Morning
[drabble challenge for Moonsheen]
When he sees them from a distance, he always makes the mistake of thinking her hands are delicate. They are slender and white, and move with quick confidence as she works. It's when he catches them in his own, presses their palms together and smiles at her until she laughs and lets their fingers tangle, that he remembers they are far from anything breakable.
Her fingers are long and tapered, but their tips are roughened with calluses, and if he lifts them to his face, he can see the faint traceries of white scars. These are the hallmarks of her trade, badges of merit that mean more than any markings of the army.
"We got another letter from Ed," she says, and his eyes go to her hands, and the paper she taps against her cheek. Their eyes meet, and her expression warms into a smile. "Want me to read it?"
"Please," he says, and puts aside the orange he is peeling to listen. It should be strange, to hear his brother's words in her voice, but he finds he likes it. Hearing is one of the senses he never lost, but even that is different now; if he tries, he can imagine his brother speaking in synch with her.
The letter is brief and to the point, more a list than anything else. At the very end, his brother says he'll be home within the week, and that makes him smile. She puts the letter down and picks up his orange, takes up where he left off. He watches her, then reaches out to wrap his fingers around her slender wrist.
When she looks at him, quizzical, the first thing he can think of to say is, "I'm glad you're here."
Surprise chases across her face, but only for a moment. She turns her wrist in his hold, then slides her arm back until she can lace their fingers together. The pressure and warmth of her hand is still so very strange and wonderful to him. For years he had wondered at the smell of her hair, and how differently she would feel in his arms compared to his brother; now he just needs to reach out, and there she is.
"I'm glad you're here," she returns, looking down at their hands. "And I'm glad that you're here." She squeezes, gently, and lifts their hands up, so she can clasp them to her heart.
In spite of himself, he blushes. She laughs, then bends to kiss his cheek before letting go and stepping away.
"I have an appointment at one," she says, "but after that, I'll be free. We only have a week before Ed comes home. We should make the best of it." And now a wicked glint enters her eyes, and his blush only deepens; he frantically gropes for the half-peeled orange. Again she laughs at him, her graceful strong hands brushing lightly against his face before she turns and is gone.
He waits till her footsteps are gone, and then puts his hand on his face, over where her touch still seems to linger. Those are the hands he loves--they are not delicate by any means, never be suited to ladylike tasks, delicate from afar but simply elegant up close--and that touch still lingers.
When he begins peeling the orange again, he can't keep the smile from his face. And he can't wait to see his brother again, especially after nearly a month, but he thinks--one week. One week.
He sweeps the peels into one palm, drops them into the trash, and then wanders down the hallway, towards where her office and garrage has been set up.
One week left. She's right--they'd better make the best of it.
--end--