Ma's hands were slim and gentle. Her hands were constantly in motion: twisting the cord of her telephone around her fingers, mapping out his palms with her thumbs, and the staccato 'clack-clack-clack-clack' of her fake nails as she thinks. These are hands that have held him when he was small, wiped away young tears, and bandaged skinned knees. These are hands that have ruffled his hair, pinched his cheeks, and tucked him in at night. These are hands that have loved him through his childhood.
"Your hands mark you as special, Fordy. Just you wait and see."
Shermie's hands were of average size and skill. They were normal to the point of being boring. Unless one took the time to look closer. A thin, pale scar runs down the outside of the man's right hand, marking him as a member of his mother's family line. These are hands that have tickled him until he was breathless and held him suspended in the air by his ankles. These are hands that have noogied him into submission and pulled books down from tall shelves for him. These are hands that have steadied him as he'd grown from a child into a young adult.
"I just realized my baby brother has the world's best finger-calculator. Huh. That would have made first grade a bit easier."
Crampelter's hands were fat with a lot of weight behind them. The cracking of knuckles and harsh laughter was too often the prelude to the cracking of glasses lenses and harsh bruises. These are hands that have left scars on him both visible and not. These are hands that proved to him that the world isn't always fair, kind, or reasonable.
"Hey, Freak! Looks like your twin isn't here to protect you today!"
Stan's hands were broad. They'd matched palm-to-palm, even with the difference in finger count. For that matter, his twin had thick, solid fingers. He'd used his strong hands for mischief and support in turn. But, more than anything else, he'd used them to punch back when the world had seemed out to get them. These are hands that pushed him down and picked him up. These are hands that offered half of everything they had and taken half he had in return. These are hands that have risen in his defense. These are hands that have patched him back together after bullies, and boxing, and occasionally their own punches. These are hands that have always reached back for his and never once thought them strange.
"Don't listen to them, Buddy. They're just jealous they don't have cool hands, like you."
Filbrick's hands were large and sure, just as the man was in general. They're steady and firm, always. The man's hands guide his own through task after task as they pass on a menagerie of odd skills. Lesson after lesson is taught in the back room of the pawnshop as the calluses associated with them grow on a young set of hands to match those already formed on the older pair. These are hands that have taught him discipline through the slap of a belt and careful guidance, alike. These are hands that have provided a grounding weight on his shoulder and a rough push at his back as needed, if not always wanted. These are the hands that have guided him into manhood.
"Hmph. They're different. But they're still good hands capable of good work. Remember that."
Carla's hands were small and slender, with curious, clever fingers. They are soft and have few calluses but they way they reach for his hands without hesitation (after that first time) becomes a comfort. When she laces her fingers between his, they provide a strength all their own. These are hands that have pulled him out of his comfort-zone and isolation, both. These are hands that have consistently sought his own and never drawn away in disgust. These are hands that have reaffirmed his connection to the rest of humanity.
"I like holding your hands. The six-finger-thing feels good, safe. Just don't let Stan know I said that. He'll be unbearable."
Fiddleford's hands were long, thin, and always busy. They're covered in a variety of different calluses and dozens of little scars from work that is too often done in a half-distracted state. A few of his fingers have obviously been broken before and healed not-quite-straight. The engineer has a handshake that is equal parts friendly and oblivious. The two of them are roommates for over a week before the other man finally notices Ford's own hands. These are hands that have dragged him to the lunch hall and to their shared dorm room as the younger man's absent-mindedness dictated. These are hands that have pushed him out of the way of more than a few projects-gone-wrong. These are hands that proved to him that immediate, unflinching acceptance - while rare and precious - was possible.
"Well, I'll be. How did I miss that?"
Bill's hands were strange in their own right. By human standards, anyway. Pitch black in color and shaped like a stick-figure ripped from its flat world and given depth. Four-fingered and cold, grasping Bill's hand is not unlike grabbing a metal sculpture covered by a satin sheet - except the sculpture moves to grasp his hand in return. The blue fire that seals their deal isn't hot and it doesn't burn. Instead, it tingles in a way that is vaguely reminiscent of the thrill of anticipation. These are the hands that build him up only to tear him down. These are the hands that take his trust, his autonomy, his sanity, and his self-worth. These are the hands that leave him a broken wreck.
"Hope you're ready to get your hands dirty! We've got a lot of work to do if we're going to change the world!"