So this is my first belated offering for OQ week. I hope you all enjoy it even though technically OQ week is over. I do have another adoption day idea as well as plans for a “Teach Me” drabble. But I think I’ll finish the next intalment of “Her” first.
For the precious and talented starscythe who inspired this train of thought.
It’s his scent she first notices. Clean. Woodsy.
A mixture of pine and earth muted by the sweat of physical work and dirt
beneath the fingernails. It’s a scent she likes, one she finds appealing and
soft, not soft in the sense of cotton or silk, but rather in the manner of
moss, or grass, or piles of freshly fallen leaves left alone for the enjoyment
of children and the occasional spontaneous adult.
He moves towards her then.
His warmth approaches in steady strides, not to
fast, not too slow. He stops a comfortable distance from her, allowing soft
billows of air brushed by human breath and skin to tickle her senses, giving
her a moment to size him up as best she can at a first meeting.
His voice is deep, but not overly so, a bit
rough around the edges yet plump with gentleness. It’s a texture that reminds
her of a broken in quilt, one that’s been hand-stitched and pieced together
with care, one capable of warding off the chills of life by its mere presence
and pliability. A good sign, she thinks, especially for a man who does what he
does, and she allows herself to take a step forward, extending her hand with
what she hopes is a confident smile.
“Regina,” she clarifies. The hand that greets
hers is neither soft nor rough, but one of a working man who takes care of
himself but doesn’t bother with niceties. “And you’re Mr. Locksley?”
His grip is firm, not painful, and his hands
smell of Irish Spring soap. She scrunches her nose without thinking as
fragments of clover and mint dust through her nostrils and into her sinuses,
simultaneously noting a coarseness to his skin she rather likes.
“Robin,” he states. His grin gives his voice a
melodic lilt. “Please—just Robin.”
He’s closer now, and her pores react as if on
cue. He’s taller than she is, she realizes, feeling his breath feather across
top of her hair, and although she’s not sure why that should matter, she finds
that she is pleased by the fact.
“Robin,” she echoes, noting that he steps in
just hair nearer as she utters his name. He clears his throat as he shifts
slightly on his feet, and she hears him rub the back of his neck with the hand
that isn’t clutching hers.
“You’re here to meet Miss Belle, then?” he asks,
releasing her hand, exposing it to the coolness of empty air. She misses the
warmth immediately and clutches the stick she holds in her other hand even
“Miss Belle?” she questions, hearing Henry’s
hurried approach from behind. He’s breathing somewhat heavily as he moves to
her side, the keys dangling noisily from his fingers, and she makes a mental
note to discuss with him just how much is too much after-shave for a sixteen
year old to wear.
“Short for the name my son bestowed upon her,” Robin
explains, his attention now divided between mother and son. “Tinkerbelle.”
“Strange name for a Labrador,” Henry muses with
a laugh, piping down rather quickly when she shoots him a reprimanding look.
“Sounds more like a name for a little dog.”