jowls | open post.

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."

"I must have been so sunburnt."

But it's a lovely notion all the same. Life by the ocean will always appeal to her; she's never thought of island life exactly but it sounds perfect, the way he tells it.

If they had nothing else they'd have each other. Innately, she understands how important that would be.

In the darkness she sighs softly, mulling it all over, shifting so her hand is on his stomach.

A future she couldn't have hoped for. Is it in jeopardy, because she's here?

"I want all of that," she murmurs.

"We spent a fortune in sunscreen and aloe vera," he agrees. Her hand moves a little further down his torso, and he thinks he knows where this is going - and then she speaks again, and he's sure of it.

They shouldn't. She's feeling vulnerable - lost in time and space, stuck relying on him, processing pain and grief for things that haven't happened yet - and he's a lonely bastard who's spent too much time alone. Whether she realizes or not, he's taking advantage of her - it feels like he is, anyway. After decades of grabbing her hand and pulling her into danger, he's come to a place where he can't help but wonder if all he's done is drag her from one miserable event to another.

You'll lose your family, your children, your identity, your chances for friendship and love - but you'll have me. If she hears all that and still wants to be this close to him, maybe he's not the crazy one after all.

"You'll have all that." Mulder turns his head enough to kiss the top of her head, where the scent of her shampoo still clings. "And more. You deserve the world, Scully."

Part of her had worried he'd push her away, turn her down out of misplaced chivalry, or because he doesn't want her. This is, after all, a strange situation; they aren't interchangeable with themselves, but there's a shared bond that carries more weight than it could in her own moment.

And she thinks: what if I don't? What if he's right, and someone has sent her here to die, to keep him from giving her these years? What if it all ends in a month, or three months, in his secluded house-- what if this is all she gets?

It's a terrible reason to do what she's doing, she knows. But it's not the only reason she lifts her face to look at him, finally adjusted to the darkness, and arches up to kiss him.

It's not going to end. He would have done anything, back then, to save her, and almost twenty years on, nothing's changed. Even if they have to find a way to commission the chip themselves, they'll make it happen. Scully's not going to die - not now, possibly never.

Mulder knows she's going to kiss him, and he knows he should stop her, and he doesn't move an inch, watching in the dark room as her head rises. She kisses him, and he aches with the feeling of it - but his body responds as easily as when she slid up next to him. This is something he knows by heart, and he lets himself have a few blissful seconds before he breaks the kiss.

"Scully..." He has yet to get over her, yet to try anything with anyone else. He'd heard once, or seen in a magazine article maybe, that mourning a relationship could take as long as half the time the relationship existed - and by that measure, it's going to be years before he's willing to take steps toward anything else. But there's still a kind of wrongness to having her back, knowing she felt like he put her through hell and letting this younger, hopeful Scully believe things might be okay. "Are you sure?"

What he means is: I meant it when I said you deserve more.

She may be young, but she wouldn't call herself hopeful. Scully's gotten here after the end of things; and even if she doesn't understand exactly why, she still knows him, and for her that's enough. Maybe she can't have London or the Bahamas or Christmas in the mountains, but she can have this much, this night, this moment.

At home she's denied herself even that much-- because they have to, for the work; because she knows her days are numbered and she'd thought, if she let herself tell him, that it would destroy him.

But as it turns out-- he's lost her, and he's still here. That's not hope, or belief; it's a quantifiable fact that he's survived her.

And maybe, still, she shouldn't. That kind of thing is easier to see in hindsight-- for God's sake, in med school, if she could go back in time she'd hate herself. Maybe the Dana Scully who moved to this house, who chose the things in it, who didn't tell Mulder how to find her-- maybe she'd scoff the same way, at her younger counterpart whispering an affirmation and kissing him again, sliding closer to him so they don't have to stretch to meet, her arm spread over his chest now.

But she thinks-- there must have been good times, and even if she'll leave, they have to count for something. Just because something ends doesn't mean it shouldn't have started. If she knows herself at all, she wouldn't begrudge herself this. And if she would-- then, frankly, to hell with the future; she'll take the present by the horns for as long as she can.

He rolls onto his side, facing her fully, letting himself be swept up by her apparent desire. That she wants him this badly feels baffling to him, when he stops to think about it - he's not in bad shape, but he pales in comparison to the man she knows - and so he doesn't stop to think. Kissing her, nipping at her mouth, letting his tongue slide along hers - it's easy to stay locked into sensation, at least for a while. His hand moves over her side, coming to rest just above the swell of her hip, making no effort to cop a feel.

When they're both breathing heavily, his lips lingering at the corner of her mouth, he mumbles, "What do you want, Dana? How far are we taking this?"

He's fairly sure he knows what her answer will be, but that doesn't make it any less mind-boggling to him in the moment.

The way she sees it-- it really only took her a few days to fall for Mulder. It took several years to recognize the fact, but between their history and the time she's spent with him--

All this is justification, and while that's habit, she doesn't really need it. He kisses her like he knows her better than she knows herself, and she thinks, he just knows-- he probably always has. It's not about time or history, it's that the two of them fit like a lock and key, different but complementary.

She makes a soft sound of protest when he pulls away to speak, but the way he says Dana makes her shiver. He's always been able to make her last name sound so intimate, but this is new territory-- and, apparently, she's very into it.

"Everything," she says, and she's beaming at him. She puts her hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. "Show me a future."

Not just the one in his rearview mirror. They're here tonight-- there must be something ahead of both of them.

Her palm is warm, his heartbeat steady, and the connection between those two points feels like it's always existed. Scully and Mulder since long before either of them knew that's what they could be - as long as they've existed, maybe this has just been waiting to be found.

Mulder hopes so, anyway. The alternative, that he's somehow cornered her into something she'll grow to regret, kills him.

He cups her face, feeling her smile where it makes her cheeks round, and kisses her again. "I don't know if there is a future. But -"

But he'll give her what he has.

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