A/N: Writer's block hit me this week, and this is the only thing that wanted to come out. :( Title inspired by a line in Eric Hutchinson's "Rock and Roll".

Warnings: Sean/Moira, a bit of language, kissing.

Even under ordinary circumstances, Moira has little time for reading. However, it is something that she enjoys, particularly during periods of stress, and now is certainly a period of stress. So, in a free moment, she slips into Charles's library (oh, Christ, what a brilliant library) and finds an anthology of poetry.

It's a nice day (warm for an October day in New York), so she makes her way outside with the book. She sits in the grass underneath a window, and immerses herself in the poems.

She loses track of time, but after a while, her CIA training kicks in, telling her, someone's watching you.

Moira looks up, and is startled to find Sean standing nearby, smiling at her. She's incredibly surprised that she didn't notice him sooner – either he's incredibly stealthy, or she was paying very little attention. She gets the feeling it's the latter.

"Sean?" she says. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," he says, grinning at her. "Sorry if I gave you the creeps. But I was going for a jog when I saw you. You looked so pretty sitting there reading that I had to stop and take a look at you."

Moira's cheeks feel hot. Sean's never kept his crush on her much of a secret – Sean never really seems to keep anything much of a secret, actually. "Er, thank you," she says, secretly flattered but perfectly straight-faced.

He walks closer to her, and she's not sure whether to be annoyed, embarrassed, or pleased at his interest (no, definitely not that). "Whatcha reading?" he inquires, flopping down next to her with the carelessness of a boy (which is what he is, Moira reminds herself.)

"Poetry," she says.

He leans over to look at the page. "Shakespeare, eh."

"Um, yes," she says, a little worried (not really) by his close proximity. This in itself is not too inappropriate, but the look in Sean's eyes – admiring, boyish, sweet but more than a bit flirtatious – is.

He leans away again, but keeps his gaze on her face. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

"What?" she says dumbly, staring at him.

He just smiles at her, lying back so that he's propped up on his elbows, legs outstretched. "Thou art more lovely, and more temperate."

He continues, reciting the sonnet without once leaning back over to glance at her page. He's got a little grin on his face, and once he's murmured, "So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this and this gives life to thee.", he actually wiggles his eyebrows at her.

She should look away, but Sean's still grinning at her like that, playful and yet – somehow with an underlying hint of seriousness in his eyes. "So you know Shakespeare."

"Yeah," he says. "I've always liked Sonnet 18."

"So have I."

"I've always liked you, too."

". . . I beg your pardon?" she says, stunned.

"I said I like you," he repeats. His grin slips slightly, some of his nerve clearly failing him. "I was kind of trying to woo you just then. Do you think I go around reciting love poems to every girl I meet?"

"I'm not exactly a girl," she reminds, still a little too surprised to formulate a logical response to his confession.

"Right," he murmurs, voice lowering slightly, his gaze, as always, even on her face. He's leaning up now, pushing up slowly off his elbows. His hand, warm and gentle, touches her arm. As ridiculous as it sounds, her heart actually skips a beat and she goes still. "You're a woman. And I really like you."

He kisses her then, chastely and carefully, probably kind of expecting her to punch him in the face for touching her. But she doesn't do that – instead, she moves her lips against his, kissing him back. She doesn't know what makes her do it, but while it lasts, the kiss is pleasant. A little too pleasant for her to be comfortable with, actually.

She pulls away first, opening her eyes and gaping at him. "Sean – you kissed me."

He's grinning, pleased with himself. It would be adorable – it is adorable – but he should not have kissed her. "Yup."

"I – you shouldn't have," she stammers, unusually flustered. "I'm – I'm a government agent and technically, I'm your superior. And you're eighteen, for Christ's sakes."

"You make it sound like you're old enough to be my mother or somethin'," he teases. "You're what, twenty-seven?"

"Twenty-eight," she corrects, frowning.

"Ten years, big deal. Charlie Chaplin's almost forty years older than his wife, or something like that."

"Don't compare me to Charlie Chaplin."

"Sorry," he says, grinning at her. "But you did kiss me back, Moira."

She bites her lip. "I shouldn't have," she says. "It wasn't appropriate."

He shrugs. "Oh, who gives a damn?" he says, and she envies his carefree attitude. "If you liked kissing me, what's the problem?" He leans forward again, hand sliding from her arm to rest on top of her hand. "Did you like kissing me?" he asks, wiggling his eyebrows again.

She bites back a smile at that. Maybe it isn't so bad, if she liked kissing him, but she can't just let him know that. "No."

His grin widens. "You did," he says, leaning forward and stealing another kiss from her (although it isn't really stealing if she willingly gives this one).

"I didn't."

"You did, too. You, Agent Moira MacTaggert, like kissing me, Sean Cassidy."

He kisses her again, and this time, she reaches up to let her fingers wind through his curls. Moments later, they part for air, and she says, "You're so – silly, Sean Cassidy. Trying to woo me with Shakespeare? Really?" Though, she supposes, that makes her twice the fool for being wooed – but if she's secretly a fool for Sean Cassidy, well, so be it, because she finds she doesn't truly mind.

He grins and winks. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

For that, he gets a playful smack with the leather-bound anthology and another kiss.

A/N: Reviews are greatly appreciated.