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Title: Sense of Touch
Fandom: Numb3rs
Characters: Amita (mild Amita/Charlie)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1582
Summary: The first thing Amita notices about Charlie is his hands; shockingly gen fic for my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo card prompt of "hand fetish."
Sense Of Touch
The first thing Amita noticed about Charlie was his hands. Neat, male fingers clutching a stub of chalk, practically skating across the green board in front of him. Cal Sci's math building had the kind of windows that the sun could slant in, perfectly angled to pick up one detail in the room, and it hit the back of Charlie's hand, the bump of Charlie's wrist where his jacket sleeve pulled back.
She was early for her class, hadn't expected to anyone to be there, not even the lecturer. She stopped in the doorway, books clutched to her chest, just watching those hands, imprinting the way they moved, the exact curl of his fingers and the tuck under of his thumb, onto her brain.
It wasn't until he stopped writing, dropped the chalk and half-turned in her direction to consult an open text book, that she actually looked at the rest of him, and realized that he was Professor Eppes, Cal Sci's resident math genius, only a handful of years older than she was.
"Oh," she said, out loud, stupid, when she'd been glazing out over his *hands*, and of course he looked up.
Blinked, then smiled. "Hello."
"Hi," she said, feeling stupid and tongue-tied. "I'm sorry, I have class in here."
"You're not one of my students," he said, curious.
"No," she agreed. Professor Eppes didn't teach any of the freshmen classes. Too brilliant to waste on them, everyone said. "No, um – maybe I'm in the wrong place?"
"Do you have the class info sheet?" he asked, stepping around the desk. Amita pulled it free, held it out to him. His fingers brushed hers as he took it, left behind a smudge of chalk dust, and she shivered, couldn't help it. "You're in the wrong classroom," he said.
"What?" Amita asked, then flushed. "Sorry. Um –" She stopped, appalled at herself.
He smiled. "You're two doors down."
"Oh," she said again. "Thank you." She took the sheet back from him. "Sorry to interrupt you."
It was an intro level class, which was probably a good thing, because she didn't take a single note, too distracted by the remembered image of his hands, spinning out beautiful math and leaving a chalk smudge on her skin.
*
It didn't seem like a thing, back then. Or maybe it did, but a thing for Charlie's math, for his genius brain and the beautiful way he thought. Not for his hands.
Then Charlie gets involved with the FBI, pulls Amita in with him, and suddenly she's surrounded by people who have competent hands.
She has to teach herself not to get distracted, not to zone out watching the techs as they manipulate computer equipment, or Megan and David and Colby as they pass files back and forth. Their fingers brush, and Amita's brain gets stuck on it, translates it into lines and angles, calculates the figures and equations of how they touch each other, how their friendships and partnerships are written in Megan's hand on David's arm, Colby touching her elbow to get her attention as he hands over a cup of tea, David ruffling his fingers through Colby's hair.
She tells herself that she likes watching their competence, and doesn't let herself think about all the ways in which that isn't what she's watching.
*
Thursday evening, and Nikki sits down at one of the tables in the conference room, looks at Amita, who's running the four hundred and thirty-second version of her program on her laptop, trying to make it work.
"You mind?" she asks, laying her gun and a small black case on the table.
"No," Amita says, not sure what she's agreeing to.
"Great," Nikki says, and goes quiet. Amita goes back to her program just in time to watch it spit out yet another string of error code, and tries not to groan. Version four hundred and thirty-three it is then. She's actually wishing she was back at Cal Sci in the senior staff meeting Charlie's at.
"What are you working on?" Nikki asks abruptly.
Amita looks up. Nikki's got a cream cloth laid out, the black case unzipped, the magazine from her gun lying on the cloth. As Amita watches, she points the gun to the floor, and pulls the trigger.
It clicks, doesn't fire – of course it doesn't fire, Nikki's an FBI agent, she'd be careful – but Amita jumps like it did.
Nikki catches it. "You okay?" she asks. Amita hears concern in her voice, thinks Nikki is probably frowning, but she doesn't see it – she's stuck on Nikki's hands cupping the butt of the gun. Nikki has feminine hands, narrow fingers and neat, buffed finger nails, and they look wrong with a gun in them.
They should look wrong, Amita corrects herself a moment later, because they don't. They look as natural as David's and Colby's and Don's, and she banishes her original thought. They look competent and sure, and Amita thinks that if Nikki touched her, right now, she'd leave a smudge of gun powder on Amita's skin the same way Charlie did, the very first time he touched her.
"I'm fine," she says, belatedly. Her voice sounds thick and she clears her throat.
"I can do this somewhere else," Nikki offers.
"It's fine," Amita says. "Um." She ducks her head a little, lets her hair fall forward to hide how she knows she's blushing. "Could I – would you mind if I watched?"
She risks a glance at Nikki's face in time to see her blink. "You want to watch me clean my gun?" she asks, and it sounds dirty in her voice.
Or maybe just in Amita's head, because she knows it *is* - that she's not watching because she wants to learn. "I haven't been around guns much," she says. "I'm curious."
"Occupational hazard," Nikki says, smiling wryly. "Cops and academics."
"Yeah," Amita agrees, because what else can she say? I like your hands?
Nikki twitches one shoulder up in a shrug. "Sure. You want me to talk you through it?"
Amita nods. "Thank you."
"We always start by clearing the weapon," Nikki starts, depressing the trigger again, slow and careful. Amita nods to show she's listening, leans her cheek on one hand. "Then remove the recoil spring…"
Amita nods again, but she's not really listening. She's watching Nikki's hands, gripping the gun and twisting the barrel, slow and careful. Sliding out what she assumes is the recoil, though it looks more like a long bolt – Amita's not really close enough to see it properly.
She lets Nikki's voice wash over her, making an occasional hmm'ing sound to show she's still paying attention, even if she isn't listening. She's paying more attention to Nikki than she had been to her program, to her hands as they twist and pull and push, set black parts out in a neat row on her cloth, turn the gun as she takes it apart.
It's not like watching Megan and David and Colby was, how the way their hands touched turned into math in her head. It's not like when she closes her eyes and feels Charlie's hands brush every inch of her skin, when she thinks she can feel his fingerprints on her skin.
It's the contrast, Nikki's feminine hands on something that Amita's always associated more with men than women. Or, it's that, but it's something else as well, she thinks, when Nikki starts working a cleaning cloth through and over the gun's component parts – when the light catches on a smudge of something liquid on the base of her right thumb, just for a moment. Amita can't stop looking at it, even when she can't see it, waiting to see it again.
She can see the pattern as Nikki finishes cleaning, starts reassembling the gun, bringing it back from parts to a whole. Even if she couldn't, Nikki laid the pieces out neatly – it's not hard to see the number of spare parts drop. It doesn't seem to matter – when Nikki pushes the magazine back with a secure and final sounding click, Amita starts, like being woken up suddenly – like being pulled out of a daydream, coming back to herself.
Her heart is racing, her skin hot, and she's just glad that her breathing hasn't changed. She feels weak-kneed, is glad she's sitting down – she feels like she's just had an intense and satisfying sexual experience, sitting still with no-one touching her.
Nikki spins the gun once on her forefinger, and Amita laughs, only a little shaky, looks up to meet Nikki's eyes. Nikki's smiling, mostly, though there's still some confusion around her eyes, enough to make Amita glad that she's not Megan, who was always far more perceptive than anyone else.
"Thank you," she says.
"No sweat," Nikki says, putting her gun down and starting to pack her equipment back into the small case. "If you're interested, I could walk you through doing it yourself. If you want to feel what it's like."
Amita knows what the next step to that is – she's talked to more than one of the admin officers who's been to the shooting range with an agent. She's pretty sure that's not a good idea – pretty sure she couldn't just ask to watch.
She shakes her head. "Thank you, though," she says, and hopes Nikki doesn't read what Amita really means in it.
Fandom: Numb3rs
Characters: Amita (mild Amita/Charlie)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1582
Summary: The first thing Amita notices about Charlie is his hands; shockingly gen fic for my
kink_bingo card prompt of "hand fetish."Sense Of Touch
The first thing Amita noticed about Charlie was his hands. Neat, male fingers clutching a stub of chalk, practically skating across the green board in front of him. Cal Sci's math building had the kind of windows that the sun could slant in, perfectly angled to pick up one detail in the room, and it hit the back of Charlie's hand, the bump of Charlie's wrist where his jacket sleeve pulled back.
She was early for her class, hadn't expected to anyone to be there, not even the lecturer. She stopped in the doorway, books clutched to her chest, just watching those hands, imprinting the way they moved, the exact curl of his fingers and the tuck under of his thumb, onto her brain.
It wasn't until he stopped writing, dropped the chalk and half-turned in her direction to consult an open text book, that she actually looked at the rest of him, and realized that he was Professor Eppes, Cal Sci's resident math genius, only a handful of years older than she was.
"Oh," she said, out loud, stupid, when she'd been glazing out over his *hands*, and of course he looked up.
Blinked, then smiled. "Hello."
"Hi," she said, feeling stupid and tongue-tied. "I'm sorry, I have class in here."
"You're not one of my students," he said, curious.
"No," she agreed. Professor Eppes didn't teach any of the freshmen classes. Too brilliant to waste on them, everyone said. "No, um – maybe I'm in the wrong place?"
"Do you have the class info sheet?" he asked, stepping around the desk. Amita pulled it free, held it out to him. His fingers brushed hers as he took it, left behind a smudge of chalk dust, and she shivered, couldn't help it. "You're in the wrong classroom," he said.
"What?" Amita asked, then flushed. "Sorry. Um –" She stopped, appalled at herself.
He smiled. "You're two doors down."
"Oh," she said again. "Thank you." She took the sheet back from him. "Sorry to interrupt you."
It was an intro level class, which was probably a good thing, because she didn't take a single note, too distracted by the remembered image of his hands, spinning out beautiful math and leaving a chalk smudge on her skin.
*
It didn't seem like a thing, back then. Or maybe it did, but a thing for Charlie's math, for his genius brain and the beautiful way he thought. Not for his hands.
Then Charlie gets involved with the FBI, pulls Amita in with him, and suddenly she's surrounded by people who have competent hands.
She has to teach herself not to get distracted, not to zone out watching the techs as they manipulate computer equipment, or Megan and David and Colby as they pass files back and forth. Their fingers brush, and Amita's brain gets stuck on it, translates it into lines and angles, calculates the figures and equations of how they touch each other, how their friendships and partnerships are written in Megan's hand on David's arm, Colby touching her elbow to get her attention as he hands over a cup of tea, David ruffling his fingers through Colby's hair.
She tells herself that she likes watching their competence, and doesn't let herself think about all the ways in which that isn't what she's watching.
*
Thursday evening, and Nikki sits down at one of the tables in the conference room, looks at Amita, who's running the four hundred and thirty-second version of her program on her laptop, trying to make it work.
"You mind?" she asks, laying her gun and a small black case on the table.
"No," Amita says, not sure what she's agreeing to.
"Great," Nikki says, and goes quiet. Amita goes back to her program just in time to watch it spit out yet another string of error code, and tries not to groan. Version four hundred and thirty-three it is then. She's actually wishing she was back at Cal Sci in the senior staff meeting Charlie's at.
"What are you working on?" Nikki asks abruptly.
Amita looks up. Nikki's got a cream cloth laid out, the black case unzipped, the magazine from her gun lying on the cloth. As Amita watches, she points the gun to the floor, and pulls the trigger.
It clicks, doesn't fire – of course it doesn't fire, Nikki's an FBI agent, she'd be careful – but Amita jumps like it did.
Nikki catches it. "You okay?" she asks. Amita hears concern in her voice, thinks Nikki is probably frowning, but she doesn't see it – she's stuck on Nikki's hands cupping the butt of the gun. Nikki has feminine hands, narrow fingers and neat, buffed finger nails, and they look wrong with a gun in them.
They should look wrong, Amita corrects herself a moment later, because they don't. They look as natural as David's and Colby's and Don's, and she banishes her original thought. They look competent and sure, and Amita thinks that if Nikki touched her, right now, she'd leave a smudge of gun powder on Amita's skin the same way Charlie did, the very first time he touched her.
"I'm fine," she says, belatedly. Her voice sounds thick and she clears her throat.
"I can do this somewhere else," Nikki offers.
"It's fine," Amita says. "Um." She ducks her head a little, lets her hair fall forward to hide how she knows she's blushing. "Could I – would you mind if I watched?"
She risks a glance at Nikki's face in time to see her blink. "You want to watch me clean my gun?" she asks, and it sounds dirty in her voice.
Or maybe just in Amita's head, because she knows it *is* - that she's not watching because she wants to learn. "I haven't been around guns much," she says. "I'm curious."
"Occupational hazard," Nikki says, smiling wryly. "Cops and academics."
"Yeah," Amita agrees, because what else can she say? I like your hands?
Nikki twitches one shoulder up in a shrug. "Sure. You want me to talk you through it?"
Amita nods. "Thank you."
"We always start by clearing the weapon," Nikki starts, depressing the trigger again, slow and careful. Amita nods to show she's listening, leans her cheek on one hand. "Then remove the recoil spring…"
Amita nods again, but she's not really listening. She's watching Nikki's hands, gripping the gun and twisting the barrel, slow and careful. Sliding out what she assumes is the recoil, though it looks more like a long bolt – Amita's not really close enough to see it properly.
She lets Nikki's voice wash over her, making an occasional hmm'ing sound to show she's still paying attention, even if she isn't listening. She's paying more attention to Nikki than she had been to her program, to her hands as they twist and pull and push, set black parts out in a neat row on her cloth, turn the gun as she takes it apart.
It's not like watching Megan and David and Colby was, how the way their hands touched turned into math in her head. It's not like when she closes her eyes and feels Charlie's hands brush every inch of her skin, when she thinks she can feel his fingerprints on her skin.
It's the contrast, Nikki's feminine hands on something that Amita's always associated more with men than women. Or, it's that, but it's something else as well, she thinks, when Nikki starts working a cleaning cloth through and over the gun's component parts – when the light catches on a smudge of something liquid on the base of her right thumb, just for a moment. Amita can't stop looking at it, even when she can't see it, waiting to see it again.
She can see the pattern as Nikki finishes cleaning, starts reassembling the gun, bringing it back from parts to a whole. Even if she couldn't, Nikki laid the pieces out neatly – it's not hard to see the number of spare parts drop. It doesn't seem to matter – when Nikki pushes the magazine back with a secure and final sounding click, Amita starts, like being woken up suddenly – like being pulled out of a daydream, coming back to herself.
Her heart is racing, her skin hot, and she's just glad that her breathing hasn't changed. She feels weak-kneed, is glad she's sitting down – she feels like she's just had an intense and satisfying sexual experience, sitting still with no-one touching her.
Nikki spins the gun once on her forefinger, and Amita laughs, only a little shaky, looks up to meet Nikki's eyes. Nikki's smiling, mostly, though there's still some confusion around her eyes, enough to make Amita glad that she's not Megan, who was always far more perceptive than anyone else.
"Thank you," she says.
"No sweat," Nikki says, putting her gun down and starting to pack her equipment back into the small case. "If you're interested, I could walk you through doing it yourself. If you want to feel what it's like."
Amita knows what the next step to that is – she's talked to more than one of the admin officers who's been to the shooting range with an agent. She's pretty sure that's not a good idea – pretty sure she couldn't just ask to watch.
She shakes her head. "Thank you, though," she says, and hopes Nikki doesn't read what Amita really means in it.
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Also, very hot! I never thought of myself as having a thing for hands but maybe I am wrong! :)
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And now that i think about it, it seems like there should be some way to get the Numbers and SGA canons together, with all those geniuses running around. :)
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