Mulder does look. He takes in all of it: the clothing he recognizes, the shirt she stole from him. It's simultaneously gratifying and reassuring, especially the shirt - she left, but she's still willing to walk around in something so obviously his in origin. You don't do that if you have a new boyfriend in the mix.
He wonders, as they walk toward the closet, where Scully's put her photos of William and Emily. It's no surprise that they aren't on display - he knows how it'd tear her up to see their faces every morning - but their absence is still notable. Convenient, for the sake of the timeline, he can't deny that, but sometimes he wonders if seeing them might make it feel less like the black hole at the center of their lives.
And then Scully pulls a box from the shelves, and he knows where they are. Them, and who knows what else - photos of the two of them together, possibly. Little mementos from the places they've been together. Proof of a life he's halfway tried to keep from this Scully, resting silent in her hands.
"We can," he says, after a moment, his expression shuttered even by Mulder standards. "But it might raise more questions for you than me."
There's a pause as he gathers his thoughts, pulling the little lock-picking kit out of his pocket as he walks back over to Scully's bed and sits down. If she decides she wants to do it, they'll do it here. "If you went back to 1993 - that first day, while you were in the elevator going down to the basement - and you told yourself what would happen to you, she'd be terrified. But, and I don't think I'm overstepping here when I say this, hearing abduction and cancer wouldn't tell the whole story. If the benefits didn't outweigh the cost, you would've split years ago - and you haven't.
"Some of what's in there...it's going to need context." His gaze on her is steady, undeniably sad; he's fidgeting with the bag of tools without looking at it, his thumb rolling over a pick through the fabric. But despite that, he's hoping she'll agree. Tell me, Mulder, we'll talk about it - that hasn't been what she's needed in the present time, but it might be what he needs. "I don't want you to be afraid of the future."
no subject
He wonders, as they walk toward the closet, where Scully's put her photos of William and Emily. It's no surprise that they aren't on display - he knows how it'd tear her up to see their faces every morning - but their absence is still notable. Convenient, for the sake of the timeline, he can't deny that, but sometimes he wonders if seeing them might make it feel less like the black hole at the center of their lives.
And then Scully pulls a box from the shelves, and he knows where they are. Them, and who knows what else - photos of the two of them together, possibly. Little mementos from the places they've been together. Proof of a life he's halfway tried to keep from this Scully, resting silent in her hands.
"We can," he says, after a moment, his expression shuttered even by Mulder standards. "But it might raise more questions for you than me."
There's a pause as he gathers his thoughts, pulling the little lock-picking kit out of his pocket as he walks back over to Scully's bed and sits down. If she decides she wants to do it, they'll do it here. "If you went back to 1993 - that first day, while you were in the elevator going down to the basement - and you told yourself what would happen to you, she'd be terrified. But, and I don't think I'm overstepping here when I say this, hearing abduction and cancer wouldn't tell the whole story. If the benefits didn't outweigh the cost, you would've split years ago - and you haven't.
"Some of what's in there...it's going to need context." His gaze on her is steady, undeniably sad; he's fidgeting with the bag of tools without looking at it, his thumb rolling over a pick through the fabric. But despite that, he's hoping she'll agree. Tell me, Mulder, we'll talk about it - that hasn't been what she's needed in the present time, but it might be what he needs. "I don't want you to be afraid of the future."