The sense of touch can be a powerful thing. A touch on the shoulder can ground you when we're so angry you want to rip off your shirt and cause utter destruction like the Incredible Hulk. A touch on the cheek in the morning can give you the courage to face another day and a pat on the back in the evening can help you deal with whatever you had to do to get your job done.
Over the years you come to rely on those touches, those small gestures that make your life worth carrying on with.
Let's say for example that you're shot down for no reason that you know off, end up in an IC unit, in a condition that could fail at any time and send you right to the pearly gates and all the time you're reduced to having limited control over your senses.
Touch can seem cruel more than comforting.
You wake briefly to numbness, your body feeling heavier than concrete slabs. When feeling returns all you have is pain, everything you feel on your skin causes agony.
The bandages too tight around your chest, the IV's in your skin and tube up your nose. Sensations that bring no comfort, but are there to remind you that you went through something traumatic and you may or may not be getting better. You look for something to hold on to, a hand, a finger even, something that will help you get through the agonising minutes that pass between moments of consciousness. No one touches you, no one goes near you. They're all afraid that if they touch you they'll hurt you or make what they see when they look at you real. Touch has that powerful way of telling your mind to stop fooling itself and face up to the truth in front of their eyes.
You see them sitting there day after day; they smile and ask if they can do anything to help you, but the strength you need to ask them just to touch your hand is found nowhere. You smile and open your hand and hope they get the message. They only smile back; they keep their hands in their lap, their fingers wrapped around each other. They want to touch you, you can see it every time they look at you, but their fear holds them at bay.
It's only when your mind clears days later that realise you're not the only one that needs that touch. You're not the only one who's in need of comfort. You know you're alive, you can feel the pain that comes with healing. They are still looking with a mind that's not seeing the truth, a mind that only sees a broken body that could fail at any time.
You build up the strength you need day by day and wait for the moment that comes with their tears. They sit hardly able to look at you, pale face, scraggly hair and a pain in their eyes that you only see when death is preying around the corner. You find your time, you reach out your shaking hand, slowly towards their lap and just like magic they reach for you, grabbing your hand to stop you from straining yourself, but they pause. They feel your hand in theirs, rub their fingers alone your knuckles. You mirror their motion, allowing that simple gesture to ease the worry lines on their face.
You are rewarded with the first smile you're received in days that wasn't nervous or fake. You smile back, your hands joined together hovering in mid air. They are no longer fooled, they know now that you're alive and nothing is pulling you away from that.
Their touch keeps you both grounded and sends a strong message to both. Their touch helps you to get past the worst moments of pain and your touch grounds them and keep them from their fears.
You turn to the person by your bed, the man who spent years using his hands to sooth away your pains and you let your fingers relay the message that is written on your heart.
"Thank you, Hutch."