Simplicity
He watches her as she works, stands behind her and peers over her shoulder at the complex labyrinths of circuits and bolts and unidentifiable pieces of metal; at her hands, short-nailed but long-fingered, assembling the tangled confusion into a recognisable shape and a moving, life-changing object. He examines the back of her head from where he stands; watches the light catching on the highlights of her hair, glittering down the length of her ponytail; sees the tiny soft hairs at the base of her neck. But then she turns to look around the workshop for something, and yelps as she finds herself suddenly nose to nose with him.
She asks him, sweetly, if he would kindly clear off and stop breathing down her neck. He looks hurt, and she relents, telling him that he can stay, but that it creeps her out to have him looming over her like that. He perches on the end of the table instead, where he can see her face, her expression intense, loose loops of hair escaping from under her bandanna as she works.
She holds her hand out, along with a request to pass her the spanner, please.
He looks around blankly, then finds it on the bench beside him and holds it out. She takes it without looking up, and only sees it when she brings it into her line of vision.
This isn't the one she wants.
It isn't? He blinks at her.
She sighs, scraping her chair back and standing. No, she needs a 2 ½ . . .
She begins to turn, but he leaps up to stop her. It's okay! He'll get it! But he isn't careful, and he knocks over a box of tools standing on the bench.
Cursing, she bends and begins to pick them up. He wants to help her, but is too afraid to, in case he destroys something else. He apologises profusely.
She tells him wearily that it's fine, sitting back on her haunches. But maybe the table isn't a great place for him to sit either, she says.
He creeps shamefully away and sits meekly on a stool in the corner, raising his eyes and silently asking for her approval. She stands, dragging her wrist across her forehead and holding the toolbox under her arm. Just why, she demands, does he want to watch her working so badly, anyway?
He looks up at her, eyes entirely free from embarrassment. Because he loves her.
The simplicity of his statement is enough to change her mind. Maybe it isn't so bad having him in the workshop after all.
Author's notes: Yay for name-less, quotation-less prose!!!
I'm not sure if I said this before, but these drabbles aren't meant to be in any sort of order. Just in order of conception. Also- and I definitely didn't say this before- any sort of review is great, but they are made even greater if they contain comments specific to certain drabbles. Just so I can see what people like and what they don't :D