"A flight layover would do that."

It's an evasive answer, but that's fair. If she really wanted to know, consequences be damned, she'd say so-- and maybe he'd tell her, or maybe his resolve to preserve history would keep him quiet. Somehow the latter seems less likely. Maybe it's unfair of her to keep poking at the edges, tempting him to tell her; Mulder has always liked offering the impossible up on a platter to her.

So she mulls it over quietly. Long enough to take up cooking suggests a stay rather than a visit; not just a weekend or a week at a hotel. Did he live outside the country a while?

(Did they, she thinks, of course; she fits somehow into the future-past, she's sure of that much. If his goal is to make the future intriguing, he's doing well-- though in fairness she's a receptive audience, pathologically looking to fit puzzle pieces together.)

(It's not so hard to picture him on a beach. Or herself, walking beside him on cool sand, given a chance.)

She gets about halfway through her half of the sandwich before nudging the plate with the other half towards him. It's an oddly nice morning, if you ignore everything wrong with the world.

"So where are we heading?"