In his beat up car, Mulder has six eight tracks dedicated to Elvis alone. Scully is reminded of how he is never quite in the present; always either in the past, bobbing his head to Elvis with a sheepish grin and banging on about Roswell, New Mexico 1947 or else is so far ahead of everyone even she has trouble keeping up.
By the end of their first year, she can’t remember how many weekends they spent out of town. He buys her strange trinkets (he has a particular penchant for gifting her keychains from every state) and takes her to even more peculiar places. In an outer-space themed bar he orders them double drinks with something neon green dripping inside that looks suspiciously like alien goop. They spend a drunken night in a motel room avoiding each other’s lips.
He takes her to a museum of oddities, where there are precisely three Fiji mermaid look-alikes, nine pieces of bug wings claiming to be scales of prehistoric beasts still roaming deserted swamps, and twenty-six identical moulds of clearly fake alien bodies. He grabs her hand as they stare into the glass cases of mystery creatures. Neither of them say anything about it.
They argue frequently, about what is real and what is not, about what he wants so badly to believe he’ll see anything and about what is under her nose but she refuses to acknowledge. But they keep driving, keep moving in a way that makes them both feel like they exist outside of time and space and there is nothing among them but a few bright lights above, the tapping of her nails on the dashboard, and both of them trying desperately not to fall in love.