i have a lot more to say, i swear. she wants to know. she wants to pick apart his brain and ask him why he's never come to her before, why he's coming here now. eight years has made her wary, has made her put up walls. but giving roman a father is the only reason she won't shoo bo away from her garden. 

still, he's a stranger. a lot can change in a few short years.

she lets him talk, lets him get it out, and then sighs. "as long as it's on my terms." she shoves the spade into the earth again with another crunching sound. "because i don't trust you. and until i can, i don't want roman knowing who you are."

she wiggles the shovel. one of the gloom finally pop free. drool dribbles down its front as it takes a few tentative steps forward; roots trail at its ankles and willow nudges it with her foot while still holding the shovel and trying to dig out the rest. 

then she pauses and closes a bit of that distance between herself and bo and holds the shovel out to him. 

"you'll come tend the plants with me at least five days a week. you'll leave before roman gets home. you'll prove to me that you're not going to run away again. and you're - oh, stop that!" she pushes the shovel into bo so she can turn and stop the gloom back burrowing its way back into the earth. 

damn, seein' you is something else... she shakes her head and purses her lips, annoyed that of all the things he'd said, that's what's floating about in her mind. 

"be gentle. go in at a curve and a few inches away from their base so you don't pierce the roots. i'll herd them."

boruta maher

☉

she doesn't expect him to get it all out at once. yes, she's run this moment over in her head a hundred and one times. mostly it ended anticlimactically, with the last loose end tied and the rest of her future waiting for her. some release. but there are times, at her lowest, loneliest points, where she thinks of him as he was - young and sweet and full of dreams for the two of them, as foolish as he'd sounded then (as foolish as she had been to believe him). 

her shovel bears her weight as she leans against it and listens to him bumble. at the mention of her plants, she peers at the greenhouse walls. what grass-types hadn't been planted have their faces pressed curiously to the wall. 

it's sweet, really. heartbreakingly so. but he can't break her more than he already has. but indignance, she can feel. indignance has heat pooling in her cheeks. that after all this time, he's come here to give her money. 

are you here because he's gone? 

her face twists and so does her heel as she turns around on him. she shoves the spade into the earth and kicks with her heel; one of the gloom makes an aggravated sound as it's jostled. and all at once her fury calms. her movements are slower, more deliberate, as she worms the spade around to carefully uproot the pokemon.

"we don't need your money. and i don't care that you're sorry. it's been eight years, bo. eight. years. you and i, we were a lifetime ago." she stands up, wipes her brow, finally looks at him - really looks at him. 

"we both know you fucked up. maybe i never forgave you, maybe i can't forgive you, but i've let it go. i've made my peace. and roman? say and do whatever you want to me, but i will not let you come crashing into his life only to leave."

her eyes are cold. "you will not hurt my son. so if all you wanted was to come and give us money, then go."

boruta maher

☉

gretchen greets her when she emerges. the outdoor area of the greenhouse has a low overhang, but the awning that usually covers the plants has been pulled back, tucked away for the oncoming winter. a cluster of gloom huddle together for warmth, dozing in the early morning dawn. 

the glameow twines around willow's boots, rubs her spine along her jeans, and willow crouches to give her some proper scratches behind her ears. the iron head of the shovel is wedged in the ground, held with one steady hand near its hilt. 

if gretchen's hearing weren't almost gone, she'd have warned willow of the man's presence. but instead of spitting and catterwauling, she purrs heavily. willow chuckles. she sounds like an engine on its last legs. 

and then she hears a voice, his voice, except it's gruffer, deeper than the one she remembers. her fingers slip. the shovel clatters to the ground as she drops that hand to the ground to steady herself. she pauses, takes a moment to breathe in, to exhale, and then she stands. 

she turns. and whatever he's expecting isn't there. hatred and love are so close together and without one, there is no other. her eyes are soft, and they are sad, and her heart gives a painful squeeze. 

gretchen sniffs a couple of times, pads forward, and then makes a low hissing noise before scuttling off. willow watches her go and then looks down, anywhere but at him, to pick up the shovel. 

she checks her watch. "he won't be home for a few hours, bo." now, with roman at the forefront of her mind, her gaze hardens. she shoulders the shovel. "you can stay and say your piece, but i want you gone before he's back."

you will not tear down this garden i have built. you will not raze this earth and leave again. 

boruta maher

☉

cool water runs down her hands. she is at a standstill, watching the soap gather at the drain, looking at pockmarked fingers, warped from her work, from years of being atlas herself. she shrugs her shoulders and reaches up to turn the water off. her gaze is low, avoiding the woman in the mirror in front of her. 

but before she turns, she raises her eyes, and she forces herself to smile. and she feels better, for a little bit. long enough to wear that smile as she flips open the cardboard sign in front of her shop. 

elisabet, her leavanny, has already begun setting some of the arrangements willow spent the better part of the morning putting together. she wakes at five, several hours before roman is up and running around, when the sun is still hidden and her life is her own. 

but now that adelaide has arrived to take care of errands with roman, and to tend to her mother, she's free to work in the greenhouse. 

elisabet isn't much good with money, but that's never really mattered. willow grabs the change jar from behind the counter and sets it, takes and squeezes her leavanny's hand gratefully, and then grabs her mud boots from behind the counter as well. 

it's a cramped space. the shop is the lower level of her and her family's living quarters. but it feels larger now, achingly so, now that her father's gone. she scatters the thoughts as she shucks on her boots, grabs her flannel and shrugs it on. 

she goes out the side door, leaving elisabet to tend to the arrangements, to greet newcomers and floral perusers. elisabet has become quite accustomed to being the face of the atkins' odd little lifestyle. though more often than not, friendly faces know to peek around the back and go into the greenhouse themselves to catch a chat with the green-thumbed woman herself.

a stepping stone pathway leads to the greenhouse. outdoor flower beds are empty, barren with the cold weather approaching. she'd moved the roselia inside where it's heated. 

and that heat greets her now as she steps through the door. sunlight filters in through the glass ceiling. she dons gloves, shrugs out of her flannel and ties it around her waist, and sets to tending her patients. 

it's rhythmic, what she does. gideon and thistle follow her about, dragging mulch and handing her clippers when she needs them. the only time they keep their distance is when she's tending to mold-ridden or mite-infested residents.

"your foot's looking better," she murmurs as she applies a salve to a petilil. she's by herself in a corner of the greenhouse, planted in recovery soil. gideon's been keeping her company, but the creature's a sociable one, and her leaves have drooped ever since willow's had to isolate her. "you'll be able to join the others soon." 

she clips sunscorched marks from a chikorita's leaf, coaxes open some of the bulbs from a pair of bulbasaur, applies homemade remedies and tills soil and plants and breathes and hums life back into these creatures. and when she's finished, with her hair tied messily, half of it falling out of her hastily put-up bun, and dirt on her cheeks, she grabs her shovel to move the last of the gloom from their outdoor plots.

boruta maher

☉