Jack didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t place himself in D’s position, or even begin to imagine the kinds of things he’d seen, and done, and wished he could prevent. He looked down and saw his own hand resting at his side, just a hairbreadth from D’s. He took a breath and held it, then slowly stretched out his pinky finger until it just grazed the side of D’s hand; a tiny stroke of tentative contact. D didn’t withdraw; instead, his hand flinched a little closer. Emboldened, Jack covered D’s hand with his own; D turned his palm up and their fingers slid together, interlacing and fitting against each other like they’d been waiting for nothing else but the chance to do so.
D exhaled and let his head fall back again, his eyes closing. Jack just sat there at his side, his shoulder pressed to D’s, their clasped hands hidden between them like lock tumblers, two sides separated by a harsh wooden barrier but joined by an unseen mechanism, waiting only for the right key to align them.