In Which Greta's Workshop Is Chock-Full Of Emotion
When Bob Morris starts working with Greta, he is awed by her innovative ideas, impressed by her welding technique, and utterly baffled by her choice to allow a truculent pre-adolescent thug of no readily apparent relation to both live with her and assist in her workroom. The kid's hardly trained or fully educated, he probably doesn't know half of what's going on. All Bob can see is a thief, and because he sees that, Johnson feels compelled to pick his pockets.
However, Greta's disappointment when she finds out is worse than any punishment. He hates that look, fights back against it though she hasn't said a word.
"He doesn't like me."
"Now why would he feel like that?" she asks, slightly amused, slightly challenging.
"No," he replies, sciffing his shoe against the floor, "before. He didn't like me before."
Greta raises her eyebrows, and Johnson feels himself getting all defensive. "If he wanted a thief, he got one." Greta just keeps looking at him. "What? He's the one who kept looking all suspicious. Like I was going to steal from you." She still hasn't said a word, and the silence is getting to be too much, because it's Greta. She can say far too much with silence. "I guess I'll just... I'll see you at home."
Greta shakes her head. "No. We don't run from our problems."
Johnson scowls, but sits back down.
"I have an errand for you." She poured the contraband into a bag, and handed it over. "He has accommodation with Mrs Tisdale over by the bakery. You will take it back and tell him what you did."
Johnson knows he can just dump and lie, but one look at Greta's face and he knows that won't work here. He drags his feet walking over, especially when he gets into the streets filled with more reputable, well-kept buildings.
He knocks on the door, and when the landlady looks at him skeptically, he says, "I've just got a delivery for Mr...." it takes him a second to realize he can't remember the guy's last name, and has to finish a little lamely, "For Bob."
The lady looks at him archly, but leans back. "Molly, can you please go ask Mr Morris to come to the back door."
She turned back to Johnson, all sweetness gone from her voice. "You, round back, servant's entrance. Wait there."
The door is slammed in Johnson's face. He pokes his tongue out at the painted wood and slouches around the side of the building. At least with the guy's landlady acting the same way, Johnson decides, he knows Bob Morris comes by it honestly.
He slouches in a shadow by the back entrance for a good fifteen minutes before the door opens and Bob steps out, looking around uncertainly. By now, Johnson has a plan. He throws the bag to Bob, who awkwardly catches it. "You stuff, sorry I took it, but you're mean. Bye."
Bob yells after him, but Johnson is already over the wall and gone, disappearing just like Uncle Brendon taught him. Lay low, that's another one of Brendon's rules to live by. Johnson is late getting home to dinner, answers questions in monosyllables, and kicks Singer under the table until he started up a distracting stream of chatter.
After dinner, he doesn't follow Greta to her workbench like usual to go over designs, just clears his plate and retreats to his room. Macy knocks on his door to tell him time to sleep, and good night, but Miss Greta doesn't come up at all.
Johnson doesn't cry himself to sleep; he's a big boy, and big boys don't cry.
A little after they're supposed to be asleep, Marshall creeps into the room, hovering near the bed until Johnson scoots over to make room.
"Greta's sad too, you know," he whispers.
Johnson just feels worse - he never wanted Miss Greta to feel sad, ever. He even lets Marshall cuddle in and fall asleep in his bed, which he normally guards like a fortress. In the morning, he decides, he'll fix this.
He asks Marshall and Singer, in the morning, how he's supposed to apologize to Miss Greta. It's not helpful. They try, but their suggestions are all wrong. Johnson's not going to bring her flowers, or anything girly like that. What would Miss Greta want with flowers? She was talking about how she needed a new C-clamp, but the only way Johnson could get her one of those is by stealing, and that's what started this problem to begin with.
Finally, Johnson decides to combine ideas. He sneaks away early, and sweeps up the shop, even prying between the floorboards. He then goes to the bins too, and soon he has enough scraps of wiring and cabling. His fingers are bleeding from a dozen punctures when he's done, but he's feeling a little proud as he sneaks the wire-framed shape of flowers onto her workbench, where she'd see it.
He just hopes she gets it.
When Johnson creeps back to the workshop later in the day, it's to the sound of raised voices within:
"--Just want to know why he thinks you don't like him, Bob."
The reply is indistinct, mumbled.
"He's a kid. My kid, actually. My kid that you are making to feel like a criminal in my workroom."
Johnson almost squeaks and falls over as Greta continues to verbally lash Bob. Her kid. Greta though he was her kid.
Johnson hides in the shadows as Bob stalks past, then dashes in through the still open door.
Greta turns at the noise, barely making an 'oomp' as Johnson slams into her and wraps his arms around her hips in a fierce hug.
"Hey," she says, sounding a little bemused as she rests a hand in dark hair, reaches the other arm to pat his back. "You okay, kid?"
He nods against her stomach, not letting his hold loosen for a long minute before pulling away. Greta just smiles again and strokes his hair gently for a second. "Want to help me put together the housing for belay system?" she asks.
It's the most complicated job he's helped Greta on yet, but he sets willingly to the work, trusting her not to steer him wrong.
He's so focused, he doesn't even hear Bob come back. "I see you two are almost done," he says calmly, betraying no sign of the earlier argument. "I fetched that parcel from the blacksmiths you requested," and just like that they were all three of them setting to work.
They work well together, is the thing. None of them are the types to talk things through, so they don't. The silence grows more and more companionable as time goes on, though.
It's years later before they talk about it again. Johnson is gangly and awkward and almost out of his teens and they're sitting in a room full of his reminiscing family when Bob brings up, "Remember the time you robbed me?"
By then, it's just another funny story.