'RICE IS NICE, BUT IBUPROFEN IS BETTER'
By: Sally Bahnsen

MULDER’S APARTMENT
1:00 AM

STUPID! Stupid, stupid, stupid. For the last 30 minutes the words had played through his head like a continuous mantra. STUPID! He reiterated to himself.

Leaning against the doorframe, balancing on one leg, Mulder sifted through his keys until he found the right one. With clumsy fingers, he unlocked the door and limped into his apartment.

Using various items of furniture for support, he half-hopped, half-hobbled to the sanctuary of his couch.

Lowering himself onto the soft leather cushions, he leaned his head against the back of the couch and let out a heartfelt groan. The continuous throb in his ankle seemed to travel all the way from the tips of his toes to the top of his thigh.

He hoisted his knee up to his chest and reached down to untie his running shoe.

Holy crap! His foot had already swelled to twice its normal size. Scully was going to kill him. He needed ice and he needed it now! Slowly he eased the shoe off his foot, then gently peeled the sock away and ran the tips of his fingers over the tennis-ball sized lump forming on the outside of his ankle.

Mulder did a quick calculation of the distance between his couch and the kitchen. Not so far, he reasoned. He'd made it the half-mile back from where he'd tripped up the curb. He was pretty sure he could make it from here to the freezer. No problem at all.

Sweaty and dizzy, and leaning heavily against the counter top, Mulder wondered what on earth had possessed him to move from the couch. Oh, yeah. That's right. Scully. Her voice, nagging him in his mind. 'You really should ice that foot, Mulder.' Yeah, yeah, I'm getting to it, he argued back in his head.

He pulled on the freezer door and dropped his chin to his chest. Oh, shit. Empty. Except for one lonely frozen dinner.

The phone rang.

Who the -- ?

Of course. Who else would be calling him at this time of night?

Dammit! Had the answering machine been blinking when he came in? Oh, god, he couldn't remember. For a fleeting moment he considered ignoring the phone. But then his brain started to function again. If he didn't answer, Scully would be at this apartment before he could say, 'I'm not going to the hospital.'

He hopped at record pace and made a grab for the receiver before the answering machine could pick up. "Mulder!" He gasped into the mouthpiece.

"Mulder? Are you okay?"

How the hell did she do that?

"Scully. Hey." Casual, Mulder, keep it light and casual.

"Where have you been? I called earlier and left a message, why didn't you call me back?"

There it was, the little red light, winking accusations of neglect at him.

"I was -- out." He replied, feeling extremely self-righteous about the truth of his answer.

"Out?" She asked. "Out where? It's after one in the morning."

"I -- ah -- needed milk."

Silence.

"Scully?"

"Milk? Since when did you ever keep milk in your apartment?"

"Scully, is there a point to this phone call?"

His foot was killing him. All he wanted to do was collapse on his couch and suffer in silent agony. Maybe, if he took it really slow, he could make it without Scully being any the wiser.

"The point *is* that I was worried about you.

Right foot down, nice and easy, just the tips of his toes. Down, down, "Fuck!" Oh god. It was worse than he could have imagined. The receiver hit the floor and he hopped the few remaining feet from the desk to his couch, collapsing onto his side, clutching his foot.

" -- ulder!"

Scully's voice, small and tinny, called to him from underneath the coffee table. She could stay there, he thought. It's her fault he was laying on his couch writhing in agony. If she hadn't decided to call him then everything would have been fine.

" -- lder -- swer me!"

No! He screamed in his head.

" -- all 911"

Jeezus! He rolled over so he could reach the receiver. Keeping one hand wrapped around his injured ankle he snatched the handset from the floor and held it to his ear.

Scully's voice ranted down the phone line. "Mulder! Okay, that's it, you've had all the chances I'm prepared to give. I'm calling 911 right -- "

"Scully." He gritted out.

"Mulder?"

"I'm here. I'm okay. Kind of."

"What do you mean kind of?"

"I -- I -- might have hurt my ankle."

"What the hell does that mean? You *might* have hurt your ankle. Either you did or you didn't."

Mulder pulled his hand away from where it was wrapped around his leg. He stared at the red, puffy skin, stretched taut across his swollen foot.

"Well, in that case, yeah, I *did* hurt it."

"How bad?" He could hear the frown in her voice.

"On a scale of one to ten? Hmm, I'd give it a -- twelve?"

Silence again. He hated her silence more than her ranting. Silence meant she was devising some plan that usually ended up with him in a hospital bed.

Finally she spoke up. "Have you iced it?"

"Not yet. I -- "

"You've got to put ice on it, Mulder or it will swell up like a balloon."

No kidding, he thought, as he eyed his huge, fat ankle.

"Yes, Scully. I know the routine."

"I know you know, but that doesn't mean you'll do it. I want you to go to the freezer and get some ice right now. While I'm on the phone."

"I don't have any."

"Don't have any what?"

Sheesh. He ran his hand over his eyes. As much as he loved her, sometimes she could be a pain in the ass. "Ice, Scully. I don't have any ice."

"None at all?"

"Unless you count a frozen pizza, then, no. None. Zip. Nada."

"Not even a packet of frozen vegetables?"

Yeah, right, like I'd ever have a packet of any kind of vegetables in my kitchen, he thought. Out loud he simply said, "Nope."

Scully cursed.

"Okay. This is what I want you to do. Go find a washcloth, wet it and stick it in the freezer. Can you do that for me?"

Not on your fucking life! There is no way I'm leaving this couch.

But what he really said was, "No."

"Sorry, Mulder, I thought you said no."

"That's because I did."

Silence.

Oh, shit.

Tick, tick, tick. She was still there, he could hear her breathing.

"All right already! I'll put the damn wash cloth in the freezer."

"You'll thank me tomorrow, Mulder. Trust me."

He doubted it.

"I'll wait on the phone while you do it."

"Fine."

He laid the hand piece on the coffee table and gave it the evil eye, then slowly, and oh so very carefully, he pushed himself up. This time making sure his right foot came nowhere near the surface of the floor.

Hopping on his left leg, he headed for the bathroom, thanking god, or the landlord, or maybe even himself for strategically well-placed furniture.

By the time he'd made it back to the couch he was sweating profusely and wondering if an ankle had ever actually exploded in pain.

He took a few seconds to get himself under control then picked up the receiver. "I'm -- back."

"How's the pain?"

"Well, it was bearable before you made me get up and make a terry-cloth Popsicle. Now I'm thinking very seriously about amputation."

"Do you have any ibuprofen?"

"I don't know, Scully."

"I want you to go to the medicine cabinet and see."

She had to be kidding.

"I know where you're going with this, Scully. RICE. The R means rest. And that's what I intend to do. No ibuprofen."

"Mulder, you need to get the swelling down. Ibuprofen is an anti-inflammatory *and* a painkiller."

Carefully he lifted his leg onto the couch, stretching it out so his foot rested on a cushion at the end. He did not have another trip to the bathroom in him. His ankle was killing him. The thought of another hopping expedition was making his stomach roll.

"Mulder, please. For me?"

Shit!

He hated it when she used that voice.

"Mulderrr?" Syrupy sweet.

"All right! I'm going."

"Take the handset with you."

Easing himself up, he stood, in a very precarious manner, and waited for his blood supply to catch up with his intentions. When the head rush subsided he took a deep breath and propelled himself forward with the aid of the wall, door frame, dining table and one chair.

Finally, he arrived at his bathroom cabinet, and leaned heavily on the waist-high sink.

"I'm here." He gasped into the phone.

"Okay, tell me what you've got."

He opened the mirrored doors, feeling a very deep empathy for the poor sap staring back at him in the shiny glass. The cupboard was bare. Except for -- what was that? Squinting, he peered at the bottle of pills. 'Midol'.

"Mulder? What's there?"

"No ibuprofen."

"So what do you have?"

"Midol?"

"Midol! But they're for -- "

"I *know* what they're for, Scully. I've seen you pop them enough."

"Oh."

More silence. Oh, god. She was thinking again.

"And there's nothing else there? No aspirin?"

"Nothing."

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Tylenol?"

"Nope."

"Jeezus, Mulder. You must have *something*. Everyone has painkillers of some description."

"Well, evidently, Scully, not everyone does. Because I guarantee, if I had them, I'd be taking them."

"That bad, huh?"

"Even my toes are hurting."

"Oh, Mulder. Go get the washcloth out of the freezer and go back to your couch. I'm on my way."

"Scu -- "

Silence. Dammit.

**********************

"Mulder?"

No, it couldn't be. She'd told him to stay on his couch. No fair. She couldn't change her mind now. He'd only just found a comfortable position.

"Mulder, it's me. Scully."

Against all better judgment, he forced an eyelid open.

Scully. In the flesh. She'd come to nag him in person. Oh, god!

But wait. What was she doing?

One hand reached out and brushed his hair from his forehead. "How are you doing, partner?"

Carefully he tried to push himself up to a sitting position, but froze in place, his apartment had taken on a strange rocking motion. Fucking hell, the pain in his ankle was pure, unadulterated agony.

Scully's hand on his chest held him in place. "Don't move."

He didn't argue.

"What happened, Mulder? And don't try and feed me that line about milk"

Here we go, he thought, rubbing trembling hands over tired eyes. Time to fess up. "I went for a run."

"And -- ?"

"Tripped up a curb."

"What were you doing running at this time of night?" Scully shook her assortment of medical supplies onto the coffee table. Bandages, pain pills, and what the hell was that on the floor? A huge bag of ice. Overkill, Scully, blatant overkill!

"Mulder? Why were you -- "

"I couldn't sleep."

She nodded in understanding.

Only she didn't really understand. He'd conveniently left out the bit about why he couldn't sleep. The visions that scrolled through his mind every time he closed his eyes. Real and imagined images of Scully. In the office, her white blouse pulled tight across her chest, skirt hitched up on a current of nylon induced static, her lips, red and pouty, wrapped around the end of a pencil as she stared into space, and god, his favorite one of all. Scully, scantily clad in a red lace teddy, stretched out seductively on his couch, beckoning to him -- and Jesus Christ how was a guy supposed to sleep through that!?

He groaned.

Scully shot him a look of disapproval. "By the look of this, you won't be running for a few weeks. Why didn't you call me?"

"I would have, but you didn't give me a chance."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.

"All right, maybe I wouldn't have. Believe it or not, I thought I could handle it myself."

"I'm going to make you and ice pack. We really need to try and get this swelling down."

Scully headed to the kitchen, the bag of ice in hand.

Mulder lifted his head and examined his ankle. It had swollen up even more. He tried to wiggle his toes, and just in time stifled a scream. Note to self: Do not move any part of foot.

In a few minutes, Scully returned. Grabbing a couple of extra cushions from the back of the couch she gently eased Mulder's leg up and pushed the cushions underneath. "How's that?"

He nodded, "Good."

Next she laid the ice pack across his ankle, and then headed back to the kitchen.

Mulder lifted his right arm and draped it across his forehead, gritting his teeth and silently counting each individual throb as it thumped through his foot. The cold from the icepack felt as if it was seeping straight through to the bone and he wasn't sure how much longer he could put up with it.

"Mulder, here." Scully tapped him on the shoulder and held out a glass of water and two pills. "Take these."

"Let me guess, ibuprofen."

"Ooh, you really are spooky." Scully smiled at him. "Seriously, they'll help with the pain and the inflammation."

Trying to maintain some semblance of masculine pride, Mulder refrained from pouncing on the pills and swallowing them dry. Instead, he took them calmly from Scully and washed them down with several gulps of water. Then he dropped his head back on the armrest of the couch and silently begged the pills to hurry up and do their thing.

"Mulder?"

"Mm-hmm."

"One more thing. You need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

He heard her sigh but he was not going to succumb to psychological black mail. She would not make him feel guilty because he wasn't hungry. Obstinately, he kept his eyes firmly closed and laid his arm back across his forehead.

"Sorry, Mulder, no is not an option." She shook his shoulder and the movement went all the way down to his foot, ricocheted off his ankle and shot up his leg. He nearly launched himself into space.

"Shit!!"

Scully had his attention.

"Jeezus, Scully, watch it!"

"Eat this." She held out a plate with a sandwich on it.

He pushed out his bottom lip.

"Mulderrrrrrrr."

And crossed his arms over his chest.

"Pleeeeeeez. For me?"

Oh for crying out loud! He snatched the plate from her and took a bite of the sandwich.

She patted his arm and moved down to the end of the couch to work on his foot.

"How long do I have to have the ice on it?" Mulder asked around unenthusiastic bites of his sandwich.

Scully checked her watch. "That should just about do it."

Thank god. He really hadn't wanted to resort to begging.

"You really did a number on it, Mulder."

No argument here, he thought.

"Try and relax, I'm going to wrap it for you. It should feel a bit better with some support."

Slowly, he could feel his manly manliness slipping away. The prospect of having her move his foot even an inch was turning the bread in his mouth to something thick and gluey and very hard to swallow. He forced it down and put the plate with the half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table.

Girding his loins, he said to Scully, "Okay."

"Hey," She placed a hand on his thigh and smiled reassuringly. "I'll be gentle."

He lay back against the armrest, covering his eyes with both hands.

Scully was true to her word. With skilled, tender hands she bound his injured ankle with the minimum of fuss. He found by clamping down on his bottom lip and squeezing his hands into tight fists, the pain was almost bearable. Perhaps the painkillers were starting to kick in.

When the deed was done, Scully sat back and observed her handy work. Mulder risked a peek at his neatly wrapped ankle and he had to admit, having the bandage for support did help.

"Okay, Mulder. Bed time."

Why was it that Scully seemed to have this urge to take act like his mother whenever he was injured? Didn't she realize he was 42 years old and quite capable of deciding when it was time for bed?

"Come on, Mulder. I'll help you."

Apparently not.

"I *can't* walk, Scully. How do you propose I get there? Fly?"

"I just said I'd help you." She held out her hand to him. "Come on. We'll take it nice and slow. You'll be much more comfortable in a bed."

Says who?

"Come on. The bedroom is closer to the bathroom." She took hold of his hand. He contemplated pulling it back.

If she starts using that voice again, he thought, he was going to--.

"Mulderrrrr" She purred.

Fuck!

"Please?"

Oh crap. The ache in his foot had just dropped to a bearable level.

"Mulder, the couch isn't big enough for two."

Now that got his attention!

"What exactly are you saying, Scully?"

"It's 2:30 in the morning. I am not making another trip back to my apartment."

"You'll stay with me?" It was something he had secretly hoped for, but hadn't dared to expect. Despite her constant fussing over him when he was hurt, he had to admit. It felt good to know that she cared.

"You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easy did you?" She helped ease him into a sitting position, being careful not to bump his foot.

"I guess, I didn't think about it." He brazenly lied. Wondering what she was wearing under her jeans and windbreaker.

"Come on. I'm about ready to drop. I need sleep."

He pushed himself up on one foot, holding onto Scully for balance. She adjusted her stance so she could take more of his weight.

Between the two of them, the furniture, and the wall, they made their way to the bedroom.

With some awkward maneuvering, they managed to get themselves settled comfortably on the bed with Mulder's foot propped up on a couple of pillows.

When she curled her arm across his chest and nuzzled into his side, Mulder thought that maybe he hadn't been so stupid after all.

Okay, so he was slightly incapacitated at the moment. But next time, he swore, next time he had Scully in his bed he was going to be firing on all cylinders. And one thing was certain; he wouldn't be relying on imagination to keep him awake.

With that thought in mind, he let his new best friend, ibuprofen; lead him down the path to a dreamless, pain-free slumber.

THE END

Visit 'geocities.com/sallybahnsen'!

'

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC. No profit will be gained from me borrowing them. What a laughable thought.

Web Hosting · Blog · Guestbooks · Message Forums · Mailing Lists
Easiest Website Builder ever! · Build your own toolbar · Free Talking Character · Email Marketing
powered by bravenet.com