With any luck she won't be here long enough to need more than a few changes. Not that it's a bad place-- time?-- to be; she's learned enough good to outweigh the nagging doubts about what happened between them. But the longer her extratemporal misadventure lasts, the likelier it is that she'll irreparably harm the time period.

Not to mention the question of her health. Mulder seemed confident he could pull off another miracle, but she'd rather not test it if they can help it.

For now... she goes and brushes her teeth, she changes into his shirt, she goes to lay in Mulder's bed. Did this house come furnished? Or did that dresser come from some yard sale? Would she have picked out those curtains? Has she slept in this bed-- has she--

Eventually she drifts fitfully into sleep, and wakes before dawn with the familiar sinking sensation of dampness on her lip. Scully slips out of the bed and off to the bathroom-- grabbing a wad of toilet paper and pressing it to her nose. It's a strange blend of the familiar and the foreign; after only a moment's hesitation-- is she prying?-- she checks the cabined beneath the sink to see if there's another roll.

There is. There's also a box of tampons, which makes her think--

She shouldn't think anything, she tells herself. After a time the nosebleed subsides, and she washes her hands as quietly as she can, she creeps back to the bedroom. (Their bedroom?) And, thank God for small favors, it's the only incident all night.

Come morning, with the sun coming through them, she thinks: maybe she did pick those curtains. Maybe she belongs here, as much as she belongs anywhere.