Things You Pretend You Know
One of these days, he's going to come into your office with his blue eyes looking like the broken sky. And you'll put your hand on his chest and lower your voice, because that's what you do, but you'll leave it there a moment too long just to watch the way his lashes flutter downward and then up again.
You'll memorize the way his mouth fits itself to yours, just a little too perfectly, because after too many hundreds of pages of facts it's vital you remember, you can't stop recording things. His thumb will brush the inside of your wrist and it will be mostly dark and so late that even the bullpen is nearly empty, and your door will shut with a click which seems dwarfed by the sound of his breathing, and yours.
Sometimes you think he'll be gone first, and sometimes you think it'll be you, but you know it won't be anyone else. They don't say it aloud, but you can find it in the way they look away from him and carefully don't smirk about things like idealism and eagerness, or their eyes lingering on you and your passion and the way you're slowly cracking inside at how powerless you really are. He knows it too, and this is why he'll sometimes sit on your couch and tell you about all the worthless, lovely things he knows, until you walk over and touch him.
You'll tell him he's beautiful before he says it to you.
He'll ask you about Toby and you'll ask him about Josh and neither of you will ever answer seriously. But his fingers tightening will say enough.
When he sleeps, he'll look even younger, and you'll watch him sometimes, not at all for sentimental reasons, but because you're too tired to do anything but stay awake, and your body isn't used to the feel of someone else so close.
He will make you laugh and he will drink all your orange juice and he'll feel familiar inside you. Occasionally, you'll hate him. You will think sometimes that maybe you should end this, if only you could find the time.