That draws another smile from him - smaller, but still warm - and the desire to ask what's that for? He doesn't, of course; he already knows the answer. But he wants to hear it in her careful, precise words, looking up at him like the sun rose today just for them.

"We'll keep searching," he tells her, because it's not like there's an alternative. They'll try until there's nothing left to try for, and then they'll push themselves even further. "But today...I don't know, Scully. What do we do with today?"

The ball's in her court; it's her life they're leaning on here. He's still an interloper, swathed in a towel that could stand to be re-tucked and drinking a French roast he's never tasted before.