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Notes: This is for Dawn, who had a truly awful email week last week and sent

a note pleading for something "Skinner with rugburn" to cheer her up.

Right.

*sigh*

She is a truly WONDERFUL beta and deserves all good things, so how could I

deny her? So this little snerk-piece got written after midnight one night.

For Dawn...beta extraordinaire!

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

"Rug Burn" by JiM

I am standing there like a zombie, with my shirt in one hand and the tube of

ointment in the other, when the doorbell rings. Anyone who shows up at my

door at 9 am on a hungover Saturday morning gets what he deserves. I can feel

the snarl beginning to uncurl out of my gut and onto my face as I open the

door. Mulder. Of course.

He is completely unfazed by my scowl - he's seen it so many times that he's

immune. He smiles slightly, eyes flicking up and down my body, noting my bare

chest and faded jeans before waving a file at me. "The Henderson case," he

says. "You said to get you the paperwork ASAP and I was hoping to take next

week off. If you'll just sign off on it..."

There's nothing for it - I have to invite him in. But my headache tells me I

don't have to be polite about it. I grunt and just turn and walk back into my

kitchen, expecting him to follow. He does and, when I hear his sharp intake

of breath, I realize my mistake. In the brightly lit kitchen, his hand shoots

out and grips my right shoulder, keeping it immobile while he inspects the

damage.

"What the hell happened to you?!" he demands.

I pull out of his grasp, irritated in equal measure by the warmth and the

familiarity. "Nothing," I shrug and turn to face him.

"Sir, that burn on your back is not 'nothing'," he insists.

"It is if I say it is, Mulder. It's Nothing - got that?" My voice rumbles

and grinds through my skull and I wish I knew enough sign language or could

take a vow of silence until the memory of last night's debacle has faded

enough. My mood and my tone ought to be enough to cow a platoon, but not

Mulder.

He smiles, no *smirks*, at me and takes the tube of burn cream out of my

hand. I have been gripping it so tightly that the crimped end of the tube has

split and my hand is covered in the glop. "Sit down, sir," he says gently

enough, "and I'll doctor that for you." He pulls out a chair for me and I

can't figure out what else to do, so I sit. I wipe the stuff off on my jeans,

then lean my elbows on the table and use my hands to hold my forehead on.

I feel his fingers, slick and cool, as they hesitantly dab the cream at the

raw edges of the burn on my right shoulder-blade. I can't keep from twitching

and shrugging away a little as he hits raw meat. Mulder slides his left arm

across my chest and braces my shoulder with it. Now I am trapped within his

arms and have to grind my teeth to keep from saying any of the things I have

always wanted to say. Foolish, career-killing things; sweet, gentle words

that no man has ever said to me and that no woman has ever meant. His scent

is soap-sharp and clean - he must have been running this morning and showered

just before he came over.

His arm falls away and he reaches for the tube, squeezing it carefully and

catching the cream oozing out on the ends of his long fingers. "So, " he asks

casually. "How'd you get rug burn on only one shoulder blade?"

"I don't really want to talk about it, Agent Mulder."

"Of course you don't," he agrees pleasantly. "So - what happened?" His arm

comes back across my chest as his fingers start rubbing the cream into the

center of the palm-sized burn on my back. I gasp and arch at the sudden sharp

sensation of a burn being cooled. Mulder just tightens his grip on me, arm

sliding up just a fraction to rest against my throat. He can feel me swallow,

I realize. He could throttle me right now, I think, and relax against him.

His fingers still a moment, then I hear a whistle of breath being let out

slowly and those gentle fingers start soothing me again.

"What happened?" he asks mildly.

With my eyes closed, my aching head pillowed against his warm chest, the

burning slowly fading, it doesn't seem so bad. The words spill out.

"I went out with some old 'Nam buddies last night. We went down to

'O'Malley's'..."

"Jesus," Mulder breathed, warm and close in my ear. "I've been there. Once.

That's the place where there's always a fight and sometimes some drinking

breaks out."

His hands, warm and sure, have started massaging my neck, fingers going

unerringly to the knot where my headache is rooted.

"Yeah, but they have a great house band, if you like Irish music." His

fingers are sliding up over my scalp now, teasing the tension from it and I

stop talking just to enjoy this feeling. Bureau regs flash through my head

and are gone with the next flex of those knowing hands. "And...?" he prompts

me.

"And my buddies got a little rowdy, especially MacCoul, who always has to

explain how much better the Scottish are than the Irish. At the top of his

lungs. Only this time, no one saw the force of his argument until he threw the

chair at the accordion player. Then everyone had an opinion." Mulder's hands

are warm and solid against my temples now and I lean my head back against his

chest again. I can feel him breathe, feel the play of his muscles as he

moves, feel that he is singing with tension, even as he calmly asks, "So how

did this lead to YOU getting rug burn on your back? I don't remember there

being any carpeting in O'Malley's."

My headache flares again at the memory, despite the warm and nurturing hands

that cradle my head now. "There isn't any - except on the bandstand."

He makes an inelegant snerking noise. "You hit the bandstand on your

back...without a shirt on? What was this - a strip brawl?"

"I had a shirt when I started, Mulder," I say tiredly. "It got ripped off

when I tried to get the vocalist off of MacCoul. She had a grip like a

gorilla," I hear myself mutter and that's when Mulder loses it. He's howling

and hooting and the only reason I don't kill him, and then myself in pure

embarrassment, is because his cheek is pressed against the top of my head and

he is rocking me gently, back and forth, even as he continues to laugh himself

sick at my expense. And it feels good. So good, to be cherished like this.

So good to make him laugh. Then he accidentally brushes against that damned

rug burn and I hiss and arch away.

"Sorry, sorry," he murmurs and pulls me back against him, carefully shifting

himself so that only my left side is touching him. He is still laughing,

though, and snorts and hiccups bounce my head against his sturdy chest. After

a time, he says musingly, "You know, that's a pretty bad burn," as his fingers

massage the muscles of my face.

I grunt, wondering where Mulder is going with this. That, at least, has not

changed - I still have no idea what Mulder wants nor how he'll get it.

"You probably shouldn't put anything on over it for at least...oh, two days,

maybe three," he muses and his hands slide slowly down my throat and onto my

chest.

"Oh?" I say and curse the fact that my voice breaks just as he fingers my

nipples.

"Definitely not," he grins - I hear it. "Rug burns are tricky things.

You'll need lots of bedrest and round-the-clock care."

"Oh?" I squeak as his teeth close gently on the line of muscle between my

neck and shoulder.

"Absolutely," he breathes against my lips.

"Tender loving care," he says when he finally releases me, leaving me

gasping and trembling, finally able to see his eyes.

It wasn't my fault that *he* needed the burn cream for his knees by Sunday

afternoon. I was doing fine on the couch...

***

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