Her Hands
Her hands were one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. They were soft as a dove's down, smooth as marble, and strong as the blade of a sword. Her pink nails were clipped short; they were clean and shined in the light, well-cared for. He traced the green lines hidden beneath her porcelain skin, following the roads of the map her blood veins created. It was such a simple, yet beautiful sight. Her hands nearly seemed to sparkle, glinting in the light of the lamp.
He turned her hand over and traced the lines etched into her palms. The waterless riverbeds curved across her palm, cut off to jagged dead ends, and in pinprick points. He pulled the tip of his finger along the one that curved up to her middle finger, imagining himself riding a river in her hands. He concentrated on the shadows and the shapes they made, the smooth, dark curves around the pad of her thumb. He carefully felt the cool mounds of calluses at the base of her fingers, and circled down to the center of her palm, creating a whirlpool. He fell down the whirlpool in the bowl of her hand, disoriented by the beauty of these simple features.
He turned her hand over and clasped her index finger on either side with two fingers of his own. He ran them down the length of her finger, feeling the long and slender translucent skin beneath his touch. Her knuckles rolled smoothly beneath him. He caressed the tip of her fingernail, taking in the smoothness and the softness of her. He ran his thumb across the middle knuckles of her fingers. She was cool, and smooth, and beautiful, and perfect.
He didn't understand his fascination with her hands. He just knew they hypnotized him with their beauty. Her hands were lovely. They were perfect, a model for what every person's hands should have been. The scars that marked them magnified her prowess. Who could be as lovely and as dangerous as his own femme fatal?
By examining her hands, he felt like he was growing closer to her. Her hands said more than she ever did. They spoke to him about her past, the troubles she had fought through, and the care she showed her body. She may have been a soldier, she may have even been a stoic wall, but he knew that was only a front. That was simply what she wanted to be seen of her by others. Her hands, however, hid nothing from him. Her hands were delicate, soft, and powerful. They were cool, smooth, and pale. If her eyes were the doors to her soul, then surely her hands were the keys.
He looked up at her eyes. Her lovely teal eyes. They looked back at him, shining and full of love. They were warm and kind, content and observant. He could see a twinkling in her eyes. She was inviting him into her soul. She was allowing him in. He didn't even need keys to open this door. However, looking back down at her left hand, he was glad he had taken the time to examine the keys. He smiled, dipped his head down, and kissed her ring finger.
The next time he examined her ethereal hands, there would be a diamond safely secured on the finger his lips graced.
A/N: I have this thing with hands, so I wanted to write a drabble about Hope looking at Lightning's hands. I chose to write from his perspective because I see him as the more emotional one in this pairing. Um, setting isn't really specific at all in this. I'm letting you infer whatever you'd like to. I just wanted to write a drabble to make me feel better. Hope you enjoyed this.
Big shout out to Pandaleski for tolerating the plethora of questions I shot him with. I was very nit-picky with the simplest of word phrases in this. You are a life saver for my OCD. I appreciate you and love you dearly. Feel better.
Peace and review.