There are times when she watches him do something, and she finds herself in sheer awe of him— his capability, his patience, the confidence he exudes without putting on airs, but simply because its a confidence that he possesses in his ability to do anything he puts his mind to. He doesn't second-guess himself, he just figures it out. It's like watching a tinker, or an inventor, or an engineer. He creates— inherently; an artist in all facets of life.
At the beginning, in those first weeks off of the ship, in comparison to him, she had felt like a simpleton when trying to complete the most mundane tasks. She had been frustrated at times, and mortified at others at her complete lack of everyday skill and common knowledge. That he had needed to show her the proper way to wash a garment or cook an egg had been embarrassing, but he never saw it that way. He had been patient about it, and kind, and swore up and down that it didn't make him think less of her but that he found it endearing, and in a way throwing herself into learning these simple things had helped her to get past the grief of their whole ordeal. It had helped both of them.
She had asked him once if he was upset with her for not knowing these things, and he had simply asked her how he could be upset when she was raised to not even know what she didn't know. He had made her see that her upbringing and anything she hadn't been taught was no fault of her own. He showed her, through the gentle way he'd guide her through cooking a meal, or through his raucous laughter the time she had hammered her first nail and let out a girlish scream, that he was enjoying this processes just as much. It made her feel loved, and it made him feel needed, and she supposes that thats a balance they had both been missing in their lives before.
He had never made her feel inferior. He had shown her that she can do any "man's" task for herself just as well as he can do a "woman's." Now she feels much more confident in her own skill and knowledge, but that hasn't taken away any of the awe she feels towards Jack, and it doesn't matter what he might be doing. She also thinks that its his hands, every time, that catch her attention first. As she watches him now from across the room, it had been his hands. The way that he's so deliberate in all that he does. Right now she can't even see his face, as he's on his back, head stuck under their kitchen sink to see what he's doing as he works to stop a slow leak, but she can see him reach for the tools he needs at his side, hands not even having to search for the right one as he knows exactly what he needs, and something about the movement of the muscles in his arms as he works to tighten bolts from the angle that she's sitting is affecting her in ways that she's not even surprised about any longer.
At this point she has seen what his hands can do in all situations, and while she's no longer surprised she's no less fascinated. They can fix a broken cupboard door, or they can knead bread. They can lift the book from the high shelf for her, or braid her hair back from her face, or punch the drunk man in the bar who had tried to touch her inappropriately. They can draw and create the most beautiful works of art she can imagine, and they can dry her tears— soothe her hurts. They provide her with comfort, rubbing circles across her back when she can't sleep, and they provide her with the most glorious passion when she doesn't want to sleep, drawing from her the ecstasy she hadn't known was possible until him— until he had first put his hands on her that fated night.
No, there's nothing, in her mind, that Jack can't do. He can build her world and pull down the stars, and for right now she'll just sit here with her coffee and go on watching him do it.