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From the First Times Prompt List, #50 - First time they touched hands
The first time they touched hands, he would remember later, was accidental. He was at Quantico, in a rush to pick up forensic evidence left by his latest killer, but he was still a gentleman. A young woman, auburn hair, lab coat two sizes too large, was examining a file in her hands as she walked the hallway toward him. She noticed the door being held for her out of the corner of her eye, but engrossed as she was, her hand brushed his as she passed by. “Sorry, thanks,” he heard, as she breezed by without looking up. He glanced at her face, then turned back in the direction of the labs.
When they first met, she reached out and shook his hand, looking up at him with those bright blue eyes. He felt a flash of something undefinable, not quite a tingle of recognition but a feeling that something had changed.
The first time he held her hand when she was asleep, he wept silently by her bedside. His better half, the only one who now mattered to him, was draining away. He couldn’t save her, and he would not save himself.
When she came home to him in her apartment, grieving for their children that she would never bear, he held her, kissed her forehead. Later, after she was all cried out, she pulled on his hand, asking him for the comfort of a warm body in her bed. He could not bring himself to deny her this. She threaded all ten of her fingers through his own as she rode out her emotions on him.
The first time they vocalized their love, she approached him in his bedroom, held out her hands for him, undressed him. They made love, they made more.
After his escape, on their first night on the run as fugitives, he did not let go of her hand.
The first time they saw their son, right there in black and white, she reached up and held on.