Mayfield Fete, Connecticut
Scully fingered her cravat; it was uncomfortably tight. She sipped her champagne lazily, looking Mulder over from head to heel.
"I hope that you're enjoying this."
"Exquisitely," she said and tossed back most of her glass. "Well, almost. You still haven't explained the Scissors Incident."
"Scully…"
She waited, idly fingering the rim of her glass. Her cummerbund was beginning to slip.
Mozart drifted around them.
"Let's just say it involved a rather pretty Belgian air stewardess and during the re-growth period I couldn't walk comfortably for two weeks"
"Ouch."
"Satisfied?"
Scully nodded and slipped her empty glass on a tray. She only had to wait a few moments before one of the hovering waiters handed her a full glass.
"Do you often go to cross-dressing balls?"
"Only when you owe me Mulder. Big. Besides it's for charity." She looked across at him again. "Oh sweet charity. Relax Mulder, you look absolutely fabulous in taffeta. Although I'd stay away from the red mascara from now on. It simply isn't you."
"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind for the future," he muttered.
"You know, Mulder, the way that you walk in those heels, one might think you've done this kind of thing before."
"You're pushing it Scully."
"One more thing: your dress doesn't match those heels at all. Why on earth are they red? Mulder?
"Mulder?"
