God I want to touch him.

To feel. Through his shirt, under his shirt. Contours of sinew and muscle. I want to let my hands wonder over the taught warmth of skin. Fists in his scrunched up hair. Fingers sliding into the thick of it at the base of his neck.

My imagination takes me there. It blends with the voices in my head and whispers to me. Tempts me with the promises of the places I can't go.

But God how I want to.

I want to feel the edge that it brings when contact is more than contact. That hedonistic slip slide of power. The violation; I want it all. The initial hit of the pull like a crunch to the face; the burn of the furious drag that follows. I want it. I want to let my skin feed. I want to feel that rage of life. That energy. His energy. To make it mine. Just a touch; a fix; I want it.

I want it until it sears my veins and my poisonous body arches with the feel of him. Until it soaks up the darkness and like it's slave I'm sated.

But I don't.

I would never. Not outside the confines of my mind.

Instead, I watch.

Veiled and shy. Soft eyes behind a curtain of dull brown and frosty hair. Ever the innocent; always vying for control. Covering up. Binding myself in clothes. Pretending that I don't need what my mutation craves, but all the while...

Anticipating.

Just that brush of a hand; a careless touch of a friend. The sharp rush that it brings, like a breath of pure air. That jolt of emotion. The shiver that plummets down my spine as my power sinks in it's teeth and wrenches at his in a hissing flood of bitter bliss.

Just from a touch.

A slight contact of skin; barely even there. An accident? A casual mistake? It doesn't matter. An unimportant touch is all it takes. All it ever takes.

...Is it any wonder I wear gloves?

But months slide restlessly by, and he doesn't see it. He never sees it. Not during the times he lets me get my hands greasy helping with his bike, or when he's giving me that half twist smirk, eyebrow arched at a fleeting comment. Not during the moments I catch him flirting openly with Dr Grey, or when he's kicked back at the end of a worn day, long fingers dangling a beer. Not when I make him frown and give him cause for thought. Not even when I try his patience as he attempts to improve my combat. He doesn't see it at all.

My need to touch.

He doesn't know he's my drug.

He only sees a girl.