will
she/her
twenty-nine
november 12
rustboro
heterosexual
horticulturist
civilian
we sewed all the holes we had to breathe
TAG WITH @willow
willow atkins
GROWTH [PAST]
POSTED ON Oct 22, 2021 14:46:14 GMT
she winces when he falls. the pokemon watching from the greenhouse walls, however, think it's hilarious. willow keeps her hand pressed to her kerchief as she wrangles and settles the crowing gloom. once she's got them situated, she calls out for thistle and gideon.
with their help, and after the cloud dissipates, she pops the remaining gloom out of the ground with ease. after instructing thistle to bring them inside, the bulbasaur shuffles off, vines corralling the gloom in tow.
the bulbasaur won't be able to replant them, but she'll keep an eye on them until willow returns.
"give me a hand, gideon," she says. she looks up at the shop, at her cozy house above it, and decidedly turns away from it. if roman came home to this.
no, instead her heart gives a squeeze as gideon puppeteers the brute of a man with some vines. he manages to support some of bo's weight, but still willow walks with one of his arms slung over her shoulder, his deadweight at her side.
she doesn't often think about her strength, but she's proud of herself for keeping steady and not buckling underneath him.
several yards back from the greenhouse is a small shed. it's cobbled together (because she and her father are the ones who'd done it), but it's functional. she grunts as she uses her shoulder to pop the latch out front and then she kicks. a muddy footprint stains the door, but it's clearly not the first.
inside smells of sage and a little bit of sawdust. she grimaces as she trails dirt over the soft rugs that cover the floor. a daybed sits nestled in the back; it only takes a few steps to cross the distance to it.
gideon helps her get bo in the bed. sunlight streams in through stained glass windows, coloring his face with soft greens and yellows. when he's all set, she takes her own boots off and lights a few incense sticks. the smoke will clear his lungs, but it will take time.
in the meantime, she looks at her belongings. almost through his lens. there are her meditative pillows, well worn and nestled on top of the rugs that cover her floor. a guitar stand with an acoustic is caddy-cornered by the entrance.
with no electricity, wrought iron sconces hang from the walls, their candles half burned. she looks at him, and then away as tears finally well in her eyes. look at all i've done without you, idiot.
she wipes them away and swallows when he begins to stir.
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