He can believe it, that she loves him - it might elicit as much worry as wonder, but she's too insistent not to mean it. Scully tends toward the truthful, and when it comes to feelings, if she's sharing them, they're real. But it's remarkable of her to look at him now, a failure in just about every way that matters, and still feel that same desire.

Mulder pulls her against him, a hand cupping her ass, a thigh pressing up between her thighs. They can put off everything else until tomorrow, if she's serious about this - and even in a sour mood, he can read the room when someone's tongue is sliding into his mouth. They can have tonight, launder the sheets after, write an apologetic note - sorry we fucked in your bed. With Scully this close again, he knows what he wants.