Title: Florence Nightingale

Author: J.D. Rush and Shamrock

Series: Big Things; follows 'Confessions Part 3'

Rating: mild PG for language

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Summary: Following the events of Confessions Part 3--Frohike is feeling icky-poo.

Disclaimer: FOX, 1013, CC. . .I think we all know the song by now.

Florence Nightingale

Sunday, March 24, 2002

"AAAACCHHHOOOOOOO!!"

The sound greets me as I walk through the door. I find it strangely reassuring--at least nothing has changed in the couple of hours I've been gone. Dropping off my bundles in the kitchen, I then make my way to Mel's bedroom. I knock once and poke my head into the door. Poor Mel--lying there under a mound of covers, his quilt pulled up almost over his head, a huge pile of used Kleenex decorating his night table. As I stand there he lets loose with another loud sneeze, followed by a coughing fit.

My guy was a hurting cowpoke.

"Hi, Mel--I'm home," I say cheerfully as I enter his room and sit down carefully on the side of his bed. "How are you doing?"

"How do you DINK I'm doing?" he snarls--or attempts to snarl. It doesn't have quite the same impact since his voice is barely a whisper due to the laryngitis. "I'm DYIN' over 'ere."

A VERY hurting cowpoke.

"It's just a cold, Frohike. Stop being so melodramatic."

"I've HAD codes before," he informs me. "Dis is not a code. Dis is the Pervuvian Deth Fuu."

"I doubt it's the Peruvian Death Flu, Mel," I sigh, dramatically.

"So's you what kinda doctor YOU are," he grouses.

"Well, whatever it is, maybe it'll teach you to wear a coat when you go out snooping in the middle of winter," I can't help rubbing in. 

"Doh, ha-ha. You're do fubby, Dana."

"They DO say laughter is the best medicine. By the way, have you checked your temperature lately?"

"Doh." I grab up the digital thermometer from the little table and aim it for his mouth. "Dat bedder not be Billy's rectal therm. . ." and while his mouth is open in full rant, I shove it on home. I may have shut him up momentarily, but his flashing hazel eyes speak volumes--specifically, once he can get out of that bed, I'm a dead woman.

I leave it in a couple of minutes longer than necessary (I'm sure the AMA would forgive me this abuse of power) then pull it out. 101.7. Crap.

A SERIOUSLY hurting cowpoke.

"You do dat on purpose," he accuses me, then nods at the device. "Doh what's da damage?"

"Bad enough," I answer, vaguely. "We need to get your fever down."

"How can I habe a feber?" he protests. "I'm freezing."

"Exactly. Look, I'm going to get you something to drink. You have to ingest plenty of fluids."

"I don't tubbose Old Granddad is on list of abbroved fluids?"

I chuckle at his sickly little joke. "I'll see what I can do for you." I walk out, with him still grumbling in the background, and head back to the kitchen. I dig out a bottle of Gatorade from one of the shopping bags I brought home, and pour a glass for him before putting the rest away in the fridge, along with the other groceries I had picked up. From another bag, I pull out the large Tupperware container Mom gave me. Lifting the cover, I get an instant whiff of the delicious aroma as it escapes. Mom's homemade chicken soup. <If this doesn't make Mel feel better, nothing will.> I spoon some into a mug and put it into the microwave to heat up before returning to his room.

By now, he's managed to push himself up in the bed a bit, but he looks like he could collapse at any moment. I again sit on the side of his bed and hold out the glass to him. His eyes twinkle when he sees what I've got. Taking the glass from me, swallows a healthy gulp before asking, "So, where were you?"

Pointing to the glass, I answer, "Well, I had to lay in some supplies. And I also took Billy to mom's house for a couple of days to get him away from Typhoid Frohike."

"Doh, you're just a laugh riot today, Dana," he grumbles. I'm just about to tease him some more when I hear the microwave 'beep'. "What's dat?" he asks, curiously.

"Lunch."

"Dot hungry," he mumbles, draining the rest of his drink.

"You have to eat, Frohike," I sigh. "You have to keep your strength up."

He hands me back his empty glass. "Only if I can habe dome more of this. With maybe a cubble of ice cubes?"

Seeing an opportunity for more teasing, I purr, "What's the magic word, Mel?"

The first hint of a smile in nearly 24 hours crosses his face. "Please?"

I smile back as I tell him, "I think I can handle that order. Be right back." With that, I hightail it back to the kitchen to get everything ready. First, a nice tall glass of Gatorade (with a couple of ice cubes), bottles of Vitamin C and Tylenol, and a box of Nyquil Liqui-caps. Then, the hot mug of chicken soup, a couple of chicken salad sandwiches (also courtesy of Mom), and a small bag of potato chips join the feast. I place everything onto a serving tray, along with a can of Diet Coke for myself, and balancing it carefully, I carry it back his room. I note he must be feeling a BIT better--his TV is now on and he's watching 'Meet the Press'. (Although, without his glasses, I wonder how much of it he can actually see.)

I carefully place the tray over his lap and once more take my seat on the bed next to him. Spying his glasses on the edge of the nightstand, I retrieve them for him; he utters a grateful, 'Dank 'ou', as he slips them on. Once he can see again, he gets a clear view of the generous spread before him. "Where'd you get all dis?" he questions, clearly stunned.

"Mom. She's been cooking like a demon since she found out you were sick. I think she likes you, Mel." I shake out a couple of Tylenol for him, which he takes without complaint. 

"She's a bery special lady."

"Yes, she is." And I hand him a couple of vitamins.

Once he has swallowed them, he asks, "She doesn't bind taking care of Billy today?"

I open the box of liqui-caps and hand two of the pills to Mel. "Actually, she's going to keep him for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side."

He gets them down, then inquires, "But what about her job?"

I pull open the bag of chips and add a few to the plate with my sandwich. "She's taking a couple of personal days."

Almost shrinking into himself, he sighs, "I'm doh dorry, Dana. I didn't mean to be duch a bodder."

"Mel, it happens," I tell him, gently, patting his hand for good measure. "Don't worry about it. Just get better, okay?"

"I really hate being tick," he grumbles.

"I know."

He puts his glass back on the tray as he proclaims, "I'm tubbosed to be the strong one, the prodector.  The one DOING the comfording."

"And you do all three very well, Frohike," I reassure him. "But sometimes, it's someone else's turn to do those things. It's been so long since I've had the opportunity--I was afraid I was out of practice."

"Doh way. You've got a great bedtide banner," he leered.

"You sweet-talker. Now eat up before it gets cold."

He sips at a spoonful of soup and moans happily. "Dis is delicious."

"Yeah, Mom used to make it for us whenever we'd get sick. We actually used to

look forward to cold and flu season." I pick up his TV remote. "So, anything on?"

"Don't know. Haben't checked yet." He then adds, shyly, "Are you joining be?"

I smile at him warmly. "If you want the company. If not, I'll take my sandwich and leave you alone."

"Doh I. . .I'd really like dat, Dana." He gives me a brave smile in return as he takes the remote from me and starts flipping around. "Basketball?"

"Knicks?"

"You too?"

"What can I say. . . Mulder corrupted me."

"Dope--it's The Heat verses the Mabs."

"The Mavericks? I'll pass."

"Auto racink?"

"Mel, driving around in a circle for three hours doesn't impress me."

"Well, excuuuussseee be. Golf?"

"Is that even a sport?"

"Ban, and I thought LANGLY was bicky. Movie?"

"If you can find a good one."

"I don't do Lifedime movies, Dana."

"Good. Neither do I."

"Hey, dook, 'Cabbyshack'."

"Not on a dare. Try again."

"What about 'Men In Black'?"

"Do you know how many times Mulder dragged me to that one?"

"Prob'ly as many dimes as I dragged Byers. There's always 'Hunt For Red October'."

"Oooh, Sean Connery. Alec Baldwin. Sam Neill. Tim Curry. AND James Earl Jones? I think we have a winner."

"Dure, Dana--kick be when I'm down."

"Sorry, Mel." 

So we sit and eat and joke and watch the movie and somewhere along the line, Mel's head drops onto my shoulder, softly snoring in his slumber. Poor guy--this cold's really wiped him out. I think about getting rid of the tray, but that would mean disturbing him, and he really needs his rest. Instead, I carefully remove his glasses and replace them on the nightstand.

Knowing I'm stuck there as his pillow for the time being, I kick off my shoes and make myself comfortable on his bed. I can't help myself brushing his hair out of his face--my fingers gliding over his still warm forehead reminds me we have a ways to go before this bug is through with him and his fever breaks. But it's not so bad playing Florence Nightingale--Frohike deserved some pampering for a change. I kiss him lovingly on the cheek and whisper, "Sleep tight, sweet prince," before turning my attention back to the movie.

THE END