Disclaimer: Ye Gods, I think we all know that I don't own this by now! If only...
It Is
You see it, in the way his fingers subconsciously flicker towards you, just momentarily leaving the cold surface of his gun, for a fraction of a second alone, when you stumble over a stray rock, even though you both know that you will not fall.
You hear it, the concern in his tone when your face has only been grazed by a sweeping branch, not even really wounded. You can hear that he wants to softly cup your cheek with his hand, to try to make it better, even though protocol dictates that there can be no such touch. You are sure that the change in the cadence of his voice is so slight, so minimal, that no-one but you and he will notice it.
You smell it, his fear when you may not return home safely, not this time. It is tangy, sharp, visceral. It makes your nostrils flare as you breathe it in, for a multitude of reasons.
The physical urge to merely touch him, even to grasp for his hand, for comfort, for companionship, for him, is overwhelming, but you deny it. It is forbidden.
You've tasted his blood, by foul accident, as it sprayed across your face one time, long ago, when he was wounded. It makes you gag that this is as close as you can get to tasting him. You want to savour him, savour it. You want to taste the salt on his warm skin.
There is so much of it that is withheld, but you both know that it is as concrete, as solid, as immovable as any matter that you, as a scientist, could choose. You know that you are his, as much as he is yours.
You know that you love him.
You cannot speak of it, yet you know that it is there, albeit that it remains unspoken.
You are not supposed to feel it, but you know that it is, on both sides, deeply felt.
And you know that it will continue.
It simply is.