DISCLAIMER: If it's a setting, character, scene, or idea from Labyrinth, it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, Bowie, Connelly, etc, and NOT MINE.
I certainly didn't invent the hand-kiss, but am not opposed to receiving them given the right is the expanded version.
He stands there, still. Nothing about his body language communicates unhappiness or displeasure, but I just can't get a bead on his opinion. Yes, I'm finally at the point where I will, occasionally, admit that his opinion of me, of my work, is important. Correction: it is absolutely vital. It has become a gauge. No, that's not quite right.
It's a cornerstone, a touchstone, a milestone, but never a millstone.
Somehow, I now create for him. It doesn't matter if the story is completely unrelated to him, his world, his tastes, or our life.
Our life.
How strange that concept still seems to me. I once feared that join, that connection: Would, I wondered, he consume me until all that remained was an echo, and then how long until that faded? His original offer, enticing then and now, would have made everything too unbalanced for… well… forever.
Why doesn't he say something? Or change the expression on that all-too-frustrating face?!
I feel the air stir, and I turn slightly to face toward him again. His smoother than light, softer than silk movements still cause my heart to flutter and my breath to catch.
He stands in front of me, within an arm's reach, but he doesn't embrace me. Nor does he smile as I go to him.
Our eyes meet. His gaze catches me, holds me, a willing captive of an enshackled jailer. This shared look reveals what our forever is, what it might be, what it can be, and quicksilver slips through me. I know that he hears my heart beat hasten, and this only in anticipation. The depth within his eyes hides his secrets in me, even as he guards mine.
His gloved hand outstretched, he begins to bow even as he takes my hand in his. The soft touch owes nothing to the finer-than-leather material, and the warmth is all his own. His thumb brushes slowly over the back of my hand, over my knuckles, as it goes back and forth, even as his fingers curving into my palm cause my fingers to join in.
I'm suddenly struck, again, by the beauty of his hands. The delicacy and power in his touch would bring me to my knees in this very moment, except that I'm still enthralled; my hand is his utterly.
And he moves it, lifting it still in that constant motion. For one exquisite moment, not quite brief, and achingly long, his lips hover over the back of my hand. I feel his breath coming now; it is not quite the steady thing I've come to know. The warmth stirs me as it soothes, encouraging my pulse in a dance akin to a tarantella. In mesmerizing me, he is himself entwined, and neither of us has any inclination to escape.
I envy the back of my own hand. He pays detailed attention to those few square inches.
His fingers still lightly caressing, he begins to straighten even as he deftly lowers my hand at a slower rate. This prolonging of contact raises my hand briefly, and I notice how much closer we are, how much closer I must have drawn.
He pauses, our eyes still locked. He ponders for an eternal moment, and turns my hand over. The earlier feeling of anticipation is left empty, as his lips begin to caress the air above my palm. Those fingers continue the earlier dance on my skin. His tribute to the inside of my wrist reminds me to breathe, and I can do nothing save look in his eyes, listen to my nerve endings, permit respiration, and remain standing.
He raises my hand as he returns to standing, and finally, finally, makes contact with my palm.
He describes his expression as an arrogant smirk, but we both know the truth: he is pleased with my efforts. More than that, he is proud of me, of my creativity. That I can touch him, reach him, move him when he once considered himself beyond mere human emotion is the greatest reward I shall receive, for he admits it as the greatest gift I could give.
A/N: I realized that I had made no mention of Sarah and Jareth looking at each other. Naturally, they'd be watching each other. And why should the back of the hand get all the attention?