jowls | open post.

Of course he's more than capable of doing a load of laundry... But now and then everyone needs a hand, and she had one to offer. There's not much she can do to actually help-- not in a deep or meaningful way-- but she can do this.

She smiles at him as he comes into the room, pleased to see him-- doubly pleased, maybe, that he's taken the opportunity. He looks lighter. More like-- well, like himself.

"I wouldn't say no to lockpicks," she says with a shrug, putting her ridiculous phone into the pocket of her blazer. It barely fits; how do people deal with this?

"There's a set in the glove box," he answers blithely, locking up the house as they leave it.

He really does insist on grabbing the crowbar before he gets in the car, though he unlocks out so Scully can get in to wait. There's something great about this plan, something that makes him want to be out there, accomplishing it. It's mostly the opportunity to see where Scully was living, and to investigate something that actually matters, but he's not about to admit that.

"Any more information from Skinner?" he asks, as he pulls out of the driveway. His phone's already set up to give him directions to the house. He hasn't heard anything that suggests she got more texts, but maybe he reached out again while he was in the shower.

Of course there is. She believes him, but can't help a little laugh as they head out. And she doesn't begrudge him the crowbar-- plus it gives her an extra moment to get into the car and get settled, looking back at the house. Is there something-- an inverse of deja vu, a sense that you'll see something again? Having spent time here, with Mulder-- she can understand the appeal.

"Nothing else," she affirms. "So we're on our own finding a way in... I didn't ask if he'd be willing to bail us out if we hit trouble."

Even she's not sure if she's joking or not.

It's almost comforting, the normalcy of sitting in a car with Mulder-- even if both the car and Mulder are different. If she shuts her eyes, it feels like any other day.

"Legally speaking, we're in the clear," he points out, having decided sometime in the last minute or so not to worry about just what might await them. It's nice out, the traffic won't be too bad at this hour, and he has good company for the drive over to Scully's mystery house. "If it comes down to it, we'll insist on a DNA test. But Officer, it's not what it looks like will probably do the trick."

And even breaking into a house, he doubts they'll bring the full weight of the law down on their heads. "But if it doesn't, you've got Skinner on speed dial. And if we say please, maybe he'll give us a hand."

"I could plead soap-opera style amnesia."

Probably slightly more believable than the truth. Could she claim ownership of her own life? There must be something-- people who recover from longterm comas figure it out, don't they? Her mom would help, no doubt.

But she really doesn't want it to come to that; not when she's sick, and the cure seems to be back in '97 somewhere.

The drive passes nicely enough; she relaxes, watching the world pass, noting with detached interest what's changed and what's the same. She sits up a little straighter, though, as they make their final approach.

"Nice neighborhood," she muses, trying not to sound doubtful.

Mulder makes a noise that suggests he agrees, but he's not any more certain about this than she is. It is nice, suburban without being a cookie-cutter stretch of cheap-looking houses. Professional people probably live out here, doctors and lawyers and people with tedious job titles that really just mean they have something to do with middle management.

And Scully. Who is a doctor, and isn't off chasing aliens these days, so she must fit right in.

"What do you think?" he asks, pulling up to the address Skinner gave them. His map app makes a little sound that means you've arrived at your destination, and he glances at Scully as he puts the car into park. "Home sweet home?"

"It's..." She tips her head, looks out the window. The house is... well, surprisingly secluded, considering the fact that it's in a nice suburb; the planting and the way it's set back from the street make it feel private. Is that what she wanted?

"I don't know," she admits, loosing her seatbelt and cracking the door open, though for a moment she just stares. It's not that she had a specific expectation, but this--

It just seems so much less friendly than Mulder's place. That's unfair, she reminds herself-- she's just adjusted to being out there with him; it had looked unkempt and lonely at first, too. Shaking off the judgment, she gets out and slowly approaches.

"Oh, can you grab--" Yeah, good job, announce your intentions. "You know, from the glove box," she finishes vaguely, because he'll know what she means. The crowbar, ideally, can be a last resort.

She stands on the walkway; there isn't much to see, the windows on this wall frosted and imposing. Could she see herself here? Maybe-- it looks... successful, somehow. Expensive, no doubt, but not ostentatious-- it's probably comfortable inside. It feels professional and classy but she just can't make herself feel like it's right.

"On it." He pulls a small bag out of the glove box before he gets out of the car.

Standing in front of the house, he can't help but see just how different the place is. She ran off to the furthest thing possible of the home they'd shared, short of renting a flat in the center of Paris. Anything to get away from him. Anything for a life other than the one they'd had together. The initial pain is long since faded, but there's still a dull ache under his ribs at the sight of Scully's new home.

Even heartache can't keep his curiosity at bay, though. After a spare moment or two, he comes up to Scully on the fancy little walk and nods toward the door. "What are the odds that it's open?"

She could have disappeared from inside, after all.

"Slim, I'd guess."

But obviously trying the knob is Plan A. Attacking the place with a crowbar is hopefully no higher than Plan Q.

Squaring her shoulders, she strides up the walk and tries to feel like she belongs here. She doesn't, of course, but maybe there's some fake it til you make it energy to be captured.

When she tries the handle, she's not surprised to find the door doesn't budge. But she is surprised to find the door is missing something fairly essential for lock-picking: no visible keyhole.

Next to the door is what looks like an intercom-- for a second she thinks there'll be a keypad, but there's only a large, conspicuous camera and a single call button.

"What am I looking at here?" she asks, halfway to herself and half to Mulder, who might at least have a vague idea of modern technology.

He's already swooping in beside her to look, bent down slightly and squinting at the door. "You have one of those smart locks. I've never seen one of them in person before."

They have yet to become ubiquitous here in 2014; having one is the mark of either a technology freak or someone paranoid enough to want security cameras all over her property. And frankly, Mulder gets the instinct. He waves at the camera, feeling simultaneously awkward and amused at the thought of being caught on tape. Someday Scully will see this, and he'll be able to say, see, there you were. Not a day over thirty-six.

He pokes the call button, but of course, all it does is ring in her house. Somewhere, there's a cell phone with a notification going off. "We might need the crowbar after all."

"Someone's definitely going to hear if we do," she frets, looking at their images on the screen. Better quality than surveillance footage she's used to, but it's still a little fuzzy-- the colors washed out, the movement jittery. Periodically, little white boxes pop up framing their faces like it's scanning them.

She's about to step back so they can start trying windows when a space beneath the video lights up with a dull red glow-- an oval space that looks like it's waiting for....

It can't be that easy, right?

Glancing back at him, she shrugs and presses her thumb to the glass. After a moment, there's an unmistakable click.

Should he have figured it out first? Who cares? In the moment, he's unmistakably delighted at her success, his eyes lighting up when he hears the lock disengage.

"Quick," he says, and he's cheerful about it, reaching past her for the doorknob, "before the house changes its mind."

"No time like the present," she mutters, meaning no time like the future. At least they've got a way in-- no broken windows or conning neighbors necessary.

But as they step inside, an alarm starts blaring-- so maybe they won't get out of this without a call to the cops. Wincing-- this is so loud, God-- she looks wildly around for some way to shut it off-- lighting on a panel on the wall.

It's prompting her for a code-- which of course she doesn't have-- but logically, the code was must be something she chose, so it seems worth guessing. She tries 1964-- a flat, blaring note tells her she's off-base, INVALID ENTRY flashing on the screen.

Shooting Mulder a panicked look, she tries again-- and this time, her birthday does the trick. The screaming alarm cuts off, and the panel chirps, color changing to a much calmer blue-green.

"What is this place?" she huffs.

"The house of a security freak," he says lightly, looking around the place. Without the alarm going off, he can actually take in their surroundings rather than trying to come up with a cover story while Scully figured out the password. 0223, a lucky second guess. "That must be your alarm system."

Mulder's is a little more old-fashioned at the moment, relying on distance and anonymity rather than high-tech solutions, but he can appreciate the instinct that brought Scully here. Maybe not to the decor, which reminds him more of a waiting room in a high-end medical office, but that alarm must help her sleep at night.

But they're in, and if the police show up, they'll probably be able to explain themselves. Mulder shuts the front door. "Let's take a tour."

It's a lot to take in. The actual equipment feels science fiction adjacent to Scully, but she has to remind herself she has the wrong frame of reference-- maybe it's not so over-the-top if you're used to this century. Mulder, usually a good barometer for paranoia, lives in the middle of nowhere. He'd be harder to sneak up on and anyone in the vicinity would be hard pressed to come up with an excuse for their presence. This house feels secluded but the neighborhood feels more lively; she can understand how she'd need a little piece of mind. It's just the evolution of the extra deadlock she put on the door after Melissa, the security windows she'd paid extra for.

"I'll take left," she offers, gesturing down the hallway. "Call if you find anything?"

Splitting up seems safe enough in a locked home that belongs to her, and somehow she's not sure either of them really want an audience for exploring Dana Scully's new life.

"Sure," he says, though he sounds a little less enthused by the prospect. It might be better to have some privacy, but what he actually wants is to see this Scully's initial reactions. Every instinct, every object that strikes her as relevant. Turning to the right leaves him on his own, wondering just what she's doing - and whether she's vanished.

But he does it, walking toward what turns out to be her bedroom. Mulder pauses at the threshold for several seconds, taking in the sight of it, before he turns and starts back down the hall. Once he's close enough to sidle up to Scully, the other Scully, he does. "Let's, uh, try it as a team for a little while."

Leaving aside the fact that he probably doesn't merit access to her underwear drawer anymore, he's not ready to uncover evidence that she's moved on completely. Not on his own.

By now she's most of the way to the kitchen, but hasn't found much of note. She's still taking in the general air of the place-- it's... nice? It's comfortable, but it feels so unlike what she'd pick in her own time that she can't quite make sense of it.

"All right."

If he'd rather-- that's fine. She'd thought maybe exploring without having to censor his reactions would be better; and she'd hoped, at least halfway, that she'd find answers to what happened without having to have an awkward conversation.

But everything is so unfamiliar here, it's not unwelcome to have him beside her. The lights in the kitchen come on as they enter-- motion sensors, unnerving but not unwelcome-- and a large panel on the refrigerator brightens.

THROW OUT YOUR CHICKEN, DANA!, it reads. Eight days past expiration date. Need a grocery delivery?

Above that she can see other messages. Taking a break? A glass of water and a snack might make you feel better. Your chicken is six days past expiration date. Looking for a change? Blackberry vinaigrette is on sale. I miss you! Studies show home-cooking is healthier than takeout. Your chicken is four days past expiration date.

The rest of the kitchen looks like something out of a magazine. Honey-toned wood, stainless steel, a beautiful hand-thrown ceramic bowl full of withered lemons.

She opens the refrigerator with some trepidation-- a few bottles of salad dressing, a carton of eggs, three low-fat yogurts, a bagged salad, the infamous chicken. That, at least, feels more like her.

"Nothing seems out of place," she says with a shrug. Which tells them very little.

"No," he agrees. Leaving a lot of food to rot on a whim seems decidedly un-Scully, too, which means they've got more of a time frame to work with. "But you've been gone a week at minimum, probably two weeks at maximum. We'll know for sure when we call the hospital."

Since they're here, he takes the liberty of pulling out a trash bag and tossing expired food into it after Scully examines it. Throwing away the chicken before it develops its own microscopic civilization is the least he can do for her; somehow, it's a hell of a lot easier to take care of her house than his own. The salad dressing can stay, along with everything in the freezer, but just about everything else has to go.

"The bedroom's on the other end of the house," he says, trying to sound casual about it as he ties up the garbage bag. They'll probably have to find a dumpster for it; no one's here to take her trash out for her. He'll leave it by the front door for now, so they don't forget it on the way out. "We might find something there."

She nods.

"Seems likelier than the living room."

But also, the likeliest spot in the house to have things that might trouble one or both of them. She takes a breath to steady herself, watching Mulder take out the trash. It's a kind gesture on his part, though probably partly just to keep himself from feeling out of place. (The idea of her having a place he's never been to still unnerves her.)

Once he's done, she starts back down the hall, feeling absurd. This place feels almost like a hotel-- a high-end one, not the kind of place she'd stay. The lighting is soft, the materials luxurious-- frosted glass doors and polished wood, finely made tile, and where it's carpeted the floor feels plush enough to sleep on-- but there's not much to show who lives here, or even that anyone does.

She pushes the bedroom door open and steps inside, and... it's nice, but still sparse-- a medical journal on the night table, an empty water glass, a vase of dead flowers.

"No sign of a struggle-- no way to tell if she was home at all," she murmurs, frowning. She heads for the ensuite bathroom, not quite ready to start rummaging through drawers.

The bedroom makes sense to him as somewhere Scully would live; it's tidy, especially after the ever-increasing chaos of the home they used to share. She probably doesn't spend much time here, he thinks. Maybe she reads in bed a little, but she spends most of her time working, maybe sitting in her quiet living room.

He find that he can't quite imagine her bringing someone here, but that might be his own biases blinkering him. There's no way she's living a life of celibacy out here, not with her looks.

Mulder sits down at the foot of Scully's bed, watching the other Scully wander into the bathroom. "How's it look in there? Let me guess: Big bathtub."

"Big bathtub," she confirms, somewhat approvingly. Did she pick this place on the strength of the bathroom? The luxury hotel feeling persists in here, and she can see the appeal-- the oversized tub, the neutral colors, the big rainfall showerhead. The lights around the mirror are flattering, the space... comfortable. There's more trace of her occupancy here-- soap and lotion and a toothbrush on the vanity, shampoo on the edge of the tub, a glass jar candle. A plant on the corner of the tub-- she pours a little water in, though for all she knows it might be fake.

Everything in here, as far as she can tell, seems to be hers. Which isn't a surprise-- but it's a relief, that they don't have to worry about some distraught boyfriend showing up.

"Seems normal enough, though," she says, coming back into the bedroom. The bed looks comfortable. She's starting to see the appeal of the place-- but it doesn't feel homey.

"Should we start trying drawers? I'm not even sure what I'm looking for."

"We're going to have to," he says, pressing how hands to his thighs as leverage as he stands up. "We haven't turned up much so far."

Except that it turns out Scully still likes a luxurious bath, which Mulder had never doubted. Her life her is orderly, staged like it could be the subject of photographs in a magazine, and yet it feels like her...to Mulder, at least. A little hideaway, probably professionally cleaned, her escape from the hardest parts of her job. He can imagine her in here, even if he can't imagine her especially happy here.

He takes the few steps necessary over to the young Scully and lets her lead the way. "Want me to cover my eyes for the underwear drawer?"

Edited 2024-09-23 03:08 (UTC)

"Consider yourself absolved," she says with a fond eye roll. "If she objects to you seeing anything she'll only have herself to blame."

This timeline nonsense is an endless headache, she might as well get some amusement where she can.

Might as well dive in at the deep end. She starts with the nightstand-- there's a cable feeding through the back of the drawer, presumably to charge her phone. A trashy paperback, a notepad with half a shopping list, a handful of cough drops, a bottle of Motrin. There is also something that is almost definitely a vibrator, though it's not one she recognizes.

It does make her blush in spite of herself, though, and she shuts the drawer and moves over to the dresser. This is even less interesting-- assorted clothing, most of it looking more or less like something she could see herself wearing. She pauses, though, noticing a few framed photographs of family-- including one of Bill and Tara, and she presumes, their kids. She can't help taking a moment to pick it up and study it.

"I'll be sure to tell her you said so," he jokes. "Next time, she shouldn't go time-traveling without a spotter."

That sure is a vibrator, and it's not one Mulder recognizes, either. Which is fine - he'll take a battery-operated rival over a flesh and blood one any time - but it's strange to realize all the ways in which Scully's moved on.

It's probably for the best that they go on to the dresser, even though it doesn't feel much safer than the bedside table. He's less a useful contributor and more Scully's shadow, watching as her attention's drawn first one way and then another. When she looks at the photos, he's relieved to find her interest is taken by the picture of Bill and Tara and their kids; it won't require any delicate explanations.

"That one's Matthew." He names the other kids as he points to each one in turn. Tara and Bill, of course, need no introduction. "You got this picture for Christmas, if I'm remembering right. They owe you a new one."

They look beautifully, brilliantly happy-- a big, healthy family. Her mom must be over the moon. Scully can't figure out what to say-- which is fine, because the knot of feelings in her throat would keep her from saying it, anyway.

There aren't many others-- an old one of her parents, a blurry snapshot of Melissa. Nothing of her or of Mulder-- which tracks, if she's right in her vague imaginings, but is still somehow sad to confirm. Other than the kids, they're all photos she could see herself having in her apartment now, though oddly even the old pictures aren't ones she recalls owning. It's a little sad, somehow, that there's apparently nothing new.

She sets the photo back and tries another drawer-- casual stuff, sweatpants and ratty t-shirts stacked neatly, incongruous in this polished atmosphere. (None of them stick out to her-- at least one of them, though, is definitely a faded Knicks shirt.) The next is, at last, the underwear drawer-- she doesn't spend too much time there, embarrassed more for herself than for Mulder. Most of it is practical, but some of it is-- certainly designed to be seen by others. (Mulder, if he looks, will recognize nearly all of it; she hasn't been on a lingerie shopping spree.)

"I don't think there's anything here," she admits, eyes fixed on Bill and his family again. It doesn't totally surprise her that they're coming up empty-handed; there's no logical reason to imagine her older self caused this.

The last thing to try is the closet, which is... large, but that fits with the general luxury of this place. The uncanny half-familiarity of being surrounded by things that are and aren't hers is starting to get on her nerves, but she's mildly entertained to spot a double of one of the blouses Mulder picked out hanging in there.

She does spot a small lockbox on a shelf-- the kind of thing they sell for valuables, more portable than a safe. It's the only thing that sticks out as at all unusual, and she points at it.

"Should we try that...?"

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