Title: Watching
Summary: They watch each other but don't see, and it costs them dearly.
Author: ShawThang
Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None.
Author's Note: Just a short fic I needed to get out of my system. Enjoy!
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Watching
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He walks past, like he so often does these days, with his head down, not meeting anyone's eye, and keeps walking.
I wish I could call out to him, greet him with some funny comment that will make that goofy smile I love so much grace his lips. But I remain silent, already knowing that I won't. I won't because I know he will acknowledge me with the barest nod, and keep walking. He goes into his office and sits in his swivel chair, placing his cup of coffee on his right. I know this because I've watched him. I watch him a lot these days. When the others are out patrolling, he and I are here, manning the fort. Well, not really, since we have hundreds of guards keeping this place safe, but I suppose we are the bosses when the others are not here. I like to think so anyway. Anyway, back to him. I'm watching him again. I wouldn't call it spying, since he always leaves his door open and it is quite easy to see what he is doing.
He never does much. He reads and researches, sifting through those godforsaken books that cover his walls. They are like his children. I see him walk past and let his fingers brush their spines. I think he does it for comfort, for some kind of relief from the hectic world we live in. I've seen him retreat to his office and head straight for his books when we're having a hard day. He sometimes does it to help us, but mostly it's just for pleasure. He reads with his mouth, too. Silently moving his lips while his eyes skim across the page, and he doesn't even realize he's doing it. I hate looking at his lips, because I either get an intense desire to run over and kiss him, or my eye lowers and I catch sight of the ugly scar across his throat.
For someone who used to parade around in a suit and play grown up, or so I'm told, he certainly has a lot of scars. I saw them when he took his top off to train, and they certainly surprised me. Small, thin pink slits on his chest, and long, criss-crossing red ones on his back. Not to mention the red line down his side, or the round scar on his leg. I always wonder how he got them, but I'm not brave enough to ask anyone about it. Definitely never ask him, either, and it's mostly because I'm terrified of the answer. Was he hurt as a kid? Or beaten as a teen? Maybe it was the Watcher's Council as some sort of punishment. The most obvious choice is demon hunting, but I never saw him get terribly hurt when I was around him. They show that my illusion of an untouchable man is a false one.
He has changed. He doesn't care if he gets hurt, and even when he helps me or the others he does so in such a blank mechanical mode that I'm beginning to feel he has nothing left to feel. Did we break him when we cast him away? I feel I already know the answer, but it makes me feel sick. He made a mistake, and we shut him out before giving him a chance to explain. He had meant well, and even if the result was disastrous, he deserved a chance. We didn't give it to him. What have we done? He is only a shell now, and a part of me dies with the realization that the man he once was is gone. This is what is left.
He does not watch me like I watch him. The last hope of us flounders and dies. I stop watching him.
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I see her watching me, always following me with her eyes as I cross the room. I feel them boring into my back, burning holes through the soft material of my shirt. Whenever I walk past her lower lip always trembles and then snaps shut, as though she was about to speak but changed her mind. I don't know why she's scared to talk to me. What is she afraid I'll do? She doesn't know what to say most of the time, but I just wish she would say anything. Her uncertain silence is damn annoying.
Sometimes I get the feeling her stares are more than just curious. I should care more, I suppose, but I just can't make myself. After the way the last time turned out, I can't bring myself to even think about caring. She hurt me; I am not naïve enough to believe this time will be any different. She chose, and her choice did not include me. That was her decision, and after more than a year I have learnt to ignore the pain and sickness her rejection caused me. It is still as strong, still as fresh, but no longer does it consume me. I can control it and yet it never lessens.
I am sitting behind my desk, gratefully engrossed in a book discovered in a raid last week. The words are a comfort to me. When I read I am no longer sitting at my desk, in my office, in this building. I am seeing the creatures described, feeling the emotions expressed, partaking in the journey's told on the paper. All my own failures can be forgotten and I am no longer worthless and weak. I can feel what I wish to feel; I can see what I wish to see; and I can be who I wish to be. There are no demeaning sneers, no pitying gazes, and no regretful glances. I am alone but I am not lonely. This is where I seek my comfort- among the words and pages secured in their leather bindings. Because outside my book, life is worse than I ever thought it could be.
She is watching me again. She is sitting at her own desk, her eyes flicking from her computer screen to me. I don't acknowledge her. If she wants to speak with me, which I know she does, then I will wait for her to open her mouth. She will not, but for some reason I find myself slightly hoping that she will. To hear her giggle at one of my terrible jokes used to make my heart race. When she used to come to me for help with solving the latest puzzle my hopes would soar. Watching her grow into a secure, confident woman before my eyes used to make my body quiver. But if I can still feel those things, I do not know. Those feelings were banished long ago, and I see no reason to dredge them up.
I find myself moving my eyes away from the book in my hand, and land my gaze on her. She is not watching me anymore. But I am watching her. The days continue to pass, and everyday I find myself drawn to watching her. I watch her walk, I watch her talk. I see the way her hair bounces and shifts when she walks, and I see the way her hands gesture wildly when she talks. I watch her research, I watch her fight. I see the way her nose creases when she squints through her glasses as she researches, and I see the way her tiny body moves lithely when she fights. The worst thing though, is that she no longer watches me. Sometimes I catch a slight glance, a tiny peek, but she no longer follows me with her eyes. I am setting myself for another fall, but every time I think about her or see her, another crack appears in the walls surrounding my feelings. It terrifies me, and I know this can not go on.
She does not watch me like I watch her. The last hope of us flounders and dies. I stop watching her.
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The End
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