Title: The Far Right Side of the Bell Curve
Summary: Pseudo-related to #19, "The Complete Idiot's Guide to 'The Moment'." His smirk grows, and Tokio thinks it was probably a bad idea to share knowledge on "The Moment" with him—the man's got one hell of a learning curve.
Word Count: 424
A/N: Er…I have nothing to declare but my genius?
It's an impulse on her part that makes her turn to him and say,
"Hold up your hand."
He raises an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Hold up your hand," she repeats.
"Why?"
"I want to see something."
"On my hand?"
She rolls her eyes.
"Saitou-san, just do it, please."
And stop being a jerk face, is the implied end of that statement.
He shrugs and complies, to her pleasure, and she fits her hand against his, much to his obvious surprise.
She enjoys the expression he can't hide, but more than that, she enjoys her palm pressed against his. His glove prevents skin-to-skin contact, but she thinks it's better that way—it's a heady feeling, the warm cloth against her hand.
She'd probably do or say something dumb that she'd never ever live down (and frankly he has enough of those on her already—she doesn't need to be giving him more).
"What are you looking for, exactly?" he asks finally.
"I was just wondering how big your hand was compared to mine," she says, which is true—he's a very large man, and she's unusually petite, and she's always wondered how they compared, size wise.
It's hard to get an accurate picture of the difference when you're at least a full head smaller than your comparison.
"So what's the verdict?" he drawls.
"You could probably crush my hand if you wanted to," she announces, eyeing the considerable span of white cloth between her fingertips and his.
"Hn," is all he has to contribute.
And then suddenly he threads his fingers between hers and pulls her hand closer for his inspection, and she swallows dryly, terrified he'll notice the calluses on her hands from studying karate all these years and nervous over where this is going.
He eyes her hand for a beat, then adjusts his hold on it, in such a way that for one bizarre moment she thinks he's going to kiss the back of it.
He doesn't—instead, he looks up at her, and sends her that funny little smirk he wears sometimes, the one that lets her know he's happy about something.
"I wouldn't dream of crushing such a pretty little hand, Tokio," he says, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles before gently returning her hand to the countertop.
"Good to know," she says, flustered and not able to quite cover it up.
His smirk grows, and Tokio thinks it was probably a bad idea to share knowledge on "The Moment" with him—the man's got one hell of a learning curve.