Wraithbait

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He has long fingers with precise fingertips and neatly trimmed nails. It was always hard to examine them when he spoke; they tended to follow his mind, which was often thinking so fast he couldn't get one thought out before the next one entered, it seemed.

But when they were alone, everything was slow. Precise. No lightning speed thoughts, no save the world urgency, no do or die.

Of course sometimes it was so slow he thought _he'd_ die from anticipation. But then, those hands traced his stomach, awakening all his senses, and at that moment it didn't matter if he did.

Carson wondered what Rodney was thinking when they made love. It was always making love to him. He refused to believe in sex for the sake of sex, although he would admit, he wasn't entirely against the idea. Just had no belief in it. His mum had instilled that him, he supposed. Done the groundwork his father may have done if he'd still been alive.

Those hands began a downward trail and he shivered. Yes, they were making love. Rodney put as much effort into it, as much passion, really, as he did into physics. And Carson knew Rodney loved physics.

Must love him, then, naturally.

Their relationship wasn't definable. How or why they managed to get and stay together would baffle some. Their friendship already puzzled many. But once you pushed a little, a lot, often, you revealed a part of a man few knew existed.

A softness that lived in his hands that no one noticed unless they grabbed hold of them, stilled them, and halted all else around them. Traced the length of the fingers and feel them relax.

Feel them make their way across your body. Caressing, but not the way a woman would, nor the way a man would touch a woman either. Far from it. Firm and soft and long and currently teasing their way below his waistline. Rodney loved to tease. A far cry from the scientific mind that many knew. That often abrupt, blunt mind that shared loud complaints at every little thing. That mind that could take his fingers and forget and release tension in one long stroke.

Carson wondered then if Rodney played the piano. He had such control in his hands that went beyond the steadiness needed for science experiments. Carson himself had that steady hand. No, sometimes, he swore there was a gracefulness, one he could see tickling the ivories, caressing the melody out of the keys.

Those hands were tracing his backside now with the same lightness one used to tame a musical instrument. The same slow preciseness that nearly drew him mad.

"Rodney," he muttered.

"Uh huh?" The words didn't distract Rodney for his task and he traced a fingertip down middle of Carson's bare behind. He shivered again at the sensation.

"Do you play the piano?" The fingers lopped back up.

"Once. I quit." Though he didn't stop, Carson felt the unspoken sadness in Rodney's touch. They were silent for a moment, Carson listened and feeling the movement of Rodney's fingertips as they looped up and down as if they were looking for a sense of purpose. They betrayed his thoughts.

"I wasn't any good, really," Rodney continued. Carson found hard to believe. "I lacked the art of it, I was told once. Stopped after that. No point."

His hand had moved back up towards Carson's back and lingered. Carson reached back grabbed it.

"You are a musician, Rodney. In your own right, you know. It's in your hands." He would love to hear him play. He let the words fall into the empty air. He and Rodney were not ones to be sentimental with words. Rodney wasn't the type. And while Carson wore his heart on his sleeve eight times out of ten, he respected Rodney's way. They respected each other. It worked for them.

Rodney's hand curled around his. The other one looped down and ran up and down his crack, rougher this time, but with a purpose, the same determination to drive Carson to the edge. The same fervor that propelled a pianist through the height of their musical masterpiece.

There were no words, but he knew Rodney appreciated the sentiment.

His hands always did all the real talking.