Broken Lines in the Sand

by little cat feet

Rated PG 

Summary: How many times, how many little allusions to an act 
they'd never accomplished, how many ways could he dare her 
without truly issuing a challenge? 

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Broken Lines in the Sand
by: little cat feet


How many times, how many little allusions to an act they'd never 
accomplished, how many ways could he dare her without truly 
issuing a challenge?  Was it a game they would play out unto 
infinity, wanting to touch but never quite courageous enough to 
make the first move?  

He held her, pressed his lips to her forehead, her cheek, even 
her hand once, but never, never to her lips.  And how she 
cherished the notion that he might, some day, and how she longed 
for the audacity to initiate an attack, but she was not her 
father's daughter, oh no, not in this.  Not when it came to 
crossing invisible lines that might turn a mere friendship into a 
Relationship.

And was a Relationship really what they wanted?  She thought they 
did, on good days when he was her best friend and their thoughts 
merged almost without effort.  Other days, when they seemed to be 
constantly at odds, it was a relief to go home alone, kick off 
her shoes and settle down with a nice glass of Chardonnay; it was 
an indulgence she infrequently allowed herself.

Today had been a day of disquiet.  His very presence in the 
office had set her nerves on edge, but not in a bad way.  Today 
had been an Armani day when he had looked positively edible, and 
yet his manner had been unapproachable and abstracted.  His mind 
was on other things, on the case, on his report to Skinner, on a 
thousand different things, but not on her, and yet *her* mind had 
been lodged in a firmly primitive place where there was nobody 
but the two of them and a very large, comfortable bed.

She hardly dared concede the notion, even to herself.

He leaned over her to point out a fact and instead of deflecting 
his touch, she pressed herself to his warmth.  He seemed confused 
for a moment, as if uncertain she would cross the line he'd 
drawn, perhaps unaware, even, that he'd drawn one.  His voice 
zephyred past her ear as he spoke softly to her.  Did she draw 
back, as she properly should have, and preserve their cherished 
distance?  She did not.  Instead, she rubbed her ear, feeling the 
moisture of his breath with her fingertips, rubbing it into her 
skin as if to absorb him fully. 

She touched herself there now, feeling him yet again, aware of 
him on so many levels even though he was not in the room.  She 
sipped her wine, rubbed her bare feet gently on the carpet (for 
it was not one of those days when it had been a relief to go home 
alone, but rather a day when she'd have given much of her very 
existence to have him accompany her)...

...and began to think of lines she might draw tomorrow.


********************
The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

--Carl Sandburg
********************