Contrary to whatever Jim might say, Leonard's favorite medical instrument is not the hypospray. It's not his tricorder either. The little tricorder is dead useful and gives him much more information than he'll ever need to use, and he has to admit that he gets a certain satisfaction jabbing Jim with that needle. But neither of them compare to his hands.

Whenever Leonard stops and thinks about his hands, he's amazed. Four digits and an opposable thumb. Flexible, quick, strong, sturdy. The bone structure, the tendons that run through, the muscles layered over it all, the nerves that receive and deliver so much information. Arteries and veins and capillaries, joints and fingernails. He can't even begin to count all the things that hands do, these funny looking appendages at the ends of his arms.

To humans they represent the sense of touch, they reach out to the world around and actually physically feel reality. Hand bridge the gaps between people—practically every human greeting he can think of involves some motion with hands, whether it be a shake, wave, bow, or solemn salute. They communicate, part of the intricate language of the human body. Well, there's also Federation Standard Sign Language, where hands literally are how people talk to each other. And there's braille too. Hands are how the blind read and the deaf talk.

It's how he practices medicine. There's the obvious fact that surgery, even with the advanced robotics of the age, a huge part is human and literally in the hands of the surgeon. When Leonard's not doing surgery and practicing general medicine (he's always like to do both and vary it up), his hands are just as important. Despite the tricorders, sometimes Leonard likes to have a good old fashioned listen at a person's heart. It's one of the few older medical practices he approves of, this contact between the doctor and his patient. Leonard's also more tactile than others. He reassures his patients with his words and by patting their backs, squeezing their hands.

Some folks are inclined to think that the human brain is the best part of the whole body, an evolutionary miracle. Some others think it's the kidneys and their remarkable ability to filter all kinds of crap. Still others argue that it's the heart, and Leonard admits that the heart is a damn fine organ. That muscle just tirelessly beats and beats every second of the day, for days upon days, controlled by that awesome electrical system and controlling the circulation of blood in the body. Leonard thinks the human brain is great. Kidneys are good too. Everything about the human body is something of a miracle to him, and really, what kind of sense does it make to rate its parts? Everything's there for a pretty good reason, and if something's missing, then the body's gonna break down, simple as that.

And strictly speaking, a man can keep living without his hands. He can survive. It'll be a huge inconvenience, but it's been done before and will doubtless happen again. And though Leonard is a doctor and any life is better than death, he also believes that life is about more than getting by and surviving. What's really wonderful about life are the extras—extras like hands. Is it some kinda contradiction that hands, which humans rely on so much, technically aren't needed to keep the heart going and mind spinning and kidneys processing?

Like friendship. A man doesn't need it to keep living. He needs human contact, to be sure, but Leonard's known some people who just don't have friends. They live in society, they have acquaintances, but nothing else. These people are breathing and walking, but something inside them is shriveled and inhuman. Is it some kinda contradiction that things that aren't strictly necessities are exactly what makes life rich? Exactly what makes life worth living?

Under the heartbreak and the sheer force of that pain, there is something quieter and deeper that Leonard misses about Jillian. She wasn't just his wife. She was his friend. She was the person who was closest to him, the person who understood him best. It took a lot of time to build that. Leonard thinks (hopes, prays) that he and Jill are still friends, but there's something broken about that relationship now. Kind of like a hand cut off or tied behind his back. The openness is gone, the honesty isn't really there anymore. They both hide their feelings and don't tell each other everything like they used to. Jill won't even let him ask how she is—that's where things stand now.

And this friendship that he's building with Jim is something different. For one thing, there's the age and maturity gap. As much as Jim's a nice guy, Leonard can't help but be reminded every so often how young Jim is. Jim's been through a lot, but that seems to have stunted his growth in weird ways. And on the flip side, it's pushed him to be way more mature and knowledgeable about certain things than anyone under the age of 80 has a right. It's a really awkward combination, and from time to time, Leonard can see Jim struggling to reconcile those two sides of him. In his face, there's an almost naive optimism and idealism of what the future holds, but also dear knowledge of the shit reality can throw at a person.

By most psychology books, Jim should be bitter. He should be angry and raging at a world and fate that have been unkind and unfair. He's never had a constant father figure, he's estranged from his brother, his foster homes never worked out, he's never belonged. That's a surefire recipe for imbalanced, troubled young man. He's played with that line between delinquent and criminal before and knows the feeling of adrenaline in his veins, gained from various illegal highs. All the rule books and scenarios say that Jim should not be where he is now—the prestigious and highly selective Officer School for Starfleet Command.

But if there's one thing that Jim's known for, it's that he never plays by the rules in anyone's book. Even his own. He's always breaking and making rules and whoever wants to tell him how he should be or feel or act can go fuck themselves. Jim knows the value of hands, but he also knows that they're weapons. Leonard considers his hands in terms of his profession. Jim's hands are far more ambiguous things, tools that he's used to survive and come out on top at any cost, and tools he's used for completely altruistic purposes.

Sometimes he gets the feeling that Leonard views him as a kind of younger brother. What Leonard doesn't understand, and what Jim understands all too well, is you can't survive without hands. Even in civilized places with civilized men, underneath that layer is always the threat of violence. Hands grab and punch and fight. They scratch, hold knives and phasers. They strangle and beat and pummel. They drag corpses. Jim's learned that you have to be prepared for any situation and if you want to survive to live another day, you have to be willing to use everything you've got. Hands aren't an option. They're mandatory. Jim's used his hands to help and hope. He's used them to protect himself. And then he's used them to inflict worlds of hurt.

Jim doesn't tell Leonard about Tarsus—he doesn't want the shit that happened on that planet to suddenly define their friendship. He doesn't want pity either. He's sure that Leonard's seen the two faces of humanity and caught glimpses of that ugly, cruel streak all people have buried in them. But not like what Jim's seen. And in a strange reversal of roles, he finds he doesn't want to do anything that might shatter his friend's intrinsic faith in the goodness of man. Jim's not so sure he believes humans are good, down at their core. He's not sure he believes he's all that good either. But Leonard burns with this belief so fervently (why else would he try so hard to save all those lives?) that Jim's willing to give it a chance. Of all the people he's met at the Academy, Leonard's probably the best man he knows. That Jill divorced him and left a gaping wound only adds to his conviction that people can be real shits.

The thing is that Leonard, even though he sometimes treats him like an annoying younger brother, believes in Jim. Jim has no idea what he's done to earn that, but it gives him real confidence in himself. Leonard's the first person in a long time who's taken Jim seriously. Pike doesn't come close. That kind of faith in his potential makes him reconsider his hands. Because even as hands can be used for both good and evil, they are used to build. Back on that first shuttle ride, Jim extended an offer of friendship, half expecting to be fully rejected, like he always had been in the past. But Leonard took him up on his offer and gave back. Gave more than Jim thinks he's given to their friendship. This is the first time in his adult life that things have been stable, and he realizes that he doesn't have to claw for survival or just get by. He has a friend, a man who firmly shakes his hand and pushes him to be a better man, even as he accepts him as he is.

They say that life gives in the extras. Jim's never had that much extra. Leonard's had a lot of extra that he never rightly appreciated. They don't know it yet (though they can feel it), but they'll build a friendship with their hands. They'll give and take from each other over the years, and every time, always offer a little extra.