Unlike Shrodinger’s cat, if you put Dana Scully in the same bed as Fox Mulder you absolutely know what they’re going to be doing. Until that eternal slide into her, Fox Mulder had considered himself alive. It was only when he dared breathe, dared move again, that he realised he’d been dead all these years.
She kissed his scar, the one she’d given him, and he knew without the need for a scientific explanation, that it was entirely possible to be in a combination of all possible states at one given moment.
She was real but she wasn’t. He was here but he wasn’t. This was happening. But it couldn’t be.
Love, he decided, was as elusive and as plain as the truth. As sentimental and as practical as a heart. As foolish and wise as any man.
And he wanted to remain in this moment forever, yet emerge from it with the memory to clutch close, the knowledge of her body, her desires, her needs to learn from and put into practice. He wanted to go back to before, to the delicious anticipation. To circle back to the beginning to relish once more the warmth and tightness of her, yet to reach the climax over and over and over.
“What are you thinking?” she murmured against the rush of his pulse.
He chuffed. Thought of the cat in the box, dead and alive. Of his heart in its cage, beating yet still. “Nothing. And everything.”