It is straightforward, if not quite in the way she might imagine. Mulder's getting drawn in, the way he'd like to think he wouldn't be for anyone but her; as easy as it is to fit imagery to memory, Scully's half the appeal here. Her carefully chosen words, the flick of her slender fingers as she turns each card over, the knowledge that all of this is happening while she's wearing one of his oxfords - how's he supposed to resist any of that?

"I'd tell you if it's a literal sword," he says, warmth suffusing his voice, "but I'm not helping you cold-read me."

Besides, it's not hard to read in what he needs to here. Three allies drinking together is easy to fit into his memories, not least because he would have been ecstatic back then if they could score anything better to drink than a jug of Carlo Rossi. The Hierophant, he understands as a priest of sacred mysteries, which could be something, or it could be nothing. And then the knight - but she explains that one.

When she looks up at him, he can't help but smile. "There I am. This -" tapping on the three of cups - "doesn't look like trouble, though."