They could spend all day like this, and he has half a mind to, if the hand sliding up under her shirt - his shirt - is any evidence. Mulder wants so badly to rechristen this bed in both their names, like breaking a champagne bottle against a new ship. It's ours again, he'll think to himself, and even if Scully leaves and never comes back, he's starting to think that he'll never bring another person back to this room. When he kisses her, he remembers just how poorly the rest of the world compares when stacked up against her.

And he could keep all those thoughts to himself. They could fuck, and his house would be her house again, in more than just a well, your name's still on the deed kind of way, and when her glassy condo is fixed, she can go on her way and maybe come back to mess around occasionally. It could be something quiet and true, and as long as they kept seeing each other, Mulder has to believe he'd be happy. He's been happy, being around her again. And that's what he wants, as his body softens and 'middle age' starts to sound like a polite untruth: happiness.

But he wants the truth, too, and he's never been known for leaving well enough alone.

"Scully," he mumbles against her throat, the same moment that he palms one breast under cover of one of his better-loved t-shirts, "are you gonna stay with me?"