They could spend the rest of the night right here, Scully curled up against him, his face buried in her hair, and he'd be happy. This could be the rest of their lives. Nothing matters except her presence beside him, her breath growing steady; she's everything, all the more so because of the cancer. Her very existence is urgent and impossible to tear himself away from.

He doesn't speak because he doesn't need to, and neither does she. Everything that needs to be communicated exists in their touch. But eventually, she pulls him into another kiss, and it might ass well be a sentence. He answers slowly, in no rush to do anything but experience her.