A flush spreads across her face and leaps to his. Red as roses, red as the flag, red as the jackets they both wear when occasion--and duty--calls.
Duty being the important word. Not face, not flush, not red that stirs passions in his mind, but duty. To Queen and country, to friends and family. To never behave dishonorably.
She's had coffee that morning, the scent of it merges with shampoo and perfume rising from her. He knows he smells of toothpaste, strong laundry detergent, and just a whiff of wolf, all drawn forth by the feverish perspiration beading his forehead.
She coughs, delicately, turns her head to the side before doing so, always careful of him, as if he is more fragile than she.
"Duties, Fraser. Work to do."