Life is about becoming more than we are. -Oprah Winfrey

Thin.

Pale.

Fragile.

It's really the only way to describe them, his hands, in all their bony glory. The alabaster skin was split by scars, some the faded color of moonlight—others still raw and pink. There's the one from the potato peeling incident, another from slamming the Jeep's hood. Those were memories, comfortable, safe—memories. But there were others too, long and jagged like something had reached out from his nightmares and tried with all of its unholy might to drag him to hell. The thought, honestly, wasn't too farfetched.

The world in which he lived was no longer his own, it would never be his own again. His hands soaked in the blood of demons, tangled in the fur of beasts. He'd chained down monsters, fought off death…and still they shook— an ever present tremble that refused to leave him. He had never asked for the panic, had never welcomed fear. But it was no longer his choice; very few things were, as nowadays there was a larger picture.

His hands— shaking, scarred, and all too agonizingly human were tasked with the challenge of holding together something incredible.

A pack.

A family.

He was supposed to protect them, nurture them in a way that their sour wolf alpha would never be capable of. It was just too damn bad that most of the world didn't –couldn't –know about all that he was responsible for. If they did there was the slightest chance they'd be gentler, kinder, maybe even a little bit grateful.

But it was only a 'what if,' one of many. Such as 'what if' he'd seen the hulking mass of 250lb super-senior barreling down upon him, lacrosse stick raised high. He might have dodged, might have scrambled away, might have realized he could have passed the damn ball.

But he didn't. He got hit, hit hard.

An odd blend of grass and copper filled his mouth, various bones threatening to give way under the crushing weight atop him. Whistles are blown and flags thrown, parents screaming out in indignation on both sides— hardly any of it registered.

Gloved hands, much steadier than his own, were working to undo his helmet. Two fingers pressed to his throat, searching out the erratic thrum of his pulse. Breaths are hard to come by, sucked in as violent gasps that almost guarantee damage to his ribs. And behind his eyes, screwed shut in pain, a whole galaxy dances.

Scraped.

Bloodied.

Bruised to the bone.

His hands hold steady, the grip he had on the lacrosse stick having not wavered. Inside the net, nestled safe and undisturbed, sat the ball.

It's quiet, still, the moment just waiting to be broken. Outside a haggard group of mismatched teenagers ached to hear the voice they all too often silenced, two stories below was a sheriff who wasn't at all surprised by where he had to spend his Friday night, and at the bedside of a concussed human were a pair of hands impatiently tapping down the seconds.

There's a steady cadence between the harsh tap of calloused finger tips, the soft drip of an IV, and the nerve grating beep of a heart monitor. It plays in time to the frantic pace of his thoughts, the darting movement of his eyes. All he can do is watch.

Watch and wait.

It's nothing more than a concussion, a couple bruises, and a single cracked rib. The prognosis is positively outstanding. Doctors come and go, they promise a full recovery, a return to the field in as early as three weeks. But it isn't the three weeks he's concerned about, that isn't what his claw endowed hands are ticking away seconds for.

It's been hours, thin tally marks carved into the arm of the chair standing as proof. None of them had seen those whiskey colored eyes crack open, not once since that sack of meat had slammed him into the ground. To see life in those hazel depths is all that he ached for.

Through the tangle of wires his large hand reached. When clasped together they couldn't be any more different. Where one was slender the other was thick, calloused and rough against scarred and supple. It certainly wasn't the puzzle piece fit everyone had imagined, but for the moment it was good enough.

Soothingly the pad of his thumb circled the skinned palm of his partner, one nail engraving the mark of the alpha into the boy's already battered skin. What was one scar on a canvas of them, one scratch on already the deepest of wounds. It was an almost pointless gesture, one born of sheer possessive instinct. But it warranted the largest reaction—a butterfly wing setting off a tsunami, or something of the sort.

Because when their gazes finally met for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the entire world shifted. He could breathe easier, the soft squeeze of annoyance from the hand he was holding cemented the prospect of survival. They could no longer exist without one another. There had to be a day to the night, a sweet to the sour. And with that lopsided smile aimed at him, he understood why his rough edges fit so perfectly against the smooth skin.

They had carved each other out, molded their life around one another and the balance they needed to keep all that they loved safe.

Wolf and human, pack and family.

Fragile.

Bloodied.

Whole.

AN: This was a gift for a friend, the prompt being to start a story with only the description of a pair of hands. To further the challenge she told me that I wasn't to use any specific name. The descriptions, actions, and thoughts of the characters had to provide a clear and distinctive image of who they were. This is also my first Teen Wolf fic, so please don't kill me for any OOCness. Hehe much love -Hale