jowls | open post.

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...?"

Mulder does look. He takes in all of it: the clothing he recognizes, the shirt she stole from him. It's simultaneously gratifying and reassuring, especially the shirt - she left, but she's still willing to walk around in something so obviously his in origin. You don't do that if you have a new boyfriend in the mix.

He wonders, as they walk toward the closet, where Scully's put her photos of William and Emily. It's no surprise that they aren't on display - he knows how it'd tear her up to see their faces every morning - but their absence is still notable. Convenient, for the sake of the timeline, he can't deny that, but sometimes he wonders if seeing them might make it feel less like the black hole at the center of their lives.

And then Scully pulls a box from the shelves, and he knows where they are. Them, and who knows what else - photos of the two of them together, possibly. Little mementos from the places they've been together. Proof of a life he's halfway tried to keep from this Scully, resting silent in her hands.

"We can," he says, after a moment, his expression shuttered even by Mulder standards. "But it might raise more questions for you than me."

There's a pause as he gathers his thoughts, pulling the little lock-picking kit out of his pocket as he walks back over to Scully's bed and sits down. If she decides she wants to do it, they'll do it here. "If you went back to 1993 - that first day, while you were in the elevator going down to the basement - and you told yourself what would happen to you, she'd be terrified. But, and I don't think I'm overstepping here when I say this, hearing abduction and cancer wouldn't tell the whole story. If the benefits didn't outweigh the cost, you would've split years ago - and you haven't.

"Some of what's in there...it's going to need context." His gaze on her is steady, undeniably sad; he's fidgeting with the bag of tools without looking at it, his thumb rolling over a pick through the fabric. But despite that, he's hoping she'll agree. Tell me, Mulder, we'll talk about it - that hasn't been what she's needed in the present time, but it might be what he needs. "I don't want you to be afraid of the future."

It's an odd dilemma, trying to decide whether it's a violation of her own privacy to open this box. Mulder seems certain of what they'll find-- which means she can venture at least a vague guess.

The thing is... this isn't going to explain why his Scully is gone, or why she's here. Of that, she's nearly certain-- because it's not going to contain the remote control for a time machine, or a notarized deal with the devil, or anything like that. What is here, probably, is a record of a life she left. And for that-- she could just ask. Maybe that's what she should have done.

But they're here, the box in hand, and it feels like there's only one possible answer.

"I didn't think I had a future, Mulder," she says quietly, keenly aware of the space between her eyes, the time bomb still ticking away. "I think-- we should look," she says decisively.

It might spare her some pain - or it might just give her more. He's hoping for the former, but ultimately, it doesn't really matter what her reaction is. If she wants to know, she deserves to know. Especially at this moment, when she had every reason to believe she'd die without seeing any of her hopes realized.

Maybe in her future, when things go wrong, she can remember what's coming and take some hope from it. There were good times. There are probably still good times, for Scully on her own - he just doesn't know what they are.

"Okay," he says, and reaches for the box. He's practiced his lock-picking relatively recently - it's not a terrible way to distract himself, when he's up too late and has no hope of getting some rest. It still takes him a bit, but he gets it open within a minute or two. And then he sets the box on the bedspread, letting Scully be the one to lift the lid and sift through her life.

She sits on the edge of the bed to watch, feeling... surprisingly little, actually. Curious, more than anything; her unease has subsided a little because whatever's in here, it's at least an answer.

(There must be, she suspects, a journal somewhere; she knows her own inclinations, and if she were leaving Mulder she would have written about it. She knows, because she is writing him now, letters about the inevitable way she'll leave, sooner or later. Weeks, months. But maybe not-- maybe years. Will she ever show him that notebook, the things that crossed her mind as she lay dying? For all she knows it's tucked into this little box.)

But when she opens it, the first things she finds are unremarkable. A passport-- hers-- and a stack of cash, maybe a thousand in varying denominations. A little paranoid, but comprehensible. A ring of unidentifiable keys, maybe for file cabinets or safety deposit boxes-- and then...

Her brow furrows. There's a driver's license, out-of-state, but it's not hers-- no? The picture, she realizes, is herself-- with bleached hair and a fake name, and under it a stack of others, mostly expired-- fake names and disguised photos.

She looks up at him, obviously bewildered.

Mulder's not surprised by anything he sees. If there's an emergency and she has to leave fast, the vital stuff's on top. Cash, passport, keys to all the places she's stashed more cash and more identities. Everything necessary to become a new person, all at once.

His smile's a little melancholy, but it's there, and it's genuine. On some level, he knows she's going to know. After this, she's going to know everything, and he'll have to live with it. For now, he can enjoy the moment. "Never saw yourself as a blonde, did you?"

"I never saw myself living in Kansas," she murmurs, flipping through the IDs, an eyebrow arched. Here she's a brunette, here she has a pixie cut; on one her face looks too thin, on another the makeup is ridiculous.

"Was I in Witness Protection or something?" she asks with a laugh, trying to cover a vague sense of dread.

"If it's any comfort, you didn't stay in Kansas all that long," he answers, watching her face instead of her hands. All those damn IDs - their contacts really came through for them, at a time when it felt like the whole world was closing in. Maybe he'll let her see his, later, the buzz cut and the bleached tips and the awful slicked-back hair that made him look like he dipped his head in oil. "It was an 'or something' - not witness protection."

She's not sure if that's comforting or not. But clearly, whatever the something was, it made her fairly nomadic-- there's no obvious rhyme or reason to the collection of false identities in her hands, but the dates overlap enough that she can piece together that the moves must have been frequent, covering.... maybe a decade? It's hard to say, not knowing the details on the forgeries.

Beneath that are passports, other bits and pieces of forged lives-- apparently she's got a lot to catch up on. And at the bottom, tucked neatly below everything else, is a thick manila envelope with a clasp. Completely unmarked. She fishes it out carefully, looking questioningly at Mulder. She's not sure if she ought to be afraid of what's inside.

"I don't know," he admits, in response to her questioning look. Anticipation is running up his spine; he's nearly certain, and he's certain it's going to be a hard thing for her. Scully carries her pain so silently, left to her own devices. She walls it up and leaves it to fester, and somehow she walks around despite the fact that part of her heart is rotted by grief. "If it's what I think it is...if you want to look, I'll be here with you. And if you don't, we can put it away."

He knows her. He knows she's going to open the envelope, out of sheer dogged curiosity, and he knows she's going to sob. If he could spare her this, he would, but they've been moving toward it since he first saw her photo online, out of time and utterly lost. The best he can do is make sure it's a gentle landing.

"Or," he adds, clearly uncertain about the merit of the idea, "I can tell you. And then you can decide if you want to see."

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