Yet Another One
By Anansay
August 29, 2003
I hate it.
I so hate it.
The power is not mine..
And not his..
And yet it's there.
And getting stronger.
It's gonna overpower me soon, I can feel it.
Oh god.. what then??
Every time I look into his
eyes everything stops. And I mean, everything. I hear nothing. I see
nothing but him, and his eyes. But I feel everything. It all comes
crashing down on me, crushing me with its intensity.
Can he see it?
Can he feel it?
Does he know?
Can he guess?
Does he share it?
My hands ache to feel his skin. My
fingers ache to run amok among his peppered curls. My body aches to feel his against mine,
inside mine.
My ears strain to hear his voice, his soft, rumbly, velvety voice
again. They yearn to one day hear him whisper sweet nothings in my ear as his hands
discover my body, hot and sweaty.
Every night after shift, the longing is so strong to just walk up to
him and say, "Hey, Griss? Wanna do something tonight?" But alas, it never
happens. I just walk by his office, poke my head in, smile, say a few nondescript words
about the case and such, wait, and then walk off, all the while cursing myself, again for
not doing it this time.
I sit in my car, all alone. He's in there. I can feel him. My hands grab the steering wheel, my knuckles are white. I rest my head on the steering wheel, wondering what the heck is wrong with me?? Why can't I do it?? Just ask the damn question, Sidle!
I'm standing so close to him
now. It's dark, the power is out. I can smell the metallic blood, the musty odor of
sweat, the dank aroma of the closed room and him. He's standing beside
me. So close and yet so far away. Our arms brush against one another. I can hear his
breathing, deep and regular, life flowing in and out of his body. His body
stop it! We're at a crime scene!
We have a job to do. He turns to look at me, his eyes glinting in the
dim light of our flashlights. I turn away first, afraid he'll see what's in my
heart. We work silently side by side, but I know where he is and what he does. My eyes
roam toward him and I watch as his hands move deftly over evidence, picking it up gingerly
to drop it in an open envelope. My heart pounds in my chest. Those hands that
can handle evidence with such delicacy on my body I sigh, and turn back
to my work.
He calls my name, quietly in the dark room, as though someone might be
sleeping somewhere. No one is here but us, but I love it when he says my name. I go
to him. His hand comes up and he shows me something. I try to concentrate but he's
looking at me. A piece of red material. His face is inches from mine as we both look at
it. He doesn't really need me to look at it, so why did he call me over? Our
shoulders are pressed together. Why did he call me over? I can feel his breath on my face
as he turns to look at me, a smile playing on his lips. His twinkling eyes wander over my
face. The faint light in the room makes them sparkle. His scent drapes over me like a
blanket, warming me to my core. I don't want to move. I want to stay here, forever,
beside him.
His hand comes up, his fingers brush a tendril of my hair back behind
my ear a few times before settling on my face. I'm caught. I can't move. His
eyes and his hand hold me like shackles on my soul. I stare into his eyes. I can't
help it. "Hair" comes the explanation. Hair alright. I remember the
chalk. The chalk I supposedly wiped off his face. And now hair? My hair never bothered him
before His hand stays longer than it really ought to, just a second too long really.
My face leans into his hand. His smile disappears. His eyes are they getting darker?
I look down at his lips. Their softness pulls me but I stop myself before I fall, again. I
pull my eyes away, and look into his once again. They are indeed darker, but mixed in with
that passion is something else. Something infinitely darker. There is confusion, and pain,
and fear. It stops me. I can still feel his hand on my face, it's warm and trembling.
It's the fear. He's afraid. But I don't know why. His thumb is moving on my
skin, caressing that tiny spot of flesh and sending shivers down my body until I can
barely handle the delicate touching. I put my hand on his and still his movements. The
touching has stopped, and his hand is still on my face. It's as though every nerve
ending is raw and on fire and his moving against them is sensed as more pain than pleasure
in my body. I just want him to touch me, gently, but not like that. My need for him is so
strong that it strips everything from my soul that keeps it safe and comforted. I'm
open and raw and vulnerable and it hurts. I long to draw the curtains closed again but I
want to draw them on us, not just myself. But he keeps himself at bay. Just a touch, a
hand on a face, morsel of flesh on flesh. That's all.
My body yearns to be against his, for his heat and mine to coalesce
into one huge bonfire of the soul. I want to feel such passion as has only been hinted at
in love novels and from the long dead poets whose words still haunt the lovelorn of today.
What I want is a fantasy come to life, a purity of song, like that of the lark in the
early morning crispness of a new day. I want his lips on mine. I want them pressed firmly
against mine own, to feel them, those red-tinged flesh that can utter such drivel as
Shakespeare, speak quietly and firmly in an interrogation, scream loudly and with anger,
and whisper delicately in my ear those words that my heart longs to here.
It's only been a moment, a sliver in time that his hand has been
on my face, caressing me. But it seems as though time itself has stopped and I am given
the rare opportunity to enjoy this ephemeral touch for as long as I desire. His eyes are
still dark, swirling eddies of smoky passion. In this instant I can down the bottom of his
being, to the core of who he is and all he wishes he could be. And I can see the yearnings
he has pushed down so far he's forgotten about them. I can see them fighting for
survival, fighting to see the light of day. It is his war I am seeing. It is the endless
battle of one who has denied himself a part of who he is for what he believes others want
of him. In this sliver of time I am lent the wisdom of sages and ages. Of times long
forgotten, of love won and love lost. I can see paths cleared from the underbrush of pain
and longing. In that moment, I know what to do and how to do it. And then that moment is
gone, the sliver is gone, the crack is closed and the light is now darkness.
His hand is gone, his eyes are clouded. I am left looking at a shell of
a man. A man whose fears have robbed him of his life. The hope that had grown in me is
expelled in one long release of breath and I feel myself shrinking under the weight of
that evanescent knowledge. What had fueled me during that moment is no more and with
another sigh, an attempt at my own closing curtains, I turn from him and return to my
observation of the red material. Just another solitary piece of evidence to a crime still
being investigated. So many pieces to gather and put together, to form a case strong
enough to draw out the guilty party into a submission of culpability, of accountability.
It is catalogued and put away for later retrieval and assemblage. Yet
another one.
~*~
Copyright © 2003 Anansay