jowls | open post.

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.

She wasn't really fishing for it-- for the stated reasons-- but it's a weight off her shoulders anyway. (And if he hadn't volunteered it... well, she'd have worried, but she was worried anyway.)

Anything she might say about wishing she could go see Maggie goes out the window with the next bit of news. She turns to him fully, wide-eyed and obviously thrilled.

"Kids?"

Oops. But also: A good oops. If he's going to spoil the future for her, it might as well be information that'll give her a boost. He can't remember the last time he saw that look on her face, pure joy without a lick of self-consciousness about it. It's youthful in a way neither of them have been in years.

"Kids," he confirms, reaching over to clap a hand on her shoulder for a second. "Matthew's graduating this year."

Which means Emily should be in college. He tries not to let himself get distracted from that light in Scully's eyes, though; if he betrays any kind of sadness, she'll catch it.

"Oh my God," she says, and reaches up to grab his fingertips. It's the kind of news that makes you want to squeeze something, and his hand seems the best option. She considers the math. "Oh my God, Mulder, that means-- it must be any minute."

Tara could be pregnant already. Maybe she just didn't want say something when the family's grieving-- or maybe she's not yet. It doesn't matter. How could she be anything other than glad for her sister-in-law?

"Matthew," she echoes. Not Bill the third, which is a bit of a surprise. But how wonderful nonetheless-- and he's only the first. This is what she'd want from the future.

If they send her back, and she remembers all this, maybe she'll resent him for it later. He's promising her only the good things to come, none of the bad. But for now, it's worth it. Mulder lets his hand be squeezed, taking in her happiness like he could live off it, once the leftover steak's gone.

"He's a good kid. Plays football." The other ones are all good kids, too, and Scully's going to adore them. "Loves his Aunt Dana."

"Football-- Bill must love that," she practically beams. It doesn't really matter if there's bad along with the good-- she's had dark enough days already, a little balance is worth it. And Bill's firstborn son is a better topic of conversation than fishing for cases or trying to suss out why he hasn't spoken to her elder counterpart. The Scully clan deserves a bit of good luck.

"I'm so glad," she says, almost a whisper-- looks back at the television, because if she looks at Mulder she's going to burst into tears. Happy tears, but neither of them need that. Her mother must be thrilled to have grandchildren.

She hasn't let go of his hand, though.

"Me, too," he murmurs back. She hasn't let go of his hand, and he's not about to make her. They can watch the movie in silence for a while, while he tries not to think about the Scully children and their absent cousins.

Seeing the kids is always fine, though it used to make his chest ache at holidays, wondering where William was, knowing where Emily rested. Talking about them in the abstract is harder, somehow. They're figures on a family tree then, one he can't observe without remembering there are entire branches lopped off. Scully's faith in God's existence - and goodness, for that matter - has always been a baffling miracle for a man who's never been able to answer the question why the hell would your god take my sister away from me? Add in my son and she wasn't my daughter, but she could have been, and it's...better, really, if they see what Vin Diesel and Paul Walker are up to.

If Scully wants to talk more, she might have to start the ball rolling again. Otherwise, he's content to hold her hand through car chases and VCR thefts, until the credits roll.

She can't come up with safe specifics to ask after, and he doesn't offer any. But it's a nice note to lapse into quiet on. Eventually she does let go of his hand, more or less absently. But she does stay awake, occasionally making commentary or asking a question about what's on screen. Nothing significant; maybe they've had their fill of significance for one day.

But eventually the credits do roll. She looks up at him.

"Do you want me to take the couch?"

She's pretty sure he won't want her to-- if nothing else he seems more comfortable here-- but she can't help offering.

"What kind of host would that make me?" He keeps it light, having been lulled back into the usual level of melancholy 'fine' by the movie. Giving her hand a squeeze, he lets go and reaches for the remote to turn the TV off. No "are you still watching Netflix?" screens tonight. "There's a bed upstairs - I'll change the sheets, and then it's all yours."

Let's not talk about how long the sheets have been on there.

Hey, he clearly hasn't been sleeping on the sheets, they'd probably be fine. But it's a kind gesture on his part-- and impressive that he's got the space to offer, really. So she just nods.

"If I could borrow a shirt or something, too..." she hazards. With any luck he's got a washing machine somewhere; she's at a real disadvantage, not having packed an over-decade bag for her trip.

"Sure. We'll find you something clean." As he heads toward the stairs, he adds, "And we'll go shopping before we dig into the investigation. Or I'll drop you off at Nordstrom with my credit card."

Assuming he's going to be in on building Scully's wardrobe, he realized halfway through assuming it, is probably overstepping.

Upstairs is worse than downstairs, simply by nature of the fact that there's less chance of someone seeing it. He pulls down a set of clean bedsheets from a linen closet in the hall, then walks them both over to the bedroom, where it's hard to see the floor under the clothes scattered over it. He kicks them aside as he enters, clearing a path to the unmade bed. Fortunately, he does know how to make a bed; he just never bothers. The work is quiet, Mulder's expression back at a neutral that means he's embarrassed.

The old sheets, he bunches up and tosses in a corner. Onto the new sheets, he tosses a clean t-shirt and tries not to think of what the room looks like from Scully's perspective. No one's vacuumed or dusted in a year; he does his laundry once a month or so. The sheets might have been the same ones that were on the bed when Scully left.

"I'll, uh, leave you a toothbrush in the bathroom," he tells her, heading toward the door. (The bathroom hasn't been cleaned in a year, either. Sorry, Scully.)

She doesn't mind the notion-- if she goes on her own she's just going to be too horrified by the prices to get anything, and end up looking... well, like she just walked out of 1997, fashion-wise. Nordstrom might be overkill but she probably needs another pair of jeans if she can't wormhole home overnight.

If the clutter bothers her, she doesn't show it. (It does bother her, a little-- but not for its own sake; just that it's part of a pattern of how he's been living that worries her. She doesn't really care if he's taking care of his house; it only matters whether he's taking care of himself.

The room is... just a room. Nothing noteworthy, but she supposes that's unsurprising-- if there was anything of hers it would be gone by now, no doubt. She looks back at him when he speaks, and smiles-- honestly, openly, because she is terribly grateful to have him.

"Thanks," is all she says, because what else is there? In any circumstance, she'd trust him to give her a place to stay and whatever she needed. She'd do the same for him. It's a little weirder than usual, but at this point-- even that shouldn't be surprising.

She'll let him clear out before she changes, though-- for both of their sakes.

"Good night, Mulder."

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