jowls | open post.

"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."

"I don't think raccoons are edible."

Her nose scrunches, but she's more amused than put off. It sounds more like a relative of their stupid banter on stakeouts-- threats to bring him liverwurst sandwiches and making up stories about passers-by.

She doesn't understand the nuance of it, their life on the run-- on the run from what, exactly? But there's an adventure to it, a romanticism in the way he talks that feels important and true. Dana Scully, on the cusp of dying in her own time, can understand that desire to hit the road and disappear together.

"You'd be a terrible waiter."

"Everything's edible, if you're really determined." Fortunately, they hadn't had to be, and that raccoon probably lived a long life of scavenging trash.

Her next comment makes him laugh. It really is like having her back. Why it can't be like this with his Scully will haunt him later, but right now, he's just grateful to have it back for a few minutes. "That is why I left the waiting to you. I was a humble dock worker.

"Cleaning boats, hauling equipment...I was tan, one hundred percent muscle, and you couldn't keep your hands off me." Maybe too much, but he doesn't care. That's the shape of the story he wants to tell. "You're the one who got all the tips, though. Drunks like you, Scully. When you're sarcastic, they think it's cute."

It's a lifetime away but she can see it so clearly, and she laughs, because even if she hasn't done anything like that since college she's sure he's right. Older men in a vacation resort, she could wrap them around her fingers if she wanted to.

And it rings true, it explains some of how he's different. Mulder has always been athletic, but she noticed immediately how he's broadened out. Guiltily she feels a spark of interest, an echo of that time between them-- when she'll have license to have her hands on him whenever she wants.

"And what about the Bahamas?" Other than learning to cook.

Her fingers itch to try her luck touching him.

"I never took you to England," he says, and here, he's wistful. There's so much they never did together, whether because the world was falling down around them, or because one or both of them were cowards. It lacks the weight of his real sorrow, but there's an unelaborated regret there all the same. "But I took you to the Bahamas. Not so different from Florida, but half the time, we pretended we were perpetual tourists. We blended in better that way - and the United States doesn't have...a great relationship with Bahamian authorities. It was harder to get to us."

What else? So much else. "You loved it - I think if you were reincarnated as a seal, you'd have a blissful life. I don't think you appreciated the comparison then - but lying out on the beach, swimming in the ocean, coming back to our rooms...we worked there, but we didn't need much to get by. Mostly because I started burning us dinner.

"I'm a master at cooking rice and beans now," he adds, and there's something amused in his voice. It's so far from the cuisine either of them grew up with - but you buy what's there, and what's cheap, and they could get a long way on pigeon peas and long-grain rice. "Grits with sardines on top - it's better than it sounds. The catch of the day, whatever it was. You were very proud when I lit the grill myself."

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