Mulder tucks a leg under him as he turns to face her, too. Neither of them need to say why it is they need to see each other head-on. They just know: this can't be left to sideways glances and euphemism.

"I know," he murmurs, his cheek tilting slightly towards her fingertips. Instinctively, he reaches for her other hand; after so many months of pain, made more incomprehensible the longer he's back, he wants the comfort of her touch. "And - I'm sorry."

The one thing he's willing to apologize for is the thing he's pretty sure he couldn't have done anything about. But he hates the thought that she's been alone throughout this ordeal, carrying a child unlikely to know its father. Scully's had to be strong, stronger than he's ever asked her to be.

Of course, that sorrow doesn't actually give them an answer, only a place to start. "What do you want to do?"