Get up, Mulder
Tesla

"Get up, Mulder," Scully was saying. "Get up, now."

Mulder was too warm, too tired to get up.

"Get up, Mulder."

Why wouldn't she let him sleep? She wouldn't like it if he suddenly started pounding on her bedroom door. "There better be a fire, Mulder," she had grumbled one time, when he'd tried to get her out of a hotel room for an early breakfast. Like this fertilizer detail was so urgent.

And then the time after the tornado in Kroner. He had been afraid to move on his roll-away cot. Afraid to breathe. Afraid not to breathe.

He preferred thinking about the long ride back from Antarctica. Although Scully was hoarse and just on the edge of pulmonary distress, she said that she was fine, that she could travel. The first night, at the international weather station, they had slept in the same room; the station was lacking in guest rooms.

They were both suffering from delayed emotional shock. Mulder had a crease in his hair from a gunshot to the head; Scully still coughed up goo, and in an unguarded moment, told Mulder she was shitting it.

Seeing his face, Scully laughed. "Why so stunned, Mulder? Now that you've seen me naked, we have no secrets."

"I was kinda busy, Scully," he said. "I wasn't checking you out. You were all greased up with that stuff. I was trying to dress you." He scrubbed his chapped face with his chapped hands. "I was thinking we were dead. Matching federal Popsicles."

She shivered. "This place is worse than Alaska, Mulder."

"No worms here," he said, "just no cable TV." He sat up from his sprawl on the other cot, and began unlacing his boots. He had stood in the shower for as long as he could, then drank half a pot of decaf laced with Jack Daniels. He was conscious that he was exuding bourbon fumes and cigarette smoke. No guest rooms, but a kitchen/bar/smoking area. The weather researchers asked him if he realized how cold it was out there when he looked at the clouds of smoke. That's when he accepted the bourbon.

Mulder felt frightened, really frightened, by how close everything had been. And yet, Scully had not seen the ship. She saw a crevasse of snow and dirty ice, she saw Mulder passed out beside her, but she didn't see the ship.

And it had only been seconds. Seconds. One late connection, one wrong turn, if he had even sat down once to think about he was doing, one or both of them would be dead.

All Scully claimed to remember was passing out in his arms in one hallway, and waking up, choking, cold, and naked in another, again in his arms. She remembered clambering out on numb hands and knees, but she didn't remember anything else. She was still shaking, though. Minor trembling, what she claimed were chills, and the station doctor said was shock.

Scully watched him peel down to his long johns, her eyes huge, holding her hands under her sweater for warmth. He fumbled with the door latch. The lock didn't work. No chair, nothing to shove against the door.

"You should have had some coffee," Mulder said, rubbing his eyes. "It was decaf and it would have warmed you up. I can still go get you a cup."

She mutely shook her head Mulder staggered as he switched off the overhead, leaving the light from the tiny desk.

Taking a deep breath, Mulder picked up his pillow and took the one step to her bed. "Then move over. If someone else wants to get you, at least I'll know about it." And, surprisingly, she slid over against the wall, pulling down the rough blanket and stiff cotton top sheet as she moved.

He sat down, wearily, on her cot, and shifted the lamp so the light didn't fall on them. He slowly lay back, closing his eyes.

"God, I'm tired," he said. "Everything hurts." He was conscious of Scully pressing against the length of his left side, but had no desire to make any silly remark. Everything did hurt. "If you want to be by yourself, Scully, you'll have to climb over me. I can't move."

She turned on her side, pillowing her face with one hand, and tucked the other between his arm and his side. He was barely aware of her touch.

"No," she said. "Go to sleep, Mulder."

And he did.

He woke up once, and the light was still on and the door to the hallway was ajar. He heard a flush; Scully must have gone to the bathroom. He closed his eyes and succeeded in lulling himself back into a doze before she came quietly in, closing the door. She crawled up the bed, one hand on his foot, his leg, his knee, tracing him lightly to make sure she didn't lean on him. Without stopping, Scully crawled under the blankets and snuggled up to him as if this was an ordinary thing. She slid an arm around his waist and dug her chin into his shoulder.

"Aagh," he said, involuntarily, because she was leaning into a sore spot.

"Oh, Mulder, I didn't mean to wake you," she whispered. She rubbed his shoulder, and pulled away his collar to look at him. He felt her breath against his skin. "You're bruised."

"S'okay," he croaked. His eyelids felt like lead, and so did his arms and legs. He took a deep breath and rolled over on his back. "Sleep."

"Mulder, did anyone examine _you_ when we got here? You look terrible."

"Shot in the head," he grunted. "When they took you." It seemed a hundred years ago. Concussion."

He couldn't avoid her hands turning his head to see the wound, but he tried, anyway. "Aw, Scully, honey, please don't examine me now. I wanna sleep."

Her hands stilled on each side of his head.

"Okay," she said. "But tomorrow, you're getting checked out." He felt her lean up and across, and the light went out. Scully subsided back into the bedclothes, pulling them up around them both. She left her arm across his chest. "Does this hurt?"

"No," he mumbled, reaching for her hand and touching the little finger before falling into a dark, dreamless sleep.

"Get up, Mulder," Scully said next, standing over him, fully dressed. She had a medical bag in her hand. Mulder cracked his eyelids open. "You need a physical." He didn't even consider saying anything about playing doctor. All his wisecracks were leached out of him by the cold.

"Get up, Mulder," Scully was saying again.

No, Scully, I want to sleep. And dream of you.

++++++++++

If Mulder could only get a good night's sleep, he thought he would be a different man. If he got eight, seven, or even six straight hours of good REM sleep a night, he would be a happier individual, a friendlier man, one who wouldn't go through life pissing people off. But he did like pissing people off, so that was a plus; not quite worth having insomnia, though.

It was his perverse nature that let him sleep better on the road than at home. Damn good thing. This fertilizer check business was, well, shitty. One long string of soulless, Bureau-approved motels, long drives through flat fields to look at someone's silo. But at least he could sleep.

Except for that cargo vessel on the way back from Antarctica.

Mulder told the crewman who led him to a cabin, "Keep Scully outta here." He wanted to retch in peace. He had been so seasick that he had eventually just clawed off his clothes and lay curled up in a fetal position in a shower stall.

And she must have been offended, because she did leave him severely alone. After a full change of shifts--he could hear the crewmen outside in the corridor--he managed to shower again, and crawl, still wet, into the bunk bolted into the wall.

Scully came and woke him from an uneasy sleep, "Get up, Mulder. There's just enough time to eat before we hit the next storm."

He could smell her, all fresh salt air and good sea-legs cheer. "No," he said, "I don't think so."

He felt the blanket being pulled off his head. "Mulder, you---" the tone of her voice changed. "Have you been sick all night?" He must really smell bad; she sounded muffled, like she was trying not to inhale.

"Was it only one night?" he said, trying to sound snotty and failing. "Don't talk about," he hiccupped, and all his muscles clenched, eating."

"Hold on, Mulder, I'll be right back."

"I won't go anywhere," he said to the draft from the open door.

She was back with, apparently, a huge emergency medical box. "I'm going to give you something that will knock you out. Let me get to your hip."

Mulder groaned. Scully gave the worst injections he had ever had. All that practice on patients who couldn't scream, he supposed. He rolled on his side, away from her. She pushed the blankets down, giving a small snort when she saw he wasn't wearing his boxers. He winced at the perfunctory swipe of alcohol, then gritted his teeth at the ungentle jab of the needle. The sedative stung, and Scully gave his skin a brisk rub.

"Mulder," she said, "your back is black and blue."

He didn't turn back over, and shivered as she gently ran her hands across his shoulders and back. Jesus, he was naked here, Scully. He was tired, not dead.

"I'm stiff, that's all," he said. "How long do I have?"

"Until it takes effect? About five minutes." She had opened something that smelled like athletic salve, and was rubbing it on her hands to warm it; he could hear it, like the sound of someone washing their hands.

"No," and he jumped, anyway, as she spread the salve on his back. "Until the storm?"

"Oh, another twenty minutes, now. I'll get you some water." She kept on kneading his back. He flinched. It felt too good. She was killing him, here. He must look half dead for her to touch him like this, so gently, so, so----she had to stop.

"Jesus, Scully, stop it. You're hurting me."

She jumped away, and he pulled the blanket over his head. He could hear running water, and she came back.

"Here's your water," she said brusquely, and he heard water sloshing in a bottle at his ear.

"Leave it," he muttered, starting to drift into the sedative.

Once again, she pulled the covers from his head. "You're not being very nice," she said. "I'm just trying to help you." Her face was very close to his when he opened his eyes.

"In case it's escaped your attention," he said, tired, "I'm not a nice guy." He closed his eyes, still on his side.

"No, it hasn't," she said. She slowly smoothed the blanket, straightening out the wrinkles. She stepped to the foot of the bed and tucked in the top sheet and blankets, then she sat down on the bunk, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. She left her hand on his forehead, and he leaned into her touch. "Mulder," she began, but he never heard the end of it, because the sedative took control and he went down the rabbit's hole into Wonderland.

"Mulder, get up," Scully was saying. "We've got to make our plane."

Why couldn't she let him sleep? God, like they were going to find the one guy that was buying fertilizer for a bomb. Like anyone wasn't aware that the government wasn't checking on that now. Like Kersh would actually let them have a case with an actual arrest.

Let me sleep, Scully.

He had to make up for that trip from the South Pole.

++++++++++++++++

All Mulder wanted was to sleep. To sleep, and get up for a really good old artery-clogging breakfast, and maybe even a hot toddy, and to go back to sleep with a big pillow and a really long wool blanket. And then to take a shower, and put on a Yankees game, and go to sleep again.

Instead, he was on the crowded plane of a South American airline, with a tiny pillow and a blanket like a paper towel. He didn't like the rasp in Scully's breathing, but she'd cuffed him when she woke to find his ear pressed against her chest.

"What the hell are you doing, Mulder?" she demanded, grabbing him by his collar.

"You sounded funny, Scully," he said, feeling abused. "Wheezy."

"Mulder, I'm fine. You don't even know what to listen to."

"I know what you sound like when you're asleep," he said stubbornly, "and you don't sound right."

She opened her mouth to say something nasty, then closed it. "I thought you were trying to sleep on me," she said, in a milder tone.

"Sleep," he groaned. "I don't even remember sleeping. I know I was out cold, because you told me, but I don't feel like it."

She studied him for a moment. "I'm going to the restroom. While I'm gone, move over here against the window. That should give you more leg room."

"You're too good to me, Scully," Mulder said.

"I know," she said, unsnapping her seat belt and clambering over his knees, and those of the teenager playing his Game Boy. Mulder lifted the arm of the seat and shifted to Scully's seat. Slightly better, since he could lean on the window. He wadded his parka into a pillow, and closed his eyes.

He felt Scully sit down beside him, unlacing the boots he'd put on his credit card back at the weather station. From the way she bounced, he didn't think Scully had been able to find a bra anywhere. Not that he'd looked. When he'd put his ear to her chest, he couldn't help but notice there was a couple of layers of cloth, but no elastic.

He woke up, not realizing he'd been asleep. Scully was also asleep, tucked under his shoulder, and his arm was draped around her, holding her...holding her by the butt, actually. He couldn't move his arm; it was wedged between Scully and the outside seat.

This was clearly a point where a nice guy would let go of his partner's firm little ass, and wake her up. But Mulder had already warned her he wasn't nice, right? Before he had time to consider the extreme possibilities, he fell back asleep. The next thing he knew, Scully was buckling his seatbelt. Her hair was combed, her face was soapy clean. If there wasn't a large damp spot over his breast pocket, he would have thought he dreamed it.

"Get up, Mulder," Scully repeated.

Shit.

They were stuck in Caracas until Scully's passport came by FedEx to the American Embassy. Mulder was cured of insomnia by then. Couch, television, hell. He longed for his bed. Any bed.

And there was Scully, with the Embassy doctor, shining lights in his eyes and pressing down hard on the part in his hair left by that bullet.

"I think it's just fatigue," said the doctor, who happened to be a Marine, and probably unimpressed by anything less than bullet wounds. "If you feel concerned, Agent Scully, I can get him admitted for observation at the American Hospital." He was smiling down at Scully, all crisp uniform and medical efficiency.

"Gee, thanks," Mulder said sourly. "No. I just need some sleep."

The doctor exchanged a look with Scully - a 'humor him' look.

"They're finding us a hotel," Scully said soothingly.

And someone did find them a hotel, one just a quick ride from the Embassy. Scully had kept Mulder's credit card, and she and the desk clerk were involved in negotiations while Mulder leaned against the counter, cringing at the glares the nicely dressed hotel guests gave him, still in his Polar wear.

"We just need one room," he said abruptly to Scully, leaning toward her.

"Yes, I know, Mulder," she said, fairly patiently, and put her hand up on his chest, as if to prop him up.

He kind of faded out until he followed her, and the bellman, across the lobby and into the elevator. They were then led down corridors and around corners, until they were next to the ice machine. Of course. They must just look like guests who would have alien shape shifters, serial killers, or psychics visit them in the middle of the night.

The room had one king-size bed, and a chair. Mulder folded himself, with difficulty, into the chair, and grunting, bent over to untie his boots. His ribs were killing him. Behind him, Scully locked and chained the door.

"Stop, Mulder," she said, and went down on one knee, without any difficulty whatever. "Sit up straight. I know you're hurting." She loosened the laces, and stood up again, walking into the bath. "I'm taking a shower."

Mulder sat back, one hand on his side. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he muttered, digging his heels into the carpet and pulling off the hiking boots. The taps in the shower came on, then Scully closed the door. Still sitting, Mulder pulled his parka off, and then began unbuttoning his shirt. He stood up, leaving them lying on top of his boots, and looked at his torso in the bureau mirror.

His chest was criss-crossed with black and yellow blotches, he couldn't stand up straight, and his unshaven face didn't look sexy; he looked like a derelict. He pulled the bedspread back and lowered himself on the bed.

"Get up, Mulder," Scully said, one hand on his arm. He almost wept. No, no, don't make me get up, he thought.

He opened his eyes. Scully was wearing a terry robe and had a towel wrapped around her head. He stared dumbly up at her.

"Don't you want to take a shower?" she asked.

"No," he said baldly.

She put a cool palm on his forehead. "Well, take off your jeans and get in bed, then."

He had trouble processing the words. "I don't have any underwear, Scully," he said, finally.

"Neither do I," she said sweetly. He couldn't think of anything to say to that, either, and she smiled down at him. "Poor Mulder." She moved to the other side of the bed, and took the towel off her hair. "Then just stay on your side, Mulder." She got in bed, wearing the robe, and firmly turned her back to him, before switching off the light.

Mulder sat up slowly, and peeled off his jeans. He reached for the bedspread, and wrapped it around him. No way he was going to get between the sheets with Scully. He must have misunderstood her.

"Why don't you have any underwear, Mulder?" she said suddenly.

"I think I threw up on the long johns on the boat," he said heavily. He had trouble formulating sentences. He hoped to God he could get some sleep before they went back to the office. His report was going to be bad enough, without the loss of brain cells.

"Scully!" he yelled. He was sitting up, entangled in the bedspread, reaching for a non-existent weapon, before he realized he had been dreaming. Scully was kneeling on the bed beside him, her arm around his shoulders.

"I'm here, Mulder," she said, directly in his ear. "It's over. You found me."

"Okay," he said, his heart still pounding. "I'm okay."

"C'mon, Mulder, lie down," she said, her arm still around him. She pulled him against her, and then down, but slowly, as if he would resist. He sighed, pressing his face into the terry collar of her robe. She rubbed his nape, and sighed, too.

"You should be having the nightmares," he said into her shoulder.

"I don't remember anything," she reminded him. He tightened his hold on her - he didn't know he was holding her, but she wasn't squirming. She gave a little, satisfied grunt, and kept smoothing his neck and shoulders with the palm of her hand. She pressed her lips in his hair and said something he couldn't hear.

"Huh?" Mulder asked. Oh, that's witty. That's what you say when your partner is cuddling you.

"I said, 'Go to sleep.'"

But she didn't mean it, because she was telling him to get up almost immediately. "We can catch a flight to D.C., Mulder," she said, from across the room. "Get up."

++++++++++++++++

"Get up! Get up!" Scully called.

Oh, sure. She liked it when he was comatose; that's when he was her big old teddy bear. But if he invaded her personal space when he was vertical, forget it.

"Mulder!" She was getting louder. But he was so warm. He just wanted to sleep.

"Mulder!" Scully was screaming. "Get up!"

Mulder abruptly knew that he was not in a cot in Antarctica, or on a cargo ship, or in a hotel room with Scully. He was lying on a concrete floor, and he had an ear piece in his ear. The ear pressed to the floor, which was probably why he could still hear her. Waking up on cold concrete with a splitting headache was, sad to say, a familiar sensation.

He rolled onto his side. He still had his gun. What was the problem? He felt blood trickling from his scalp. Someone must have sapped him. He was such an idiot. He wiggled his fingers, tried to send a message to his feet. They moved. Good. Houston, we have movement.

"Scully?" he said, tentatively. He was in a parking deck. Something about a suspicious sale of fertilizer. Great. Wonderful. He knew Kersh wanted to kill him, but he had thought it would be death by boredom.

"Get up!" The voice in his ear grew louder, if possible. "Get out of there, Mulder! There's a bomb! I can't come get you! They won't let me!"

Mulder got to his knees, then, one hand braced on the floor, vaulted up. He crashed into a concrete pillar, and caromed off it. He walked as fast as he could to the exit sign. He didn't believe he could run until he was out of the door. Then, outside, he saw the police cars drawn back, behind barricades. He managed to put on some speed until he got to the first line. A cop was reaching for him, when, behind him, the garage took a giant's breath in, then blew out, and the blast knocked Mulder on his face, on top of the cop.

When his ears stopped ringing, he was looking sideways at a familiar pair of stacked heels. "Get up, Mulder," she said, pleadingly.

"Gerroff me," said the cop. "You'll make the other guys jealous."

" 'Kay," he said, and rolling off the guy, and accepting his help, managed to sit up.

Cops were kids these days. This one was grinning as he helped him up. Maybe you wouldn't be grinning if you had insomnia, you punk. Scully was holding his elbow. Yes, Scully, help Grandpa.

"You were knocked out for a while," she said, dusting off his nylon sleeve.

He picked gravel from his hands. "Yeah, I was." When he raised his head, he saw stars. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he mumbled. "I need a nap."

"Not with that lump on your head," Scully said briskly. She was towing him to the EMT unit. "You're going to the hospital. Get up there, Mulder."

"Stop saying that," he said beneath his breath.

The End