All characters were created by Ted Naifeh and are copyright him(and possibly Oni Press). These drabbles were originally posted on my online roleplay journal. Some are also found on DA.

My hands are small and sleek and pale. The veins don't show, nor the tendons. My fingers are neatly tapered, the knuckles fitted into the flesh, not jutting out. My nails are pinkish, long, like kittens' claws. I don't paint them; that's too girly for me.

You keep your nails cut very short, and you always burn the clippings right away. I've watched you do it, and wondered. Do you burn your hair-trimmings, too? What do you do when you shave?

Who is it you're afraid would get them and work magic against you?
There's so much I don't know about your past, but there'll be time to wait and ask later.

The first snow of the season is falling, and I've dragged you out of the study to see. It won't stay; the ground is still too warm, but it's pretty to watch. Walk down to the bridge with me?
Snowflakes land on the crown of your hat and rest there a minute before they start to melt. Before long, you've got a silver-white dusting on top. It matches your hair. You notice me looking and scold me for not wearing my own hat. Get me one for Christmas and I'll wear it next time. You threaten to get me a bowler, like yours. I'm more of a fedora kind of girl, but I'll think about it.

The bridge is slippery, and I have to pretend not to notice how cautious you are with your walking stick. You may be in good health, but you still feel like you can't afford a fall on the ice. And I know your chest still hurts you sometimes, where Templeton hit you. I'm not allowed to worry.

Snow makes the quiet of the woods even quieter. It's as if everything is holding its breath to listen to each flake hitting the stream below. Even the water is quiet, only a faint rippling mumble.
On the east side of the stream there are two trees close together. One is taller, older; its roots are fanned out across the ground, rough with bark and twisting together. The other is only a sapling, growing so close to the old one it might be a seed dropped from it. Some of its roots twine around the older tree's, smaller, smoother and more fragile-looking. I've been staring at them for a long while before I notice you've put your hand in mine to keep us both warmer.

Your hand is large and strong and rough with calluses, lined with veins. The knuckles are knobby and gnarled; you look like something hard, carved rather than something made of soft flesh. My hand almost vanishes within it, but I can see my fingers, woven between yours, like tree roots. There's warmth between our palms.

A snowflake touches us and dissolves into a trickle of water, rolling away onto the bridge. Maybe from there it will drip into the stream below and flow on by us, away to the sea.