His expression sharpens at the idea, like he's coming into focus around the premise of getting to talk to Scully again. More is impossible to quantify - does it mean you can text me once a week when you see a calf in a field and think I'd like a photo of its big brown eyes, or does it mean actual conversations? Two AM questions - that can be answered long after two AM - and news articles he reads and opinions on politics and yes, baby cows and garden flowers and the monarch butterfly chrysalis he'd discovered a few days ago.

(And asking about her, of course, but that's the stuff he doesn't really have tacit permission for anymore. There's a certain danger to investigating Scully too deeply: What are you doing tonight, oh I'm going out with someone, it's a third date, feels pretty significant. She's always been more private a person than Mulder, anyway; he'd rather she threw him the things she wanted him to know about, without his probing for them.)

The food arrives, and that gives him an excuse not to reply for a moment. When the waitress has walked away, though, and he's squeezing ketchup onto his plate, he asks, "How much more?"