There is something about Michael's hands. They are long-fingered and gloriously smooth, gentle against her bare skin but ruthless in the heat of battle. Equally capable of sprouting deadly claws or brushing a feather-light touch over new-healed wounds.
"Doctor's hands," he jokes every time he catches Selene looking at them. "My best feature. Or so I'm told." Always, he seems less-than-pleased about this.
She watches silently, unable to comprehend dissatisfaction in a trait so vitally useful. Beauty is something she has long trained herself to discount. It makes no difference in the war, after all. Yet, deep down, Selene knows there is a reason she must always watch when his fingers are at work.
"I used to think I was born to heal," confesses Michael, stretched naked on the bed beside her. He laughs bitterly, looking at those magnificent hands again, the last token of a life never to be.
You still are, thinks Selene, but as usual cannot get the words onto her tongue. Instead, she takes one hand in hers, kisses his palm, and places it over her heart.