[He doesn't need her to be good at the work because, well, it isn't really work. It's just nonsense. Habitual. His hands are her hands and they tangle the rope together. Tie knots into line and into cord and into thread and eventually, the frenetic quality of the action dims in favor of the compulsive quiet of practice. The result isn't important. He forgets them immediately. The action - or the thought of doing, if they're speaking technically - is the part that soothes.
Eventually, some innumerable knots later (he doesn't count), the sensation of action begins to trickle off. A hand forms a knot and the knot becomes a drop of water that slides along the bow of a ship and slips back into the wide, wide ocean where it belongs.]
no subject
Eventually, some innumerable knots later (he doesn't count), the sensation of action begins to trickle off. A hand forms a knot and the knot becomes a drop of water that slides along the bow of a ship and slips back into the wide, wide ocean where it belongs.]