jowls | open post.

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."

At the very least, they'll hit up Nordstrom Rack. Buying her some nice clothes seems like the minimum he can do, considering he can't even help her get to her own house.

Mulder lingers at the threshold for a moment, glancing back at her. It still doesn't feel possible, despite her presence - but here she is, and here he is, walking away. "I'll be in the office - across the hall. If you need anything, don't hesitate."

And with a good night of his own, he walks away.

With any luck she won't be here long enough to need more than a few changes. Not that it's a bad place-- time?-- to be; she's learned enough good to outweigh the nagging doubts about what happened between them. But the longer her extratemporal misadventure lasts, the likelier it is that she'll irreparably harm the time period.

Not to mention the question of her health. Mulder seemed confident he could pull off another miracle, but she'd rather not test it if they can help it.

For now... she goes and brushes her teeth, she changes into his shirt, she goes to lay in Mulder's bed. Did this house come furnished? Or did that dresser come from some yard sale? Would she have picked out those curtains? Has she slept in this bed-- has she--

Eventually she drifts fitfully into sleep, and wakes before dawn with the familiar sinking sensation of dampness on her lip. Scully slips out of the bed and off to the bathroom-- grabbing a wad of toilet paper and pressing it to her nose. It's a strange blend of the familiar and the foreign; after only a moment's hesitation-- is she prying?-- she checks the cabined beneath the sink to see if there's another roll.

There is. There's also a box of tampons, which makes her think--

She shouldn't think anything, she tells herself. After a time the nosebleed subsides, and she washes her hands as quietly as she can, she creeps back to the bedroom. (Their bedroom?) And, thank God for small favors, it's the only incident all night.

Come morning, with the sun coming through them, she thinks: maybe she did pick those curtains. Maybe she belongs here, as much as she belongs anywhere.

Mulder doesn't sleep much. The Scully effect ensures he gets a little extra shut-eye, but it's mitigated by the fact that he can't hear her breath or feel him beside her. More importantly, it's being overtaken by the other Scully effect: any mystery involving her is inevitably the most absorbing one available.

So he's up for much of the night, scouring his usual sources for any crumbs that might point towards a trend in time travel. He falls asleep before dawn and wakes up after it, and as he pads out into the hallway, he allows himself the luxury of peeking in on Scully. If not for the dish situation, he'd be thinking about making breakfast for them both.

She's sleeping peacefully with her head on a pillow in a cream-colored case, or maybe newly roused as well, her mussed hair not quite obscuring the drops of dried blood on the fabric. His brow pinches at the sight. "Feeling okay?"

Though in general she falls asleep easily, Scully is not the deepest sleeper long-term; the sound of him in the doorway is enough to bring her the rest of the way to wakefulness. For half a moment she thinks she must be dreaming, but no-- this is Mulder's house, seventeen years in the future. It's not so easy to wake out of this situation.

He looks... well, the way he's looked. If she had to hazard a guess, he slept at least a little-- which is a good thing.

"I'm all right," she says, though she glances reflexively down at the pillowcase. Damn-- she'd hoped she caught it fast enough. But Mulder must have seen, and he knows what that means. She sits up, the sheets still over her bare legs. There is, at least, very little blood on the pillowcase.

"I'll be fine," she adds, a little softer-- genuinely trying to persuade him not to worry. She's usually a good judge of whether she's staring down the barrel of a bad day; she doesn't think this is going to be one.

"Okay." If she says she's fine, she's fine - at least until it becomes clear she isn't. But she's looking pretty good, she has a while before things get worse, and it really isn't that much blood. He can convince himself not to worry too much.

Coming into the room, he perches on the edge of the bed, facing her. He's still in the same clothes as yesterday; under other circumstances, he might not bother changing. "We'll go shopping, maybe do a little investigation today. I'm waiting to hear back from some people on government reactions to the incident. Might be able to dig something up, might not."

The Gunmen, these guys are not.

Considering the stress of the past couple of days, a tiny nosebleed shouldn't rate as a concern at all. (At least that's what she's telling herself.)

Mulder comes to sit beside her, and she thinks of him, days ago-- years ago-- sitting in the bed in that Providence motel.

And she thinks-- irrationally-- maybe it's just them. Perhaps there's some strange resonance of caretaking pulling them together through the decades. Maybe she's here because he needs her.

"Do you think they'll take your news website seriously? I'm not sure anyone saw but Skinner." And she has the feeling he's not going to say anything if he can help it. His whole demeanor seemed to be helpful but hands-off.

He frowns. "I don't think they observed it. I think they caused it."

Which means that finding any proof is going to be hell - it'll be on channels so deep that no one will be able to reach them - but if there's even a whiff of something out there, he wants to know. There's no other explanation he can think of. Even abduction-induced time loss doesn't help; that suggests a disappearance of minutes or hours, not the wholesale travel from one decade to another.

"Do you think they have Nichols' research?"

It's the inevitable first thought, fresh enough to seem half-likely. She's not entirely sure where she lands on the causality question; she can't exactly say now that she doesn't believe in it at all. Had he been specific on when the technology became available? It's all muddled.

"But-- why? Why us, why now?"

That feels like a key question. It doesn't seem like there's much reason for the government to interfere in Mulder's activities at this point-- and if it's about her, surely there must be easier ways to hamper her, in her own moment.

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