He Looks. . .

by Beth

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"Walk with me?"

She looks up at Jack, her eyes staying on Lane and Nick until her head points toward him, a sort of dragging of the eyes that was her way, disconcerting though it was. "What?"

He closes his eyes a moment, then opens them again, looks at her, taking in the fair countenance, the blonde hair, the too-blue eyes that met his without hesitance, openly, her heart and soul ready for reading. "Would you walk with me? I'm getting restless; Lane and Nick are getting tedious."

She looks back at the arguing pair, then nods, stands, puts her duster on over her dress. He turns, and she follows him through the Thursday night crowd of the Pub and out into the rain-slick brick street.

They walk side by side, silent for a long while. Finally, as though he can no longer bear the silence, Jack glances at her. "You were right -- Lane and Nick are perfect for each other."

She smiles ruefully, then shrugs. "I knew that they'd either love each other, or hate each other and love the arguments. Its kind of funny." She smiles at him for an all-too-brief moment, then returns her gaze to the wet bricks of the road. Hands in her pockets, she walks silently, comfortably beside him, as though they have been friends forever, and have been walking this street over and over for an eternity.

He, too, gazes down at the street, then looks up as he senses the looming facade of the bank building. He considers it for a split second, then, with lightening speed, he reaches out, catches her upper arm in his grasp, pulls her quickly into the shadows of an archway.

"Ow! Jack -- you're hurting-" She stumbles after him, protesting until she finally turns to look in his eyes. His other hand comes up, catches her free elbow with it, turns her to face him fully. She blanches at the intensity of his gaze, certain that she will collapse under its weight. "Jack..."

He shakes his head. "Shh." That is all that needs to be said. He studies her face for a long moment, a moment that seems to last a decade, a century, and he knows that this moment will stand still until he gives time permission to march on. Finally, a vague look of resolution crosses his face, and he pulls her to him, his hands tight on her arms, and presses his mouth to hers in a kiss that shames all other kisses, a kiss that forgets time and sets the spark to passions buried for many moons. His mouth, hungry, searches hers, then leaves to brush lightly over her cheks, her nose, her eyes, then rest at her forehead.

A drop of moisture falls on her cheek, and she opens her eyes, looks up to see that he is weeping silently, eyes closed, lips pressed tightly together. She raises one hand, brushes her fingertips lightly over his cheek, kisses his tears away. When she draws back, he is looking at her, and she smiles timidly. He caresses her face with a hand that trembles slightly, and she presses her cheek to his palm. "It took you long enough," she whispers, then kisses the fleshy part of his palm and turns, takes his hand, and heads back toward the Pub.

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