AN: For Aly, who sends me asks filled with all kinds of dirty B/C thoughts that I then feel compelled to write about. The idea for this one came from Aly's filthy mind (though I have sanitized it quite a bit, more's the pity) and a gifset of Beckett's gorgeous in love face which will be linked on my Tumblr. And I hope the fluff herein sufficiently mends any hearts that were damaged by the last ficlet.
He keeps a mental catalogue of her smiles. Even now, more than six months into this, the list is still growing, additions and footnotes being scribbled into the margins of his brain with regularity. She telegraphs so much with her face. Gives away more with the tilt of her lips and the arch of her brow than she would ever say aloud. He loves reading her, picking up on her moods and her thoughts, deciphering the unspoken words hidden in the edges of her smiles. He knows exactly what he's in for when he opens the door and finds her standing on the other side, her mouth dipping into a slow, sexy curve that makes his blood flash hot in an instant. Knows it's going to be a good day when he sees the happy, lopsided smile spilling over her face when he kisses her good morning, her hair a tumbling mass of curls, her toes cold against his shins. Knows that he's got her when he catches her her eyes shining with the amusement she refuses to let grace her lips when he's being intentionally annoying or outlandish.
Her coffee smile is an old friend, the constant companion that kept him going, gave him hope. A tilt of the lips and a nod of the head, her warm fingers brushing over his as she accepted his coffee and his heart every morning. He'd watch as she pressed the rim of the cup to her smile, her lips only changing shape long enough to take a sip, bouncing right back as she made that little moan of delight in the back of her throat, a sharp note of satisfaction that still makes his knees turn to water, makes him want to hold her close and discover all the other sounds he can pull from her. So many mornings now he's done just that, pinning her to the mattress as her coffee goes cold on the nightstand, her body arching and slick under his hands.
She has this sly little grin she wears just before she says something sarcastic or biting, an impish look that makes him imagine what she must have been like as a child, calculating and tough, cutting down the boys on the playground with a single barb and a sharp kick to the shins. When she looks at him like that, her lips pulled tight and nose scrunched up - the very picture of feigned innocence - he can't help but picture a little girl with his eyes and her hair, wrapping him so completely around her finger with that same smile, and his heart hammers so violently that he's surprised it doesn't beat right out of his chest.
The self-satisfied smirk she dons when she's got him sprawled out underneath her, his body overflowing with sticky desire, is rivaled only by the euphoric beam that splits her flushed cheeks in the aftermath, her sated body draped her his chest, fingers drumming a lazy rhythm agasint his ribs. She always rolls her eyes when he tells her that sex with her is the most fun he's ever had, laughter dancing in her voice when she tells him that's just the endorphins talking, but it's the truth. He loves how unabashedly she pursues pleasure, how unashamed she is of her body and how vocal she is in her appreciation of his. He'd always known they would be good together but the reality of having her in his bed, naked and smiling at him like he just made her forget her own name, is far greater than any fantasy he could ever concoct.
The secret smiles might be his favorites, the shy, private ones she lets slip when she thinks no one is looking. The smiles that make him certain that she loves him, is in love with him, even if she can't say the words yet. He feasts on those smiles; the tenderness that radiates out from her lips, lighting up her whole face, fills him up, makes him want to do stupid things like buy her a ring and pick a date. He's tried to work out the formula, to piece together the exact circumstances needed to mold her lips into that tiny, pleased bow that she tries so hard to cover with the press of her fingers or the edge of her coffee cup. He wants to be able to put that look on her face at will, to make her eyes goes soft and hazy at quarter after ten on a Tuesday morning just because he can. Because his heart beats for the upturn of her lips, the barely audible hum of her happiness. He knows they'll get there eventually. Knows she'll give him her love and her smile freely, in her own time, on her own terms. He can wait. But that doesn't mean he's going to stop trying. He has a catalogue to fill, after all.