He jerks his hands away at first, out of instinct. Out of embarrassment, knowing that Alfred is looking at his nails. Those terrible claws of his. His hands can bring pleasure, yes, but also so much pain. And they aren't neatly kept. Not like Herbert's are. He doesn't file them, has never bothered trying to paint them or cover up what they truly are.

Weapons, meant for hunting prey.

But, slowly, he offers his hands to Alfred again. His voice quiet, barely above a whisper. "I would let you."