His hands.

She watched his hands dance over the console, and felt a flutter in her belly.

He had such wonderful but contradictory hands. Young and energetic and innocent, sweet shy fingertips, that could curl into a little boy fist. He waved them when he was excited, or used them to punctuate his explanations, or twiddled them in excitement and joyful anticipation.

Yet they were old hands, large, lean, and strong, long fingered, and big knuckled. The hands of a pianist, or woodcarver, the hands of an inventor, all covered with nicks and burns. Delicate enough to hold a baby chick, strong enough to bend worlds.

River watched her husband argue with his time machine, muttering under his breath, twiddling this control, typing in those coordinates, reaching under to pull out a component, examine it, and reinsert it with the casual knowledge of long practice.

"Sweetie?"

"Hmm?" He looked up, distracted, his eyes a bit glazed, not focused on her. She smiled, as irritating as it could be, she loved his distraction, the way he could so totally focus on something to the exclusion of all else.

She sidled up to him, leaned a hip on the console and tilted her head until she was right in his line of vision. Subtle didn't work with her hubby.

She slid her hand over his, where it was working a control. He stilled. She looked down, so did he. Her smaller hand, soft, gold, and manicured, almost genteel compared to his long fingered, strong veined, pink hand.

She slipped her fingers between his.

He looked up at her.

It was amazing how well they fit.

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