They linger at the diner, taking advantage of being told to take their time. Morning sunlight suits Mulder after fluorescent lights and blinking red LEDs. Cash payments with keep the change as a tip. Cooks and waiters made of flesh and blood, whose tips don't go to some tech guru or venture capitalist.
The only thing that's stayed the same is the companionship of someone he can have a whole conversation with through glances alone. It leaves him feeling wearily amiable.
Mulder's the one who breaks the silence, turning his hand over so it's palm to palm with Scully's. "I don't know about you, but I -" this, yawning - "could use a nap."
Sometimes she feels like this is how she's spent most of her life, lingering over coffee in a thousand interchangeable diners with Mulder. It's made her restless, now and then, to think that; now, it's a source of peace. The daylight and the analog comforts are reassuring after the evening's misadventures, but more than anything it's his proximity that puts her at ease. They sit, and time ticks by, and her mind wanders pleasantly until he speaks up.
The firing of mirror neurons and her matching yawn delay her answer a moment.
"I could use a week in a remote spa with nothing more high-tech than a radio," she says wistfully, a smile curling around the words. There is, she knows, a lot to be done. While not technically a crime scene, her condo is going to need a similar amount of attention: glass replacements, the fireplace needs to be checked, the refrigerator lobotomized. Probably she should call a lawyer; you can't charge an AI with attempted murder but there's got to be someone she can sue for whatever insurance won't cover. The cherry on the cake, she needs to pick up a new vibrator, stat.
So much to do.
"A nap would be a nice start," she reasons instead.
"I don't even want a radio." Mulder glances sidelong at her. Her arm pressed against his, their fingers twining lazily - this is nice. "Maybe we could try a cabin in the middle of nowhere at the edge of a lake."
Running, swimming, hiking through the woods, ignoring the whole world. Sitting on a porch in a rocking chair like he's ancient, watching a sunset. If Scully's there, enjoying the sunset next to him - in a bathrobe and some kind of green face goop - then so much the better.
"But before we book a seven-day tech detox," and the corner of his mouth twitches, "I could give you a lift down to Farrs Corner. My drone infestation is probably gone by now."
While her busted glass door and toasted condo probably look worse in the harsh light of day.
"Just crickets and owls and squirrels crashing through the undergrowth, louder than traffic," she sighs, with a wry twitch of a smile. She lets herself lean against him, just a little.
She should go home, get a hotel, sweep some shattered glass into a pile.
But instead here she is, looking at the way their fingers still fit together over all these years.
"There are some calls I need to make."
That's a simple fact. She can't leave the place wide-open, questionably safe, the hair-trigger alarm ready to shriek at friend or foe alike. But she looks up him through her lashes, through the tangling frizz of her hair.
It all starts with an invitation for dinner at the house at Farrs Corner. Said house has progressed to a strange in-between in terms of ownership; it's not strictly Mulder's Place anymore, because construction on the condo is taking a while, but Our Home feels presumptuous when Scully's been fairly clear about choosing not to overpromise. It's a house, and they share it, and Mulder sleeps better than he has in years.
While the condo's still nigh-unusable, he can't really ask for more.
I'll cook, he says, and he gets groceries delivered. There's snow on the ground - he showed off the new snowblower to a fitfully interested Scully that morning - and he's not going anywhere when he could pay someone else to inch along the country highway. She's off working on...something...and misses the bakery box that he manages to cram into the refrigerator.
And then he'd like to believe he's too entertaining a host to be questioned, particularly when it's possible to talk about their shockingly competent meal of steak, out-of-season asparagus, roasted potatoes, and craft beer. I can cook, he tells her, choosing not to mention that it's something he picked up to keep himself from going insane when the house was empty. It's just not as interesting as you are. Thus a life of takeout and lazy meals and restaurants.
They're at the kitchen table, where he tries not to think about the empty chair accompanying them. It's always been empty, but someday, maybe, if they can find the boy who should be sitting in it - but that's brooding for some other time. "You aren't full, are you? There's another course."
It's a good thing Scully's got an iron will and a lot of practice with being the voice of reason-- because it would be very, very easy to overpromise if she didn't. Being back in the house, back with Mulder, back at work-- it's impossible not to be caught in the current of nostalgia. And it's nice.
Better than nice; it's the kind of thing she could get used to, if she let herself. And she's tempted, oh, of course. She could dive in-- like plunging all at once into water that's too cold, and adjusting; and then the only hard thing would be to get out, dry off, and head home.
(Home, but the condo feels less and less like home by contrast.)
So she's wading. Head above water, one careful step after the next; not as comfortable as it'd be to go headfirst and wholeheartedly, but slow enough to keep her footing. And it's good, being here. Being together. Reading books on the couch together, cycling through the limited takeout options, sleeping tucked up against his chest.
Today, the weather's been a good excuse not to go anywhere; she puts in a day of research and writing up reports, takes a few virtual meetings, spends half an hour blocking idiots on social media. And when she surfaces, it's not to the question of tacos or a drive out to that Indian place? but to a hearty, home-cooked meal. Which is a surprise-- though it doesn't strike her as strange, exactly, that Mulder can cook. Unusual, though. But it's good, and she's glad-- if maybe a little suspicious-- and it's a cozy evening in, framed by the quiet and the dark, open sky outside.
She's gathering her postprandial strength to offer to handle dishes when he speaks up.
"Yeah. Close your eyes." He's already getting up, spiriting their empty plates away to the countertop. "I mean it. No peeking."
The refrigerator door opens, then closes. The top half of a pasteboard box slides up, away from its twin. A drawer opens and closes, and another one opens, and Mulder swears under his breath. And there's the scent of chocolate, and the hiss of a match, and his footsteps coming back over to the table.
"Okay, open them." Mulder's sitting beside her again, and on the table between them is one of those fancy little grocery-store cakes that live in the bakery case and probably never get purchased - except now. Chocolate ganache pretends to drip down the sides, swirls of buttercream icing dot the smooth surface, and two candles flicker in the kitchen light. "I didn't have room for all the candles, so you get one for every digit in your age."
Staying with Mulder is... strange. It's a little like the old days, and nothing like that at all. Like being on the run again, but not at all. It's easy to keep things light and positive. Maybe it's like a honeymoon-- not that they had one-- not that they're married, really. It's nice. And it feels-- she thinks-- she hopes-- like the start of something, not an interlude.
But time marches on, and so do cleaning crews, and repairmen, and glaziers. It feels like no time at all before she gets the call that she can go--
Go home? Go back?
He drove them out here, so it means he's got to drive her back, and that doesn't feel nearly as easy or light. She overthinks it, because that's what she does best. Her bag of books and Superbowl tape, still unpacked, she leaves in the his (their?) living room. Half her clothes have ended up in the drawers, and she doesn't bother retrieving them; but she takes the duffel bag and whatever's left in it, takes the little fire safe. Not staying, but not leaving. Ready to come back. Taking him with her.
She bundles it all into his car and flashes him a smile she hopes is reassuring.
When dogs are nervous, they wander around, like if they circle the problem long enough, someone will take pity on them and solve it. So it is with Mulder on the day Scully suggests they head over to her condo and see how it looks. He does his best to keep up the appearances of being busy, saying something about sure, grab your stuff and then preparing to potter around until she's ready - but what he's really doing is watching what she takes and what she leaves. If she leaves anything.
That she leaves nearly everything, just grabs her bag and her safe and doesn't go rifling through drawers, means he's lost some of that anxious mutt look to him by the time they reach the car. She'll still know, he's aware, that 'driving Scully back home' is a thought that doesn't conjure up excitement for him - but she'd know that no matter what he did with himself.
Mulder smiles back as he climbs into the car, and it's reasonably untroubled. Hopefully. But he can't help pressing the issue, if in a roundabout way. "Got everything?"
Everything she means to take, at least. Meaning there's at least a handful of good excuses to come back here, if she needs one.
She watches him thoughtfully: no indication that he's bringing anything, but she can't be sure what that means. Maybe he's not planning to stay the night? Or he thinks they'll both come back here. Or he thinks she doesn't want him to stay over at hers, or maybe he's still got an overnight bag in the trunk.
If only there were some method of divination to find these things out.
"No major structural damage," she says a little absently, once they're underway. "Obviously all the glass had to be replaced, and it probably still smells a little smoky, but the gas line was intact and the foundation and framing passed inspection."
When she'd suggested-- at first somewhat obliquely-- that they try a version of getting back together, it had been a hesitant, uncertain, low-key thing. Sometimes she'd stay with him, sometimes he'd stay with her, and if they didn't spend all their time in the same place it didn't have to mean anything was wrong. They'd work together-- just like old times-- but they'd stop pretending they only worked together. Simple, slow-- no demands, minimal expectations, an open mind to the possibility that it might work out to more than casual without pinning all their hopes on it.
As hard as the years have been, they've been good for both of them. If she's honest, she thinks it's Mulder who's truly grown. He's found a measure of peace on his own she hadn't quite expected he could; the best she can say for herself is she's got enough of a competitive streak to see his healthy attitude as a challenge. Their rough edges have been worn down, and it makes for a better fit.
But she'd never imagined-- couldn't have imagined-- this. After she gave up William, she stopped letting herself imagine this. In a moment of weakness, in the darkness, she'd asked him about it. Alluded to the things they couldn't have-- the family he might want, the children she couldn't give him. In retrospect it smacks of self- sabotage, a logical assertion that even if he forgave her-- if, if, if; why should he, when she never quite forgave herself-- of course she couldn't ask him to settle for her, to give up all chance at a future, a legacy beyond dusty boxes of forgotten mysteries.
You don't get second chances at miracles, she'd sensibly told herself, over and over.
And yet: here she is.
It's early enough yet that she's not really showing, to the untrained eye. She can tell, though-- and she has no doubt Mulder can see it, the change in the curve of her body, at once familiar and new. It's not a difficult pregnancy-- at least not yet; she knows she might not stay so lucky-- but she finds herself craving comfort, and so more often than not she's in the house she's almost back to thinking of as theirs, in thick socks and with a pile of almost-too-overstuffed pillows cluttering the sofa. But the truth is it's less about the space, and more the company. With William, Mulder had missed all this: the slow shifts, the silly milestones-- size of a pea, a walnut, an apple. He'd come back to find her roughly the size of a planet, carrying a son who was a stranger to him. This time she wants to share as many of those moments as possible.
(So much for casual. For once, their plan has fallen apart for the better.)
"Can we add mint tea to the shopping list?" she calls out, though to be honest it's halfway a reminder to herself. Saying it aloud means half a chance of remembering it. Also, she just wants to pester Mulder, it's a transparent excuse. "I think this was the last of it."
Mulder's feet clatter on the stairs as he comes down, heading towards the kitchen, ready to jot mint tea down on the list on the fridge. "Want the Moroccan mint or the domestic kind?"
(If there's a difference, he doesn't know it - but last time he was at the store, there were two options, and he grabbed at random.)
These days, Mulder's ready to be pestered at every turn. He's a universe away from the fraught months leading up to William's birth - nearly two decades ago, a fact that hardly seems possible - and he can't help but dive into every step of the journey, now that he has a place in it.
Already, he's converting the office upstairs into a nursery, having decided that his auxiliary workspace in the living room should be enough space for future research (and perhaps realizing that the living room desk won't convert nearly as well into a baby's room). It's probably jumping the gun, but they've made it past the three-month mark, and all the internet research he's filled his insomniac nights with suggests that the likelihood of miscarriage is now significantly lowered. And excavating all his newspaper clippings and notes - and worse, figuring out what to do with them - might take most of the time they have left before the baby makes its debut. At the rate he's going, he'll have a paint roller in hand when Scully's water breaks.
He'd been unprepared for William, however much he'd loved him - however much he's missed him in the years since and worried about him in the last few months. For this one, he's determined to know what he's doing, to be more than just an especially involved sperm donor. William was ultimately Scully's son, after all; for most of the boy's life, Mulder'd never felt like he'd had any real claim to him, even to the pervasive sense of loss after his adoption. If that's changed, it's only in the last year or so, and only by inches. He can justify years of grief now that he's preparing for this new kid, if only because he can see just how gaping the son-shaped hole in his life is by comparison.
At this moment, though, he's all good cheer, coming down in an old pair of sunglasses and a baseball hat from Stonehenge turned backward on his head. The danger of going through your stuff is always in getting distracted by remembering what you have. After he's scribbled something that looks vaguely like "mint" on the shopping list, he comes over to the couch, where Scully's reclining like a queen - and even if she's nowhere close to the size of a planet, she's managed to claim the entire territory for her own. It's an enticing sight, one that makes him halfway tempted to see if his back will allow for scooping her up in his arms and taking her upstairs to make love to her until they're both exhausted. "Room for one more?"
"The regular one-- I think it's mintier," she decides. It's not a serious proclamation-- she'd be happy with either-- but considering the enormity of his current project, maybe a few manageable, small goals sprinkled in are a good call. She sometimes feels selfish, taking advantage of his eagerness to please her; but really, he wants to be involved, and that warms every part of her whenever he shows it.
Mulder never does anything by halves, and he's thrown himself into getting ready for a baby with the same enthusiasm as chasing Sasquatch, albeit with less travel involved. She kind of loves seeing him like this-- animate and impassioned, excited about their future. Not that he hadn't been supportive with William-- newly back from the dead, haunted by experiences she'd never quite dared ask about, he'd done his best for her.
For so long they didn't really talk about William-- couldn't, when the memories were so painful, when they had no option but to cling to each other and couldn't risk the hurt. She'd spent most of that pregnancy thinking her unborn son was the very last of Mulder-- the only chance she might have, if she was lucky, to see the color of his eyes or a hint of his profile. Of course, in her mind-- in her heart-- he had every right to his son, to his grief. To hate her, even, for sending him away.
And maybe if their time together hadn't been cut short again they would have found a better rhythm-- maybe everything would be different.
It would be naive to imagine those wounds are healed, but they're less acute. William is still an unanswered question, but they're used to living with those. If nothing else, this new child makes it easier to live in the moment than dwell on the past.
She arches a brow at him, but pats the cushions anyway. He's seen through her out-of-tea gambit to give her what she really wants: him, here.
Monday rolls around, and they meet at a diner in Falls Church - the kind of place where they can roll up, maybe eat, maybe just drink some coffee and awkwardly walk away from each other after ten minutes. Under other circumstances, he'd propose something more interesting, like a Bolivian restaurant he read about a few weeks ago, but those circumstances would have to be very different. "Scully definitely wants to spend an hour with me, munching salteñas and shooting the shit," maybe - and he just can't trust that that's the case.
Not that the situation's all her fault. Mulder knows he's no angel here - but even after a year and some change, he still feels like the wronged party more often than not. If he drove her away, she still chose to go. If he's no longer upset about it all the time, he hasn't entirely shaken the refrain that marked every step for a while after it all went down: Scully left, even Scully left, who the hell is going to stick around if even Scully left.
But he's doing better. Sort of. And he's determined to look like he's doing great for this particular tête-à -tête. He hasn't bothered to put on a suit, but he's grabbed a sweater-jeans combo he knows looks good with his leather jacket, and he's sitting in a booth with her mail and a mug of coffee like everything's fine. Look how normal he is, with his manilla envelope of unopened letters and his smartphone opened to a subreddit he's definitely not arguing on.
The great thing about making plans several days in advance is, it gives you plenty of time to overthink, regret, nearly cancel, get angry about, and then be melancholy about those plans. For several months after she left they didn't talk at all, and it was-- honestly-- terrible. She thought of it (somewhat uncharitably) like getting clean. Going through withdrawal, miserably reducing her reliance on something she enjoyed because sooner or later it was going to destroy them both.
It didn't mean she wanted to. It certainly didn't mean she didn't miss him.
Eventually, though, something had come up where she'd needed to talk to him, and... since then, things have been coming up. Whether they're all strictly needful-- she thinks they are. At least, she tells herself it's reasonable. Rational. Just like she'd told herself it's worth getting him out of the house to have dinner with him.
And he looks good. Which is-- good. Even if it gives her a pang of loss to see him, she's glad he's doing all right. She takes a breath as she crosses the restaurant and slides into the opposite seat.
Scully, of course, looks incredible. It probably cost at least half an hour of staring in the bathroom mirror that morning, but her makeup tastefully accentuates her beauty, her clothing does the same, and the ends of her hair flip in a way that probably requires one of those big curling irons and a paddle brush. The mysterious ways of professional womanhood always look natural on her, despite everything he'd learned about their complexities, back when they were together; when he sees the results, the desire to kiss her hello and reach for her hand is still instinctive.
So he's doing well, but he's not blind. And he tells himself that it's good to be able to see her and be friends with her, to exist a normal social distance apart. If a dull ache still comes with it (Scully left, even Scully left), at least he's not still at rock bottom.
"Great." He takes a sip of his coffee and takes the moment to glance at her hands, like any normal friend making sure his ex didn't get engaged since they last saw each other would do. "I've got some shots I still need to blow up in Photoshop. How's medicine?"
The East-Coast Extraterrestrial Extravaganza Your #1 Source for the News the News Won't Tell You
POSSIBLE DIMENSIONAL RIP IN WASHINGTON, D.C.
Mysterious woman appeared "out of thin air," possibly in connection with top-secret government experiments on manipulating the fabric of spacetime. By John F. Pseudonym · APRIL 11th, 2014
Several eyewitnesses reported the sudden appearance of a young woman on 11th Street, north of Pennsylvania Avenue, on the afternoon of April 10th.
"She came out of nowhere. Like, really nowhere," said one witness, who declined to provide a name. "Like when someone walks behind a truck in a movie and they cut it and they never walk out the other side? Except, backwards. And there was no truck. And- I guess it's not like that, but you know what I mean? Nothing was there, and then she was there."
The mystery woman was described as petite, with bright red hair, dressed in a trenchcoat one onlooker described as "weird and old-fashioned." After appearing, she took several steps down the street before stopping short, looking around in obvious confusion, and reaching into an inner pocket of her coat. One eyewitness claims to have seen a holstered weapon, though at no point was a weapon brandished or discharged during the brief incident.
Photograph of the unidentified woman who allegedly appeared "from thin air" in Washington, D.C., on April 10th.
All witnesses agreed she pulled some sort of device from her pocket-- possibly a cellular telephone ("like a dumb one though," according to one witness), and looked at it before swearing audibly and shoving it back into her coat. The woman began to run down the street, calling out something unintelligble-- "mother," according to one witness; another thought it might have been "murder".
Before reaching the avenue, however, the woman encountered another pedestrian-- described as an tall, older, balding man in glasses. She jumped backward as though startled; he froze in obvious surprise, but the two cautiously approached one another and began to speak in an animated manner, though too quietly for the witnesses to overhear. After a few moments, the man gestured again toward the avenue; the woman nodded, and the two left together. Witnesses were not able to account for their actions after they turned the corner.
This shocking event-- taking place in broad daylight-- has received little coverage in the mainstream media, which combined with the individuals' possible connection to Federal agencies, suggests to this writer that things are being suppressed-- for readers familiar with our previous coverage on
Another day in Virginia, precisely like the day that came before it. The grass needs mowing, but Mulder hasn't been in the mood to do it. The house could use cleaning, he could probably stand to shower - and eventually, he will. Whatever Scully might say about his habits, or what they might say about his mental state, the reality is that today's a rough one, and he's not in the mood to deal with any of it. Keeping tabs on the world is what he's up for, and that's what he does.
He's hunched over his laptop when a news article socks him in the gut.
Revealing his cell number isn't an appealing proposition, but it's quicker than driving into the city - especially if it turns out that he can no longer get into the Hoover Building on charm alone. He calls Skinner and gets his secretary and doesn't have any room to feel bad about how damn short he is with her. It's Mulder turns out to be the magic words to get him patched through, which is a real reversal of fortune, when you think about it.
"What the hell did you do to Scully?!" is his opening gambit, his voice loud and rough with worry, and he can nearly see Skinner pinching the bridge of his nose on the other end. "No, I'm not going to calm down -"
It goes on that way longer than he'd like to admit. Eventually, they agree to a meeting - the happy-hour special at a bar and grill in Alexandria. Mulder's willing to venture out there: it's close enough to be convenient for Skinner and Scully, but far enough from home that it won't twig anyone to him. The drive home can be as long and circuitous as he needs to shake any interested parties intent on tailing him.
He makes himself shower, though he leaves yesterday's five o'clock shadow and pulls on a t-shirt and jeans. He's not an agent anymore, and he's not going to pretend otherwise. And he's fifteen minutes early, scoping out the place, pacing in front of the restaurant, eventually getting a booth inside. It's hard to believe this is even real - but if Scully's walking the streets looking like that, something's wrong. And it might be wrong enough that it'll make up for the bad blood between them.
Privately, pragmatically, she wonders if she's dead. Or maybe this is the process of dying-- some strange hallucination formed of half-baked memory and regret, neurons flaring in chaotic desperation, coming together in some bizarre, illogical fantasy of a future she won't reach. Reaching forward in time (is that an echo of their recent case with the freezing compound?), worrying about Mulder (an ever-present weight), looking for an escape.
It would be impossible enough just to have found herself outside the Hoover building, when she'd been in Rhode Island. But-- if, well, everything she's seen is to be believed, the physical distance is the least of it.
Skinner, to his credit, doesn't seem to have changed much in nearly twenty years. He's outwardly calm (and inwardly losing his mind, she can tell) as he explains what he can: when it is, where it is, some broad strokes of the intervening time. The fact that she no longer works for the Bureau. She sits on an uncomfortable chair in a hotel room he's booked for her (kind, but also necessary; her credit cards are long since expired and Jesus Christ, the inflation) and listens on speakerphone as he tries to call the only person he can think of who might help.
You've reached Dana Scully; please leave a message.
She's not sure how to feel about that one.
And then the next day, Skinner gets a phone call. An unknown number. He looks at it, and he looks at her, and they both just know.
She can hear him yelling without the benefit of speakerphone.
And so... so they go out. To meet Mulder at a bar, because apparently Mulder doesn't live here, doesn't work here; doesn't seem to do anything as far as Skinner knows, and she finds herself second-guessing him on that basis in spite of his kindness, his even-keeled, almost fatherly care. (God-- she can doubt it's been seventeen years, but they show on his face all too plainly.)
She tries to relax, and fails utterly, sitting ramrod straight in his car as they drive out to some restaurant in Alexandria she's never heard of. Didn't there used to be a pharmacy here, yesterday? A decade ago. Whatever.
They walk in and she hesitates, looking around from the door, absolutely lost. It's amazing how disorienting and unfamiliar the very atmosphere is; the way people talk and move and look at their little Star Trek style computer-phones. It grates against her already raw nerves.
It's Skinner who strides confidently towards a booth-- and she realizes it's him.
She squares her shoulders, fixes her face into a neutral, pleasant expression that ought to mask her panic-- at least as far as the civilians around them go-- and follows to sit across from Fox Mulder.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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The only thing that's stayed the same is the companionship of someone he can have a whole conversation with through glances alone. It leaves him feeling wearily amiable.
Mulder's the one who breaks the silence, turning his hand over so it's palm to palm with Scully's. "I don't know about you, but I -" this, yawning - "could use a nap."
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The firing of mirror neurons and her matching yawn delay her answer a moment.
"I could use a week in a remote spa with nothing more high-tech than a radio," she says wistfully, a smile curling around the words. There is, she knows, a lot to be done. While not technically a crime scene, her condo is going to need a similar amount of attention: glass replacements, the fireplace needs to be checked, the refrigerator lobotomized. Probably she should call a lawyer; you can't charge an AI with attempted murder but there's got to be someone she can sue for whatever insurance won't cover. The cherry on the cake, she needs to pick up a new vibrator, stat.
So much to do.
"A nap would be a nice start," she reasons instead.
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Running, swimming, hiking through the woods, ignoring the whole world. Sitting on a porch in a rocking chair like he's ancient, watching a sunset. If Scully's there, enjoying the sunset next to him - in a bathrobe and some kind of green face goop - then so much the better.
"But before we book a seven-day tech detox," and the corner of his mouth twitches, "I could give you a lift down to Farrs Corner. My drone infestation is probably gone by now."
While her busted glass door and toasted condo probably look worse in the harsh light of day.
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She should go home, get a hotel, sweep some shattered glass into a pile.
But instead here she is, looking at the way their fingers still fit together over all these years.
"There are some calls I need to make."
That's a simple fact. She can't leave the place wide-open, questionably safe, the hair-trigger alarm ready to shriek at friend or foe alike. But she looks up him through her lashes, through the tangling frizz of her hair.
"Can we swing by mine--? I could pack a bag."
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While the condo's still nigh-unusable, he can't really ask for more.
I'll cook, he says, and he gets groceries delivered. There's snow on the ground - he showed off the new snowblower to a fitfully interested Scully that morning - and he's not going anywhere when he could pay someone else to inch along the country highway. She's off working on...something...and misses the bakery box that he manages to cram into the refrigerator.
And then he'd like to believe he's too entertaining a host to be questioned, particularly when it's possible to talk about their shockingly competent meal of steak, out-of-season asparagus, roasted potatoes, and craft beer. I can cook, he tells her, choosing not to mention that it's something he picked up to keep himself from going insane when the house was empty. It's just not as interesting as you are. Thus a life of takeout and lazy meals and restaurants.
They're at the kitchen table, where he tries not to think about the empty chair accompanying them. It's always been empty, but someday, maybe, if they can find the boy who should be sitting in it - but that's brooding for some other time. "You aren't full, are you? There's another course."
no subject
Better than nice; it's the kind of thing she could get used to, if she let herself. And she's tempted, oh, of course. She could dive in-- like plunging all at once into water that's too cold, and adjusting; and then the only hard thing would be to get out, dry off, and head home.
(Home, but the condo feels less and less like home by contrast.)
So she's wading. Head above water, one careful step after the next; not as comfortable as it'd be to go headfirst and wholeheartedly, but slow enough to keep her footing. And it's good, being here. Being together. Reading books on the couch together, cycling through the limited takeout options, sleeping tucked up against his chest.
Today, the weather's been a good excuse not to go anywhere; she puts in a day of research and writing up reports, takes a few virtual meetings, spends half an hour blocking idiots on social media. And when she surfaces, it's not to the question of tacos or a drive out to that Indian place? but to a hearty, home-cooked meal. Which is a surprise-- though it doesn't strike her as strange, exactly, that Mulder can cook. Unusual, though. But it's good, and she's glad-- if maybe a little suspicious-- and it's a cozy evening in, framed by the quiet and the dark, open sky outside.
She's gathering her postprandial strength to offer to handle dishes when he speaks up.
"Another course?"
Now she's a little bit suspicious.
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The refrigerator door opens, then closes. The top half of a pasteboard box slides up, away from its twin. A drawer opens and closes, and another one opens, and Mulder swears under his breath. And there's the scent of chocolate, and the hiss of a match, and his footsteps coming back over to the table.
"Okay, open them." Mulder's sitting beside her again, and on the table between them is one of those fancy little grocery-store cakes that live in the bakery case and probably never get purchased - except now. Chocolate ganache pretends to drip down the sides, swirls of buttercream icing dot the smooth surface, and two candles flicker in the kitchen light. "I didn't have room for all the candles, so you get one for every digit in your age."
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But time marches on, and so do cleaning crews, and repairmen, and glaziers. It feels like no time at all before she gets the call that she can go--
Go home? Go back?
He drove them out here, so it means he's got to drive her back, and that doesn't feel nearly as easy or light. She overthinks it, because that's what she does best. Her bag of books and Superbowl tape, still unpacked, she leaves in the his (their?) living room. Half her clothes have ended up in the drawers, and she doesn't bother retrieving them; but she takes the duffel bag and whatever's left in it, takes the little fire safe. Not staying, but not leaving. Ready to come back. Taking him with her.
She bundles it all into his car and flashes him a smile she hopes is reassuring.
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That she leaves nearly everything, just grabs her bag and her safe and doesn't go rifling through drawers, means he's lost some of that anxious mutt look to him by the time they reach the car. She'll still know, he's aware, that 'driving Scully back home' is a thought that doesn't conjure up excitement for him - but she'd know that no matter what he did with himself.
Mulder smiles back as he climbs into the car, and it's reasonably untroubled. Hopefully. But he can't help pressing the issue, if in a roundabout way. "Got everything?"
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Everything she means to take, at least. Meaning there's at least a handful of good excuses to come back here, if she needs one.
She watches him thoughtfully: no indication that he's bringing anything, but she can't be sure what that means. Maybe he's not planning to stay the night? Or he thinks they'll both come back here. Or he thinks she doesn't want him to stay over at hers, or maybe he's still got an overnight bag in the trunk.
If only there were some method of divination to find these things out.
"No major structural damage," she says a little absently, once they're underway. "Obviously all the glass had to be replaced, and it probably still smells a little smoky, but the gas line was intact and the foundation and framing passed inspection."
So that's good.
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As hard as the years have been, they've been good for both of them. If she's honest, she thinks it's Mulder who's truly grown. He's found a measure of peace on his own she hadn't quite expected he could; the best she can say for herself is she's got enough of a competitive streak to see his healthy attitude as a challenge. Their rough edges have been worn down, and it makes for a better fit.
But she'd never imagined-- couldn't have imagined-- this. After she gave up William, she stopped letting herself imagine this. In a moment of weakness, in the darkness, she'd asked him about it. Alluded to the things they couldn't have-- the family he might want, the children she couldn't give him. In retrospect it smacks of self- sabotage, a logical assertion that even if he forgave her-- if, if, if; why should he, when she never quite forgave herself-- of course she couldn't ask him to settle for her, to give up all chance at a future, a legacy beyond dusty boxes of forgotten mysteries.
You don't get second chances at miracles, she'd sensibly told herself, over and over.
And yet: here she is.
It's early enough yet that she's not really showing, to the untrained eye. She can tell, though-- and she has no doubt Mulder can see it, the change in the curve of her body, at once familiar and new. It's not a difficult pregnancy-- at least not yet; she knows she might not stay so lucky-- but she finds herself craving comfort, and so more often than not she's in the house she's almost back to thinking of as theirs, in thick socks and with a pile of almost-too-overstuffed pillows cluttering the sofa. But the truth is it's less about the space, and more the company. With William, Mulder had missed all this: the slow shifts, the silly milestones-- size of a pea, a walnut, an apple. He'd come back to find her roughly the size of a planet, carrying a son who was a stranger to him. This time she wants to share as many of those moments as possible.
(So much for casual. For once, their plan has fallen apart for the better.)
"Can we add mint tea to the shopping list?" she calls out, though to be honest it's halfway a reminder to herself. Saying it aloud means half a chance of remembering it. Also, she just wants to pester Mulder, it's a transparent excuse. "I think this was the last of it."
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(If there's a difference, he doesn't know it - but last time he was at the store, there were two options, and he grabbed at random.)
These days, Mulder's ready to be pestered at every turn. He's a universe away from the fraught months leading up to William's birth - nearly two decades ago, a fact that hardly seems possible - and he can't help but dive into every step of the journey, now that he has a place in it.
Already, he's converting the office upstairs into a nursery, having decided that his auxiliary workspace in the living room should be enough space for future research (and perhaps realizing that the living room desk won't convert nearly as well into a baby's room). It's probably jumping the gun, but they've made it past the three-month mark, and all the internet research he's filled his insomniac nights with suggests that the likelihood of miscarriage is now significantly lowered. And excavating all his newspaper clippings and notes - and worse, figuring out what to do with them - might take most of the time they have left before the baby makes its debut. At the rate he's going, he'll have a paint roller in hand when Scully's water breaks.
He'd been unprepared for William, however much he'd loved him - however much he's missed him in the years since and worried about him in the last few months. For this one, he's determined to know what he's doing, to be more than just an especially involved sperm donor. William was ultimately Scully's son, after all; for most of the boy's life, Mulder'd never felt like he'd had any real claim to him, even to the pervasive sense of loss after his adoption. If that's changed, it's only in the last year or so, and only by inches. He can justify years of grief now that he's preparing for this new kid, if only because he can see just how gaping the son-shaped hole in his life is by comparison.
At this moment, though, he's all good cheer, coming down in an old pair of sunglasses and a baseball hat from Stonehenge turned backward on his head. The danger of going through your stuff is always in getting distracted by remembering what you have. After he's scribbled something that looks vaguely like "mint" on the shopping list, he comes over to the couch, where Scully's reclining like a queen - and even if she's nowhere close to the size of a planet, she's managed to claim the entire territory for her own. It's an enticing sight, one that makes him halfway tempted to see if his back will allow for scooping her up in his arms and taking her upstairs to make love to her until they're both exhausted. "Room for one more?"
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Mulder never does anything by halves, and he's thrown himself into getting ready for a baby with the same enthusiasm as chasing Sasquatch, albeit with less travel involved. She kind of loves seeing him like this-- animate and impassioned, excited about their future. Not that he hadn't been supportive with William-- newly back from the dead, haunted by experiences she'd never quite dared ask about, he'd done his best for her.
For so long they didn't really talk about William-- couldn't, when the memories were so painful, when they had no option but to cling to each other and couldn't risk the hurt. She'd spent most of that pregnancy thinking her unborn son was the very last of Mulder-- the only chance she might have, if she was lucky, to see the color of his eyes or a hint of his profile. Of course, in her mind-- in her heart-- he had every right to his son, to his grief. To hate her, even, for sending him away.
And maybe if their time together hadn't been cut short again they would have found a better rhythm-- maybe everything would be different.
It would be naive to imagine those wounds are healed, but they're less acute. William is still an unanswered question, but they're used to living with those. If nothing else, this new child makes it easier to live in the moment than dwell on the past.
She arches a brow at him, but pats the cushions anyway. He's seen through her out-of-tea gambit to give her what she really wants: him, here.
"I'm not sure you meet the dress code."
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https://bakerstreet.dreamwidth.org/8934660.html?thread=3789963012#cmt3789963012
Not that the situation's all her fault. Mulder knows he's no angel here - but even after a year and some change, he still feels like the wronged party more often than not. If he drove her away, she still chose to go. If he's no longer upset about it all the time, he hasn't entirely shaken the refrain that marked every step for a while after it all went down: Scully left, even Scully left, who the hell is going to stick around if even Scully left.
But he's doing better. Sort of. And he's determined to look like he's doing great for this particular tête-à -tête. He hasn't bothered to put on a suit, but he's grabbed a sweater-jeans combo he knows looks good with his leather jacket, and he's sitting in a booth with her mail and a mug of coffee like everything's fine. Look how normal he is, with his manilla envelope of unopened letters and his smartphone opened to a subreddit he's definitely not arguing on.
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It didn't mean she wanted to. It certainly didn't mean she didn't miss him.
Eventually, though, something had come up where she'd needed to talk to him, and... since then, things have been coming up. Whether they're all strictly needful-- she thinks they are. At least, she tells herself it's reasonable. Rational. Just like she'd told herself it's worth getting him out of the house to have dinner with him.
And he looks good. Which is-- good. Even if it gives her a pang of loss to see him, she's glad he's doing all right. She takes a breath as she crosses the restaurant and slides into the opposite seat.
"How was squatching?"
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So he's doing well, but he's not blind. And he tells himself that it's good to be able to see her and be friends with her, to exist a normal social distance apart. If a dull ache still comes with it (Scully left, even Scully left), at least he's not still at rock bottom.
"Great." He takes a sip of his coffee and takes the moment to glance at her hands, like any normal friend making sure his ex didn't get engaged since they last saw each other would do. "I've got some shots I still need to blow up in Photoshop. How's medicine?"
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That's what my burner phone is for.
If it's a girl, we should call her Katherine.
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You have one (1) new Google alert!
Your #1 Source for the News the News Won't Tell You
Mysterious woman appeared "out of thin air," possibly in connection with top-secret government experiments on manipulating the fabric of spacetime.
By John F. Pseudonym · APRIL 11th, 2014
"She came out of nowhere. Like, really nowhere," said one witness, who declined to provide a name. "Like when someone walks behind a truck in a movie and they cut it and they never walk out the other side? Except, backwards. And there was no truck. And- I guess it's not like that, but you know what I mean? Nothing was there, and then she was there."
The mystery woman was described as petite, with bright red hair, dressed in a trenchcoat one onlooker described as "weird and old-fashioned." After appearing, she took several steps down the street before stopping short, looking around in obvious confusion, and reaching into an inner pocket of her coat. One eyewitness claims to have seen a holstered weapon, though at no point was a weapon brandished or discharged during the brief incident.
Photograph of the unidentified woman who allegedly appeared "from thin air" in Washington, D.C., on April 10th.
All witnesses agreed she pulled some sort of device from her pocket-- possibly a cellular telephone ("like a dumb one though," according to one witness), and looked at it before swearing audibly and shoving it back into her coat. The woman began to run down the street, calling out something unintelligble-- "mother," according to one witness; another thought it might have been "murder".
Before reaching the avenue, however, the woman encountered another pedestrian-- described as an tall, older, balding man in glasses. She jumped backward as though startled; he froze in obvious surprise, but the two cautiously approached one another and began to speak in an animated manner, though too quietly for the witnesses to overhear. After a few moments, the man gestured again toward the avenue; the woman nodded, and the two left together. Witnesses were not able to account for their actions after they turned the corner.
This shocking event-- taking place in broad daylight-- has received little coverage in the mainstream media, which combined with the individuals' possible connection to Federal agencies, suggests to this writer that things are being suppressed-- for readers familiar with our previous coverage on
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He's hunched over his laptop when a news article socks him in the gut.
Revealing his cell number isn't an appealing proposition, but it's quicker than driving into the city - especially if it turns out that he can no longer get into the Hoover Building on charm alone. He calls Skinner and gets his secretary and doesn't have any room to feel bad about how damn short he is with her. It's Mulder turns out to be the magic words to get him patched through, which is a real reversal of fortune, when you think about it.
"What the hell did you do to Scully?!" is his opening gambit, his voice loud and rough with worry, and he can nearly see Skinner pinching the bridge of his nose on the other end. "No, I'm not going to calm down -"
It goes on that way longer than he'd like to admit. Eventually, they agree to a meeting - the happy-hour special at a bar and grill in Alexandria. Mulder's willing to venture out there: it's close enough to be convenient for Skinner and Scully, but far enough from home that it won't twig anyone to him. The drive home can be as long and circuitous as he needs to shake any interested parties intent on tailing him.
He makes himself shower, though he leaves yesterday's five o'clock shadow and pulls on a t-shirt and jeans. He's not an agent anymore, and he's not going to pretend otherwise. And he's fifteen minutes early, scoping out the place, pacing in front of the restaurant, eventually getting a booth inside. It's hard to believe this is even real - but if Scully's walking the streets looking like that, something's wrong. And it might be wrong enough that it'll make up for the bad blood between them.
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It would be impossible enough just to have found herself outside the Hoover building, when she'd been in Rhode Island. But-- if, well, everything she's seen is to be believed, the physical distance is the least of it.
Skinner, to his credit, doesn't seem to have changed much in nearly twenty years. He's outwardly calm (and inwardly losing his mind, she can tell) as he explains what he can: when it is, where it is, some broad strokes of the intervening time. The fact that she no longer works for the Bureau. She sits on an uncomfortable chair in a hotel room he's booked for her (kind, but also necessary; her credit cards are long since expired and Jesus Christ, the inflation) and listens on speakerphone as he tries to call the only person he can think of who might help.
You've reached Dana Scully; please leave a message.
She's not sure how to feel about that one.
And then the next day, Skinner gets a phone call. An unknown number. He looks at it, and he looks at her, and they both just know.
She can hear him yelling without the benefit of speakerphone.
And so... so they go out. To meet Mulder at a bar, because apparently Mulder doesn't live here, doesn't work here; doesn't seem to do anything as far as Skinner knows, and she finds herself second-guessing him on that basis in spite of his kindness, his even-keeled, almost fatherly care. (God-- she can doubt it's been seventeen years, but they show on his face all too plainly.)
She tries to relax, and fails utterly, sitting ramrod straight in his car as they drive out to some restaurant in Alexandria she's never heard of. Didn't there used to be a pharmacy here, yesterday? A decade ago. Whatever.
They walk in and she hesitates, looking around from the door, absolutely lost. It's amazing how disorienting and unfamiliar the very atmosphere is; the way people talk and move and look at their little Star Trek style computer-phones. It grates against her already raw nerves.
It's Skinner who strides confidently towards a booth-- and she realizes it's him.
She squares her shoulders, fixes her face into a neutral, pleasant expression that ought to mask her panic-- at least as far as the civilians around them go-- and follows to sit across from Fox Mulder.
"I--" she takes a deep breath, feeling stupid.
"Hello, Mulder."
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