Last one for the day!
He dislikes the way she watches him. Watches the world with eyes that shine like diamonds cut from atoned sins. Dislikes the way she knows who he is, not who he pretends to be. And he tries to forget. At times he wishes he could pretend they weren't so tied together. But then again he wouldn't take back her. He never would take her back. He shifts in his chair, his leg falls asleep and it makes him uncomfortable.
She is his history. If a person was looking with the right intent he was sure they would be able to pick him apart through her carmine- sometimes amber- eyes. Those eyes sometime scare him, scare him so deeply he can't even think. She sighs.
He rubs his hands raw, and when they are agitated and pink he pulls at the skin, feeling somewhat accomplished when he draws blood. He shakes them out, the sting of dryness finally hits him and he regrets messing with them. She notices. He is sure not to make eye contact in fear of seeing her scrutinizing looks. He's afraid of the disappointment that might lie behind those precious eyes. He clears his throat, the pressure from her eyes intensifies and he looks at her.
He tries to forget the fact that she's a woman. It's something he's never been able to erase. Like the way her body looks under her greatcoat, or the way she fiddles with her hair. And God forbid the way her turtleneck clung to her body. He finds himself wondering if her body is still soft like it was when he was sixteen. His face falters now. He scolds himself by pinching his hand. He knows her body is not soft. She is scared and bruised and burnt. It is the consequence of being in war, of believing in him. She looks at him, catching him staring. A smirk is readjusted on his face and she tries to hide the fact that she's rolling her eyes.
They are beautiful- her eyes. Wise and sometimes hard from many years of unforgiving life. He lets her silently question him, before she goes back to her work. The phone rings and she talks in a hushed voice that makes him imagine her in the night, whispering sweet nothing's, lying beside him. He taps on his chest in an attempt to calm his frantic heartbeat. He does not succeed.
"Colonel, request to aid in combat," she briefs him, her voice low as she whispers into his ear so as to not disrupt their men. He nods and she ends the conversation as he shrugs on his greatcoat. She pulls his gloves from the desk, takes his hand in hers and examines it for a moment before sliding the fabric over his irritations. She is gentle in her work as she places the next one carefully over his fingers. She hesitates for a second before letting her hand stay in his before she lets go and steps away.
"Good luck..."she looks him in the eyes,"sir." He chuckles, the only thing he can do to keep his mind straight.
"With you at my back, always."
