transgressive sight (Sapphire and Steel, Sapphire/Steel, PG)
Title: transgressive sight
Author/Artist: incandescens
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Prompt: June 24TH - Sapphire And Steel, Sapphire/Steel; voyeurism - how much does Sapphire really see?
Word count: 413
She had been lying to him about it for as long as she had known him: it made him more comfortable that way, and it was a very important part of their relationship that he should be comfortable with her.
It went back to the first time that they put on their physical forms, and as they stood together with their feet on physical earth, breathing physical air, he looked at her (those gray cold eyes, that calm arrogant judgment, the lines of his face, the casual disarray of his golden hair), and said, "How much can you see of me now?"
Everything. Nothing's changed. I can trace the atoms of your inner nature whirling around in their endless dance: I can see the complicated pattern of your emotions: I can see your intricate history stretching behind you and in front of you, and me woven into it: I can see you cold and perfect as steel, polished and platonic, the very essence of the concept.
"Not as much as usual," she lied. "I think it must be these human forms. They give me a different way of seeing. I suppose, if I were to concentrate . . ."
"Unnecessary," he cut her off. "That will do, then."
She could hear the satisfaction in his voice without even having to look at him. He had always been (would always be) (was) (is) (exists as) (is not other than) an intensely private entity. It was hardly surprising that he would be pleased at this further opportunity to withdraw himself.
Now she could watch him as much as she wanted, and he merely ignored it without even a tilt of his shoulder. He thought it was mere aesthetic appreciation of the human body and the clothing, no more important than her amusement in her own different clothing and hairstyles. As such, he regarded it with a detached contempt, glanced at her when he felt it necessary, and otherwise forgot it.
She liked it best when he was content, and when all his patterns would align into an equation of smooth exactitude, as keen as a blade's edge. The body would smile, just a little: the essence rejoiced in the delightful precision of it. It would be something that he would have kept to himself, if he had realised she could see it. So she took care that he didn't.
Besides, why should she tell him the truth? What did that have to do with anything?
Author/Artist: incandescens
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Prompt: June 24TH - Sapphire And Steel, Sapphire/Steel; voyeurism - how much does Sapphire really see?
Word count: 413
She had been lying to him about it for as long as she had known him: it made him more comfortable that way, and it was a very important part of their relationship that he should be comfortable with her.
It went back to the first time that they put on their physical forms, and as they stood together with their feet on physical earth, breathing physical air, he looked at her (those gray cold eyes, that calm arrogant judgment, the lines of his face, the casual disarray of his golden hair), and said, "How much can you see of me now?"
Everything. Nothing's changed. I can trace the atoms of your inner nature whirling around in their endless dance: I can see the complicated pattern of your emotions: I can see your intricate history stretching behind you and in front of you, and me woven into it: I can see you cold and perfect as steel, polished and platonic, the very essence of the concept.
"Not as much as usual," she lied. "I think it must be these human forms. They give me a different way of seeing. I suppose, if I were to concentrate . . ."
"Unnecessary," he cut her off. "That will do, then."
She could hear the satisfaction in his voice without even having to look at him. He had always been (would always be) (was) (is) (exists as) (is not other than) an intensely private entity. It was hardly surprising that he would be pleased at this further opportunity to withdraw himself.
Now she could watch him as much as she wanted, and he merely ignored it without even a tilt of his shoulder. He thought it was mere aesthetic appreciation of the human body and the clothing, no more important than her amusement in her own different clothing and hairstyles. As such, he regarded it with a detached contempt, glanced at her when he felt it necessary, and otherwise forgot it.
She liked it best when he was content, and when all his patterns would align into an equation of smooth exactitude, as keen as a blade's edge. The body would smile, just a little: the essence rejoiced in the delightful precision of it. It would be something that he would have kept to himself, if he had realised she could see it. So she took care that he didn't.
Besides, why should she tell him the truth? What did that have to do with anything?