Hello! :) This is my first kind of exploration of a scene from canon...so I have no idea what you're gonna think of it :P Set on 1st May, 2009. Reviews always welcome! x
We're working in silence, having been left to get on with our tasks by my mother only minutes ago, but it feels like much longer. I'd made it to the Unit before dad with little time to spare, mum having dragged me from the cafe by my arm the whole way. A pair of marigolds were thrust into my hands and I was shown the sink, dirty pots already waiting from earlier. A stony glare of acknowledgement from my father as he arrived straight from his delivery round was all I had received, as my mum left us alone to deal with a customer in the office. I'm grateful for the chances I've already been given since getting back into contact with the family, of course I am, but this silence...it's deafening. It screams hostility; disapproval.
I look across the kitchen now; he has his back to me, his shoulders tense and knife in hand, focusing on chopping the food in front of him rather loudly. I suspect he's trying to make himself look busy so I won't feel the need to attempt conversation. But the tension is quickly becoming unbearable. I decide to try and break the silence.
"Look, I know you didn't want me working here..." I start tentatively.
"Yeah, but your mother did, and she's the boss."
A response of any kind is a start, I suppose. I try again.
"You never know...might be useful..." I joke, a weak attempt at lightening the mood, but I am quickly rebuffed.
"Just stick to washing up and everything will be fine." I realise his tone of voice isn't as irritated or annoyed as I had expected. Instead, it sounds condescending, patronising; as though I were a naughty five year old not worth his attention. I think I would have preferred the reaction I had been expecting. The one he is currently using just makes me want to keep trying, even though I know it's futile.
"So this is how it's going to be, is it?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
I don't know what to say to that, so the stilted conversation dies. I stare at the back of my dad's head – rubber gloved hands not having touched a dish as yet – vainly willing him to turn back around, to say something else. The mood is now worse than it was before I opened my mouth...typical. I want to show dad that I can be useful, that me working here could be a good thing; not a mistake. I did make a mistake, a huge mistake, all those years ago. But I've paid the price for it, I've learned from it. Hearing the hostility in my dad's voice, still, makes my stomach drop with the realisation that we might never make progress.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone entering the kitchen, carrying something in both hands. Anything to break the silence and cold atmosphere, I jump at the chance to talk to someone who hopefully won't give me the silent treatment.
"Here, let me," I offer, quickly rushing forward to grab the object - I wince inwardly, realising it was only a light box of herbs - and focus my attention on it briefly, setting it down on the nearby counter.
"Thanks."
I glance up into a pair of sea-green eyes, and I'm instantly frozen on the spot. They're staring right at me, possibly seeing things I don't want them to see. Shit. I break the contact immediately; a decidedly wise move, but it just means my eyes end up flitting over his entire face...skimming over his chest, his arms...
Stop it Syed, I tell myself furiously.
Without thinking, I find myself starting to pull off the rubber glove on my right hand as I introduce myself, bracing myself to look back up with a smile.
"I'm Syed."
"Christian."
Ah, Jane's brother. She had mentioned him. He's part of the business. I want to leave a good impression, I do...
"Muslim," I reply cheerily, instantly regretting it upon seeing his sceptical face. But I think I detect a hint of a smile. Did that amuse him? Or did I just make a complete idiot of myself?
"Nice to meet you," I swiftly move on, pulling off the rest of the glove and extending my hand for a simple handshake. That's what business partners do, right? Okay, I'm only on washing up duties for now, but a handshake seems appropriate.
When his hand touches mine, I begin to think that I maybe should have left the glove on.
I feel a spark – no, not a spark, a jolt – of something I can't quite put my finger on, tingle right up my arm at the feel of his skin against mine, warm and encompassing. We perform the shake, my hand pushing down with more force than strictly necessary, but that doesn't seem to get rid of it. Instead, the jolt makes its way into my stomach, causing it to lurch forward and nearly flip over with – what? Lust? No, definitely not. I've suppressed that, I've got over that. I have.
I look down at our hands as they stay together for a second longer, with a silent intake of breath. When our connection is broken, I still feel the effects. It's a strange sensation, like faint pins and needles in my fingertips. I can still feel his touch. Why?
I'm still staring at his hand as it moves back to his side. He's going to notice, I've made it really obvious now...
"Manly shake you got there," I decide to comment lightheartedly, turning away to set the glove on the sink; and recover from...a handshake. Pathetic, Syed.
I then look back at him earnestly, confident that he hasn't noticed anything unusual about my manner; and if I'm being completely honest, also casually looking for a sign that he felt something too...
He's turned towards the counter, and freezes at my remark. I realise I've just put my foot in it...again.
"And why wouldn't it be?" he challenges, turning to look at me with a challenging glare. No, I don't want him to look at me like that...
"No reason..." I backtrack, trying to brush it off, and wishing I hadn't said it. I don't do confrontations well. Please, just let it drop, I silently plead.
"What, gay man, limp wrist? That it?"
Oh god.
"No, that's not what I..."
But he's already leaving, box of herbs in one hand. One hand. I suddenly remember my idiotic offer to help him with it, and now I've offended him. Sod's Law, isn't it? I wanted to make a good impression – because we're going to be working together, obviously – and I couldn't really have left a worse impression if I'd tried.
I storm out of the Unit, frustrated. What is the point? I make to walk into the office, to be alone, before remembering who's in there. I stop to lean against the doorframe, observing the exchange between my mother and the customer – a schoolboy – while inwardly I calm myself down. I focus my thoughts on bland samosas and dipping sauce - inconspicuously wiping my hand on my apron - and try my hardest to forget about what just happened.
