Note: I don't really know what this is, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway :) And as always, thank you to Heather for the beta, this wouldn't be possible without you!
Harvey's hands are Donna's favorite part of him.
His hands are strong, solid, capable of big wins and closing deals that seem impossible. He signs his name with a lazy scrawl that speaks volumes to his confidence in this area of his life. His hands know what they're doing; they never falter, never second guess.
His hands slide across her body, covering every inch, and they know just what to do to make her feel incredible. They pinch and rub and squeeze and stroke and give her everything she needs.
They are gentle and warm and touch her reverently, but they also grip her hard as he enters her for the first time, staking claim like he's planting a flag on her hips.
His hands are fun, flirty, twin smiles gracing their features as they each take a side of the can opener, celebrating their partnership, and she is transfixed by the way he's holding the metal in his grasp. He strokes his thumb ever so softly along the edge and nudges hers in the process.
His hands shake with heavy grief when she tells him his father is gone. They hang by his sides, and for the first time she realizes he doesn't know what to do with them. He's always so sure of everything, but not now, not this time. She longs to reach for his hands, hold them close, transfer strength back to him through osmosis.
His hands run through his hair across from her in the Pearson Hardman bathroom, bewildered and angry and trying to make sense of what she did. He may not know what to say, but his hands say enough, frustration and exasperation evident as they wave frantically between them.
His hands pour them drinks, swirl the ice in his glass, beads of condensation dripping down his knuckles. She flashes back to what his fingers felt like on her skin, wet from being inside her, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
She watches helpless as his hands decide her fate, everything hanging in the balance. They are careful, more careful than she's ever seen them, steadfast assuredness replaced with quiet deliberation and an uncharacteristic wariness.
And later, they hold the stem of a wine glass in a tight vise as he bares his soul to her, the moment filled with an intense vulnerability she's not used to from him. His hands open her door and shut her out after he wrenches open the floodgates. His hands run and hide and don't come into contact with her for a long time after that.
His hands stumble through the motions without her, without purpose, without direction. There is still his trademark poise and strength, but no center of gravity to guide them.
She sees his hands flex by his sides, noticeably empty as he thanks her for twelve years. She wishes he would close the distance in a way they both so desperately crave.
His hands keep the cactus alive. It's the first time she truly sees his hands nurture, provide, a side of him that causes warmth to bloom in her chest when she sees the plant standing tall and proud on his kitchen island.
The next morning, when she comes back to him, his hands are calm, serene, focused as they swing by his side. Because she is by his side, and they are finally back where they belong.
His hands sacrifice. She's seen it more times than she can count. They itch to run to Gibbs, sign a deal, take the fall for Mike, but for once she doesn't let them do what they want. And she grants him access to her vulnerability the same way he did the last time he was here. Gives him faith she knows he needs, knows he deserves.
Like a key in a lock, she fits her hand in his, squeezing softly and letting him know that she's here — not just tonight, but always. His hands are unsettled, not because it's her, but because his life is turning upside down and he holds onto her like a lifeline. His palm seeks her out, pouring his uncertainties into hers, and she feels him let go as she brushes her thumb over his.
His hands give her what she wants. She is a senior partner, then COO, at her request that he ends up happy to oblige.
But they don't give her what she needs.
His hands are frozen, shocked into stillness as she kisses him for all she's worth.
They don't reach for her once she leaves, and they don't reciprocate.
And for once they don't fight for her, either. They aren't familiar and she doesn't recognize them.
Until his hands tear up her resignation at her door, eyes locked with hers and his face screaming something she knows deep down is true but is too scared to admit it to herself, to admit that he's ready, that they're ready.
But his hands chose her that night.
His hands hold hers as they sway across the dance floor, steadying and grounding her and her heart swells with affection. There is something different in his grip tonight, a sense of unity, a surety, a gentle reminder that they are okay. They will be okay.
And something else they both ignore.
His hands fix and heal. They do things for her even when it seems futile, when it's not going to benefit him in the least. But it's her, and he does it anyway. He will always do it for her. He will move heaven and earth to make things right where she's involved.
He's free and clear, another close call — too many close calls — and his hands ache to hold her.
His hands are everywhere. Touching every part of her, outside and in. Caressing her skin and burrowing into her soul.
And when he rests his forehead on hers, they breathe together, and no words are spoken but their hands between their bodies say all that needs to be said.
The way his hands have spoken for years.
They lace their fingers together.
I choose you.
This is where we're meant to be.
This is real.
This is it.
This is all of me, wanting all of you.
His hands pull her close, give her love, courage, comfort, and peace. They give her joy and a bubbling happiness she didn't know was possible. They are right next to hers through it all, as they always have been, a steady constant guiding her home.
His hands slide a ring on her finger, and to Donna that is the best thing his hands have ever done.