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It hurts when he runs his fingertips over the rough terry cloth of her bathrobe. A piece of clothing that is so untypical anyway, since she usually approaches him with the monochrome colored pantsuits at crime scenes or in their shared basement office.
So uncharacteristic, even disturbing, to see Scully, his Scully, in this vulnerable moment. The beginning of a difficult path that she hadn't wanted to let him go with her.
And he knows that she's holding onto it tight just as she has wrapped both arms around him and he's resting his chin on her head. He hasn't held her like that for a long time - always wants to do it again. But not like that, not here.
Not in that empty, long, cold hospital corridor in the oncology wing. Not between all the anonymous beeping and the acrid smell of waiting death. That's not how he imagined it.
He feels her breathing heavily, feels it through the layers of clothing against his heart. He's still touching the bathrobe, holding his other hand to her head and stroking her through that oh so sweet smelling red. There are moments when the sun shines at just the right angle - he catches it out of the corner of his eye during some car rides - he can swear her hair is on fire.
But in the bad light there is nothing to see in the hallway where the two FBI agents are standing as if they were the only people in the world. Standing in this embrace that Fox Mulder wants to give so much more than just comfort and support to her.
He knows she doesn't want to die, just as he wishes she didn't die. And yet they both know that this inoperable tumor behind her nose is a warrior against whom there is nothing more they can do than beg to end this fight nonviolently.
He doesn't want to let go of her anymore, wants to hold her forever - have her with him forever. He doesn't want to go on without her, doesn't want to anymore. He's gotten too used to her skepticism, her eye rolls, and the consistent folding of her arms whenever he says something that science forbids her to believe in. She's scared to believe, she confessed that to him in a moment of trust. She is afraid to distance herself from her beloved science, probably her most important constant in life. And he knows that even after everything they've been through, she doesn't want to admit it.
Mulder knows about the book on her bedside table in the hospital room. He read it when he was with her. He is with her almost every night, holding her hand, watching her, crying silently. He read her words and understood between the lines of these neat sentences. He knows how she feels and he knows how she regrets everything that she had had enough chances to do before that she will now no longer experience. Opportunities that also affect him.
He feels the part of her head turning under his chin, how she turns to him and wants to look up at him. He lets her, looks down at her, still holds her tight. She doesn't have to say anything, he sees the pleading in her usually bright blue eyes. She wants to tell him that it's time. That they can't stay here forever and that it's time for him to go and move on while Scully's time stands still. He swallows, she can see that because his throath tightens.
She feels his big hands grabbing her face, caressing her cheeks. She knows he feels the traces of her tears. He smudges them with his thumbs.
She can't interpret the look in his eyes. Is everything unsaid in them again? She knows he's sorry, he doesn't need to tell her. Just like she's sorry. They both know that things could have gone differently between them, could have taken them somewhere else. Not in this hospital corridor.
She feels his breath slowly and deeply on her skin, notices how it whirls up the little hairs on her hairline, over and over again. In the next moment he kisses her. Kisses her forehead and lets his lips linger longer than he probably would have under other circumstances. She wants to smile, and probably would if the tears weren't clouding her vision again.
He wraps his arms around her again, holding her as before, knowing he doesn't have much time left. He tastes her on his lips. The taste of fear on her skin, as well as the pride she wants to keep to the end. He knows if he kissed her lips it would taste different. But he can't. It would be like giving up. He doesn't want to kiss her for the first time down this corridor, even though he knows it could be the last time he'll see her, hold her, feel her like that.
She lowers her eyes and he lowers his arms, letting her go as she now walks past him and doesn't turn around. He knows he should have said something, should have stopped her. He would have given so much to have more of her - more with her.
Instead, he lets her go, noticing her crouched posture that blurs with the outlines as soon as his vision dims. His heart hurts.