Inspired by my own achy hands, that crack and creak whenever I move them despite me being half Remus' age. Arg.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. (Alas.)
Remus hated his hands. They were achy and creaky and stiff, despite being a mere 40 years old, mirroring the rest of his body in feeling twice his age. The knuckles were covered in scar tissue, a consequence of the particulars of transformation. He couldn't look at his hands some days without seeing claws forcing their way out of his knuckles as his fingers curled instinctively to blend into the rest of his hand as they became paws. They shook when he was nervous and he always had to twist them behind his back to make them stop, and they looked so rough and clumsy next to Severus's slender artist fingers.
Severus disagreed. They were strong hands, much better than his thin white ones. They were tan and broad palmed and smelled of tea. They were good for making cookies (not that Severus liked cookies of course), good for massaging away the headaches that build up behind his temples, and they were always, always warm.
And Remus is grateful Severus disagrees. He's grateful they disagree about many things, because Remus, in his heart, wants desperately to believe that Severus's opinions are right.