on the wall tells her that it's only eight o'clock, but she knows that the chickenpox usually manifests itself for a few days before the rash starts and he's never been one to sleep well in the first place. He reaches up a hand to scratch at his neck but she's quicker than he is, grabbing it before his nails can make contact with skin. Neither of them let go, even after he lowers his hand.
"Maybe you should try getting some sleep," she suggests gently.
"Don't you have to work in the morning?" he asks, running a thumb along the back of her hand.
She smiles guiltily. "Skinner's under the impression that you gave me the chickenpox, so I think it's safe to say that neither of us have to go in for a few days."
He looks impressed. "Scully you sly dog. I never pegged you as one to lie to the FBI."
"Mulder why don't you just lie down and stop talking."
"Your wish is my command."
He gets up to turn off the light, locking the door before sitting back down. The couch isn't quite long enough for him, so he ends up with his legs bent at an awkward angle and his head on her lap. She can't say she minds in the least.
It feels good, the warm weight of his head in her lap. Better than good, if she's being honest with herself. After a few minutes his breathing evens out and she knows he's fallen asleep. She rakes her blunt fingernails gently across his scalp. A simple gesture, but it feels alarmingly intimate. She wants to believe that this is just something friends do for one another, yet she can't think of any other friend she would go to all this trouble for. Things with Mulder have always been different. There's such a deep level of understanding between them, so many things they've seen and done together that could ever be explained to anyone else.
Looking down at her fingers entwined in his hair, it occurs to her that he's her best friend. Maybe even more than that. She loves him, either way. Whether that love is platonic or romantic is something she doesn't feel the need to think about tonight. As he moves in his sleep, shifting back so that his head is pressed against her stomach, she tells herself there's no need to make any drastic decisions. For right now, this is enough.