coast
in
smilescully
(no subject)
18.
It's like he's in his early twenties again, dribbling the ball down the makeshift court with what he thinks is great finesse towards an unguarded hoop. He even throws in a bounce through the legs once or twice, just for added style. Nothing but net, and that smooth swooshing sound that has become one of his great sources of pride. A driver honks his horn in acknowledgment as he drives by. Mulder runs to catch the rebound. It's the curb that gets in the way, really. It must be his exuberance that makes him over-run it; he grabs the ball, his sneaker catching on the lip of the curb, and down he goes, his right ankle twisted painfully beneath him. Talk about betraying your cool exterior.
"Son of a bitch!"
Wincing, he slowly lifts himself enough to turn his body around to a sitting position. His ankle is throbbing, a hot, searing sort of pain that he remembers from that time he broke his wrist as a kid while wrestling with a friend at school. His mother had been furious, had told him it was a stupid thing to do, and he imagines Scully saying the same thing to him now, all these years later. Except she wouldn't say it out loud, she'd say it with one of those looks, all raised eyebrows and pursed lips. He eyes his coat on the other side of the court-- his cellphone is in the pocket-- and begins crawling on his hands and knees towards it, dreading having to make the call.
Scully picks up on the second ring, and he tiptoes his way around an explanation while she remains silent on the other end.
"It's probably nothing, you know, but the damn curb got in my way. I was rebounding a pretty sweet shot, too. This is not desirable terrain for basketball, Scully." He winces again in pain, hissing audibly into the phone.
"Mulder, you broke your ankle, didn't you?"
He sighs. "Feels like, Doc."
***
Twenty minutes later, lying on his back on the pavement with his arm over his eyes, Mulder hears Scully's engine idle and shut down. The click of her heels draws closer until it stops completely, and Mulder unshields his eyes to look up at her standing above him, holding a fast food bag.
"Morale booster," she deadpans.
He takes the bag and sits up, gritting his teeth. She's gotten him a hamburger and fries, that miraculous woman.
Scully crouches down by his ankle, poking it gently in spots and asking what hurts. All of it hurts, really, but the burger and Scully's bedside manner-- which is remarkably good today, he has to admit-- helps a little. His foot has swollen to a balloonish purple thing, tight in his sneaker. She unties the laces and tells him to bite his tongue, removing it in one quick motion.
Scully stands and reached her hands down for his, and helps him to his feet. Well, foot. With his arm wrapped around her shoulder, she helps him hobble to the passenger side of her car, and they head for the hospital.
They ride quietly, Scully's eyes on the road ahead except for occasional glances over at him from the corner of her eye. Mulder munches on the fries, holding one up in front of her in offering. She reaches her hand up and takes it, licking the salt from her lips.
"Pretty good, huh?"
***
Mulder hates the inefficiency of emergency rooms, and not even Scully's medical doctor status seems to be speeding things up. After three hours, he's managed to make it through a pair of x-rays, a blood pressure and temperature reading, and two cans of soda. He sits, leg propped up on a pillow, behind a bleached white curtain and flips the pages of a Sports Illustrated Scully has brought him to pass the time. She is off looking at charts and graphs, and presumably trying to move this thing along.
He hears her walk by, catches sight of an orange ribbon of her hair, but she moves away before he can call her back to entertain him. Maybe she is kicking some ER ass. Hopefully she is.
***
An hour later, Scully flicks her fingernail against the transparency, shaking him out of his bored trance.
"Fractured in two places, Mulder. You nearly shattered your posterior talofibular."
"I love when you talk dirty to me, Scully."
She hands him the X-Ray, putting her hands on her hips. He studies it with great concentration, biting his lip and nodding in what seems like approval and deep understanding.
"You're going to need a cast. And you're going to have to wear that cast for six weeks, Mulder. Luckily, you don't need surgery, but you're going to have to take it easy for a while. I assume you understand that means no more dribbling, Michael Jordan."
"C'mon Scully, everyone knows Scottie Pippen is way better."
"Mulder, I'm serious," she says, raising an eyebrow. She snatches the X-Ray back and leaves him behind the curtain again.
***
Five and a half weeks with a gimpy walk and no shoe on your right foot will sure make people talk. Well, more than usual, anyhow. His workdays are miserable and long; he feels like a cripple, and it makes him cranky and difficult. Only Scully sticks by him, bringing him the occasional hamburger like that first day at the court, even though she disapproves of such things in more than strict moderation. She drives him to and from work, watches bad TV shows with him, and generally doesn't take any of his shit.
Only three days left before his appointment at the hospital to cut off his cast. Scully slides a tape into the VCR-- Groundhog Day is the only thing they could agree upon, surprisingly-- and uses the bottom of her shirt to unscrew the caps from two bottles of beer, exposing her belly button, which Mulder tries desperately not to notice. She hands him one of the bottles and grabs the remote control from the coffee table where his foot is propped.
"I can't wait to get this damn thing off," he mutters, reaching for a hanger he kept beside the couch. It is shaped into one long hook like a skinny candycane, and he uses this to scratch his leg, which is itchy from sweat and the lack of air inside the cast.
"I bet," she says, smirking. "Oh hey, I got you a present."
"A present, Scully? What's the occasion?" He perks up immediately, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain as he watches her reach into her bag and pull out a wrapped rectangular gift.
"Oh, you know. A little something to remember the adventure." She grins and nods, encouraging him to open it.
Ripping off the paper, a framed photo: the X-Ray of his ankle, broken in two places, preserved. A morale booster.
It's like he's in his early twenties again, dribbling the ball down the makeshift court with what he thinks is great finesse towards an unguarded hoop. He even throws in a bounce through the legs once or twice, just for added style. Nothing but net, and that smooth swooshing sound that has become one of his great sources of pride. A driver honks his horn in acknowledgment as he drives by. Mulder runs to catch the rebound. It's the curb that gets in the way, really. It must be his exuberance that makes him over-run it; he grabs the ball, his sneaker catching on the lip of the curb, and down he goes, his right ankle twisted painfully beneath him. Talk about betraying your cool exterior.
"Son of a bitch!"
Wincing, he slowly lifts himself enough to turn his body around to a sitting position. His ankle is throbbing, a hot, searing sort of pain that he remembers from that time he broke his wrist as a kid while wrestling with a friend at school. His mother had been furious, had told him it was a stupid thing to do, and he imagines Scully saying the same thing to him now, all these years later. Except she wouldn't say it out loud, she'd say it with one of those looks, all raised eyebrows and pursed lips. He eyes his coat on the other side of the court-- his cellphone is in the pocket-- and begins crawling on his hands and knees towards it, dreading having to make the call.
Scully picks up on the second ring, and he tiptoes his way around an explanation while she remains silent on the other end.
"It's probably nothing, you know, but the damn curb got in my way. I was rebounding a pretty sweet shot, too. This is not desirable terrain for basketball, Scully." He winces again in pain, hissing audibly into the phone.
"Mulder, you broke your ankle, didn't you?"
He sighs. "Feels like, Doc."
***
Twenty minutes later, lying on his back on the pavement with his arm over his eyes, Mulder hears Scully's engine idle and shut down. The click of her heels draws closer until it stops completely, and Mulder unshields his eyes to look up at her standing above him, holding a fast food bag.
"Morale booster," she deadpans.
He takes the bag and sits up, gritting his teeth. She's gotten him a hamburger and fries, that miraculous woman.
Scully crouches down by his ankle, poking it gently in spots and asking what hurts. All of it hurts, really, but the burger and Scully's bedside manner-- which is remarkably good today, he has to admit-- helps a little. His foot has swollen to a balloonish purple thing, tight in his sneaker. She unties the laces and tells him to bite his tongue, removing it in one quick motion.
Scully stands and reached her hands down for his, and helps him to his feet. Well, foot. With his arm wrapped around her shoulder, she helps him hobble to the passenger side of her car, and they head for the hospital.
They ride quietly, Scully's eyes on the road ahead except for occasional glances over at him from the corner of her eye. Mulder munches on the fries, holding one up in front of her in offering. She reaches her hand up and takes it, licking the salt from her lips.
"Pretty good, huh?"
***
Mulder hates the inefficiency of emergency rooms, and not even Scully's medical doctor status seems to be speeding things up. After three hours, he's managed to make it through a pair of x-rays, a blood pressure and temperature reading, and two cans of soda. He sits, leg propped up on a pillow, behind a bleached white curtain and flips the pages of a Sports Illustrated Scully has brought him to pass the time. She is off looking at charts and graphs, and presumably trying to move this thing along.
He hears her walk by, catches sight of an orange ribbon of her hair, but she moves away before he can call her back to entertain him. Maybe she is kicking some ER ass. Hopefully she is.
***
An hour later, Scully flicks her fingernail against the transparency, shaking him out of his bored trance.
"Fractured in two places, Mulder. You nearly shattered your posterior talofibular."
"I love when you talk dirty to me, Scully."
She hands him the X-Ray, putting her hands on her hips. He studies it with great concentration, biting his lip and nodding in what seems like approval and deep understanding.
"You're going to need a cast. And you're going to have to wear that cast for six weeks, Mulder. Luckily, you don't need surgery, but you're going to have to take it easy for a while. I assume you understand that means no more dribbling, Michael Jordan."
"C'mon Scully, everyone knows Scottie Pippen is way better."
"Mulder, I'm serious," she says, raising an eyebrow. She snatches the X-Ray back and leaves him behind the curtain again.
***
Five and a half weeks with a gimpy walk and no shoe on your right foot will sure make people talk. Well, more than usual, anyhow. His workdays are miserable and long; he feels like a cripple, and it makes him cranky and difficult. Only Scully sticks by him, bringing him the occasional hamburger like that first day at the court, even though she disapproves of such things in more than strict moderation. She drives him to and from work, watches bad TV shows with him, and generally doesn't take any of his shit.
Only three days left before his appointment at the hospital to cut off his cast. Scully slides a tape into the VCR-- Groundhog Day is the only thing they could agree upon, surprisingly-- and uses the bottom of her shirt to unscrew the caps from two bottles of beer, exposing her belly button, which Mulder tries desperately not to notice. She hands him one of the bottles and grabs the remote control from the coffee table where his foot is propped.
"I can't wait to get this damn thing off," he mutters, reaching for a hanger he kept beside the couch. It is shaped into one long hook like a skinny candycane, and he uses this to scratch his leg, which is itchy from sweat and the lack of air inside the cast.
"I bet," she says, smirking. "Oh hey, I got you a present."
"A present, Scully? What's the occasion?" He perks up immediately, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain as he watches her reach into her bag and pull out a wrapped rectangular gift.
"Oh, you know. A little something to remember the adventure." She grins and nods, encouraging him to open it.
Ripping off the paper, a framed photo: the X-Ray of his ankle, broken in two places, preserved. A morale booster.