Chioniphobia

Hands

The first thing he pictures when he thinks of Grim is her grin, wide and thin and pointed. The third thing that comes to mind is her hair, constantly spilling and shifting, sometimes floating wisplike in the air, sometimes flowing like wine pouring into a dark glass.

The second thing he always sees is her hands.

He'd sought her out, after that bloodstained debacle of a party. She wasn't in her gown from earlier, but she had still been dressed all in red- a suit, this time, with ruby-colored buttons on the jacket and vest. Even her shoes had been a brilliant scarlet, the shade only slightly muddied by the crust of blood and dirt lining her soles.

She'd been standing in the middle of some makeshift graveyard, crowded with mounds of dirt topped with large, rough stones. In her hands, she'd been twisting a green stem, its small white flower heads tapping against her pale fingers. He'd spotted a red stain on her wrist.

"I thought you didn't bleed," he'd said.

"I don't," she'd replied. "These are raspberries."

She'd opened her palm to reveal the crushed remains of said berries, juice seeping into her skin. The stem fell to the ground, and she'd covered it with her heel as she took a step forward.

"It might surprise you to know that I can feel regret," Grim had remarked, as casually as if they'd been discussing the weather.

Her eyes had been too bright, too intense. Instead he'd focused on her hands, long and nervous and thin, fiddling with the hem of her crimson vest.

"I'm sorry," he'd muttered.

She'd scoffed. He can still picture the lines of her mouth, pressed tight and terse as her words. "Don't pity me, dear. I know the consequences of my own actions."

The Reaper wiped her hands on her jacket, leaving twin dark streaks running down her front. His gaze was drawn to the graceful flick of her wrists as she dismissed his next attempt to speak. "Don't say it was your fault too. It was, but that hardly diminishes my own role, does it? Anyway, I get the impression neither of us are particularly sorry about those deaths last night."

He frowned. "What's there for you to regret, then?"

She'd laughed then, the sound as hollow as her eyes. "Staying after the party was over. Humans say there are fates worse than me, and I suspect a three-bottle hangover is one of them."

There was another expression in her eyes, something that pierced into him. Something that said, We both know I'm lying. Something that begged, Let me lie a little longer.

He whistled. "Three full bottles?"

"And a few not-full ones. It's not as if the other guests were going to finish their drinks, so I finished for them."

"Sounds like a cause for regret to me."

Her next laugh had been weak, but genuine. He'd smiled, focusing on the expansive gesturing of her hands and not on the broken look lurking behind her eyes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Gloves or no gloves?"

Bunny had rolled his eyes and sighed. "Does it make a bloody difference?"

Grim had turned to the mirror, straightening her dress indecisively. "I want to look my best. Besides, we've hardly gotten to spend time together since you've become a Guardian- it won't kill you to be in my presence a few more minutes, will it?"

"We're going to miss the movie if you don't hurry it up, Grimace. Pick and get a move on."

She'd pulled off her gloves. "No gloves, then. I don't want to accidentally claw you if I need to hold your hand, after all."