Hands
Rifiuto: Non Miriena
Summary: He sat beside her bed, voice buried softly in prayer, holding tight to her hand, and it was then, that he realized just how small her hands were. Tag to Smarter Carter, and closer look at the ending of my fic Nearly.
He'd always had a thing about hands. Some called it a fetish, others called it an obsession. He called it a curiousity.
The fact that a species such as theirs could have such unique appendages, such... baffling extremities in some cases, was something that had fascinated him from the time he was a child, growing up in Boston. His earliest memory revolved around his grandmother, and the warm grip of her hand on his as they walked through Quincey Market on a cool spring day. Her hand, old and wrinkled, had held tight to his as they'd walked from store to store, only releasing him once inside the cool shops, and always latching onto his once they left. He remembered playing with the gold wedding band on her finger, twisting it around and around with his small fingers, moving it up to the knuckle, only to move it back down when he realized he couldn't get it over the gnarled finger.
Essa Donovan had told him stories about working as a nurse on Pearl Harbor during the infamous attack in the early morning hours of Sunday, December seventh. She had spoken of many a man, pulled from the wreckage of the ships and brought to the hospital, who had cried out for relief, grabbed her skirt with their bloodied hands, or wrapped their broken and missing fingers around her hand as she passed to help others. She had told her only grandson of how they had clutched at her, begging and crying, and how she had sat with them, until their grips went limp and loose. With tears in her eyes, she had spoken of finding her husband- then a Naval Captain, a survivor of Pearl Harbor, and how she'd held him as he'd cried over the lose of his twin brother, trapped and drowning within the wreckage of the ill-fated Arizona. He'd listened with tears in his eyes as she played with his own small fingers, telling him that someday, he would find a woman whom he would love with all his heart, and how she would wear the ring he played with.
The day she died, out in the garden, surrounded by her roses, he'd held her hand as the ambulance came, studying her fingers with tears in his eyes. She'd slipped her engagement ring into his hand, telling him that the predictions she'd made for him years earlier would come true in a small town, and that he had to be willing to open his heart to the woman he would marry- a woman he would meet during a national tragedy. Her hand had then gone limp and loose, much like the sailors' hands had in hers when she had worked as a nurse, and he'd pressed her hand to his cheek as the tears feel, not noticing the paramedics as they rushed to start a heart that had finally stopped beating in order to join the man she loved in Heaven.
As a child of ten, he'd often curled up on the sofa next to his mother, feeling her arms wrap around him, her fingers play with his. His mother's hand were rough and coarse, dry and brittle, from the paper she was constantly around. He'd watched her grade papers and write up lesson plans for her history classes at the University of Boston, always with a bottle of lotion on her desk. The night his father left, she'd sat on the sofa with him and held his hand, pressing kisses to his forehead. She'd explained with tears in her eyes that it wasn't because of him, that he hadn't been the cause behind Richard Donovan leaving his family; that he'd left because it was the best thing for him, for his family.
And he'd sat on the sofa next to her, as the rain beat against the windows, playing with her fingers, twisting his mother's wedding ring back and forth, watching the trio of diamonds of sparkle in the light of the lamps. He'd listened silently as she'd talked, reaching up every so often to brush away the tears, and to be rewarded with a kiss to his palm- as him grandmother had taught him, a kiss to hold onto when life seemed bleak and the road was long and hard. He'd curled into his mother's embrace, breathing in her scent, relishing the feel of her hands on his back. He'd had no idea that he should have cherished the feel of his mother's hands in his, or that three short years later, he would be off on his own, attending classes at Yale. And when he'd left, he'd held tight to her hand, memorizing everything from the roughness to the ring on her finger.
The warmth of his mother's hand in his had been replaced on that fated September morning when he'd rushed through the streets of New York, holding tight to the hand of a girl he'd never met, as he dragged her away from the storm of ash that rushed after them as the towers finally fell. When they'd finally rolled behind a parked van, he'd latched onto her hand, pressing her into the pavement, covering her small body with his as the cloud washed over them, turning them into angels of gray. He'd buried his face in her long black hair, breathing in the comforting scent of vanilla and blackberry, silently counting the minutes as the cloud settled around them and the rest of downtown Manhattan.
What seemed like hours later, he pulled away, never releasing her hand, as he knelt under the car to assess the damage. When he'd looked back at his companion, he found himself staring at a girl not much older than himself; a girl he could have imagined dating in college, going to the movies with, making out with, inviting to dinner; her hand was small, soft. He'd forced himself to meet her eyes, and after a moment, had pulled her to him, kissing her gently. Her hand had tightened around his, and he'd drunk her in, commiting the kiss to memory, and even years later, he'd found himself thinking back on that kiss on the dust-covered streets of New York during the worst of days.
And when he'd been dragged into FBI Headquarters years later, he'd studied the hands of the agents who'd captured him. Some hands were worn and rough, others smooth and soft, some a cross between. Blunt nails had bit into his skin, strong fingers had slammed door shut, and all had directed him into the waiting hands of Allison Blake. The former liasion's hands had gripped his wrist with a comforting strength, much like his mother's had once, and he'd found himself relishing the tender embrace. Ms. Blake's hands had the comfort his mother's often came with; she herself had a son, and a daughter, and so her hands had seen many of the same things his own mother's had. He came to recognize the stickiness on her fingers as Jenna's snacks, the strong scent of hand soap- and later, antiseptic or something else used in the infirmary, where she worked as Medical Director. But always, Allison's embrace was tender, loving, trusting. That tender embrace had soon been replaced by the rough hands of Sheriff Carter, who'd instantly tossed him into his jail cell, leaving him to his own devices.
He'd had plenty of time to study Sheriff Carter's hands from his place in the cell; he'd watched in silence as the sheriff had filed papers, answered calls, or checked his e-mail. He came to recognize small scars on the older man's hands from various activites; the scrapes and cuts from baseball, the long red scar from a car crash in high school that had cost him his high school sweetheart, the slight bend in his thumb resulting from his first mission as a Marshal that had left him with stitches, a rebroken hand and a splint, the twitch caused by firing a gun too many times as a Marshal, the sudden clench as the older man lost his temper or struggled to remain calm. He'd become accustomed to the roughness of the sheriff's hands as he was escorted back to the cell on more than one occasion.
Henry's hands, though, were different. The mechanic was one of the few who treated him like an equal, and even the simple pat on the back brought forth something different to his much jaded perspective. On the few times he'd worked with Henry on experiments gone wrong, he'd often found himself studying the various cuts and bruises, the blisters and pinched skin from him constantly working in his garage. Stained with oil, Henry's hands brought comfort to a troubled young man who had seen so little kindness in the world.
And Henry's wife Grace, also brought kindness where there had once been so very little. On the few times he'd held her with projects over the years, he'd always found a comforting hand on his shoulder, a firm handshake. She had two small scars on the back of her left hand, the reminants of a long ago childhood accident, though he knew not from what. He recognized the burns from cooking- similar to ones his grandmother had- and small patches of dryness from working in a lab all day. He noticed how she never wore her wedding ring on her finger, instead on a chain around her neck, and how not having the ring there let the once light patch of skin darken with time. Her embrace, much like Allison's was tender and comforting, and he found himself looking on Grace as another mother figure, finding he could talk with her whenever he had to get something off his chest.
Zoe's hands, were much like the girl's he'd held that long ago September morning. Soft, supple, small. Over the summer he'd played with her heart, he'd often found her latching onto his hand with a vice-like grip, as though she were afraid to let him go, lest her wander off to another girl. Although, unlike the girl in New York, he found Zoe's young grip stifling, painful even. He soon found himself struggling to get out of Zoe's grip, and silently celebrated when he broke it off with her, only to feel the heated slap as palm met flesh. Somehow, though, the feel of her hand on his skin brought nothing but resentment towards the younger woman, and he soon found himself not even offering a firm handshake in her direction whenever he was in her presence.
But of all the hands he'd watched and studied, Jo's were the most intriguing.
From the moment he'd met her, he'd found himself not only studying her body, but her hands as well. He'd watched as she sat at her desk in the sheriff's office, as she lovingly cleaned or reassembled her guns, how she'd let the oil she used slid down her fingers and drip onto her palms. He'd watched for hours as she'd typed away on her computer or taken down information, but he'd never actually gotten to study her hands up close. When she'd been promoted to Head of Security, he'd spent a lot of time with her hands on his, as she'd dragged him off to her holding cell, but had never gotten a good look at her hands.
It wasn't until the timeline shift, that he'd gotten to actually study her hands. And now, as he sat by her bed, he found himself studying the hands of the woman he loved. It was now that he realized how small her hands were; tiny even. Her fingers were small, lithe little things, her palms just as small, yet perfect for her body type. It amazed him, how fragile she looked now, her skin was white and smooth. Such soft fingers smelled of gunpowder; a comfort to him in this longest of days. She had small scars around her wrists, as though she'd been bound with rope for long periods of time; her knuckles were scarred from burns, and her fingers were tinged black from her afternoons at the fireing fingers of her right hand were singed black, most likely from her near electrocution hours earlier, and he shuddered, at how close he came to losing her. A moment passed, before he brought her palm to his lips, pressing a firm kiss to her skin.
Hold tight to it, Jojo, and come back to me.
He let his mind wander back to that horrific day in September, to the girl who's hand he'd gripped as they'd rush through downtown New York, who he'd shielded as the cloud settled over them. As he thought back on that day, he realized that that girl he'd kissed that long ago day, was the woman lying in the bed beside him. Her kiss had been familiar that day in the sheriff's office because he'd tasted it before, back on the streets of Manhattan.
And now, as he sat by her bed, studying her hand, her fingers, he realized that fate had thrown her into his path that day for a reason. He'd grabbed her hand, dragged her down the street, shielded her body, and held tight to her hand for a reason- a reason leading towards Eureka. The dark-haired beauty who's kiss he'd committed to memory, who's small hand he'd clung to, was the hard-edged Head of Security for Global Dynamics. That he was sitting by her bedside now, only proved that they were meant to be. He'd opened his heart, now all she had to do was survive so he could tell her that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
Tears slipped down his cheeks as he brought her small hand back to his lips, and pressed another kiss to her palm. The feel of her fingers flexing against his cheek caused him pause, and he pulled away. He didn't dare speak, for fear he was imagining it. But again, he felt the light sensation of her hand squeezing his. Minutes passed before she slowly turned towards him. her dark eyes flicking up to his face.
"Zane?" The catch in her voice as she took a breath took him back to the New York street, and after a moment, he leaned over, capturing her lips in a soft kiss.
"I love you, Jojo." He whispered, pressing another kiss to her palm as he pulled away to stare into her eyes. She gave him a soft smile.
"I love you, too."