Title: THE CURSE OF URTICARIA (1/1)
Author: CindyET
Rating: PG-13 (Language) 
Classification: V, Post Ep 
Spoilers: "F. Emasculata" and "Teso dos Bichos" (Yeah, you 
read that right.)   

Summary: "Teso dos Bichos" seems to make it onto every Philes' 
10 Most Hated list. Could a post ep salvage this universally 
unpopular episode? ~nervous laugh~ Good thing I enjoy a 
challenge.  

Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, 
FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement 
intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no.

Author's Notes: When I learned that Gillian Anderson was 
allergic to cats and then noticed her nose looked a tad red in 
the last scene of "Teso dos Bichos," an idea sprouted in my 
post ep-lovin' mind. 


THE CURSE OF URTICARIA 
By CindyET

OUTSIDE THE BOSTON MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY
MARCH 8, 1996
9:57 A.M.

Scully spots me and crosses the lawn. Although she's changed 
out of her dust/cobweb/cat-hair-covered suit, the scratches on 
her face remind me of yesterday's feline nightmare. 

"Well, the search team's on their way back up," she says. 
"They've recovered all the bodies including Mona's and 
Bilac's."

"What about the cats?" I try not to stare at her Band-Aids.

"Animal control is still looking. So far, they haven't found 
any sign of them."

Wow. That's hard to believe. There were hundreds! Maybe 
thousands. "Well, we both saw them down there, Scully. We know 
they're there."

"No one's denying that, Mulder, it's just that there are miles 
of tunnels. And they're saying it's going to take weeks to 
search them all."

"Well, by then it won't even matter."

"What are you talking about?" Her nose is red and runs a bit.

"I just got off the phone with the Assistant Secretary of 
State's office. They've called in the Ecuadorian Ambassador."  

"What for?" 

"Five people had to die but they're finally taking it 
seriously."

"The curse?" She scratches her head, her neck, her arm.

"No. Bilac's letter of protest. The State Department has asked 
that the museum remain closed until they can act officially on 
it."

"Are they going to send back the bones?" she asks, eyes 
watering. She sniffs. Twice. 

I dig for my handkerchief. "The urn will be back in Ecuador by 
the end of the week. As for the curse--" I squint at her. Her 
forehead and cheeks are dotted with small fiery blisters. "Um, 
Scully? What's wrong with your face?"

*  *  *

SCULLY'S APARTMENT
THE NEXT DAY

Twenty-four hours later, I drop by Scully's to check on her. 
She wasn't looking too great when she headed back to DC 
yesterday to see her dermatologist.

"Papular urticaria," she says, opening her door. 

Yikes! Chalky pink goop covers her face, her neck and 
continues on down into the vee of her bathrobe. The backs of 
her hands are pink, too. Did she take a bath in Pepto Bismol? 

I inch past her, not wanting to touch the pink stuff. "New 
beauty regimen, Scully?"

"No. Papular urticaria is an allergic reaction."

"To what? The cats?"

"Indirectly. It turns out I'm allergic to Ctenocephalides 
felis."

"Which is...?"

"The cats' fleas. Actually, it was exposure to the fleas' 
feces that caused my condition."

Ooooooo. Ugh. 

Small bumps pebble her skin beneath a skim-coat of what I'm 
now guessing is calamine lotion. She's scratching her arms 
through the thick material of her robe. "You're allergic to 
flea crap?" How weird is that? "It's not contagious, is it?" I 
ask, putting some distance between us.

"Your concern is touching, Mulder." She leans her back against 
the doorframe and unceremoniously rubs her spine against the 
wood.

I'm thinking I should leave, but she shuts the door and blocks 
my escape. 

"How long are you gonna look like that?"

"A few days, maybe a week," she says, heading to the 
refrigerator. She opens the freezer and plucks an ice cube 
from the tray. Calamine lotion tints her legs from the tops of 
her slippers to the hem of her robe. She returns to the living 
room and massages the ice over the back of her neck in an effort 
to relieve her discomfort. It doesn't seem to do the trick. 
Frowning, she reaches further into the back of her collar. 
"Dammit. I can't quite..." Stymied, and getting a bit frantic, 
she lets out a tiny whimper before targeting me with her eyes.

Should I offer to help? It would be polite. And under better 
circumstances, I'd probably jump at the chance to scratch her 
itch. It's just... I eyeball her inflamed skin. The blisters 
look like miniature versions of those exploding boils we 
investigated a few months ago: Dinwiddie County, CDC, 
carbuncles from hell. 

Scully's pleading stare bores a hole into my conscience. 

Aw, crap. All right, Mulder ol' boy, suck it up and ask if you 
can help. 

I remove my coat and clear my throat. "Um, is there...is there 
something I can do?" Say no, say no, say no.

Relief transforms her tortured face. "Yes, if you wouldn't 
mind."

I toss my coat onto her couch. "Wouldn't mind 
*what*...exactly?"

"Applying cortico-steroid cream to the papules I can't reach."

Papules? "Maybe I should drive you to the Emergency Room."

"Mulder, I don't need to go to the Emergency Room. I've 
already seen a doctor. Where do you think I got the steroid 
cream?"

I shrug while Scully disappears into the bathroom. She returns 
with a tube of ointment and a big grin. She hands me the tube.

"Are you sure I'm qualified to do this, Scully?"

"It takes no special skill." She turns her back to me, loosens 
the belt on her robe and lets the robe drop from her 
shoulders.

Jesus. From my vantage point, I catch a glimpse of calamine-
covered breasts. 

"How do they look, Mulder?"

The ointment drops from my hand. "They?" Fumbling for the 
tube, I step back, putting her cleavage out of my sight. When 
she peers at me over her shoulder, I show her the tube. "Got 
it."

"The blisters. How do they look?" 

I try to focus on the job at hand. Calamine lotion paints her 
neck but not her back. A rash of enflamed dots freckles her 
white shoulders. They cluster along her spine, which appears 
to have been affected the worst. "They don't look too bad...I 
guess." I swear I see the shape of a cat in the mass of 
blisters. Maybe two cats. And they're humping. "Um...how much 
of this stuff should I put on?"

"Pretend it's suntan lotion."

I uncap the ointment and squeeze a little into my palm. 
"Should I be wearing gloves?" I ask, too late.

"Hurry up, Mulder. The itch is unbearable." She twitches a 
couple of times and I try not to watch the tops of her breasts 
bounce. I'm actually relieved when she adjusts her robe to 
conceal her pink-painted cleavage.

I take a moment to warm the ointment in my palms and gather my 
courage. The stuff is greasy and smells like engine oil. 
Scully's papules wait for relief. "I told you there was a 
Secona curse." I press my palms to her back. Her molehills 
feel like mountains. 

"Ahhh." Scully leans into my hands. "I thought the curse was a 
Jaguar Spirit, not a rash."

"This is only Phase One." I smear some of the ointment over 
her shoulders, avoiding the thickest concentration of blisters 
on her spine. My fingers ride over the hills and valleys of 
her pimply flesh. "God, this feels disgusting."

"Don't be a weenie."

"Weenie?"

"Do you prefer 'scaredy cat'?"

"Ha ha." I keep rubbing. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

She laughs. "In sickness and in health, Mulder."

"We aren't married, Scully."

"Well, for better or worse, you're all Ive got."

For better or *worse*? What does that mean? I smooth the 
ointment down her ribs. Her head lolls forward and bobs each 
time I stroke her. "Mmmmmmmmm," she moans.

Is it good for you, Scully? 'Cause it's pretty nasty on this 
side. "I'll bet you're gonna be one of those wives who expects 
her milquetoast husband to rub her swollen bunions."

"Only if they need rubbing. You missed a spot."

"Where?"

"Left shoulder blade. Higher. Yes! Right there. Ahhhh."

I work the ointment into her skin before pausing to squeeze 
another dollop onto my palm. It's time to attack that gory 
inflammation just above her tailbone. "You go ahead and marry 
Mr. Milquetoast, Scully." I swirl the goop over the cobbled 
swelling at the base of her spine. "Good luck finding such a 
ween-- guy. There, how does that feel?" I ask once I've 
finished.

"A little more, please."

"*More*? Where?"

"Lower."

I study her terry-covered ass. I've already gone about as low 
as I can go without... "You'll have to drop your robe."

"In your dreams." 

"I can't rub what I can't see."

She glances over her shoulder, eyebrows climbing. "I'd think 
you'd have had plenty of experience-- Oooooooh! I knew you 
could do it."

I slide my hand beneath her robe and I make a quick swipe or 
two, trying my best not to feel anything I shouldn't be 
feeling. We're about to cross some sort of line here and I'm 
pretty sure there's a Bureau policy against it. I withdraw my 
hand and cap the ointment.

"Thank you, Mulder." Scully draws her robe around her and 
cinches the belt. She looks much more relaxed.

I hand her the tube and head to the kitchen sink, planning to 
scald my hands under the hottest water I can force from the 
faucet. "Better or worse, Scully?"

"Better...for now." She trails me into the kitchen and watches 
me soap my hands. An expression of contentment settles on her 
calamine-covered face. She shuffles one chalky pink foot in 
and out of its fuzzy slipper.

"You have ointment in your hair," I tell her, drying my hands 
on her dishtowel. She's a mess. Covered with blisters, cat 
scratches, Band-Aids and pink goop, wearing her double-ply 
terrycloth bathrobe and her fluffy slippers. 

She smiles at me. A wide teeth-and-gums grin that makes my 
heart skip a beat. 

Then it strikes me. Someday Scully is going to get married. 
Her husband will be standing here, his hands smelling like 
steroid cream, and she'll smile at him...just like she's 
smiling now. 

Will she tell him about the Secona curse and the Jaguar Spirit 
and the gazillion killer cats? Will she tell him about flea 
crap and papules? 

"Can you stay for a bit?" she asks. "Have a cup of coffee?"

It's weird. I never really thought about Scully as a wife 
before today. 

"Sure," I say, searching her cupboards for mugs. "But don't 
think you can talk me into massaging your bunions."

"Weenie," she teases, taking the cups from me. "I'll brew the 
coffee, Mulder. You make yourself at home." 

THE END

Author's notes: Okay, maybe nothing can make "Teso dos Bichos" 
worth watching, but wasn't Mulder's and Scully's maturing 
partnership a delight throughout Season 3? Lordy, I find these 
two characters endlessly fascinating.

Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or any of my 
stories. Send comments to cindyet@tdstelme.net.

You can find all my fic at 
http://cindyet.xfilesfanfiction.com/