He's loath to let go of Scully, having grown entirely comfortable where they are - but the vague instinct to put down roots, whether literal or metaphorical, is easy enough to overcome. (This is the only problem with synchrony with her, he thinks: at some point, it stops. And it's definitely the fault of synchrony.)

"Give me some time to photosynthesize," he jokes, except it isn't really a joke. With the sun on him, he's got the feeling he could live on it, if he stayed like this. Coffee in the morning, maybe some small meal at night - probably for the sake of having dinner with Scully, to be honest - and the light pouring down on him for everything else. He stands up, reluctant, and offers a hand to her before remembering what it is right now. Delicate sticks, just a little horrifying when he focuses on it, and not something that's likely to pull her up.