"No bullet holes?" You'd think she told him she'd personally canceled the World Series. But okay, fine. He'd prefer the Virginia house with fewer bullet holes himself. "You drive a hard bargain, Scully. I can't promise anything on the coaster front, but I'll put all my posters up with masking tape."
The very thought of adding to the décor is imposing, but this is the the only way to find out just how far his privileges go. (Asking? Absolutely not. Impossible.)
It's a poor choice of test, because she scoffs in a way that's unreadable: she could be dismissing the tape, or the idea of his decorating, or his taste in posters. (It's his taste in posters; she doesn't think they need more Bigfoot in their lives, okay.) At the very least it's not the awkward silence that would imply he'd greatly overstepped.
(Maybe if he agrees to frames, like a civilized human being.)
"I promise it's more comfortable when it's not on fire." She shoots a look at him, trying to ferret out how he's feeling about all this. An apology for never asking him over is on the tip of her tongue, but she's not sure how to say it-- not sure whether she ought to.
He knows her well enough that he's not put off by her reaction, even if he can't decide between no masking tape or no posters. (He's leaning towards the masking tape; Scully's always taken fine care of her home, better care than he does. Even when he does end up with art in frames, and it does happen, it's always matched with the detritus that comes of being Fox Mulder.)
"I'm sure it is." His eyes are still on the road, but he can feel her looking at him. He should probably smile, do something reassuring, but he doesn't. His is the I'm driving and having a mildly interesting conversation face, too neutral for any real opinion to cut through. "It was bigger than I imagined."
The real truth is, she doesn't mind his eclectic, chaotic style. Not really. It's cozy in its way, and she finds it reassuring the same way she finds him reassuring. When he was-- while he was gone, she'd kept his apartment more or less as it was, spending time there because she was comfortable there-- until anxiety and hormones and the boredom of being too big to be active had driven her to keep it cleaner than it had been, probably, in his tenure. But whether it's the house or their basement offices, Mulder's spaces feel like an extension of him, and she does appreciate that.
But it's been nice, too, to have the contrast of a neat, orderly home of her own. It's not that she wants an escape, exactly, or even that she prefers the neutral veneer of it, but it's grounding. It's the desk there was never room for. It's the control group for her thoughts.
She eyes him thoughtfully.
"I thought maybe I'd get another dog someday."
Not as romantic as I always hoped we'd get back together, which would be nice to be able to say but isn't strictly true. But surely it's better than I thought I'd move someone else in eventually, right?
He makes a small noise, like oh, yeah, of course. That much, he'll believe - far more easily than I was just waiting for you to get your shit together, and then I thought maybe we'd live happily ever after in Maryland.
There's a question waiting at the back of his throat, or maybe an accusation. That condo looked like a place for having friends over, for family gatherings, for all the things they didn't and couldn't have out in the sticks. It's everything he couldn't give her before and still can't now. But that's not the question that wants to be voiced. Is this what you wanted? is. Is this what you want now?
(And, the inevitable follow-up: I want you, and I want you to be happy. I want both. How do I -)
"Next one could be Ishmael," is what he actually offers.
She gave up on happily ever afters as a rule, a long, long time ago; where they are now is more than she'd let herself hope for. That doesn't mean she never wanted it, but experience had driven her back to old habits. She'd have called it pragmatism, though self-denial is probably closer to the truth. If she couldn't have what she wanted, why let herself want?
"Queequeg, Daggoo, Tashtego," she counts off half-absently. "Arguably Fedallah, though that seems like asking for trouble." As if any part of her favorite book isn't tragic, but that's neither here nor there. This conversation isn't a real conversation anyway, just verbal filler papering over their nerves.
It seems like it should be easy in theory: they can go back and forth, they can be together or apart, but still together. She doesn't sacrifice connection to a community, he doesn't have to feel permanently stifled. What if he hates it there, though. Or what if I can't share my space.
All of these are terrible questions with terrible answers. Determined not to ask them she shifts her weight instead, leaning inward rather than toward the door, and lays her hand on his leg.
"Pequod," he offers, going along with the game. "Pequod would be a good name for a dog."
Pee, Pequod, you could tell it, on long walks that take longer when your companion has to sniff every fire hydrant. It occurs to him to wonder why he's never gotten a dog. It's not like he doesn't like them, even if he doesn't like them as much as Scully. He could use the companionship, probably; they could go running around along country highways and tramping through meadows and forests all over the state.
(It's because dogs are a Scully thing. He'd never be able to look at a dog without thinking of her.)
Her hand settles on his thigh, and it draws him out of his thoughts. His quads slacken, and he hadn't even noticed they were tense. What it means, Mulder suspects, is that she can read the uncertainty in him. That her response is an attempt to soothe it feels both notable and obvious.
"We could get a dog," he says, partly because they could, and partly because he needs to press at the borders of this conversation. How far does this go? How open is Scully's home to interlopers? Not the four-legged kind, but the two-legged stray she's currently leaning in toward.
It's harder than ever to keep secrets from each other. It feels fair; it's never ended well when they've tried. She can read his tension, even if she can't interpret it fully. That's a function of distance as much as anything; understanding his mood needs more context than she's got, data locked away in the time they spent apart. It doesn't mean she's lost the knack, really.
She doesn't move her hand.
"Do you even want a dog? You hated poor Queequeg."
It's like a weird, unspoken parody of conversations they used to have before. Do you ever think of settling down? Getting off the road? A family, a dog, a picket fence? Move to the suburbs and stay together forever?
"That was Queequeg." He waves a hand, a single sweeping motion, as though the inherent Queequegness of her last dog explains everything.
It doesn't, in fact, explain anything. Is it worthwhile to relitigate the life of a dog who's been dead for twenty years? Maybe it would be, but an older and wiser Mulder has decided that Scully needs to dig up those remains, if anyone does. She loved that dog, and she'd been broken up over his untimely demise. He can be an adult about the little fuzzball, maybe even acknowledge that his dislike had nothing to do with the dog itself if pressed. But it's Scully's wound to open up.
It's possible that her love for Queequeg, like Mulder's disdain, is tangled up in more than the dog itself; a brief and tragic friendship, a remarkable experience, the whole mystery of what happened with Bruckman. And the circumstances-- the unexpected predator at the lake-- it was a lot, at the time.
It's an old scar now, a dull pain she doesn't need to revisit; just a pang in bad weather.
"You have to know what you're getting into with a dog in the suburbs. You need to know which neighbor you're trying to annoy so you can pick the right one."
She flashes a smile he won't see, but that doesn't matter. Hopefully he gets the idea that terrorizing the neighbors can be a couples' bonding activity.
He glances her way at that, lifting his brows. Do go on, Scully. "Sounds like you have a neighbor in mind."
The country version of dog selection, he thinks, is probably more a matter of pick one that wants to do what you want to do, to hell with the rest of the world. And it's what he'd prefer, personally, if only because it means they won't end up with a short-legged lapdog that can't keep up with Mulder on runs.
But if he could bug someone who's made her life more difficult, he's not about to complain. (Provided they go searching for a dog, that is. Provided this is the kind of long-term planning they can do. Right now, it feels right, and who knows how it'll be in a few days.)
Which is a bit of a paradox, she knows; maybe what she needs is not community but the illusion of it. She does like having neighbors even if she doesn't engage with them.
(She likes the idea of jumping ship when she gets tired of them, though-- driving out to the house, falling asleep on the sofa watching old Twilight Zone tapes while Mulder talks in hushed tones about his favorite scenes. She likes, best of all, the idea of not having to choose. But it only works, she thinks, if he can stand to cook in her kitchen sometimes, or roll his eyes and be scarce for a couple hours while her book club meets. Sit in front of the gas fireplace petting whatever dog ends up suiting the right flavor of vengeance.)
"Aye aye, Captain." The idea appeals, if only because it implies a longevity to these plans beyond idle conversation as they drive through her neighborhood. Maybe he should have packed a real suitcase instead of relying on his bug-out bag.
His hand settles on top of hers, squeezing lightly. "Of course, we could always annoy all of them and get a wolfhound."
He can pick up a pack of underwear at the drugstore. There may or may not be some very old shirts in her drawers that originated in his drawers, years ago; she's taking the fifth on that.
"What about a Siberian husky-- have you ever heard one?"
Her place isn't ideal, but it wouldn't be too cramped for a big dog. And the house would be a perfect place to run. She's not particularly serious about it-- well, she's half-serious about a dog, and totally serious about not knowing what she wants. But Mulder is engaging with it, and that much is promising.
As they pull up, she's actually starting to feel mildly optimistic, her nerves dissipating. She ought to get keys made; show him all the alarm codes. Even if he doesn't want to stick around long, in the end, she misses the sense of security that gave her back when they each had their own places.
She peers critically at the condo.
"It does look like they cleaned up," she says approvingly.
"You want something that howls?" Amusement runs through his voice. "Come outside with me tonight, we'll manage until we find a dog."
It's a terrible pickup line, as pickup lines go, but he's confident enough in the fact that he's sleeping over that he'll try to make her laugh.
He parks the car, giving the place the once-over. In the daylight, it's pretty nice: a different kind of beauty from the house in Farrs Corner, but beautiful nonetheless. A manicured kind of natural, all the elements of the outdoors bent around the human desire for a neat home with a neat garden. It's quieter than he expected. "You'd never think the robot revolution started here."
It's more amusement than admonishment, though, a fond verbal eyeroll. They could certainly piss off the neighbors that way. But, she thinks, her bed is much more comfortable.
"It didn't, it started in the restaurant." Stepping out, she goes to grab her minimal luggage, fishes in her purse for the keys. "Though this was a decisive battle."
She heads to get the door, gritting her teeth against the alarm. That might have to go, honestly.
Exactly the reaction he'd hoped for. With a laugh, he gets out, trailing along behind her. It feels relatively private, going up the front walk - less unlike home than he might think.
"The place where the war truly began," he insists. Once the alarm's shut off, he takes a look around at the front hall. "It looks good in here. Very...formal."
It's not like the old days; she misses the background hum of a neighborhood, but she wasn't itching to go back to apartment life. It's just a different balance between privacy and isolation.
"The alarm code is 0223. As long as it's in the mood to cooperate." She drops her purse on a side table, and takes a moment to look things over, trying to see it with fresh eyes.
"I like to keep it near. Ah... living room, kitchen..." She waves vaguely. "We'll probably have to empty out the freezer, I'm sure it's a mess. Bedroom's this way."
"Easy to remember." He feels like a stranger in here, even with extra clothes out in the car. (It seemed overly hopeful to bring them in, even though it's clear he'll have to run out for them tomorrow morning. There's just something about being at his ex-but-kind-of-current girlfriend's home, knowing he'd never been invited over before, that makes him work off the instinct of don't jinx this.) But he doesn't feel as much like a stranger as he did the first night he'd seen the condo. This is more like stranger*, the asterisk leading to the thought maybe not forever.
He gives the living room a glance, and the kitchen. It's nicer than his, the appliances shiny and smart-looking, if giving off a faintly dangerous aura. And then she's showing him the bedroom, which has a leg up on the living room in terms of coziness despite the fact that it feels strangely empty at the moment. Mulder's not sure if that's what it was always like, or if this is a post-explosion development. "For a house that recently experienced an indoor fireball, it doesn't smell too bad."
It's not a surprise that he connects the dots on the code, but it's quietly pleasing, considering how often over the years the day passed unmarked. Knowing Mulder he'd have remembered immediately even if it was random, after all. Last time they were here, picking delicately through the wreckage, it felt much more odd-- she felt like a stranger herself, the most familiar part of it being at a crime scene with Mulder. Now, it looks like her home again.
She never really intended to shut him out of a part of her life, but there wasn't an easy way to invite him in. But it hadn't been sustainable, trying to keep Mulder at arm's length. It doesn't feel like an intrusion, though; a little peculiar, but not bad. She's glad he's here. He's very welcome.
"Right? This side of the house had less damage, but I'm impressed."
Her bedroom is... well, the same neutral as the rest of the house, in most ways; earthy colors and soft light, neat as a pin. In a way not so different from her old apartment, though with less ruffles on the bedspread. She stoops to slide the lockbox under the foot of the bed, and absently smooths a hand over the taut sheets there. She ought to vacuum soon; no chance in hell is she getting another robot one to do it.
"I... well." She keeps almost apologizing for never having him over, but she doesn't really want to. Sorry isn't quite the right feeling. So she shrugs instead.
"Here it all is," he agrees, sitting down at the edge of the bed and giving it an experimental bounce. Also nice - also probably nicer than his bed, a thought that's not at all unwelcome when he considers the forecast is a 90% chance of sleeping in it. He looks up at Scully, considering the look on her face. "So what's next?"
There's dinner, as a possibility, but there's also cataloguing what needs to be replaced or repaired. And there's always pulling her down here and seeing just how much nicer a mattress it is - or pulling out a deck of cards and playing poker. Watching a movie. Starting the conversation that's hanging in the air between them. The night's full of possibilities, all of them focused on Scully. Whatever you want, he wants to say. I'm just happy to be here.
It should be what she wants-- to have, well, whatever she wants, and to have him, too. Maybe she's just not used to the idea yet. The ascetic habit takes some time to break.
He doesn't look out of place here. That's a good first step.
She bends to kiss him, lingering and lazy. Just because she can. Because she wants to.
"Up for clearing out the fridge? That's probably the worst thing to get out of the way."
It's the practical answer-- get that done and then linger over the rest, make lists, order dinner, fall into bed. But she's not going to complain if he'd rather kiss her again instead.
It's a good kiss - unsurprising, given that it's Scully kissing him - and more than anything else, it feels decisive. Settled. Proof positive that he's saying the night, and maybe longer. Mulder cups her cheeks, feeling the edges of her jaw rest against his palm.
"Sure," he says, making no effort to get up - not until he's kissed her again. It's the equivalent of inking a contract, if significantly more enjoyable than discussing legally binding decisions. The question asked: Do you want this, for as long as I want you here? The question answered: I want to be anywhere you are.
Even, it turns out, if that anywhere is cleaning out the fridge. He gets up, a little like he owns the place as he starts walking back toward the kitchen. "Grocery trip tomorrow?"
It might not be legally binding, but it feels significant. They've never been much for making things official; their relationship has fallen out of order; devotion coming before romance, commitment before the question. From the outside it might make their bond seem ill-defined, but she's never thought of it that way; Mulder is a universal constant, a part of her life, no matter what you call him.
"We'll need to," she agrees. Today they can get something delivered, tomorrow they can go for breakfast, linger over coffee someone else made. Good food with no dishes is one of the charms of not living out in the sticks, worth taking advantage of. Maybe she's trying to make it seem a little more appealing, who knows.
Trailing into the kitchen, she takes a moment to wrap an arm around him, lean against him, before pulling the freezer open. The good news is it got turned back on, at some point; the less good news is, everything is definitely spoiled and somewhat stuck to the shelves.
He remembers walking around with her in the Farrs Corner house, back when they bought it, when they were alone in it for the first time. It felt the way he feels now, with Scully pulling him into a one-armed hug. Silent appreciation for the fact that they're here, and here together. Anticipation for the future. And an overwhelming sense of love for the woman next to him. There's no way to put any of it into words, but he doesn't need to; surely Scully can feel it, too.
He makes a face when the freezer door swings open. Letting go of her, Mulder walks over to the sink and opens the cabinet under it. "Good thing we're getting delivery. Where do you keep your trash bags?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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The very thought of adding to the décor is imposing, but this is the the only way to find out just how far his privileges go. (Asking? Absolutely not. Impossible.)
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(Maybe if he agrees to frames, like a civilized human being.)
"I promise it's more comfortable when it's not on fire." She shoots a look at him, trying to ferret out how he's feeling about all this. An apology for never asking him over is on the tip of her tongue, but she's not sure how to say it-- not sure whether she ought to.
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"I'm sure it is." His eyes are still on the road, but he can feel her looking at him. He should probably smile, do something reassuring, but he doesn't. His is the I'm driving and having a mildly interesting conversation face, too neutral for any real opinion to cut through. "It was bigger than I imagined."
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But it's been nice, too, to have the contrast of a neat, orderly home of her own. It's not that she wants an escape, exactly, or even that she prefers the neutral veneer of it, but it's grounding. It's the desk there was never room for. It's the control group for her thoughts.
She eyes him thoughtfully.
"I thought maybe I'd get another dog someday."
Not as romantic as I always hoped we'd get back together, which would be nice to be able to say but isn't strictly true. But surely it's better than I thought I'd move someone else in eventually, right?
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There's a question waiting at the back of his throat, or maybe an accusation. That condo looked like a place for having friends over, for family gatherings, for all the things they didn't and couldn't have out in the sticks. It's everything he couldn't give her before and still can't now. But that's not the question that wants to be voiced. Is this what you wanted? is. Is this what you want now?
(And, the inevitable follow-up: I want you, and I want you to be happy. I want both. How do I -)
"Next one could be Ishmael," is what he actually offers.
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"Queequeg, Daggoo, Tashtego," she counts off half-absently. "Arguably Fedallah, though that seems like asking for trouble." As if any part of her favorite book isn't tragic, but that's neither here nor there. This conversation isn't a real conversation anyway, just verbal filler papering over their nerves.
It seems like it should be easy in theory: they can go back and forth, they can be together or apart, but still together. She doesn't sacrifice connection to a community, he doesn't have to feel permanently stifled. What if he hates it there, though. Or what if I can't share my space.
All of these are terrible questions with terrible answers. Determined not to ask them she shifts her weight instead, leaning inward rather than toward the door, and lays her hand on his leg.
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Pee, Pequod, you could tell it, on long walks that take longer when your companion has to sniff every fire hydrant. It occurs to him to wonder why he's never gotten a dog. It's not like he doesn't like them, even if he doesn't like them as much as Scully. He could use the companionship, probably; they could go running around along country highways and tramping through meadows and forests all over the state.
(It's because dogs are a Scully thing. He'd never be able to look at a dog without thinking of her.)
Her hand settles on his thigh, and it draws him out of his thoughts. His quads slacken, and he hadn't even noticed they were tense. What it means, Mulder suspects, is that she can read the uncertainty in him. That her response is an attempt to soothe it feels both notable and obvious.
"We could get a dog," he says, partly because they could, and partly because he needs to press at the borders of this conversation. How far does this go? How open is Scully's home to interlopers? Not the four-legged kind, but the two-legged stray she's currently leaning in toward.
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She doesn't move her hand.
"Do you even want a dog? You hated poor Queequeg."
It's like a weird, unspoken parody of conversations they used to have before. Do you ever think of settling down? Getting off the road? A family, a dog, a picket fence? Move to the suburbs and stay together forever?
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It doesn't, in fact, explain anything. Is it worthwhile to relitigate the life of a dog who's been dead for twenty years? Maybe it would be, but an older and wiser Mulder has decided that Scully needs to dig up those remains, if anyone does. She loved that dog, and she'd been broken up over his untimely demise. He can be an adult about the little fuzzball, maybe even acknowledge that his dislike had nothing to do with the dog itself if pressed. But it's Scully's wound to open up.
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It's an old scar now, a dull pain she doesn't need to revisit; just a pang in bad weather.
"You have to know what you're getting into with a dog in the suburbs. You need to know which neighbor you're trying to annoy so you can pick the right one."
She flashes a smile he won't see, but that doesn't matter. Hopefully he gets the idea that terrorizing the neighbors can be a couples' bonding activity.
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The country version of dog selection, he thinks, is probably more a matter of pick one that wants to do what you want to do, to hell with the rest of the world. And it's what he'd prefer, personally, if only because it means they won't end up with a short-legged lapdog that can't keep up with Mulder on runs.
But if he could bug someone who's made her life more difficult, he's not about to complain. (Provided they go searching for a dog, that is. Provided this is the kind of long-term planning they can do. Right now, it feels right, and who knows how it'll be in a few days.)
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Which is a bit of a paradox, she knows; maybe what she needs is not community but the illusion of it. She does like having neighbors even if she doesn't engage with them.
(She likes the idea of jumping ship when she gets tired of them, though-- driving out to the house, falling asleep on the sofa watching old Twilight Zone tapes while Mulder talks in hushed tones about his favorite scenes. She likes, best of all, the idea of not having to choose. But it only works, she thinks, if he can stand to cook in her kitchen sometimes, or roll his eyes and be scarce for a couple hours while her book club meets. Sit in front of the gas fireplace petting whatever dog ends up suiting the right flavor of vengeance.)
"So take notes, if any of them do anything."
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His hand settles on top of hers, squeezing lightly. "Of course, we could always annoy all of them and get a wolfhound."
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"What about a Siberian husky-- have you ever heard one?"
Her place isn't ideal, but it wouldn't be too cramped for a big dog. And the house would be a perfect place to run. She's not particularly serious about it-- well, she's half-serious about a dog, and totally serious about not knowing what she wants. But Mulder is engaging with it, and that much is promising.
As they pull up, she's actually starting to feel mildly optimistic, her nerves dissipating. She ought to get keys made; show him all the alarm codes. Even if he doesn't want to stick around long, in the end, she misses the sense of security that gave her back when they each had their own places.
She peers critically at the condo.
"It does look like they cleaned up," she says approvingly.
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It's a terrible pickup line, as pickup lines go, but he's confident enough in the fact that he's sleeping over that he'll try to make her laugh.
He parks the car, giving the place the once-over. In the daylight, it's pretty nice: a different kind of beauty from the house in Farrs Corner, but beautiful nonetheless. A manicured kind of natural, all the elements of the outdoors bent around the human desire for a neat home with a neat garden. It's quieter than he expected. "You'd never think the robot revolution started here."
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It's more amusement than admonishment, though, a fond verbal eyeroll. They could certainly piss off the neighbors that way. But, she thinks, her bed is much more comfortable.
"It didn't, it started in the restaurant." Stepping out, she goes to grab her minimal luggage, fishes in her purse for the keys. "Though this was a decisive battle."
She heads to get the door, gritting her teeth against the alarm. That might have to go, honestly.
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"The place where the war truly began," he insists. Once the alarm's shut off, he takes a look around at the front hall. "It looks good in here. Very...formal."
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"The alarm code is 0223. As long as it's in the mood to cooperate." She drops her purse on a side table, and takes a moment to look things over, trying to see it with fresh eyes.
"I like to keep it near. Ah... living room, kitchen..." She waves vaguely. "We'll probably have to empty out the freezer, I'm sure it's a mess. Bedroom's this way."
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He gives the living room a glance, and the kitchen. It's nicer than his, the appliances shiny and smart-looking, if giving off a faintly dangerous aura. And then she's showing him the bedroom, which has a leg up on the living room in terms of coziness despite the fact that it feels strangely empty at the moment. Mulder's not sure if that's what it was always like, or if this is a post-explosion development. "For a house that recently experienced an indoor fireball, it doesn't smell too bad."
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She never really intended to shut him out of a part of her life, but there wasn't an easy way to invite him in. But it hadn't been sustainable, trying to keep Mulder at arm's length. It doesn't feel like an intrusion, though; a little peculiar, but not bad. She's glad he's here. He's very welcome.
"Right? This side of the house had less damage, but I'm impressed."
Her bedroom is... well, the same neutral as the rest of the house, in most ways; earthy colors and soft light, neat as a pin. In a way not so different from her old apartment, though with less ruffles on the bedspread. She stoops to slide the lockbox under the foot of the bed, and absently smooths a hand over the taut sheets there. She ought to vacuum soon; no chance in hell is she getting another robot one to do it.
"I... well." She keeps almost apologizing for never having him over, but she doesn't really want to. Sorry isn't quite the right feeling. So she shrugs instead.
"Here it all is."
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There's dinner, as a possibility, but there's also cataloguing what needs to be replaced or repaired. And there's always pulling her down here and seeing just how much nicer a mattress it is - or pulling out a deck of cards and playing poker. Watching a movie. Starting the conversation that's hanging in the air between them. The night's full of possibilities, all of them focused on Scully. Whatever you want, he wants to say. I'm just happy to be here.
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It should be what she wants-- to have, well, whatever she wants, and to have him, too. Maybe she's just not used to the idea yet. The ascetic habit takes some time to break.
He doesn't look out of place here. That's a good first step.
She bends to kiss him, lingering and lazy. Just because she can. Because she wants to.
"Up for clearing out the fridge? That's probably the worst thing to get out of the way."
It's the practical answer-- get that done and then linger over the rest, make lists, order dinner, fall into bed. But she's not going to complain if he'd rather kiss her again instead.
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"Sure," he says, making no effort to get up - not until he's kissed her again. It's the equivalent of inking a contract, if significantly more enjoyable than discussing legally binding decisions. The question asked: Do you want this, for as long as I want you here? The question answered: I want to be anywhere you are.
Even, it turns out, if that anywhere is cleaning out the fridge. He gets up, a little like he owns the place as he starts walking back toward the kitchen. "Grocery trip tomorrow?"
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"We'll need to," she agrees. Today they can get something delivered, tomorrow they can go for breakfast, linger over coffee someone else made. Good food with no dishes is one of the charms of not living out in the sticks, worth taking advantage of. Maybe she's trying to make it seem a little more appealing, who knows.
Trailing into the kitchen, she takes a moment to wrap an arm around him, lean against him, before pulling the freezer open. The good news is it got turned back on, at some point; the less good news is, everything is definitely spoiled and somewhat stuck to the shelves.
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He makes a face when the freezer door swings open. Letting go of her, Mulder walks over to the sink and opens the cabinet under it. "Good thing we're getting delivery. Where do you keep your trash bags?"
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