325. Chapter 325

Her hands are ruthless.

Her hands are lethal.

Her hands can snap, break, squeeze the life out of human beings, out of nine foot aliens – out of people.

And her hands have.

Many times.

Her hands are strong and her hands, even when clean, are constantly coated in blood.

Her hands are aggressive and her hands are vengeful.

Her hands are fearless and her hands are deadly.

Her knuckles are a map of the men she’s broken, of the soldiers she’s cracked, of the rage against herself that she’s brought down on someone else’s jaw.

Her fingers are loud, her fingers are expressive; her fingers know exactly where to apply pressure, exactly where to stick needles, exactly where to stop a person’s breathing, end a person’s life, make a person scream in agony.

Her palms are accustomed to breaking her falls, accustomed to burning but not sweating, the better to hold the guns, the grenades, the rocket launchers, that she needs to end the people who threaten her family.

Her hands are ruthless.

Her hands are lethal.

Her hands are her little sister’s home.

Her hands protected Kara from the terrifying sounds of the popcorn-maker when she first got to Earth, and a few days later, her hands broke under Kara’s too-firm grasp, but when they came out of their casts, Kara’s tear-stained face was the first thing that her gentle, soft, forgiving hands reached for, caressed, loved.

Her hands hold Kara’s when her little sister cries, scoop out ice cream and fold homemade potstickers and carry box upon box of pizza into Kara’s apartment when her sister needs an impromptu Sister’s Night.

Her hands tuck Kara into bed after long days of a double life that only Alex can really understand, and her hands smooth Kara’s hair away from her forehead, and her hands watch over her and protect her from the nightmares that her teenage hands started protecting her from all those years ago.

Her hands are forgiving.

Her hands are protective.

Her hands are Maggie Sawyer’s home.

Her hands stilled in shock the first time Maggie held them, and her hands told the rest of her body, the rest of her soul, that her life would never be the same.

Her hands caress Maggie’s hair and her thumbs sweep across her cheeks, her jawline, and her hands make Maggie feel loved, make Maggie feel appreciated, make Maggie feel worshiped.

Her fingers trace words of love in Russian, in Kryptonese, in Portuguese, in English, onto Maggie’s naked torso after her fingers slip deep, deep inside her and bring her to oblivion and back, her palm serving as a pillow for Maggie’s head the entire time, holding her, protecting her, loving her, the entire way through.

Her knuckles let Maggie’s lips heal them and her palms let Maggie’s fingers trace them and her fingers interlace with Maggie’s because this woman, this woman, this woman, is the woman she’s going to spend her life with.

Her hands are ruthless, and her hands are lethal, and her hands are forgiving, and her hands are protective.

Her hands, like the rest of her, are made of the stuff it takes to love and to love hurt and to love hard, and her hands, in Maggie’s, on Maggie’s body – and, eventually, on her own, too – are gentle, are firm, are simply, simply, love.