(Well, I haven't written anything in a long time, at least anything worth posting. But I thought I'd give this a shot. The paper and pen was calling my name and I couldn't resist! ;) )
I own nothing.
Just a little one-shot through Gillian's eyes. Reviews are wonderful.
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Movements
It's the little movements that catch my eye. He's been doing them more often lately. They seemed, at first, accidently, like he didn't realize what he was doing. But now, as I watch closely, these actions have become deliberate. He knows exactly what he's doing and I know what he's doing.
Slow, achingly slow, but at the same time, swift and sure.
A twitch, like a small nerve being plucked, telling him to touch or move a little a certain way, towards me.
I can tell in the movement that he needs the contact and I can't help but reciprocate that need.
Just a slight whisper of skin on skin. We rejoice in it. In such a deep, caring way.
The delicate rush of fingertips on my arm.
His hand colliding into mine when we walk side by side down the hall.
There doesn't even have to be full skin contact. Our shoulders can brush against the other. He can place his hand on the small of my back when we go into a building at work and it still entices me.
The more he does it, the more, I believe, he wants to do it. And damn, the more I want him to do it.
As more time passed, these movements became stronger. On both sides of the court too.
We were sitting next to each other in the lab, going over some papers, watching some video clips and looking through folder after folder on a case we were set on. Bouncing facts and ideas off one another.
He reaches over to take a folder, which happened to be laying on my lap. Fingers slide along the outside of my thigh as he grasps the folder. He keeps his eyes on it, but I don't need to see them to catch the looks on his face.
Gentle. Longing.
I feel a quiver in my chest, that is not unfamiliar.
Well, two can play at this game.
I lick my lips and I notice the quick flick of his eyes, knowing he's trying not to look at me.
I see that on his left, there are some papers that had been untouched on the table next to him.
Leaning over him, our faces a mere inch apart, I pick up the papers. But I stay there, slightly over him.
My hair must be tickling his cheek. One move of his arm and he'd be touching my stomach.
It may have only been a few seconds, but this kind of closeness with him felt like an eternity.
Either that, or I was just making sure I took my time.
Pretending to read a line on the paper, I rest my left hand on the arm of his chair. Or maybe it was the arm of him.
I hear a small strangled noise come from him.
Feeling a movement beneath me, I realize he's uncomfortable, having had to stop reading from the folder, with me being in the way.
I also notice his breathing becoming shallow, strained.
Very pleased with myself, I keep the papers in my hand as I lean back into my own seat. I read aloud some information on the case, figuring it was best to act like nothing happened. Just like he does.
Sensing his eyes on me though, I dare a glance.
The glance turns out to be a full fixed gaze.
Green on blue.
Steady and intent.
Reading each other and taking one another in.
Knowing what the other wanted and understanding it. Accepting it. Embracing it.
For two people who read faces for a living, this came very easy to the both of us.
And we were letting it happen.
No more lines.
The movements were free.
The movements of our eyes. The movements of our thoughts. The movements of our bodies. Everything came crashing together and our movements became one.