It doesn't banish the shadows, but he brightens up a little. Besides-- it's not as though he's light-hearted at home. It's not totally unfamiliar. (And again, she's the problem, weighing him down.)

"I'm a little disappointed on that front," she muses, crunching a crouton. "No flying cars? What have we even been doing?"

Small talk and jokes feel cowardly, but she can't ask him to explain. And she needs to feel... something approaching normal. Takeout and TV on a well-broken-in couch; she'll try not to think too hard about where Dana Scully might be, or might be meant to be. Off somewhere in Maryland, on her own.