Drabble #2
Title: Devil In The Details
Rating: G
Summary: John looks at things in the bigger picture
Word count: 247
Notes: Another stupid o'clock drabble. Why is it always then that it comes to me? Dedications go to my fanbase (which currently consists of sugarxplum) and also to aaronstanford.com for FINALLY changing that godforsaken headshot.
Bobby’s fingers, curled around the chipped red porcelain of the coffee mug, are cold. John knows this, because he can map Bobby’s hands better than his own. He knows them, from fingertip to the stem of his wrist, smooth and unblemished. Skin milk bottle pale, dark blue and red veins stark against the almost-translucence. His life line is long, stretched nearly right across his palm. The fingers are long and deft, but strong. The nails are square and cut short, clean and neat and without any dirt habitually stuck underneath.
John looks at his own hands. They’re smaller than Bobby’s, even though his fingers are almost inordinately long and skinny, breakable like pale spiders. His nails are ragged half-moons, the ends torn down to the quick in places. When he ran out of nails to bite, he started at the skin around them and it’s pink and raw. His skin’s a different sort of pale to Bobby’s, not natural pale like his. Sallow, almost, and there’s ink blotches over his knuckles. John knows that his hands are always too warm and clammy and it get’s worse as he gets nervous, something that seems to happen far too often.
John sometimes see’s his hands like a metaphor; always half of what Bobby has, never close to that perfection. But when their fingers are curled together, and John’s feverish warm hand is covered by Bobby’s whisper-icy palm, John doesn’t think it matter’s so much in the scheme of things.
Rating: G
Summary: John looks at things in the bigger picture
Word count: 247
Notes: Another stupid o'clock drabble. Why is it always then that it comes to me? Dedications go to my fanbase (which currently consists of sugarxplum) and also to aaronstanford.com for FINALLY changing that godforsaken headshot.
Bobby’s fingers, curled around the chipped red porcelain of the coffee mug, are cold. John knows this, because he can map Bobby’s hands better than his own. He knows them, from fingertip to the stem of his wrist, smooth and unblemished. Skin milk bottle pale, dark blue and red veins stark against the almost-translucence. His life line is long, stretched nearly right across his palm. The fingers are long and deft, but strong. The nails are square and cut short, clean and neat and without any dirt habitually stuck underneath.
John looks at his own hands. They’re smaller than Bobby’s, even though his fingers are almost inordinately long and skinny, breakable like pale spiders. His nails are ragged half-moons, the ends torn down to the quick in places. When he ran out of nails to bite, he started at the skin around them and it’s pink and raw. His skin’s a different sort of pale to Bobby’s, not natural pale like his. Sallow, almost, and there’s ink blotches over his knuckles. John knows that his hands are always too warm and clammy and it get’s worse as he gets nervous, something that seems to happen far too often.
John sometimes see’s his hands like a metaphor; always half of what Bobby has, never close to that perfection. But when their fingers are curled together, and John’s feverish warm hand is covered by Bobby’s whisper-icy palm, John doesn’t think it matter’s so much in the scheme of things.