jowls | open post.

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.

The distance is always more conspicuous than the closeness, especially coming on the heels of how smoothly he steps around her in the kitchen. It's like-- well, like it's not about her, she thinks. Best guess is: he's worried he'll be too familiar.

But the truth is, she misses it. Which might say something about how abnormal her expectations are, the casual intimacy they've nearly always taken for granted. It all makes sense, but it pushes her a little closer to the question she doesn't want to ask. Not the if-- they were together-- or the what-- she left-- but the why.

The lavender has gone a bit woody, unpruned and wild for-- she doesn't know enough about plants to guess, but surely it doesn't grow that big in a year. It's still spotted with deep purple flowers, though, and she stoops to breathe the scent in, eyes shut, lips curved in a smile.

"It's beautiful," she says. It still is; and she can see how beautiful it must have been in its full glory. "You should keep the flowers."

In summer, it's a riot of colors he can't see - but he knows the scents, has come to appreciate even the ones he doesn't think smell great. (Looking at you, marigolds.) And Scully had loved it; they'd spent more than one evening just like this, looking on at the plants and wandering through them, talking about them, picking the ripe vegetables.

It had been his little project, housewife stuff to keep him busy while she worked. Genuinely interesting, but eventually, it felt like busywork. Everything had; everything, save Scully, still does. The more things change, the more Mulder stays the same.

"Maybe I will," he answers wistfully, letting himself linger a little nearer as he breaks off the end of a stalk of lavender and holds it up in the sunlight. It really was pretty good, as gardens go. So many things were pretty good, until they fell apart. "I'm going to have to think of some new ones to add."

Really, she's never thought much about flowers-- she likes them well enough in a bouquet, the occasional tasteful pattern on something. But this must be, must have been, incredible-- once upon a time. It doesn't seem like something he'd choose except that you can tell from the traces that it was done in a Mulder way-- whole-hearted and obsessive and intense.

"I wouldn't know what to suggest." A little regretful-- she'd like to help him find some spark of interest in this. There's something good about the routine of caring for other living things, after all. She sidles a little closer, not enough-- she hopes-- to spook him.

"We should go in-- if the laundry's done I'm going to take a shower, and maybe you could find another movie or something?"

Honestly if she had her way she'd like him to lay his head on her shoulder and get some actual rest, but somehow that seems like it'd be a hard sell.

Well, maybe it'll be more vegetables after all. Endless grilled zucchini, but this time on his own. Planting flowers had so much to do with Scully that he's not sure it's worth keeping up without her.

"Sure." As they head back, walking together but far enough apart that it's not together, he asks, "What are you in the mood for?"

"Maybe something a little quieter? I liked the last one, but... less car chases tonight." She pauses, considering. "Show me something you like." Frankly, even if he just put on a game of... whatever sport is in season, that'd be fine. The sneaky aim here is to get Mulder to relax.

Getting Mulder to relax is usually pretty difficult, though. Even out here it feels like two steps forward, one back. Maybe he has a seed catalog-- do they still have those?-- to pick flowers out of. Or maybe it's a terrible idea; maybe he doesn't need reminders of two lost Scullys every time he looks out the window.

"Something I like," he repeats, caught between amusement and the strange awareness that he can't remember the last time he watched a new movie and liked it. Or even the last time he watched a new movie. There's been a lot of short-form videos of crazies ranting - he's been counting it as research - and the occasional rewatch of old favourites, but not much else.

It feels pathetic, thinking of it. If nothing else, it's easy to see just why Scully'd turn tail and run. "I'll find something."

By the time she finishes getting freshened up, he's got the TV on - and he's back on his phone, though in his defense, he's reading an ebook this time. He'd scrolled for a while, but he kept coming back to the same title, unable to find something that sounded better and unwilling to consider why this one spoke to him in the moment. So they're watching a man separated from his family, hiding out in the ruins of his hometown in a desperate attempt to survive - and if The Pianist ends up being too dark, he figures they can always change it.

He must like something, she figures, or at least have a better idea of what'd be good background noise. It's hard to be specific when you're near twenty years out of date.

First things first-- she drags everything out of the dryer to take upstairs, because she needs a shower. The stuff that's his, she can fold later; she'll do another load too, but that can wait until tomorrow. Most importantly she's found a big, still-reasonably-fluffy towel, and for a while she tries not to think about the past or the future or anything but warm water on exhausted muscles.

Eventually she heads back downstairs-- hair not dripping but still wet, smelling like his soap and her new shampoo. In her new pyjama pants and one of the t-shirts-- somehow fully sleepwear seemed too vulnerable, but jeans too heavy-- she comes to join him on the couch.

"So much better," she admits.

He smiles at the sight of her, like something out of a dream or memory: baby-faced, her hair falling damp around her face, eyes big and gentle. It's hard not to feel fifteen years younger, like he could look in the mirror without seeing a single wrinkle. How many times did they sit on the couch together, watching movies and trash TV, unwinding from the chaos of their work? How did they move so far away from that in the interim?

Mulder knows the answer, but he doesn't want to think about it. Tonight, he just wants to exist in this not-quite-youthful space with her.

"This one's a tearjerker," he tells her, before he hits play. She can bow out and demand The Wolf of Wall Street, if she decides she wants to. "Think you're up for that?"

He smiles, and she can't help smiling back. She can't put her finger on what's different about the way he looks at her, now; maybe it's the simplest difference, a man who's lost her versus a man who knows he's going to, both more fond of her than they want to admit. It should make this feel stranger-- sitting close, suspecting they used to sit a lot closer-- but the notion doesn't bother her; it just leaves her wondering yet again what happened, what changed.

"We can give it a try, at least." She shifts to get more comfortable, which brings her a little nearer. Or at least a little less far apart. Coming on too strong seems like it might be counterproductive, but getting a little closer seems, reliably, to relax him.

The space between them is something he could obsess over, if he wanted to. Closer than last night, not as close as the year after her cancer, before they'd started getting handsy with each other. Scully kind of edging closer, but not really - but maybe as the night goes on, that'll change. Hard to say from here.

Maybe she's figured it out. He hasn't exactly been subtle here. But he's hoping not, if only because the pity that has to come with seems unbearable from here.

He puts an arm on the back of the couch and justifies it to himself. It's not like he never rests his arm up there when he's alone, it's fine. And he turns on the movie, because if there's one thing they both need right now, it's a Holocaust movie.

Pity is a distant kind of feeling, something for situations you're not part of. Scully is in the trenches on this one-- it's just that she's behind the times, but the way she sees it, that's hardly her fault.

Leaning back means leaning vaguely against his forearm, the contact incidental but comforting. This is the kind of movie that demands a little more focus than an action romp, so she isn't watching him, for once.

Though admittedly she's finding herself questioning his choice of film pretty swiftly.

It's not unlike being fourteen and taking a girl out to the movies, feeling her resting against your arm and trying not to breathe - if you do, she'll realize the mistake she made and pull away, probably. Except it's Scully, and she won't, but it's been long enough that he can't help feeling that same pressure.

The movie's a dark one, sure, but it fits the criteria. It's quiet. Car chases aren't the focus. And right now, it feels right somehow. Goddamn, he's a sad sack.

Scully is both a sure thing-- because she loves him, which me must know-- and a big question mark, because seventeen years of difference isn't exactly easy to ignore. This, though, he could've gotten away with long ago.

The time passes like this, and mostly she's focused on the film. It's easy enough to be captivated; the writing seems good, but the advances in technology mean it's more sharp and vivid than she expects. Somehow it's easier to see that without the distraction of explosions and high-speed swerving.

Eventually she does drift a little closer, without even meaning to; not pressed against him but near enough to leech a little warmth, maybe near enough for his shirtsleeve to catch the dampness of her hair.

"You've watched this before?" she asks, eventually, curious.

"Not in a while." And even now, he's spending half his time being overly aware of her presence, cautious in the way he'd be if he came across a doe in his field. Even with that heightened awareness, though, there's a deep relief to sitting here with Scully, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. The whole world feels more like it's supposed to. "Five or six years ago."

It's not an easy watch by any means, and it drifts closer to his heritage than he's generally interested in getting. But stories of survival have always appealed to him, and in the wake of their own time on the lam, he'd found himself wanting to watch someone else hiding out from the government for once.

She hums thoughtfully at the answer. So, not something he'd picked without realizing how sad it was. Not that she was expecting him to pick some slapstick comedy neither of them would enjoy, but this is... a particular type of catharsis, maybe. There's nothing wrong with seeking out sad media, but if she knew what she was getting into-- this probably wouldn't have been her pick.

Though really, the movie's only half-relevant. The point-- for both of them, she thinks-- is the excuse to spend time together without having to justify it with small-talk, or having to risk spoiling it with big talk. For that... it works, more or less.

She doesn't ask anything else, and he doesn't volunteer context. It's undeniably a well-made film, if a heart-wrenching one, and they're next to each other. There are far worse ways to spend an evening.

"Like I said," he murmurs, once the credits roll. "Kind of a tearjerker."

"Yeah."

She's gotten a bit misty-eyed, but at least there's no question why. It's a borrowed sadness, for once-- not grief at her own state or worry over his-- and as such satisfying, because when the lights come up you get to put it aside a little more easily.

"It was good. We-- might have to go back to action movies next time," she says, giving him a little smile. Enough tears for a while. She stretches her shoulders, brushing more against his arm as she does, making no move to shift back toward the end of the sofa.

"Something lighter tomorrow night." Which is a trip, imagining tomorrow with her. There'll be one, unless she disappears as quietly as she arrived, and they'll watch something else. "Your pick, if you want - or you can just tell me what you're in the mood for."

Mulder, I want a comedy that doesn't have any gross-out humor. Mulder, I want a horror movie involving the Catholic Church. Mulder, I want a different movie about fast cars. Whatever it is, he'll get it for her.

"I'll think of something." Or at least a type of something-- probably light-hearted, because the last thing Mulder needs is more sadness. This is true in 2014, in 1997; in any moment between, she thinks, or before or after. He's had more than his share of grief.

"Tomorrow I'll text Skinner," she says like it's causal. "See if he has--" her? my? "the address, or any idea of where to find a key. I think it's the only lead we've got."

"Maybe not the only one," Mulder says, still determine to give himself some credit here, "but it's the best one. Until we know otherwise, we should assume your house is the last place you were."

It narrows the field, and it's not a terrible guess. He assumes she spends a fair amount of time at home, when she's not at work.

"I'll call the hospital, let them know you won't be in for a while." That'll give him a chance to feel out just how many days of work Scully missed, and whether her coworkers might know more. The idea of visiting in person sounds like hell, but it might prove necessary; this'll be the way to find out.

"Oh--"

She hadn't even thought of her career. It feels like a far-away thing, and the truth is, trying to figure out her situation feels so much like a case, it's hard to remember no one's paying for it.

"That's probably for the best," she murmurs with a thoughtful frown. "You could tell them... Hmn. Something with a terrible fever, and I didn't have the wits to call in on my own? Or some kind of family emergency... Presumably they wouldn't try to call Bill."

Somehow she hates the idea of it, looping him into deception while keeping him out of whatever's going on-- but it might be the lesser of two evils. If they grill Mulder on the medical details that could get complicated.

"It's a plan, I think." She sighs lightly. "For now I guess we should call it a night?"

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