He's holding her hand gently in his; he's never felt it this way before. Hands held, walking on the beach, warm sun and strong wind whipped her blouse and his hair into disheveled frenzy. That was different.

Now there's cold stone and the light is warm and there are no waves crashing, no shouts to drown out their words to each other and everyone is watching, but her pink cheeks and shining eyes are almost the same.

Almost. Today there's less teasing in her eyes, and more joy.

Her hand is a gift, an offering. Alms. He's misjudged the distance and his whole hand is under hers. It's supposed to be a touch of fingertips, steadying her hand, singling out the one symbolic finger whose line straight to the heart marks it out for this.

Her hand is cold and he resists the urge to bring it to his mouth and blow hot air on it; it would have worked better with the gloves on anyway and now her fingers are naked against his. He also resists the urge to clasp her hand in his - but his fingers are cold too and it wouldn't do much good. Maybe he could fold her fingers into his warmer palm, he thinks crazily; maybe that would help. He wonders if she feels her heartbeat in her hands too; the sensation of his own pulse there drowns out his perception of hers.

But he will not clasp her hands, not yet anyway, because he's got a job to do and he can (they can) hold hands later.

After.

Always; that was the point. And when he gets his permission from on high he might actually clasp those hands (he stifles a smile at that; the corner of his mouth twitches and she catches it, her eyebrow quirking upward and it brings him back to what he's supposed to be doing) and maybe with that same permission he'll actually kiss her (who is he kidding; of course he will, and it's that idea that makes his hands go cold and his breath catch and his eyes fill).

He holds a tiny, terribly important object in his other hand. For all the silver he's polished and guarded in his life, this little piece is the most precious. He will polish it for her every day if she'll let him.

Seconds have passed and it's time. He shifts their hands a bit. He manages to keep hold of that terribly important object. And as he gently slides it into place and speaks the quiet, traditional words, his voice carries, lingering, filling that great stone space.

.

.

Inspired by a PM conversation with Chelsie Fan on ffn about all the things we want to see at the wedding. Greed, we haz it.

I thought, picture him, really picture him, putting the ring on her finger - his hands like the moment when he took the punch glass from her. Two big hands, reverently touching her smaller one. Amirite?