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Martha has beautiful hands.
He imagines she must take exceptionally good care of them. She doesn't obsess over them, and he never sees her file her nails or moisturize them, but they're always rather…perfect. They're slender and soft, no rough spots or cracks. It's a silly thing, he supposes, thinking about her hands. But they're lovely, and part of her. A singular part he imagines is a bit of self-indulgence for her.
Her nails are clear and long---probably a little longer than is regulation for her job. They're not ridiculous and they're never painted or gaudy. When she slips on latex gloves to do an examination in 1973, her nails fill out the end of the fingers. They don't get in the way, but it's probably a complaining-point for her professors that she hasn't gotten around to listening to just yet. A symbol of her femininity in a profession that doesn't lead to women taking charge.
Her fingers are skilled and graceful. He steps into an empty ballroom in 1877, and he finds her sitting at the piano bench, playing. Her hands delicately touch each key, playing notes deftly and accurately, with long fingers reaching each ivory and black bar effortlessly. He steps up behind her and tells her he didn't know she could play.
"When you hang out with guys who know Beethoven, you tend to pick up a few things." She grins at him, and then tells him that her mother had her in lessons for years in her youth.
Her hands fit in his. In 1998, they watch a ceremony for World War One, and she slips her hand into his, palms together. His hands are calloused and work-worn, but hers are delicate and smooth. Her dark skin, his light skin. Her youth, his age. They're very different, but they compliment each other very well.
It feels very intimate, and he takes a moment to memorize the feel of holding her hand.
A year later, and he takes a hold of her hand again to walk her to the TARDIS. Her fingers are calloused from holding guns, her palms are dry from the unnatural cold she's been living in outside, and her nails are bitten short. No time for self-indulgence in a world where she had no choice but to be a hero.
He can't help but grieve for the loss of that part of Martha.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 393
He imagines she must take exceptionally good care of them. She doesn't obsess over them, and he never sees her file her nails or moisturize them, but they're always rather…perfect. They're slender and soft, no rough spots or cracks. It's a silly thing, he supposes, thinking about her hands. But they're lovely, and part of her. A singular part he imagines is a bit of self-indulgence for her.
Her nails are clear and long---probably a little longer than is regulation for her job. They're not ridiculous and they're never painted or gaudy. When she slips on latex gloves to do an examination in 1973, her nails fill out the end of the fingers. They don't get in the way, but it's probably a complaining-point for her professors that she hasn't gotten around to listening to just yet. A symbol of her femininity in a profession that doesn't lead to women taking charge.
Her fingers are skilled and graceful. He steps into an empty ballroom in 1877, and he finds her sitting at the piano bench, playing. Her hands delicately touch each key, playing notes deftly and accurately, with long fingers reaching each ivory and black bar effortlessly. He steps up behind her and tells her he didn't know she could play.
"When you hang out with guys who know Beethoven, you tend to pick up a few things." She grins at him, and then tells him that her mother had her in lessons for years in her youth.
Her hands fit in his. In 1998, they watch a ceremony for World War One, and she slips her hand into his, palms together. His hands are calloused and work-worn, but hers are delicate and smooth. Her dark skin, his light skin. Her youth, his age. They're very different, but they compliment each other very well.
It feels very intimate, and he takes a moment to memorize the feel of holding her hand.
A year later, and he takes a hold of her hand again to walk her to the TARDIS. Her fingers are calloused from holding guns, her palms are dry from the unnatural cold she's been living in outside, and her nails are bitten short. No time for self-indulgence in a world where she had no choice but to be a hero.
He can't help but grieve for the loss of that part of Martha.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 393
