Note: This chapter is set just prior to V13CH5; before Jeremy's near-death experience and Blaise's meltdown.
Her hands were exquisite. They were rough, but so incredibly soft against his skin; tanned, but the fairest he'd ever seen. He knew every line and curve, every joint, every nail. He'd kissed those scarred knuckles countless times, bandaged those bruised fingers, and even taken care of the occasional paper cut.
Jeremy held her free hand in his as they waited for their suspect to return to the house. The afternoon stakeout was yet another one of Lieutenant Anders' "punishments" for his partner's rash behaviour. The detective sighed, bringing her warm fingertips to his lips again. In the seat beside him, Blaise adjusted her position in the chair, turning her head quickly away as to hide her reddening cheeks. He felt her hand turn tense under his, ready to pull away…
But a gentle, loving squeeze from Jeremy had stopped her full retreat. She cast him no look; the woman just stared all too diligently at the suspect's perpetually stationary door. He smiled to himself, her move—or lack thereof—making him immeasurably happy. Over the past few weeks, something in her had opened. She hadn't been so eager to move away every instant his affection was too "romance-and-butterflies" for her. The hot-headed Blaise was finally accepting him, and he was not one to complain.
And since Blaise was on such a stubbornly assiduous watch, Jeremy decided to entertain another hobby of his. He brushed his fingers over her calloused knuckles, skin thick from many years of punching incompetent criminals in the jaw. They fluttered gently over the tiny, soft blond hairs on the back of her hand, barely perceptible in the shade of the car. Her fingers were long, thin, and strong. He had often seen them firmly wrapped around the grip of a gun, pulling back the slide, squeezing the trigger and nailing some poor street thug that had been stupid enough to run.
Those hands always had the faintest smell of gunpowder. It was a scent he had grown to love, regardless of its violent connotations. Every day, he could smell it in her; weaved into her hair, clinging to her clothes, and most of all, embedded into the lines of her hands. He could even spot traces of the residue on her pale fingernails, ending in smooth crescents, always bare.
Jeremy gently flipped her hand around, studying the lines of her palm. He traced its creases, following the more defined of the lines from one side to another, pausing where the path split and taking the route that went down to her wrist. Her strong, steady pulse beat in time with his; the heart of their melody at a rhythmic andantino.
"Hey, stop it! That tickles." The hand he had captured was withdrawn from his, rising until it was right in front of his nose.
Her lithe fingers flicked the young detective right in the middle of his forehead.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"You're being creepy again, Rednerd. What, have you suddenly found your calling as a palm reader? You'd better not turn all Madame Firelli on me, Rookie…"
Her voice had the tone of one who was trying a bit too hard to sound a lot more annoyed than how she was truly feeling. And under that was a layer of fondness that she would most definitely deny if asked about.
The words made him laugh, especially adorned with the stubborn little pout upon her lips. "Alright, there will be no visions into the future and mystic card readings, I promise. Though you're cramping my style here—I would have looked great in all those silk scarves."
Blaise's fingers were suddenly poised for another attack.
"Don't make me hurt you again."
But even she couldn't suppress the Jeremy-induced grin that was sneaking its way to the corners of her mouth.
