jowls | open post.

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."

"No, no, you're right. We'll get something." As though his sink isn't full of dirty dishes right now, he adds, "We have a grill out back - let's make chicken."

(He's forgotten about the dishes for the moment, the idea sort of out of sight, out of mind. Besides, he knows what Scully likes, and chicken breast with grilled vegetables will probably be a winner here.)

Once they're in the car, and her clothing's in the expansive backseat, he pauses. "Anything else you want to stop for?"

"Just some small stuff. Shampoo, a little makeup." Other sundries that feel silly to buy, as if she should have brought travel-size versions for the occasion. Whenever she goes back he'll have half-bottles of things to remind him-- it feels cruel, especially given her theories on what happened a year ago. But it's probably a necessisty.

"Sounds good," she says with a smile, because it does. Mulder's domestic turn is fascinating. "I can help prep, if you want."

Help get Dish Mountain under control. He seems like he needs a hand with it.

"Sure." So they get what she needs from the drugstore, and then they pick up some food for good measure - enough to get them through a few days, especially if he actually bothers to cook. That hasn't been happening for a while, but in theory, it's possible.

In practice, it might even be likely, with someone else in the house. The desire to show Scully a good time overrides his own sense of pointlessness; he wants to wow her in the worst possible way. It's not a mood that seems likely to last long, so he's going to have to do what he can while he has the chance.

At home, he sets the groceries on the counter and starts looking through the cupboards, trying to get a sense of just how bereft he is of dishware. "If you want to throw your clothes in the wash, the laundry room's that way."

Maybe this is the most damning thing-- how easy it is to fall alongside him in this domestic errand-running rhythm. They eat dinner together on cases or when one of them is recovering from some injury or, occasionally, without an excuse at all; they put on basketball games she doesn't care about or movies to laugh at while they go over notes on a case, but they don't do this. Not really. They don't run errands and plan meals and puzzle about laundry.

But here they are, and it feels so oddly normal. Like they've done it a hundred times-- which she suspects might be because he has.

"Thanks-- I'll get a load started." Better to wash before wearing-- which means at least two loads-- and if she fills them out with whatever stuff of his happens to be close at hand, so what? It's eco-friendly. Easier to just do it and not mention it, as she suspects he'd bristle a little if she offered first.

She can see herself in a life like this. But she can't figure out why she'd leave.

"Great." It's all too easy, having her here again. In some ways, it's like she never left, bustling around the house like she owns the place - which she does, at least half of it. At some point, the other shoe is going to drop, but right now, everything feels right.

The dish situation is sad, but for the first time in a while, it doesn't feel impossible. If he improvises tonight and throws this stuff in the dishwasher - you know, Fox, the dishwasher that's been here the whole time - maybe they'll catch up tomorrow. Marinade first, the chicken nestled up together in what's supposed to be a ceramic serving bowl for salad. Then the mountain.

Mulder can't remember the last time he felt like this, in part because he's not sure he really has a name for the feeling. It's just the absence of everything else: he's not angry, he's not worried, he's not inclined to lie on the couch and wait for the world to end around him. Contentment, but more than that, a sense of power mixed in, and a little giddiness at that power.

By the time Scully's done tearing tags off clothing and filling up the washer, he's moved on to cutting the ends off asparagus spears and slicing peppers into thick strips. The dishwasher hums away, and all the vegetables get piled up on plates that aren't really up for the task. (He's trying here, okay.)

Of all the thankless household chores one can do, laundry is one of the most pleasant ones in her estimation. Most of it is hands-off, and at the end you get a pile of clean clothes. There's a lot to be said for a shower and change into clean pyjamas after a long day of autopsies and foot-chases; fluffy towels after a hot bath. If she went and picked up after him it'd feel like pity, but tossing half the abandoned basket here in with her stuff is just sensible.

(Everything looks like his, which is what she expected, but she couldn't help wondering after-- what? A forgotten blouse, a lost sock, some hint of other occupants. It wouldn't prove anything.)

Everything except the blazer goes in, and she leaves that hanging on the back of a chair, her lone concession to dry-clean only. The kitchen doesn't exactly look a lot cleaner, but the chaos seems more under control-- like he's at least seeing what he's doing instead of going through the motions.

"Need me to do anything?"

He looks up at the sound of her footsteps, then glances around the kitchen. Most of what needs to be done has been done, actually, and it didn't take that long. (He will learn absolutely nothing from this fact.) Admittedly, it's not like the kitchen could be described as clean, but it's functional in a way it wasn't, twelve hours ago.

"Do you know how to make rice?" It's about the only thing he can think of besides firing up the grill, and that's definitely his job. Mastering fire and forcing it to do his bidding - namely, sear the meat of his choice - gives him a petty glee he can't really explain to anyone who wasn't around in 1993. Which is to say, Scully will get it, if she asks.

The big if she's been nagging at is the first, but really the smallest, piece of this puzzle. A cornerstone to build it, but as such easy to place anywhere she wants it. If, once upon a time, this house was their house-- it puts a lot into easy focus. But the real question is why.

The question she's trying not to ask herself, because it's suffused with a peculiar, asynchronous threat of self hatred, is does she know what she's done? How he's living here like a ghost? Again and again she tells herself, there must have been a reason; she just can't come up with one that makes any sense.

"I think I can do that," she agrees, and comes a little closer to survey. There's a small pot that looks like it doesn't need more than wiping out, and the chance to try her luck on guessing cabinets is honestly a little satisfying. (She tries one that doesn't seem likely first, in case she's right, to try and throw him off the fact that she's onto him. Or onto herself, as the case may be.)

When she finds it, the rice isn't hearty and brown-- a point against her having stocked this kitchen-- but it is some fancy blend in a bag with a vaguely European sounding name, which might be something she'd pick if she were splurging. She takes a moment to read the instructions because how long do you cook the rice if it's five kinds of wild rice, and then gets down to business, happy to let Mulder take care of the grilling.

So he takes the chicken and vegetables out to the grill, and he manages not to peck her temple on the way out. This feels so much like how things were - how they're supposed to be - that part of him wants to slip all the way into it. Like a warm bath, like finally falling asleep after being awake for a day and a half.

But, he can't stop thinking, eventually the other shoe will drop. What happens when the magic wears off? At some point, he has to stop making "entertain a Scully in her thirties" his only task, and then...then, he doesn't know. He has no leads, no work, and no faith in his ability to turn up more of either of those things. All he really has are obsessions, and even if Scully's one of them, that's not enough to survive on.

He doesn't want to think about it. He wants this mood, this late-summer evening, to be the rest of his life. And it's not going to be, and he has no idea how to handle that fact.

The grill, at least, is straightforward, and once it's heating up, he comes back into the house to find a bottle of wine. It's too much, too intimate, but it's also how they used to do this - and he wants her to have the full country-living experience. Someday, she'll remember a future that hasn't happened, and she'll understand why he wants the things he does. "How do you feel about room-temperature rosé?"

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