The hand that grips the coffee cup is slender at the fingertips, nailless, his pinky a twig with another, smaller twig branching from it. A leaf bud marks the middle finger of his other hand. Mulder tries not to look at either of them. He can forget the wrongness when he's doing something else, but not when he stares at himself.

It's easier to look at Scully, even if doing that comes with a guilt that sits in his chest and waits to be acknowledged. He doesn't regret leaving, or even choosing not to tell her; he regrets that he wasn't here before, hasn't been here long enough to keep her fears at bay.

"Fine, I think." He's able to sit on the bench, if closer to the edge of the seat than usual. "Yours?"