Work Text:
As the cafeteria doors close, Garofano adjusts sloping shawl fabric and unruly sleeves. She walks down the hallways back to her room, mentally reviewing the list of tears and holes waiting to be mended. The colors of thread to sew and types of fabric to patch. A new batch of pins and needles to replace dulling points.
Yet the growing checklist crumbles at the sight of a frayed coat and worn sleeves, frazzled bangs and stray-ends.
Her attention flits to the languid hand grasping a tiny paper cup and the bandaged finger tugging on the water cooler’s tap. Downcast eyes, furrowed brow and grimace—all polished off with a distant stare at the plain wall above.
A sigh and longing sip masks her footsteps.
“Chief,” Garofano calls.
What follows is the jolting sound of a paper cup crumpling and creasing, and the hasty relaxing of tense shoulders. “Garofano,” Chief says wearily, tossing the empty cup away. A bead of water clings onto the finger.
“Is something the matter?”
Chief hums. The disheartened look has faded, falling alongside the disposed cup and replaced by a more neutral expression.
Hiding, Garofano thinks. Her fingernails scrape against the shawl.
“It’s not a big deal,” Chief begins, her cadence dampened by hesitation and, perhaps, a slight embarrassment, “but the new sweatpants I ordered don’t have pockets.” She pauses. “It sounds silly when I say it out loud like that.”
“It’s not.”
A chuckle. “Kind of you to say. Just a shame, seeing how comfortable they are.”
“You know, you can always ask for my help. Especially for tailoring.”
Chief shakes her head. “I don’t want to impose on you. And we still haven’t gotten a replacement for your sewing machine.”
“Chief,” Garofano says, “I don’t need a machine for this.” She beckons. “Come, bring the sweatpants to me.”
“I’ll take up your offer then. But”—Chief flashes an apologetic smile—“is later in the evening fine? Work and meetings.”
“Take all the time you need.”
“See you later, Garofano.”
As Chief nods, a stray hair catches on her lashes; its hold is quickly swept away by a hurried exit. Garofano lingers by the water cooler, watching the dangling grey threads twist and turn, carried by momentum, until they too vanish around the corner. Fingertips brush lightly against the shawl.
The night inches along. It turns closer to midnight than to sunset, but it’s of no surprise. Meetings run late, and the paperwork even later. So when Chief comes by with black sweatpants hastily jammed into the nook of her elbow, Garofano readily pushes her door wide, corrals Chief in, and lifts the bundle of clothing away. She sets it onto the table, freshly cleared, and slides her palms down its cotton length to flatten the fabric.
Chief holds out her terminal. “Could you make the pockets large enough to fit this?”
“Of course,” Garofano says, glancing at it once. “You can put it back, Chief.”
“Already?”
“Yes. Trust me.” That single glimpse is all she needs; there’s no need to take it. The way that those hands fit around the phone, it’s easy enough to estimate—clear enough to visualize— and she knows all the other measurements by heart. A hand is nothing new.
Chief sheepishly returns the terminal to her coat pocket. She stands in the space awkwardly, hovering between the table and brimming dresser. A collapsible metal chair loiters to Chief’s right, brought in hours earlier.
“Sit, Chief,” Garofano says, bringing out a clean mug and a thermos of hot chocolate. It’s still hot, steaming easily. “You can use a blanket to cover the seat, if you wish.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You never are.” Fresh marshmallows decorate the drink’s top as she offers the mug to Chief. “Here. Careful, it’s hot. Gently now.”
Chief gingerly cradles the mug with both hands, one on the handle while the other settles around the bottom half. Despite the heat, the hand seems content to stay. The sight alone spurs forth a thought.
What have those hands seen, Garofano wonders, to be so numb?
But she keeps the question to herself, instead pressing insistent palms on flagging shoulders—out and down into the empty seat. No protest comes this time.
“Now, wait right there, okay?”
A hum comes from Chief, followed by a lengthy blow across the drink’s surface. Rippling waves break upon marshmallow barriers and rising wafts of steam skitter outward.
Garofano riffles through her stock of darker colored fabrics: the topmost pieces are too tinged in the green of Christmas vibrancy and passed over easily; the next several are of an autumn medley mix, patterned in nosy foxes and yellow ginkgo leaves; this one, though, is of a plain black well-suited for the task. Nimble fingers pluck out four rectangular pieces at least a hand in width and a hand and half in length. Then she stacks them evenly in two pairs. It’s with a practiced motion and finesse that she takes her fabric shears and cuts. The shears curve around the bottom and onto an entire side whilst leaving the two remaining sides straight-edged.
A quiet sip tacks itself onto the clacking close of the shears.
“How is it?” Garofano asks. Pin after pin is pushed through the fabric, swiftly and loosely joining them in their pairs. She lines the fabric up with the sweatpants’ side seams and marks the appropriate lengths.
“Delicious. Not too sweet, either.” Another sip. “Tastes like it was just made.”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Perfect timing.” Chief chuckles, amusement clear in her giddiness. “I don’t know how you do it, Garofano.”
“A trade secret, dear,” she says to the sound of a third sip.
It wasn’t.
At least, not to the rest of the Bureau.
The comings-and-goings of Chief proved easy to obtain. It was intel readily passed around, particularly near curfew hours or the tail-ends of recreational activities, and rare was the refusal for an inviting cup of hot chocolate. But she would never reveal that.
Garofano picks up the spool of dark blue thread sitting nearby and pinches the dangling top thread, freeing it from a holding notch set in the white plastic rim. She unravels a sizeable length, threads one end through the needle, and ties it off. Then, with a swift nip, she cuts off the other end and secures it with a double knot. The needle hovers over one of the two fabric pairs.
A backstitch, Garofano decides, and inserts the needle from the would-be-pocket’s inside, a finger’s width from the edge.
She pulls the thread through, giving the needle a slight spin as her arm extends out. The fewer tangled knots, the better. The needle returns and pierces the fabric half a fingernail’s distance away from the initial stitch. Again, she pulls, the entire thread neatly sliding through, and pokes the needle halfway between the first and second holes, and sets the third point half a stitch’s length from the second.
One backstitch of many. It’s a tedious stitch, but it’s one of the sturdiest stitches when sewing by hand. After all, it wouldn’t do for Chief’s pockets to tear. No—only the utmost care for her garments.
And so her hands work in tandem, pushing and pulling, focus honed in.
The first pair’s stitching is three-quarters done when the absence of sound strikes her. A lacking clack of porcelain against hollow wood. “Chief,” Garofano chides, “the hot chocolate will go cold.”
No answer.
Her gaze shifts from the line of tiny, tight stitches to her side, to the rise and fall of a slouched chest swathed by a fleece throw blanket and the peaceful expression on Chief’s face, and hers equally softens.
Rest well, Garofano muses, and she resumes her stitching.
She’s just about finished. The sweatpants’ seams have been opened up and the four individual pieces of fabric have now properly become two pockets.
Lining up the pocket’s open side with the seam’s edges, Garofano pins both sides together. These, too, she joins with backstitches. For the pocket’s top edge—flat and straight, as intended—she attaches it to the waist’s seam. Extra support.
Her thumb runs along the edges, double-checking for gaps, and tugs at the pocket. Satisfaction courses through. The pockets would be able to fit and withstand more than just a terminal.
The creaking of metal, a slight scrape across the floor, steals her attention. Chief stirs, eyes alternating between blinking and squinting, and tiredly glances around the room.
“Chief,” Garofano calls gently.
The blanket remains draped around Chief’s shoulders. “Garofano.” Her name leaves in a dazed breath. The following breath is a little more composed. “Sorry. How long was I out?”
“Not long. Don’t worry.” There are still leftover threads from the end knots. While trimming them, she says, “Your sweatpants are done.”
“Oh. Already?” Chief shuffles herself upright in the chair.
“Would you like to try them on?”
“What?” Alertness fills Chief’s eyes and voice. “No, I’m fine, thank you though.”
Garofano laughs. “Just teasing you, Chief.” She folds the sweatpants into a tidy bundle and stands up. There’s an underlying stiffness to her shoulders and back, but she pays it no mind.
Chief also rises, though her haste leaves the throw blanket more in a ball than a square. Rushing hands hurry to fix it.
“I’ll take care of it, dear,” Garofano says, setting a stilling hand over them. She exchanges the sweatpants for a balled-up blanket and guides Chief towards the door. “It’s late. You should go sleep in your room.”
Chief halts midway through the door. A solemn air shakes away the weariness. “Garofano.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” she says, a sharp sincerity plain in gaze. “I appreciate your help. Really.”
“Think nothing of it. Just remember I’ll always help you, Chief. Be it clothes or a chat for your curiosity,” Garofano adds.
Chief chuckles. “Of course.”
“Now off you go.”
With a firm push, Garofano sends her away. She watches the figure turn the corner, loose threads glimmering in the overhead light, until the empty hallway is all that remains in her sight, and then she shuts her door. Her fingers caress the knitting of her shawl.
Warm, she thinks.