Work Text:
“Wrench!”
“Of course, Madame Sandrone.”
“Screwdriver!”
“On its way.”
“Tea!”
“Handle the cup carefully. It's sixty-five degrees, just as you prefer.”
She hummed, “Sufficient work. As expected of your rank.”
There was pride in your smile as you returned to your desk. Rain continued to patter against the window, a rare sight for Snezhnayan springs. It was best enjoyed with a warm beverage and classic instrumentals. If the conditions were just right, Sandrone became soothed. It was hardly visible – simply a miniscule slackening of her shoulders and a near-silent sigh. After years working with her, though, your ears have become finely attuned to her signals.
A quick press of a button unveiled soft music into her workspace, providing exactly the reaction expected.
With her comfort assured, you could resume your own tasks. Today’s work consisted primarily of filing. Anything visual comes first. Drafts, sketches, plans, final drawings. Then come letters. Intergovernmental, private contractors, artisans, and the odd personal. Trials and tests – ideas, schedules, recordings, results. Research –
“I’m ready for a break. Come.”
What the boss says goes. Those who disobey wind up broken for eternity or turned into spare parts. You know better.
“As you wish, Madame Sandrone.”
She sighed, eyes cast down to the floor before she resumed her cold impartiality.
~
Zapolyarny’s gardens showcased frost-laden leaves, their ice crystals melting under Sandrone’s touch. Getting out of the workshop provided less stress and anxiety with an increase in creativity and stability. This was repeated from your supportive lips time and time again – her best interest always at the center of your heart.
For the first four years, she detested it.
Now, she secretly relished it.
Every way you have stayed finely attuned to her needs. Every way you hang on her words. Every way you fuel her creations.
“For you, Madame Sandrone.”
Her eyebrows lifted a fraction at the snowdrop in your gloved hand. She should not accept this. As callous as the action may be, it is perfectly her. This is not in the plan.
She took the lovely white flower without gratitude. You still smiled, satisfied. You must be able to read her mind.
—
“Upgrading dear Pulonia today?”
Your voice cut through her infuriated fog, a leathered hand resting on her shoulder with a fresh cup of tea in the other.
“This module is proving to be far more of a hassle than I thought! I constructed perfect replicas of the larynx and vocal folds then altered them to contain the corresponding energies and code. I can’t see what else I’m missing! He still just doesn't sound right!”
She took the cup from you, sipping with a furrowed brow and pout. Your now empty hand rose to her other shoulder, gently massaging its meeting with her neck. She had a habit of tilting at odd angles – stretching her muscles to their human limit. She immersed herself in the repetition of your motions, predicting each one with ease.
“Is there something more, Madame, that is bothering you?”
Your hands preemptively loosened, taking on the traces of a caress. She could nearly snicker at your attempt to calm the furious beast in her heart.
“You already know the answer.”
Her sharp tone never sent you away from her side. Never made you cower like the others. Perhaps that is what led you to such heights within her ranks.
“Indeed. Look at me, please, Sandrone.”
“How insolent of you to command me, wretch.”
“How insolent of you to defy me, brat.”
She leaned her head back, staring up at you with nothing but indignance. Your gaze mimicked hers, but the upward quirk of your lips hinted at something more.
In her argumentative haze, she had given you the unspoken victory.
“His voice will not sound the same out of any body but his original. You are chasing futility amidst your mourning, Madame.”
She simply continued to stare, attempting to keep her eyes as focused and hardened as possible.
However, Sandrone has never been able to hold a perfect mask with you.
—
Moonlight fell in scattered rays over the Seventh’s bed, illuminating and deepening every fold in her heavy blankets. Beside her you rest, silent in breath and still in movement. The ideal picture of slumber. This daily cycle has escaped Sandrone her entire life. In times like these, she turns to you. Tries to find a semblance of tranquility in the shape of you next to her.
First, she slides a fingertip down your spine. Tracing every ridge, visualizing the vertebrae and discs beneath. Second, you shift, facing her with closed eyes and tired murmurs. If she holds still for a few moments, you will drift back into the starry sea none the wiser. Third, she takes mental note of your features – down to the last pore. There is nothing more precious in this world than the natural imperfections of you. Ever the stickler for such, she finds its opposite endearing on you.
Finally, she raises her hand, brushing through your hair with delicacy. It's a feather’s touch to your dreaming form, but a titan’s to her. Each slide of her skin over yours is a somber reminder of its artificiality. The warmth once held within now vanished. The screw she brushes over is the harshest of realities – a cold water far more lethal than snowstorms.