Indiscreet: Images - II By Midnight Caller

Disclaimer: Legal, legal, legal. Don't own 'em, ya-ya.

Rating: PG-13/R

Summary: This is next in the Images series, but this one doesn't have anything to do with Images - I, except for the fact that it's the same two characters. I mean, I suppose they could follow one another. It certainly wouldn't bother me or vex me or make me want to tear my hair out or anything. well now I'm just rambling. I wrote them as separate, unrelated pieces, but you do with them as you wish.

Thanks to Dev, my virtual motivator.

Feedback: Of course!

Archive: Just tell me where.

I can't help it. I haven't had time to train my eyes to stop looking at his, and I know one of these days someone else will notice. But for now, I, Sara Sidle, the control freak, don't care. Like I said, I can't help it. Whenever I find those perfect, attentive sapphires, the world hidden inside them is intense and so enthralling that I can't imagine being anywhere else.

But we have to be careful. Sometimes, with the way he looks at me, all it would take is five seconds for someone else to understand everything we've done, all that's happened between us. Part of me cares. The other part just wants the rest of the world to vanish for a moment so that I might enjoy succumbing to the blue seduction staring back at me.

He sits across the room, pretending to work on a crossword. In my hands is a novel that can't hold my attention long enough to keep me from glancing over. I see the smirk form, spreading across the mouth I have recently gotten to know so well. My tongue wanders out to moisten my lips, and I swear I can still taste him.

While I examine a slide, he moves behind me, careful not to stand too close, but near enough so I know he's there. I feel his hand on my back, his breath on my hair, and it's almost as if I can sense an energy as he leans down to peer through the lenses when I move aside for him. I can't help but breathe in. He never wears aftershave, but he doesn't have to. Shaving cream. Soap. Shampoo. Detergent. I've smelled them countless times before, but of course this is different. I love imagining the shaving cream spread over the roughened whiskers of his stubble, the soap lathered on his skin, the shampoo tangled in his hair, the detergent writhing around in the washer with his clothes. The simplicity of it all is what makes me in awe of him. How everything about him is so amazing and yet still so remarkably human.

His eyes shift back and forth, analyzing, and then I'm lost again as they find me. We're only a few inches away. I could kiss him without anyone noticing. But I'd never want to stop, so I just stay as still as possible. It's not like my brain is coherent enough when he's around that I can actually control what I'm doing.

In the hallway he'll brush against me as we round a corner. I don't know if it's on purpose, but I don't care. I'm surprised when his hand wanders over and grazes mine, the fingers just barely touching the skin of my palms. My hands are quite sensitive, and they tremble in response. Sometimes I get lucky and I'm able to hold one of his fingers for a brief moment. I love touching him.

In the car, we're more daring. His hand moves over my thigh, squeezes my knee, rubs the back of my neck. When he feels extra confident he lets his fingers trail along my collarbone, or wander dangerously close to the neckline of my shirt. My hands seem to love his hair. I've always loved looking at it, and I do so while he drives. I imagine if it were to grow out, the curls would be unruly and wild, and the coils would bounce as he'd walk or move. I could run my hands through it, grab it, twist the strands around my fingers.

In a way I'm almost grateful for the way we have to behave at work; the danger excites me. Makes me want him even more. When we're finally alone, true intensity is released. I've told myself I'm in love with him, and I am. But the lust I feel. well, it's nearly overpowering. It's an urgency that grips every part of my being and won't let go until I can have him. I have no reason to think he doesn't reciprocate at least the lust part. The entire situation seems to go against everything I used to think he was. Detached. Cold. Deficient. I think I had to break a few walls, melt some icy shells. Or maybe he did that himself, I can't tell. All I truly know about him is the way he makes me feel. If it's any indication of how he feels about me, then I know our feelings are mutual.

He continually surprises me with his passion. Not just in his work; that's a given. I mean in the carnal sense. Some of my lovers were in it simply for the release of intercourse, and the most simple, effortless way to get there. Grissom. I can't even describe. His ability as a lover isn't enigmatic; it's just that he knows how to make my entire body feel the same way about him that my heart and mind do.

He uses his lips like he uses his hands. He can speak eloquently with both on a non-verbal level. I've never met anyone who kisses quite like he does. There's always just enough of everything, and he has one for every occasion. He can be rough or gentle, but it's always at the right time. Once, he kissed me while I was lying on his couch, my head hanging upside down off the edge of the cushion. He didn't bother to rearrange or move me - he just kissed me upside down. We both nibbled on each other's lips, not trying to force the next stage, or remove any clothing. I can't even remember what happened after that, but it doesn't matter. It was just enough.

I love watching him sign. Most people concentrate far too much on the hands, and while they're a vital part of it, much of sign language is rooted in the face. He's so emotive as his hands gracefully float around in front of him, the fingers pressing together and then separating, the palms facing up and then down. It's not just because I know what those hands can do; it's just that watching him communicate this way is simply beautiful. When he adds lip movement to the entire display, it's hard not to become addicted to watching him. I've asked him to teach me. But my hands can only go so long without wanting to reach out and grab his, so most of the time our lessons are short. It's okay; I look forward to the next one.

Of course he's not perfect; few people are. Sometimes he infuriates me, confuses me, makes me feel like walking away and never looking back. I'm sure I do the same to him. But somehow we're able to balance on the slippery slope we've made for ourselves. I grab onto him and he grabs onto me, and somehow we don't fall off. He could easily loosen his grasp, and the same goes for me, but we both have too much invested in this to give up like that. This isn't a fling, or even an extended tryst. It's so far past both of those that I can't even fully explain it or understand it. But maybe I don't need to, maybe I can just take it for what it is, whatever that might be. Unexplainable. Unbelievable. Incredible.

We talk a lot. We talk about the age difference. About what would happen if the others found out. But also what it means for us to be together. Sometimes I just stare at him while he eats or writes, or as he watches television. I'm not just staring because I think he's beautiful, I'm staring because I'm trying so hard to understand everything about him that he can't tell me with words or hands. By staring I can read behind the lies, uncover the secrets, figure out if what I feel is reciprocated or just merely an afterthought. But the more my eyes take in, the more they convince me of his sincerity. His truth. My eyes tell me it's not the sentimental nonsense that makes up what the world calls a relationship, even though that's what we've been trained to believe. They tell me it's the small stuff and the big stuff. The details and the full-sized scope of it all. The blonde tips of his eyelashes, and the way I still dream about him every night.

I know it sometimes unnerves him how much I stare, but like I said before, I can't help it.

(fin.)