Work Text:
The farmer loves to watch Elliott work, quietly observing as the man before her spends countless hours at his oak writing desk. She watches his soft hands as they fly across the pages, often becoming smeared with ink as he quickly scribbles and scrawls with his quill. Most days, she is able to convince him to utilize a pencil if it seems to be a day he has many revisions to make, intent on saving the fabric of his clothes from being stained by the squid ink he prefers to write with.
Today is one such day that Elliott has insisted on using his quill, quite adamant that he does his best writing with his favorite writing utensil gripped in his palm. He is stuck on a particularly troubling scene, not quite able to get the characterization down that he desires for the female protagonist, so he insists that his reliable ink quill will help the words flow more easily. The black ink is smeared and smudged on Elliott's palm and long fingers, the dark ink contrasting quite starkly with the paler color of his skin. As the female farmer watches Elliott scribbling quickly on the page, he smears even more ink across his palms. His handwriting appears barely legible to her from this far of a distance due to the fervor in which he pens the words that appear in his mind's eye. She rolls her blue eyes slightly when she catches sight of just how messy his hands are becoming this particular afternoon.
"Elliott, I brought lunch," she softly says, setting the plate of crab cakes and a small salad on the oak writing desk, knowing that Elliott would work straight through lunch once more if not for her intervention.
Such had become the way with him once his muse took off with the speed of a galloping horse, so she has taken to keeping a watch on the sun when she is outside performing the farm tasks in order to ensure her husband does take time out of his writing sessions to actually eat something before dinner. She thinks that some days Elliott would survive off of coffee alone if she'd let him.
"Thank you, beloved," Elliott genuinely says, smiling up at her and reaching one of his hands towards her cheek to cup her face reverently in his hands.
"You're covered in ink again, Elliott," the farmer gently chuckles, handing him a handkerchief and backing away from his reach slowly where he does not have a chance to wipe the squid ink on her face.
"Ah, so I do," he responds in surprise, not having noticed the ink smearing beneath the underside of his palm during his trance he enters when writing. "No wonder you backed away from my advances," Elliott says, a mischievous look appearing in his emerald eyes. "I nearly had my soul crushed by you shirking away from me."
"Don't even think of smearing any of that ink on my face or I shall have to return with mud on my own hands after cleaning out the pigpen," she threatens, knowing exactly what intrusive thought has crossed her husband's mind.
Elliott laughs raucously at his wife's counter, standing and stretching. He finds that his legs have gone numb with the sensation of pins and needles due to the length of time he has spent sitting at his desk this morning without taking a break.
"I will go and wash my hands, dearest. I do desire a kiss from my wife as encouragement, after all," Elliott beams, retreating into their master bathroom, the hot water heard splashing over his knuckles.
The farmer finds herself constantly in awe of the vast worlds that Elliott can create with just the power of his fingertips and that brilliant mind of his.
Elliott loves to watch his beloved when she has her back turned to him, sowing the next batch of seeds in the soft earth, watering the plants, or gently plucking her matured produce off the prized plants she has grown in the fields. He watches her calloused, rough hands as they softly hold a tomato she picks from the vine, gently setting the red fruit in the basket she has resting atop her right antecubital. Most days, she can be found with dirt or mud on her hands, the particles of earth often finding its way underneath her fingernails as she tills the soil. As the writer watches his muse in her natural element, a tender expression full of respect and devotion crosses his features as she is unaware of his silent presence behind her. Oh, how he wishes he had all the words in the world to capture the feelings she stirs up in him when she is out in nature, creating not just plants, but food that feeds the entirety of Stardew Valley and the surrounding areas.
"Dearest, I brought you some water," he calls out, a large glass cup from their kitchen in his hands. "The summer sun is shining brightly today and I do not want you to grow dehydrated as you work in the fields," Elliott continues, also producing a wet rag from his other hand which he thought his love could wipe the sweat off her brow with.
"Thank you, Elliott," the farmer smiles, passing the back of her hand across her brow to wipe some of the sweat away before it drips into her blue eyes.
Her wide brimmed hat could only do so much to keep the sweltering sun and heat off of her during her many hours spent outside in the summer.
"I could watch you all day," Elliott says, his breath ghosting across the farmer's face as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to her cheeks one at a time before giving her another kiss to the crown of her head.
She smiles, giving Elliott a kiss on his lips, sighing happily into his touch.
"I don't think it's as interesting as watching you work on your novels, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same, my bard," she continues to grin, handing him the now full basket of tomatoes. "Do you mind taking these inside for me? I'll take them to Pierre's later."
"But of course. Anything else I can do to assist you?" he asks, taking the now empty glass back from his wife's grasp, their skin brushing effortlessly as their hands connect.
"I don't think so, no, but I appreciate the offer," the farmer honestly answers, moving her efforts from the tomatoes to the bounty of blueberries in the next patch of fields.
The writer finds himself constantly in awe of the wonderous results that his wife can cultivate to their full potential with just the power of her fingertips in the soil and the sheer love in her heart for all of her animals.
She adores watching Elliott sit at the piano in the evenings, his long fingers playing such soft melodies on the ebony and ivory keys. The farmer tenderly gazes up at her husband as she sits beside him on the piano bench, pressed tightly into his side as Elliott's fingers lead him through a particularly entrancing piece that has quickly become one of her favorites to hear him play. She watches the concentration on his face, the corner of his tongue poking out to lick his lips every now and then when he is playing a rather difficult section of the song. Elliott has offered to teach his farmer some easier songs on the piano, but she has never believed herself to have the coordination necessary in order to play as sweetly and skillfully as Elliott does, so the farmer has declined his offer each time. She changes her gaze to watch his long, nimble fingers flying across the keyboard, producing such a wonderous sound that thrills her to her very core.
The farmer watches in amazement as Elliott's hands bring life to such a poignant piece of music on the paper before him, giving his own interpretation of another's emotions to the world surrounding them. She snuggles closer into his side, resting her head on his broad shoulder, a flannel blanket spread across both their laps as they spend the cold winter night beside one another, wrapped in their own magical bubble of peace and tranquility.