He knew he was paranoid. He knew he believed in things most other people used as fodder for fairy tales. Hell, he was as addicted to porn as he was to sunflower seeds (the Freudian in him tried hard not to analyze that comparison too much). But for all his eccentricities, he had never before experienced gender association problems.
"Come on in!" bellowed Scully from within the bowels of her apartment.
Mulder let himself in, precariously balancing his cargo in one arm and unlocking and opening the door with the other. "Scully?" he inquired, looking around for his noticeably absent partner.
"Just looking at some stuff my mom must have left for me," Scully answered from her bedroom and she held up a suspiciously scanty set of lingerie from Victoria's Secret and wondered what the hell had gotten into her mother.
"I brought some wine and some ice cream," Mulder bellowed back.
Scully emerged from her bedroom and eyed the gifts. "Chunky Monkey, Mulder?" she said, raising an eyebrow as she took the pint from him and put it in her freezer.
"No, seriously, Scully, you won't believe it, but I actually had a huge craving for the stuff," admitted Mulder sheepishly.
Scully shrugged. "I'd believe it... for some reason, right after I woke up, I had an insatiable urge to cook chicken cordon bleu."
Mulder looked delighted. "Scully, that's my favorite dish!"
It was Scully's turn for delight. "Well, Mulder, I just so happen to cook the best chicken cordon bleu this side of France," she boasted.
"I believe it," said Mulder, inhaling deeply with a look of intense rapture on his face.
"You set the table, Mulder, and let me tell you about this incredible dream I had on the way home..."