When they had to take Mr Bliss’ tap out of him, Serena had tried and tried, huffed and puffed as she failed to tug the metal free.
Finally, she’d straightened up, looked around and with a single, decisive nod once she saw the coast was clear, unfurled her wings.
(she did not see the gleam of dark eyes that widened at their majesty, pupils that blew wide at the scent of patchouli and citrus and spice that crept into the theatre)
"A bit more oompfh," came Bernie's voice, and Serena frowned, shifting her grip; one beat of her wings; two, then three, then five, and still nothing - the metal remained firmly in place.
Panting, she had landed back down with a huff, meeting Bernie’s eyes in defeat.
Wordlessly they switched places, Serena shuffling her feathers back into place and tucking them neatly against her back. Bernie considered the conundrum for a moment, head cocked, and then with confidence that Serena could only envy grasped the metal tubing firmly.
The wet sound of it slipping out of their patient filled the theatre, and Serena frowned.
(had Bernie...had she lost the arm wrestle deliberately?)
A small grunt drew her gaze, and she dismissed the thought fleetingly; Bernie had fallen at the last hurdle - a third of the tap still remained.
Serena was about to suggest surgical intervention when Bernie exhaled, long and resigned, and she could not help but look, witness the furrowed brow and thin frown that graced Bernie’s face as a rustling murmured.
(Surely... not…?)
And then suddenly there they were, masses of bronzed-gold spread proud and wide. The room seemed smaller then, the air thick with the heady perfume of roses , of all things, as Bernie flexed her wings, planted one decisive foot behind the other. One deep breath, and then a huge gust as Bernie flapped, pulled. The look of triumph was barely disturbed by Bernie’s hasty step back to regain her balance, and Serena found her breath stolen from her as she met Bernie’s eyes, took in her victory-flushed cheeks and thought - how what who when?
“Thank you, Fletch,” she had murmured, handing over the tap as though it were a prize of war.
Impossible, Serena had thought, and “the arm-wrestling; you let me win,” she had said.
The guileless, breathless “me? never!” she had received in reply set her teeth on edge, and she resolved to think about it all later (if at all).