So let me fall into your hands
Take me far away
I am calling for your hands
Abbey has a surgeon's hands. This is been true as long as you've known her. They are more than that, of course, because she is more than that, but the fact remains: Abbey Bartlet has a surgeon's hands. In them, men's hearts have been massaged back into beating, and when life slips through her fingers, you know she feels that her hands have failed her. She has a surgeon's hands, with strong, graceful fingers, and muscles that can hold on where another's grip would fail.
Abbey has a mother's hands. They are soft and warm and solid. When you were a little girl and your parents were out of town, those hands would wash soap from your body and shampoo from your hair. They were deft and quick, always ready with a dry towel when soap would run into your eyes. Her hands were sure and steady, and you felt safe in their care.
In the time that you've been back, you've spent a lot of time studying the hands that made you feel so safe as a child. You know she has a small freckle on her right pinkie, a scar on her right thumb from cutting herself opening a can of tuna. You know she prefers Urban Decay's Bruise to any other shade of nail polish, but that she's more likely to be found wearing Lady is a Tramp by the Lippmann Collection. You have seen her hands clenched in anger, seen them relaxed against her husband's arm. You have learned the path of her lifeline, her headline, her heartline. You can't discern where your own heartline falls, and this concerns you.
You think sometimes, that you know Abbey's hands better than your own. It has become your job to know that she misses the feel of latex sliding over her palms, and that she uses three different kinds of moisturizer. She has always treated her hands with care, checking the location of the left when the right slams a knife down to cut vegetables, using her hips to close doors, lest her fingers get caught.
Her hands are beautiful as yours are ugly. Where Abbey's palms are long and lean, yours are short and square. Your fingers appear as cut off stubs, as though they forgot to grow with the rest of you. You wish for long, slender fingers like Abbey's, you have since you were a little girl. Six years ago, your lover brought home a vibrator, complaining that your fingers were too short to hit the right spots. You threw the vibrator across the room and stormed out of the apartment. She was asleep when you got home, and you packed your things silently, swearing off women forever.
You've kept that vow to yourself, but there's something about Abbey's hands that stir feelings you've long since put aside. You find yourself obsessing over them, staring at her fingers during meetings, across ballrooms. Sometimes, she touches your arm, your back. Her touch is still steady, still strong, but now her palm against your body leaves you dizzy and breathless.
Josh's hands are soft and warm, but they are weak. You find yourself pleading with him to use more pressure, more speed, just more. Sometimes, you wonder if he thinks he might break you, his touch is so faint. But you would be lying if you blamed it on Josh, because while he serves a purpose, you want him in much the same way as you wanted a dog those years ago when you left Jessica with her vibrator and a note. You want him for his companionship, for his ability to spar with you. He is not unlike your basset hound, and it's fun to watch him fetch.
It's Abbey's hands you think of when you flick your own fingers across your clit, and it's Abbey's hands you long for when Josh buries his fingers inside of you. You stare at them during meetings, and wonder how the pads of her fingers would feel against your nipples, how the nails she's grown since becoming the First Lady would feel raking down your back. Sometimes she catches you staring, and she seems to tease you, bringing them into conversation as though they are a third party. She waves circles in the air, caresses one finger with another, and drums her fingertips on the tabletop. You leave these meetings wet with desire, and you suspect she knows this.
You've often wondered if she's ever been with another woman. This isn't anything new to you: you wonder this about most women you meet. But there's something about Abbey that leaves you inclined to guess that, in fact, she has. This leaves you hyper-sensitive to her interactions with the few female members of the White House staff, and sometimes the looks she exchanges with CJ are so hot with unspoken desire that you swear they're fucking. You're not sure when they would find the time, because you know her schedule as well as you know the tan line that falls across her ring finger where her wedding band usually rests, but there is something there, even if it is unrequited. It is a source of bitterness for you that the heat of her gaze is reserved for another, but you let yourself live with it for now, because you have your fantasies, and truth be told, that's all you're likely to ever have.
You suspect that she approaches sex like surgery: with confidence and precision, and hands that don't falter. You suspect she would not be hesitant in her touch, but rather firm and demanding, even when it's your pleasure she's after. She is in control at all times, and it would not surprise you if she liked to pin her lovers down, all ten fingers wrapped almost too tightly around their wrists. Sometimes, she catches you fingering your own wrists as you think about it, and each time, her hands say what her voice never will, and you swear she sees right through you. This always turns your cheeks hot, and she smiles, knowingly, and you wonder if anyone else in the world has the privilege of seeing her smile like that.
More than once, she has reached to still your hand with hers, and each time, it's sent electricity from the point of contact to your groin, and you've had to stifle a moan. Her fingers always linger a moment longer than is proper, and when they pull away, the moment is suddenly gone, and you're not sure it was even a moment at all. But her movements change ever so subtly afterwards, and your jealousy of CJ subsides. She may have Abbey's eyes, but you have her hands, and you let yourself wonder if maybe Abbey wants you as much as you want her. You haven't voiced this question yet-- there has never been the right moment-- but you will. Because those hands are worth the risk.