but a plot inspired by these photos like, muse a is a college football player living his dream playing for his family college, and muse b has finally managed to gain a coveted spot at a performance arts college for ballet. after muse a’s team loses game after game, their coach pulls a couple strings to get them to go old school and learn ballet to help them be more swift on the field, and muse b is apart of the group chosen at her school to help them. for the next month, muse a and muse b are partnered up, coaching muse a through the steps and the two growing closer and okay like muse a is super clumsy and always stepping on muse b’s feet and he’s like “sorry i’m so sorry” and she smiles through the pain and they do it again and again and then muse a has to learn better posture and how to move his feet and teaches muse b about football (which she doesn’t get) and she goes to his games and all this cute shit who doesn’t love cute fluffy tear your heart out fluffballs
Imagine a plot where MUSE A is in their third year at college and MUSE B is just starting her first year at the same college. MUSE A is a football player, meaning to go pro and is very social. Basically, everyone loves him. MUSE B is his best friend’s little sister. MUSE B’s older brother lives across the state and asked MUSE A to watch over her and make sure that no assholes hit on her and MUSE A does as he was asked to do. MUSE B however finds it annoying to be babysat and just wants to have fun, she enjoys being flirted with and so she makes it really difficult for MUSE A to keep his promise.
“Mulder, have you seen my glasses?” she asks, patting the surface of his desk as she squints over at him. “I knew I should’ve put my contacts in-”
“I don’t know,” he answers, then glances up at her and pauses. “Where did you leave them?”
“I don’t remember! Wouldn’t I be looking there if I did?”
He stands up and she watches his blurry form become slightly clearer as he gets closer. “Let’s retrace your steps. When do you remember having them last?”
“Just a few minutes ago, I was doing paperwork and I-”
She reaches up and pats the top of her head, glaring at him when she feels the wire frames of her glasses. His grinning face comes into focus when she slips them on and she shoves at his arm. “How long were you going to let me look?”
He shrugs, and bites back a smile as she turns away.
The next time she loses her glasses, it’s because he’s wearing them.
“Did you know our prescriptions are relatively the same, Scully?” he asks, pinching the edge of the frames as he looks at the small print on one of his slides. “Must be fate.”
“You don’t even believe in fate,” she says, hands on her hips as she tries to make out his facial features to determine if he’s serious or not. “Do you?”
“Mm,” he answers, nodding vaguely at her, then pulls the glasses off and appears suddenly right in front of her and slides them gently onto her face. The world is suddenly crisp and clear and clean looking and he winks at her now that he knows she’ll see it.
Skinner looks over at them expectantly, pausing in his briefing of the team of agents. “Mulder, can you read that report for us?”
“Hold on,” Mulder says, casting around for his glasses and landing on hers.
“God, Scully, you’re blind,” he says loudly as he puts them on. Heads turn.
“Our prescriptions are the same,” she hisses, kicking him lightly under the table. He traps her foot between his ankles and she holds in a gasp, trying to wiggle out, but he crosses his legs and keeps her from escape.
She grips the edges of her chair and tries to keep a pleasant expression on her face as she braces her other foot against his leg, trying to pry them apart. He’s reading the report coolly and evenly, the only voice in the room, and she realizes they’re playing footsie in the middle of an FBI case briefing.
She feels herself go warm, and then even warmer when Mulder places her glasses on her face when he finishes reading.
She falls asleep with her glasses on all the time, in hospital beds, and wakes up to find them folded carefully on the table next to her. Eventually she stops wearing them, because seeing too clearly makes her feel too hopeful. If the world is blurry, it doesn’t seem such a shame to leave it.
When he’s there, though, she thinks it is a shame to not be able to see. But he gets close enough that it doesn’t matter.
She wonders if he knows, if he’s compensating for her. Coming closer to let her see him more clearly.
He kisses her cheek and she thinks that maybe she doesn’t even need to see at all.
“People who have been blinded can use their other senses much more strongly,” she tells him once, closing her eyes. “They can hear better, feel more intensely.”
He squeezes her hand and she feels it all over her aching body.
“That’s kind of kinky,” he says, and she laughs.
Who needs glasses when you can laugh in hospital beds? Who needs much of anything when life is so full even as it draws to a close?
Sometimes, in motel rooms, they’re buzzing with adrenaline or anger or determinstion to solve a case. That’s when she can feel the tenuous tightrope stretched between them, waiting for someone to be brave enough to walk across it. He never wears his glasses then. When he’s angry, his face is bare and it fills that empty space with a red flush and a frustrated squint.
He wears his glasses when he’s sleepy. When they sit quietly in the motel rooms and read case files over and over until the words are painted on the backs of their eyelids and feel their bones sinking through their skin. Then the tightrope is a tidepool, lapping lightly at their edges until they slowly run together.
She looks up from a file to see him lift his glasses and rub his eyes.
“What time is it?” she asks quietly, and he glances at the clock by the bed and groans.
She lifts her glasses too, copies him. “I should get to my room.”
But the file is rearranging itself the longer she stares at it, the longer it pastes itself onto her visual cortex, and she feels that itch that means something is about to make sense.
It does, when the clock blinks 3:00 at her. She turns triumphantly to tell Mulder but finds him asleep over his file, glasses askew and crushed between his face and the mattress. He looks like a child and she remembers suddenly that she used to fall asleep while reading all the time when she was a girl.
Slowly, slowly, she stands and pads over to the bed. She wiggles his glasses off and realizes that he has not looked so young in a long time.
She’s glad of it, after a few years. That their prescriptions are the same. She likes the idea that their eyes see the world the same way. Of course, he sees magic and conspiracies and she sees formulas and facts, but in the end they see the same things.
She gets shot by a man who sees what no one else does, who she can’t believe she is even seeing, and Mulder reads Tom Sawyer to her while she pretends to be asleep. He pushes up his glasses with his index finger and cleans them on her sheets.
“Why are you always in hospital beds?” he asks, when she has successfully convinced him of her unconsciousness. “You look so small.”
His voice wavers, no longer steady like it always has been, like she has begun to expect and rely on. That tightrope pulls, shivers across the distance between his knee and her side. There is so much to see when she opens her eyes.