((A/N: Another 1a.m. ficlet, 200 words. It's kind of strange, yes. I've got a hand fixation, it's one of the first things I notice about people. Eh. Spike/Xander slash, PG13-ish.))
Spike's fingers are long and thin, and deceptively fragile looking. It's impossible to miss the unnatural strength in those hands when they touch, even lightly- soft, slow strokes, but Xander can feel the muscles flowing heavy under the skin like cool mercury, like cold power barely restrained. They are wicked hands, scuttling hands that have mapped out his body in every obscene way. Right now he has captured one, holds it fluttering like a wild thing to his chest as he rubs gently along the web of translucent skin between the thumb and forefinger. He cannot cage it there for long, and soon it slides effortlessly out of his strongest grip to play teasingly along the rise of his ribcage. Palm dragging downwards, soft un-callused skin barely catching on the hair of his stomach- Spike had been a man with gentle hands before his death, though he won't tell Xander why. The other hand is clasped with Xander's, the joints of their fingers neatly interlocking like the teeth of a zipper, thumbs dueling absently in a way that suggests vaguely erotic things. Xander's bronzed skin is dark against Spike's bone-white, his calluses press into smooth flesh, and he holds on.
