He'd like to think he's keeping busy: research of both the book and field sort, communications with other paranormal enthusiasts, half-hearted attempts at writing a book that the US government would never allow to be published. There are days when he walks around in the middle of nowhere until his legs ache, then comes home and pulls a new recipe from a cookbook and tries to master it. And, these days, there's weekly sessions with a head-shrinker. It's almost like having his own private insane asylum, strolling the grounds and being asked about his mother. Sometimes it's enough. Frequently, it's not. But it's something.

He hasn't told Scully about the way he's Girl, Interrupted himself - albeit without the chicken carcasses and dramatic suicides. He's not sure if he can, or will.

Not that he's doing a great job of talking to her about anything else. He's about to answer when a waitress comes over, and that's the moment of truth. He looks at Scully, trying not to betray hope in his voice. "Are you up for dinner?"

(They came here for dinner, but that doesn't mean they're going to commit to an actual meal. Mulder's not sure how far to push this.)