She likes to watch him sleep; it's a rare treat because the nightmares have their claws in him.
His stubbornness is more than equal to her own. He's entirely capable of staying awake for three whole days, subsisting on a diet of extra-caffeinated coffee and not much else. It drives her crazy.
When his determination fades and his head begins to nod, she slows the truck and turns the music down, keeping one eye on the road and one on him, or stops breathing all together.
She likes to watch him shave.
When he asks why, she shrugs and says nothing, resting her chin on her hands, her elbows on her knees, perched on the edge of the skin. He shrugs and keeps on shaving.
The reality is that he always offers his cheek for her inspection when he's done. So she gets to touch that impossibly soft skin. She gets to trace the curve of jaw and lower lip, just to make quite sure he hasn't missed a spot. The grin he gives as his fingers close around her wrist makes all the waiting worth it.
He likes to hears her lose control, likes to hear her voice crack when she's pleading for release, for more, for 'Jesus, Jethro, harder!" He likes to keep the pressure up, to tease and draw her further in until she loses all her carefully constructed words that she usually uses so well and starts to keen and yell. Then he lets her go, watching as she falls over the edge, his name spilling from her lips in an almost silent prayer.
He likes to surprise her. Turning up at her door in the dead of night, brandishing a bottle of amber alcohol like a ward against her anger at being woken up. Or crowding every one of her senses in the elevator before she has a chance to realize that he is there with her, watching as her pupils go wide and her breathing becomes ragged.
She likes to watch him sand his boat. The muscles in his forearm quivering, sliding against tendons under smooth masculine skin, the smell of sawdust thick in the air. He seems almost at peace here, the monotony of the movements, back and forth, back and forth, calming his ever frayed nerves and there is nothing she can do to stop her self from reaching out, wanting to be a part of that peace, and running her hands up his arms, touching him with the same reverence he spares for his boats.
He likes to watch her work. Her lower lip caught between her teeth, glasses perched on the end of her nose, hair absentmindedly twirling between delicate fingers, legs curled under her slender body, almost like a child. Almost innocent.
But the look she turns on him when she feels him watching from the doorway, or from the other chair in her study is anything but innocent. Work is forgotten then.
She likes to watch him clean his sidearm. The hands which are so strong, can snap a mans neck, or bring her to her knees, are suddenly gentle, skimming over metal, almost with a mind of their own. His jaw muscles quiver, his eyes slightly narrowed, because he is still trying to deny the fact that glasses might help.
She watches, her heartbeat elevating slightly as she imagines his hands on her, and waits for him to turn slightly darkened eyes towards her and pull her to him.
He likes to make her laugh. He likes seeing her head thrown back, her throat exposed, the sound echoing around where they are. Her eyes twinkling. He likes making her laugh when she shouldn't, likes to watch her lips quiver with the effort of keeping them straight and the death glare she shoots at him when he just carries on doing whatever he was doing.
She likes it when she knows that she has him, and that he's there.
"That's what you have me for." He says, before turning away. She smiles after him, the secretive smile that she wants to believe no one else knows the meaning of.
She turns up later, at his house, and plasters herself to him before he even has a chance to register its her.
"Want you." She murmurs between kisses
"You have me."