jowls | open post.

"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.

"I think so."

She comes in to freshen her own mug of coffee, which is at least a second cup, judging from the state of the carafe. She's been busy, what can she say.

"It's strange, thinking about breaking into my own house." She's dreading it a little, actually, though she can't say why. But it seems like their best bet, the right next step.

"I was just about to text him."

"He'll probably be glad to hear from you," Mulder says, mostly because he doesn't really know what else to say. And it's true, Skinner's probably worried about both of them, under the circumstances. He'll want to hear how things are going, and Mulder has the feeling it'll sound better coming from the time-traveler in their midst.

And since it's next, Scully can tell Skinner anything she wants without being overheard. Dish all the dirt on Mulder. Scully wouldn't do that unless things were really bad, and he's convinced that he's mostly fine - but there's no denying that she could.

Though she hasn't broached the subject, she's starting to think that Mulder didn't have a falling out with Skinner; it's more like he simply... withdrew. But either way, she has no intentions of saying anything uncomplimentary. He's been a good host. They're getting on well, even if they hadn't made much progress.

She's worried about him, yes, but that's not Skinner's business. She's worried about-- herself. Her future self, and what she might have done.

No time like the present-- she reaches for the phone to compose her text, dithering over how to express the question. Old paranoia about surveillance still holds, and saying What's my address sounds insane; she settles on my counterpart, sends, and sets the phone aside.

"I'm not sure I can do much to look more like her," she muses with a slight frown.

"We'll buy you a pair of big sunglasses on the way over." Now that they're actively planning on breaking into Scully's mystery house, they might as well go the whole way. "And a silk scarf to tie around your head. Maybe a big hat with a veil, like a black widow in an old movie."

Scully, mysterious and potentially lethal cougar. It's not her - either of her - but it's kind of funny to imagine. Dana Scully as played by Bette Davis.

It occurs to him that her voice is different when she's younger - she sounds young, in a way that's hard to explain but difficult to miss. For Mulder, at least. Maybe if they find someone only mildly acquainted with her, it'll be fine.

"Very subtle," she says with a laugh, envisioning it. Visiting the neighbors dressed like a cartoon spy, without any clue of whether she should know them, sounds like a great plan.

The problem is she really doesn't have another plan to propose.

"Maybe--"

She cuts off as her new phone chimes, and sets her coffee down in favor of checking for Skinner's response. (It's not like anyone else is likely to have messaged her.)

"1213 37th Place," she announces. "Bethesda. No idea on who might have a key."

It's hard to imagine anyone other than Mulder having a spare. Her mom, maybe, but they obviously can't drag her family into this.

She sets down the phone, and shrugs. It's something, at least.

The worst part of it is, he's pretty sure Maggie would still help them. If he called up out of the blue to ask her if she had an extra key to Scully's, he could probably convince her that it was some kind of surprise your daughter and try to get her to take me back ploy - and he thinks, he genuinely thinks, that the answer would be yes. She always liked him, even back when there were plenty of reasons not to, and there are times when he misses seeing her. For a couple years - not many, but more than one - he got to tag along to Scully family holidays and birthdays and feel like he was supposed to be there, and part of him wants that back.

But she'll want to hear from Scully, whether things are okay now, and he can't ask this Scully to try to lie to her mother. They certainly can't tell her that one Dana fell through a timeslip, only to be replaced by another.

Fortunately, Skinner comes through, and Mulder commits the address to memory. This is a way forward for them, a new angle of investigation. And while he shouldprobably eat a real breakfast, right now he's much more interested in setting down his coffee and going to slip into his shoes. "Let's go over there. Maybe she has a key in one of the planters."

Already, Maggie Scully has dealt with so much-- as much as she wants to see her mother, Scully knows she's not the daughter she ought to be and that would feel like a loss, the loss of history she can't guess at. Thanksgivings and Christmases and visits with her brother's family, unexpected landmines of shared tragedy-- there's too much to put on her. If they had no other options, maybe, but they have a direction. But, God; she's lost, and she wants her mother. Of course.

"Well," she says, measured and not quite ready to run out the door. "I have to try and do something about my hair, and makeup, so it's not a rush."

He can finish his coffee, take a shower. Mostly take a shower.

Mulder laughs, swallowing down the feeling that he's overexcited for this whole thing. Slipping back out of his shoes, he busies himself getting a second cup of coffee.

"When you're done primping," he teases, choosing not to think about just how sharp the desire to leave the house was, a moment ago. How energizing the desire to do something was, provided it involved Scully. "Take your time."

And maybe he'll shower, too. We'll see.

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