He smiles at the sight of her, like something out of a dream or memory: baby-faced, her hair falling damp around her face, eyes big and gentle. It's hard not to feel fifteen years younger, like he could look in the mirror without seeing a single wrinkle. How many times did they sit on the couch together, watching movies and trash TV, unwinding from the chaos of their work? How did they move so far away from that in the interim?

Mulder knows the answer, but he doesn't want to think about it. Tonight, he just wants to exist in this not-quite-youthful space with her.

"This one's a tearjerker," he tells her, before he hits play. She can bow out and demand The Wolf of Wall Street, if she decides she wants to. "Think you're up for that?"