They look beautifully, brilliantly happy-- a big, healthy family. Her mom must be over the moon. Scully can't figure out what to say-- which is fine, because the knot of feelings in her throat would keep her from saying it, anyway.
There aren't many others-- an old one of her parents, a blurry snapshot of Melissa. Nothing of her or of Mulder-- which tracks, if she's right in her vague imaginings, but is still somehow sad to confirm. Other than the kids, they're all photos she could see herself having in her apartment now, though oddly even the old pictures aren't ones she recalls owning. It's a little sad, somehow, that there's apparently nothing new.
She sets the photo back and tries another drawer-- casual stuff, sweatpants and ratty t-shirts stacked neatly, incongruous in this polished atmosphere. (None of them stick out to her-- at least one of them, though, is definitely a faded Knicks shirt.) The next is, at last, the underwear drawer-- she doesn't spend too much time there, embarrassed more for herself than for Mulder. Most of it is practical, but some of it is-- certainly designed to be seen by others. (Mulder, if he looks, will recognize nearly all of it; she hasn't been on a lingerie shopping spree.)
"I don't think there's anything here," she admits, eyes fixed on Bill and his family again. It doesn't totally surprise her that they're coming up empty-handed; there's no logical reason to imagine her older self caused this.
The last thing to try is the closet, which is... large, but that fits with the general luxury of this place. The uncanny half-familiarity of being surrounded by things that are and aren't hers is starting to get on her nerves, but she's mildly entertained to spot a double of one of the blouses Mulder picked out hanging in there.
She does spot a small lockbox on a shelf-- the kind of thing they sell for valuables, more portable than a safe. It's the only thing that sticks out as at all unusual, and she points at it.
no subject
There aren't many others-- an old one of her parents, a blurry snapshot of Melissa. Nothing of her or of Mulder-- which tracks, if she's right in her vague imaginings, but is still somehow sad to confirm. Other than the kids, they're all photos she could see herself having in her apartment now, though oddly even the old pictures aren't ones she recalls owning. It's a little sad, somehow, that there's apparently nothing new.
She sets the photo back and tries another drawer-- casual stuff, sweatpants and ratty t-shirts stacked neatly, incongruous in this polished atmosphere. (None of them stick out to her-- at least one of them, though, is definitely a faded Knicks shirt.) The next is, at last, the underwear drawer-- she doesn't spend too much time there, embarrassed more for herself than for Mulder. Most of it is practical, but some of it is-- certainly designed to be seen by others. (Mulder, if he looks, will recognize nearly all of it; she hasn't been on a lingerie shopping spree.)
"I don't think there's anything here," she admits, eyes fixed on Bill and his family again. It doesn't totally surprise her that they're coming up empty-handed; there's no logical reason to imagine her older self caused this.
The last thing to try is the closet, which is... large, but that fits with the general luxury of this place. The uncanny half-familiarity of being surrounded by things that are and aren't hers is starting to get on her nerves, but she's mildly entertained to spot a double of one of the blouses Mulder picked out hanging in there.
She does spot a small lockbox on a shelf-- the kind of thing they sell for valuables, more portable than a safe. It's the only thing that sticks out as at all unusual, and she points at it.
"Should we try that...?"