Nine times out of ten or more, she looks at him and thinks Mulder. There's an intimacy to it that's hard to explain, a language of two names and an infinite number of inflections to indicate meaning; supplemented with gestures and sighs and significant looks. It doesn't mean more or less, to be called Dana or Scully; it's in a thousand other things.

She sighs, curling her fingers into a fist in his hair, still smirking unseen.

"I want you," she says. Maybe she hasn't said it enough, over the years; not in words at least.