jowls | open post.

"It doesn't seem like fur coat weather."

If she's gotten into high fashion in the last fifteen years, that will be a big surprise. (Okay, maybe the shoes, but she's more of a window shopper in that regard; their work is tough on footwear.)

There probably isn't a polite way to point out what it would look like, him randomly splurging on a couture wardrobe for a woman twenty years his junior. Mulder, in fairness, probably wouldn't care.

(She wonders if he knows anyone here well enough for it to matter, if he's seen having traded Scully in for a younger model.)

"Let's stick to casuals until we need to infiltrate a black tie gala."

"All right, all right." He puts his hands up, too obviously amused to be disappointed. "I'll wait on the mink stole and the silk evening gown."

It wouldn't be Scully if she actually cared about this stuff anyway. Her goal, so far as he can tell, has always been to dress exactly well enough to be seen as well-dressed, without getting to the point of drawing attention to herself for it. (With some exceptions, of course - she knows how to pick lingerie to keep his eyes fixed on her - but all those exceptions are off-limits as well.) The temptation to try and spoil her for whatever time they have together is a coping mechanism for the knowledge that, at some point, she'll vanish and leave him alone again. Letting it go beyond a joke isn't wise.

Once they're finished eating, he adds the dish to the pile and goes to slip on a pair of running shoes. And, to ensure the subject drifts away from how much money can Mulder spend on the houseguest he's utterly besotted with, he adds, "When we get back, remind me to show you the garden."

The eye roll he gets is, no doubt, expected. It's a part she's pleased to play, too playful and toothless to even call bickering. It shouldn't feel so familiar, but Mulder has stayed Mulder; that much is something of a relief.

If things were different she might be more enthused about a shopping spree; but everything is horrifically expensive in the future, his finances are a total mystery, and-- most notably-- it feels a little too much like a last hurrah. She believes him when he says she'll live, but she hasn't adjusted to the idea.

She gets her shoes on-- impractical out here, maybe she should get running shoes herself-- and smiles at the thought.

"I'd like that."

So he leads the way out, locking the door behind them - "We should get a key made for you, if you're here more than a couple days" - and back to his SUV.

It's quiet in the car, aside from the sound of the radio murmuring away. He's never wanted so badly to talk to someone but had so little to say. Not that there's actually nothing to talk about, but conversation seems like a minefield from this vantage point. They've exhausted the easiest conversations they can have about the future, he already knows what happened in the past, and he can't keep asking her how she's feeling. They might spend the entire drive in silence, at this rate.

"That's a nice idea, but it's not like I can go driving around. Expired license," she points out. Also it's in her purse, which is safely back in 1997. Still it's a nice gesture, and she doesn't disagree... if she sticks around. Which she might, she supposes, considering how little they've figured out so far.

The silence isn't as comfortable as it ought to be, the weight of missing decades heavy between them. She doesn't mind the lack of small talk, but it's frustrating not to have some lead on a solution for this. So she spends the ride half-listening to the radio, looking out the window.

"I have no idea what a good price is for anything," she warns him cheerily as they park.

"Assume they all are," he answers, grateful to have something to say as they find a spot. If the parking lot's anything to go by, they'll have the place mostly to themselves. "You aren't going to break the bank."

Even if she wanted to, it'd be a real stretch to try. Mulder's life has grown small, and as a result, frugal. There's more than enough to share with her here.

Having seen the prices on menus and the cost of a couple of nights in a hotel room, she can't help a little grimace. But it's hardly worth arguing about; she's not looking for anything fancy anyway. It would be a waste, when with any luck she'll be back when she belongs sooner rather than later.

Driving through the countryside, it could have been any year at all; here, surrounded by modern cars and people with their phones and somehow more garish advertising than ever, she feels decidedly out of place. (Score one more point for Mulder's house, which felt relatively timeless in spite of his computer-television.)

"I don't think I need too much," she frets aimlessly as they head toward the department store. Everything is a big unknown, but she can't plan to stay indefinitely-- not when her health depends on getting back to her own timeline. "I guess there's not much we can do until you hear back from your sources, though?"

That's the frustrating thing about being the subject of this case: where do you even start to investigate it?

"I'm not sure," he admits. The mall's a pretty desolate thing, as they're walking through it, and it occurs to him that he doesn't remember the last time he set foot in one of these. Several storefronts on the way to JC Penney are empty; while there are a few old women getting their steps in, the actual shoppers are spread thin. "I've been racking my brain, but I don't see how much we can pick up without access to witnesses or tangible evidence. You showed up, Scully disappeared, and as far as either of us know, it's a totally unique case. I don't have any other examples of alleged time travel that work like this. We're at a standstill."

Except.

Mulder doesn't like suggesting it, but it's the only idea left in his arsenal. "Unless we look up your house and see if you left a key under the mat, of course."

It's not exactly the bustling center of capitalism she was expecting. But it's early, maybe that's it. The mall walkers haven't changed, at least.

"I'd considered that," she admits. "How's your lock picking these days? Breaking a window would attract too much attention."

She is not prepared for the intensity of modern alarm systems.

"I could figure it out." He's not prepared for modern alarm systems, either, frankly. For someone who's mildly fanatical about his own privacy, he hasn't actually installed anything complicated on his own house. Once somebody's gotten that close, automatically calling ADT doesn't seem likely to help. "It's probably easier than convincing a neighbor to help us out."

Scully's simply too young to pass for her own self. Pity it's not the dead of winter - she could probably manage if she was wearing a balaclava.

She mulls it over for a bit, attention split with window-shopping. Everything seems garish and not at all her style. Her style is twenty years out of date. So it goes.

It's hard to feel enthusiastic about breaking into her own home-- not that she thinks she'd mind-- that her other self would-- God. Anyway; the idea feels vaguely uncomfortable, but it's probably a worthwhile exercise. Maybe it will help her figure out why things between them are so cold.

Honestly there's one other possibility, though she's hesitant to suggest it.

"How close is she with Skinner? Do you think he'd have a spare key-- or know who might?"

Mulder doesn't answer right away; he's looking at a shirt that looks like something his Scully might wear, and he's pretending that's preventing him from answering. But after a moment or two, he admits, "I don't know."

Not very, is his instinctive answer. Neither of them had much contact with the FBI after their last case. But in the last year, Scully could of have gotten a dog and never told him, and reached out to Skinner to feed it. She could have started a book club with him. Who knows? "We could ask, but I wouldn't expect much."

It's a distance that probably seems inconceivable in 1997. Skinner is one of the greatest friends they'll ever have in the upper echelons of the Bureau. Without him, they'd have found their work even harder to complete. But things change.

"It seems worth a shot before we turn to crime," she says, shrugging, trying to sound casual about it. What the rift is between Mulder and Skinner, she can't guess; somehow, it seems less intense than whatever's happened with his Scully.

"Tomorrow," she hedges. "We'll try him tomorrow, if we don't find anything else."

J.C. Penney's looms ahead, the most sensible of department stores; even here everything seems terribly young.

"Jeans first," she decides, because it feels like the simplest goal. "Then some shirts, I guess, and a pair of pyjamas." She'll let him pick out blouses while she grabs underwear, because anything else seems awkward. How much does she need? Surely he has some way of doing laundry, even if he... doesn't. A couple days' worth of outfits to cycle can't be a bad idea.

"We'll get you a burner phone on our way out. You can call him from there." Even if they weren't planning on getting Skinner's help, life without cell reception isn't easy in this day and age. Mulder has a smartphone, and he hates people knowing where he is. Some things are necessary, and Scully's going to be able to navigate the world on her own, if she decides she wants to.

(He hopes she won't want to.)

"Oh -" he says, before she can head off to parts unknown. (His portion of this trip, he thinks, will be mostly relegated to making purchases. As enthusiastic as he'd be to watch her try on clothes - anything to spend more time with her - and give his input, he doubts she'll want his help. Especially once it comes to buying anything more intimate than a pair of sunglasses.) He holds out an emerald green blouse to her, plain but silky, with a scoop neck that'll leave room for her cross necklace to lie flat on her skin. "Unless the color's terrible, you'd wear this. Get a blazer and some dark pants, and maybe we can work the neighbor angle."

"Probably a good idea."

Not because she wants to strike out alone, but it would be less unnerving if she had a way to get in touch with him without having to have him in sight at all times. Case in point: if they get separated and he has to page her to the desk like a lost child, she'll shrivel up and die on the spot.

"Sure, I'd wear it," she affirms; it's a reasonable cut and appealing color, not too flashy. "If you want to pick some things out that look-- reasonable, I can handle the basics?"

"Putting a lot of trust in me, Scully," he teases. Not just in his ability to select colors that'll flatter her, but to know what's likely to fit - when to err towards medium, when to err toward small. For a moment, he wonders - does she know? He's going to have to be more careful. "I'll stay around here."

He's no more excited to have to page her than she is, after all.

And anyway, there's an interesting challenge to recreating Scully's wardrobe. Nothing garish, but there's room for a few tasteful rhinestones, the occasional pattern. He finds five or six possibilities for her and hopes he's stretched out the search long enough that he won't be at loose ends while she gets everything else.

It doesn't have to mean anything. He knows her well, he's got a decent eye for spatial reasoning, it's not the end of the world if they put it back on the rack. Besides, if he's more familiar than he ought to be he's familiar with a body she can't picture-- the same height, of course, but maybe she's put on weight or lost it. (Put it on is likelier; she knows the kind of shape she's in, and it isn't good.)

She takes advantage of the moment to scoop up a five-pack of underpants and some plain pyjamas-- the latter take longer than she expects, the fashions having tended towards lacy camisoles and printed pants that mean nothing to her. The satin set she's found cost far more than she wants them to and scream little old lady, even to her, but they'll be comfortable, and he did say not to bother about the price. A pack of plain socks; she'd rather do without hose, and somehow the selection here makes her wonder if they've fallen out of fashion. For jeans, she grabs a couple of pairs to try-- the fit is too different to guess with certainty-- and a pair of black slacks, too.

On the bright side, it's empty enough-- and Mulder is tall enough-- that he's not hard to find.

"What have you got? I think the fitting rooms are towards the back." He can wait outside somewhere, surely.

She's laden down with clothes when she comes back - but then, so is he. Blouses in various colors, along with a black blazer that's more fitted than she might be used to. Several of the shirts are sleeveless, clearly meant to be worn under a jacket that stays on; a few have little rhinestones at the neckline or abstract geometric patterns on the fabric. One of them is scarlet, another off-white, while the rest range more toward blues and greens.

"Some options. Need a hand with that stuff?" He's already maneuvering his finds over one arm.

"Take the stuff I don't need to try?" she offers, maneuvering the bundle towards him-- underthings cleverly wrapped up in the soft sleepwear. The stuff he's picked out looks... a little fancier, somehow, than she'd expected. She doesn't dislike them, at least not at a glance.

She can't help wondering where his thoughts are; if they've gone out shopping, looking for something for special occasions. The level of care he takes in picking things out doesn't necessarily imply it, but with everything else she's seen...

Trading clumsily for half the shirts, she heads for the room. There isn't even a bored attendant here to check how many she's got. The world has changed, clearly.

He's mostly been thinking of Scully at work, truthfully, and of Scully trying to social engineer her way into her own house. It occurs to him as he collects her other clothes from her that they'll have to get in touch with the hospital. Her absence is going to be devastating for her career otherwise - not to mention the lives of the children she treats.

(Do they still remember him there? Are they going to be willing to accept his answers over the phone? Maybe he can have this Scully fill out the necessary paperwork for a six-month leave of absence, and he'll drive it over. Yes, yes, she's gravely ill, but you know how private she is, she's requesting no visitors. She'll be back as soon as possible.)

On their way over to the changing rooms, he spots some more casual options and decides he'll wander back over here while she's trying on what she has. "Yell when you need more to try on," he tells her, resisting the instinct to lean down and peck her mouth. "I'll be right back."

To get a cardigan, long and loose, that looks like Scully's idea of fun. A couple fitted t-shirts as well. It turns out buying her things has never gotten old for him.

Possibly it should have occurred to her as well, that she owes some care to her older self's life. If they've switched places-- which is as good a guess as anything-- the elder Dana might have it easier on that account; Mulder will cover for her, and anyone else will give her a bit of quiet grace out of pity.

Maybe she should be more curious about what she actually does, how she lives here-- it's probably at least a little odd that she's reluctant to dig too deep. Is she happy? Would it be worse if she was?

She tries to put it out of her mind, and goes to work her way through the clothes-- deciding quickly on the jeans that might technically be too big, but cut is tighter than she's used to. The shirts are more yes than no; Mulder's got a decent eye for what will fit. She'll narrow them down after, she can't possibly need all of this.

When she pops her head out, it's in the blazer over the dark red shirt.

"Anything else?"

"A little more," he answers, holding out the rest of his finds. "How's it looking?"

Mulder figures he'll find out when she starts wearing her new clothes. She doesn't need him trying to demand his opinion on whatever she tries on here.

"Not bad," I think. She wants a little input, Mulder; she can judge whether she likes them better than whether they're appropriate for any given occasion.

"Do I look like... myself?" she hazards as she takes the bundle of clothes. The chances of successfully convincing anyone she's her older self are probably pretty slim, but he would be better able to judge the likelihood.

"Scully, you look beautiful." Which isn't what she's asking, and is treading dangerously close to things he can't say, but it's the first response that comes to him. "With a little finessing, you'll pass. Here, try some more stuff on, and I'll find you a picture for comparison."

There has to be something on his phone, one that's just Scully. (Any selfies with her will be damning, he's certain.)

Oh, that's not what she was expecting. It doesn't have to mean anything. She doesn't let herself react. It doesn't necessarily mean anything, but alongside everything--

And she... doesn't hate it. It's a long journey from it's remotely plausible someone might think you're hot. It's miles past the line they've been dancing along for ages. And there's a part of her-- a wistful, not insignificant part of her-- that's wanted to hear that sort of thing.

"Thanks," is all she says, and for once successfully wills herself not to blush. "I'll just be another minute."

The sweater is soft, and looks comfortable. He's got a good eye, but it's got to be more than that; he knows what she'd like, not just what would suit her, what she'd pick.

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