A tingle spreading from the chip in her neck or a tickle triggered by a warm beam of sunlight hitting her face —maybe both— made Scully open her eyes on Mulder's quiet face.

He was dozing, his breath regular and untroubled, a dawn of a smile drawn by the line of his plumpy closed lips. Scully withdrew her right hand from Mulder's back, then, covering his cheek with her palm, she let her thumb slide over his lips, back and forth, lightly and softly, hoping her gesture would reach his dreamy thoughts.

Her position on the wet ground wasn't comfortable but she wouldn't mind staying just like that, her thumb sending him silent words of love, her eyes admiring his dirty and bruised but serene face, for as long as Mulder would need his deserved rest. However, she had noticed the makeshift bandage circling his head and her voice of reason rose up.

"Mulder," she whispered through his sleep, "Mulder, wake up. Mulder…"

His lips twitched. "Mmm…"

"Mulder, please…"

His eyes rolled under their lids. "Scully…"

"Mulder. We have to take care of you."

Mulder opened his eyes and stared for a long time, still drowsy.

"Scully, I'm already in your safe arms. I'm pretty well," he finally murmured.

Scully moved her hand from Mulder's cheek to his hair, caressing what was left uncovered by his ruined and bloodied cloth.

"You might not, Mulder. What happened to your head? I have to check your injuries. Besides, you don't wear your victory cap, therefore, I worry."

Mulder smiled, remembering their touchstone vows whispered on the threshold of his apartment, his cherished blue NY cap topping his bandaged head.

Then, triggered by the memory, a violent pang hit his heart, forcing his eyes to close, a quiver running from head to toes.

"Mulder?" Scully asked, a tremor in her voice.

Mulder didn't answer right away.

His thoughts had jumped into his deep dark hole, the one that had settled months ago, shadowing his hope and happiness; the one that might have grown from the smoking brain butchery and that might be fueled by the aftermath of the fucking Russian gulag; his damned mysterious brain disease and his ever nightmarish dilemma.

Do I want to tell Scully I'm on a slipping slope to death? Do I want to plant a seed of sorrow in her heart, now? It's not right.

Doesn't she deserve peace and joy, at least until I rule out all of my options before stepping into a grave?

And, what about this new head injury, just above the evil one? Could it be an omen? A faint hope that something unexpected could reverse my deadly fate, right here in Deep Valley?

Mulder reopened his eyes, moved his upper body away from the soil, dragging Scully with his arms, then, as they were now seated face to face, he answered.

"You're right, Scully. I might need your nursing hands. My body's all yours."

Right now, Mulder had faith; faith in Scully, in the healing power of their love, and in greater benevolent forces surrounding them.

He just wanted to believe, as he always did.