"Scully?" he saw her in the distance, through the fog. Even though his eyes weren't sharp enough to recognize her, his heart knew and it felt like it was going to jump from his chest in pure joy.

"Scully!" he was running towards her, running on the clouds, weightless and pain free for the first time in a decade.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be. But she was there, and he was there, and it was more real than anything that was real for real. In a way. In every way.

"Mulder?" she raised her arm when he approached her, almost touching him, but not quite. She didn't change, didn't age, looking exactly the same as on the day that she died.

"It's me," he said, laughing from joy and relief, floating in front of a woman that could never be forgotten, never replaced.

But it wasn't real.

Real was the sterile bed, needles in his arms, and his nurse Elena telling him to rest and not try to move.

He had a stroke.

He couldn't move much, anyway. He couldn't speak. He supposed this was it, then. He was dying.

No, he wasn't afraid. He was looking forward to it, being reunited with her, leaving this struggling body and life that had nothing but more pain to offer him.

Next stroke lasted longer, gave him more time with her. They were on the beach this time, wearing swimsuits on the perfectly warm orange sand.

"You look the same," he told her, not daring to touch her. She wasn't real, but he was real, and that wasn't compatible, it couldn't coexist, not in any real way, and touching her, that would be real.

It didn't bother him. Real was overrated. And she was more than real. Always and forever.

"You look… older," she said, looking at him, and at his soul through his eyes. "How long has it been?"

"Forever," his eyes filled with tears. "My love… I'm so afraid you will never forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive."

"You don't know what I've been through. What I had to do…"

"I do know. Skinner told me."

He fell on his knees and she went down with him, deep into the pure, warm sand.

Skinner. Of course Scully would see him. He died seven years ago. Or was it six? Mulder's memory was too foggy and unfocused.

"Is she…" he didn't want to ask, but he had to know. "Is she also here?"

"No," Scully shook her head. "No, she isn't."

There was no judgment in her eyes. No blame in her words. There was only acceptance and pure joy of being with him. She was simple this way. More real than real.

But he was just real. And he broke down in tears, wetting the sand together with the stormy rain brought on by his sadness and regret.

"Our daugther…" he sobbed. "I gave her up…"

"Can you see me?" Elena asked. He wanted to nod, but he couldn't. He winked instead and she nodded, with a tear sliding down her cheek. He wanted to tell her there was no reason to be sad. He had no friends, no family. It wasn't a life worth mourning for.

Third stroke came after three days. This time, they were in the woods. It was dark, but they weren't scared. They were together, after a small eternity, and it was all that mattered.

"What did you name her?" Scully asked him.

"Margaret. After your mother."

She went on to ask about her first word, her first smile. How did he manage it alone? Somehow. Maggie kept him busy, prevented him from going crazy. Skinner helped too, after he recovered of near fatal injuries caused by being run over by a car, on the same night that Mulder found out William wasn't his, but Maggie was.

Skinner was the only friend he had left, but he couldn't help when Mulder's health started to decline. The best specialists gave the worst prognosis. Untreatable… Disfiguring… Terminal…

He couldn't keep working. He couldn't raise his daughter. She cried when he handed her to a social worker, after putting Scully's cross around her neck. He begged her to be strong for him, for her new family, for the normal childhood that she deserved but he couldn't provide for her.

Her last cry still kept him awake at nights.

The nights turned to years.

Skinner visited him weekly in the nursery home, until he died, peacefully, in his sleep.

Mulder was still here. Against all odds, against all prognosis, his body fought and fought, punishing him with life worse than any death.

"She will be fifteen years now," he told Scully. "And I miss every single year of her life."

Then he was back with Elena, the nurse who grew fond of him when all the others preferred to stay away. She was reading him something, but he couldn't understand what and he wished she would stop. The words were physically hurting him, and worse, keeping him awake when he wanted to sleep forever.

His last stroke took him back to the apartment 42 where he once used to live. She was there, even younger this time, casually feeding his fish.

"I've been waiting for you," she smiled, taking a step towards him.

"Why?" he asked. "Why here? Why me? Why haven't you moved on?"

"I can't," she took another step. "It's not a journey for one. Soul-mates are always crossing together."

"Soul-mates?"

"How else would you call us?"

He didn't answer. He didn't know what to say. She was standing too close now, glowing in the white light and reaching to him.

"No!" he stepped away. "You are not real. If I touch you, you'll be gone. I can't lose you again."

"Don't be afraid. You can never lose me."

"I've lost everything."

"So have I. Do you want to go back to that?"

"No…"

"Do you want to leave it behind? With me?"

He nodded. He couldn't speak. She was too close now, and the urge to touch her was unbearable.

"Then kiss me," she gently encouraged him.

So he did.

And she was gone.

But so was he.

Together.

More than real.