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.
You give a man like Mulder an opportunity and he'll take it, slipping the button one-handed from its buttonhole, eyes on Scully's the whole time. The backs of his fingers move over the newly exposed skin, sliding lightly over her cleavage.
"You're the hottest woman I've ever seen." She's overtaken even Miss August 1979, and that's no mean compliment - especially when she's smiling the way she is now. Any time he has the chance to remind her, he'll take it.
"I'm just saying that because I think you'll buy me some pad see ew." Not that he's making any effort to escape her embrace. He turns his hand, his fingertips moving slowly over her skin. Up from her décolletage, skimming along her collarbone purely for the pleasure of touching her. There are times when he thinks he'd be contented just to be near her, and now is one of them.
But, you know. Give it an hour or two and the presence of an immaculately made bed. He gives her another lazy kiss. "But I'm also thinking if I play my cards right, maybe I'll get lucky."
"They do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."
Or it's through relentlessly critiquing his wild theories and seeing a hundred impossible things and fighting conspiracies and traveling across the country, back and forth, fingers brushing on redeye flights, dozing off in Ford Tauruses on endless stakeouts. Either way. They can split spring rolls, too.
She deepens the kiss, delighted, more or less hanging off his shoulders. As much as she's looking forward to spending tonight redefining her bed as, provisionally, their bed, this part-- the part where they're just basking in each other-- God, this is what she'd missed.
She's still so small that she could put literally all her weight on him, and he thinks he'd hardly notice. As it is, she's no trouble to keep up, kissing her soundly as he touches her. Into her blouse and over her her bra strap, as much of her shoulder as he can reach without straining the buttons yet to be unbuttoned, and back along the line of...she'd know the name of the muscle, the one that looks strange on body builders and perfect on Scully. Trapezius? He thinks maybe trapezius.
More importantly, though, along that clean line leading from shoulder to neck, and around behind to the nape of her neck and the top of her spine, kissing her all the while. He has a vague, sudden fantasy of kissing down along her spine while he reaches around to finger her, his mouth at her shoulder blades and his hand on her clit. It's a pity that the twinge he feels is somewhere in his lumbar region and not his cock.
With no small regret, he breaks the kiss, palming her cheek as he looks at her. "I could stay here forever - but I think it'd screw up my back if I tried."
"We can't have that." Her tone is solemn, her smile irrepressible. "Who'll move my couch when it gets here?"
She sinks back down to flat feet, letting go her grasp but not taking her hands off him. Her hand drags down his chest idly, her eyes following its path. She isn't really trying to start anything-- certainly not in the kitchen-- but it's hard to want to pull away.
"I guess we'll eat at the table? We could picnic on the living room floor but I still need a new television, too." More to pick up when they're out. She wants the dumbest, least-connected one money can buy. Her smile widens a little.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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"You're the hottest woman I've ever seen." She's overtaken even Miss August 1979, and that's no mean compliment - especially when she's smiling the way she is now. Any time he has the chance to remind her, he'll take it.
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(Her teasing smile suggests she probably will. If he was wondering.)
She reaches up to loop her arms over his shoulders, leaning in against him, savoring the heat of his hand against her.
Having him here feels-- well. Anywhere he is, it feels like home. It's always been that way.
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But, you know. Give it an hour or two and the presence of an immaculately made bed. He gives her another lazy kiss. "But I'm also thinking if I play my cards right, maybe I'll get lucky."
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Or it's through relentlessly critiquing his wild theories and seeing a hundred impossible things and fighting conspiracies and traveling across the country, back and forth, fingers brushing on redeye flights, dozing off in Ford Tauruses on endless stakeouts. Either way. They can split spring rolls, too.
She deepens the kiss, delighted, more or less hanging off his shoulders. As much as she's looking forward to spending tonight redefining her bed as, provisionally, their bed, this part-- the part where they're just basking in each other-- God, this is what she'd missed.
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More importantly, though, along that clean line leading from shoulder to neck, and around behind to the nape of her neck and the top of her spine, kissing her all the while. He has a vague, sudden fantasy of kissing down along her spine while he reaches around to finger her, his mouth at her shoulder blades and his hand on her clit. It's a pity that the twinge he feels is somewhere in his lumbar region and not his cock.
With no small regret, he breaks the kiss, palming her cheek as he looks at her. "I could stay here forever - but I think it'd screw up my back if I tried."
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She sinks back down to flat feet, letting go her grasp but not taking her hands off him. Her hand drags down his chest idly, her eyes following its path. She isn't really trying to start anything-- certainly not in the kitchen-- but it's hard to want to pull away.
"I guess we'll eat at the table? We could picnic on the living room floor but I still need a new television, too." More to pick up when they're out. She wants the dumbest, least-connected one money can buy. Her smile widens a little.
"We're stuck roughing it 'til then."
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