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Dave’s quiet appreciation for hands usually goes unnoticed. It’s not something that would typically come up in conversation. It’s not something he’d even admit to when cornered. But his eyes catch on fingers when they flick mid-sentence, the way a thumb presses to a lower lip or nails drum against a table to express irritation. His shades hide most of it.
But a glance to him when fingers are sinking slowly between the pages of a book, accentuating every scarred knuckle, painted nails catching the light. He swallows hard, his lips press together, he tucks his own hands into his pockets to feign nonchalance.
Her fingers are long. They rake through her wild mane of hair perfectly, tinged blue and tipped with gold. She taps her teeth with her talons, pushes her thumb against her chin when she thinks, nicks holes in his T-shirt when she jabs his chest for emphasis.
Vriska Serket speaks with her hands and he’s helplessly smitten.
She knows somehow, that he’s watching her gesture. Her big motions are the same as ever, but the smirk she tosses over her shoulder seconds after throwing her hair back says it all.
“Hey, coolkid. Get a load of Karkat’s latest romcom binge!”
He should say no, make his excuses, pretend Rose is calling him. Vriska curls her forefinger to beckon him and Dave helplessly obeys.