He gets some plates and silverware to set their little table, and hopes silently that it doesn't look too dingy. He can't remember the last time he used it - maybe in the spring, drinking a beer and enjoying the fact that he couldn't see his breath. The chicken and vegetables come over, crowded onto a plate that's slightly too small for them, and he puts a whole breast on each of their plates. Scully can figure out the sides for herself, but he's not giving her a chance to cut off a little wedge of chicken and call it dinner. She needs her strength.

"After dinner." He looks a little sheepish as he says it, nodding toward a corner of the yard that's overgrown in a different way than it is over here. "I...didn't do much with it, this year. Or last year. But a few of the flowers are still blooming."