Show, Tell, Hide.
By Rose Williams
Rated PG
Repost with better formatting. (ff.net's fault, not mine, I swear.)
Everything herein belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant enemy, et al.
A series of drabbles for the hand challenge on the livejournal community openonsundays
Spoilers up to season seven of Buffy.
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Joyce stared at her hands. They were covered in cookie dough, enough for the two of them for a week.Joyce blinked back tears as she measured the cookies out.
Children weren't suppose to take those threats literally. They were supposed to go, come back, beg forgiveness, and eat cookies at the kitchen bench.
She put the trays in the oven.
All she wanted to do was hold out a hand and have her little girl back.
She whipped her hands clean and called Dawn down for dinner. At least there was nothing strange about her twelve year old yet.
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Faith stared at her hands. She could still see the blood on them; Finch's as she'd driven the stake home without the clenching in her gut; that demon's as she rationalised his death in terms of good and evil; her own as she gripped the glass meant for Wesley too tightly in her hand.Wounds on her hands always made her sad.
Her Watcher had taught her to juggle for the coordination. Faith wondered if her hands remembered how to juggle. She hoped so, because it had been pretty and her hands hadn't created anything but pain in too long.
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Dawn stared at her hands. Her life was written on them. On the inside of her left ring finger there was a scar; she had cut herself on shell at the beach. She'd glued it onto Buffy's birthday present. There was probably still blood on it.Her right thumb looked slightly squashed; her dad had shut it in the car door. Except that had never happened and she had never collected any shells. She hadn't done any of the things in her diaries; she hadn't even written them. How did she know they were her actions? or even her hands?
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Giles stared at his hands.His father had had a trick; "a pound if I guess your age, madam," and he would take her hands; they would always tell the truth.
His scares showed that he had been tortured.
His calluses, that he had once trained extensively in weapons but spent more time now with books, that he still played the guitar.
Some things they couldn't show; stroking Jenny's cheek; training the Slayer; watching her die.
They would never say that he had killed a young medical student. Or would have killed a fifteen year old girl. They were lairs.
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Willow stared at her hands. If she closed her eyes all she could see was Warren, tied to that tree. She hadn't even had to use her hands to kill him. She had used her hands for other, good, things; holding Tara, making dinner, moving chess pieces. Would she ever be able to do any of those again?She waved her hands. Nothing happened, but she shivered. The physical memory was there; but movement was nothing without power. Her hands would always remember that and they would always remember the feel of Tara's hair when it had just been brushed.
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Andrew stared at his hands. It was easier than watching the world pass by unchanged, or looking at Xander. His hands didn't look any different than before, but he felt there should be blood on them. There was metaphorical blood; Jonathon's. He wished there was physical evidence for his failure.If he clenched his fists he could feel the strain in his muscles and the imprint of the hilt on his palms. Maybe that was enough of a reminder of the coward he was; of the blood on his hands. They might never be the same again. He hoped not.