jowls | open post.

"That's what I don't understand," he says, brow furrowing. "Why bother with time travel, when a gun works just as well? Are they trying to keep me from getting to them in the past?"

If his Scully is there, her Mulder will undoubtedly be doing everything in his power to solve this mystery, too focused on it to attend to anything else. If they want to keep him away from the specimen they find under the ice, this wouldn't be a terrible way to do it. But it's needlessly complicated.

She's going to need to know more, even if it's irresponsible of him to share. If she doesn't hold the same cards as he does, she's not going to be able to help him make sense of it. There's no denying that he'll need her brain on this as much as he needs his own; she's the most brilliant person he's ever known.

"You and I...we're going to fake my suicide." He makes a face, knowing just how awful it might sound to her. "While you handle the feds, I'm going to find you a cure. There's more to it than that, a lot more, but those are the pieces that matter. I don't think my trip to Canada is what they were trying to stop."

What a bleak line of thought. It would be much more efficient to just shoot me.

His explanation explains very little, which is at this point not terribly surprising. She's getting somewhat used to it, having to roll with wild ideas that lack context. Because she trust Mulder; he'll tell her what she needs, and try to spare her what she doesn't for as long as possible.

"We'll call it a possibility-- a strong one," she concedes. "But I'm not totally convinced. Time travel can't be that easy to set up."

Her suspicion that it has something to do with their relationship, or the rift between them, feels too silly to voice... Though being here hasn't done anything to dissuade her.

"She must have an office, or a desk, at least-- that feels like the next place to look."

"There must be one here," he agrees. If not a desk, at least something they can work with - a filing cabinet, a laptop with an external hard drive. "Failing that, I'll go to the hospital. They probably don't remember me all that well, but if I say I'm getting things you need, I might be able to get to her papers."

But she has to have documents here someplace. The doorbell chimes just as he's about to say something more about the possibilities.

"I took the liberty of ordering us some lunch," he informs her as he gets up. "We can figure it out after lunch."

The bell makes her jump, worried that some concerned neighbor has come over to check on the strange car in her driveway, but thankfully there's a simple explanation.

"Probably a good idea."

She hadn't noticed herself getting hungry, but now that he mentions it, it sounds good. Plus they don't have to bargain with the refrigerator.

They pass the rest of the day somewhat more calmly, looking through her older self's things, trying to strike a balance between respecting her privacy and seeking clues. Eventually, she gives up on it all and takes a long bath. All the luxury of a fine hotel, but with products and scents exactly to her taste.

And then... it's time to address the question of bed. She takes the liberty of borrowing her own pyjamas; they're nicer than the ones they bought at the mall, so apparently she's doing all right for herself.

"We ought to get some rest," she says, carefully casual. It's the opening move to a chess game of persuasion she's been thinking through since lunch.

"Sure," he agrees. Having spent a fitful hour or two pawing through Scully's house, seeing everything he's not supposed to know about, he eventually took one of her books off a shelf and started reading. There's something serene about the space, even if it's isolating at the same time; it's not a bad setting for a read. And then Scully comes out of the bath, hair sticking to her sweet-smelling skin, and it's almost like being a young man again. "See you in the morning."

He says it all so easily in part because he can't imagine he's about to be sold on the alternative.

If this were a vacation home, she'd see the appeal. It's nice, in every way you can easily measure-- admittedly the technology is off-putting, but if you're more used to it that probably isn't an issue. But she can't shake her unease at how empty it feels.

Mulder gives her the response she expects; she doesn't budge.

"There's plenty of room, and the bed's going to be more comfortable than that couch," she ventures.

He looks up sharply, his expression taking on that carefully neutral look again.

"Scully." Of course he wants to say yes. What sane man wouldn't? The love of his life, standing before him young and gorgeous, is telling him to come to bed. But things aren't that simple, and mixed in with that overwhelming desire is a sense of dread he can't put into words. "You're not obligated to put up with me, you know."

He might not, in the strictest sense of it, be her partner; but he's still her partner, and there's deep affection in the look she levels at him.

"I've been putting up with you by choice for four years," she points out. Of course it's easier for him to focus on the end of things, but from her perspective they've still got a long future. Surely he's owed a little grace for that.

"You've barely slept since I got here."

Don't think she doesn't know.

He can't help but smile - she sounds so much like herself, and like the woman she's become. In the moment, it's not hard to see her affection for him, whatever form it might take right now; she'd loved him long before either of them ever broached the subject. Mulder feels it, and he's missed that feeling - but it's coming back like a knife between the ribs.

"I've slept," he tells her, even if some part of him already knows he's lost. "I'll be fine, Scully. Really."

He gives the couch a little test bounce, as if to say see? this'll be fine.

There is, she's always thought, a tacit understanding between them that their professional boundaries are a necessary fiction. She's always had a sense-- at least, a suspicion-- that if things were different, they might be different as well. And with that theory proven, it feels plainly silly to stand on ceremony.

I'm the mother of your children, she doesn't say, but she certainly thinks it.

"Come on," she says, sympathetic but a little less gentle. "I'll sleep better if I don't have to worry about it."

Mulder watches her steadily, weighing the options: how badly he wants to be near her, the knowledge that she deserves better than anything he can give her. He doesn't get up, but he could be on the verge of it, the way a person looks just before they speak.

"I don't expect anything from you." That needs to be stated, he thinks, and while the obvious anything is sex, he means all of it. You don't have to take over for her. You probably shouldn't.

She'd gone into this assuming he'd protest the invitation; and she understands, at least in part. Of course it feels unfair to him, having laid all this at her feet-- the mysterious end of things, their daughter, their son.

"This isn't about expectations." Not even hers. She'd be lying if she said sex hadn't crossed her mind at all-- it's impossible not to be curious, knowing in the abstract that they'll get there. Have gotten there. A few years to their son's birth-- it can't even be all that long before they do.

"I'd rather not be alone," she adds, a little softer, taking one step further into the room. She hasn't forgotten how much better it had felt to be curled into his side; she couldn't have weathered those revelations alone. He can't really expect her to be apart from him now.

She says the things that works - that will always work - and he stands. In no world should Scully have to face the future alone, particularly when it's his fault she has to ponder it at all. If he hasn't brought her here, if he'd steered her away from the envelope...

...She probably would have found out anyway, he knows. On some level, he knows Scully's curiosity would win eventually. A scientist needs facts at her disposal; she wouldn't be willing to discard any potential source for long.

Still, it feels like he's led her to this precipice. From the start, he's the one who took her life away from the things she'd dreamed of. Without the X-Files, she'd be living some other, happier existence, surrounded by friends and family and children. They'd be with her, and they'd be safe.

"All right," is all he says, walking toward her.

It's just about what she expected; the appeal to his own well-being is useless, but framing it as service to hers gets him to move. Which makes a certain amount of sense, but leaves her a little uneasy. Maybe it's better if sex stays off the table-- not because she isn't interested, but because she's not sure if he is, genuinely.

As he reaches her she turns to lead them both down the hall. Strange, to be doing this for the first time when it's past what he must think of as the last, in a place unfamiliar to either of them. If the elder Dana Scully has a problem with Mulder being in her bed, quite frankly, her younger self fiercely doesn't care.

(It's probably mildly unhealthy to be inherently taking Mulder's side in a conflict with herself. But she doesn't care. She needed him, and he's here for her, and he always has been, and for her in this moment out of time, that's enough.)

Maybe it's too much, but she reaches for his hand as they walk.

"I don't want you feeling obligated," she says softly. "But you must know--" Better than anyone could, really-- "If I say I want you with me it's because I want you with me." And now she has the freedom to want it.

She's not wrong; at some point in his life, trust no one became trust Scully, and he still does. He always will, when it comes down to it: Scully, any Scully, is better to have on his side than just about anything else he can think of. Even when the one who's missing, who can hardly look at him when she's around, is still the best ally he could hope to have.

"It's not you I doubt." He's equally quiet, his fingers curled loose around her hand as they walk toward the bedroom. If she let go, his arm would drop back to his side without any drag.

It's not something she takes lightly, the faith he places in her. In this moment she feels, mostly, capable of living up to it-- for however long she gets, whether it's death or time that takes her back from him.

She doesn't say anything in response to that, but she doesn't let him go, either. Not until they get into the bedroom. Do they have sides, she wonders stupidly; but decides to take the side that seems right for her, where the nightstand with the phone cord is, and trust that Mulder will be all right on the other, whether or not it's the old preference. Funny to get hung up on it.

Feeling a little awkward-- but not at all because of Mulder's presence-- she slips under the covers. It's a comfortable mattress, not terribly different from the one at his house. So maybe he let her pick? Maybe they chose together and she got used to it?

"Come on," she murmurs, meaning to be encouraging, shooting a fond look his way. Faced with the opportunity she wants nothing more than to curl in against him, if he'll let her.

The room takes on a different weight when it's someplace he's going to sleep. It does, he has to admit, feel a little like an invasion on his part; if Scully had wanted him here, she would have given him an address herself. The idea of crawling under the covers of her bed has a wrongness he can't quite shake.

But the Scully who's here wants him with her, and he can't withstand that. He doesn't want to - but even if he wanted to be alone right now, he'd be a heel to abandon her to the kinds of thoughts that haunt him when it's late. She has two children and a failed relationship to ponder, as though her own Billy Pilgrim-esque presence in the future weren't enough.

The only way he can answer her gentle little demand, come here, is with acquiescence. He unbuckles his belt and steps out of his pants, pulling off his socks as well, then does the unthinkable. He lifts the covers on Scully's bed and lies down on her mattress. On his back, neither reaching for her nor making himself unavailable - the next step is up to her, whatever closeness she might want for herself.

No doubt it's easier for her to shake off the weight of where they are. She doesn't feel attached to it; he has to attach it to her, or to her absence, at least. This place exists because at some point, for some reason, she will leave. It's more distant in every way for her than for him.

She doesn't watch him undress, gives him a moment to settle, as much as he can on his own. It's not that she expected him to jump at the chance to get her into bed-- that's not what this is about-- she's just hoping he won't be entirely miserable to have to be with her.

It's a gamble. And selfishly, it's a necessary one. Even before arriving here she's known there's something singular about their relationship; he draws her attention in a way no one else can, but he grounds and calms her, too. And now-- in this cavernous house that doesn't feel like anyone's home, thinking about ghosts of the future-- she wants that distraction, that comfort.

And so after a moment, she scoots closer to him. The easy thing to do would be to have her back against his side-- less demanding for him, easy enough to back away if he gets uncomfortable-- but it's not what she wants. So instead she rolls to face him, curling against him with her head on his shoulder, a hand placed lightly on his chest.

With her hand on his chest, she can't miss the shuddery way his breath comes out of him. Everything about this is familiar. Everything about it is new. The weight of Scully resting against his is the stuff of fantasy, at this point, but his body still knows its cues; his arm cradles her closer before he realizes he's moving, his muscles growing slack under her touch.

There aren't words for what it's means to feel her this close again, the mix of relief and lingering sadness. In the moment it's everything he wants. It's going to end, and he'll be back in an empty bed, listening to the wind as it moves past his lonely little house - but right now, he has her.

Enjoy it while it lasts, Fox. Someday she'll look at him with the same despair and walk out the door...but at least tonight's less empty than it could be.

"If there's anything else you want to know," he murmurs, staring up at the ceiling, "I'll tell you."

Whispered stories in a darkened room seem safer than trying to explain their lives in the daylight.

Finally, thank God, he relaxes. At least physically, at least a little bit. It lets something in her relax in turn, and she echoes his sigh softly.

This is all new, but it doesn't feel that way. Maybe it's just being put through the wringer earlier-- or maybe it's more proof that whatever they are to each other, even where-- when-- she's from, they're already most of the way here.

She considers the offer for a long while-- long enough that, maybe, he'll think she isn't going to answer. Maybe even that she fell asleep, though she hasn't. Her breathing evens out, the confessional darkness calm and quiet.

"There must have been good times," she says softly. "Tell me about those."

"There were so many good times, Scully." He could talk about them all night - or, at least, it feels that way right now. Somehow, his fingers have ended up in her hair, carding through the damp locks over and over again. "We went everywhere - you and me against the world. We changed names like you change your socks...living out of motels, getting paid under the table."

And it was one of the best times of his life, somehow. He tries to think of a specific story. "We were in the mountains for Christmas one year. You, me, and a two-room cabin with a fireplace and a wood-burning stove."

Of course there must have been good times-- more good than bad, you'd guess. And admittedly she's mostly guessing-- but they'll be together for some fifteen years, give or take; there have to have been reasons to stay. Those are easier to imagine than the reasons to leave.

And when he answers, it's just... palpably different, from how they've spoken about her before. There's a lightness to him that makes her curl a little closer, eyes shut as he strokes her hair.

She hums, picturing it, smiling in the darkness.

"Was it snowing?"

"Blizzarding," he answers, and there really is something cheerful in there. "You were worried we wouldn't have enough food to make it to New Year's Eve if it didn't let up, so I promised to go out and hunt a deer for you, if it got that bad."

Which probably would have left them with no food and a case of full-body frostbite, so it's better that he hadn't had to. "We had plenty of champagne, though. A bunch of food. A bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. And when it finally stopped snowing, we found snowshoes in a closet. We went for a walk, and the sun on the snow was dazzling."

Half-starved in a blizzard shouldn't be appealing, but he paints a compelling picture. A... well, an intimate picture, in every sense of the word, and maybe it should feel awkward but it doesn't. She feels-- well, treasured; not her, but a her that was and will be. And sitting here with the steady beat of his heart under her palm, it's close enough.

"No deer?" she asks, a little bit teasing, trying to imagine it; their breath clouding the air, the sky that brilliant, cloudless blue that only comes with the truest cold days. The delight of being a little too cold, so you have to huddle together under a blanket-- better, fundamentally, than being warm would be on its own.

"Just the tracks." Teasing, he adds, "We saw a raccoon, but you didn't want to eat it."

And who could blame her? They were fine, ultimately, and every night, they fell asleep in a tired tangle of limbs. She'd written a letter to her family, telling them she loved them and that she hoped she could come home soon; they sent it after New Year's to a re-mailing service, so it arrived postmarked from Reno.

Maybe he shouldn't be telling her stories so obviously focused on the two of them as a couple. In the years they were away, one of their main hobbies was sex - the cheapest entertainment around, he'd told her more than once, usually while slipping a hand down her pants. But the intimacy of their life together was part of what made the good times good. They'd been connected - body, mind, and spirit - and entirely in sync.

He misses that.

"And then there was the summer we worked hospitality in the Florida Keys." That had been stupid, ultimately - too small an area, too difficult to make a quick escape - but it had been great while it lasted, and it's not like they didn't survive. "You made so many mojitos that the very mention of mint made you scowl for a while."

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