Chapter Text
“Sunscreen, Jamison.”
Before his mouth has closed, Jamie's has already opened, streaming a series of complaints and what might have been insults; with the slang Jamie used, Tekhartha was never certain. Shrugging them off, Tekhartha stepped into the doorway to block Jamison's way, a half-used tube of sunscreen proffered out to him.
“Ya do know I lived in the outback before this shitehole, mate? Sun beatin' down, all day, ev'ry day? Texas ain't got anythin' on Sydney.” His face scrunches up, trying to wave it away. Tekhartha doesn't bat an eye.
“You told me that last week, Jamison, and it actually got me curious. It turns out, we're actually closer to the equator than Sydney is.”
Jamison levels an uncomprehending look at him, as though daring him to explain further. Lucky for him, Tekhartha is more than happy to do so.
“It means even more direct sunlight, which is already hazardous in small doses. With the hours we will be pulling today, the sun will be attempting some major damage. Sunscreen, Jamison, or you'll bake like an apple pie.”
He's amused, rather than annoyed, when the younger man snatches the tube from him, haphazardly applying it across his face. Petulant and bratty as a child, Tekhartha thinks, shaking his head. He had already learned that talking sense into him wasn’t much of an option, all you could do was wear him down – and with Tekhartha's infinite patience, that was easily done.
“There. Ya happy? I'm greasy as a chiko roll an' ready ta sweat it all off in twenty minutes. Now can I get ta work, Tek?” Having tossed the sunscreen onto the nearby table, Jamison stands with arms outstretched, small eyes squinted against the sun, smears of white sunscreen still clinging to cheekbones and fingertips. At least he's remembered his boots today, Tekhartha thinks idly, then corrects himself: boot. Jamison had hemmed and hawed at the notion of putting workboots onto his prosthetic foot, and after witnessing the ordeal, Tekhartha had agreed that it wasn't worth the hassle. The remaining good foot, though, was obligingly covered in thick leather and rubber, laces tucked into his sock, rather than tied.
With Jamie, Tekhartha took what he could get.
“I'm delighted, actually, Jamison. Today is lovely, as are you.”
Behind his back, Jamie pulls a face, hobbling after him as Tekhartha makes his way out the door and toward the flower gardens. Making his way through the uneven dirt was tricky, but he'd figured out the rhythm, made mental notes of each dip and hole in the terrain. Good arm stretched out, he let his fingers dance over the line of geraniums, touching each leaf and flower in his way.
“Where we workin' today, boss? I'm not too sure me back can take another day of weed pullin'.”
Looking over his shoulder to him, Tekhartha considers their options, running through the daily checklist in his head. Flowers need mulching, the potato patch needs another round of pesticides, and it's about time to check in on the bees... to say nothing of the usual tasks. No rest for the weary. A smile curves his lips, and he reaches to the mala beads around his throat, touching three in quick succession. The path he'd been weaving through the rows of flowers curves to the right, and Jamie, more interested in the flowers than Tekhartha, yelps as he half-collides with his employer, hand grabbing at his shoulder to steady himself. Tekhartha goes still, an arm around Jamison's waist lending him just enough balance to stay on his feet.
“Sorry, mate. Ya know how my head is,” Jamie gives by way of half-hearted apology, grinning down at the shorter man.
“No apologies, Jamison. No harm done, hmm? To answer your question, though, I thought we'd handle the bee boxes today. We'll give your back as much of a break as we can. Does that sit easy with you?” Tekhartha gestures past a row of budding marigolds and dahlias to a stout, brightly painted wooden box. Even at this distance, there's the telltale low thrum of a swarm, a fuzz in the air caused by dozens of bees flitting to and fro. Jamison squints at it for a moment before a honey-bee buzzes past his face, catching all of his attention. The little thing seems so fragile, he thinks, eyes following its looping path through the air. It lights on a flower near his knee, clambering over delicate petals to reach the pistil; noticing Jamie's preoccupation, Tekhartha steps closer, slowly crouching down to examine it.
It is easy for Tekhartha to lose himself in that microcosm, carefully controlling his breath so as not to disturb the bee, eyes catching every infinitesimal detail of its creation. He swears that his heart, and time itself, slows so that he might longer indulge in it.
This is peace.
“Bees? Aye. I could deal with 'em. How many we talkin', Tek?” The moment fades as the Aussie's voice rings through the air, managing to instantly wrench them both fully back to the present. Even Jamie looks a little startled at the interruption, seeming to frown at his own voice. They blink, grounding themselves, as Tekhartha hoists himself to his feet once more, brushing idly at the dirt spotting his linen trousers.
“I've eight boxes, and I'd like to check them all. It shouldn't take long, I think,” he responds airily, resuming his way to the nearest box. “Would you like a suit? I've got one in the barn, if you'd like.”
“A... suit?” Jamie asks, chewing on the word as though it were utterly foreign to him.
“A bee suit.”
“Oh! Bee suit. Nah. A little bee sting never hurt anybody,” he announces proudly, wedging his prosthetic foot in the dirt a few feet away from the box, letting him lean his weight onto it and give his other leg a break. Tekhartha declines to point out the prevalence of bee allergies, instead chuckling to himself and sliding off the canvas bag on his shoulders. It was an unorthodox thing, perhaps, but Tekhartha had taken to bringing much of his essential equipment with him, rather than going to and from the shed. Efficiency, he'd impressed upon Jamison during his first day, is key. Gloves, sunscreen, water and snacks, shears, and plenty more accompanied him everywhere he went, making Jamie think of him as something like a camp mom: ready for anything.
As he rummages around, searching for the telltale texture of netting and plastic, he talks: “You'll need to be gentle with them. Gentler than you expect, or else they'll get anxious, and you'll find yourself with a dozen stingers in your arm. Mostly, I'll ask you to watch me. Just to learn, you understand.”
“But-”
“It will still be hands on, Jamie. I assure you.” He laughs, glancing up at the man, who looks mostly assuaged. “You watch to learn, then try. This is just a check-up on them, to make sure they're doing well. Making sure their queen is healthy, that they've got new young, honey stored up... that sort of thing.”
Nodding sagely, Jamie pretends he knows what, exactly, that all means.
“Ah! There we are.” He pulls out a pale sheet of plastic, and hands it to Jamie, who turns it cluelessly over in his hands.
“Right. Of course. Just gotta have... this... thing. Ya sure are prepared, Tek.” He flips it over, noting a fine mesh of netting, and a harder plastic dome, before it finally clicks. “A bee hat? I said I didn't want no bee suit, I'm fine as!” He insists, a scowl bringing together his fierce eyebrows. Although ready to argue it, one look at Tekhartha tells him he's not likely to win this fight: hazel colored eyes are narrowed, lip put forth slightly in a way that Jamie has already learned to mean that he's readying some sort of colorful metaphor to strongarm him into following his rules.
Always those bloody rules.
“That we will experience pain is inevitable, Jamison. That we should suffer, is not. You'll wear the bee veil, or the bees will protect themselves in the best way they know how: by hurting you. Here. You wear the veil, and you can be the one to smoke them down.” Next out of his endlessly deep bag comes a peculiar device, almost similar to a teapot. Jamie recognizes this one, if only by merit of many years of cartoons; it's a bee smoker. Rapidly putting two and two together, Jamie hastens to find the hole in the mesh of the veil, plonking it quickly onto his head as a dirty hand reaches eagerly for the smoker.
Tekhartha hadn't forgotten his proclivity towards fire and all things associated. He simply had to hope that, under his instruction, he'd actually listen, or else over-smoke the hive. Not for the first time today, Tekhartha prays for small blessings, fingers touching three more mala beads as he sends his well-wishes up and out into the world.
“Howzit work, eh? Got a lil combustion engine inside? No, no, too small for that, 'm guessin' it's...” He devolves into rapidly mumbling to himself, that ever-keen mind eager to understand its inner workings. If left to his own devices, Tekhartha suspected he'd tear the machine apart, and build it back even better. No amount of engineering school could teach the sort of zest and inner spark Jamison seemed to have for machinery, even if the mechanics who had rejected his resume claimed otherwise.
Silent, Tekhartha reaches over, gently unlatching the top and scooping out a handful of ashes. Jamison’s eyes are intent on him as he crouches down, gathering a scant handful of pine needles, the crisp, heady smell mixing with that of flowers and ashes to excite and overwhelm Jamie’s senses. Tekhartha’s clever fingers pack the pine into the barrel of the smoker, then snap the lid closed, thumb flicking over a small metal tab on its side. Once, twice, three times he pulls the tab, and it occurs to Jamie, finally, that it’s a flint fire-starter. The realization is confirmed a moment later, when the tantalizing scent of fire hits his nostrils. His skin pricks, a shiver running down his spine at the memories it stirs. A smile has bared his teeth before he realizes it, and he dips his head in closer, taking a deep sniff.
“Are you alright, Jamison?” Tekhartha asks carefully, watching him closely but not moving to pull the smoker away from him. In his time hiring recovering addicts, he has learned that one can never quite guess or anticipate a trigger, what small, forgettable experience can uproot someone’s world. Perhaps, despite his proclivities, it’s fire.
“Am I alright?! Oi, who d’ya think I am? ‘S a clever little thing ya got there, this smoker-ma-jig. We settin’ the hives on fire?!”
A tiny sigh of something like relief escapes the farmer, and he shakes his head, gesturing once more to the bee boxes.
“No, that’s an extremely small, controlled flame. It’s just for the smoke, which isn’t even terribly hot.” Always needing to test the waters, Jamison immediately passes his hand through it, then gives a satisfied nod when he has confirmed Tekhartha’s words. “The smoke will put the hive into... a bit of a sleepy stasis, I suppose, is the easiest way to explain it. They won’t pay us much mind, which is just what we want. Here, go ahead, Jamie. Ease it into the cracks, there you are...”
Tekhartha’s soothing words are a near comical contrast to the look of wild excitement on Jamie’s face, and the eagerness with which he sets forth.
“Night night, bees!!”
--//--
“So, ‘bout tha bees...” His fingers tap against the wooden table, gnawing at his lip as he levels an intense stare on Tekhartha. The farmer clasps a glass of sweet tea close to him, relishing in the frosty condensation as a brief respite from the sweltering heat. A sip, and he nods, beckoning Jamie to spit out what has no doubt been festering in his mind all throughout lunch.
“Ya said they like the flower colors, eh? Izzat what attracts the bees to ‘em? Or do the bees just... know?”
“Bees live their lives as we do. As such, it’s a mix of both. They find themselves drawn inexorably towards some things, knowing their need for it, but others they approach simply out of curiosity, rather than desire. I’ve seen the bees swarm brightly colored things before, though, if that answers your question.” He moves to refill Jamison’s tea as he speaks, giving something for Jamie to focus his gaze on. It’s his third glass in ten minutes, but Tekhartha tells him, as he does at every lunchtime, what is mine is yours; drink as much as you like.
“What colors are best for ‘em? Ya got a pen?”
Tekhartha gives him a curious look, a soft laugh escaping him as he stands from the table, making his way across the room. “What is it you’re planning, Jamison? Are you going to make off with one of my hives, hmm?” He teases, calling over his shoulder.
“Steal ‘em? I ain’t gonna do ya dirty like that, Tek! S’just, I liked the bees quite a bit. ‘M thinkin’ about paintin’ me fake arm a color they’d like. Imagine a nice lil swarm of ‘em on there, makin’ friends ‘n such.”
Not for the first time in their short acquaintanceship, Tekhartha marvels at the thoughts barreling through Jamison’s head. The notion pulls an easy, genuine smile from him, and he hands over a pen, sliding back into his chair. “I suppose I can’t stop you, and truthfully, I don’t see a reason to. I think it’s a lovely idea. There’s no guarantee they’ll have any interest in your arm, but perhaps you’re onto something. I think every hive would be different, but my hives have been favoring purple flowers for a long while now. Hmm, although, yellow would be a close contender...”
Jamison pops the pen cap, lifting his right arm to rest on the table. There’s no hesitation or second thoughts when he begins furiously scribbling onto the skin of his bicep, scrawling out messy letters in a haphazard line down to his elbow. The self-satisfied, pleased look on his face is contagious, provoking another melodic laugh from Tekhartha. Jamie flashes a quick grin, chugging down half his glass of tea and smacking his lips.
“Tomorrow, you and them bees are gonna have a big surprise, Tek.”