Hate is always foolish and love is always wise

My experience is that whether I am asked about the X-Files or not in an interview, details about the series and my previous comments about the series are included in the text.

If I am asked about the series, and I ask to not stay too long on the subject due to the fact that I am promoting something else, I am frequently made out to be moody/abrupt/rude/dismissive you name it. If I do talk about the series, which I recently did as it was blatantly clear that the interviewer did not like the film I was promoting, I try to make it light and fun and not repeat myself as even I am sick of hearing the same old yarn.

What usually happens is that they ask about the long hours - I say yes they were long - they say, but you have said that at times it was a living hell and I say, yes at times it was... it was insane and long and wet and all that but there were good times too - and then the interviewer says provocatively - as if I'm either an idiot for staying in the series under such conditions or an idiot for saying it was so challenging when clearly it wasn't because I stayed - why didn't you get out? And my response which is as much incredulity that someone who has written for years about the television industry has either never heard of a contract or has the shallowness to pretend he has never heard of a contract - I say, "are you kidding me?! when you go to network you sign a contract even before your last audition".....

So the dilemma, do I go on explaining the X-F contract/salary details - as if he really cares - all the while injecting positive quips about the show and how grateful I am, or do I cut it short because I really don't want to be in this conversation yet again even though I know that no matter how nicely I request the end, it will, especially in this situation, be contorted to fit the snippy mood of the journalist. None of this has much of anything to do with my experience on the series let alone me as a person.

The series went on for a long time - longer than any of us had anticipated or some of us had wished. It was the hardest work I will ever do in my life. I hope for the sake of my children and my sanity that I never have to work that hard again.

Did I hate it? At times yes.

Did I love it? At times yes.

Did I regret it or do I regret it now? Not for a second.

Did David and I hate each other? At times yes like any brother and sister, husband and wife, co-worker and co-worker forced to spend that much time together under such strenuous circumstances.

Do we hate each other now? Not in the least.

Do I imagine that when we do the film together we won't hate each other for a few hours during the filming? No. We will. Vehemently. As David waits patiently, again and again for the hair dryer to calm my frizzy hair between takes so it matches the beginning of the scene... he will undoubtedly be thinking "what the hell was I thinking agreeing to shoot with her f-ing frizzy hair again?"

But we will also love each other and laugh with each other and pull pranks on each other and bug each other like we did for nine years.

And that's that.

BONUS

And she was correct.

April 16, 2008: Shock: What’s that like with David now that you’re not with each other 16 hours a day on a series?

Anderson: It’s great, but it was great then, too. This is like a sibling relationship and I never had siblings. I had brothers and sisters that started when I was 13, so I was out of the house and didn’t have that experience. There was always this love/hate – hate is too big of a word – but there was always something. It was a natural relationship over a period of time. Now we’ve grown up and we’re older, we’re more appreciative of the relationship period and the unique experience we had together and have an opportunity to continue that and foster it. We’ve always loved each other and we’re always going to be a battle sometimes.

Who woulda thought that shorter hours and a personal life away from work would engender better friendships?

CONCLUSION What a power move.

Thanks for reading~

"Can I get something started for you?"

Dana's head snaps up, eyes breaking away from the textbook in her hands. "Huh?" She replies stupidly. She regrets it, because the man behind the cash register is unfairly attractive, but there's not enough energy left in her body for niceties or good first impressions. She's got an anatomy exam before lunch, one hour of sleep under her belt, and a coffee maker that her roommate had broken; right now, Dana has a one-track mind that is screaming for caffeine. She hadn't been to this coffee shop — The Basement, or so says the sign above the door — but she doesn't really care about the quality or the price, she just needs something.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Beautiful Barista repeats patiently. "A coffee?"

"Caffeine." Okay, Cave Woman Dana is driving the ship today.

"It usually has that. How about a red-eye?"

Dana nods, and he rings her up. Her eyes are glued to his face as he presses around on the cash register. She takes in the soft curl of his cheekbones, the hook of his nose, the swell of a bicep that peeks out from the sleeve of his t-shirt. He really is beautiful.

"Can I get your name?"

"Scully, Dana," she says on autopilot. It's been far too long since she's been asked her name in a context other than in line to get a graded exam back from an overworked TA who doesn't care to memorize their students' names.

"It'll be ready for you down at the end." He winks and sets the cup out of sight. Dana shuffles to the other side of the counter and cracks her textbook open again, trying to find where she left off. Before she knows it, the sound of her name snaps her from her haze.

"Scully, comma, Dana!" The cute barista calls, placing a to-go cup on the counter. When she grabs it, he speaks again. "You might want to drink that here. It's hot, and I wouldn't want you to be so focused on your textbook that you trip on something and dump it all over yourself. I'm assuming you're a med student?"

"I will be in a couple months."

"Then you should know that coffee can give you a third degree burn in seconds. Ours isn't hot enough to, but in theory, it could."

From anyone else, especially a man she's just met, it would be condescending. She would snipe back at him, scold his assumption that she can't take care of herself. But the way the barista says it, it's… soft. Caring. There's a touch of flirtation, sure, but not the impression that Scully owes him her attention just be virtue of being a woman in his vicinity.

"What gave it away?" Dana asks.

"Your average humanities major doesn't walk through those doors as exhausted as you are. Also," the barista gives her a lopsided smile, "they don't walk around studying diagrams of male anatomy for fun." He points to the page she had been reviewing, and yep, of course. Her textbook is open to a rather large graphic of a penis and testes.

"No, I suppose not. Well, thank you for the coffee."

"Anytime."

Scully hums and takes a sip of her coffee and lets the rich flavor bloom across her mouth. It's warm down her throat and into her chest, giving her a jolt of energy. She knows it's a placebo, but she instantly feels more awake.

"God, that's good," she says. "With coffee like this, I think I'll have to take you up on that."

He gives her another one of those beautiful, teasing smiles. "Come back soon. I work nights more often than not."

"I'll see you some evening then."

"I'll see you."

Scully smiles and turns to settle into a nearby seat. It's not until she picks up her to-go cup to take another sip that she notices the Sharpie on the side forming three lines of text.

The first line, predictably, reads Scully, Dana in rushed, blocky letters. The second is a series of ten numbers. The third reads Mulder, Fox, with an arrow pointing to the line above.

Oh. The cute barista had given her his phone number.

Dana doesn't really know what to do with that.

-------------

Mulder

Hi Fox! This is Dana from the coffee shop

Hi there Mulder, comma, Fox ;)

did you know you're so hot its distracting

-------------

Dana thinks about texting him; she really does. She sets the coffee cup on her desk, but after it distracts her one too many times, she moves it to her nightstand. It's just the right spot for her to stare at while she can't sleep, contemplating what to do about the unbearably hot barista. Mulder, comma, Fox. What kind of first name is Fox, anyway? He was probably raised by hippies, which means Dana shouldn't text him in order to avoid inviting that particular brand of chaos into her already hectic life.

On the other hand, his eyes are a warm shade of brown that makes Dana melt like chocolate in the summer sun. Something about his eyes, perhaps the way he looked down at her without looking down on her, makes her trust him.

Her gut reaction is to text him. Dana doesn't believe in gut reactions. She has typed his number and a greeting into an empty message field only to promptly deleting them one too many times. She throws the cup away without sending a message, but not without saving the number to her phone. Just in case.

-------------

When Dana returns to The Basement a couple weeks later, it's not to flirt with Mulder, comma, Fox. It's not. It's because she desperately needs caffeine, and they have damn good coffee.

Even if she had gone to flirt with Mulder, comma, Fox, she would be out of luck. He's not there. Instead, a chipper blonde woman stands behind the counter to take her order.

The coffee doesn't taste the same. Maybe Mulder put something special in her last one without telling her. Or maybe coffee just tastes different when it's made by someone you want to press you up against a wall and have their way with you. Dana may never know, because she has no reason to come back to this coffee shop, off campus and halfway across town.

Dana goes back to the coffee shop off campus and halfway across town.

In her defense, it isn't because of Mulder. She winds up there because her roommate has a guy over that has a real set of lungs, and Dana does not enjoy studying to the dulcet tones of loud sex. Mulder, comma, Fox had mentioned that The Basement was open at night, so Dana finds herself there.

And, by the grace of God and well-organized shift schedules, so does Mulder.

"Scully, comma, Dana!" Mulder greets enthusiastically. "What can I get started for you?"

Of course. Of course Dana had been awkward enough for the hot barista to remember her. She can never show her face again. Especially not now that warmth is blossoming across her pale cheeks. Damn it.

"Redeye with cream, please."

He rings her up and she manages not to embarrass herself further. As he flits around behind the bar, Dana watches closely, trying to figure out what he does differently than the barista from her last visit.

It's not until the very end that she notices the change. Just before he slides her cup across the bar to her, he shakes a metal container above her drink, powder settling into the liquid.

"What is that?"

Mulder looks up at her and raises the container questioningly. "This?"

"Yes. Last time I was here, they didn't add that, and...I just want to make sure I ask for it next time."

A devilish smile crawls up Mulder's cheeks. "Why would a magician reveal his secrets? I've got to keep you coming back to me somehow."

"The fact that you're already open at 11pm and not jam-packed is already pretty enticing. You could serve me the sludge at the bottom of a grad lounge coffee pot and I would keep coming back."

"Good to know where we rank. But still," Mulder sets her cup on the bar between them and leans across it, "it's no fun if I tell you."

Scully raises her chin in indignance. "And what if I had an allergy?"

"Do you?"

"No."

"Then why bother worrying about it? Plus, it's already an ingredient in some of our blends. If you had this niche allergy, you would know to mention it a coffee shop. You didn't," he shrugs," so I added a secret ingredient."

She hums into her cup. "I'm going to figure out what it is, Mulder, comma, Fox."

"I'm sure you will, Scully, comma, Dana."

-------------

Dana quickly discovers that The Basement is not just open quite late, but all night. It is far enough away from campus that it usually isn't busy between her prime studying hours of 11pm and 3am. Usually, the only other soul in the coffee shop is Mulder, perched behind or on top of the counter.

Though, come to find out that Mulder does not disagree with this simple fact.

"See!" Mulder points exuberantly at the floorboard in front of the bakery case that had just creaked. "It did it again!"

"Yes, Mulder, I'm truly shocked that a building constructed in 1923 with original hardwood floors has a creaky board," Scully rebuts without even looking up from the scribbled proof in front of her. This argument started weeks ago, when the door had opened without an apparent customer. Mulder had claimed it was a ghost. Scully knew it was, quite literally, the wind. It had deteriorated from there.

Mulder, who Scully had previously considered quite intelligent based on his ability to keep up with her during the few academic debates they'd engaged in, believed in just about every supernatural being and superstition one could list. Ghosts, aliens, demons… Scully wouldn't be all that surprised if he told her that his spring break plans this year involved hunting Bigfoot.

"You know what, Scully, you're no fun."

"That's they call me," Dana says dryly, "Dana 'No Fun' Scully."

"Fun people aren't studying in an all-night coffee shop at," Mulder makes a show of checking a nonexistent watch, "1am. Fun people are at parties."

"And smart people don't usually believe every creak in the floorboards is some kind of ghoul, Mulder."

"Oh, yeah? Then what is it? And don't say the building settling, because I never hear it in the back and we've got the same old walls back there as we do out here."

"The floorboards run vertically under the bar," Scully explains. "You stepped on the other end, lifting the other side of the board, and it's squeaking against a loose nail." She licks a finger and flips a page. "I assume the back area is tiled?"

"Yes…" Mulder replies hesitantly.

"Then the weight is distributed differently and doesn't impact the floorboards."

"Since when are you a home improvement professional?"

"I'm not. I'm just coming up with a reasonable explanation for the sound you heard, because 'ghost' doesn't qualify as reasonable."

"I would beg to differ."

She peeks up at him over her glasses. "Be honest with me, Mulder. Do you think the boogeyman is gonna getcha if I leave before your shift is up?"

"Of course not. I have salt that I could very easily sprinkle into a protective circle."

Scully rolls her eyes and shakes her head fondly, focusing her attention back on her papers. When she hears Mulder return to his shuffling behind the bar, she chances another look up at him, taking in the soft curve of his cheek where an absent smile lay across it.

He'd be really cute, if he weren't so damn contrary.

"Did you know that greys lack external sex organs?"

"Mulder, I need to study." It's not a whine, per se, but it's certainly not the most dignified tone of voice that has come out of Scully's mouth.

"Studying can happen any time. I'm only here for the next" — he checks his watch — "God, still an hour and thirty-eight minutes?"

"Maybe your precious little green aliens are messing with time."

"Grey," he insists. It's a familiar correction, but Scully won't be caught dead referring to aliens as greys like a tin-hatter.

"God, why do I even come here?" Scully mutters to herself, shaking her head and scribbling another line on the paper in front of her.

"Because the library doesn't have my good looks and enduring charm," Mulder replies. Scully lifts her eyes to meet his over her glasses and raises a brow. "And because they don't make your coffee as well as I do."

"I'm going to figure it out one of these days, I swear."

"You going to be able to pencil coffee taste-testing time in between Einstein and Newton?"

"Be honest with me, Mulder, are those the only physicists you know?"

"Galileo, Bohr, Hawking…"

"Okay, okay—"

"… Watt, Heisenberg, Schrödinger…"

"I believe you, Mulder."

"Oh, good. I starting to was run out of names."

She shakes her head fondly and returns to her textbook. She reads the next line on the page. Reads it again. Underlines a random phrase. Reads it again.

She can feel his eyes on her. It's not unusual, not in the slightest. Sometimes he just stares at her. She can deal the weight of his gaze as it traces her jawline, her shoulders, the curve of her lip where it's caught between worried teeth. She doesn't know why he does it, but she doesn't mind. It doesn't typically distract her as deeply as it is now, and if he wants to analyze the rather large chunk of hair that's about to fall out of a tired hair tie, that's his prerogative. It's not like he has much else to do with her as the solitary customer past midnight.

-------------

This time, it's not a lack of sleep that Scully blames, but the abundance thereof. She could swear that she had set an alarm for her early-morning class enrollment, but instead finds herself waking up at a cool 9:38am, which is virtually unheard of for her.

When she sees the time, she, admittedly, panics. She gropes blindly for her glasses before giving up and logging into her class scheduler from her phone. She gets into most of her classes for her last semester without a hitch, but the humanities class she had been gunning for is filled. She selects the first vaguely science-related class that fits the requirement, Psychology of Physics, and enrolls. It sounds like an odd name for a class, but Scully doesn't have the energy to be picky.

Only, as she would find out at the beginning of the next semester, that's not the title of the class. Where a squinting Scully had read Physics, the page had actually read Psychics. Psychology of Psychics. As in the minds of mind readers. Scam artists, if you asked Scully.

She had no defense for not realizing until the time came to buy her textbooks, if you could call them that. She had managed to continue misreading the title until it came time for her to purchase books with titles like "Mind Over Magic: Understanding the Psychology of Superstition."

It was too late to switch out, too. Every other class that filled that remaining required credit was either full or conflicted with one of Scully's other, more important classes. She had screamed into her pillow about this fact multiple times.

Matters are only made worse when she steps into the small classroom — because shockingly, this bullshit class doesn't have enough interest to fill a lecture hall. She arrives early, because even if the class is a joke, Scully isn't going to treat it as such. When she steps through the door, she sees a solitary figure draped across a chair in a manner Scully can really only describe as whoreish. Gangly limbs are thrown across the furniture with little care. One leg is propped up on the arm, leaving his legs spread. His head is bent deeply over a book sitting in his lap, so Scully can only see the top of his head.

Scully chooses a chair towards the front of the room and settles into it without greeting the room's other occupant. The cheap plastic squeaks as she sits down, and the man's head shoots up at the sound, revealing — oh, damn it.

"Mulder."

She is so, absolutely fucked.

"Scully." A grin grows across Mulder's face. "What's a skeptic like you doing in a dirty little place like this?"

"Regretting every academic decision that has lead to this moment," she sighs. "I signed up on accident, and by the time I realized, it was too late to find something else."

Mulder winces dramatically. "Rough. But," he reorganizes his limbs into some semblance of a normal way to sit in a chair, "maybe this will be a good thing."

"How so?" Scully says it like a dare, chin jutted out to challenge him to prove it.

Mulder smirks conspiratorially. "I can convince you to join the dark side."

"You aren't going to convince me that ghosts exist, Mulder."

"Ghosts aren't the topic of this class, Ms. Scully. Psychics are."

She gives him a flat look. Really? "I guess we'll just have to see."

-------------

Abigail created the Psychology of Psychics groupchat

Abigail: Hi Guys! Welcome to the groupchat for Psychology of Psychics. I think I got everyone except the girl who sits in the front, she disappeared before I could get to her. If you have her number or if I missed anyone else, feel free to add them!

Byron: Thanks Abigail! I didn't get her number it looked like she was busy talking to Fox 👀

lottie: glad that i'm not the only one who noticed those two were so caught up with each other !!

Byron: Maybe they know each other from another class?

Eb: Hopping in to say that I was there on the early side and they were bantering crazy style

Eb: Thanks for making the gc Abigail!!!

Abigail: Happy to! But let's keep it relevant to class folks 😃

-------------

The class turns out to be pretty small, comprised of her and six other students. A girl next to her whose computer is usually open to some online retailer, a boy behind her who is built like a linebacker but dressed like a vampire, someone with close cropped curls and tattoos covering their skin, a blonde in the back who never has a hair out of place, a redhead with an undercut who sits in their chair just as messily as Mulder, and a brunette with butterfly clips who is the only one taking notes most classes. None of them say a word outside of when attendance is taken, and Scully pays about as much attention to them as they do to the class as a whole — excepting the note taker.

Scully is proud to say that she made it through the first lecture without outright debating the Professor Duvall. She might've already formed a playful rivalry with Mulder, but she's not going to risk gaining the ill will of her professor this early on in the semester.

The second class, however, is another deal altogether.

"It's confirmation bias! All of it!"

The gothic footballer scoffs from behind her. Scully pretends not to notice, but she's gathered that the rest of the class is generally intolerant of her general domination of their discussion. They could change that by participating themselves, but that's beside point.

This conversation, for example. Anyone else could jump in and agree or disagree with her about the role of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon in the period following a person's psychic reading. Then again, maybe all of her classmates are deep believers in Angel numbers and tarot cards, and they don't want to face the wrath of Scully while she's in the middle of academic discourse.

Scully is grateful that Mulder is the one that heads the Thursday classes, so the professor is nowhere to be seen. They have the weirdest professor-TA relationship Scully has seen, where Duvall grades their work while Mulder heads up their second class of the week. Scully doesn't need the professor seeing what she looks like with the fire of a good debate behind her eyes, fiery and alive.

"Erma isn't very personable," he had explained from behind the coffee bar early that morning. "She would much rather be locked away in her office reading essays while I do the actual teaching on Thursdays. Which is fine with me, because I get enough of your sass here, Ms. Scully; I don't need to be reading your essays, too. It's much more fun to be able to tell you exactly why you're wrong."

Scully had just rolled her eyes in response. It was an unprofessional response she could allow herself outside of the classroom, but that she was just barely holding back now.

"But there is something to confirm. It would be just as easy to predict something that won't happen."

Scully buries her hand in her hands, murmuring "This is impossible" into her palms. Knowing Mulder, he'll probably try to read them and tell her what she'll eat for dinner tonight.

-------------

lottie created the psychology of sexual tension groupchat

Lottie: ok i don't want abigail to take issue with it but does anyone think dana and fox are like… y'know……👉👌

Selene: God, Lottie, I can't believe you'd say that. They're absolutely fucking and we all know it.

lottie: there's no other explaination!!!!

Ali: $20 says they aren't fucking yet but they will by the end of the semester

Byron: No way, she seems like too much of a goody two shoes. She'll wait until after finals.

Selene: You guys are SO on

-------------

Mulder isn't behind the counter when the bell above the door rings to announce Scully's presence. Just as she's about to let out a confused "hello?" his head pops up from the far end of the bar with wide eyes reminiscent of a meerkat.

"Scully!" he greets cheerfully, as if hiding behind the counter is entirely normal behavior for him.

"Mulder," she replies, "hiding from the customers already? It's not even midnight yet."

He laughs good-naturedly, "No, I'm working on the sidewalk sign with the specials. Christie got it written out this morning, but she lets me do the borders if she runs out of time. Here," he ducks back down and lifts the board onto the counter. The boarder in question is a complicated interlocking pattern she would expect on some sort of amphora, not a coffee shop sign. It's more intricate than she would expect from Mulder, having seen his disasterous handwriting.

"Wow, that's gorgeous. How long does it take you?"

"Uh," he twists to check the clock behind him, "Jeez, it's been like two hours? I had to pause to serve a couple people but I'm almost done."

"That's impressive, Mulder." As if he couldn't get more damn attractive.

Scully takes her usual seat and relishes the relative silence for the next twenty minutes. Barely a moment passes between the click of Mulder recapping his chalk pen and when his voice breaks her focus.

"Did you know that the Library of Congress classification system has a subcategory for Bigfoot?"

She really should have seen this coming. She didn't exactly come to get distracted, but there have been very few visits to The Basement that hadn't included a Muldery rant of some sort. Scully sighs, closes her laptop, and resigns herself to Mulder's general insanity. She approches her side of the counter across from where Mulder sits, eyes bright and hopeful for a debate.

"Just because there is an LC classification for something doesn't mean it's real. It's not the classification system's job to determine what information is valid or useful, just to help people find it."

"Yes, but," Mudler leans forwarn minutely, smirking like he's about to tell her a secret that will change her life. Scully highly doubts it. "Bigfoot is classified under the Qs, which is science. More specifically, QL, which is animals, Not under BL where they classifiy unicorns and the like."

"And I suppose you think that this is evidence that the government is hiding an entire sasquach species from us?"

"Now you get it!"

"Mulder," Scully slaps her hands on the counter and leans over it, her face inches from Mulder's where he sits perched on his stool behind the bar, "just because they want to categorize the information doesn't mean they approve of it. That's not their role."

"They probably had to have an entire meeting to discuss this, Scully." He leans forward to reflect Scully's own position against the wood. "They wouldn't do that for a hoax. They have hours of recordings of people talking about cryptids that might be Bigfood going back half a century."

"You underestimate the inefficiency of a beauracacy." She doesn't mean for it to bring her closer to him, but it does.

With that slight movement, she feels miles closer. Their breath is shared, now, her exhale becoming his inhale.

She would live forever in this moment if she could, drenched in the knowledge of what comes next. This tension has been building for months now, the want building on both ends of it, she's sure. She can see it in how Mulder's eyes drag along her body every time she walks through the door of the cafe, no matter how ragged her sweatpants are.

This is it. She knows this is it, and so does Mulder. His eyes linger on her lips, and his own tremble with impatience.

Oh. He's waiting on her. Alright.

Scully leans towards Mulder, ready to close the gap and seal their fate. Ready for the fireworks and the passion and to blow him behind the counter or whatever might come next.

Instead, the bell above the door rings.

Scully doesn't remember jumping back, but the next thing she knows, she's a very safe three feet from Mulder and staring at the interloper walking through the door. She's wearing scrubs, with heavy eye bags to match A nurse, likely coming off a long shift.

"Can I get a—"

"Black drip with honey?" Mulder taps away on the cash register. "You got it."

The nurse relaxes minutely. "You're an angel."

"Anytime, Reese."

As Mulder busies himself preparing Nurse Reese's coffee, Scully settles back at her table and pretends to focus. Really, she's just staring at the page, eyes sanding down lines of text without taking in their meaning and thinking about Mulder.

If the nurse hadn't walked in, would he have kissed her? At the time, she had been almost certain he had been leaning in towards her, but now she's not so sure. Had it been an illusion, wishful thinking manifesting itself into reality? Based on how he's fluttering around behind the bar like nothing happened, Scully's thinking that might be the case.

But if he had been leaning in…

For a moment, Scully lets herself live in that reality, one where he bends her over the counter and fucks her like she's imagined so many times. From the privacy of her bedroom watching a film reel in her mind's eye, to the classroom as she takes in the shape of his lips wrapped delicately around the clip of his pen, to this very seat observing his practiced movements behind the espresso machine: Scully has pictured it over, and over, and over.

But it stays there, in her mind. As much as she would like to, it would probably be unwise to seduce her TA. Maybe she would consider it if this were a different class, but she's invested in proving Mulder wrong now. Sex, feelings… they would just further muddle a friendship already complicated by the way Mulder looks down to her from behind the podium as he leads their class discussion.

And it was that. A friendship. She could admit it now. Though they almost always hung out at the coffee shop or around class time, they texted occasionally. He might be her best friend. There was certainly no one she had ever had as much fun teasing and debating, as infuriating as he sometimes may be.

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psychology of sexual tension groupchat

lottie: if someone debated me like mulder debates dana i'd be on my knees soooo fast

Byron: Thanks for the vivid detail

lottie: i'm just saying!!!

Ali: No she's right. INSTANT blowjob

Eb: she psych on my ology til i psychic 😩

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Scully's shoulders may be slumped and her nose might be red and just about perpetually running, but she has a draft of her thesis due in two days and she can't afford to be sick. So she's decided she isn't.

She'd fallen asleep working at her desk twice already. Not wanting to risk a third, she hops on a bus and crosses town to The Basement, knowing that Mulder is working and his yammering, though it might distract her, will keep her awake. When she arrives, his usual smile twists into shock before the bell above the door can even finish ringing.

"What happened to you?"

"I'm not sick." It comes out all nasally and not even slightly convincing.

"Scully, you're definitely sick."

"I have a thesis draft due tomorrow," she explains, taking her usual seat. "You are in charge of keeping me awake enough with your neverending internal monologue to write it."

"I never thought I'd see the day you'd ask me to distract you." He heads to a shelf she doesn't often see him access, except when the girl from the bakery down the road comes in before her shift. "I'm making you tea."

"Coffee," she insists weakly.

"Tea," he says, and, well, Scully's energy isn't best spent disagreeing with him right now.

"This blend is perfect for a cold; it'll kick it right out of you. It has elderflower and ginger, some holy basil, but it's subtle…"

She swears she doesn't close her eyes. She has no idea what happens. The next thing she knows, she's jolting awake. There's a mug of tea next to her laptop with no steam coming from it, presumably long since gone cold. Something is draped across her shoulders and seems to have been there for hours, judging by the warmth surrounding her. She reaches out to prevent it from slipping to the floor and finds that it's Mulder's well-worn leather jacket, the one that has, unfortunately, featured quite often in her fantasies.

And then there's Mulder, squatting down to meet her eye. He has one hand on her knee, having clearly just woken her.

"You with me now?" he asks.

"Uh huh."

"My shift is ending. Can I please help get you home?"

"Oh. I gotta—" She grabs for her computer, frantic. "My thesis—"

"You'll be a lot better at writing it if you get some rest first." He stands. "C'mon, sleepy."

"Okay," she accepts quietly and follows him to the bus stop, but not before sliding her arms through the sleeves of the borrowed jacket. She leans on his shoulder the whole ride long, drifting but not quite asleep, until the garbled name of her street comes across the loudspeaker. Though she doesn't expect him to, Mulder stands alongside her.

"I'm a little afraid you'll pass out in a gutter if I don't get you to your front door," he jokes at her puzzled look. "Let me have the peace of mind?"

She nods in lieu of a response. At her door, they part with a "Goodnight, Scully. Rest up," and Mulder is gone.

When she gets inside, she flops immediately on the couch and falls asleep in Mulder's jacket, feeling as safe and warm as she would in his arms.

Scully is disoriented when she wakes the next morning. The first thing she recognizes is the smell of a full-bodied coffee blend, but the second is the scrattchy texture of her cheap couch against her cheek. She cracks her eyes open and — yep. She's in her living room. Not the coffee shop.

Mulder's jacket is askew, but still clinging onto one arm over the edge of the couch. She shakes the sleeve off and sets it on the back of the couch before heading to the kitchen in search of water and food.

Almost as soon as she leaves the jacket behind, the scent floating through her apartment shifts. No longer is the coffee smell that of a robust, professionally roasted blend, but the much flatter Folgers that her roommate brews.

Sure enough, the pot is full. Scully prepares a cup, foregoing real food for now. She's sure there's something in her cuboard she can stomach right now, but she needs the caffeine to kick in before she does anything about it.

As she drinks, the night comes back to her. Mulder, attentive and respectful. She does admittedly feel fresher after resting, but Mulder doesn't need to know that. She should, however, thank him for getting her home. She taps out a message doing just that before grabbing her laptop to continue what she should have finished the night.

Scully shoots a glance at the leather jacket where it lays across the couch. She grabs it and drapes it across her shoulders once more, out of convenience more than anything. It was the closest thing, and she was a tad chilly. It doesn't have to mean anything more.

Neither does the fact that her coffee tastes better when she's wearing it.

-------------

Scully: Thank you. I'll bring your jacket to class or the shop next time I see you.

Mulder: Don't mention it, I hope you slept well. And no rush.

-------------

"Sarah Winchester was not the victim of malicious spirits, Mulder. She was used as a prop by people who wanted to turn her home into a tourist attraction, and spiritualism sells. Just look at anyone claiming to be a psychic."

"That wasn't in the reading, Ms. Scully." He has a stupid, teasing smirk plastered across his face that Scully wishes she found less attractive.

"No, but it was in a book written by Mary Jo Ignoffo, an actual historian who studies California history, demystifying the spiritualist lore surrounding the life of Sarah Winchester. So don't you agree that it might be more effective and relevant to discuss why she was posthumously twisted into something of a madwoman, and why the public is so likely to believe it?"

Mulder takes her in for a moment, looking almost proud. He leans back in his chair and motions towards her. "Go ahead, then. Tell me why."

What ensues is something Scully will remain a bit self-conscious of for years to come. She's not usually someone who will take over a class just to share her opinions, but in the face of Mulder's naive willingness to buy into every tale spun to him by someone aiming to profit off his belief, Scully can't stop herself. By the time she's exhausted her carefully curated points about Sarah Winchester's womanhood, the money-making aspirations of John and Mayme Brown and Harry Houdini, and changing views on the Winchester Rifle Company, they're three minutes past when class is supposed to let out, and half of her classmates are on their phones.

Her eyes bore into Mulder, awaiting his response. He had been quiet during her rant, politely nodding at the right points, occasionally jotting something down in the notepad in front of him. He looks over the half-page of notes he's taken, nods, and looks back up to her.

"Alright. You've convinced me."

"I've… convinced you?"

"Yep. Or, well, you've convinced me to read the book, at least. What did you say it was called?"

"Um, Captive of the Labyrinth." Scully stutters a bit, caught off-guard by Mulder's interest and openness.

He scribbles the title down and smiles, genuine and kind. "Thanks for the recommendation." He turns to the rest of the class. "I'll see you all on Tuesday."

It seems only natural for Scully to stay, to walk with Mulder to the bus stop, to ride to The Basement for his shift, continuing to debate all the while. It's only natural for her to slide into a seat close to the register so they can continue through his shift, long past when the dredges of sunset have left every corner of the shop.

Only… it doesn't really feel like a debate. Perhaps it's because Mulder has already admitted that he agrees with her, or at least that she might be correct. When he asks a question, it doesn't feel like a trick or like he's trying to catch her in a logical fallacy; it's more like he's probing her to think more deeply. He want to know what she has to say, not just about Sarah Winchester, but about anything and everything. He wants to follow the thread of her thinking as it weaves between topics ranging from feminism to mysticism to medicalization and everything else she's wanted to say but not yet found the right time to.

More than anything, Scully feels. She feels seen; she feels knowledgeable; she feels interesting. Regrettably, it's everything she's ever wanted a man to make her feel.

-------------

psychology of sexual tension groupchat

lottie: guys the tension is KILLING MEEEEE

Ali: I'm surprised I didn't literally melt based on my proximity to something so hot 🥵

Selene: OMG Ali wait you sit next to Dana… I'm so curious what do her notes look like LOL did she have that ENTIRE arguement planned???

Ali: Girl do you think I'm paying attention to anything other than their arguements?? I've got a shopping addiction to keep up with

-------------

Scully has never, ever failed a class. She's never even come close. And though she's far off from an actual F, her performance in Psychology of Psychics has certainly left something to be desired. Probably because it is a stupid class, and she has much more important things to study than one's chakras.

She has a C. A seventy-six percent. She's never had a grade that low in a class before. Then again, she's never before taken a class that has relied so heavily on pseudoscience, myth, and heresy. Professor Duvall doesn't like that she cites sources she found herself instead of the ones provided as class reading, and ones antithetical to her rampant belief in anything remotely supernatural. Scully could learn to write the essay she knows Duvall wants to read, or she could stick to her guns and deal with the effects on her GPA. Unfortunately for her med school application, Scully is a principled woman.

Given that he's not the one actually grading her, Scully elects to complain to Mulder. He, unsurprisingly given his involvement in the class at all, lacks sympathy for Scully's current predicament.

"Why did you even sign up for a class on the supernatural if you were going to disagree with the professor at every turn?" Mulder asks from behind the espresso machine after her impassioned rant about the bias of Duvall's grading practices.

She buries her face in her hands with a groan. "God, I didn't even mean to!"

She regrets it as soon as she says it. Mulder might have already seen her stupid with sleep deprivation, but he doesn't need to know just how bad the consequences of that can be.

"You didn't mean to?" he asks, eyebrows raised and curious. "Why, Scully, did you once actually make a mistake? Do tell."

She sighs. "I thought it said Psychology of Physics. Which, in retrospect, isn't a class name that makes much sense, but I needed one last humanities credit to graduate, and by the time I realized the only things left conflicted with a lab or something more important and—"

"Scully, Scully." He rounds the counter and reaches out to run his hands down her arms in a calming manner. "Deep breath."

She takes one. His teasing is gone, replaced with a soothing tone she hasn't heard him use before.

"Do you want me to talk to Erma?" he offers. "You're right. You shouldn't be docked for disagreeing with the professor so long as you do it in an academic manner. College is all about the exchange of ideas, and it's not your fault if she can't see that."

"No, no. That's not necessary. I just need to… I don't know, Mulder. I'll figure it out."

"You're sure?" She nods, and he releases her arms. The worry still radiates off him in waves, stiffening the air between them. Though, she now realizes, there's not much of it; Mulder stays standing hardly a foot away from her. It's tense, in more ways than one, and she need to break it one way or another.

"Although…"

"What?" He's quick about it, clearly eager to do anything he can to help.

Carefully, she looks up at him through her eyelashes. It's blatantly seductive, but it's meant to be. When she speaks, it's in a low purr. "Well, you are the TA. Maybe you could assign me some… extra credit. Something I can give you a hand with."

She doesn't know how he'll take it: seriously, as she desperately hopes he will, or as the joke it's easily brushed off as.

Unfortunately for her, it's the second. He throws his head back in a laugh, looking too damn beautiful while he does. Scully follows suit and chuckles, albeit weakly, and takes a small step back from him. She can't let herself fall too deeply into the fog of attraction, not if he's not going to revel in it along with her.

"Careful, Scully." He turns back towards the bar that so often separates them. "One of these days I might actually assign you some."

His tone is… not exactly the one she was using, but it's suggestive enough. Maybe she wasn't entirely off-base. Maybe, just maybe, there's a chance…

Scully rests her arms on the bar and leans in towards him conspiratorially. "What, exactly, would you be assigning, Professor Mulder?"

He mirrors her position, mere inches between them. It's not the first time they've been here, but it's the first time the conversation has actually gotten them anywhere closer to a next step. Scully hopes — God, does she hope — that this time will be the one to get them to cross that line.

"Why, for a class like this one? I think it'll have to be ghost hunting."

She hums, her eyes locked to his lips. "Oh, of course. And where exactly would I meet you for an evening of ghost hunting?"

Withing adding another inch between his face and Scully's, Mulder plucks a cardboard cup sleeve from the counter and the sharpie from behind his ear. He scrawls something across the surface and hands it to her between two fingers. Upon further inspection, it's an address, nowhere near campus or The Basement. A lover's lane, perhaps?

"Tomorrow? 10pm?" He suggests.

Scully grins, unable to stop herself. "I'll see you then."

Finally.

-------------

Dana Scully can admit when she is wrong. In this instance, she was certainly not correct, but goddamn it, she should've been. Apparently when Mulder invited her ghost hunting for extra credit with what she would've sworn was a flirtatious smirk, he meant literal ghost hunting. With stupid gadgets and flashlights and a backdrop that looks like something pulled right from an episode of Scooby-Doo.

Scully will confess that the house looming in front of her doesn't exactly make her feel safe, but it has nothing to do with the alleged ghosts within. What worries her is the likelihood of rotten floorboards and a rabid family of raccoons occupying the house. It is a psychological phenomenon — the kind of thing they should've been learning in this damn class — born from basic human self-preservation instincts.

"You've got to be kidding me, Mulder," she protests when he sidles up beside her. "This cannot be safe."

"Don't worry, Scully, I'm a seasoned professional. I won't let the ookie spookies get you." He lifts his hands to his face and wiggles his fingers towards her like a ghost, to which Scully just rolls her eyes.

"I'm talking about the structure, Mulder. There's no way that building isn't going to collapse beneath us. It's a miracle it hasn't already been condemned."

"Oh, it has been." He says it casually, as if of no consequence. "The sign got torn down a while ago. C'mon, lets go!" He sets off towards the house.

"Mulder, don't!" Her protests fall on deaf ears as Mulder continues his charge up the stairs towards the eerie building. "Mulder!" Reluctantly, she starts after him.

Once caught up, she tries dissuading him again. "You're going to get yourself hurt."

"Nah, I've been in here before. It's fine. Not somewhere I'd want to actually live, but it's intact enough." Mulder reaches for the doorknob, and the sound of grinding metal fills her ears. When he pushes the door open, a long creeeeeak accompanies it.

It's dark inside, but the full moon shines brightly enough through the empty window wells that Scully can make out the intricate flooring and cobweb-covered walls. It must have been a beautiful house, back in its day, but today it stands before her rickety and decrepit.

"C'mon, up here." He motions up the grandiose staircase. "The most haunted room in the house is this way."

She follows. She has no idea what has possessed her to do so, but her steps follow his up the stairs, which miraculously remain intact beneath their weight.

He guides her to a room facing the front of the house, where a pane of what used to be gorgeous stained glass now sits cracked, framing the moon just right. If Scully weren't scared out of her mind — because of the safety concerns, not the alleged ghosts — she would've thought the sight pretty despite the damage.

And, fine. Maybe she's a bit creeped out by the general eeriness of her surroundings. But that's a survival instinct, borne from years of human evolution, meant to protect her from the dangers that can come from darkness and unsteady structures and the rats that probably live somewhere in the walls.

Mulder turns to face her when he reaches the center of the room while she lingers in the doorway. His arms extend, motioning towards the room as if it's a grand ballroom instead of a former bedroom with more drywall than wallpaper and a crumbling ceiling. "Well? What do you think?"

Her eyes crawl across her surroundings in an attempt to understand whatever it is Mulder so desperately wants her to see, eyeing the rusted and broken bed frame, smattering of animal droppings, and feeble looking floorboards. "I think you're going to end up with tetanus."

"C'mon, Scully, don't tell me you don't feel it."

"Feel what?"

"The presence."

He look he gives her seems to fill the room. That is the only presence she feels here.

Mulder steps towards her, and an upset sound eminates from the wood below his feet. Scully tries to reach out to him, tries to pull him towards her to stand on steadier ground, but doesn't expect an alarming bang to come from her left, and she tumbles toward him instead.

Scully did say the floorboards werre rotting.

They fall through the floor. They fall right through the floor of this stupid haunted — not haunted, condemned — house, and through some series of miracles they land on a matress. A gross mattress with springs sticking out that Scully does not want to know the history of, but a mattress all the same.

To make matters worse, she lands squarely on top of Mulder. The wind is nocked out of her, and she lets out at cough while he lets out a pained groan, making it all-around not the way she intended to end up in bed with Mulder that night.

"Are you alright?" She asks when she's caught her breath, "Did you land on anything?"

"I think I'm intact," he groans.

Scully scrambles off him and dusts herself off before offering a hand to Mulder. He takes it but stumbles and catches himself on her shoulders.

It's not as though they've never been this close before. It's not as though they've never been this close with this much sexual tension before. But somehow, for some reason, this time it's different.

When their lips finally meet, the kiss is slow. Mulder savors her like she's a unique new coffee blend he wants to understand the notes of. Her hands slide up his chest to the sides of his neck, letting the feeling of his skin beneath her palms light her up from the inside out. She can feel every cell in her body ignite, thrumming with the desire to never break away from him.

There's something familiar in the taste of him, giving her the same warm flavor as his coffee does. It's sweet, lingering on the edge of spicy, almost woodsy…

Finally, Scully breaks away from him, allowing mere inches between their lips to breathe while their foreheads reset against each other. A couple things click together in her head, and her lips form a word of their own volition.

"Cinnamon."

"Huh?" Mulder says breathily.

"You taste like — that's what you put in my coffee. Cinnamon," Scully explains. "I can't believe it took me so long to realize it."

"Oh, yes." When he lets out a laugh, there's something insecure behind it. "I guess you don't have much reason to come back to the shop, now that you know how to order it."

Scully grins, bright and beaming. "I think I'll be able to find a reason to come back."

When she kisses him again, she hopes he can taste the smile on her own lips.

-------------

When Scully wakes the next morning, there's a crick in her back. However, there's also a soothing hand running through her hair, so the pain quickly becomes secondary. She'll tolerate it if it means those long fingers continue dancing against her scalp.

She opens her eyes to bright light streaming through bare windows. She blinks, and the room around her comes into focus. It is, in short, a disaster. Socks are strewn about, a trashcan overflows in the corner, and sunflower seed shells are scattered across the desk and on the floor next to it. And then there's Mulder, just above her, nose pressed to her scalp.

He makes a surprised noise as she shifts to look up at him.

"Good morning," she says, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning." His response is muffled by her hair, but she smiles all the same.

"So."

"So."

"I wasn't going to say anything last night because we were…"

"Occupied?" She even if she couldn't hear the teasing smile in Mulder's voice, she would be able to feel it where his face shifts against her scalp.

"Yes," she echoes his eager tone, "But Mulder, you don't own a bedframe?"

"Well I don't own a mattress until last year."

That does make her sit up, leaning over him with her eyebrows knitted together. "You what?"

"I mean, the place came with a couch. I don't sleep a lot and spend all my time on campus or at The Basement, so it didn't really seem like a necessary expense." He shrugs, as if that makes any sense whatsoever. "So a bedframe? it's the least of my worries."

Scully pressed a baffled hand to her face. "I need coffee in order to make sense of… this. Do you have coffee?"

He hums affirmatively, "Maker's on the counter, coffee's right above it. I'll meet you in a few minutes."

She presses a kiss to his lips and slides off for mattress. She plucks a button up from a laundry basket that looks clean, and Mulder doesn't protest so she can only hope it's been washed and heads for the kitchen.

The coffee selection in the cabinet Mulder had pointed her to was… not what she expected. It was certainly not a blend the shop carried, to say the least. It's a step above her roommates Folgers, albeit barely. But it's caffinated, so Scully brews it nonetheless, tapping her nails against the kitchen counter as she waits.

A whistle erupts from behind Scully and she jumps, whipping around to see an unfamiliar man leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. She tugs at her borrowed button down in a desperate attempt to cover more of her thighs.

"My God, what are you doing?" She exclaims.

"Admiring the view." He looks her up and down, and Scully tries her best not to squirm under his gaze. "You two seemed to have fun last night. But are you sure Spooky's the best guy to be spending your time on?"

"Spooky?"

"Y'know. Mulder. With his whole supernatural thing?"

She raises her chin in defiance. "I think that's a decision I get to make for myself."

"Well, just don't forget there are other options around." He winks, and Mulder appears over his shoulder with a stormy expression on his face.

"You done here, Tom?" Mulder asks. The man — Tom — jolts around to face him.

"Jesus, Spooky, don't creep up on me like that."

"He is." When Tom turns again to protest, Scully lifts a silent eyebrow and his jaw snaps shut, effectively scolded. He slides past Mulder in the doorway, trying and failing to challenge him with his eyes, and slinks back down the hall.

"Well," Scully says.

"Yeah." Mulder runs a hand through his hair. "That's Tom."

"He seems… interesting."

"I found him on Facebook."

Scully hums in understanding.

"I haven't wanted to hunt for another roommate."

"Makes sense."

A smile breaks across Mulder's face and he closes the distance between them with two long strides. A hand lands on each side of Scully's face, and he drops a kiss onto her lips.

He probably means for it to be a soft, fleeting thing — a way to say hello and good morning and thanks for tolerating my roommate — but Scully tilts her head back and to the side and both find themselves getting lost in it. Scully's arms twine around Mulder's neck, and before she knows it he's lifted her slightly to sit her on the counter.

When they finally break apart, Scully's hair is more mussed than it already was and she has Mulder's hips in a vice grip between her legs. He drops his head to her neck to catch his breath, coming hot against her collarbone where her borrowed dress shirt has slid to the side.

She lifts her coffee to her lips and takes a sip. Made by her own hand, even with the cinnamon, the coffee doesn't taste the same as when it's been prepared by Mulder.

-------------

psychology of sexual tension groupchat

Eb: Was anyone going to tell me that Dana and Mulder hang out outside of class or was I just supposed to find that out while getting coffee on the walk of shame on my own????

Selene: WHAT

Selene: YOU GOT LAID??

Eb: That is NOT the most surprising piece of information here!!

Eb: They were hangingout while Mulder was WORKING! They were flirting over the coffee bar!! TWO CENTIMETERS APART

Ali: Eb bestie they basically do that during class. We know this. Tell us about the hookup

Eb: No

Ali disliked a message

Selene disliked a message

lottie disliked a message

Byron disliked a messag

Eb: BYRON NOT YOU TOO???

-------------

Scully expects things to be awkward the next class, but it's surprisingly normal. Mulder says something blatantly logical, Scully calls him on it, he smiles as they toss barbs and disagreements back and forth, and the girl two seats over does her online shopping. It's like any other class he's led, challenging and infuriating in equal measure.

She packs slowly after he releases the class, and approaches her while the rest of the students trickle out the door. He's inches away from her when she rises, nearly chest-to-chest.

"Hey," is all he says.

"Hi," she echoes.

Her eyes fall to his lips. Class is over, so even though they're still in the classroom, perhaps it wouldn't be entirely out of line if…

Mulder ducks down to kiss her before she can finish the thought.

When they separate, it's by just a hair. If either were to say something, to let their lips for any word, they'd be kissing again, and Scully isn't sure she'd want to stop this time.

"Uhh," a voice comes from the doorway. Scully and Mulder both whip their heads around in shock, but maintain their proximity. "I just forgot my water bottle?"

It's the online shopper that sits next to Scully, loitering just inside the doorway with poorly concealed surprise written across her face. She plucks a water bottle off the floor next to her usual seat and scurries out of the room, sparing a single glance back at where Mulder and Scully are damn near intertwined.

"Well, if there's a class groupchat you're not in, Scully, I think it's going to be pretty exciting in the coming hours."

-------------

psychology of sexual tension groupchat

Ali: Oh. My. God.

Ali: You guys will NOT believe what I just saw

Byron: UFO? I def won't believe you but Mulder and Duvall probably will if you need some extra points

Ali: No better

Ali: DANA. AND. MULDER. KISSING.

Ali: Right in the middle of the classroom

Byron: Holy shit

lottie: NO FUCKING WAY

Eb: RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU AND GOD???

lottie: I NEEDED THIS TODAY MY CROPS ARE WATERED MY SKIN IS CLEAR

Ali: Right in front of me and God

Ali: Well kinda. I went back because I forgot my water bottle

Ali: But you know what this means

Byron: ???

Ali: YOU BOTH OWE ME $20 BITCHES

Byron: Slow your roll, just because they kissed doesn't mean we know they're boning.

Selene: Do you kiss the TAs you aren't fucking?

Byron: God, no.

Selene: Then your point is null

Ali: I take Venmo or Paypal. Cash in a pinch.

Selene: Well we don't know how long they've been fucking. Couldn've been the whole time so I COULD still win Byron's the only one who is out.

Ali: Sounds like we need to do some recon

-------------

Scully is surprised, to say the least, when Online Shopper Girl sits a seat closer than she normally does. She typically leaves one chair between them, getting herself as close to the wall — and by extension, the outlet — as possible, but today she sits not only next to Scully, but sidways in the chair and facing her. She wears and expression Scully has seen written across the face of many women about to attempt to engage in something Scully isn't particularly skilled at — girl talk.

Scully breaks her eyes away from the notebook page of scribbled math in front of her. She can't even remember this girl's name — Alice? Annie? Alison? "Hello."

"So…" is the only greeting Scully gets. "You and Mulder…?" Scully tries to flatten her with a look, but it doesn't have the desired effect. She continues on, "Are you guys like…"

"My personal life isn't any of your business." Scully says cooly and turns her attention back to the proof in front of her, scribbling down more numbers.

"Well, I mean," she starts to unpack her bag, placing her godforaken water bottle on the desk. "If you guys are making out in the classroom we share…" When Scully doesn't respond, the girl continues. "Anyways, how long has that been going on? Were you guys already together when you signed up for this class? Oh my God," she leans forward and puts her hand on Scully's desk. "Are you getting, like extra credit."

Good lord, this girl doesn't stop once she gets started.

"It's new, we weren't doing anything beforehand, and as I said before my personal life is no one else's business, and I'd appreciate if you kept this to yourself."

"Uhh," the girl has the audacity to look guilty now, "Depending on your answer, this might make me twenty bucks. So. Kinda gonna have to share."

"You—" Scully sputters. "You were betting on us?"

"Maybe?"

Scully takes a long, deep breath. This time, when she turns back to her work, the girl doesn't pry any further.

-------------

psychology of sexual tension groupchat

Ali: Guys I fucked up. We are never getting answers

lottie: nooooo

Selene: rip :(

Byron: Does that mean I can keep my $20

-------------

"They were betting on us!" Scully exclaims when she gets to the front of the line at the coffee shop.

Mulder blinks at her. "Who, what?"

"The other students had a bet about if we were together, or when we would be, I don't know."

Mulder just laughs and shakes his head. When he looks back up at her, his eyes are warm and affectionate.