Work Text:
Vicky can feel David's fingers brush against hers as they walk to the restaurant. She's been hyper aware of his hands all evening – first because of the abortive 'this is a date so should we hug or what?' maneuver when she'd arrived at the theatre, and after that she'd found herself watching the way his fingers had curled around the crinkling paper bag of popcorn, the way he rubbed his thumb and index finger together nervously when neither of them were speaking.
She's having a good time. Against – well, not against all expectations, but against many of them, perhaps. They'd had a spark, all those years ago and then again last week, but she's too far from whatever idealism she might once have possessed to think a spark is all it takes. He makes her laugh, yes, but will it ever be anything more than that?
The way he looks at her, out of the corner of his eye, like he can't look away even when he ought to be paying attention to where he's going – she likes that. The way he listens when she talks, not just waiting for her to stop so that he can get his own in. That's a good sign, too.
That the touch of his fingers is beginning to make her shiver a little, even in the warm summer evening air. That she's thinking about kissing him (it's too early for that, but she's thinking about it anyway), about what he would taste like.
It's easy enough to reach over and twine their fingers together. His palm is warm and dry, and he doesn't hold on too tightly. When she looks over he's determinedly not looking at her, but there's a faint smile teasing up the corners of his mouth and his cheeks have gone a bit pink.
Oh, yeah, Vicky thinks, a little breathless. Spark. Maybe that's not a bad place to start.