InsaneJournal

There were three tea stains on the brown butcher's paper, a trinity of intersecting circles. The fourth cup, still in Nadya's hands, had been reduced to nothing but a small, brown crescent staring back at her from the bottom of bone-white china. Her hands shook. The teacup came down hard on its saucer.

The gas lamp next to her shuddered as if startled by the sound, catching with it the glitter of the copper cog before her. The magnifying lens circled around on its joint before snapping over her glasses, its more critical eye bringing into focus the curl of the cog, winding in on itself like a conch. Nadya picked it up with a pair of jittering tweezers and brought it to her face for inspection, before pulling it away with squinting eyes. This motion was repeated once, then twice, before finally she was sated.

Her smile was delirious when she pushed the bench away from the table. For hours she had waited through countless clicks of her heavy shears to show him the piece again. Hope bubbled in her mouth as her hand swept a wave of metal shavings and other, imperfect, unacceptable cogs into the rubbish bin. It took everything Nadya had not to laugh, to sing, as she brought this new piece to Boris.

He hit the switch on his own machine, a large lathe, stopping to examine the heavy bearing cuff he had just crafted, taking a few moments to even notice his wife beaming at him with something in her hands. After a moment of surprise, he raised his goggles to smile at her and took the gear from her, turning it over and humming thoughtfully before frowning as he lowered his own lenses again to take a look at the device. With a slow nod, he simply handed it back to her, his frown changing to a sad smile as if to say “anyone could have made such a minor mistake,” before turning to resume his work.

Nadya's eyes stung and the pricks of light in the room seemed to drip from their lamps. With trembling fingers she reached for Boris's shoulder, but already he was occupied with something more important. She lingered there regardless, hungry for the warmth that was apparent and ready in his body. Instead she squeezed the cog deep in the palm of her hand and made small work of the lump that had found its way to her throat. It was time for another cup of tea.

As she collected her cup and saucer the cog met its brethren in the trash. The china clattered in time with her steps toward the Tea Machine across the room. One lever-pull later and Nadya was greeted with the comforting whistle of the contraption. It was curious how such a small sound could fill a room and make it whole. The tea shot from the nozzle abruptly and with a hiss of steam. She held the tea with cupped hands for several minutes before pushing the button for milk.

A baltine hammer was edged closer to a wielding mask to make room for the saucer on Boris's workspace. Nadya smiled, the memory of warmth still vivid in her fingertips.

The gentle scuff of the hammer and clatter of the tea cup brought his attention up with a broad smile, though he had no time for a drink now. Indeed, he was too busy removing the clamps on either end of a foot-long tube of copper, it's flawless tapered surface staggered inward, holes already drilled in place for the magnetic fittings that would soon help transform it into a macroscopic synthetic neuron--one of thousands he had already crafted in the nearly five years spent laboring in secret. No, Boris had no time for tea when there was important work to be done. No time for its warmth to dispel the chill of the outdoor workshop.

Like the temporary heat in her hands, Nadya's smile faded with time. She stood there, nails buried deep in her palms as she heard the angry clang of metal-on-metal, breath warm and shallow and fleeting in the midnight cold. Nadya watched Boris until that tube had been placed alongside so many (perfect, identical) others and he had started again. She watched him until the teacup had given up its very last gasp of steam. Placated, she moved back to her work bench. Clippers snipped carefully at a fresh piece of copper, red-orange shavings falling in little spirals beside brown tea stains.

The din of the shop ceased somewhere in her work--a brief pause that seemed out of place, the silence almost louder than the discordant symphony which it had so rudely interrupted. Then a strange sound followed; a simple, unspoken interrogative hum followed by a curious slurping. Boris looked over to his ever-diligent wife, beaming from under his long-cold tea as he held it aloft in wordless gratitude.

Boris's gaze spoke for him then, audible in the quiet workshop. Nadya could hear it in-between the quiet snaps of steel jaws. For a beat she tried to ignore it out of spite, but bit by bit his eyes pulled at the corner of her lips. She found herself looking up from her work just in time to see his mustache dip past the tea's reflective surface. Her laughter, flickering and cracking like a fire, shook her shoulders and her hair from its hairpins.

He couldn't help but laugh with her, rising stiffly from his seat and moving over to the tea machine to refresh his own cup. He approached Nadya's work bench with a pair of steaming cups and sat down beside her, examining her work, his broad grin softening as he looked over the latest cog.

Taking up the bit of coiled copper in his hands, he turned it over repeatedly, holding it up to the light before handing it back to her with a reassuring smile; it was a comforting expression, the line of his lips barely visible beneath the line of his bushy mustache--almost a fatherly smile.

Surprise was written all over Nadya's face as she watched his curious actions, inquisitive as soon as it was made clear he was not just trying to shake the stiffness from his shoulders. Her expression stayed that way, confused and pleased, until he sat down and began to review her work. Skinny fingers stretched out to retrieve the plucked-up cog before curling with hesitation. She bit back a thousand pleas before his smile silenced all of them. Nadya held the cog in her palm like a baby bird as she kissed the pleasant curve of his cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Boris.”