April Showers Drabblethon Prompt 8
Title: Choices
Author: pukajen
Prompt: Prompt 8
Fandom: X-Files
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Scully
Genre: Angst
Rating & Warnings: G
Word Count: 523
Summary: Scully randomly wondered if all crappy motels started out that way or if the passage of time and lack of clientele lead to the decline.
Scully randomly wondered if all crappy motels started out that way or if the passage of time and lack of clientele lead to the decline. Against the brilliant blue of the late afternoon sky, the motel sign looks even more dilapidated with its red paint faded and peeling. At one time there had been working neon inside the white letters, but unless some environmentally or economically policy is in place they don’t light up anymore.
Waves of heat shimmer off the cracked pavement; the blacktop is hot enough to seep through the soles of her shoes and make her feel uncomfortably warm. Weeds, withered and limp, push through the cracks. They make her wonder if that’s how she and Mulder will end up; alone in the hot with a blistering heat sapping their lives away.
Given the choice, she preferred to arrive at night as darkness hides a myriad of sins from the crumbling cinderblock walls and dingy windows to the dubious nature of the rooms’ occupants.
Not that she was one to speak; though the FBI was no longer actively seeking them anymore, Scully knew that there was still a warrant with the name ‘Mulder’ on it, just as she was wanted for questioning.
Pulling the key from the front pocket worn jeans, Scully unlocked the door and let herself inside their room. Mulder lay on the bed, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. He moved listlessly when she softly called his name. While she was out gathering what pitiful supplies she could from the only two stores that sold over the counter medications, Mulder had put on his heaviest sweater, a black hat, and cocooned the sheets tightly around his body.
Pulling out the thermometer, Scully wondered what she would do if his temperature was dangerously high. Would she be able to go against his expressed wishes? Break the promise she’d made to him two years ago after he’d been in a fight and broken his wrist about not risking hospitals. At the time, he’d been in pain, but lucid, and in no danger of dying.
“Mulder?” Scully called his name again. This time he opened his eyes and gazed at her blearily. “Mulder, I need to check your temperature.”
“Hot,” he mumbled, then burrowed deeper into the blankets. “Cold.”
Tearing the packet open, Scully quickly went to the bathroom to clean the thermometer. By the time she got back, Mulder’s eyes were once again closed, but shivers wracked his body. Gently running her fingers over his face, Scully forced herself to think only as a physician. She went through all the pros and cons of hospital care, of what she could do for him in their motel room. The knowledge she’d acquired over the years meant that she could competently treat him as long as he temperature didn’t rise above that critical point.
As she waited for the thermometer to get a reading, she went over how all the various pills, sports drinks, and cold compresses would work in tandem to help Mulder. Her confidence in the science-based remedies was near absolute; he would be fine.
But she prayed too.
Author: pukajen
Prompt: Prompt 8
Fandom: X-Files
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Scully
Genre: Angst
Rating & Warnings: G
Word Count: 523
Summary: Scully randomly wondered if all crappy motels started out that way or if the passage of time and lack of clientele lead to the decline.
Scully randomly wondered if all crappy motels started out that way or if the passage of time and lack of clientele lead to the decline. Against the brilliant blue of the late afternoon sky, the motel sign looks even more dilapidated with its red paint faded and peeling. At one time there had been working neon inside the white letters, but unless some environmentally or economically policy is in place they don’t light up anymore.
Waves of heat shimmer off the cracked pavement; the blacktop is hot enough to seep through the soles of her shoes and make her feel uncomfortably warm. Weeds, withered and limp, push through the cracks. They make her wonder if that’s how she and Mulder will end up; alone in the hot with a blistering heat sapping their lives away.
Given the choice, she preferred to arrive at night as darkness hides a myriad of sins from the crumbling cinderblock walls and dingy windows to the dubious nature of the rooms’ occupants.
Not that she was one to speak; though the FBI was no longer actively seeking them anymore, Scully knew that there was still a warrant with the name ‘Mulder’ on it, just as she was wanted for questioning.
Pulling the key from the front pocket worn jeans, Scully unlocked the door and let herself inside their room. Mulder lay on the bed, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. He moved listlessly when she softly called his name. While she was out gathering what pitiful supplies she could from the only two stores that sold over the counter medications, Mulder had put on his heaviest sweater, a black hat, and cocooned the sheets tightly around his body.
Pulling out the thermometer, Scully wondered what she would do if his temperature was dangerously high. Would she be able to go against his expressed wishes? Break the promise she’d made to him two years ago after he’d been in a fight and broken his wrist about not risking hospitals. At the time, he’d been in pain, but lucid, and in no danger of dying.
“Mulder?” Scully called his name again. This time he opened his eyes and gazed at her blearily. “Mulder, I need to check your temperature.”
“Hot,” he mumbled, then burrowed deeper into the blankets. “Cold.”
Tearing the packet open, Scully quickly went to the bathroom to clean the thermometer. By the time she got back, Mulder’s eyes were once again closed, but shivers wracked his body. Gently running her fingers over his face, Scully forced herself to think only as a physician. She went through all the pros and cons of hospital care, of what she could do for him in their motel room. The knowledge she’d acquired over the years meant that she could competently treat him as long as he temperature didn’t rise above that critical point.
As she waited for the thermometer to get a reading, she went over how all the various pills, sports drinks, and cold compresses would work in tandem to help Mulder. Her confidence in the science-based remedies was near absolute; he would be fine.
But she prayed too.