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But, oh no, she tells us that actually, the case of strange muscle growth on Van Blundt Senior is far too interesting, and has thus entered at number one on the list of her Friday night priorities. And here I feel socially disfunctional when I spend my weeknights lounging around my apartment in my most hideous jammies, weeping over Jane Austen, drawing Harry Potter fan art or.. well, recapping old TV shows. Turns out I am a bulging ball of charisma as compared to other people. Seriously, woman! Tart yourself up, hit town and get yourself a guy (though nobody with tattoos please.) Or at least go catch a movie! Or a LIFE, for that matter.

Anyway, with that positively thrilling prospect of Scully's weekend, she leaves and tells Mulder she'll see him Monday morning.

"Mulder" enters the office, only to sneer at "his" first name (Dude, a smart person would've checked out that badge dangling from your breast-pocket before now) as well as the sacred "I Want To Believe" poster, along with the classic "This is where my taxes go?" complaint. Oh, go and die, Van Blundt! At least he possesses the presence of mind to check his driver's license for his address.

Having arrived at Mulder's apartment, AKA the fortress of solitude, he whinily complains about the apparent lack of beds in it, and the answering machine gives us a supposedly sad view into Mulder's private life. Though I admit that the sex-phone lady calling him in person is indeed pretty pathetic, a night of cheese steaks and conspiracy theories with The Lone Gunmen sounds like one helluva party to me! Might as well enjoy the lot while you still have 'em! And at least Mulder has actual human beings competing for his attention, whereas Scully has.. paperwork. "Mulder" rounds off the scene for us by violating a basketball and doing a hilarious G-Man routine in front of the mirror. However, we shall not laugh at him, because: Who wouldn't do that when equipped with an FBI badge and a gun? Damn right. I might even envy him a bit. And once again Mulder is "a damn goodlookin man". Jeez, somebody had some major sucking-up to Duchovny to be done for this episode, didn't they?

Back at Scully's place, AKA the coven of shriveled social life, the lady of the house sits on the floor in casuals to tackle that exciting paper. Which I find utterly endearing. And she's wearing the glasses! Oh, dork-glasses, how have I missed you! Never leave me again!

There's a knock on the door, and she peeks through the spy to see "Mulder" stand in the hallway with this universe's biggest dumbass grin on his face. I won't even bother how he found out her address, when it already took up all his brainpower to figure out Mulder's. Maybe he has some sort of homing device. In his pants.

As Scully lets him in, we discover that not only is he packing the big grin but also a bottle of wine, and ergo some definite agenda. Thank God Scully has no ova to create little monkey babies with... whoops, I'm not supposed to know that yet, am I?

Scully asks whom the bottle is for. Twentyone. Twentytwo. Still no sound from "Mulder". Come on Eddie, you can do this! I know it's a big, difficult word to wrap your tongue around, but just give it your best shot! "Us" he finally mumbles. Well done, good boy!

Scully looks a little bewildered, but accepts the booze nonetheless. She has been to college, after all, and the most important lesson one can learn there is "Never turn down free booze." As she busies herself in the kitchen, "Mulder" desperately tries to find the coolest and most alluring seating position possible and is thus immersed in a ferocious battle with a cushion.. Considering both participent's estimated IQ, I think we can safely say that it's a draw.

As Scully sits down, Van Blundt turns up his mojo and states that Scully and Mulder don't really talk that much. "No, we don't, Mulder." Scully answers in a tone that strongly suggests that she is not about to change any of that. For it shall bring down the entire universe if those two were actually to talk to one another. "Why not?" Van Blundt asks, and here he has such a sincere, simpering look on his face, that with all my heart, I really just want to.. punch him. Hard. Square on the nose. Ugh.

A cut, a bottle of wine, a lit fireside and a considerable amount of fading daylight later, the two are still reclining on the couch. Scully seems pretty sloshed by this time, and I have to say that if one bottle of red wine is all it takes to take out the girl, she should seriously improve her training pattern. By going out in the weekends, for instance. She is actually stumbling for words. Scully. Anything-with-less-than-three-syllables-is-not-a-word-Scully. This is bad.


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