A/N: Hey my pals. This is just a quick, rough, fluffy drabble I've been thinking about for a bit. This is my first time writing in a different tense, so please forgive issues of syntax I may have missed. You may notice it's not rated M, and that's because to me, it is not explicit, though there is the inclination of sexual content. I hope it's a pleasant read. Let me know what you think!
In Pieces
A single touch could mean everything or nothing at all. A practiced and comforting movement, yet instinctual and without thought or necessary meaning. They were something that separated humans from simpler creatures, inhabiting dexterity and purpose. The hands – or, his hand, more so. She's watching with interest as the complex musculature flex and release with each quick movement. Henry is writing quickly, scribbling over what appears to be a student paper, or something. She hasn't really taken notice.
A wave of reality heats her skin and flushes her cheeks. A very skilled set of hands at that. Capable of much more gratifying tasks than the tediousness of writing. And still, the hand allowed the rare window into his mind, so not at all wasted. It was one of the first things that Elizabeth had noticed about him – the largeness of his hands and the candour of his grip. A man with such a sturdy hold was surely one of honour.
It always started with a touch. A brush of the fingertips, of the waist or of the cheek. A first point of contact that Elizabeth's body had learned to be so acutely aware of. And her body knew, each touch conveying a different charge – comfort, adoration, sadness, or arousal. The definitions grew in precision with their long, sturdy marriage. A faint brush against the shoulder blade, I'm tired. Or taking one of her fingers as they hung at her side, I miss you. Enveloping her hand in his, despite the avoidance of her eyes, I'm sorry.
"You okay, babe?" His voice breaks her thoughts, a quizzical look on his face.
"Mm? Oh, I was just thinking about… your hands." She finishes plainly.
Smirking, he lifts a finger to make a 'come hither' motion. She snorts loudly, giggling and meeting his playful eyes.
-o-
Pressing two fingers against her lips where his had just been, he drags them south. The small amount of moisture gathered from her mouth leaving a trail that cooled instantly in his wake. Her belly rises and falls with ragged breaths, and he continues his journey, pressing gently, but allowing her very clearly to determine his path. He's able to play her body like a very familiar script, leaving goosebumps in his wake. The consistent, predictable nature of his touch not a bore but a beautiful reminder. He watches her beneath him, body writhing gently and arching for a firmer touch. When his digits reach the apex of her thighs, he presses one into her depths without warning. Arcing from the bed, she releases a grunt quite un-ladylike, only aiding in his fascination for manipulating her body with the intentions of pleasure. He keeps his body at a distance, as to remain close enough to make her yearn, yet far enough to enjoy the show. If he were honest, he is doing little of the work. It is she who moves against him in earnest.
He pushes another finger to join the first, holding them Still. The precise position of pressure he applies is immaculate in its accuracy. There's a tense, brittle coil low in her belly, building, aching. He gives her no heed, a sadist she might say, as he watches her ride the line – wanting, no needing, but just not getting enough from him.
She whines in frustration, reaching for him, trying to persuade his passions but he resists. "No." he places her hand back against the mattress. "I want to watch." His voice drops as the words ooze out, his eyes lowering to the place where she ached - leaving no doubt of the sinful intentions he held. Lifting her head, she searches for his lips, which he readily gives her, pressing them down again and into the plush cushioning. As his tongue passes her lips, he grants movement to his stationed digits, earning a hearty wail which he swallows greedily. The same hands that pieced her together would just as easily bring her undone.
He wakes her in the morning with a large, warm hand cupping her cheek, and a feather light touch of their lips. But intimacy is no mask for the darkness surrounding them.
At the closure of a long day, he takes hers in his. Elizabeth always thought a hand massage was severely underrated. She watches him work now, pressing and untangling the tiny knots formed in the tensions of her palm. She knew well the struggles held in the palm of his; on the days when she had to pry his hand open to interlace their fingers. Similar to how she could open his thoughts and allow him to heal.
When she leaves again, he always holds her hand for the longest moment possible, until he's forced to allow it to slip from his grip. It is the first and last point of contact. He wonders if this time will be it.
Lay your hands in mine. Heal me one last time.