It's rubbing salt in the wound, asking that right now.

Mulder's chewing on a particularly stringy piece of beef, and for a brief, idiotic moment, he wonders if there are still holes in his molars. He's going to have to hit the dentist at some point, it's been more than six months, and maybe their X-rays could pick up the spots where he was drilled. It'd be nice to have some proof left from his ordeal, something that shows he didn't spend nearly a year hallucinating the most physically painful experiences he's ever survived. And then Scully answers his question with a question, and his chest aches with it, pulled back from mental tangents to the reality of her situation.

"Who would I marry?" he asks, unable to keep a morose edge out of his words.