Feedback:
Of course, just keep all flames to yourself.
Disclaimer:
Not mine… I don’t remember who owns them. ::sigh::
Copyright:
January 2004.
Spoilers/Timeline:
None. In a future I’d love to see. *g*
Distribution:
Signe, Smurfy, anyone who wants it – just ask.
It
is a sight to dream, not to tell! – Christabel, Coleridge
She
walks in, all long legs, dark hair and wine-red lips caught in a smile. With a
wink to the man on the stool at the end, she leans across the bar to give her
father a kiss. Dropping her bag on the counter, they chat for a bit before he
hands her a drink.
It’s
been a hard day -- she can still smell the blood from her last autopsy -- and
the scotch is smooth and cold. She sighs in pleasure as it slides down her
throat. She feels his eyes on her, but doesn’t look up until the glass is
empty and deposited on the bar.
Slowly,
she rises, ambling over to the jukebox, conscious of his eyes on her.
She drops in the quarters and without hesitation makes her selections.
The beat is strong and she lets herself feel it; absorbs it.
She’s
the only one on the small dance floor, and though she knows people are
watching, she just keeps dancing. Her movements are natural; sexy in a way
that comes only to those comfortable with their body, with their own
sensuality. In mere seconds, or minutes, she feels his presence and adjusts to
it -- to him -- without pause.
Her
ease in his arms and his in hers is obvious to all, even as he spins her out
and back, so that they now face each other.
His blue eyes laugh into her brown, and she wraps her arms around his
neck as the song changes to a slow, bluesy standard.
At
the end of a long, hard day of search warrants and paperwork and death, this
is their ritual. In their bar
with their songs, they dance and flirt and indulge themselves in each other,
no words necessary.
--The
End--