"I'm fine," he says immediately, too interested in how long he can subsist on photosynthesis to consider getting another coffee and a croissant.
They do go to the lab first, where scanning and samples happen: none invasive, even as Mulder picks at his rough skin like he's trying to see if he can flake some bark off with a minimum of fuss. Instead, they cut beach grass from his head, another rose, and break off a twig from his back - the thinnest ones lack nerve endings, but the heavy branches they grow from don't, and Scully refuses to entertain suggestions of taking a chainsaw to a bough in the name of science. (And Mulder knows it's a bad idea, he does. The compulsion still comes back whenever he's focused on his body.)
After that, they brunch. And wander around. And hold hands, despite the fact that he's pretty sure they don't need to at this point. The city becomes more familiar over the course of the afternoon, the time slipping away faster than he might have guessed it would. There's no case to fixate on, and they still have reason to enjoy each other's company. Of course they do - but outside the context of Scully, it'd be confounding to want to spend that much time with a colleague. God knows he wouldn't sightsee with Skinner, given the opportunity.
On the way back to his place, Scully insists on picking up takeout, and Mulder only puts up a token complaint. (He's getting hungry, just not as hungry, and he wants to hear more about...well, everything.)
"Home sweet home," he mutters, pushing the door open and flicking on a ceiling light. There's...nothing in there. A pile of blankets and pillows in the center of the small living room, and that's about it.
no subject
They do go to the lab first, where scanning and samples happen: none invasive, even as Mulder picks at his rough skin like he's trying to see if he can flake some bark off with a minimum of fuss. Instead, they cut beach grass from his head, another rose, and break off a twig from his back - the thinnest ones lack nerve endings, but the heavy branches they grow from don't, and Scully refuses to entertain suggestions of taking a chainsaw to a bough in the name of science. (And Mulder knows it's a bad idea, he does. The compulsion still comes back whenever he's focused on his body.)
After that, they brunch. And wander around. And hold hands, despite the fact that he's pretty sure they don't need to at this point. The city becomes more familiar over the course of the afternoon, the time slipping away faster than he might have guessed it would. There's no case to fixate on, and they still have reason to enjoy each other's company. Of course they do - but outside the context of Scully, it'd be confounding to want to spend that much time with a colleague. God knows he wouldn't sightsee with Skinner, given the opportunity.
On the way back to his place, Scully insists on picking up takeout, and Mulder only puts up a token complaint. (He's getting hungry, just not as hungry, and he wants to hear more about...well, everything.)
"Home sweet home," he mutters, pushing the door open and flicking on a ceiling light. There's...nothing in there. A pile of blankets and pillows in the center of the small living room, and that's about it.