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Alec loves Magnus’ hands. Sometimes it’s all he wants to do, just sit there, in peace and quiet, and watch Magnus’ hands.
They’re elegant, and clever, and as tender in their caresses as they are deadly in combat. And Alec is intimately familiar with the former, and has felt the latter during sparring matches more than once.
Alec has seen those hands with perfect nail polish, black with a breath of glitter that made his nails look like tiny little holes in the fabric of the universe. Decked in rings of shining silver, with the light reflecting on them. Then he is Magnus Bane, powerful warlock, son of a Prince of Hell.
Alec has seen those hands bare and clean, no polish, no rings, just skin. Those moments of softness are the ones he treasures most, when Magnus is neither the High Warlock nor the Prince of Edom or anything else, when Magnus is just Magnus, and he’s not the Inquisitor but just Alec, and they take a moment somewhere, carved out of their busy lives. Then he takes Magnus’ hands, gently pulls off the rings, all but one, the one that Magnus never takes off.
Sometimes he remembers the time when those hands had been bare not by Magnus’ choice. When all strength he had left went into keeping himself upright, keeping himself just barely alive. Alec had offered a few times to do his nails, but Magnus had replied that it wouldn’t be the same. He had realised that Magnus wasn’t comfortable and hadn’t offered again.
For a time then, Alec had believed that the memory of Magnus’ touch on him, the ghost of the feeling of Magnus’ fingers on his cheek during their last kiss, or what he had believed back then was their last, would be the only thing that remains.
Memories of his hands, memories of shiny rings, memories of gentle touches, memories of fingers digging into his skin, making his heart beat even faster.
He had clung to those memories. But now he no longer needs to.
Magnus pours tea, slowly measured, the china older than Alec’s entire family tree. And Alec watches his hands, how they hold the pot and how they hold the lid in place, how they put the pot down again so gently, as if the ancient teapot is a friend to take care of.
Magnus offers Alec one of the delicate cups, and Alec inhales the fragrant steam, but then he puts the cup down. He slowly and gently pries the cup from Magnus’ fingers.
Magnus tilts his head and lets him, only emitting a soft, slightly questioning hum.
Alec takes one of Magnus’ hands and pulls off the rings, all but one, the one that Magnus never takes off. Then he kisses Magnus’ knuckles, and the tips of his fingers, and the back of his hand. Kisses every finger again, and caresses the lines on Magnus’ palm with a finger.
He wonders if it’s really true, that your life and your future are written in those lines on your palms. And he wonders if he is there too, in one curve or another, if there is one part of Magnus’ palm that says: you will find someone who will love you with heart and soul, always and forever.
Alec closes his eyes and places a soft kiss into Magnus’ palm. Magnus’ hand cradles the side of his face. A gentle touch, the thumb caressing his cheekbone, a feather-light brush of skin on skin.
And it doesn’t matter, really, if Alec or his love is written in Magnus’ palm, or not. Because Alec is here, and he will never leave Magnus’ side again.