Stacks upon stacks of files. Everywhere. Covering the floors, lining the walls, upon every surface in apartment number 42. Files interspersed between piles of dirty dishes. Some hadn't been touched in ages, with dust that created a film on them. Others had been left open, papers spilling out. The rooms were left dark, always. Never a light turned on. It was a hopeless place, and just like it was devoid of any light, it was also devoid of any real life.

The lock clicked and the door pushed open. He stumbled in the doorway and slammed the door behind him. He slumped against it, falling slowly to the floor as his back pressed against the door for some stability. He buried his face in his hands, his head pounding in excruciating pain. It always felt like this. Even without the hangovers. Sure, he went out every few days to get hammered, but the headaches were a preexisting condition. It was a wonder his still had his job, although he was damn near close to getting fired. Skinner wouldn't fire him, though. Mulder knew he just felt sorry for him. One sorry son of a bitch. That's what Scully's brother had said to him that day.

Characteristically, that day had been dark. He had found it hilariously fitting. Of course it was stormy. Of course it was raining. Of course the sky was overcast and angry. It was only suitable, and it only made sense. It was a grim day, overflowing with sorrow and despair. A lot of hatred for himself and a lot of hatred towards him from others. How could he be forgiven? He was to blame. It was his fault she was dead.

Mulder eased himself up from his position and walked over files to reach his couch. His coffee table was littered with the current leads he was following. All of them were dead ends, and he knew it. There was nothing that could be traced to anyone. They covered it up too well. They took what was most precious to him. They did it again. His eyes wearily glossed over the M.E. report. Single gunshot to the temporal fossa. Cause of death: fatal injury to the brain and blood loss. Absolutely nothing left at the scene. No finger prints. The bullet had proved to be untraceable. No sign of a break in. The perfect set up for a case to go cold. He squeezed his eye shut tightly.

It had been the first place he'd gone to after returning from New Mexico, Scully's apartment. He had to get back home eventually, but he'd wanted to see her first. Upon reaching her apartment complex, however, he was greeted from a few blocks away by flashing lights and dozens of personnel flocking outside the building. He had immediately pulled over on the side of the road. He ran the rest of the way, pushing past law enforcement officials and residents of the building, flashing his badge along the way.

He followed the corridors, ignoring the looks of pity or confusion that came from the local police . The door was wide open, and there she was. Skinner stood above her, his eyes filled with grief. Her auburn hair was splayed against the floor, stained a darker shade of red by the pool of blood that leaked from the wound. Her eyes. The sight of her eyes wide open, staring into nothingness was an image he could never get rid of, no matter how much he tried to drink it away.

Mulder sunk to his knees, his breath stolen from him. His fingers gently brushed her cheek. She was still warm. Her lips were slightly pulled apart, as if in shock.

"Mulder, you can't." Skinner said quietly.

He didn't listen. He tenderly closed her eyes.

"Agent Mulder."

Mulder felt tears slip from his eyes, his hands squeezing her shoulders and drawing her close to his body, holding her lifeless form in his arms. He shook violently as his sobs overtook him. Her blood-soaked hair was pressed against his face, her head fitting perfectly in the crook of his neck.

"Scully." He whispered softly, rocking back on his knees. Her tiny frame remained motionless in response to his whispers. His hot tears trailed down his face, landing on the top of her head.

It might as well have been if he held the gun to her himself. He killed her. He did this. He did this to her. His life's mission destroyed her, an innocent. It wasn't even her quest and her she was because of him. He knew why she stayed, but God, he should've told her to leave long ago. He should have told her to stay the hell away from him. She would have fought him, told him that she wouldn't leave her side, but he should've done something. If he had done anything, she wouldn't be lying here dead.

Mulder slammed his fist down on his coffee table, his sorrow pulsing through him, coursing alongside his rage. His fingers gripped the underside of the table, and through a fit of fury, he overturned it and threw it hard to the floor. The wood splintered and groaned and he kicked at it in indignation.

He sunk onto the couch, clutching a pillow against his chest. His heart clenched excruciatingly, remembering all the hurt Scully had suffered for him. How she had bravely undergone it, never asking for pity, never looking for sympathy. Why did she do it? It baffled him to this very day, why she so stoically remained by his side, never backing down. Even after her abduction, even after her coma, she came back and aided him.

It wasn't fucking fair. Why her and not him?

Everyone was clad in black. A long procession of people trailed around the coffin, draped in the colors of the country Scully had served so faithfully. Mulder stood staring for what seemed like hours. It hadn't been an open-casket ceremony, and he thanked whatever god that was out there for that. He wouldn't have been able to handle it. Hell, he wasn't handling it now. One by one, each member of the congregation placed a rose upon the coffin. Finally, he had reached the front of the line. His hand shaking, he lowered the flower onto the small pile that had already been laid there. He had attached something to his rose. It was something he had been saving until her birthday. It was an Apollo 11 keychain, just something that he thought she would appreciate.

He watched as the coffin descended into the cold ground, turning away when members of her family began to pour dirt into the darkness she had been entombed in.

"Fox?" Melissa tapped him on the shoulder.

"I can't do it. I'm sorry." Mulder muttered, forcing his voice not to shatter.

Melissa was silent for a few seconds, as others around began to do their share in the work.

"You know Fox, I think she loved you." She said solemnly.

He glanced up at her, his eyes red, tears threatening to break free.

Mulder reclined against the arms of the couch, fighting to stay awake. For what he sincerely didn't know.

His eyes jerked open. Sunlight was peaking through his windows. His head felt heavy, and his brow was beaded with sweat. He looked around, inspecting his surroundings. There were no files on the ground, none on the table. In fact, the table was still in one complete piece.

He heard rustling in the kitchen. Alarmed, he stood to his feet. He swayed back and forth a little, shaky on his feet. He staggered toward the kitchen.

He saw a flash of red hair.

"Scully?" He mumbled, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

She turned to face him, her eyes filled with concern.

"Mulder, what are you doing up and walking around? Go lie back down, you still have a fever." She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and guided him back to the living room.

"Scully, you're... you're alive?" Mulder stopped in his tracks, his hands gripping her arms.

"Of course I'm alive." Scully laughed, but her smile faded as Mulder leaned in toward her, their faces nearly touching. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I lost you." He whispered. He pulled her into a tight embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"Lost me?" She questioned softly against his chest. She pushed back to look into his eyes. "Mulder, I think you're a little delirious."

"I think I am too, Scully. I can't believe how deliriously stupid I've been all these years." He held her face in his hands, his thumb tenderly stroking her cheek.

"What do you mean?" Her deep blue eyes searched his, looking for something to tell her what this all meant.

"I had a fever dream. You were dead, Scully, you died. You were shot... instead of your sister. I saw what my life turned out to be. How miserable, how lost I was without you. It was a nightmare. You were gone and the pain was stifling, like all the air in the world had been taken away. I couldn't breathe. Every day was a day filled with enduring agony. And out of all of the horror I've felt in my life, all of the pain I've experienced, I don't think a single thing can compare to that feeling of having you gone. It was unbearable. What I mean is that I don't know how I ever went through life without you. I don't think I can go through life without you."

Scully stared at him in stunned silence, her fingers interlacing with his.

"You know you don't have to. And you know that was just a dream, Mulder. I'm here." Scully kissed his forehead delicately, remaining there for a few moments.

"Scully."

She met his eyes; they shone at her with such intensity. He tilted his head forward. There was an instant that seemed to last for thousands of years. The second before their lips met, their noses touching, so close they could feel the breath from the other bouncing off their skin. His lips captured hers, tender but with zeal, like a desire fulfilled after years of longing. They moved with each other, feeding off of the other's passion, tongues wandering. Hands roaming.

They broke apart at last, eyes shining with joy.

"You're it, Scully. You're all I need." Mulder tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

She nestled her head against his chest, wrapping her arms around him.

"I love you too, Mulder."