The wine mostly goes to her book club, when it's her turn to host; very few dates make it this far. Scully has always preferred to go home with someone else, side-stepping the need to kick them out if they overstay her attention span.
"I guess I ought to, since I can't exactly lock up-- can you get the bookshelf in the corner of the living room?"
Scully has always tended towards a cozy kind of minimalism, and a career spent traveling plus their years on the run have taught her to travel light. She fills a duffel, figuring it's standard enough not to seem presumptuous; she chooses things that are either easy to launder or can be worn more than once, and folds in one pair of pyjamas in case she loses her nerve on the plan to steal Mulder's shirts. She could do a week easy, two with a load of washing, and if things aren't fixed up after that she'll reasses. There's a little fireproof safe with her important documents and her paranoid stash of cash under the bed, and what little jewelry she keeps is easy enough to tuck into a pocket of her bag.
The bookcase doesn't hold much, and not all of it is books. There's her father's copy of Moby Dick, and a second paperback copy bought on the run. Her mother's Bible and Melissa's favorite tarot deck. A couple of other old books, some signed Jose Chung editions, and an ancient VHS-- Superstars of the Super Bowl. None of it valuable, but all in all, the most precious stuff she has here.
Eventually she emerges, laptop bag slung over her shoulder and the rest in either hand. It feels suddenly like too much. She fights back the urge to ask if it's okay, to carry all this with her. She isn't ready to hear him say it is.
no subject
"I guess I ought to, since I can't exactly lock up-- can you get the bookshelf in the corner of the living room?"
Scully has always tended towards a cozy kind of minimalism, and a career spent traveling plus their years on the run have taught her to travel light. She fills a duffel, figuring it's standard enough not to seem presumptuous; she chooses things that are either easy to launder or can be worn more than once, and folds in one pair of pyjamas in case she loses her nerve on the plan to steal Mulder's shirts. She could do a week easy, two with a load of washing, and if things aren't fixed up after that she'll reasses. There's a little fireproof safe with her important documents and her paranoid stash of cash under the bed, and what little jewelry she keeps is easy enough to tuck into a pocket of her bag.
The bookcase doesn't hold much, and not all of it is books. There's her father's copy of Moby Dick, and a second paperback copy bought on the run. Her mother's Bible and Melissa's favorite tarot deck. A couple of other old books, some signed Jose Chung editions, and an ancient VHS-- Superstars of the Super Bowl. None of it valuable, but all in all, the most precious stuff she has here.
Eventually she emerges, laptop bag slung over her shoulder and the rest in either hand. It feels suddenly like too much. She fights back the urge to ask if it's okay, to carry all this with her. She isn't ready to hear him say it is.