jowls | open post.

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 Her style is twenty years out of date.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.

She doesn't react - not in a way that suggests she's surprised or affronted - and privately, he hopes that means it's not too far off what their friendship looked like before they kissed. It is, he suspects, but a man can hope.

There's a chair at the end of the row of changing rooms, and he slouches over to it, stretching his legs out far as he looks for a photo that Scully can compare to. Scrolling past half-assed pictures of the landscape, an interesting beetle he saw last summer, flowers and garden vegetables and meals out and whatever that blurry thing's supposed to be...and eventually, back almost two years, he finds Scully at the beach. She's wearing a big floppy hat and a coverup over a decidedly flattering black swimsuit, and she's looking over the top of a book at the camera. A smile that looks like it'll become a roll of the eyes in about ten seconds - but no, this is too intimate.

He keeps going, but there they are together. There she is asleep. Every photo breathes intimacy, the kinds of pictures only couples take of each other. He ends up searching up her LinkedIn page, where she's a gorgeous, serious doctor with hair that's grown both longer and lighter over the years. It's a headshot with a professional background, like you'd get at a department store, but maybe that's for the best. Everything else he has looks like a lover.

It doesn't take her too terribly long to try on the rest; the more casual stuff feels less different, though the tops feel a bit more fitted than they used to. It'll do. Honestly it will be a relief to have anything-- she can't help feeling a little disappointed slipping back into her own pants.

Mulder's got his head bent over his phone when she comes out, and she wonders what he's doing now-- reading? Modern phones seem terribly distracting but useful enough that it's maybe worth it. Maybe.

"I don't think we need all of these," she reasons, setting a few on the rack to be restocked. "But it'll be a relief to have a few options."

They should get some other sundries-- shampoo, a hairbrush, probably some makeup, though a haggard three-days-of-poor-sleep look might help her seem older, who knows.

"I think this should do it."

"Hmm?" She's right that modern phones are distracting. That startled sort of look up is the face of a man who got caught with a dirty magazine - except it's actually just a picture of his ex. Gathering up her bundle of sleepwear, he stands, nodding approvingly at the stuff she's decided to keep. "Great. Oh - I found a picture of her, if you want to see."

He turns the phone screen her way, so she can get a look at the LinkedIn photo. Once she's had a chance to look, they'll get out of here.

It's one thing to know, intellectually, that you're out there; even seeing Mulder, of course she's tried to imagine herself aged the same. But it's different to actually see it. She thinks of those tools they use to age kids' portraits, but it lacks the uncanny quality. It feels closer to looking at baby pictures of yourself-- not from an age you recall, but just old enough to pick out features.

It could be worse; she looks better than she did on that hypersalinated ship.

"Hmm," she muses. It's not her, but it's her. Strange.

"I guess it's worth a try," she says with the hint of a sigh, starting off towards the cashiers.

It feels strange, to show her a vision of her future - but a photo's more objective than Mulder's capable of being. She deserves to get a real glimpse of what's coming, not just his own bitter reminiscence.

"It's not your favorite picture," he adds, keeping pace with her, because at this point, he's not sure what else to talk about. Holding himself back has never been his strong suit, but it's clear that All Mulder, No Filter only makes things worse for Scully. This one, that one - take your pick. "You do good work out there, you know."

Maybe it's not her favorite picture-- but it's the one he chose to show her. She can't help wonder why; maybe it's the only one he has, but then, he's got a camera on his telephone. It's been a year, but how many pictures can someone take-- would he really be unable to find something older? Or is he just afraid to show her those?

"I'm glad," she says, and she means it. If she's working in medicine, at least, she hopes, she's helping people.

There's not much of a line, and she lapses into quiet, feeling a little self-conscious as he buys her a new wardrobe. The young cashier seems disinterested, but she can't help feel like this is conspicuous and strange, how much they're getting. She'll have to put a few dollars in a high-yield account, when she gets back to the past, and pay him back.

Part of her wants to ask what he's working on, but she's... pretty sure she's seen it. When they're back on the move, she tries a slightly different angle.

"We should swing by a drug store or something before we head back," she muses, and then adds, "How long have I been back in medicine?"

It comes to more than a hundred bucks, which seems reasonable enough to Mulder - but that doesn't mean he isn't relieved she doesn't balk at the price. Wait until she sees where gas is at. Her clothes won't seem so pricey then.

"Phone kiosk, drug store," he agrees, as they head toward to the rest of the mall. "And you've been in medicine for a few years now. Seven or eight?"

The price is more than a little horrifying, but the prospect of actually clean clothes is appealing enough that she won't argue about it. And if he doesn't think it's a hardship... she's at sea, here; it's hard to judge what does and doesn't make sense.

She hums thoughtfully at that. Long enough that it's likely not responsible for the recent schism-- at least not on its own. God, she didn't meet someone else there and-- no, she wouldn't have. She thinks. Maybe it's possible-- it's a long time, and people change; after Jack she swore she'd never get involved with a colleague again, but she suspects that doesn't stick. So maybe it's not impossible. But she hopes that's not it.

"Anything else we need for the house?" It's a slightly tentative we, and she's curious how he feels about it. "Groceries? Laundry detergent?"

Subtle, Dana, subtle. In fairness, she means for her own things, not his. Possibly she should burn them instead.

Clothes, and then a phone, and onward to the real world again. (Nothing about malls is real. They're all relics of another, flashier era, when nobody needed a phone in their pocket and everyone's hair was a little too big.) And Scully asks the magic question - rather, she asks a normal question in exactly the right way, using we.

It's been a while. He tries not to let his face light up the way it wants to.

"We have a bottle of Tide in the laundry room," he answers, pretending she isn't just saying Mulder, what's wrong with you? with a different set of words. "But if you want groceries, we can get groceries."

You'd think the old-fashioned nature of a mall would make it feel more familiar, but everything just feels garish. More garish than ever, somehow, which doesn't seem possible.

"I don't mean anything specific," she says with a shrug. She's not much of a cook, which he must know-- unless she's become one since-- but it seems terribly unlikely. "It's just such a drive, I thought it's worth checking."

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