You've chased down alien/human hybrids, freaks of nature, and legends from multiple cultures. Seen men stretch like silly putty and swim like flukeworms. Watched each other for signs of alien possession and premature aging. Been shot at, thrown into walls, pelted with manure from an exploding methane plant. Talked about time travel and past lives and how he's nuts and you're too closed-minded.
You've been closer than you would ever have imagined when you were assigned to debunk his theories four years ago (closer than you would ever have imagined until last Friday night, maybe), and this is hands-down the most awkward conversation you've never had.
"Good morning." His feet are up on his desk, and there are about six pencils in the ceiling tile already, which means that today is a heavy paperwork day and he's been waiting for you to arrive before he even pretends to get started.
Of course. Today would be a paperwork day.
"Morning," you respond. You can feel him trying not to smirk. You haven't made eye contact since you got in, but you can feel it.
"Good weekend?"
Now you can hear it, too.
You want to show him that if he's going to try this game, he's going to find it's for two players. You want to tell him the highlight of the weekend was the brain-crushing migraine on Saturday morning; or claim that migraine came from drinking most of a bottle of wine all by yourself; or just come right out and assert that if you hadn't had most of that to yourself, there's no way he would have found you almost...
You don't say anything. You manage a half-nod, half-shake of the head as you hang up your coat.
"Personally," he continues implacably, "I've had better. I missed the first half of this classic B-movie about space grasshoppers invading earth."
"Mm."
That noncommittal, barely faking interest sound doesn't stop him. "Because I had to work."
With a heavy sigh, you pull your stack of unfinished reports out of your case. You open your mouth to ask if he really wants to talk about this, tuning your voice to its most caustic, but what comes out instead is a tired, "It's not funny, Mulder."
There is a pause and the thud-clatter of a pencil hitting the ceiling tile at the wrong angle and falling to the desk.
It turns out that that may have been the best thing to say to get him to shut up, because he doesn't bring it up again. But you know it was maybe the worst thing to say to convince him that Eddie Van Blundht didn't really fool you into thinking he was Mulder, and that now he'll never believe you were only pretending you were going to kiss him.
You're still trying to wrap your mind around the fact that you wanted to.