"I'm kidding." He's not, entirely, or he wouldn't need to say he is - but Mulder's willing to inject a polite fiction here. People take skin biopsies all the time is waiting in the back of his mouth, itching to be said. But he doesn't.

Judging by the rest of the technology here, a mix of way-beyond-home and kiddie fantasy movie - he might still be stuck on the skywhale thing - a scan might be enough, anyway. And there's still the matter of breaking off a few of the branches on his back, or maybe all of them, in search of good samples. Pruning the grass on his head. Picking a bouquet out of the roses he's vaguely aware are threatening to bloom again. The mix of fascination and disgust with which he regards this shifted form still has plenty of outlets.

"If you're hungry, we can start there." He's not, but he's also not in that much of a hurry to be anywhere.