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Hands

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Your hands fly over the keyboard, and I find myself utterly distracted. Your long, elegant fingers seem to caress the keys as you tease out seemingly endless strings of information. From day to day, you seem awkward. Your tall, lean body seems somehow out of place in this world of sand, sun, water, and bleached blonde perfect men and women.

But here at your desk, the monitor's light caressing your lovely, hawkish but yet oh-so-young face, you look powerful. A tiny smile touches your lips as the network's defenses yield sluttishly to your coaxing.

You are good at this, and you know it.

How many times have I sat here and watched you do this? How many times have we just casually tossed you a crumb of information and watched you solve the entire case without ever leaving your chair?

And why did it take me so long to notice just how beautiful you were when you did it?

Needing to be closer to you, I walk the rest of the way into the room and lay my hands on your shoulders. Your fingers stop their dance, and relax, faintly. That same tiny smile is on your lips as you look up at me over the rims of those preposterous glasses.

You know my defenses aren't any better proof against you than the network's was.

You are good at this too, and I love it.