His eyes are always on her. Warm, appraising, full of unspoken questions, desires maybe. She can't be sure, or maybe doesn't want to risk being mistaken, having her infant hopes dashed before they can mature. Whenever she enters a room in which his presence seems to dominate; and over years she has learnt to cross a threshold with a velvet step, as once he commented on, his eyes automatically trap her in their gaze. In a room full of the others he seems to instinctively know where she is and his eyes find her and hold her in their endless scrutiny.

At first she thought he watched her only to guard them all against the possible reappearance of that that lurked inside her. The marksman in him would naturally assume that role – ready, prepared to defend and kill. She had suffered it with some understanding, deeply laced with irritation at the start. Many times she has wanted to confront him, demand an answer as to his constant observance, force his hand, tear truth from his tongue, but she feels unable to form the words adequately without risking sounding like a mad woman. But after weeks of peace there is no break in the gaze, his eyes never turn away from her and she secretly revels in it. The truth is she has begun to like his eyes on her, the subtle caress of his watching orbs and does not want to risk them not being there – they make her feel human. They give her a constant in her otherwise shattered existence.

And so he watches and she watches him watching, using any of the polished surfaces in the house to study his reflection when she can catch it because she can never look directly at him without betraying herself; trying to read the messages that must be hidden in his eyes. It is a game they play through the hours of her self inflicted confinement although she is unsure if she is actually the only player and he is an unknowing contender. She likes to believe not, that in this, as in so many things they are inextricably linked with an unspoken understanding, but she cannot be sure.

She begins to wonder as time seeps on if the touch of his eyes will ever be replaced by the touch of his hands. She begins to study them closely in minute detail. Her own eyes tracing over the scars and callouses that traverse his skin. The way he grips a glass, brushes his hair away from his face, picks up a book become a fascination to her. In her minds eye she imagines his hands on her skin. Would his touch be gentle with only the graze of those callouses to heighten her pleasure or would they be insistent, firm as his eyes seem to promise? Caresses on her back, bruising finger marks on the flesh of her arms. Often she has to walk out of a room so the lust that she starts to feel build deep inside her at only a glimpse of his hands, at any work, doesn't reflect in her eyes. Her eyes she knows are a very window to her soul and she dislikes the idea of being read that easily even by him. However as she exits, she feels his eyes burning into her back, in union with the cross that already mars her skin.

She attempts to find anything other than him to occupy her eyes and it is late one night that his eyes find hers intent on one of Sir Malcolm's atlases. She has not heard his approach but a subtle change in the air that vibrates around her tells her he is watching her.

"Mr. Chandler." Her voice sounds slightly hoarse with misuse but she feels a sense of satisfaction that it doesn't tremble.

There is silence and for a moment she is confused that her senses have mislead her that her awareness of him has clouded them. But as she raises her eyes she is met by his knowing gaze much closer than expected, than is usual, than maybe is proper.

She feels her breath catch and covers it with a laugh that seems to come out of someone else's throat and snatches her eyes away from him.

"You startled me."

"I don't believe I did Miss Ives. I know you knew I was there all along. That I was watching you." His voice is neutral, lacking the usual warmth she is used to but his words are heavy with meaning.

Her glance snaps back to his and then travels down to see the heavy crystal glasses in his hands.

He offers one to her silently and then lifts his in unison with her to his mouth, his eyes never leaving her face as she watches the strong ripple of the muscles of his throat as he swallows the burnished liquid.

As the brandy burns a path of fire down into her belly it is matched in intensity by the burning and clutching of a passion deep inside her, mirrored in his eyes.

Her hand starts to tremble and with his eyes still fixed on hers, which are now unable to look away, he removes it from her hand, his finger tracing the very whisper of a caress against the sensitive skin of the inside of her wrist.

Her teeth clamp down onto her lower lip and she knows that her want, need and desire for him is naked in her eyes, that his eyes can now see down into her very soul.

"Why do you watch me?"

The question forms on the air and sounds childlike almost petulant and she is suddenly terrified by the possibilities of his answer.

"I can't take my eyes off of you."

He steps closer closing the gap between them to almost nothing and she can hardly breath as the air resonates with emotion.

"Even when I can't see you your image fills my head. Your face is all I see and all I want to see, today, tomorrow, eternally. If God only allowed me to see one thing for the rest of my life I wouldn't hesitate. It would be you. I watch you because I can't do anything else. I'm too damned scared that you might disappear if I take my eyes off you for any longer than I am forced to. I loathe the night when you are shut away from my gaze. For fuck sake Vanessa I almost have to chain myself to the bed to stop myself bursting in on you just to see you to ensure that you haven't been snatched away, that you are real. Every moment I can't watch you is like torture. Without the sight of you everyday my existence has no meaning. I meant to leave weeks ago but the knowledge that I wouldn't be able to lay my eyes on you every possible moment of every day tears me into pieces. I can't leave you and I can't take my eyes off of you."

As he repeats the words his face twists, contorts, his eyes burn into hers and finally she understands the significance of his gaze and rejoices in it.

She moves placing her body finally against his, feeling the warmth of his skin radiating through their clothes. Her hand finds the back of his head, her fingers tangle in the thickness of his hair. Her eyes cleave to his as she pulls his mouth down. Their kiss is soft, tender, exploratory but full of the promise of passion and never in that long moment do their eyes see anything else but each other.

Their lips finally part and as their eyes tell each other the ultimate truth she takes his hands, those hands that along with his eyes have become her sole reason for living and begins to draw him towards the door, towards a room where they can truly see each other for the first time.

"Then don't."