#I live for MSR TLC

[misslilli]

Felix Felicis

MSR. AU. PG-13. | tagging @today-in-fic | read on AO3

Chapter 48 - A Little TLC Cures Almost Anything

[ DS ]

After our date at the Winter Carnival, I float on my little cloud of sunshine and rainbows through the rest of the week. It's all so exciting and new, every text you receive gives you a start because you pray it's from him and your heart does a little dance when you see that it is. He's so different from anyone I've ever had the displeasure of dating, it's like a fresh breeze of air blowing away the last cobwebs that still remain from the other guys. Finally, it seems like I'm getting what I've always dreamed of but never thought I'd actually find.

My friends shake their heads in amusement at me tearing through the two school days before Saturday in a big ball of excited energy, or more like a little Duracell bunny on Ecstasy, dying to get them over with and counting the hours until he picks me up for our trip up to the Boston Aquarium at noon.

————

[ Felix ]

"Alright, partner, recap, did you find out anything?" Suzie and I are sitting on a small stone wall far away from the others, conducting our investigation. She shakes her head with a frown.

"No… I asked the butcher and the girl at the bakery yesterday and they all said the same thing. They've heard the name mentioned before but they have no idea who he is! I'll ask around at the farmer's market tomorrow, did you find out anything?" Man, this Squirrel guy is so mysterious, I'm intrigued. How does someone go around town and no-one knows who he is?

"No, I didn't either. But I did notice a new mug appearing in our kitchen, from some Winter Carnival… maybe they went there together? I wish we weren't so little and could go to Bridgeport to snoop around there…" There's a long pause while we ponder what to do next.

"I still think it would be easiest to go through my dad's phone, see if there's any pictures in there or something." We've been over this so many times, all I get as an answer is an eye-roll and a "Felix... You're crazy!"

[ DS ]

On Saturday, I putter around the house restlessly with nothing to do, the girls are out with their boyfriends doing couple things, so I'm using my pent up energy to clean the house from top to bottom, singing along to the radio while I wait for Mulder to get here to pick me up for our date.

I straighten and fluff all the pillows, push around items on the kitchen counter and have rearranged the fridge, twice. We’re planning on going up to the Boston Aquarium this afternoon and I’m beyond excited, it’s going to be such a great day. When you're waiting for something, time seems to slow to a crawl and once I’m out of things to busy myself with, I flop down onto the couch to read.

I can’t concentrate on the words in front of me though, too giddy to focus on anything but imagining what the day will bring.

When the doorbell finally rings, I rush to the door so fast I bang my shoulder on the doorframe of the living room, cursing under my breath. Rubbing my shoulder with a grimace, I swing the front door open to take in the sight of my Mulder. He looks so good in a sweater and jeans, as always, but he at the same time, he doesn't look good.

“Jesus… Are you alright?” His nose is bright red and his eyes are slightly glassy, there's an unhealthy flush on his cheeks that I recognize as a sign of a fever.

“I’m dot Jesus and I'm fine-d.”

“You’re sick, Mulder. Why don’t you come on in, I’ll make you some tea.”

“Do I’m fine-d! We can-d go to Boston-d.” I roll my eyes at him and grab his hand, pulling him inside.

“When you can enunciate your n’s properly again, we’ll go to Boston. Now you need tea, rest and some medicine.”

To his weak protests and some more I'm fine-d's, I lead him over to the couch and push him to sit down on it, his bones seem to melt into the cushions with exhaustion and he rests his head on the back, closing his eyes.

Placing the back on my hand on his cheeks and feeling his forehead, I discover that I was right, he must be running a fever on top of his running nose.

“You really shouldn’t have driven here like this, next time you call and I’ll come to you, okay?” Instead of an answer, he only manages a meek nod - no smart-ass reply must mean he’s pretty sick.

He’s a pretty good patient, however, he obediently drinks his tea, swallows down the Tylenol I hand him and follows me up the stairs like a puppy when I tell him he should be in bed. He lifts his arms obediently when I take off his sweater, which is a struggle in itself because of our height difference and crawls underneath the covers, shivering.

After getting the in-ear thermometer from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, I take his temperature, which reveals what I already suspected: a solid 102 fever.

When I place the box of tissues next to him on the bed and turn to leave, he grabs my wrist and looks up at me with glassy, pleading eyes, rasping out a dramatic “Nooo, don’t leave me!”

“Just close your eyes, I’ll be right back, okay?” Pulling my hand from his wrist, I smooth away the hair on his warm forehead and he obeys with a sigh, closing his eyes.

It’s a miracle that we have all the ingredients for chicken soup in the freezer and I put them all in a pot to simmer over the next few hours, I also make a pot of chamomile tea into which I stir some honey to ease the throat ache that comes with a cold.

Teapot in one and cups in the other hand, I return upstairs to find Mulder passed out spread-eagled in the middle of my bed and I have to smile at the innocent look on his sleeping face.

Quietly, I slip into the bathroom to change into something more comfortable and to get a cold washcloth for his forehead. The bed dips slightly when I sit down next to him and I freeze when he stirs next to me, but his steadily rising and falling chest means he's still fast asleep.

I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I hadn’t thought up ways to get Fox Mulder into my bed once I’m ready to take that step. Sick and sniffling with an unsexy yet weirdly adorable red, runny nose most definitely was not one of them. But I'm good at taking care of kids, and men with a cold are said to be more like overly grown children than they'd like to admit.

So I stay right next to him just in case he needs anything when he wakes up, leaning over him to fish my reading glasses and the book from the nightstand and I open it to the bookmark, scooting down lower into the pillows to read.

The book whisks me away on a journey to Venice and the crime-solving Venetian inspector Brunetti, so I don't notice him inching closer and closer until there's a heavy arm draped across my waist and a face snuggled into my chest just below my collarbones. Stiff as a rod, I stare down at the unruly head of hair and wait with bated breath for my hammering heartbeat to slow down. It's beating must be so loud under his ear, he must be really out of it if he doesn't wake up from the jackhammer-sound.

It takes a while to get used to but the weight of his arm and head feels oddly comforting and I relax into the embrace, picking up my book again. Soon, I find myself back in Venice and my fingers find their way into his spiky soft hair, combing through it absent-mindedly.

Once my eyes start to hurt from the strain of reading, I put the book back on the nightstand and look out the doors to the balcony at the sun slowly setting, smiling at the little sigh that tickles my collarbone - I'm wild-guessing he's enjoying the hair thing.

The peaceful moment is only broken by a bad coughing fit that wakes him from his sleep and once it has subsided, he groans into my pajama top. “Scullyaayyy I’m dying!”

I roll my eyes and chuckle at his knack for dramatics, pressing a kiss into his hairline. “You’re not dying Mulder, you just have the flu!”

His voice is hoarse and muffled by the fabric of my top. “Feels like dying!” I guess the effects of the Tylenol are wearing off right about now so I make him sit up and hand him another one with a cup of water. I also make him drink his tea and once he’s finished that and the Tylenol has kicked in, he looks a lot better and even manages a small smile.

“Thank you, you’re a really good doctor. I just hope I won’t get you sick too!” I switch out the teacup with some nasal spray for his stuffy nose and shake my head.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve been sneezed at and coughed on by thousands of kids, I’m immune to all kinds of bacteria and viruses. Are you hungry?”

“Starving. You got any pizza?”

“Nope, just chicken noodle soup, sorry. I’ll go fetch us some!”

Downstairs, the girls are peering into my soup curiously and turn their heads towards me when I enter the kitchen.

“Hey D, that’s a pretty measly dinner you made for us!” Holly motions to the soup with raised eyebrows.

“That’s not for you, Holly. It’s for the whiny, dramatic, sick man in my bed upstairs.”

“Mulder’s here? In your bed? Oooh that’s a first, if I remember correctly, no man has ever glimpsed the insides of your bedroom before.” I smack her arm and roll my eyes.

“It’s not like that, he’s sick and I’m just taking care of him.”

“Look at you going all Martha Stewart, making chicken noodle soup, from scratch, and taking care of your sick man - how very girlfriend-y of you!” Shooing them away from the pot, I fill two bowls and give them a look.

“Oh shut up, I’d do it for you guys too, if you ever got sick.”

“You’ve never, not once, made chicken soup for me!,” Sarah laments with a pout and the others nod in agreement.

“And I never will if you keep bugging me about this!” I put a spoon in each bowl and with another pointed look at the girls, I head back upstairs.

“Mhh this is really good soup, where did you order it from?,” Mulder asks around his spoon as we each eat our bowls of soup, sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing each other. I look up from my bowl with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t order it, I made it!”

“Oh wow, where did you hide that Michelin star?”

“It’s just chicken noodle soup, Mulder, not exactly haute cuisine!”

“Best damn soup I’ve ever had, that’s for sure!”

——————

[ FM ]

I wasn’t lying when I said it was the best soup I’ve ever had, though I’m not sure if it’s actually the taste or the company I share it with. Even though I feel like dying, it sure feels nice to have someone take care of me for a change, getting me tea and feeding me soup. I wonder if I get to be the little spoon again, I never tried it before and it seems like I really enjoy it. Maybe I can even get her to do the thing with my hair again, that was nice.

The soup combined with the fever spike in the evening has made me sleepy and I realize that I might actually have to ask her to lay down with me again if I want a repeat from before. The look on her face is mildly surprised when I do ask her, but after she puts the bowls away, she lays back down with open arms. Once I’m snuggled back into her side with my head on her chest, I can feel my eyes drooping already. “Can you do that thing again?”

“What thing?”

“The hair thing… that was nice.” I sigh blissfully when I feel her fingers in my hair again and I’m asleep faster than I can even mumble my thanks. But still, not fast enough to notice the proximity of what my cheek is pressed against with a grin, after all, I am a guy and while I'm feverish and my throat is sore, I'm not dead. Yet.

I wake several times during the night and she’s always there, with tea, thermometer, Tylenol and the comforting strokes of her hand. If this doesn’t miraculously cure me overnight, I don’t know what will.