Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone from CSI, but I sure wish I did.
A/N: This is just something that came to me when I was trying to get to sleep. Amazing how the brain won't shut down when you want it too. Anyway I hope you like it. It's not Beta-ed. Please read and review, but no flames, I'm sensitive.
Oh this is also my first CSI fic.
HIS HANDS
Catherine
She paused and looked at his hands. Strong, broad hands, yet surprisingly gentle, were her thoughts as she took one of his hands in hers. His fingers could pick up a delicate insect without damaging one little bit of it. They were strong hands, hands that had protected her from an angry husband, hands that had helped her up when she had fallen. Hands that had held her back from danger, shielded her from danger. Yet they were gentle hands too. She remembered how gentle he could be with Lindsay, especially when she was a baby. Even now he held her daughter with gentleness when she needed it. His gentle hands could pick up a delicate insect without damaging one little bit, or, find tiny bits of evidence and retrieve them without damage. Yeah, his hands were one of his finer points.
Warrick
He looked at the hands of the man he had come to admire, trust and think of as a father figure. They were strong, yeah, but what he remembers most about those hands is the gentleness. A hand on his back or shoulder was calming and reassuring, settling. It could convey a million things, that pat on the back or hand on the shoulder but the thing Warrick knew it conveyed the most was friendship. He hoped he could convey some of that feeling himself as he took one hand gently in his.
Nick
When Nick looked at those hands, the first thing he remembered was the intense feeling of relief he felt when he saw that hand resting over him in that box.
He was sure he could feel the heat, the comfort, the strength of that hand through the glass as he reached out to him. Even now, it is one of his comforts, something safe to remember when he feels out of control, scared. Not that he'd admit to anyone else that he still gets scared, but he does. He wondered if the man in the bed was feeling any fear. May be if he held that hand he could give some comfort in return for that moment in his life when he needed it most.
Brass
Brass was angry, but he was trying not to show it. Those hands should not be so still. They were never still. When they had first met, he thought they would just be cop and CSI, but from that first strong handshake he had felt a connection to the man and he appreciated his friendship. He wasn't any geek, he was a strong man with strong convictions and an even stronger sense of what was right and what was not. Those hands were usually reserved for picking up minute pieces of evidence, handling those disgusting bugs and for the mountains of paperwork that he knew were hated. As he looked at those still hands he remembered the odd occasion where they had been used to lash out at a perp. Those episodes were few and far between though. He remembered those hands trying to pry another's from his own neck. That sent a shudder down his spine. They were strong hands, but not strong enough sometimes. But the one time he really remembers the strength in those hands was when he was still in ICU and coming to. Opening his eyes to see him sitting there holding his hand had been a surprise, but he was grateful for the strength his presence had provided. Now it's my turn he thought as he took his friends hand in his.
Greg
It felt weird to Greg. They were too still. They needed to be moving. Those were the hands that had showed him how to collect evidence, how to dust for and collect finger prints. That was the hand that shook his and patted him on the back when he became the newest member of their team. Those hands held that team together. Remembering the reassuring pat on his shoulder that day in the lab when his hands had been shaking he took one hand in his and hoped that it would not shake like his had after the lab explosion.
Sara
Sara sat close to the bed and took one of his hands in hers. It was warm and soft. Turning it over she felt the few calluses on his fingers and palms caused by years of working with them in all conditions. She linked her fingers through his in a long practised action, only there was no responsive curling of his fingers into hers. How many times had she seen them clenched in anger? How many times they were stretched and curled to relive the cramps from all that paperwork. The gentleness of those hands holding the cold body of an infant, or the warm body of a huge spider, or the fragile body of a beautiful insect. The strength of his hands as he pulled her back out of harms way, as he roughly turned her to face him as he tried to explain something when she didn't want to listen. All these thoughts brought a wry smile to her face. As she held his still hand she remembered the warmth that hand had given her, the courage she felt when he held her hand, the comfort given, the regaining of strength when his hand had held hers. She wanted to feel the warmth of his hand on her back, the touch on her elbow, guiding her. But most of all she wanted to feel those hands as they glided across her skin, making her feel real and alive and loved. It was the most beautiful feeling she had ever experienced. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she brought the hand she held to her lips and placed a gentle kiss on the back before giving it a gentle squeeze and lowering it back onto the bed. It was then that she felt the gentle squeeze of his had in hers and her tears fell freely as his fingers curled into hers.