A/N: Random, randomisity. That's all I've got to say spurred this one. Honestly. I don't even remember what I was doing or what I heard or thought of that suddenly made me think of the line, "He loves playing with her hands" and the rest of this came from there. Completely independent of anything else I have. Just a slice straight out of Robin's head. Random.

And unedited.

I even hate the title, but that's nothing new, is it? I hate all my titles.

Dedicated: To Kysra for reading this and telling me that it doesn't have to be about anything else -- and that it didn't suck. (I thought it was 'Where the hell did this come from, eh?' worthy, not post worthy.)

Her Hands
by Em

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."
- A.A. Milne

He loves playing with her hands. The contours and the planes of them fascinate him. Oh, he loves her skin as a whole, certainly, every inch of it, but it is her hands, the lithe, tapered fingers, the smooth hardness of her nails, the particular feel of her knuckles, the sensitive spot just in the middle of the softness of her palm that transfixes him.

It isn't a conscious choice on his part, by any means (he is well aware that there are many more interesting places to become obsessed with) and he is shocked to realize the truth of it, even as his fingers fidget, using hers as someone else might use a pen or a scrap of paper: absently.

When he is next to her (which is almost always lately) at least one of her hands is usually in his, both if she doesn't need them, palm against palm, fingers enmeshed. When they watch movies or are involved in conversations, together or with others – it doesn't matter which – his fingers trace the shape of hers, the curve of her nails, the soft pad of the inside of her thumb, tracing the joints under her skin, the way some take comfort in rubbing the familiar shape of a medallion or pendant. He knows the lines on her palm by touch alone. He knows how her fingers fit in his hand, he knows that her palm is three inches smaller than his (give or take), he knows her fingers could disappear behind his.

At first, she wonders what he is looking for, feeling for or trying to do. Slowly, however, she comes to realize it is a habit of his as certainly as she needs to fall asleep with her ear over his heart. She accepts that touching her is a comfort to him, that playing with her hands is an extension of that. And eventually, she learns to let her hand rest in his, passive and supine, surrendering her fingers and her palm, her nails and her skin to his manipulations in a peaceful, submissive manner she allows to nothing else in her life.

Sometimes, if she wasn't thinking about it – when her mind is otherwise occupied and she is not consciously aware of how he busies his restless hands with the feel of her fingers in his, with lacing his fingers through hers and unlacing them, with touching them gently to watch the goosebumps rise in unconscious reaction, sometimes...sometimes, she plays back. Sometimes her fingers close around his, her hand capturing his fidgety digits in her fist, pressing their palms together tightly so that he can feel the blood running just under their skin, her pulse beating against his as if it were his pulse, his blood. And sometimes, she opens her hand again, playfully, absentmindedly, her nails trailing lightly over his palm raising goosebumps of her own, opening and closing like one would caress a child or a pet.

He is always surprised by the desire she wakens with just such a casual, absentminded action and he wonders why the poets never spoke about this. Wonders why no one warned him how her very touch would be able to soothe him and arouse him in equal measure or how the very sight of her hands could make him want her so badly, and how simply holding her hand could mean so much.


A/N: See? Random. Told ya so.