She likes his hands.
From his fingertips down to his wrists, his hands are rough and calloused. You'd think with that healing factor of his, he'd have hands as smooth as a baby's bottom. He doesn't. There are, however, three small parts on each hand that are quite soft. Right between his knuckles, skin that is forced time after time, to heal. That's her favorite part.
His hands have been bloodied more times than she can even count. She's not sure he even knows the actual number. But this has never mattered to her. Even the people that have known him longer than she look at her like she's crazy. They wonder how she can hold his hands, run her ringed fingers along those patches of smooth between his knuckles without an ounce of fear of what he could do – even by accident. But she has never been afraid.
He could crush her hand without a second thought. He could rip her arm from its socket, no hesitation needed. Worse yet? He could release those claws, shredding the skin of her hands, adding new scars to the ones already there.
He could kill her. But he wouldn't.
It's with this ultimate trust that she grabs his hands whenever she desires. Both of her hands can rest comfortably within just one of his own, and she likes this. Most times he does not resist, sometimes it even evokes a grin from the regular brooder. She likes his hands. Has always, will always.
Every time she used to use her powers, her hands were scalding hot. In fact, her entire body was. No one knows this but him and he secretly likes this. It's something she's only shared with him, a secret. But this was a long time ago. When she holds his hands now, the fingertips, palms, knuckles, wrists, they are colder than ice. Colder than Bobby on his best day.
Her hands have changed over time. They've always been smooth and they still are. They are like butter compared to his rough mugs, softer than silk. But things change. There are scars now on the inside of her palms, rough circles lying somewhere in the center. The scars are faint to the untrained eye, but for him they are huge, looming before his eyes all the time. He always feels these round scars. They aren't as cold as they rest of her hand, two circles of warmth on either side of it, palm and front. These scars used to bother him a lot more than they do now.
He likes when she holds his hand. He'd never admit it out loud, but her softness reminds him that there is rest amongst the chaos, endless comfort. She doesn't judge when she slips her hands into his own. Others do. Strangers, friends, always judging.
He forgets sometimes. Worries that he'll do something stupid and he'll never feel her hands again, her ringed thumbs and digits smoothing over his naked ones. He finds himself holding his breath every time her hands leave his. And it all fades when her hands find his time after time.
No matter where he goes or who he meets, she will always be his one salvation. When he thinks he's done the unforgivable, there she is. And he's never found this in anyone else.
He loves that about her.