"we are for each other: then" (BBC's The Fall, F)

[curlyq9393]

Hello friends!

So, a couple of weeks ago, I posted a few The Fall ficlets in my thread (if you'd like, you can read them here). My girlfriend & I are writing a collection of (non-fetish specific) long-ish for The Fall on ao3, and I used my three little ficlets to make two different/more cohesive stories, and THEN I realized that--combined and adjusted a little--it makes for a really great post here. So that's what I'm doing.

For those of y'all who aren't watchers of The Fall, here's my little summary/spiel: set in Belfast, The Fall is about Metropolitan Police Superintendent Stella Gibson--a senior investigating officer tasked with the reviewing of investigations--being seconded to the Police Service of Northern Ireland in order to assess the progress of a murder investigation that has remained active for longer than 28 days. When it becomes apparent a serial killer is on the loose, local detectives must work with Stella to find and capture Paul Spector, who is attacking young professional women in the city of Belfast.

Gillian Anderson (queen of my heart) plays lead character Stella Gibson, and Archie Panjabi (who is also phenomenal) plays Reed Smith, a pathologist assigned to the case. They aren't *technically* together in the show EVEN THOUGH THEY TOTALLY SHOULD BE, because just WATCH this scene. Just watch it. (mostly because it's perfect but also because I reference it in the story and it won't make sense otherwise).

To finally arrive at the fic in question: in which this is pure fluff served with a side of gooey feels--between the case and Spector and feeling under the weather, it's all getting to be too much for Stella; but, luckily, she has Reed Smith to make it all better.

I don't own any of these characters (if only; Reed/Stella would instantly become canon) nor do I own the title--it comes from the poem "since feeling is first" by e.e. cummings.

Jeez, sorry for the unnecessarily rambling intro, y'all. Finally, onto what matters!

***

It’s going for midnight and it’s raining, and Reed Smith is sitting in her living room, nursing a cup of tea and worrying. About Stella Gibson.

She doesn’t really want to be worrying about Stella Gibson, nor does Stella Gibson need to be worried about. But still. Reed’s mind keeps replaying over and over the scene from just a few nights ago: the long kiss at Bert’s Bar, Stella leaning in close to her, then closer, their private laughter, the two of them standing near the elevator, her saying no, I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t.

Reed is replaying that last part with increasing frequency.

I can’t… I was brought up in Croydon. Brilliant, Reed, just brilliant. Turn her down and then give such a bullshit excuse that she’s left alone and confused.

Stella hadn’t seemed sad or even all that surprised, but Reed still feels--not quite guilty, that’s not the right word, and neither is remorseful; she feels, she feels….

Worried.

It also doesn’t help that that...that thing broke into Stella’s hotel room a few nights ago; Reed can’t stop replaying that scene either. Fucking Spector. Fucking everything. She’s terrified for Rose because nobody even knows if she’s alive and she’s terrified for her daughters because how the fuck is she supposed to raise them in a world where people--no, not people, men--like Spector exist and all she really wants to do is talk to someone but the one person she knows could make things feel alright is the one person she probably shouldn’t talk to and--

Fuck.

Reed has Stella’s number and she’s seriously debating whether or not to call her (though she honestly has no idea what she’d even say: I’m sorry? This case is hideous and I’m concerned for you? I liked kissing you, and I wouldn’t mind doing it again? And again, and again, and again?), when there’s a knock on her front door. She starts. She’s not expecting anyone and while she knows it’s likely not anyone dangerous, if the last few weeks have taught her anything, it’s to always keep her guard up.

When Reed looks through the peephole, she’s imagining it’ll be some sort of dark, lost stranger, someone she’d feel nervous about running into, even in the daylight. Once Reed’s seen who’s actually standing there, though, it takes her a moment to comprehend it--she can’t believe she’s managed to conjure her out of thin air--it’s Stella.

She unfastens the lock and chain and without a word Stella steps into the foyer. She’s rain-speckled and tousled-haired. The circles under her eyes are so dark they resemble bruises more than anything else, as though the metaphorical monster that is this case had morphed into a literal one, as though it were breaking into Stella’s room every night and battering her. (Reed swallows hard at that; the image hits much too close to home). Reed is quite sure that she’s never seen a more miserable looking person in her life, and that’s saying something seeing as she works with the dead.

Reed is also sure that all she wants to do is hug every last ounce of unhappiness out of Stella, but she holds herself back. There are a million different things she could say, should say, but all she manages is a thin “hi.”

Stella smiles, just a little. “Hello.”

They lapse into an awkward silence. Stella Gibson is standing in Reed Smith’s foyer. Reed is reminded of how strange it always felt to see teachers outside of school, when she was younger; how even though she knew they had lives beyond their classrooms, she still felt that she was witnessing something private, intimate. “Not to sound rude,” she begins tentatively, “but what--”

“Am I doing here?”

“Well,” Reed says. “Yes.”

Stella sighs, and it’s such a weary sound that Reed regrets asking the question at all. But then Stella answers: “I looked up your address.” She pauses, and Reed suddenly understands that Stella must be as nervous about this as she is, and it’s oddly comforting. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” she picks back up, “at the Merchant. Not since--well. You know...” she trails off, looking intently down at her hands.

Reed frowns. “No, I can’t imagine anyone would sleep well after that,” she says sympathetically, and then smiles. “Not even the fearless Stella Gibson.”

Stella laughs dryly. “Not fearless,” she says. “Merely a singularly gifted actress.”

There is a certain element of vulnerability to Stella’s self-deprecating response, and it doesn’t help a bit that she looks so very pale, so drawn. Her green eyes are terribly exhausted. Suddenly it’s all too much for Reed to take, and maybe it’s a night for saying sod it, why not because she finds herself taking steps closer to Stella and doing what she was too scared to do mere moments ago, what she was too scared to do as they stood near the elevator, what she’s been too scared to do from the moment she met Stella weeks and weeks ago. She doesn’t have the energy to pretend anymore; unlike Stella, she’s never been much of an actress.

Stella practically melts into Reed’s arms, as though she’d spent her entire day waiting for them. She presses her face to a warm spot on Reed’s neck, almost exactly between jaw and shoulder. She exhales, her breath a soft sigh. Reed is a little smitten.

There’s a rumble of thunder in the distance, and Reed murmurs into Stella’s hair, “When it rains...”

Stella smiles, and it is a stamp on Reed’s skin. “It does so often seem that way, doesn’t it?” she says into her collarbone.

Reed thinks that she might just be content to linger in their embrace forever (or at least the foreseeable future) and is tentatively planning to do just that when Stella abruptly breaks it. Reed is surprised and more than a bit hurt, and she’s about to ask what she’s done wrong, but then Stella jerks forward with three small, tight movements.

Reed’s eyebrows quirk upwards. “Bless you…?” she asks.

Stella sniffles. “Thank-you,” she says, her voice a bit rougher than normal.

Reed ghosts a hand over Stella’s arm. “You’re shivering,” she says.

Stella sniffles again. “Yes,” she agrees absently. Then she pulls Reed into another hug, instinctively seeking out that same spot on Reed’s neck, and she understands that it must be a place that Stella loves, that there’s a spot on her body that Stella Gibson favors, and she very nearly dissolves into a puddle on the floor then and there.

“Come on,” Reed whispers. “Why don’t you go up to my bedroom and dry off. When you get to the top of the stairs, it’s the first door on the left. There are towels in the closet just inside the ensuite, and--Tanya Reed Smith, this is no time to be picturing the poor woman naked in your loo--you can borrow my night things; there are pajamas in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I’ll be up in a bit.”

Stella grumbles slightly, either at being so explicitly taken care of or, Reed desperately hopes, perhaps at the prospect of leaving Reed’s embrace. Reed can’t help but smile at the thought. But then Stella pulls weakly out of her arms and proceeds to ascend the stairs without so much as another word, and that’s more than enough to set off additional alarm bells in Reed’s head. Stella is calm, Stella is collected, Stella is self-possessed, but Stella is never so… subdued.

Once Stella has disappeared from her sight, Reed sighs. Then she ducks into the kitchen. She has an idea.

Reed wanders into the bedroom a few minutes later and finds Stella lying on her bed, atop the covers, dressed in Reed’s yellow flowered pajamas. She’s curled up and her eyes are closed, but Reed knows that she isn’t sleeping. Stella Gibson would never let her guard down so easily. She looks painfully young, and somehow smaller than usual. Reed sits down gently next to her, a steaming mug in each hand. “I brought you something,” she says softly.

Stella’s eyes blink slowly open, and with a considerable amount of effort, she sits up. Reed offers her the mug with the Monet painting screened onto the side. Stella inclines her head in thanks and then, examining the mug, says, “Agapanthus.” The four careful syllables are shaky, sleepy, scratchy, but nonetheless Reed finds them alarmingly alluring, but perhaps even more alarmingly, wildly adorable.

She tries for a casual smile. “Yes,” she says. No, I am most certainly not falling for you like an overcooked souffle.

“I’ve always liked that series,” Stella says, and Reed is startled out of her metaphor and back into the conversation. She takes a tentative sip. As soon as the contents of the steaming mug hit her tongue, her face registers surprise. “I was expecting tea,” she says once she’s swallowed.

“It’s a hot toddy.”

“I realize that,” Stella says. “It is excellent whiskey.” She looks at Reed slyly, green eyes sparking. “Dr. Smith, are you trying to seduce me?”

Aware though Reed is that she must be turning a dozen shades of red, her answer--to her credit and Stella’s great chagrin--comes out relatively poised: “I can’t help it,” she purrs. “In those pajamas? You’re absolutely irresistible. I want to take you to bed and ravish you.”

Stella snorts, unruffled as ever. “Very Victorian.”

She takes another sip of the toddy, and the room goes still for a moment. “I’m not ill,” Stella says quietly.

“I never said you were.”

Stella’s gaze is level. “Hot toddies,” she says between sips, “are a common folk remedy for upper respiratory illnesses.”

“You were chilled,” Reed shrugs. “And you didn’t seem much like a hot cocoa girl to me.”

Stella opens her mouth, perhaps to reply, but instead brings her elbow up to her face and smothers a series of violent coughs in the crook of her arm. When the coughing subsides she unconsciously rubs her chest, as though it aches. Reed frowns sympathetically. She moves so she’s more fully on the bed, closer to Stella, but still not quite touching her. “You know,” she says, “it would be alright. If you were ill, I mean.”

“I’m not,” she insists with a punctual sniffle.

“Okay, so you’re not. But it would be alright if you were.”

Stella sneezes--three in a row again--in response, “-tsssch! hhh… hpt-tsssch! … hep-TSSCH'ooo!” and this is as good an answer as any. For some reason, Reed finds herself making a mental note: Stella Gibson, sneezes in threes. She doesn’t really know why that fascinates her, except that any and all things Stella Gibson related are completely and utterly intriguing and precious to her, that she could spend the rest of her life cataloguing all she knows about Stella and it still might not be enough.

Reed cups Stella’s chin in her hand and guides her face upwards. She places her other hand on Stella’s forehead. “You’re feverish,” she says.

“Am I?” Stella breathes. “How odd.” She shuts her eyes. “You know,” she continues, “when I was a girl and I felt ill, my mother checked for a temperature by kissing my forehead.”

The corners of Reed’s mouth turn up in a smile. “Oh, did she now?” she asks. Stella nods earnestly.

Before Reed really knows what she she’s doing, she is bestowing a soft kiss on Stella’s forehead, which really is rather warm. Stella leans into the touch without realizing. “What’s the verdict, Dr. Smith?” she whispers.

“I’d say about 100.8, 100.9,” Reed whispers back, her mouth still very near to Stella’s temple. Stella shivers her agreement.

Reed pushes several strands of silken blonde hair back from Stella’s face. Then she stands and gently guides Stella underneath the cotton sheet, the light fleece blanket, and the blue and red plaid quilt. She pulls it up to near Stella’s chin and flicks off the lights. “Sleep,” she instructs.

And, remarkably, Stella does.

***

Well, at least she does for a few hours. But her sleep is restless and fractured; she’s had awful, vivid nightmares ever since she was a little girl, and they seem to worsen when she’s especially exhausted or ill. Or in this case, both. She tosses and turns in Reed’s bed as her unconscious mind unceasingly slips from one nightmare into the next.

Hands around her neck. Tight, then tighter still. Someone on top of her, their hot, panting, sour breath mingling with her own. They are pulling at her clothes, tearing them. Something is stuffed in her mouth—a pair of underwear. Hers. Wrists are bound. Can’t move, can’t scream, can’t hardly breathe—

“Stella? Stella!”

Stella sits abruptly upright, but her eyes remain faraway and wild. Her heart is racing. She can’t catch her breath; she tries to count to ten, because that’s what she does, that’s what always works. But her chest is tight and she’s wheezing and she can’t free herself from the fog of the dream and she gets stuck on three, three, three.

Someone’s hands are on her shoulders now. A fresh surge of panic surges through her—was it not a dream? Has he found her, here?—and she goes to yank herself away but then the same voice that woke her says, “Stella, it’s Reed. It’s Reed. I’m here. I’m here, and you’re safe.”

“Reed…?” is all Stella can manage, her voice raspy with sleep and bad dreams and--fine--the scratch and grit of some sort of upper respiratory illness. Reed has not let go of her shoulders; she is an anchor, mooring Stella in the here-world where she belongs, protecting her from all of the phantoms that might try and pull her back.

Reed spends the next few minutes talking to Stella, and though Stella doesn’t consciously register much of what she says, she’s unspeakably grateful for the cool lilt of Reed’s voice, the warm hands clasping her own, the sheer nearness of her. As long as she is with Reed, she is safe, even as cruel, whispery voices from deep inside of her mind wail and warn her she’s not. In this moment, at least, here with Reed, she is safe. And for Stella, that counts for something. It counts for a lot.

Stella can feel herself beginning to return back from whatever dark place she’d been stolen away to. She has to start the counting over a few more times, but eventually she arrives at ten. Her heart is still beating faster than she’d like, but at least it’s not going at a hummingbird’s rate anymore. Her breaths are shaky, but the wheeze gradually diminishes. She dimly realizes that she is drenched in sweat and shivering much harder than she had been earlier, almost uncontrollably, in fact; her teeth are chattering. Reed’s hands are tugging gently at her hands, and it takes Stella a moment to figure out why: she’d had them clenched into fists so tight that there are dark grooves left on her palms from the dig of her fingernails.

“Sweetheart,” Reed says, and her voice is so warm and kind that some internal spring releases in Stella, and she begins to weep—not soft tears, but great, shaking sobs that come crashing up upon each other like waves. She would normally be embarrassed, but in this moment it is such a heady relief to let go of it all, even if for just a few moments.

Reed puts a sturdy, comforting arm around her shoulder and pulls her near. “Hey, hey,” she says, “you’re okay. It’s okay.”

“I can’t--I don’t...I don’t know--I...I...I,” Stella chokes out, but Reed shushes her.

“And, you’re not a bit well,” Reed says matter-of-factly, and it’s such an understatement that

Stella bubbles out a hysterical laugh that almost immediately becomes another sob.

Stella’s crying eventually slows and then stops, though it leaves her sniffling even worse than before. Reed seems to sense that Stella needs to sneeze before Stella herself even knows it, because suddenly Reed is placing a bouquet of soft tissues in Stella’s hands. Stella brings them up to her face and catches a trio of heavy sneezes. She’s too tired to be demure, so she blows her nose, hard, and then emits a painfully pathetic-sounding whimper. It makes Reed’s heart hurt to watch.

Stella lowers the tissues and stares at Reed blearily. Reed pulls her in closer, so that her head is nestled between jaw and shoulder. Reed must’ve realized that it’s her favorite place, and that’s a thought comforting enough to nearly to start Stella crying all over again. “That must’ve been some nightmare,” Reed says.

“Mmm,” Stella says. “I have them often. But one never does quite get used to it.”

“No,” Reed says. “I don’t suppose one would.”

Stella coughs into her shoulder, and there’s a dull ache in her chest as she does it. “I feel dreadful,” she finally admits.

Reed smiles. “You certainly had me fooled,” she says, and kisses her forehead again.

***

The next morning, Stella wakes early for work, effectively--purposefully?--flying in the face of Reed’s doctorly recommendations that she commit to resting for a day or two. Reed finds Stella in the kitchen: the coffee pot is brewing and Stella is dressed and ready to slip out as soon as her cup has been poured. “I sincerely doubt Spector has any plans to take a day off from stalking and strangling,” she says tiredly, before Reed has a chance to say anything, “which means I can’t afford to take a day off, either.” Even red-eyed and runny-nosed, Stella is still more poised and formidable and determined than virtually anyone Reed has ever met.

Reed, who is normally not easily awakened but had immediately become alert at the loss of Stella’s considerable body heat beneath the covers, blinks, assuming her severe disciplinary expression: the one she uses when any number of gregarious and cocky male doctors undermines or doubts her expertise, or when her daughters are particularly misbehaving. Grabbing one of Reed’s hands in both of her own, Stella says pointedly, “Think of Rose.”

Reed flinches. As always, Stella is right; she’s very, very right. But that doesn’t make Reed feel any better. “At least drink some Lemsip before you go,” she says, and she has to suppress a smile when Stella scrunches up her nose and, before promptly reassuming her icy facade, actually sticks out her tongue just a bit at the suggestion.

“I detest Lemsip,” she says, with a sniffle that could be either of distaste or of illness; Reed can’t be sure.

Reed places her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side. It makes a funny picture, Stella standing there pouting in her pumps and silk blouse and leather pencil skirt, svelte and professional, and Reed playing the grown-up caregiver in her moon-and-star print flannel pyjamas and ratty camisole. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but how old are you again?”

Stella smiles slightly, not her usual bored smirk-smile, but a genuine one that draws her lips apart to show a sliver of teeth and lights something in her eyes. “Six?” she offers, playing along. “Six and three quarters?”

Reed sighs, laughs, picks the Lemsip satchel up off the counter. “Take it with you,” she instructs, ignoring Stella’s (adorable) noises of protest. “Please. Just humour me.”

“I dohhh…don’t…hhh…--” Stella is caught off guard by the hitch in her breath, and she barely has time to thrust a palm up to her face before, “Mm'shhh! Heh-mptchh! Mm'shhh!” She fixes a few locks of loose hair, retrieves a tissue she has stashed up her sleeve, and sniffles her way back to composure.

Reed taps a no-nonsense foot. “You were saying?”

Stella rolls her eyes, but does stow the Lemsip away in the pocket of her coat all the same. Then she fixes Reed with that unwavering Stella-Gibson-stare. “What?” Reed asks, feeling transparent and strange under her intense gaze. “What is it?”

“Why are you doing all this?” Stella asks, direct as ever. It might be refreshing if it weren’t so completely unnerving. It might not be so completely unnerving if Reed had a more appropriate answer to give her.

Reed thinks a moment, wondering what sort of answer Stella is looking for, and eventually decides to follow Stella’s lead; to be bluntly honest. “I’m doing this,” Reed says, her pulse thrumming, “because I like you. Quite a bit, actually.”

There’s a pause just long enough that Reed is sure she might have a heart attack, but then Stella closes the gap between them. “If I weren’t worried I would get you sick,” she whispers, her lips centimetres from Reed’s ear, “I would kiss you. Right now.” Her mouth moves down to Reed’s neck. “Right here, in fact.”

“Oh,” Reed says faintly. That’s all she’s got, because every inch of the fragrant and alluring Stella Gibson is still alarmingly close to every inch of the trembling and furiously blushing her.

Stella smiles, and it’s a pale imitation of her earlier one, but it’s a smile all the same. “Can I see you later tonight?” she asks.

Her powers of speech having not yet been returned, Reed can only nod. “Good,” Stella says, mouth slightly open, her expression one of deep satisfaction. She turns to head out, and then, from over her shoulder, nearly purrs, “Thank-you for the Lemsip, darling.”

She really can make anything sound unbearably sexy, Reed thinks, shaking her head. The front door shuts behind her. Reed remains stock-still in the center of her kitchen.

She might need a cold shower.

***

Reed texts Stella periodically throughout the day to see how she’s holding up, and though Stella’s answering texts are always carefully worded so as to reassure her that she’s doing perfectly fine, thank-you, Reed isn’t convinced. Reed is especially worried when, towards the late afternoon, Stella has to go to some crime scene (in the rain again; she’ll get so chilled, Reed thinks anxiously) that may or may not have involved Paul Spector and that would already be bad enough on its own but with Stella being ill, too--it’s a lot. Too much.

Reed tries not to wait for the familiar ding of her phone and tries to focus instead on her work (she’s largely unsuccessful at both the former and the latter). When the text alert does finally come Reed is grasping for her phone embarrassingly quickly, like a prep school girl nursing a new and sparkling crush.

Back at the station. Wasn’t Spector. A complete clusterfuck/waste of time & resources. Am drenched. Also v bitter.

Reed’s mouth works its way into an overly-sympathetic pout, the words poor baby running across her mind even though she knows there isn’t a phrase that’s ever described Stella Gibson less accurately.

How are you feeling?

Reed is frustrated at herself the moment the message sends, worried that she might come off as too smothering, too motherly, too concerned, too--

Ding.

Oh.

Honestly? I’m a bit tired.

Reed frowns. It’s not much of an admission, but it’s still more of one than Stella’s ever been known to give.

Is there anything I can do?

I would not say no to having macaroni and cheese for dinner and, a moment later, it’s my… comfort food, I suppose.

Consider it done.

***

It’s near nine and the macaroni and cheese is warming on the stove when the doorbell rings. “Coming!” Reed shouts. “Hold on!”

Reed opens the front door and Stella Gibson is standing on her porch again, and she looks more rumpled and spent than ever. Reed purses her lips. “Get inside right this second,” she orders, and Stella laughs weakly and complies.

“Aren’t you going to say I told you so?”

“My being right won’t make you any less ill,” Reed says simply, and almost grins when Stella blinks, falters, because that means her answer caught Stella off-guard, and that’s something that happens all of… well, never.

Reed makes her way into the kitchen. Stella trails behind her, taking off her absurdly high heels (which Reed happens to know Stella only wears because she loathes being so small, though she’s been sworn to secrecy on that particular tidbit) and hanging up her coat. When she gets to the kitchen doorway, she pauses, her eyes heavy, then catches her customary three sneezes into a crumpled tissue snatched seemingly from nowhere. "Bless you!" Reed says.

“--tsssch! hhh… hpt-tsssch! … hep-TSSCH'ooo!”

“And again!”

“Thank-you,” Stella croaks, in-between nose blows. “I’ve been doing that all day. It’s spectacularly annoying.”

Reed turns from the stove and makes a pitying face, and Stella smiles wryly. “Yes, yes,” she says. “Poor me.”

“The girls are with their father tonight, so it’s just the two of us." Reed says, changing the subject. I’m hoping that fact will work in my favor, Reed doesn’t say, doesn’t even think, absolutely not. “I haven’t made macaroni and cheese from scratch in years; I never have the time. But it was actually fun and I think it turned out alright, though the jury is still out...”

“You made it from scratch?” Stella interrupts, and Reed notes unhappily that her voice is nearly gone.

“Of course I did,” Reed says, her focus on spooning the steaming pasta shells into two bowls. Then suddenly Stella’s arms are around her waist, and she almost flings a ladle-full of macaroni across the room, she’s so surprised.

“You,” Stella says, “are a saint. Truly.”

Even though Reed knows it’s from illness, she still finds the new, rougher quality to Stella’s voice incredibly alluring, and completely without meaning to she’s turning in the other woman’s arms and her lips are on Stella’s lips and her hand is caressing the nape of Stella’s neck. “You’re going to catch this,” Stella says vaguely into Reed’s clavicle, though she makes no moves to leave the embrace, keeping her arms tightly wound around Reed’s waistline.

“I don’t care,” Reed says. Then she kisses Stella harder.

***

An hour later--two thirds of it spent kissing, the other third happily devouring the mac and cheese, which is delicious even after being reheated--they are a tangle of pyjama-clad limbs on Reed’s living room sofa. Stella has all but abandoned her silly I’m fine, don’t worry about me charade and is wrapped in an especially cozy quilt, nursing a mug of Lemsip.

(“I’m sorry, but you want what? What was that? I think I must’ve misheard you. But if I didn’t mishear you, I am going to have to say I told you so. You know that, don’t you?” “Oh, do shut-up, Reed.”)

Studying her, it occurs to Reed that this obviously can’t be the first time Stella’s been ill, and she wonders what Stella did before she had someone to take care of her, how awful and lonely it must’ve been to soldier through it all by herself. Reed stares at the lovely, guarded, impossibly brave being sitting now so very close to her, and her heart pangs.

But there will be time to be sad, to worry over Stella, later. For now, life is simple and sweet. Nearly half the chemist is spread out on the coffee table--thermometer, hot water bottle, tissues, lozenges, various medicines and herbal remedies--and Reed is ridiculously, deliriously happy. And in spite of everything, Stella doesn’t seem to be faring too terribly, either.

“What do you want to do now?” Reed asks.

“That’s something of a loaded question,” Stella says, her tone serious, her eyes playful.

Reed smacks her lightly on the arm. “Oh stop,” she says. “You know what I meant.”

Stella rubs her eyes, sniffles, coughs. (Reed's mum ears--even keener than her doctor ears--detect a faint wheeze and rattle to Stella's cough and breathing and she makes a mental note to check on that later). “I suppose we could watch a movie,” she says. “Though I should warn you, there’s an excellent chance I’ll be asleep on your lap fifteen minutes in.”

“I think I can find a way to live with that,” Reed says, as though it’s the biggest inconvenience in the entire world (she’s thrilled at the prospect). “What do you want to watch?” she asks, moving to get up and look through the movie cabinet.

Stella doesn’t answer, and she stays silent for so long that Reed wonders if she’s already drifted off. Then, though: “You can’t laugh at me.”

Reed gives her A Look. “Why on Earth would I laugh at you?” she asks.

“Because,” Stella begins, looking anywhere but at Reed, “my film genre of choice… It is, perhaps, a bit out of character, if you will.”

Reed’s eyebrows go up. “And what is your film genre of choice?” Provided it’s PG or less and features princesses and/or anthropomorphized animals, we’ve got it.

Stella intently examines her fingernails as she says, “Musicals. Especially older musicals.”

Reed can’t help it, she does start laughing, though it’s not for the reason Stella likely thinks. Stella is blushing and she looks so genuinely horrified and hurt that Reed rushes over to the couch and wraps her in a hug. “I’m not laughing at you,” she says, though Stella appears unconvinced. “Honestly, I’m not. I love musicals; that’s why I’m laughing. I’ve got a case of my own DVDs upstairs; I keep them away from the girls’ movies so they won’t get lost or scratched up. I’ll fetch a few of them now.”

She returns with The Sound of Music, West Side Story, Meet Me in St. Louis, and Singin’ in the Rain. Stella, impressed, examines the selection with interest. “Much as I love Meet Me in St. Louis,” she muses, “it’s sad, I’m exhausted, and that combination will make me dreadfully weepy. That also goes for West Side Story.”

“Weepy?” Reed says. “You?”

“I’ve a soft spot for theatre,” Stella says, almost sheepish. Reed wants desperately to kiss her.

“Well, we certainly don’t want you to be weepy,” Reed says. “And between you and me, I think Sound of Music is a bit overrated. Though I do adore young Julie Andrews.”

“Agreed. And agreed emphatically.”

“So, Singin’ in the Rain?”

Stella answers with a weary smile. “I was going to suggest precisely that.”

Reed pops the movie into the player, then rejoins Stella on the couch. The movie-choosing-interlude having disrupted their earlier cuddling, Reed is nervous to start it again, and--oddly enough--Stella appears to be just as apprehensive. They stay in separate spots, feet barely touching, as the overture begins. In her corner, Stella occasionally shifts and fidgets, and the movie’s been on for twenty minutes when she finally says, “I can’t get comfortable.”

Her arms are folded and she’s pouting a little and, really, she’s practically whining and it’s all so un-Stella that Reed kind of adores it, instead of finding it irritating as she would with anyone else. “So lie down,” Reed says, patting her lap, with a smirk that rivals Stella’s.

Stella gratefully slumps down, lays her head on Reed’s thigh, and curls her legs underneath herself with a slight shiver. Reed reaches down to smooth a lock of hair away from Stella’s face, and is startled to realize that her forehead is clammy with sweat. “Oh, Stella,” she says, “you’re quite feverish. I should go get you an ice pack--”

“Don’t you dare move,” Stella bosses as fiercely as she can with her utterly shot voice. “This is the first position that hasn’t left me achy in some capacity.” Immediately after finishing her sentence, she inhales sharply, then smothers a single sneeze against her wrist. Reed waits patiently for the two that she knows will follow, and though it takes a minute of erratic breathing, they do—they are thick and congested sounding and on her ever-growing mental list of Stella Health Concerns, Reed adds sinus infection.

“Stella--” Reed tries again.

“No.”

Reed sighs, but reasons that the cold medicine Stella took not too long ago will bring her fever down just as well as an ice pack would. Really, Reed can’t bear to try and move Stella when she’s finally gotten so happy and relaxed. On her. It’s a scenario that’s both impossibly delightful and delightfully impossible. The solid warmth of Stella’s head on her leg is wonderful, and Reed finds herself running her fingers through Stella’s slightly damp hair. The sigh of contentment the simple contact elicits from Stella is enough to make Reed feel as though she’s just won a Nobel Prize.

“Feels good… don’t stop… please,” Stella mumbles sleepily. And totally unnecessarily, because Reed has no plans to stop at any point in the near (or distant) future. The movie continues, and Stella’s half-awake and unintentionally hilarious comments--

(“Oh, Debbie Reynolds is so cute and young here, I’d quite like to kiss her; it’s too bad she has such a terrible mother/daughter relationship with Carrie Fisher, though.” “That’s milk! For the rain! So they could see it on camera. Disgusting.” “Donald O’Connor has a strange face. It’s too flexy.” “But the dancing! Look at it! HOW!?” “What if at work I just started singing EVERYTHING? What would happen, do you think? Oh, Jesus, just picture Burns’s face.”)

gradually lessen and lessen. Suddenly the credits are rolling. Reed blinks, and she realizes she hasn’t heard a single word or sneeze or sniffle from Stella in over an hour. As promised, she’s dead to the world.

“I suppose you did warn me,” Reed murmurs, half-laughing. Stella’s mouth is slightly parted, warming a small spot on Reed’s pyjama bottoms. As carefully as she can, Reed slides Stella’s head off her leg and helps her to sit up.

“Mmmm… whattimeisit?” Stella says, her words slurred, her eyes at half-mast and hazy.

“Bedtime,” Reed says quietly. “Come on.”

“Gotta go to work… late… Spector… Rose,” Stella says, and her voice is softer than Reed’s ever heard it; it’s maybe two-percent awake, and it is unbelievably endearing.

The two women start up the stairs--Reed’s arm is around Stella, guiding her. “It’s the middle of the night,” Reed reassures her as they make their way into the bedroom. “Don’t fret; you don’t have to work right now.” And you won’t tomorrow either, she mentally adds. Not if I have my say in things, anyway.

Reed tucks Stella into her bed, fills a glass with water, and gets some paracetamol and cough syrup from her medicine cabinet. As she sets the things down on the night table, Stella’s hand winds around Reed’s wrist. “Stay,” Stella murmurs, her eyes already closed.

Reed climbs under the covers, kisses Stella on the cheek, closes the space between their bodies. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says, and she doesn’t.

[Bruyere]

So I still haven't seen this but damn that clip you linked makes a compelling case!

I really loved the way you wrote and developed their relationship throughout this fic. I'm not sure why but I'm so much pickier when it comes to femslash and the fetish especially when it comes to colds and caretaking. Perhaps because it just feels so intimate to me?

Stella laughs dryly. “Not fearless,” she says. “Merely a singularly gifted actress.”

I feel like I could quote the whole section where Stella shows up on Reed's doorstep but I really loved how you contrasted the two of them. Both in their fearlessness and the way they do/don't give into it and how Reed is not the actress that Stella is.

“You know,” she says, “it would be alright. If you were ill, I mean.”

“I’m not,” she insists with a punctual sniffle.

“Okay, so you’re not. But it would be alright if you were.”

Stella sneezes--three in a row again--in response, “-tsssch! hhh… hpt-tsssch! … hep-TSSCH'ooo!” and this is as good an answer as any. For some reason, Reed finds herself making a mental note: Stella Gibson, sneezes in threes.

Ah, this has so many of my favourite things packed into a few lines. 1) denial, 2) denial immediately followed by proof that they are ill 3) Characters sneezing in set numbers and 4) other characters noting that the sneezer has a set number of sneezes

She turns to head out, and then, from over her shoulder, nearly purrs, “Thank-you for the Lemsip, darling.”

She really can make anything sound unbearably sexy, Reed thinks, shaking her head.

Hee!

“Stay,” Stella murmurs, her eyes already closed.

Reed climbs under the covers, kisses Stella on the cheek, closes the space between their bodies. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says, and she doesn’t.

Oh this really was just lovely and I enjoyed reading it so much.

[telltale]

This is gorgeously written. And I love this pairing too.

[NoV]

Haven't got around to watching this yet, but just wanted to say what a well written fic Really enjoyed reading it, and with Gillian Anderson it made me think just what a long time ago the X Files were...

[March Hare]

Wow, you're GOOD. This is really good. I loved it.

I don't know the series, but it doesn't matter. The whole thing is warmly enjoyable. Thank you!

[Salamander]

Oh holy shit, I also dont watch the series but this was flipping gorgeous. There are so many things that I loved and I can't easily go through highlight when I'm using my iPad but I had to comment right now to say how much I liked it.

The characters are so interesting, distinct, mature, wonderful. I like how you wrote stubbornness without making her seem childish, and how they both own their desires. The whole thing really.

[zakandsara]

This is soooooo amazinggggg. There is something endlessly appealing about Gillian Anderson, and you've captured it. 1,000 more of these, please.

[lifelove1]

OMG sorry this is so belated but this story....it's perfect. The Fall is such a quietly beautiful and brutal show (everyone who hasn't seen it should, ASAP!) and the character of Stella Gibson is brilliant. Love Gillian Anderson playing another incredible strong woman, and love this pairing. Your renditions of the characters are spot-on and so in keeping with the tense and electric air of the show. Would love to read more of your work! (P.S. the link to your ficlet thread seems to be broken or gone...does it still exist?)