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?"
Neatly lined up with an assortment of cleaning supplies. The condo might be unfamiliar, but it's arranged according to classic Scully sensibilities. He's lived with her long enough that it must be easy to guess.
When they'd moved into the house, it had felt so incredibly good just to know they could stay. No more fake names, no stash of forged IDs, no counting down the days until they had to move on. That sense of promise had been intoxicating. And though she'd left-- she loves the house, still. She loves him.
And if both of them can bend a little, here and there... Then, maybe, they don't break.
She starts to pry up a frostbitten stack of microwave dinners.
"Not as bad as losing power in the morgue," she points out.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Mulder can't help but be a little impressed at how neat this place is. Not that it's surprising, given that it's Scully, but even the cupboard under the sing looks like it gets scrubbed every once in a while.
"For the smell alone," he agrees, and once he's got a trash bag open, he holds it out. "Hey, Scully - three-pointer."
Well, under the sink probably gets a helping hand from a once-in-a-blue-moon cleaning lady; Scully is only human, and long past the point where pride makes her do it all herself. But she runs a tight ship now as always.
She laughs at the horrific mental image, prying the last bit of cardboard loose. Throwing it seems like an awful idea, so she leans over and gives it a light toss into the bag.
"Come closer for this one."
She's got a slightly-misshapen, small whole chicken for the pile.
"Slam dunk," he suggests, giving the chicken a canny look. It's frozen, or at least frozen-ish, but it also obviously thawed at some point - it's probably for the best that it's solid right now, because otherwise it'd be rank. Maybe not morgue levels of bad, but definitely not great. And, in order to facilitate her point-scoring, he comes a couple steps closer. "C'mon, Scully, nothing but net."
It's ridiculous, and he knows it. But hearing her laugh has yet to lose its novelty.
The next few are easy; a sad pint of oat-milk ice cream, lumpy bags of frozen vegetables, a brick of tempeh old enough that it probably wasn't good to begin with. There is, actually, not that much in the long run; a few smaller things that will need to thaw some, and the ice cube trays are probably salvageable with a wash.
She's not much of a cook, which is turning out to be advantageous. Leaving the freezer open, she starts in on the fridge-- soggy bags of salad sludge, an alarmingly puffy carton of milk, a few jars and tubs of condiments.
It's not like she's ever been much of a cook; it can't come as a surprise, how sparse things are here. Maybe having him here with her will mean more meals at home; that would probably be a good change.
"I think that's the worst of it-- I should defrost it and bleach the shelves." And then they can restock. She steps back, opens a cabinet; takes out something that might, once, have been a loaf of bread, dropping it gingerly into the trash.
He offers commentary on various discoveries, mostly along the lines of are you sure you don't want to try biochemistry? - her entire fridge, after all, has become a petri dish. They fill the garbage bag, and he can't help but whistle at the sight of the bread as it goes in. The mold colonies will continue to eat away at their home someplace else, but they've fallen into a sort of apocalypse without realizing it.
"Tomorrow," Mulder says, tying a knot in the top of the bag. He's already heading toward the door to throw it out, having decided that they've done enough. "Bleach the shelves, and I'll pick up some groceries."
And maybe, the tacit promise, he'll cook dinner after.
"Another week and I'd've had to call an exorcist."
The less said about that bread the better, honestly. It was good bread, once upon a time-- high-end whole-grain sourdough, baked locally, from heritage varietals. There's a good chance that, off in some landfill, this primordial ooze will spawn the exponentially-great grand-progenitors of the species that will someday supplant humanity as the dominant species on her earth. But, thank God, it's not her problem anymore.
"Deal." She flashes a small smile; the unspoken offer of dinner is a welcome one. It's not quite fair to say this kitchen has never seen a home-cooked meal, but, well. It hasn't seen many.
"I have a new couch coming next week, but we could go find some chairs at Ikea." And frozen meatballs to go. She's not a monster.
"Deal." Frozen meatballs, the lingonberry jam, those mashed potatoes that look like packing peanuts when you dump them out of their freezer bags - he won't even need to fix a real dinner, at this rate. More importantly, picking up a couple of chairs for the living room means she's giving him a stake in the way this place looks, even if it's a small one. Heady stuff for a guy who's only been asked inside in the last few weeks.
When he comes back inside, sourdough dumped in the bin along with everything else, Mulder surveys the place. "Any other problems we need to take care of? Closets to clean out, sinks to unclog?"
He doubts it. But damn, he can't ask now what again. He's already made it clear enough that he's not entirely sure where he belongs in this space, even if he's starting to believe he does.
The general impersonality of her furnishings might make it seem like that's not much of a concession; but she doesn't make decisions lightly, even if the effect is so neutral. So even if it's small, it's a careful, deliberate offer. A way to make him feel a little more at home, to let this be his home, at least when he wants it to be.
She tilts her head coyly, looking him over. "Is this where I say I don't have any cash to pay you for doing odd jobs, and you say we'll figure something out?"
Mulder laughs, leaning back against the countertop. Whether it's something about the room or about them - if cleaning out rotting celery has led to clearing some space between them as well - he's far growing far more comfortable here. "I'm a modern handyman. I actually prefer Venmo, but I also take payment in Thai food and blowjobs."
And he also takes rain checks - he's also got designs on breaking in that new couch when it arrives, after all.
In this case she's definitely going to have to write a rain check; the tile floor is no place for her knees these days. She laughs, stepping closer, her feet between his, crowding him against the counter anyway.
"I hadn't thought of that," she says thoughtfully. "Have money transfer apps ruined the genre?"
She sets her hands on the counter, on either side of him, not quite touching.
He's happy to be crowded and unbothered by the possibility that she's just a breath away from touching him. Already, his arms are looping around her shoulders, closing some of that last distance between them. No effort to pull her closer, just to touch her while she's near.
"Depends on how you define 'ruined,'" he answers, with all the same thought he'd put into an X-file. "Personally, I think they should come up more often. Apps that malfunction and force payment in kind, ransomware attacks that can only be ended with orgasms. There's still room for innovation."
There was a time when, as soon as they were somewhere safe, somewhere private, they couldn't keep their hands off each other; and though they've certainly gained some self-control, she has to admit the spark never totally went away. Even when things were at their worst-- it wasn't that she didn't want him, it was a stubborn turning away from desire, a deep-seated conviction that wanting wasn't enough.
So it's easy to slip into the familiar warmth of it, looking up at him, savoring the weight of his arms and the look in his eyes, the anticipation. She grins at his answer, wide and guileless, her eyes crinkled with laugh-lines too often unused.
"Clearly you've got a great career directing ahead of you, if the FBI thing doesn't work out."
She still has to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him.
He bends his head a little, taking pity on her. Even with the inevitable slump in his shoulders, it's still a stretch, after all. A first kiss in the house - he doesn't want to think about this, but it comes to mind anyway. Step by step, he's planting his flag in this place.
When he breaks it, it's to suggest, "We could move to Van Nuys. Make some movies."
There's a waggle in his brow. Imagine the world where you still have to move to California if you want to make pornography - or the possibility of convincing Scully of joining him on any such jaunt. It's impossible, ridiculous.
If he's going to be a fixture, maybe she needs to invest in some stepstools. She leans in against him, hands sliding along the counters edge until they drift to his his hips.
"What am I doing in this Van Nuys adventure, exactly?"
"HR," he says, letting his arms settle more heavily around her. "Secretarial jobs. You could take a star turn if you wanted, but I wouldn't want to share you."
"Good call, there'd be a very small audience for my material."
A Mulder-sized audience, but at least he'd be a devoted fan. She leans against him with a warm, coy smile as they break the kiss. (It's oddly fitting that they've picked, probably, the least comfortable spot in this whole place to canoodle.)
"Don't sell yourself short. You're a MILF, Scully." Anyone would be lucky to get a look at her tits, and if she doesn't know it, Mulder's happy to tell her. (The acronym seems safe, he thinks, because he's not spelling it out. He doesn't actually want to think about it, to try and marshal his commentary against any oblique reference to their son, but it's always in the back of his mind: Take care. With this, take care.) "There are some cougar fans who'd kill to see you strip."
But they can always stay here. No complaints about that, one of his hands moving down along her spine.
It's not how she'd self-describe-- though cougar is one she's gotten more than once, and if she's honest she kind of likes it-- but hearing him say it makes her grin anyway. Even if it's a given that he'd like to fuck her, she doesn't mind the reminder.
"Is that right?"
She arches her back under his hand, so there's enough space to undo the top button of her shirt. Her eyes never leave his.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Neatly lined up with an assortment of cleaning supplies. The condo might be unfamiliar, but it's arranged according to classic Scully sensibilities. He's lived with her long enough that it must be easy to guess.
When they'd moved into the house, it had felt so incredibly good just to know they could stay. No more fake names, no stash of forged IDs, no counting down the days until they had to move on. That sense of promise had been intoxicating. And though she'd left-- she loves the house, still. She loves him.
And if both of them can bend a little, here and there... Then, maybe, they don't break.
She starts to pry up a frostbitten stack of microwave dinners.
"Not as bad as losing power in the morgue," she points out.
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"For the smell alone," he agrees, and once he's got a trash bag open, he holds it out. "Hey, Scully - three-pointer."
Toss those Lean Cuisines this way.
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She laughs at the horrific mental image, prying the last bit of cardboard loose. Throwing it seems like an awful idea, so she leans over and gives it a light toss into the bag.
"Come closer for this one."
She's got a slightly-misshapen, small whole chicken for the pile.
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It's ridiculous, and he knows it. But hearing her laugh has yet to lose its novelty.
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She's not much of a cook, which is turning out to be advantageous. Leaving the freezer open, she starts in on the fridge-- soggy bags of salad sludge, an alarmingly puffy carton of milk, a few jars and tubs of condiments.
It's not like she's ever been much of a cook; it can't come as a surprise, how sparse things are here. Maybe having him here with her will mean more meals at home; that would probably be a good change.
"I think that's the worst of it-- I should defrost it and bleach the shelves." And then they can restock. She steps back, opens a cabinet; takes out something that might, once, have been a loaf of bread, dropping it gingerly into the trash.
"Much easier with a second pair of hands."
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"Tomorrow," Mulder says, tying a knot in the top of the bag. He's already heading toward the door to throw it out, having decided that they've done enough. "Bleach the shelves, and I'll pick up some groceries."
And maybe, the tacit promise, he'll cook dinner after.
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The less said about that bread the better, honestly. It was good bread, once upon a time-- high-end whole-grain sourdough, baked locally, from heritage varietals. There's a good chance that, off in some landfill, this primordial ooze will spawn the exponentially-great grand-progenitors of the species that will someday supplant humanity as the dominant species on her earth. But, thank God, it's not her problem anymore.
"Deal." She flashes a small smile; the unspoken offer of dinner is a welcome one. It's not quite fair to say this kitchen has never seen a home-cooked meal, but, well. It hasn't seen many.
"I have a new couch coming next week, but we could go find some chairs at Ikea." And frozen meatballs to go. She's not a monster.
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When he comes back inside, sourdough dumped in the bin along with everything else, Mulder surveys the place. "Any other problems we need to take care of? Closets to clean out, sinks to unclog?"
He doubts it. But damn, he can't ask now what again. He's already made it clear enough that he's not entirely sure where he belongs in this space, even if he's starting to believe he does.
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She tilts her head coyly, looking him over. "Is this where I say I don't have any cash to pay you for doing odd jobs, and you say we'll figure something out?"
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And he also takes rain checks - he's also got designs on breaking in that new couch when it arrives, after all.
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"I hadn't thought of that," she says thoughtfully. "Have money transfer apps ruined the genre?"
She sets her hands on the counter, on either side of him, not quite touching.
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"Depends on how you define 'ruined,'" he answers, with all the same thought he'd put into an X-file. "Personally, I think they should come up more often. Apps that malfunction and force payment in kind, ransomware attacks that can only be ended with orgasms. There's still room for innovation."
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There was a time when, as soon as they were somewhere safe, somewhere private, they couldn't keep their hands off each other; and though they've certainly gained some self-control, she has to admit the spark never totally went away. Even when things were at their worst-- it wasn't that she didn't want him, it was a stubborn turning away from desire, a deep-seated conviction that wanting wasn't enough.
So it's easy to slip into the familiar warmth of it, looking up at him, savoring the weight of his arms and the look in his eyes, the anticipation. She grins at his answer, wide and guileless, her eyes crinkled with laugh-lines too often unused.
"Clearly you've got a great career directing ahead of you, if the FBI thing doesn't work out."
She still has to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him.
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When he breaks it, it's to suggest, "We could move to Van Nuys. Make some movies."
There's a waggle in his brow. Imagine the world where you still have to move to California if you want to make pornography - or the possibility of convincing Scully of joining him on any such jaunt. It's impossible, ridiculous.
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"What am I doing in this Van Nuys adventure, exactly?"
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Another kiss, small and lazy.
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A Mulder-sized audience, but at least he'd be a devoted fan. She leans against him with a warm, coy smile as they break the kiss. (It's oddly fitting that they've picked, probably, the least comfortable spot in this whole place to canoodle.)
"Maybe we should just stay here."
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But they can always stay here. No complaints about that, one of his hands moving down along her spine.
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"Is that right?"
She arches her back under his hand, so there's enough space to undo the top button of her shirt. Her eyes never leave his.
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