To Call for Hands of Above, to Lean On
He didn’t know what the hell he was thinking.
He stared down at his hands, looking at the rough calluses that decorated fingertips and palms from handling knives, guns, and tools for so many years. Little nicks and scratches littered over his knuckles, telling stories of when he had screwed up spinning a knife, or when he had caught his hand on a jagged piece of metal while sifting through a scrap yard during the days he’d been rebuilding his Impala after buying her totalled and practically useless. Rough hands that had once held the hand of a small woman with skin like silk and a smile like sunshine, holding her as though she’d break as easily as a spider’s gossamer thread; rough hands that had once carried a bundle of warm flesh and cooing cries in his arms, carefully holding a head of downy dark hair and staring into endless baby blues with awe and love and terror.
Rough hands that had broken it all.
Pale hands suddenly appeared in his line of sight, wrapping around his square hands with long fingers, smooth and shaking. Successfully startled out of his darker thoughts, Zebediah glanced up to see Allen staring down at him with cool grey eyes, filled with a calming peace and an inherent understanding. Green eyes looked away from the gentle gaze, staring down at their hands again, watching as Allen’s hands shook with their slow deterioration. Biting his lip, he only took a moment longer to staring wonderingly at the contrasting image before curling his fingers around the slim palms, closing his eyes and letting out a quiet sigh through his nose as Allen leaned forward and kissed his forehead sweetly.
He didn’t know what the hell he was thinking.
But in the end, he decided it was probably best not to question it.
