handbag clasp

lokisgame  asked:

Dialogue prompt - 31 if you feel like it :) THANK YOU!

“I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

She can’t believe he’s actually here. He never did like these sorts of things, where what people wear and who people talk to is more important than the fundraising itself. He would usually make some smart remark to some bigwig from finance about the petit fours looking like Reticulan space craft or tasting like alien goop and she would smile and nod at the bean counter as though she were about to take Mulder outside and mould him into some generic gentleman who understood the finer points of accruals.

           But instead, he stopped attending her hospital charity events. He stopped helping her to choose which dress to wear, which shoes looked better, buying her a new handbag, clasping her necklace under her hair and whispering a kiss to her neck. Stopped trying to undress her before they left the house, stopped sliding his hand up her thigh as they sat at the overcrowded table, stopped telling the story of how, back in the day, she shot him, embellishing it each outing. Krycek once became a deposed eastern European dictator with a fetish for blackmailing FBI directors.

Some time last year, he stopped wishing her a good night and promising to keep her side of the bed warm.

Now he’s here and wearing his Tux, its sheened collars catching the light, the elegant ruffle of his white shirt just visible. His hands are in his pockets, he’s shaved and his hair is in the shorter style she’s always preferred.

Fox Mulder is a fucking beautiful specimen, she thinks.

She walks towards him but he hasn’t seen her and he turns away. He doesn’t know she’s chosen the deep turquoise silk dress with the spaghetti straps and the fitted bodice. Doesn’t know she’s wearing the earrings he gave her years before, the small diamond drops that glitter like hope in the right light.

But he’s here. And he’ll know all this soon. His presence sends a hot bolt of desire through her and in that moment, she feels the loneliness that Mulder’s illness has spread over them keenly.

She takes a glass of champagne from a waiter and someone touches her lower back. His spot. She swings round and it’s Martin or Michael from procurement or HR.

“Dana, take a photo with me?”

Before she can protest, she’s inside the photo booth, equipped with masks, novelty glasses, hats and caps and boas and shawls and super hero capes. She nearly pulls a Wonder Woman and spins around so she can kick Martin to the kerb, but he grabs her, wraps her in a purple boa and kisses her. The flash hits her eyes. She pushes Martin away.

“Steady on, Dana. You spilt my drink on my best suit.”

“I’m sure you can requisition another one when you’re back at your desk on Monday, Martin. And while you’re at it, see if they stock good manners.” she says, removing the feathery accessory and tying it round his neck.

He sneers at her. “It’s Manny, and I work in HR. We don’t requisition but we do have access to employee’s files to see how their behavioural records stack up.”

He whips back the curtain and photos drop into the holder. He shoves them at her and stalks off.

She is looking at them, wondering whether it would be more satisfying to burn them or to mail them to Manny’s wife, when Mulder enters the booth. He closes the curtain. He smells like shaving foam and history and a future.

He leans over her to look at the photos. “I knew it had to be you when that guy walked out trying to straighten his tie when he should have been trying to straighten out his testicles. You haven’t lost your ball-busting touch, Scully.” He picks the photos from her hand. “The purple doesn’t suit you. That guy has no idea, does he, Scully?” He nuzzles into her neck and she shivers.

“He certainly had no idea how I like to be kissed, Mulder.”

“So, if I were to choose the right kind of accessory, would you be interested in having your photo taken, doctor?” His low murmur has her pulse racing and she nods as she reaches her lips to his.

“What’s the right kind of accessory for me, Mulder?”

“I am,” he says, pulling her to him.

She throws the photos to the floor and stamps on them. “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

He tastes as she remembers – of spice and salt and untempered longing. As her eyes close, the flash goes off. The image of them is imprinted behind her eyes, black and white. She doesn’t need a photo.

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