Disclaimer: Everything recognisable belongs to Fox, except Skittles, which belong to whichever candy company makes them.
I Know You
She perches delicately on the edge of the chair opposite his desk, behind which he is lolling, feet propped up and ankles crossed, watching her out of half-closed eyes, the whisper of a smile curling across his lips. She rolls her eyes at the music, some obscure 70's acid jazz that nobody's ever heard of, and in response he pegs a Skittle at her chest. She catches it just before it disappears into her bra, examines it before her narrowed eyes. A red one, and the little 'S' is only half-there. She arches a delicate eyebrow, and pops it into her mouth.
They talk, about music, about Deathly Hallows (which he has open on the desk to page 74 replete with his lead-pencil scribbled annotations - he is on his third re-read, and it is only just November), about how in Aladdin Jafar's bird is named Iago & the deeper contextual reverberations of such, a little about Wilson, not much about Foreman. When she leans across his desk with her palm outstretched he pours her out a handful of Skittles, and before she withdraws her hand he grasps her wrist and deftly plucks out all the green ones. It steals her breath, this small act of familiarity, of twenty years' worth of accumulated knowledge, and she finds she cannot look him in the eye.