jowls | open post.

"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.

It feels oddly cruel to admit she hopes not to be here then. It's not him-- spending time with Mulder, knowing she'll live to see this future, has been incredible, an oddly calm interlude in the chaos of her life-- but the longer she stays here untreated, she worries, the less time she'll have to find whatever miracle they do at home. It's a sobering, frightening thought, that glimpsing her future might endanger it-- but maybe that's par for the course, if anything is, with time travel.

"To more flowers or more vegetables?" she asks idly. It's small talk, but hopeful small talk, which seems like a good thing.

"That's the question." He stabs at a piece of bell pepper, scooping up rice with it. "Man cannot live on cucumber alone - I learned that the hard way a few years ago. But flowers..."

He shrugs. The reality is, flowers are better if there's someone to enjoy them with. He can appreciate intellectually the need for pollination and saving the bees, but the true appeal of a garden full of flowers is being able to put a bouquet on the table or laying a rose on Scully's pillow.

"They don't do much," Mulder finishes, deciding that's the safest route. "Even if you're sick of zucchini bread by October, you made something out of it."

Over the years, the two of them have become oddly attuned-- they have a habit of hearing what's unsaid. And here, she... can't. But the absence echoes; whatever he's telling her by not telling her is terribly important.

It's a little unnerving, honestly. It's a moment where the distance between them stretches wider, uncanny and impassible.

She considers it a while, a few slow bites of chicken. And when she speaks again, it could almost be a non sequitur, measured and calm as she gazes out over the too-tall grass.

"There's value in things that are fleeting."

She's been desperate to affirm that for herself, for obvious reasons. Even now, knowing that maybe she's wrong about how close the end is-- there has to be value in all things, she needs to believe it. She could disappear again as soon as she walks inside, slipping through time as smoothly as she did in Rhode Island, but there'd still be value to being here with him.

He can follow that, at least. From a woman who - until very recently - was reckoning with the probability of her own death, the point is clear. And she, like he, isn't all that concerned with the flowers.

The temptation to talk to Scully about her future self is overwhelming, to reminisce like a widower. You loved those ones over there - I used to tuck one into your bag while you weren't looking, and you'd find it at work. These ones, you loved the scent but hated the color, and we made do. Even if that didn't give the whole game away, even if it didn't have a whiff of the pathetic to it, it wouldn't be fair to her. He knows intellectually that it wouldn't.

It's mostly the fact that it pulls the veil off the entire thing that keeps him from saying it, though. Self-preservation is what wins, not selflessness.

"Maybe there is," he says, reaching for his glass. There's another quiet little moment, his heart aching for both Scullys, this one and the one he's missing. "What would you plant? Say you had a gardener to handle all the dirty work - what would you want?"

She's not sure she's persuaded him-- if it's even something to be persuaded into-- but at least he takes the comment seriously. It defuses a tension she doesn't understand, and that's worth something.

And flowers are a nicer subject. She relaxes a little.

"I don't know if I know enough about flowers to have interesting ideas," she admits, with a little smiling. "Lavender, I think. And roses, but maybe the wilder kind- the ones that are smaller but have more scent." She considers it for another bite. "What are the big ones that are like perfume... Peonies?"

Considering her fondness for scented bath oils, that can't be surprising.

"Peonies," he agrees, and can't help smiling. Some things never change, in the best possible way. "It's too bad you came late in the season - the bush I have stopped blooming in June."

He shouldn't admit it - he doubts she'd recognize the green leaves without the flowers to go along with - but he can't resist it. Even if Scully, I have every flower you just asked for might as well be a nail in the coffin of their platonic relationship. There's lavender in the garden that's still blooming, and she'll be able to recognize the roses.

(The roses are for him, too - beach roses, the kind he remembers from his childhood on the island. He's always liked them better than the cultivated kind, and they're a hell of a lot hardier, too.)

The smile she gives him is gentle; her suspicions for the moment aren't relevant. Maybe he planted them for her; even if he hadn't, it's nice to know they're here, growing. Even if she was here and is now gone. Even if he leaves this little house behind, the flowers will endure, deep-rooted and quiet and beautiful. Doesn't that count for something?

"It sounds lovely," she says, grateful to know it even if she can't see it. If he did it for her-- not her, but her-- it's a lovely thought. A little sad in light of-- she has no idea of what, really. But no less beautiful. For her, beautiful and sad are so often intertwined, lately.

"Are the flowers more or less work than the fish?" she asks, a warm and teasing tone.

"Less, most of the time." His smile's gone a little crooked at the thought; he misses the fish sometimes, but it's been a while since he trusted himself to be able to take care of another animal. "If you're out of the game for a while, they can take care of themselves. Gardening's as hard as you want it to be."

If you're hands-off in a years-long depressive funk, then so be it. The plants survive, or they don't, but there's less guilt about failing to keep them going. In some ways, they aren't as rewarding, but the risk's lower, too. It all evens out.

He finishes off his rosé, feeling pleasantly warm from it. Neither of them have cleaned their plates, but this isn't Leave it to Beaver. "I'll show you around after we put the food away."

In a funny way she's fond of his fish, even though she doesn't give them much conscious attention. They're a part of the comfortable background radiation of his apartment, cool light and the murmur of water, and they give her an excuse to meddle. Here's a key, feed the fish while I'm out of town. It's good for him to have the routine, to take care of something.

All that matters here is whether he's taking care of himself, and-- and.

She eats until she's full, and manages at least half the chicken, which feels like plenty. For a fleeting moment, she thinks-- maybe all this is worth it; even if she stayed here to live out her last lingering days with him, it's not such a bad life.

(It's not such a bad life with him here, is the truth, in any year.)

Finishing her own wine, she stands to take her own plate inside-- she can't help it, serially self-reliant, terrible at being a guest in someone else's home. But she'll let him take the lead in finding containers for leftovers.

He misses the fish sometimes. But you kill one set of them - not because you were off saving the world or being digested by fungi, simply because you couldn't get yourself out of your chair to feed them or clean their tank - and it's hard to justify more. Even he could see it was a bad idea, and his idea of a good idea was "argue on Reddit all day."

They go inside, and it's another familiar little ballet of moving around the kitchen, putting things away, piling dishes in the sink to deal with later. (Maybe he really will. Or maybe they'll sit for two weeks. Hard to say.) Once they're done, Mulder waves her on outside again.

He doesn't walk too close to her, doesn't try to put a hand on her back to guide her towards the right patch of overgrown land. His hands stay in his pockets as he leads them out to the garden, where plenty of plants grow - with weeds poking in between them - and a few still bloom. Lavender, phlox, a few different plants that look like daisies but technically have different names.

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