He can follow that, at least. From a woman who - until very recently - was reckoning with the probability of her own death, the point is clear. And she, like he, isn't all that concerned with the flowers.

The temptation to talk to Scully about her future self is overwhelming, to reminisce like a widower. You loved those ones over there - I used to tuck one into your bag while you weren't looking, and you'd find it at work. These ones, you loved the scent but hated the color, and we made do. Even if that didn't give the whole game away, even if it didn't have a whiff of the pathetic to it, it wouldn't be fair to her. He knows intellectually that it wouldn't.

It's mostly the fact that it pulls the veil off the entire thing that keeps him from saying it, though. Self-preservation is what wins, not selflessness.

"Maybe there is," he says, reaching for his glass. There's another quiet little moment, his heart aching for both Scullys, this one and the one he's missing. "What would you plant? Say you had a gardener to handle all the dirty work - what would you want?"