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He doesn’t remember how long he’s been staring at the screen.
The tape clicks as it ends, then rewinds itself, old plastic gears grinding. The projector’s beam throws faded light across the office wall. Samantha’s face flickers once. A moment later, it disappears.
Mulder stays still.
The ache behind his eyes is a dull weight now, a familiar one. He hasn’t eaten. He hasn’t slept. He thinks maybe he’s stopped trying to be human for the night.
So when the door opens and she walks in, he doesn’t even turn. He just breathes.
“Mulder.”
She says it so gently it makes his chest hurt.
He doesn’t look at her. Just says, “Do you ever think I’m just… wrong?”
Silence.
Then she steps closer. Her coat rustles. The door shuts behind her.
“Not mistaken,” he continues, voice thinner now. “Not delusional. Just… fundamentally broken. As a person. As a compass.”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t interrupt.
“I chased Samantha across galaxies, Scully. And maybe she never left the damn ground.”
He finally turns his head. Her face is unreadable in the half-light.
“Maybe I built everything I am on a lie.”
When she speaks, it’s low and steady. “Your grief is not a lie.”
He huffs out a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.
“But my purpose might be.”
She crosses to him then. Kneels beside his chair. Reaches up and takes his hand like she’s done it a hundred times.
“You are not wrong,” she says. “You are grieving. And you don’t have to do it alone.”
He stares at her. At her strength. Her clarity. The unbearable steadiness of her.
And then he kisses her.
Not out of desire.
Not out of hope.
Out of collapse.
Out of need.
It’s brief. Raw. No finesse. Just contact. His mouth on hers. One breath. Two. His hand shaking.
When he pulls back, her fingers are on his lips. Soft. Firm.
“Don’t make it a lie,” she says.
He doesn’t speak.
“Not like this.”
She brushes her thumb against his cheek. Not wiping a tear. Just being there.
“When it’s not about pain,” she tells him, “when it’s about us—you’ll know. And I’ll be here.”
He nods. Just once. And it cracks something wide open in his chest.
The Morning After
He shows up early.
Shaved. Showered. Clean shirt. Tie a little crooked.
She’s already there.
She looks up from her paperwork, scans him quickly—and then back to her file. No comment. But her shoulders ease.
He pours two cups of coffee. Black. No sugar. He slides one over. Their fingers brush.
They don’t look at each other.
The touch is brief. But it steadies him more than eight hours of sleep ever could.
He sits beside her. Not across. They work. They breathe.
Eventually, he says, “Thank you.”
She glances over. “For what?”
“For not letting me lie to myself.”
She holds his gaze. Says nothing. Doesn’t need to.
Because this? This isn’t a lie.
It’s them.
Bruised. Steady. Becoming something they can name later.
And for now, her coffee sits beside his.
And that’s enough.