Hands
Patience was not one of her virtues. Not even a slight trait. Impatience and a streak of impetuance tempered her compassion. After all, she was only human.
Fuu understood that even those two . . . ugh, perverts, jerks, criminals -- assholes needed sleep, even if she felt the unyeilding urge to get up and keep looking now at some time in the wee hours in the morning. At least she was not alone, left to be kidnapped or worse.
Small comfort there, even if it meant putting up with Mugen's stench and snoring.
She folded her hands into her lap, their pale skin against the pink of her kimono. They once has been clean and soft, but now they were grubby. There was a fine layer of dirt on them, highlighting the creases in her knuckles.
Fuu smudged the lines before noticing that the lines of her palms were easily traceable as well. When had she fallen out of caring about them? Also, when had she taken to chewing her nails. She took brief interest in a hangnail. They weren't too feminine anymore.
She look to her right where Mugen was passed out on his back, eagle-spread. If it was not for the horrendous sounds pouring from his nose, he could have been passed off as a corpse. He certainly slept heavily enough. Her curiousity with her own hands shifted to his.
It wasn't hard to inspect them as palms faced the ceiling over the barn. Eyes narrowing, attempting to see past the dirt, she slowly saw scars from ropes and hilts and fights curved across the plane of his hand. The fingers were knotted, refusing to straighten out -- as if permanently clenching into a fist or a around a sword.
Every fingernail was broken, in fact, one was entirely missing. A pinky was too crooked to be of actual use. Maybe he knew he couldn't always rely on his hands and so has opted for becoming adept with his legs as well.
Her mind drifted to her other companion who relied solely on his mind and hands. Carefully, Fuu sidled up to Jin, careful not to wake the ever vigilant samurai.
Unlike her fingers, his were long and graceful, the nails somehow meticulously kept. The backs of his hands claimed no scars or deformities -- they were, as his fingers, perfect. Large hands that could easily cover her face, she was sure. Though they had no stains like the other man's, she knew better.
Jin was different, he was ghostlike, a phantom of a human. He was quiet, well mannered and calm, handsome even ( though she told herself otherwise ), much like his hands. But those hands had killed as many as the openly stained hands. Her objects of interest suddenly became animated and she fell backwards.
"What are you doing?"
She sat upright, glad that he couldn't see her turning red. "Nothing."