Touch. One of five senses.
One of five ways we connect to the world around us.
But one of only two senses that connect us to the people around us.
Sure, we can see people. We can hear people. We can smell people. Sometimes we wish we couldn't smell people. Or see them for that matter. And on rare occasions, hear them.
But to an extent we can't control who we see, hear, and smell. We also can't contol who sees, hears, and smells us.
We can however control who we touch and who we taste. We can control who touches us and who tastes us.
He wanted to touch. He wanted to taste.
She had come into his life like a tornado, destroying what had once been a perfect balance. She had upset the apple cart.
Then, like many changes, her addition to his world had made it better.
Except for one thing. He couldn't touch her. Obviously he could touch her, he had the ability. But not the right.
Touch is something, at least for him, that is a permission granted. Not a right for all. He knew what bad touch was. He would never touch someone without their permission. Not after what had happened to him.
So he never touched her. As much as he wanted to. He never broke that barrier.
He fantasized about it. Not always in a sexual way, although he did have the odd fantasies about that as well, but in a loving way. The right to touch her hand, to hold her when she was sad. Something to cling to when the world got bad. A connection to the larger world around him.
That's what he misses about his wife. Not the woman, the connection to another human being. No, he was divorced from his wife, he had loved her and in a way he would always love her. He had been with her twenty years, she had given him his son. She would always have a piece of his heart. The rest though belonged to Emily Prentiss. The only one he longed to touch.
From his office he looks down and sees her. He can tell by the way she's hunched over, she's frustrated. It's not been a good day. He wants to walk over and give her a back rub. To take away all of the stress, pain, frustration, and agonies of the day. It's one thing he is good at, giving back rubs. It's an odd talent to have, but one that comes in handy ever so often.
He wonders if she would accept it. She hates to show weakness. Something they have in common. Would he be a hypocrite if he called her out on it? If he said it was all right to need someone? That it was all right to let them help?
But he couldn't ask. Not just because he was afraid she would say no. But because she didn't deserve a old broken down car like him. She deserved a one of those cars only the ridicuosly weathly could afford, something like an Aston Martin.
So he did the only thing he could do. He watched, and it wasn't nearly good enough.
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