jowls | open post.

"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 It's hard to be specific when you're near twenty years out of date.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?"

"Yeah." It's early yet, especially for a man who doesn't sleep - but Scully does, and she'll probably want some time to herself. With some reluctance, he turns off the TV and gets up. As soon as his arm's away from her shoulders, he misses them, but that's how this goes. "Feel free to...grab a book, if you want, or anything else."

Upstairs thinking constantly about her, parked in front of a computer, trying to solve the problem. Wondering if it can be solved - and if not, what that means for her health. There's no possible way he'll do more than doze off a little. "I'll, uh - I'll be in the office upstairs."

Nodding, she lets him step away before she stands, not wanting to tread on his toes though the impulse to trail close behind him is strong. Mulder is the one grounding point in her world right now; the magnetism he exerts has little to challenge it.

"I might," she muses. Half of her wants to offer, again, to take the couch-- on the off chance he'd sleep better in his own bed. But she has a feeling he hasn't used it in some time, and he'd just turn her down anyway. Another part of her-- a shyer part, less apt to win out-- is tempted to tell her to join her. There's plenty of room, and maybe he'd sleep if he wasn't alone, or at least rest quietly to keep from waking her. But that seems like possibly a worse idea than insisting on the couch.

"Try to get some rest tonight?" she says instead, gently. Eventually he will collapse if he doesn't, and that won't help either of them.

"I always do," he says wryly, leading the way over to the stairs. He always tries, that is - there's never a guarantee that he'll get anywhere.

If she tried to give up the bed, he'd feel guilty about the idea; if she invited him into it, he'd...well, who knows. The thought hasn't crossed his mind, considering how far she is from their first kiss. But Scully's peculiar mix of propriety and rebellion can be unpredictable, even for someone who knows her well.

In the hallway upstairs, he pauses, wanting to drag out this last little moment for a breath or two longer if he can. "I'll, uh, see you tomorrow."

There they are, parting at their respective doors. After dinner and a movie, even; it feels absurdly like parting after a date.

In another world she'd bravely step closer and kiss him and maybe get him some sleep after all. But she's still too preoccupied by the end to try a beginning; so she reaches for his hand, gives it a little squeeze, and then steps into the bedroom.

And then Scully, always a quick study, picks up a modern habit: laying in bed, she eventually picks up her phone and spends far too long browsing the internet. There's a notepad on the night stand, which she uses to begin a list. She'll leave it somewhere, just in case, and maybe he'll find it.

Rock Iris reticulata Alida
Teddy Bear sunflower
Clitoria ternatea
Delphinium X belladonna Cliveden Beauty
Begonia rex-cultorum
Eryngium planum beachside blue
Eremurus stenophyllus

He stands there for another moment or two after her door closes, feeling the press of her fingers still. That's Scully for you - leaving her mark on him at all times, in all ways.

And then he's up all night, trying to figure out if he can figure out where she lives without asking Skinner. It'd be nice to be able to show up in the morning with something worthwhile to show for his work. But Scully's as paranoid as he is, even if she pretends she isn't; she's covered her tracks well. He's not able to turn up much of anything.

When the current Scully, the Scully of the past, wakes, the door to the office is ajar. Mulder's dozing in a computer chair, some incomprehensible search on the screen in front of him. He's probably going to wake up with one hell of a crick in his neck, at this rate.

Out of habit she wakes early, even if she stayed up later than she should have researching flowers. It leaves her a little groggy, but she doesn't linger too long in bed. It feels too early to contact Skinner; maybe she can throw the rest of yesterday's clothes in the wash, plus a handful of Mulder's clutter. Solely to fill the machine, of course.

She peeks in on him but tries to stay quiet, smiling slightly to see him asleep. It's... not great, but bad sleep is better than no sleep. Maybe she should have lured him into bed.

Well, let him get whatever sleep he can. She heads downstairs to put the coffee on, and gathers some clothes and towels and things to wash. Making herself comfortable is synonymous with making herself useful.

He comes down forty minutes later, after the scent of coffee drifts up to him and his back starts twingeing at the thought of staying slumped in his desk chair any longer. After groaning and stretching and generally trying to get his ass in gear, he looks mostly conscious, if still tired.

"Coffee?" is the first thing he says, a hopeful uptick to his voice, when he comes into the kitchen.

"Morning," she says brightly. "There's a mug on the counter."

She hadn't fixed it for him, figuring it'd stay hotter in the carafe, but while emptying the dishwasher she'd left a mug staged and ready to go. The clean stuff is put away, the machine half full again with yesterday's mess. The laundry is chugging away, the spot of blood on his t- shirt scrubbed away, good as new.

The house does better with both of them in it. It's not that she's picking up the housekeeping, exactly-- well, literally, right now, she supposes she is-- but there's something less tangible, the way the clouds feel like they're lifting for him. It feels like a good thing. It worries her, because sooner or later, one way or another, she's going to leave.

"I didn't want to wake you," she says softly, perhaps stating the obvious.

"Thanks." For the coffee, which tastes like manna from heaven right about now, and for trying to let him catch a few extra minutes of shuteye. Mulder's not sure how much he got, but it wasn't nothing. He leans back against the counter, facing her and sipping from his mug. "Ready to do a reconnaissance mission today? Assuming Skinner comes through, that is."

And he's got a feeling Skinner will. It's hard not to look at Scully, young and vulnerable but determined as hell, and not want to help.

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