And there it is-- that spark of interest in his eyes, confirmation that it's a dangerous offer. Not a bad one, necessarily-- when she left it seemed like nothing stirred much interest for him. For either of them, really; they'd been going through the motions of life, rudderless and drifting. But seeing him intrigued and animate she feels that base desire to chase after him, to explore whatever it is that's caught his attention.

Even after years together, she's not sure Mulder has ever understood the pull he has on her. It's not quite right to say like a moth to flame, because-- until the last year or so, at least-- there was no element of self-destruction to it. But he overwhelms her-- he always has, from those early days of professional admiration to the last time she walked out their door. In a room with him, she can't help being in love with him-- she can't even question it. With his magnet to her brain there's never an option but to follow him, to trust him, to adore him.

In his absence, yes, she loves him still; but away from his lodestone it's possible to see the course they'd charted. His brilliance squandered in newspaper clippings and undone chores and half-abandoned notes and charts; her need to care for others focused wholly, frantically, on Mulder-- and still insufficient to keep him whole.

"I don't know." She toys with her fork at the uneasy admission, poking at a piece of chicken as though it has a better answer. "I just-- I'd like if we didn't have to find an excuse for it. If it didn't feel like I was prying when I ask how you are."