"John," he mutters, as though it's not his own fault that she doesn't call him Fox. She's on first-name basis with the man, which feels like proof positive of all his suspicions. "Dumplings are right here - steamed, not fried."

Ordering them had been second nature, a long-ingrained habit along with his beef lo mein. Scully likes them, but won't ask for them, and if he gets them fried, she doesn't like them as much; his private theory is that she thinks the frying oil will make her fat, as though she's not the most beautiful woman in the world exactly the way she is. Her diets have never made any sense to him, but he still finds himself deferring to the principles behind them occasionally, like ordering the steamed dumplings because he knows on some level that they'll share. They might be silly diets, but they belong to Scully, and it's starting to look like that kind of thoughtfulness is all that's left now.

He pulls out a pair of chopsticks and starts picking at his food, unsure how to take the idea of cases we're called in on. What's his place on the X-files going to look like now? He doesn't really have one, under the circumstances; she has a new partner. "Any good ones?"