jowls | open post.

"You're still in the 2g era," he says, and for a moment, he's given over to a sense of nostalgia. "Thick as a brick, can't do anything except call people. Here, you can look at mine. Passcode's 0-1-2-2."

Pulling it out of his back pocket, he hands it over to her and gets up to put his remaining food in the fridge. There's more in there than there used to be, but it's all designed to be eaten using the least amount of energy possible. Bagels, deli meat, pre-sliced cheese, a bag of lettuce that he occasionally pulls random handfuls out of. And even then, it's not a lot.

He's mildly curious to see what Scully makes of the phone, to be honest. How quickly she figures it out. The idea of touchscreen technology at a time when AOL still rules the web must be incredible to imagine. Wait until she sees high-definition television.

"And if things get worse..." He swallows, coming back to his chair. There's no solution. Her chip is already inside her, and she's someplace else. But he can't say that to her, not when it means she's at the mercy of the changes others made to her body. "I know how we saved you last time. I'll make sure it happens again."

What that looks like, he doesn't know, but he'll find a way.

Edited (LMAO I FORGOT THE OTHER HALF OF THE TAG this is what i get for thinking about the duchovs) 2024-09-01 22:37 (UTC)

She wonders idly what a phone should do, other than make calls. She accepts his device with a raised eyebrow, the sleek brick making her think of A Space Odyssey. She can see her exhausted reflection in it's screen before she figures out how to turn it on, or wake it up, or whatever. The future, apparently, doesn't care for buttons.

The email icon is pretty self- explanatory; she doesn't want to pry there, so she doesn't. There's a little blue bird, which turns into a screen full of chaos-- mostly angry, disjointed sentences about things that mean nothing to her. After some fumbling she gets out of that, and discovers exactly why she didn't see anyone with a camera: apparently cameras are obsolete.

An accidental press yields a little grid of what must be his previous photos: a number of blurry flies floors and fingers, a cut off view of his face, some pictures of trees and sunsets outside. She thinks about scrolling down-- but she's not sure she wants to know.

He comes back to the table; she looks up.

"I can't ask how," she hedges. It feels wrong, to get too deep into her own future. "But... you mean remission?"

Seventeen years later, is she actually okay? It seems impossible. She can't dare hope.

He grins, the way he hasn't in what feels like years. She can't ask how, but he already knows it's going to happen. He knew then - he had to believe, couldn't accept anything less than Scully's life and happiness - and he doesn't see any reason not to share now. She deserves a little hope for the future.

"It never came back." He wants to see her face, wants to feel that moment of oh, God, Mulder and know that it's a positive thing here. It's been so long since it felt like Scully was happy to hear anything that came out of his mouth. "Once we figured out what to do - that was it. You're as healthy as anyone."

It takes a moment for that to really sink in. (Maybe she's dying, actually dying, right now. Maybe this is a comforting fantasy her brain is using to ease the pain. She isn't sure she wants it to stop, if it is.)

"God," she murmurs, drawing a sharp breath, awestruck. Her eyes sting with the threat of relieved tears, but she manages to blink it back.

"Mulder, that's... it's incredible." But for once, she's the one who wants to believe. She looks up at him, open and awestruck and relieved and a little bewildered.

"It shouldn't be possible," she whispers. Much as she tries to hide it, she knows her prognosis-- anything less than a miracle would be wasted.

Her fingers flex and clench on the table; instinctively she wants to reach for him, but she's not sure how he'd take it, now.

She's alone here, but for him. He could get her to her family, but they wouldn't understand; neither would her friends, whoever her friends are now. Didn't she say something about a book club last year? Maybe she's met people. (She should meet people. She deserves to meet people. But hell if he knows any of them.) The only person in her world is Fox Mulder, and now she knows her cancer isn't a death sentence?

Of course he comes back over, kneeling down beside her with a little creak, and opening his arms. She's alive, and she'll stay alive. That, and the tears threatening to spill over in her big eyes, is all that matters.

It's not as though she'd know who to go to. Her mother-- she can't show up on Maggie's doorstep like this. Even in '97 she barely talks to her friends; she can't imagine any of them will stick around another decade or two. Mulder may have had some falling out with Scully, but he seems-- mostly-- not to be holding that against her.

She leans into his embrace without a second thought, face pressed against his shoulder; if it's tear-damp when she pulls away he won't say anything, she knows. He feels... not the same, but the same. Her Mulder is in great shape, but he's somehow grown into himself; broad-shouldered and strong, maybe a little softer around the middle. She can't stop wondering about everything she's missed.

"God," she murmurs again, muffled. "I can't believe it."

But it's not a denial; it's deep, weary gratitude.

His eyes are closed, his face buried in her hair, and aside from the fact that his joints don't really love this position, he could be thirty-six all over again. Holding her makes him feel like himself, like something in the world is right. She's going to live, and - for a little while, at least - they'll be happy. There's so much for her to look forward to, and it won't all be heartache.

"Believe it," he replies, rubbing her back. If he could kiss her, he would. "You're gonna live forever, Scully."

This, more than anything else, feels real. Familiar. The weight and warmth of his presence. Even the way he smells is more right than wrong; new laundry detergent, but still the same Mulder. Her heart feels like it could burst.

And she laughs, because she thinks it must be a joke, but it's true enough. She'll live, and that's what matters: whatever happens-- happened-- will happen here, she'll make it this far, and a couple of days ago she was looking at weeks, months, if she was lucky.

Her arms are tight around him, and she can't make herself pull away. She barely knows him, in a way, but she couldn't imagine feeling closer to him than she does in this moment.

"No matter what happens," he mumbles into her ear, "don't give up. It'll seem like you aren't going to make it - but you will, Scully. I don't think Bill'd ever been so happy to eat his words."

Don't make it about her brother, Fox. Too late, though. He gives her an extra squeeze, a hand moving over her hair.

Bill, gruff and combative, has only ever wanted to protect her; she knows it's fear that drives his bursts of anger, that he'd take his grief out on Mulder-- some strange, shared burden of neither of them being able to change her fate-- if she let him. She's done her best not to let him, but God, she gets so tired.

Eventually she does pull away with a little sniffle; she doesn't really look like she's crying, at least. Small mercies. His shirt may tell a different story.

"Thank you," she says softly, because she knows he must have been involved. She knows, too, that Mulder-- any Mulder-- would do anything, in that moment, to save her.

He reaches up to cup her cheek, swiping away the patchy tearstains with his thumb. She's the most beautiful woman in the world, and crying doesn't do a thing to change that. Especially not when she's looking at him like he hung the moon.

He's missed this. Selfish bastard that he is, he'd do anything to hang onto this feeling, the sensation that she wants to be here with him. It's all he can do to keep from leaning in and pecking her on the mouth.

"All in a day's work." He wants to take her outside, show her the garden and the sunset, convince her of the beauty of this little house in its big old lot, but he knows it needs work. Mowing, weeding, neatening the place up - maybe some of that could happen tomorrow. Tonight, they should stay in. "C'mon, let's move over to the couch. We'll watch whatever you want."

All these years and so little has changed; here he is, comforting her through what may not be an end after all. She gives him a smile-- a little watery, but radiant; filled with hope, because all she's got to go on his is word, but that's enough.

There's probably a part of her that knows. That recognized something in this house she's never seen-- won't see, for who knows how many years. A part of her that can guess why the flatware was where she expected it to be, and what might have happened a year or so ago to cast this shadow on him. But this is the first moment, looking in his eyes, where the thought occurs to her consciously-- maybe. It's not the first time she's considered the possibility-- but considering the possibility, potentially, far after the fact is a different matter.

It's too big, too much to examine. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it.

"What would I know that's still on the air?" she laughs, but it doesn't really matter. She wants it anyway-- to sit on the couch with him in a future she shouldn't have, and try not to wonder at his past.

She believes, and that's the only thing that really matters. If he can give her back her life, then maybe it's not such a bad thing that she's here. They'll get her home, he'll miss two Scullys instead of one, and maybe the days of electronic monitors and hospital visits to come won't be as difficult for her. Because she'll know Mulder's going to come through for her.

Back then, he was capable of that.

He squeezes back, then gets up from the floor, knees creaking - he needs to go for a run, he's in better shape than this. "The nightly news. And some of it's good, actually. But we're not going to be watching broadcast television. I sprang for streaming. Hundreds of movies and TV shows, at your fingertips, Scully - we can watch whatever you want."

Over to the couch, where there's a pretty decent TV - not huge, but thin in a way she's probably never seen before. He takes a seat, careful to sit over to the side slightly, not directly in the middle. If she doesn't want to curl up with him, she won't have to.

When he turns the TV on, instead of a channel, there's several options available - it's yet another computer. Netflix, a DVD player, broadcast news...and PornHub. Netflix it is.

"I'm not sure I want to watch the future news," she points out. Definitely a danger there of polluting the timeline-- especially if everything needs a long history explanation-- and all it would do is leave her dreading things, no doubt.

She takes the other end of the couch-- she'd sit closer if it was her Mulder, but perhaps not so close as he'd like-- and watches the screen snap to life. It looks very crisp-- not unlike his little computer phone-- and she can't help notice the last option, casting a sidelong glance at him and mostly smothering a huff of laughter. It's comforting to know some things never change.

"What if I don't know what I want?"

Fortunately, he has no interest in news, either. He gets his from the internet, ninety percent of the time - and when he doesn't, it's probably because someone brought up Obama in their amateur porn. Speaking of which, he hears her and can't help but give her a sheepish look.

"The future comes with its perks," is all he says about it. For someone who can't even imagine YouTube yet, it's hard to explain just what a game-changer broadband has been. She comes from a time when they've never done so much as kiss; he's not about to try. Passing the remote to her, he answers, "Then you spend a couple hours clicking through the options, complaining about them, and eventually falling asleep."

It takes up a lot less space than his drawers or shelves of video tapes, at least. Possibly she's desensitized to his habits; it doesn't merit more than that fleeting laugh. He's an adult, and apparently here on his own.

(Whether that was always the case is a different question.)

Humming thoughtfully she takes the remote-- even that feels futuristic, small and rounded rather than big and boxy-- and inspects it. Not that it has many answers.

She uses the arrows to navigate the rows-- documentaries, which feel uniformly too heavy-- shows she's never heard of; something about a woman in prison, something that looks like a horror movie. She pauses and a preview starts playing, startlingly sharp.

"Choice paralysis," she mutters. Worse than cable. How does anyone get anything done, with this much distraction? She leans over to poke him in the arm with the remote.

"Find us an action movie or something," she demands, with a little smile. It feels normal.

He watches her, not the TV, and can't help but grin as she gives up. "All these channels, and nothing on."

Isn't that what people used to say about cable? Not that he'd really bothered with it - rabbit ears and a steady supply of videotapes were good enough. (All those videos live on, squirreled away in boxes - while plenty of his collection has disappeared over the years, he's not about to give up the creme de la creme of adult film.) The sensation, of too much all at once, is at once familiar to him - so he takes the remote, mutes the TV, and starts scrolling.

He finally settles on The Fast & The Furious, since Taken feels like it'd hit too close to home. And then he remembers she has no idea about William, and something heavy settles in his stomach at the thought. That's one subject he can't bear to hint at. You get everything you want, Scully. You just can't keep it. "Here - you'll like this one."

He's the expert here; and honestly her day's been so overwhelming she couldn't even decide what to watch if she were at home, with a normal amount of options. It's not really about the show, or the movie; it's just nice to have something to focus on other than the myriad problems at hand. Time travel, the ticking timebomb in her skull, the possible solutions to the mystery of Mulder's sadness.

(Is that why he thinks she likes it? Maybe he knows. Have they watched it before, on this couch? Together, not like this but together?)

"We'll see," she says, mock-haughty, though she thinks he's right. If he hasn't seen her in a year that still gives him some twenty years of knowing her; and he already knows her better than anyone else, when she's from.

She settles in to watch, leaning against the armrest.

He snorts at that, we'll see. She'd thought it was pretty good the first time they saw it - at some point when they were on the run, catching it on TV in a motel while they relaxed naked in a jumble of bedsheets - and more importantly, it's old enough that it's not going to blow her mind visually. They'll save Avatar for when she's a little less overwhelmed by the present day.

"You liked the one with the surfers," he says lightly, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "Swayze and Keanu, right? This has the same plot."

Any movie is probably better when watched in those circumstances; Scully of the '90s will give him the rare opportunity for a control sample. She'll probably even stay awake.

"Point Break?" It's a satisfactory point of comparison, though she can't remember if they ever spoke about it. Neutral enough that they might have, insignificant enough that it wouldn't hurt to know it if it's still to come.

"If I stick around I'll let you catch me up on basketball." It's a joke, because honestly she couldn't tell him what she knows now.

"That's the one. Exact same plot, just replace surfing with fast cars." Though if she falls asleep watching this, he can't say he'll mind. There's something reassuring about her inevitable dozing: the sense of safety it suggests she feels, the familiar rhythm of her breath.

Of course, when she's leaning against the sofa's arm instead of his, it seems less likely. Maybe they'll just talk all night - he'd like that, too. "Last year was pretty rough - but we got to the playoffs in 2012. Actually -"

And then he cuts himself off. She doesn't know about the plans that 2012 once held; she's probably never heard of the end of the Mayan calendar. Mulder shakes his head. "Never mind. Classified information."

And of course, she does feel safe here-- everything about the world is unfamiliar and on her own she'd have nothing but her wits and a handful of loose change, but she's got Mulder. What else does she need?

The way he stops surprises her, mildly-- but it doesn't matter much. It makes some sense really-- you never know what's going to bring up context. Maybe the NBA division balance was rocked by California calving off into the ocean, shorting them several teams. Maybe Bigfoot is playing for Portland. She's not exactly desperate to know, except for the part of her that wants to know (and also, vehemently, resists knowing) him.

"It's all right," she says, even and reassuring. Whatever it is that's on his mind, she doesn't need to know.

"And don't worry-- I won't place any bets," she adds with a small smile. "I just... don't know what to talk about."

"Oh, you can place bets," he says, giving her a little twitch of a smile in return. "Make, uh, make yourself rich. You'll know why I'm not telling you about 2012 when we get there. Non-basketball reasons."

He nearly says make us rich, but he catches himself in time. The same way he keeps himself from saying, see, the calendar -, much as he'd like to. Not telling Scully things has never sat well with him, and doing it now is particularly hard. She'd listen, she'd wonder aloud, she'd ask questions. But a few things are off-limits, and we thought the world would end, and it didn't, and sometimes I think that's part of the problem is on the list.

"We'll find things to talk about," he adds, after a moment. "But it depends on how much you want to know about the future. I don't want to throw more at you than you want to hear."

The hesitation is almost imperceptible-- but only almost. She might not take it the way she does if there wasn't already that suspicion in the back of her mind.

(The thing is, Dana Scully is in love with her partner. This is a fact she's realized and come to terms with because of her recent perspective. It's something she can't act on, because she's known she's about to die-- either that would make her last weeks, months, terribly awkward, or it would mean taking even more away from him when she goes. The thing is, this knowledge-- and the blunt perspective of measuring time in days, weeks, maybes-- it means she's thought about what it might be like if things were different.

And things are, apparently, going to be different.)

"That's the thing-- it's hard to know," she sighs. The movie isn't bad, but it's not the kind of thing that needs all your attention; it's bright flashes and short jump cuts and cars that presumably cost a lot of money, but how would she know. "It's too easy to brush up against things I don't want, or shouldn't hear about. I can't ask after my family-- I'd like to know my mom's doing well, but if she isn't, all I can do is worry about it. Other things-- it's pointless to ask about current events, I wouldn't have the background for it." To say nothing of the quiet minefield of their personal history; whatever it is, it's wounded him, and she doesn't want to rub against the edges of that accidentally.

"Your mom's doing well." It's automatic, not to mention unrepentant: he's not going to make her wonder out of some kind of perverse dedication to the timeline. Actually seeing them would probably make things more complicated, but knowing they're fine is the least she deserves. "Your whole family is. Bill and Tara's kids are old enough to have conversations with, these days."

Not that he does, of course. Even when he and Scully were together, he's pretty sure Bill never trusted him further than he could throw him. But they were good kids, and Mulder's always at least tolerated them. Liked them, most of the time! But even the best kids have their run-around-and-shriek phases, and on bad days, looking at their carefully posed family photos occasionally made him want to throw the picture frames across the room.

He'd never managed to put it into words for the Scully who lived through it with him, and he's not going to try to do it now. The good news - that every tragedy since the cancer has been an impermanent one for the Scully clan - will have to speak for itself.

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