It happens slowly, her falling in love. At first she keeps her distance, maintains a purely professional rapport with him, sensing his distrust - his suspicions that she has been sent to spy on him. But the last five years have shown her the bond they share; the honesty they bring each other and that not-quite kiss in his hallway made her realise, half surprised, that she loves him more than she ever thought possible.
Now she lies half conscious on a bed of Antarctic ice. Frozen to the bone she wonders if this is how she will die (stupid to think that she could live forever?) and what will happen to Mulder when she is gone. Could she go on if the roles were reversed? If it were him lying near death, far from any hope of rescue?
Her eyes flutter to his face and she tries, weakly, to smile at him. If this is all the time she has in this world she wants his face to be the last thing she sees. She wants him to know that, whatever else he might think, it is he who has guided her through these last few years. He is her saviour.
He gathers her in his arms, murmuring that she will be ok, she will be ok, and for a second she stares into those dark eyes, almost afraid of her feelings for him; this fearful symmetry they somehow share. But as he holds her, that touch she knows so well, she accepts that this, that he, after all, is her fate.
