jowls | open post.

It's hard to know whether he has something specific in mind, but it's a beautiful notion anyway. There are a hundred little moments she could point to-- hot coffees on stakeouts, dumb jokes, takeout orders, weary nights in forgettable diners-- and it's the best they could do. And somehow, marvelously, it was enough.

And maybe it's odd, being here-- in the house she'll move into when she leaves him, face to face with the sorrow she'll leave behind-- but all she can think of is, if she goes home and she really survives, there's so much ahead of her. Terrible motels and movies and leftovers and children and years of learning each other's bodies, and even if it all ends badly, it seems like it'll be worth it.

She props herself up a little to kiss his jaw before slumping back against his shoulder. It's all the answer she can muster.

Her gentleness in moments like this will never cease to amaze him. She's generous with him, even when he doesn't deserve it, and there's a sleepy grace to every gesture. Scully is Scully is Scully, no matter when or how she's lying in his arms, the tension gone from her. If he could only find a way for her - the right her, the one who belongs here - to stay.

"Get some sleep," he tells her, tilting his head down to kiss her head one last time. He might even manage the same, if he's lucky - feeling the rise and fall of her breath always helps lull him.

If she could, she'd give him more. Try to stay up long enough to see him off to sleep, or see if his body might choose to cooperate now that things are a little less urgent. But, God, she's tired. The emotional discoveries today left her wrung out and Mulder's attentions have tired her body to match.

So she doesn't argue; just hums sleepily and settles against him. Strictly speaking she's not usually a cuddler, but Mulder is an exception in most areas, and pinning him down might make him get some rest.

It won't take her long to drift off.

He's awake well after her breathing grows slow and even, but he doesn't mind. There's plenty to think about: the sense memories of Scully curled into his side, the eerie quiet of a house he doesn't belong in, the road ahead of them both. Ways they could get her home, what they'll have to do if they can't manage it. What they'll have to tell her mother, if this turns into the kind of long-term stay Scully's health can't afford.

Somewhere in the middle of trying to brainstorm ways to source a microchip for her neck, he does end up falling asleep, though, and though he wakes up once or twice, he can get back easily. He always has slept better in her presence; if she sticks around, there's a decent chance he'll be back to keeping (mostly) normal-people hours.

Until he gets over the novelty of her presence, anyway, and loses himself in conspiracy all over again. But that's a bridge he can't cross from here.

He wakes early the next morning, loath to disturb her and yet needing to get up. Carefully, he slides out from under her and pads off to the bathroom - where, on a whim, he decides that he may as well take a shower while he's in the neighborhood. Present-day Scully may be entitled to compensation, when all is said and done.

She sleeps better than she has been, which stands to reason; there's been that tension she at first couldn't understand, and then couldn't fix, finally broken down in the quiet darkness of her future self's bed. Maybe she owes herself an apology for that, but she imagines at least in the future she'll understand her own stubborn refusal to be sorry for any of it.

Mulder is always a steadying presence, the one thing that fundamentally makes sense to her in a world that rarely does, and that apparently works on her unconscious mind as well. There was a time, early in their partnership, when she'd tried to resist that sense of safety in his embrace, insistent that she didn't need it, conscious of how it looked: her youth, her femininity, her stature making her a damsel in distress. But he's never respected her less while offering comfort. It's taken time to understand that accepting protection doesn't mean she needs it. She can stand on her own, but she doesn't have to do it alone.

He's gone when she rouses, but the rainfall sound of the shower answers her questions instantly. Disinclined to lounge, she decides to try her luck figuring out the coffee machine-- the entire kitchen seems like a science fiction parody but she's got determination and the innate knowledge of how Dana Scully organizers cabinets on her side, and by the time he gets out of the shower, the victorious scent should guide him to the kitchen, where she's dressed in rumpled pyjamas, examining a tetra-pak of almond milk.

He comes out of the bathroom with a fluffy towel wrapped around his waist, surveys his clothing, and decides he's more interested in the scent of coffee. Getting back into yesterday's outfit doesn't really appeal, at the moment; only in a house this spotless is he aware of just how much grime he's been living with. In.

And, though he knows he shouldn't be, he's getting comfortable with Scully's house. It's not his or theirs, purely hers - but it's a nice place, and there's a friendly face waiting in the kitchen. She's technically not dressed, either, even if she's more presentable to company, and there's a kind of sleepiness at the edges of her expression that makes him want to kiss her.

"Almond milk's supposed to be better for you," he offers instead, when he realizes what she's staring at. Did anyone drink almond milk, back in the 90s? Hippies who made it themselves, maybe. "I hear the industry's sucking California's aquifers dry, though."

Though she hears him moving, she doesn't turn until he speaks up, a small smile touching her lips as she does. After last night, she's got full license to look him over in the light of day; and really, the years look good on him.

Funny that they've ended up playing house here, and not in what was (will be?) home. Maybe it's just the lack of history in these walls-- there are no memories to trip him up, very little for her to try and interpret.

She shakes the container idly. With all the travel they do, she's usually got a small carton of Parmalat in the cupboard in case the milk goes off; maybe this is the same habit. It's certainly coming in handy now.

"I'll try to keep that in mind before I buy it." But for now it's too late, and she wants coffee, so she pours two mugs.

It makes no difference to him, except inasmuch as it was once something to tease her about; it especially makes no difference when he's planning on drinking his coffee black.

He comes over to pick up one of the mugs, leaning back against the counter as he takes a sip. There's a slight awkwardness to it - not to any particular gesture, but in the fact that he's back to keeping a little distance between them. However appreciative her gaze when he strides into the room, he doesn't let himself kiss her good morning.

(He wants to - truthfully, he wants to push her up against the counter and give her more than just a kiss in greeting. But it doesn't translate to more than idle desire right now.)

"How'd you sleep?" he asks, for the sake of making conversation, his gaze following her wherever she moves.

Don't think she doesn't notice the careful remove. She pours some of the almond milk into her own cup, then crosses to put the carton in the refrigerator-- and when she returns she takes a step closer into his space, half the distance he's left swallowed up. Pointless to be shy when he's the father of her children.

"Better," she says, simple but earnest, leaning against the counter and into his space. Take two, if he'd like to rethink his position on kissing her; if not, she'll get to it eventually, though she's oddly amused by the awkwardness. There's something bizarrely fitting about it; she's the one this is all new for, but it feels like it could be easy.

"You?" He seems like he actually did sleep, which is surely a victory for Scullys in every timeline and era.

He watches with some private amusement as she comes just a little bit closer to him - casually, deliberately. Just a little adjustment from partner-space to partner-space. Whatever else might be true, she doesn't appear to regret last night, and he's grateful for that.

"Yeah," he answers, and though he doesn't lean down to kiss her, he gives her an unabashed smile, wide and lazy in a way no one else ever sees. "You've always had good taste in mattresses."

Having company and a little pre-sleep entertainment doesn't hurt, either.

His traitor mind thinks, What if it stayed this way? What if they found a way to keep her alive and shrugged apologetically at her family and went on living like this? Together, happy, living a quiet life spent wrapped up in each other's arms - until you destroy it again, Fox.

Any annoyance that he doesn't kiss her melts away in the wake of that grin; it's as good, if not better. Almost definitely better, actually, because it dispels the shadows that have been hanging over them, if only for a moment.

"It was comfortable." Her smile suggests that has very little to do with the (admittedly nice) mattress, and in case he doesn't take the hint, she reaches for his arm to tug him towards the living room, intent on bullying him into sitting on the sofa so she can curl up against his side while they linger over coffee.

"Any ideas for today?"

He's easily led this morning. As soon as Scully's touching him, the idea that she might stop is beyond the pale; what he wants is her, always and everywhere, the only intimacy that's made sense to him in years. He sits down on the couch, cool against his bare back, and lets her get as close as she wants. An arm wrapped around her, his skin still warm and damp and smelling of her soap, and all is right with the world.

Until she speaks again, that is, and what's wrong comes back into focus. He's too comfortable to be bothered by it right now, letting himself instead luxuriate in the weight of her body leaning against his. It's a rare comfort these days, to be this close to someone else. "I hate to say it, but we might be coming up on a dead end. I don't have much in the way of leads for us."

"I think you're right," she murmurs, stubborn enough not to want to admit it, but out of other options.

It's funny, because she doesn't want to leave him-- but at the same time, she misses... well, him, and she misses not feeling so out of place every time she looks at anything around her. And there's the elephant in the room, the intrusion in her skull, the clock ticking down towards an end that might be inevitable after all.

There are worse places to die than beside Mulder, of course. But she doesn't want to. More than ever, she doesn't want to.

She twists and leans up to kiss his cheek, because it's all she can reach without risking spilling her coffee over both of them.

That draws another smile from him - smaller, but still warm - and the desire to ask what's that for? He doesn't, of course; he already knows the answer. But he wants to hear it in her careful, precise words, looking up at him like the sun rose today just for them.

"We'll keep searching," he tells her, because it's not like there's an alternative. They'll try until there's nothing left to try for, and then they'll push themselves even further. "But today...I don't know, Scully. What do we do with today?"

The ball's in her court; it's her life they're leaning on here. He's still an interloper, swathed in a towel that could stand to be re-tucked and drinking a French roast he's never tasted before.

The dutiful answer is: they keep looking. Which at this point is no easy feat-- because he's right; they've exhausted the few leads they had, and there weren't many to begin with.

This... feels more like progress than anything else has, somehow. She's not used to being the one leading by intuition, but if there's a next step to their investigation, she's pretty sure it has to be tell me why I'm going to leave you. It's been on the tip of their tongue for days now, even before the confirmation that she was ever there to begin with-- it feels like fairy-tale logic, and as much as she resents that fact, she can't deny its pull.

She has to ask, she knows.

Leaning forward, she sets her coffee on the table and turns, twisting to face him, settling on her knees.

"Maybe we don't do anything," she says, and this time if he isn't going to kiss her, she'll make the first move.

He might be a sad bastard, but he's not stupid. She sets down her coffee cup, and he does the same - and she won't have to make the first move, because she's radiant in that moment. It's not hard to understand why Scully liked this house, seeing the living room filled with morning sunlight; it's beautiful, and she's beautiful within it, both of them spare and angular but shining with all the sunshine that can be had. No one could resist her then.

Mulder turns as well, not noticing the fact that his towel comes undone in the process, and he kisses her full on the mouth. She tastes like coffee, and without a second thought, his arms go around her. He wants only one thing right now, and it's to pull her into his lap and keep her there as long as possible.

It hardly counts as a seduction, given last night, but it gives her a fierce thrill when he finally kisses her. Her hands land on his shoulders and it's the simplest choice in the world to climb into his lap, to deepen that kiss.

After last night, she's not worried in the least that he wouldn't want her-- but she could imagine him having some crisis of confidence, deciding that it was a mistake. She's quite confident in all their decisions, but clearly Mulder's been wrestling with doubt since she got here.

In the morning light, he's as handsome as he ever has been, and God, she feels lucky to have him looking at her like that.

She's bolstered his confidence, at least for the moment. However doubtful he might be about everything else, there's no denying the fact that Scully's interested.

And that makes two of them - he's got her pulled in close, an arm weighting her down at her hips, a hand sliding over her cheek and into her hair. Whether he can do anything about it today remains to be seen, but he's certainly going to try.

If nothing else, maybe she can make him feel wanted. Because she does want him, desperately-- in any century, evidently. If the woman who moved into this house doesn't, then it's her loss.

If all they do is make out on the couch and watch a movie she'll be satisfied with that, as long as he holds her. But when she pulls back a little to look at him, her gaze is hungry, her pupils wide and dark. She raises a hand to cup his jaw and leans back in to kiss him, to nip at his lower lip.

Wanted, it turns out, is an easy sensation to summon up when Scully's sitting on his lap. She can see him in full daylight, all the marks of age clear on him, and lean in to kiss him anyway. The look on her face speaks volumes, when she meets his gaze.

(He wonders if he's getting off easy by virtue of that same age; it's not like Scully doesn't have a history of being hot for teacher. But he's able to quiet that thought without much trouble, by virtue of the fact that it's Scully. If she's the love of his life - and she is - then he might have to accept that he's hers.)

Mulder follows her lead, letting her take ownership of the kiss - partly because it's sexy, partly because it's working. He doesn't want to do anything to jinx it, but when her teeth graze his lip, his cock twitches under her.

In her opinion, he's a fool if he thinks there's a version of him she doesn't want. (Never mind the apparent evidence of this house. Scully has, frankly, lost interest in her future self's opinions on the matter.) By now he's become familiar; the changes in him aren't jarring, just hints at stories she doesn't fully know-- old and new scars, hard-earned muscles. It's a promise that for a while at least, they can grow old together.

She makes a soft, needy noise at the feel of him beneath her, shifting slightly in his lap, intentionally dragging the soft satin of her stolen pyjamas over him. Without breaking the kiss, she unhooks a few buttons on her top.

If he's a fool, he's at least a fool in a good position right now, groaning as Scully's silky pyjamas slide along his cock. She really does want this, and if they can make it work, he does, too.

Mulder trails slow, hungry kisses down her neck, unbuttoning her pyjamas one-handed with experienced ease, and lets the satin fall back from her chest. He nips another kiss at the rise of one breast, sucking hard enough to leave a mark behind. It won't last, but she'll remember it long after it's gone - he has no doubt of it, mostly because he thinks he will, too. Everything about this morning threatens to live on in his memory, a moment forever light-filled and affectionate.

The low sound sends a little shiver of pleasure down her spine-- however this ends up, it feels leaps and bounds past his frustration last night. She sighs as his lips brush her throat, head tipping to the side to give him more space; this time the rocking of her hips is all instinct. Already she can feel herself getting wet-- for Mulder she's an easy mark.

She's in the midst of dragging her palm down his chest, experimentally teasing his nipple with her thumnb, when he sucks hard on her breast; it makes her cry out, hips bucking, the nails of her other hand biting into his shoulder.

He likes that, her thumb flicking over his nipple, drawing it out small and stiff - but not nearly as much as he likes her reaction to his mouth. The arm slung around her hips presses down, bringing her down just a little harder against his cock. Every silky shift of her body seems to go straight to his groin anyway; he's doing everything in his power to ignore that fact, like his hard-on might disappear if he looks directly at it.

"You like that?" he murmurs against her breast, chasing it with a gentler kiss to her areola, undeniably pleased with himself.

"Yes," she murmurs, voice low and husky. Yes, she likes that; she likes him; she likes the idea of him leaving a mark on her. She likes the way he feels beneath beneath her, though she shares the faint superstition, after last night, that it's better not to say so.

(And, yes, she likes the faint sense of the forbidden-- though that's less to do with him being her decades-older colleague, because he's also himself. But this isn't his house, and even if it's her house it isn't hers.)

"More," she demands, unspecific but vehement, tangling her fingers in his hair and bending to kiss his temple.

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