One afternoon, late, late enough that she could be home by now curled up to a good book with wine in her belly, Scully is instead a willing audience to the latest details on an old case. Mulder is brimming with childlike enthusiasm, his monotone tenor betraying the excitement his eyes give away. The projector is new, the scene is not. But now, like so many other times before, for alike and different reasons, she is awash with devotion to this man and his purity. She suppresses a giggle to preserve his ego. Men and their gadgets. She knew as soon as the box arrived it would be a late night. Ancient slides in brand new technicolor would surely be too much for him to resist. She is home, but not in her apartment. She is enthralled, but not by any novel. She is drunk, but not from any wine. The leather chair creaks as she moves away from it, but he takes no notice. Not even her still-heeled footsteps are a distraction. The warm stretch of tanned skin from his ear to his collar is exposed, and she knows by tactile memory the salty taste and the the rich smell of it before her lips reach it to place a chaste kiss at his pulse point. Only then does he pause to notice her, the shocked expression on his face is a singular kind, belonging only to those receiving undeserved affection. She’s rendered him speechless now, the beginning syllable of her name dying on his tongue. She waits until she can see that he knows she loves him, gathers her things, and goes home.
@lesknope thank you for the gift of your artwork!!!