One hand for the ship, one hand for yourself
"For cryin' out loud, this is not what that means!"
"So what? This is a survival pod, Jack. We don't need to hang on . . . not to the pod, anyway."
The hot murmur in Jack's ear blotted out every other thought. Months – years – of seeing those hands, the talented fingers, the phenomenal mind behind them, flickering across keyboards, punching DHD sequences, wielding weapons in the face of danger. He couldn't afford to think about those hands, to imagine that touch. That would only lead into a deadly spiral of longing and despair – rejection, loss, shame.
Now the hands were handling him.