Prompt by Whumpster-Dumpster: Small, bruised, battered hands cupped gently in big, soft, protective hands
They were so tiny. Fingers almost translucent, fingernails so small they were like a grain of rice. And so soft. But they gripped his little finger tightly, even if they didn't go all the way around.
His own hands were huge in comparison. Giant shovels, dirt ingrained in the creases of his own nail beds. Coarse skin, permanently tanned.
Their hands couldn't have been more different.
He swore all the same that his own hands would keep him safe. Secure. Treasured.
And he did his best to live up to that.
...
Fingers that couldn't span his little finger soon were grasping a spoon. He was supposed to be feeding himself, but the boy was far more interested in flinging the…whatever it was (bright, green, lurid)…across the kitchen, and he was enjoying the sheer happiness his son was displaying.
He'd pay for that later.
...
Hands now grasped different handles. He watched, equal parts happy and scared, as tiny but sturdy legs powered down on pedals and the boy raced his trike around the yard, beaming at him every time he went past.
He remembered that first time he came off his bike. Remembers sitting the boy on his lap, checking over small, dirty (grazed, bloody) palms. Hands still so small in his. Gently wiping away tears with his much bigger hands.
That first time he realised his boy was no longer a boy, but a man. It was a handshake. And the hands , well, now they were equal. Firm.
And then he was gone. University. USAF. NASA. Marriage.
...
He remembers.
They were so tiny. Fingers almost translucent, fingernails so small they were like a grain of rice. And so soft. But they gripped his little finger tightly, even if they didn't go all the way around.
First one. Then two. Three. Four. Five.
Tiny fingers gripped around his heart as strongly as they did his fingers.
They grew.
...
This holiday was a treat, even if he'd never would've picked somewhere cold…Kansas winters were bad enough to have cured him of that decades ago.
But right now all he can think about is the tiny hand in his. Scratched. Bleeding. There will be bruises.
He'll not live to see them.
But he swore to keep him safe. Secure. And he will die trying.
The tiny hands cradled in his large ones.
He pulls the child in close, willing his body heat to keep the boy alive even as he slips away.
He gently closes his hands over Alan's and holds him close as he knows somewhere hopefully nearby his daughter is doing with her eldest.
And his last thought is of all the small hands he's held in his, and the hope that they'll survive.