"Scully." Around a mouthful of burger - not the most auspicious way to reply. So he chews and swallows before he goes on. "You already left. How could you make things worse?"
Okay, even Mulder, the wronged party in his own mind, has to admit that that's cruel. There's no room for an apology in him at the moment - or ever, possibly - but he tries to clarify, the look on his face pure wait, let's walk that back.
(He maybe doesn't deserve the chance to rephrase it, but damned if he's not going to try. He's missed her so much, even if he can't keep hurt and cynicism from surfacing.)
"I'm not expecting you to be on call for me. If you don't respond, you don't respond." Like it's that easy. He'd like to imagine, though, that he'll let go an unanswered text in favor of a long run or an Outer Limits marathon.
This time the wince is a visible one. She isn't upset-- it's true, and she deserves that-- but it's part of why she's so hesitant. He has every right to still be angry, but if that's where they are, it's no foundation to build a new relationship of any sort.
But it means something that he catches himself that he so obviously regrets the barb. It doesn't mean it doesn't sting, or that he didn't mean it, but it's a step in the right direction.
"Okay." It sounds a little more sure than she really is, but not by much. But she misses him; she worries about him more than she should, and it's not like Scully has ever been good at relinquishing control over anything in her life, Mulder's well- being included.
"You can keep me up to date on your hunt for Bigfoot," she adds.
He fires a shot, and it lands - and he hates himself a little for it. But Scully doesn't comment on it; she's taking the high road here, and Mulder knows he doesn't deserve that mercy. What he deserves is probably a tense argument in a diner booth and six months of silence. When he gets something kinder, he takes it and tries to return it in kind.
"We'll see what kind of cell reception I can get in the mountains. Last time I was up there, smartphones didn't exist." He doesn't want to talk about that occasion, though - making his way to an ice cave in search of an alien corpse while Scully lay dying of cancer. It'll be summer this time, warm and green, and he won't be on a mountain. He'll still be alone, but this time, it'll actually be his fault, and he can live with that. "And you can tell me about..."
He's still not sure what she does in her spare time. He's not sure she knows, either; sometimes he wonders if half the reason she works so hard and so long is to avoid having to think when there's no more work to do. If she's taken up hobbies, she hasn't shared them. If she has friends, she hasn't told him about them. If all she does is lay down on the couch to watch TV or read a book, he'd still be interested, but even he knows he's lost any right to make demands.
"Whatever you want," he finishes, and something in his voice softens. "I just want to hear from you."
It isn't pure magnanimity that gives him some leniency to be angry, to lash out. It isn't only her desire to face her sins either. Simply put, she misses him terribly. She's not totally alone in life now, but no one else is Mulder. It's hard not being able to turn to him and invoke some strange ancient memory, remember the time in the volcano, that time in the woods, that terrible turbulence flying to Texas, remember that small town we stayed in for a month before the cops drove by three nights in a row and we bolted? No one else understands the things she's experienced like he does, and without that history she can't help holding people at arm's length.
Ironic then that she's trying to keep him close but at a distance. But the truth is that while being cut off from him is probably healthier than being together was, it isn't much easier. Maybe they can have a healthy friendship.
"There's not much to tell," she admits. "Mostly work. I was thinking about adopting a dog but I'm not home enough. But... we can check in, once in a while."
It might make things hard for her, to have more frequent reminders. But she already left. How much worse could it be?
"Then you can tell me about work - everything that won't violate HIPAA." Because as it is, it sounds suspiciously like they'll talk about him for a while, and then she'll disappear until it's convenient to ask him about himself again. If they're going to do this, then he wants some of Scully, too, to be allowed back into the privacy of her life.
(Maybe he should have suggested they get a dog, back when they were still together. He hadn't liked the idea, because he hadn't really liked Queequeg, and on some level, he knows that it'd probably be like other couples having a kid to try and save a marriage. But maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe some long-legged, non-cannibalistic creature who'd go on runs with him would have given them both enough purpose that they could live in the same house.)
"When you want to," he adds after a moment, because we can check in, once in a while isn't a continuing conversation. He's imagining something besides what he's likely to receive - for all he knows, checking in means awkwardly conversing every three months, not every four. "Or when you give in and get a dog, and you need a sitter."
"I don't get the really intriguing ones any more," she says with a laugh. More hopeless cases and consulting on the weird ones-- most of the staff don't know her whole history but, well, they know she's the one to ask if they encounter something spooky, if only because nothing surprises her. "But, we should have lunch when the annual 'What We Got Stuck In Our Orifices' list comes out."
Probably a risky joke, but she makes it anyway.
"I've thought a little about going back to teaching pathology, but... seeing living patients feels more hopeful. Even when it isn't."
"I'll put it on my calendar." Maybe that's a risky joke with some exes, but Mulder's too interested in the subject matter to play up the obscenity of it. He wants to see some x-rays, or at least imagine them.
He considers the problem of wanting to spend less time with the dead - and he has to admit that he likes the idea of her returning to teaching, if only because Quantico's only half an hour away from his place. He could drive down and meet her for lunch, easy.
More importantly - maybe she'd have a little more time to herself at the end of the day. Classes have a set start and end time. "Could you teach live-person medicine? First aid for agents, or maybe join a medical school?"
Luring him down to Quantico would be an interesting prospect. Whether going back to the Bureau would be good for him, she's not sure. Maybe. Work is good for him-- and if he got involved in teaching, or consulting, it would certainly be to their benefit. On the other hand it might be another rabbit hole of conspiracy and danger, and he'd have no one to watch his back.
"First aid, sure, but I don't have the qualifications for medical school. I'm not sure I'd want that, anyway." It would be impossible not to dwell on her own time in med school, dropped back into that world, and though she's made peace with it she doesn't really want to revisit it.
"I guess maybe it's something to keep in my back pocket." For if life in the hospital grinds her down too much.
"Maybe." She'd get bored with first aid - he's pretty sure about that. The medicine Scully's interested in is complicated and occasionally bleeding-edge in terms of treatment plans. Teaching green agents about wrapping sprains and tying tourniquets won't keep her interest in the same way, however good an instructor she can be.
So that vague plan, the one that goes Scully's nearer to me, ????, profit, is scuttled for the moment. Instead, they'll just meet awkwardly between their homes over a meal and struggle to find things to say to each other. Because that's the worst part of this, as well as the most tantalizing part of talking to Scully more regularly: He doesn't know what to say to her to make the conversation move easily, but being around her will inevitably solve the problem. For the moment, he falls quiet, dipping a pair of fries into his ketchup.
With a vague hum, she turns her attention, mostly, back to her salad. It's not a comfortable silence, but it's not as awkward as she might have feared. That has to be a good sign, right?
(She feels superstitious. It's unscientific, looking for evidence to support a theory she's already decided on. We can do this, we can be friends.)
They eat, and eventually she decides to try a question that feels a little more dangerous.
He laughs a little, the surprise on his face a clear indication that he's never, in fact, thought about this. "I don't think Quantico wants a class on how to lose your mind tracking down serial killers."
They certainly wouldn't want anything on the X-files or Military Tribunals 101. However meaningful his years at the Bureau were, they were fraught at the best of times; either he was making their lives hell, or they were making his life hell. The skills he possesses are undeniable - the more he thinks about it, the easier it is to see the logic - but can he justify teaching profiling when he's been out of the game so long? Hell, can he justify teaching profiling when it nearly destroyed him multiple times?
It's impossible to articulate why she asked. Part of her is on the cusp of saying I just hate to see you wasting your brilliance like this, but even in the sanctum of her mind she hears it in her father's voice, and even at her age it makes youthful indignation rise in her gorge. Mulder will take it the wrong way because there's no other way to take it, and if he were to teach anything it'd be a master class in contrariness.
But the truth is, she does hate to see him wasting his time, his potential, his incredible mind.
"Not necessarily at the Academy," she reasons. "Maybe not on paper but in practice you'd be qualified to teach psychology, I bet." She offers a little smile. "Or mysterious courses meeting at strange times of day to discuss the history of the paranormal."
He has connections, he has time and opportunity, she'd bet he could figure something out.
"Fox Mulder, the nutty professor," he says dryly. He could teach psychology as effectively as she could medicine, he suspects - which is to say, well, but he probably couldn't justify it to any school looking to hire him. Maybe at a community college, but in his heart of hearts, he'd feel like he was slumming, regardless of whether it was actually true. "We could both be teachers in our old age, Scully."
And, some part of him thinks, they could be bored out of their minds. He tries to think back to anything that might come close to teaching: younger agents trailing behind him, trying to build alliances or friendships, and he, closing himself off to them at every turn. "But I'd lack the pedagogy. I've never taught anyone."
"I think that's true of a lot of college professors."
It's the kind of thing he could look into, at least. And-- it's a matter of self-image, she thinks; just because he's never consciously taught anyone doesn't mean they haven't learned. A man with a curious mind, she imagines he'd be suited to it if he had the temperament to try.
"No, no. Meddling from you is..." Welcome is probably too obvious as a lie, if a partial one; he doesn't mind when she sticks her oar in, but when they're not together, it - as the kids say - hits different. Not unexpected is more cruelty than she deserves, especially after what she's taken today. He drags a fry through ketchup like he might find the answer there, in the viscous trail it leaves. "It's worth listening to."
That, at least, is true. Even if he can't imagine himself standing at the front of a class, refusing to let a lesson on staging versus signature get boring, Scully can, and that means something. Maybe he should contact Quantico, make not-overly-sarcastic ha, ha noises when they inevitably ask if he's thinking of a class on little green men, and see what he'd actually be on the hook for. Or, hell, the local community college, where he could drone on about Maslow's hierarchy of needs and wonder where he landed on it.
He wants so badly to touch her foot under the table, to ask why they're torturing themselves like this, to scoop her up into his arms and carry her away someplace neither of them have ever been before and make love to her like they'll die tomorrow. By her metric, this was probably a terrible idea; he's supposed to be over the idea of them. But being around her feels more like living than anything he does on his own, no matter how deliberate he is about it. Running and cooking, medication and therapy, cleaning on nights when he can't sleep - it's all rote memorization of what life's supposed to look like, a fake-it-til-you-make-it existence. Time spent with Scully feels real.
So maybe she's right. He might have to allow for that. Maybe he needs something else to fill his days than a half-assed attempt at a memoir and endless collections of newspaper clippings.
"But that does put me in position to meddle back." He eats his fry and doesn't try to touch her. "You're opening yourself up to some risk, Scully."
Again, he gives her an eminently reasonable reply. It's a surprise, and mostly a pleasant one, though there's that little part of her, still frustrated by the bad years, that can't help wondering if it's intentional-- a way to needle her, to say see, you had no reason to leave, everything could have been fine if you stayed. She knows he doesn't mean that-- even apart she trusts him too much to seriously entertain the idea-- but quieting her own worst impulses is easier said than done.
She doesn't expect him to be over them, exactly. Obviously she isn't-- if she was she wouldn't be here, watching him across the table and wishing they were leaving together. Her brand of fantasy is both more and less intimate than his: she misses being able to lean on his shoulder, misses waking up on cold mornings in a warm embrace. Scully has always been good at being alone, and that's why she's all right without him. But she misses not having to be alone.
"I guess I am," she concedes, careful. "That seems fair."
But if he'll be as reasonable in meddling as he has been responding to it, maybe that's not the end of the world. She'll at least hear him out.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Okay, even Mulder, the wronged party in his own mind, has to admit that that's cruel. There's no room for an apology in him at the moment - or ever, possibly - but he tries to clarify, the look on his face pure wait, let's walk that back.
(He maybe doesn't deserve the chance to rephrase it, but damned if he's not going to try. He's missed her so much, even if he can't keep hurt and cynicism from surfacing.)
"I'm not expecting you to be on call for me. If you don't respond, you don't respond." Like it's that easy. He'd like to imagine, though, that he'll let go an unanswered text in favor of a long run or an Outer Limits marathon.
no subject
But it means something that he catches himself that he so obviously regrets the barb. It doesn't mean it doesn't sting, or that he didn't mean it, but it's a step in the right direction.
"Okay." It sounds a little more sure than she really is, but not by much. But she misses him; she worries about him more than she should, and it's not like Scully has ever been good at relinquishing control over anything in her life, Mulder's well- being included.
"You can keep me up to date on your hunt for Bigfoot," she adds.
no subject
"We'll see what kind of cell reception I can get in the mountains. Last time I was up there, smartphones didn't exist." He doesn't want to talk about that occasion, though - making his way to an ice cave in search of an alien corpse while Scully lay dying of cancer. It'll be summer this time, warm and green, and he won't be on a mountain. He'll still be alone, but this time, it'll actually be his fault, and he can live with that. "And you can tell me about..."
He's still not sure what she does in her spare time. He's not sure she knows, either; sometimes he wonders if half the reason she works so hard and so long is to avoid having to think when there's no more work to do. If she's taken up hobbies, she hasn't shared them. If she has friends, she hasn't told him about them. If all she does is lay down on the couch to watch TV or read a book, he'd still be interested, but even he knows he's lost any right to make demands.
"Whatever you want," he finishes, and something in his voice softens. "I just want to hear from you."
no subject
Ironic then that she's trying to keep him close but at a distance. But the truth is that while being cut off from him is probably healthier than being together was, it isn't much easier. Maybe they can have a healthy friendship.
"There's not much to tell," she admits. "Mostly work. I was thinking about adopting a dog but I'm not home enough. But... we can check in, once in a while."
It might make things hard for her, to have more frequent reminders. But she already left. How much worse could it be?
no subject
(Maybe he should have suggested they get a dog, back when they were still together. He hadn't liked the idea, because he hadn't really liked Queequeg, and on some level, he knows that it'd probably be like other couples having a kid to try and save a marriage. But maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe some long-legged, non-cannibalistic creature who'd go on runs with him would have given them both enough purpose that they could live in the same house.)
"When you want to," he adds after a moment, because we can check in, once in a while isn't a continuing conversation. He's imagining something besides what he's likely to receive - for all he knows, checking in means awkwardly conversing every three months, not every four. "Or when you give in and get a dog, and you need a sitter."
no subject
Probably a risky joke, but she makes it anyway.
"I've thought a little about going back to teaching pathology, but... seeing living patients feels more hopeful. Even when it isn't."
no subject
He considers the problem of wanting to spend less time with the dead - and he has to admit that he likes the idea of her returning to teaching, if only because Quantico's only half an hour away from his place. He could drive down and meet her for lunch, easy.
More importantly - maybe she'd have a little more time to herself at the end of the day. Classes have a set start and end time. "Could you teach live-person medicine? First aid for agents, or maybe join a medical school?"
no subject
"First aid, sure, but I don't have the qualifications for medical school. I'm not sure I'd want that, anyway." It would be impossible not to dwell on her own time in med school, dropped back into that world, and though she's made peace with it she doesn't really want to revisit it.
"I guess maybe it's something to keep in my back pocket." For if life in the hospital grinds her down too much.
no subject
So that vague plan, the one that goes Scully's nearer to me, ????, profit, is scuttled for the moment. Instead, they'll just meet awkwardly between their homes over a meal and struggle to find things to say to each other. Because that's the worst part of this, as well as the most tantalizing part of talking to Scully more regularly: He doesn't know what to say to her to make the conversation move easily, but being around her will inevitably solve the problem. For the moment, he falls quiet, dipping a pair of fries into his ketchup.
no subject
(She feels superstitious. It's unscientific, looking for evidence to support a theory she's already decided on. We can do this, we can be friends.)
They eat, and eventually she decides to try a question that feels a little more dangerous.
"Do you ever think about teaching, or something?"
no subject
They certainly wouldn't want anything on the X-files or Military Tribunals 101. However meaningful his years at the Bureau were, they were fraught at the best of times; either he was making their lives hell, or they were making his life hell. The skills he possesses are undeniable - the more he thinks about it, the easier it is to see the logic - but can he justify teaching profiling when he's been out of the game so long? Hell, can he justify teaching profiling when it nearly destroyed him multiple times?
no subject
But the truth is, she does hate to see him wasting his time, his potential, his incredible mind.
"Not necessarily at the Academy," she reasons. "Maybe not on paper but in practice you'd be qualified to teach psychology, I bet." She offers a little smile. "Or mysterious courses meeting at strange times of day to discuss the history of the paranormal."
He has connections, he has time and opportunity, she'd bet he could figure something out.
no subject
And, some part of him thinks, they could be bored out of their minds. He tries to think back to anything that might come close to teaching: younger agents trailing behind him, trying to build alliances or friendships, and he, closing himself off to them at every turn. "But I'd lack the pedagogy. I've never taught anyone."
no subject
It's the kind of thing he could look into, at least. And-- it's a matter of self-image, she thinks; just because he's never consciously taught anyone doesn't mean they haven't learned. A man with a curious mind, she imagines he'd be suited to it if he had the temperament to try.
She shakes her head a bit.
"I'm sorry-- I shouldn't meddle, I know."
no subject
That, at least, is true. Even if he can't imagine himself standing at the front of a class, refusing to let a lesson on staging versus signature get boring, Scully can, and that means something. Maybe he should contact Quantico, make not-overly-sarcastic ha, ha noises when they inevitably ask if he's thinking of a class on little green men, and see what he'd actually be on the hook for. Or, hell, the local community college, where he could drone on about Maslow's hierarchy of needs and wonder where he landed on it.
He wants so badly to touch her foot under the table, to ask why they're torturing themselves like this, to scoop her up into his arms and carry her away someplace neither of them have ever been before and make love to her like they'll die tomorrow. By her metric, this was probably a terrible idea; he's supposed to be over the idea of them. But being around her feels more like living than anything he does on his own, no matter how deliberate he is about it. Running and cooking, medication and therapy, cleaning on nights when he can't sleep - it's all rote memorization of what life's supposed to look like, a fake-it-til-you-make-it existence. Time spent with Scully feels real.
So maybe she's right. He might have to allow for that. Maybe he needs something else to fill his days than a half-assed attempt at a memoir and endless collections of newspaper clippings.
"But that does put me in position to meddle back." He eats his fry and doesn't try to touch her. "You're opening yourself up to some risk, Scully."
no subject
She doesn't expect him to be over them, exactly. Obviously she isn't-- if she was she wouldn't be here, watching him across the table and wishing they were leaving together. Her brand of fantasy is both more and less intimate than his: she misses being able to lean on his shoulder, misses waking up on cold mornings in a warm embrace. Scully has always been good at being alone, and that's why she's all right without him. But she misses not having to be alone.
"I guess I am," she concedes, careful. "That seems fair."
But if he'll be as reasonable in meddling as he has been responding to it, maybe that's not the end of the world. She'll at least hear him out.