Living Amid The Details
Character(s): Sam, Bonnie
Summary: A vignette on a single moment in time.
Sam likes the keyboard of his pc just so. At an angle. As Bonnie straightens the stiff folders on his desk, she makes slight adjustments here and there, fine-tuning his possessions.
He never looks up when he reaches for a pencil, so they have to point down in the holder. Or he'll stab himself.
He places his coffee here, so it must be flat, level, or there will be yet another stain on the carpet.
He doesn't know she half-way refills the same bottle of Advil every week, lets him think the stress headaches are getting better.
He's never wondered how he can work nineteen hours a day, six days a week, and has never replaced a bulb in his desk lamp, or changed the ink in his printer, or run out of blank discs.
There are some things he takes notice of. He remembers everyone's birthday, and never asks the assistants to buy them cards for him.
He knows how people take their coffee, though in truth, Sam will drink his any way he can get it.
He knows the name of CJ's cologne; what kinds of flowers Toby buys for Andi on their anniversary; that Ginger is a huge Joni Mitchell fan, and Ainsley has homemade potpourri hanging from her rearview mirror. And he knows how Josh sounds when his frustration with Sam collides with his desire.
"Sam, can you move aside for just a second?" Bonnie asks, elbowing her way in front of him.
She cocks an exasperated hip at him, and trains her dark eyes on the pile of open books threatening to topple off the end of the desk.
"Out of the way, so I can put these back?" She doesn't wait for him to move, but gives his chair a little push.
"I need -- "
"You're done with these."
"You are." And to prove her point, she bangs two closed, and cradles them to her chest. "You can keep those two. Then, put them away." She sees the reluctant smile perch on his lips, and resists smiling back. Sometimes she has to get tough with Sam. When he's like this.
He holds out his hands, asking silently if it's safe to move back into place. "I always put them back," he grouses weakly.
"Only if they're yours," she coolly retorts. "Heaven forbid you have to get up and go into another room." And she breezes out the door, sure that he'll be all right, he's not in harms way, for at least another hour.
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