jowls | open post.

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?"

His self-control is admirable; he doesn't pause or stumble as he passes, it's all natural. And that's.... strange? As long as she's known Mulder, he's lived alone-- it's not the fact that he can take care of himself that feels like a funny fit, it's the way he moves with and around her like it's a practiced dance.

She lets herself brood on it as she makes the rice, which in fairness is mostly waiting, and detouring to switch the laundry over to the dryer when it buzzes. It feels dangerous to let herself sink into this apparently dormant domestic habit-- because even if this will be her life, someday, right now it's not meant to be.

But it's pleasant, the feeling of this house shedding dust and neglect and becoming once more a home. Mulder's home, at the very least.

"Seems like a good pairing," she answers with a smile. It's not for the memory of his younger self-- it's just so good to see him brightened up like this.

He grins, going to get a pair of wineglasses from a cupboard. One for her, one for him, filled a little under halfway. "The food'll be ready in about fifteen minutes. Want to eat inside or out?"

Inside means the kitchen table or the couch, though they've been styling this meal like it's a nice one - so probably the table. Outside means a little table and two chairs, none of which have been wiped down in months, with a view of too-long grass and the weedy garden, along with the open field space he's never come up with a use for. Sometimes he thinks they should leave it to the local wildlife; sometimes he wants to grow a hedge maze or make it over into a baseball diamond, Field of Dreams style. The reality is, whenever he thinks about changing it, he remembers just how few people would see the results, and it stops him.

"It's nice out," she reasons. Warmer than she'd expect for this time of year. "Why not?"

A little exploration yields a clean bowl for the rice, and with a pat of butter added she considers it a job well done. Cooking isn't her forte, but apparently it's become Mulder's. The scent is enough to make her stomach rumble, her wayward appetite apparently also susceptible to the strange air of normalcy.

"You still have to show me around the garden," she adds with a smile, remembering his earlier comments.

He gets some plates and silverware to set their little table, and hopes silently that it doesn't look too dingy. He can't remember the last time he used it - maybe in the spring, drinking a beer and enjoying the fact that he couldn't see his breath. The chicken and vegetables come over, crowded onto a plate that's slightly too small for them, and he puts a whole breast on each of their plates. Scully can figure out the sides for herself, but he's not giving her a chance to cut off a little wedge of chicken and call it dinner. She needs her strength.

"After dinner." He looks a little sheepish as he says it, nodding toward a corner of the yard that's overgrown in a different way than it is over here. "I...didn't do much with it, this year. Or last year. But a few of the flowers are still blooming."

She could care less about dingy; besides, she'll have clean new clothes to slip into this evening, thank God, what's a little more dust? It's not a manicured view, sure, but there's something charming about it anyway. Seeing the house for the first time, it had seemed lonesome-- but now, with the scent of food and the quiet hum of the dryer going, it's easy to see how it could be peaceful. Cozy, even.

There's the obvious difference that he's not alone, but it feels like it's more than that. Like the whole place has roused from a long hibernation.

"I could kill a fake cactus," she points out, taking a spoon of rice. This is too much food, but she'll make an honest effort. "I'm still impressed."

Moments like this are when the house always seems to come alive: quiet times, when all that matters is that it's nice out and they're together. Sometimes - now included - he feels that bitter pang, we aren't all here, we aren't together. With the distraction of Scully, the mystery of her presence and her utter ignorance of what they'll share, it's easier to shove it down...but it's there.

(Part of him has never really forgiven himself for having good days despite the fact that their son is a mystery. This dinner should feature a thirteen-year-old with a wineglass of orange juice, trying to explain to his thirtysomething mother how video games work. William's presence would make the entire time-travel mess more complicated - the idea of making him a part of the problem is unpalatable - but having to plan around him would at least mean he was here. Work and running from the government both kept him busy enough not to dwell on the problem, but take those away, and he's left with an endless supply of nice days he doesn't deserve.)

"If you're still here in a few weeks - and I'm saying that in hopes of getting you home sooner than that," he adds, before she can protest, deciding to try and force Murphy's Law to kick in, "you can help me plan what to plant next time around. I was doing half flowers, half vegetables, for a while, but I'm thinking about switching it up."

It might not actually happen, of course, but it's nice to imagine from here. And any conversation keeps his thoughts from drifting too close to William.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject