#i even started all the seeds i started to a little grow light station downstairs w my moms plants

[batslime]

In my bathroom I currently have four orchids (two large two small) a chunk of wood full of mushrooms and an old spider nest a venus flaytrap a pitcher plant (i feed them dermestids since i have too many rn anyway) a petra croton a climbing ivy a little dish full of mossy rocks (i wanna make a stained glass terrarium to put them and my carnivorous plants in) a big ass fat ass monstera some dried eucalyptus a pothos hanging from a ceiling hook and a chunk of it im propogating. and its not enough i want more i need ferns i need shit growing along the ceiling

[69why-am-i-doing-this69]

Someplace Quieter

Aesop Sharp x OC

Description:

An American auror transferring to the British Ministry of magic for some peace of mind. She first has to undergo supervision under oath of not meddling in the British affairs. It was only a benefit to the ministry to place her under the supervision of the former auror now potions professor.

Notes:

I didn't proofread most of this.

Also one of the things I thought about while creating my oc:

*Aesop doing something probably potion related with his sleeves rolled to his elbows*

*Nani thinking of the filthiest thing known to man at his exposed forearms*

TW: no smut but highly suggestive at one point.

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 – Two Petals and a Potion

I hum to myself while watering my little collection of California poppies sitting closely to the window downstairs, the Ivy plant swaying along to my tune. The watering can, enchanted to move along with my wand. The whole table I pressed against the window grew into what looked like an orange shrub. I gently touch their bright orange petals with my fingers, checking to see how healthy they were.

“They’ve grown so wonderfully, haven’t they?” I turn to my Ivy, bringing my hand to its leaves as it shakes in agreement. I lift my wand, the watering can follows after I am satisfied with the amount to glaze over the room, checking one final time if I cared for everything I’m currently growing. The watering can floats to my side. The Ivy plant caresses my calves, which catches my attention. I grin at it before slightly lowering my wand, tipping the watering can onto it. It shakes in enjoyment from being showered with water. I turn to the empty pots sitting in the corner, by the fireplace, practically begging me to be used. I raise my wand to prevent my Ivy from drowning while pondering what I should grow next. I lower my gaze to look at it beside my feet, “Have any ideas? Maybe Silas could use some more things to experiment with,” I then eye the pristine little box, barely touched unlike the other collection of seeds at my makeshift station. “Or maybe…” I trail, unsure if I wanted to complete that thought, let alone say it. I grab the floating watering can, breaking its enchantment and placing it on the table beside the poppies.

The plant droops, taking that as it doesn’t know. I gave up on the thought, picking up the now watered ivy. I went upstairs and place it on the windowsill for it to soak in what’s left of the light. It shakes approvingly, little droplets spread everywhere. I instinctively look away while raising my hands as a little shield.

My attention falls to the little black book sitting on my nightstand. I walk over to it, picking it up while turning to the first couple of pages. The consistent work for Aesop only allowed me to scour the contents by little pieces at a time. With the information, it did have left multiple questions. The list of ingredients was the largest portion of the book, I assume the single letter attached to the ingredient was an initial of the client. The identities of these buyers were the first of this mystery. At the start, it all seems a wide spread of different clients wanting a small amount of items but as I flip through, the pages fill with larger and larger quantities and a single initial beside all of them, S. Quite odd. I can only tell that whoever is making these purchases is mass producing something of some sort, or at least experimenting with them. I tilt my head with the thought of asking Aesop about this, but I quickly shut it away. This could be considered meddling, and I was in no position to take any heat from it. I then tilt my head to the other side. If only Yuki was here, maybe he’d understand what could be made with these items.

The other major portion of the book was even more bizarre, flipping to the end. The last couple of pages were filled with ancient runes. I close the book with a sigh. What wouldn’t I give to have an ancient runes textbook on hand. I pace around the room, my hands coming together to fiddle with themselves. I quickly fold my arms instead once I notice; the ivy occasionally shakes in my presence. Should I buy one from one of the shops here in Hogsmeade? It would look strange since I haven’t been in school for about seven years now, plus I didn’t want to invest in a book for one unique situation. I reject the idea.

 Does the library allow anyone to check out a book, let alone an ancient runes textbook? I shake my head; it would look incredibly suspicious. Or perhaps I could sneak into the library to borrow one? I pause my movements at the thought. It is conveniently close to the potion’s classroom. The only complication from that plan is that the books are probably enchanted to prevent stealing, not like it was a challenge. It's just more of an annoyance to cast a counter charm. I slightly regret not intently listening to Leroy’s passionate rambles about runes a little more back in Ilvermorny. My head lifts just a little bit with a slight grin, I could sneak into the library right after I get my list from Aesop and store the book here while looking. I turn back to the pot of ivy, making sure to pet it eagerly before making my exit into the streets of Hogsmeade, using accio to quickly grab my broom on my way out.

“Nani dear,” a voice exclaims. I turn my head to see Mrs. Sepony watering her moonflowers, her watering can also enchanted to move by itself. She glances at my broom in hand, “It’s quite unfortunate that you couldn’t join us tonight.”

I feign disappointment, “It is a shame, really.”

“But you must come over next weekend to have tea with my grandson Friedrich and I at the very least,” she negotiates. My face slightly flinches, with a strained grin, at another mention of another man’s name. This would make it the third man she’s mentioned this week.

“I’ll do my best to try to make time,” I nod at her with a grin, wanting to end the conversation, determined to find out the contents of the book.

She smiles at me before turning back to her moonflowers, “don’t stay out too late, dear.”

“I would never,” I reply, getting on my broom before taking off for Hogwarts, one would compare my speed of that of a final stretch a chaser uses before launching the quaffle into a goal. I walk my usual route as I land, making sure to pay close attention to the library. It should be close by now or at least supposed to be. Many prefects patrolling around it, something I need to take close note on as I do my errands.

I walk into the classroom, but Aesop is not sitting at his desk, instead he’s at the stove beside it, multiple ingredients resting in random positions on the counter. I place my broom in its usual spot, leaning on an unlit stove, before stopping next to him peering at the array of jars. He finally glances at me, and I couldn’t help but grin at him.

“What kind of list do you have for me now?” I ask him, turning to glance at the desk if he left it there. His desk seemed to be cleared of all materials.

“I have none for you, Ms. Davis,” I turn around so my backside could lean on the attached counter. I fold my arms while looking at him with a glare. He notices the intent behind my sudden action and corrects himself, “Nani.”

“Then why have me here?” My face twists into one of subtle puzzlement. My plan to retrieve an ancient runes book completely foiled merely a few moments after my arrival. I might have to set back the plan for at most few hours.

“It was your suggestion, though I do find it rather odd that you’re interested in spending your Friday evening in a potions classroom,” he answers, looking at me questionably while occasionally glancing back at his cauldron.

“I’d rather be in a more familiar company than pounding shots of fire whiskey to escape the awkward small talk with a guy or two,” Aesop eyes me curiously. I continue more quietly, “My neighbor, she’s been making attempts to introduce me to all the eligible bachelors in Hogsmeade.”

He laughs, “and you’d rather be here?”

“I don’t find any interest in them,” I say shyly, walk to the end of the counter, pushing the various jars towards him.

He squints at me, “but you’d rather spend your time in my company than any potential prospects?”

“Certainly,” I lean on the counter, elbows resting on the table while using my hands to rest my head. He eyes me out of shock that I’d answer so bluntly. I focus on all the different ingredients on the counter, occasionally turning the jars for me to read, “So what’s all this for?”

He pours a purple liquid in the cauldron, “experimenting.”

“Experimenting? What are you trying to make with all this?” I ask, lifting the jar of asphodel for me to look at closely. I was met with his open hand, needing the ingredient.

“A medicinal potion,” I place the jar in his hand, looking at him curiously while he opens the jar, shaking a generous amount into the liquid. There are many medical potions already made, so I can only guess it’s for one particular reason.

“Is it for your leg?” I lift another jar filled with a powdered substance. I turn it around to read pearl dust, and I pause. It was one of the biggest ingredients purchased by S, one of the most expensive too.

“You’d be correct,” he dismisses as a passing comment, his focus zoning into what’s happening in the cauldron, “could you hand me the valerian roots?”

I glance at the counter, still holding the pearl dust in my hand as I grab the jar of valerian roots with my other hand. “Pearl dust”, I read aloud, “It’s quite expensive, isn’t it?” I raise the jar for him to take.

“Extremely, I was told to use it sparingly and to eye it carefully by the previous potion master,” he takes the jar, but my attention doesn’t leave the sparkly material I’m holding.

“And why is that?” I look up to see Aesop staring at me skeptically. I don’t recall what it’s used for, but asking rose suspicion. I put the jar back on the counter in favor of a less important ingredient.

“Many students try to steal some during valentines,” he says, pouring another liquid, “horklump juice.”

I laugh while looking at the liquids, following the system we’ve managed to fall into. So, it was for love potions, I tilt my head slightly in confusion. It didn’t make any sense to produce a large amount of love potions. I put the juice in his hand and watch him in his craft. He recklessly pours the juice in the cauldron while grabbing the stirrer from the shelf above. I took the juice from him when he’s satisfied, fastening it, and placing it along with the other jars.

He rolls up his sleeves, and I watch every movement. Unbuttoning the sleeve from its cuffs, folding the material, and pulling it to his elbows, exposing his forearm. I immediately got lost in my imagination of the other things he could be doing instead of stirring the potion. Like holding my face from behind while he presses me against the counter. Lips trailing kisses along my shoulder to my neck, his thumb parting my lips. His woodsy scent fills my head from how close he is.

“Nani,” he’d whisper in my ear, I can only pray to keep myself quiet. He pulls my face closer and to the side while he trails more kisses along my cheek. His lips would feel delightful, and I would crave more. Desperately wanting them against my lips.

“Nani,” a husky moan fills my ears as I grind against him. His head would fall in the crook of my neck at the feeling. My hand lacing itself in his hair as I continue my teasing. Only stopping when his other arm wraps around me to hold me in place.

“Nani!” A shout breaks my trance. I quickly shake my head from my indecent thoughts of him. His concentration is not breaking from the cauldron while his hand is stretched out to me. I look up at him, confused. He shakes his open hand with urgency, “The dittany.”

“Sorry,” I choke, immediately lifting myself from my leaning position. I look at the counter. Quickly lifting the dittany jar, unscrewing it before placing it in Aesop’s open hand. He slightly shakes the jar, eyeballing the measurement into his hand before he sprinkles it in the cauldron. My face flushes in embarrassment, which causes the stove to spurt slightly in flames. I quickly remove myself from the stove before I ruin his potion, backing up a couple of steps away to calm it. Once Aesop finishes, he breaks his concentration, looking at me with his eyebrow lifting disapprovingly. I smile apologetically, “I got distracted.”

“Bitter root,” he says, turning back to the cauldron. I grab the jar before outstretching it to him, maintaining as much distance from the stove as I can administer. He plucks a few of them before carefully placing it in the liquid mixture. He starts, “How—?"

“I just…,” I cut him off, fastening the jar and placing it on the counter to buy myself time to quickly think of something to say, “I just find it extraordinary when someone makes a potion without any difficulties whatsoever.” It’s not a complete lie, I’d get the same sort of awe while watching Yuki make his late-night potions. But I would rather throw myself in front of a flame hurled from a Chinese fireball dragon than admit to what I was really thinking.

He looks back at me, noticing the awkward distance I caused, “how difficult was it for you?”

“When certain potions require a specific degree of heat that needs to be converted to the cauldron I’m using, along with the chaotic nature of my affinity. It’s almost inevitable that something is going to go wrong given the many pressures of an academic setting,” I ramble, taking small steps closer to the counter. Paying close attention to the flames to make sure it doesn’t react to my presence. I broke my focus once I stood next to Aesop, turning to lean my backside on the counter again.

He was about to speak, but our heads snap to the door as someone enters. It didn’t take too much to understand that she was a beautiful ball of sunshine. Walking with a bright smile, dressed in all green with purple accents. She looked around my age. Two long amber braids fall to her waist. With the flowers attached to her hat and the basket of rather large thorns, probably from a spiky bush, I would’ve bet she’s the herbology professor.

“Mirabel,” he greets with a nod, returning to the cauldron. I side eye Aesop, trying to suppress my immediate annoyance. Saying my name is ‘highly unprofessional’, my ass.

“After a few love scratches, I’ve managed to gather the thorns you requested,” she places the basket on the unattended desk.

“Much appreciated,” Aesop mutters, his attention concentrates on the cauldron once more. Mirabel’s gaze meets mine, and she smiles.

“Ah, you must be the person with a firebush core that Aesop’s been talking about,” Mirabel walks to me with her hand outstretched for me to take. I hesitate at her description of me, how surprisingly fitting it is.

“Nani Davis,” I shake her hand, “kind things I hope.”

“Mirabel Garlick,” She laughs slightly. “Don’t misjudge his rather grumpy exterior,” She shakes her head before looking over to him, still focused on his cauldron. Her hand hasn’t left mine, “Think of him as a young venomous tentacula, quite defiant at first, but after some time has passed, you’ll find him highly enjoying your presence.” There is absolutely no way she wouldn’t be the herbology professor.

“Well, we’re certainly getting there,” I joke before finally letting go of our physical contact. Her smile brightens as Aesop turns off the stove, waiting for the potion to cool. I slide slightly against the counter to make room for him to lean on. He notices the gesture and joins our conversation.

“How are your budding endeavors today, Aesop?” Mirabel asks.

“Dreadful as always, Mirabel,” she glances at me before returning to meet his gaze. I glance between the two, confused at the action. He straightens out, “though tolerable in the right company.”

“Chin up Aesop, wonderful things grow even in the most horrid conditions,” she responds brightly.

“My condition will only get better with an ingredient with an unfathomable magic potential,” he sighs. I thought of the most powerful plant I could ever think of.

“What your describing sounds like thaumatagoria,” I quip, gaining all attention from the herbology professor.

“thaumatagoria?” Aesop looks at me with both confusion and curiosity.

“It might not even exist,” Mirabel eyeing me in question, “though it is said to have legendary magics.”

Aesop face lifts with understanding, “Oh that’s what that is? Even the most accomplished potioneer, Zygmut Budge, thinks that it’s a myth.”

“Well, he’s a potioneer whose job is making potions. Not finding a possibly nonexistent plant” I argue. Aesop looks at me, falling into his typical unamused demeaner, causing me to flash my best grin at him.

Mirabel tilts her head at me with a humorous smile, “I never would’ve expected a person with the core of a firebush would know so much about the wonders of herbology.”

“Given that I tend to make things warm, it allows me to raise plants quite easily, actually,” I respond.

Her face brightens with interest, “You grow?”

“Very much so,” I eagerly answer. Her face lights up with passion, ready to unleash every bit of plant knowledge she could administer for both of us to discuss.

“As much as I’m interested in the magical capabilities of a possibly unknown plant, I’m currently in no position to find out. Can we experiment on plants that are known?” Aesop interrupts, capturing both of our attentions.

“Hmm…maybe we need to think about plants outside our region,” Mirabel suggests. She starts pacing the left and right. Both Aesop and I lean on the counter next to each other with our shoulders almost touching, watching her as she pondered. My brain thought of a few ideas.

“Are we thinking of plants with known medicinal purposes or ones that need further experimentation?” I raise the question; I look up to Aesop for his answer.

He looks down at me, leaning closer, “any idea is welcomed.”

I lost thoughts that I had for a moment, looking into his eyes with his close presence. I blink before turning away, Mirabel now looking at me with curiosity. “Well, I’ve grown California poppies. They are used heavily as a pain reliever,” I glance at Aesop’s leg, “and well, as far as experimenting goes, the witch’s ganglion is said to have powerful magical properties.”

Mirabel eyes went wide at the latter option, “A witch’s ganglion? They are only found in the Far East! They’re far too expensive even for me to get my hands on!”

“Or a seed of it is sitting in a box in my little house in Hogsmeade,” I mumble quietly. Aesop look’s down at me, confused at Mirabel’s reaction and my sheepish response.

Mirabel walks over to me, grabbing my hand in hers. “How did you even get it? And not even grown it yet?” she says with ferocity.

“I got it from a friend. His family is from the Far East. He told me that if I won the combat arena during the exhibition, he’ll give me ‘the most powerful plant I can think of for you to grow’,” I nod my head slightly back and forth, mimicking Yuki’s tone as I said it, “I didn’t know it’ll be a witch’s ganglion. Information about taking care of the plant is just as sparse as it’s magical properties plus it’s only grown on ponds which I don’t exactly have access to,” I explain, looking between both Aesop and Mirabel.

“Grow it here then,” she chimes, a wide smile spreading on her face. Practically hugging my arm against her chest.

“Here?” I ask, astonished at the offer.

“Yes, it will be an excellent place for it to grow and now that there’s two cultivated flowers here that will raise it,” she happily exclaims, referring to the both of us. Her bright eyes fill me with unconditional joy. How could I say no?

“I can’t say no to such a face, and I’m sure it’ll grow wonderfully with your cooperation,” I smile just as brightly to her. She removes herself from me, antsy with excitement.

 “I must prepare immediately for such a splendid revelation on our findings,” Mirabel gathers her now empty basket. “And Aesop,” she looks up at him from the desk, “make sure to guide her to the greenhouse when I make a suitable spot,” she smiles before skipping down the classroom, humming to herself as she exits. I stare at her every movement in awe. Her demeaner is a large contrast from the likes of Black and Aesop.

“Well, isn’t she delightful?” I look up at him with a smile.

“Nothing but helpful when it comes to needing certain plants,” he praises. My smile falters a little at his immediate response.

“I can certainly believe that. How long has she been helping you?” I bump his shoulder, trying to be encouraging of his interest in at least someone.

“Ever since she first started her position at Hogwarts,” It couldn’t have been long given how young she looks.

“So, you two are pretty close,” I prod, trying to understand the level of intimacy they share.

“We frequently share a drink at the three broomsticks,” he pauses. My gaze drops to the floor, maintaining a strained grin. So that’s why I didn’t need to worry about his marital status, “have you been there?”

I snap out of my dejected thoughts, “I would’ve been there tonight if I weren’t here.”

“Mirabel’s friend Sirona runs the place, so you’ll probably see Mirabel there often if you want better company” he says, trying to help my situation.

“And you?”

“Strung along,” I scrunch my eyebrows at his choice of language, “It’s better to accompany her than to get an urgent letter from Sirona late at night to take her back to her quarters.”

I laugh, wondering how many of those letters he received before settling on joining her. “Must be terrible,” trying to compose myself.

“Extremely,” he simply states. I start considering his proposition, quickly being reminded of the plans of tea that I forgot I’ve agreed to. My face drops at the realization.

“So, if I ask if you two will be there next Saturday?”

He laughs, “We’ll certainly be there for you to avoid your neighbor’s matchmaking attempts.”

I sigh in relief, my shoulder contacting with his, “Thanks.”

He gets up from the counter and makes his way to the desk, “Has it been long enough to make it back to your place unnoticed?”

“I probably should before my neighbor starts to get worried,” I follow suit, walking over to grab my broom before quickly making my way out of the classroom. Filling with anticipation to get the book and translate whatever is in that book.

“See you Monday then,” he says taking a seat.

“Of course,” I turn back to him with a grin which disappears as soon as I turn back around and finally exit the classroom.

I walk a bit away from the potions class before casting the disillusionment charm, creeping against the wall to peak at the state of the library. The prefects don’t seem to notice my exit as they don’t make any glances towards my direction. A Gryffindor prefect standing uncomfortably still watching the entrance to the library as it’s Ravenclaw partner is patrolling the entryways to the common area. It's not too difficult to maneuver. I place my broom in a well-hidden spot before spying on them again.

I wait till the Ravenclaw prefect made it’s rounds, making sure she won’t do anything out of the ordinary before making any move. I quietly move to the fountain in the middle of the fountain as the prefect turns her back on me. The Gryffindor in the corner of my eye, fiddling his fingers as he continues to stand still. I use a basic cast towards the statue. Both students turn their heads to the statue.

“Did you hear that?” the Ravenclaw asks. The Gryffindor student nods at her, readying their wands as they start walking towards the statue. I waste no time walking past them, quietly muttering alohomora before entering the library. It’s incredibly expansive, as it should be for a school as ancient as Hogwarts. The only problem is trying to find the book I’m looking for. Thankfully, the librarian is nowhere to be found.

[foxtophat]

HEY HEY HEY!!!!  hey guys. haha. um, idk what to say exactly and tumblr likes to eat my posts so lets see how long this lasts:

its’ only been a couple months but i have been frothing at the mouth trying to figure out what next part of mercy to put out. i have a lot of much bigger stories to tell than this one, but kim and john sharing insomnia felt sort of like the right segue into those bigger bits.  so for now, let’s just enjoy a 20k fic about Kim and John, and also a little about John and Nick, but mostly just about John and Jacob.

there are 3 chapters. i’ll post the 2nd one later this week (wednesday or friday i think) and the third will probably go up next monday.  YEAH THAT’S RIGHT i actually have most of this one finished right out the gate!!!

as usual, i’ll put the entire chapter under a readmore in case you don’t want to leave tumblr.  i hope you enjoy what i’ve got for you this time -- if not don’t worry, there will be more dramatic bullshit later :)  comments, kudos, reblogs and likes are all the things that make ficwriting more fun than it already is, so consider helping me out if you enjoy what i’m doing. otherwise, have a good day!!!

Kim's dreams are normally composed of fleeting images in dark, monochrome colors. They're howling-wind nightmares or ethereal moments of peace, but they're short-lived and she's always disconnected from them. She hasn't had a real dream in probably nine years. She used to miss them, before John Seed reappeared with all of his night terrors, just in time to remind her of how good she has it. Now, she's glad that the most she has to contest with is a looming sense of dread that fades almost as soon as she wakes up.

But tonight, Kim is a long way away from all of that. She's standing at the kitchen sink in her childhood home, which is in full summer swing. The rosemary plant her mom keeps on the sill is in full bloom, thick green spikes dotted with blue puffball flowers. Beyond it, the Canadian sky is seawater green, and Kim marvels at the fluffy clouds drifting through the unnatural color. They seem to be floating by much faster than the still air outside would imply. It should rattle her, confuse her, but before that realization sinks in, her mom's voice distracts her away.

"Do you really think he's the one?" she asks, as skeptically as she had all those years ago when Kim first decided to move to Montana. Her mother had liked Nick, of course, because he was a likable guy, but Kim had known from the start that her parents were worried about her. They'd worried about her moving to a red state, about her trusting a man she'd seen a handful of times since they'd met. They hadn't understood the idea of purple pockets or internet dating, and while they supported Kim's love of rifle showmanship, they'd never trusted Nick owning more than three guns.

"What's the point, is all I'm asking," Kim's mom laughs in response to Kim's unspoken comment. "It seems strange to collect weapons..."

"Mom, he hunts !" she chides. "And anyway, he isn't the worst one out there."

"That's exactly what I worry about," her mom says. "What if something bad were to happen? His family is gone, and we'll be so far away..."

Kim sighs, the words stinging more than they should. The aqua colored sky begins to churn outside, the light filtering through a strange red haze. Inside, the sunlight reflects off the white counters, nearly blinding Kim.

"I'll be okay," she says, reciting an amalgamation of all her old defenses as her eyes readjust. "There are a lot of good people out there. They rely on each other a whole lot more than we do here."

"I worry about you, Kimiko. That's all." Her mother sighs sadly. "You'll understand when you have kids of your own."

"But mom..."

Kim tries to tell her that she already has a kid, but she can't muster up the words. After all, shouldn't she know? Wouldn't Kim have visited? Wouldn't she have brought Carmina into this very kitchen, all the surfaces glowing with light, and introduced them? Wouldn't her mom have been there when Carmina was born?

"It's unseasonably warm, isn't it," her dad remarks at the table. He's sitting there with a magazine as if he'd been there the whole time. He, like the rest of the room, glows from the inside, as though a flashlight were shining through his skin. It shines through the wood of the table, through her mom's curious smile, until Kim has to turn her face away. The room grows hotter and hotter, and in the far-off whistling wind she hears the first lonesome wail of an air-raid siren beginning to pick up. There's a blinding burst of light and howling wind, and Kim lifts her hands to her face, desperate not to look directly at the blast —

The bedroom is dark, warm and humid. At first, Kim doesn't know where she is, struggling to sit up, desperate to run, until all at once reality comes crashing back into focus. It doesn't help that she's pinned beneath Nick's arm and Carmina's full dead-sleeping weight.

Normally, moving would be out of the question. But Kim doesn't want this dream clinging to her memory, and she desperately wants to put some space between her and the nuclear glow of her mother's smile. Hell, maybe it isn't the dream at all — maybe it's the heat that's making lying here unbearable. Maybe it's the extra weight pinning her down, or a panic attack waiting in the wings — whatever it is, she needs to get up and run from it. As she worms her way out from underneath her family, Kim can feel the pressure building behind her eyes, fueled by the need to jog out the tension that will soon become unbearable. She needs to exercise the nightmare away before it sticks around and ruins the rest of her night.

It's probably already too late for that. The back of Kim's eyes are itchy with tears as she struggles to get free. She's already memorized her mom's smile, trapped forever in radioactive amber, and that alone is enough trauma to fuel ten more terrible dreams.

Nick and Carmina remain peacefully asleep, even as Kim extracts herself from the bed. That's good — the last thing she needs to do is worry Nick, whose own sleeping habits have just started to even out. He'll try to keep her company, and they'll just wind up keeping each other up, which wasn't ideal back in the day and definitely isn't ideal now .

Even though Carmina sleeps like the dead and Nick isn't likely to hear her, Kim is careful to watch out for the creakiest steps as she heads downstairs. Sunrise isn't for a few hours yet, but Kim isn't going to let that stop her from insomnia-pacing around her own home. It used to be that Kim would jog laps on the runway to clear her head, but that isn't going to work nowadays. She still wants to, of course; she's desperate to step out into the relatively cool night air and run herself ragged enough to pass out again, but that's out of the question. She's not about to break her own rule.

It's only once Kim is downstairs that she starts to relax, lighting one of the candles left out on the table. The light is just barely enough to see by, and Kim struggles to find something to clean up or organize in the half-dark. All of the coping mechanisms that got her through eight years of bunker living have fallen flat in the face of the apocalypse, but that doesn't keep her from trying them over and over again. Some techniques are more adaptable, but it isn't like she can dig into reorganizing the hangar for Nick at... whatever time it is now. Not without somebody catching her breaking her own rules about going outside alone.

If she had any books worth reading, she could throw herself into that, but she can't bear the manuals and children's books right now. Maybe if there was a radio station she could listen to... but no, she wouldn't want to risk burning out the radio after everything Nick and John went through to fix it. There's not going to be another Hail Mary when it comes to that kind of repair.

Her mom would probably use this time to make a series of endless lists. Grocery lists, to-do lists, lists of pros and cons for buying new appliances or inviting Kim's awful step-grandmother to her wedding... there was nothing that her mom couldn't organize into a column of bullet points or check-boxes. Kim could probably do with a few lists herself, but where is she supposed to get the paper? And even if a supply list wouldn't be a waste of resources, where would she go to fill it? It's going to be a while before they can pick up flour from the farmer's market again, that's for sure.

Well, at least wasting some paper will keep her mind busy. There's too much stuff they need, and she's going to drive herself crazy trying to remember all of it. Anyway, they've been using decades-old junk mail to prop up the radio desk — it can't be wasted if it was already trash, right?

She's careful in her search for a decent piece of mail, not wanting to tip the radio over as she jimmies a yellowed envelope from under the desk. It's only once she's back at the table with a worn-down nub of a pencil that she finds herself hesitating. After all, what is she supposed to write? What could they reasonably expect to get out here, with no supply chain to rely on? Everything that comes to mind is laughably improbable at best.

It doesn't really matter, though, does it? They're probably not going to be able to find anything besides what they can hunt and grow for themselves, so any food she writes down will be wishful thinking. John had offered to help their scavenging efforts, but it isn't likely they'll find working walkie-talkies or a new car. People who have been above ground longer than the Ryes have already taken over key resource points, and they'll be hard-pressed to give up things without a fair trade. And until they can reliably communicate with one another, trading is going to be nearly impossible. One day, maybe, they'll have trading posts and reliable supply chains, but like other pieces of their fractured society, that's not coming for a long time yet.

Staring at a blank piece of paper is worse than writing something stupid down, and so Kim quickly scribbles the word flour across the top of the envelope. She can't imagine that's going to be a reasonable expectation for a while, but at least it's on paper ��� and it's outlandish enough that it encourages her to continue, her thoughts darting between impossible dreams and honest reality. Salt , she thinks might not be quite as hard to find. Sugar, probably impossible. For now, they can hope for honey instead.

It goes on like that, growing more abstract as Kim lets herself dream. Milk, eggs, bread, twinkies , meat grinder, hamburgers, tomatoes, grains (seeds), grill (charcoal), gas, gas canisters (storage), duct tape, insulation foam (spray, sheet), toilet cleaner, toilet, hot water, plumbing, bathtub! , tarp, doors, ammunition, floodlights, security system, cans + string (security) —

Her flow is interrupted by a soft, distant thud somewhere upstairs. Kim listens for a few tense seconds, waiting to hear boots on the roof, the hiss of a walkie-talkie, or the slide-click of a gun being cocked. Without the cult, those fears go unrealized, and Kim slumps tiredly into her seat. She's just as paranoid about armed cultists tonight as she is about wild animals, although she's sure that's just her nightmare talking. Eden's Gate is nowhere near the threat it used to be.

The relief is short-lived, as is her solitude, when she hears an upstairs door click shut, followed by the sound of quick footsteps on the landing. The house is too old for any real attempt at stealth, but John tries to avoid the worst offending stairs on his way down. He only realizes Kim is there when he notices the candlelight, coming to an abrupt stop on the last step, one hand clutching the banister tight.

He's sweaty and out of sorts as he wipes his limp hair out of his face. "Oh," he rasps. "Kim."

He's surprised to see her. Kim should be surprised, too — it's one thing to know that John wanders the house at night, but it's another to see it happen in real-time. Honestly, she's barely phased by his appearance. John's sleep schedule has been bunker-erratic ever since Nick brought him home, and no amount of diurnal activity has managed to change it. If anything, Kim suspects he gets less sleep now than he did underground. It isn't for lack of trying, she's sure, but this isn't the first time she's heard him stumbling around in the dark. It's just the first time she's been in the same boat.

"Late night?" she asks.

John struggles once more with the hair in his eyes before giving up. "Just needed some air," he rasps, minding his volume. "Some water."

"Don't mind me," she replies, surprising herself with her own ambivalence. Knowing he moves around while they're sleeping is one thing, but seeing it should be upsetting. It should bother her when he avoids creaky floorboards on his way to help himself to their fresh water. It should make her angry to see him using their resources; at the very least, it should have upset her back when it began normalizing. But, honestly, it hadn't. Kim had just been relieved to see John acting like a person, and not just a haunted shell.

John wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, regarding Kim with deep uncertainty that Kim mostly makes out from his hunched shoulders and tense posture. He tries to hide just how lost he is, but Kim never misses it when he slips. It's not that she's sympathetic towards him, exactly, but she knows just enough about his history to want to pity him.

He doesn't speak, not even after the silence stretches out. Maybe he's waiting for her to make the first move?

The thought almost makes her laugh, but she still cuts him some slack. "Can't sleep either, huh?" she asks.

"Hardly ever," John replies, although he clearly isn't looking for reassurance. He takes a step away from the kitchen, hovering in the nebulous space between the table and the stairs. He's usually quick to leave Kim alone — quicker than he is with Nick, anyway — and so she appreciates the fact that he doesn't run now.

His voice cracks on its low pitch as he haltingly asks, "What are you doing?"

For just a second, Kim imagines giving John the cold shoulder and telling him it's none of his business. But the thought fades as quickly as it comes; it's replaced by the knowledge that John is just as dependent on the family's supplies as she is. Anything she needs, he'll also need. And besides, she's almost positive he'd been in control of the cult's supplies, which means he might have an idea of what they should realistically be looking for. He would know what the cult had planned to do, and she could probably translate that into useful advice.

"Just making a list," she sighs. It sounds stupid enough to make her wince, and she concedes with a joke, "You know, for the next time we're at Wal-Mart."

John huffs in amusement and approaches the table. Now that she's got an audience, Kim wants nothing more to do with the list, and so she pushes towards him before slumping back into her chair. Instead of the quick, distracted glance she had been expecting, John leans over to read it in full. The longer he reads, the more embarrassed Kim is of her late-night daydreaming, but he finishes with the list before she can grab it back.

"Some of these are... more manageable than others," he says, using the same kind of diplomacy he utilizes whenever Nick makes a particularly dumb comment.

"Uh, yeah ," she says, embarrassed even if she isn't surprised. "I know. It was just... taking up space in my head. I needed to write it down, otherwise, I'm going to be up all night."

Kim runs her hand through her hair, waiting for John to retreat as quickly as he'd arrived. Instead, John rereads the list once more. Kim can see his amusement much more plainly as he leans into the candlelight. It highlights the deep bags under his eyes as well, but who isn't carrying that particular mark of exhaustion these days?

"Ammunition isn't as high on the list as I'd imagined," he comments.

"We're okay on bullets for now," she replies. "And it's not like there's much to spare."

Whether or not that satisfies John, Kim isn't sure. He only hums in response, eyes roaming down the paper.

"I see you didn't bother to add more guns."

"We don't need more guns," Kim insists, although it's not strictly true. She's just hesitant to overwhelm the house with firearms. They've been getting on just fine with what they have — any more, and they might turn into a target themselves. One day, sure, they'll need to find something for Carmina to carry on her own, but that day is a long, long way away.

She doesn't need to explain herself to anyone, let alone John Seed, but as he watches her and waits for more, she feels compelled to justify herself. "I don't think we're going to find spare guns or ammunition just lying around, and I'm not about to take them by force. We've managed just fine with what we have."

"For now," John points out. "Things could change. It won't stay this calm forever."

"Why not?" Kim retorts, feeling childish and petulant as soon as the words leave her mouth. "Why do you even care? You're certainly not getting armed."

John clicks his tongue against his teeth. "It's not that," he says, only to abruptly roll over with a muttered, "Never mind."

If John thinks he can avoid the conversation that easily, he has another thing coming. "No, what is it?" she asks.

"It's nothing," he sighs, as if arrogantly dismissing her will keep Kim from pushing. When Kim only frowns unhappily back at him, he reluctantly relents. "Joseph had said taking your weapons was the only way we could ensure you wouldn't use them after the Collapse. And if we didn't lock them away, it would be all you would look for." He stares at the list, although Kim imagines his thoughts are about fifty miles away. "It's stunning how wrong he was about everything. But there are reminders everywhere."

John rarely speaks about Joseph; Kim hasn't heard him broach the subject of his own volition before. The only person who ever talks to him about his brother is Jerome, and those conversations are private and short. Having John bring him up with almost no needling feels like a step forward, even if it's only a small one. Even though John is anxious saying Joseph's name.

It's so easy to forget how much control Joseph had over John. Kim has to make a concentrated effort now and again to remind herself that Joseph hadn't only brainwashed normal, desperate people, but his own family. She can't imagine doing anything to Carmina or Nick that would turn them into the angry, anxious mess John had been even before the Collapse. Not even if it meant they would always do what they were told and would trust her implicitly. She couldn't bear it if Nick ever talked about her the way John talks about Joseph. It's late enough that Kim finds herself wondering how Joseph can even sleep at night.

"It's stupid," John says, taking Kim's contemplative silence as disapproval. "I should have known better."

He inhales, letting out a shaky breath, and closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they're suspiciously shiny in the candlelight. It sparks a genuine pang of sympathy in Kim, but there's nothing she can say or do to help him. Nothing she's done so far has made an impact.

"Some of this is reasonable enough," John says, desperately trying to redirect the conversation back to the list. It's an obvious, flat-footed attempt to avoid a tender spot in his psyche, but Kim is willing to let it slide.

"Sure, eventually . But we're a long way off from hot baths and backyard barbecues, much less flour and sugar."

"Those are... less reasonable," he admits, dragging his finger across one of the harder to come by items. Still, he isn't nearly as deterred as she is. "But not everything is impossible to come by. Insulation, for one. Tarp, duct tape. Components like that should be easy enough to find." He taps his finger against the envelope. "And there still places to investigate. Root cellars nobody bothered to touch. Caches you never found. Things hidden in places you wouldn't know to look, especially if you weren't in the Project."

Frowning, Kim rereads a few of the items upside-down from her side of the table. "It's been almost nine years," Kim points out, reluctant to get her hopes up so easily. "Isn't it more likely that everything good has already been discovered?"

Still... John's mentioned secret Eden's Gate supplies before. Given the size of the project and how long they were operating in the county, it's not impossible that some of their hidden stashes haven't been found yet. And they were planning for the apocalypse, right? They'd likely have saved things that could last for a long time. John isn't wrong — more ammunition and more weapons would be helpful. At the very least, they could help arm other survivors.

"It wouldn't hurt to have a look, I guess," Kim relents after thinking it over. "How good is your memory?"

That earns her a rare, quiet chuckle from John. "Middling to poor," he admits, "Although if I had a map, it would help. It would make it easier to mark what I remember."

"To think, it only took nine years and an apocalypse for you to finally hand over the intel."

John huffs, but his response is only mildly offended. "Do you want what I have to offer, or not?"

"Don't be like that," Kim says, placating him with a smile. "It would be a big help. It'll help me sleep better, anyway."

It seems there's more on John's mind than Kim teasing him, since he takes the non-apology and moves on without a fight. "Jacob had caches buried for after the Reaping," he says. "They'll most likely be weapons, but he was... hard to read. It could be that he stored survival equipment in one. There were a few in the valley, but most of them would be in the mountains."

Kim shakes her head at that. "As far as I've heard, nobody's made it very far north. And the stories I have heard aren't good. The dam broke, so a lot of the area is flooded, and supposedly the radiation is still pretty bad."

John hums briefly as he considers the facts. He leans contemplatively over the list, and for a moment Kim wonders if this was a common occurrence for him before the Collapse. How many late nights did he spend bent over a map while his brothers watched and waited for his decisions? She has to suspect it was a lot, because this is the first time she's seen John look even remotely confident.

That confidence is clear in his voice as he remarks defiantly, "I suppose the valley will do until we get airborne again. Let flooding stop us then ."

"Oh, okay," Kim laughs, checking her volume before she lets her amusement wake up the rest of her family. "You are just like Nick. Neither of you are going to give up until you get back in the sky, huh?"

"Exactly," John replies. "I won't trust anybody else to do it. Realistically, a helicopter would be the best option..."

"Oh, right," Kim chuckles. " Realistically ."

John taps accusingly at the list and raises an eyebrow at her. "Less realistic than hot water and iodized table salt?"

If Kim didn't know better, she might think that John is actually teasing her. He normally saves that kind of attitude for Nick, who prefers arguing through and around problems. Kim, on the other hand, rarely has the energy to deal with avoidance tactics, and so she tends to demand his sincerity. Thankfully, the liminal time of just-about-three has softened her stance on the matter.

"Okay," she relents with a smile. "Sure. Might as well add helicopters to the list." It would be a pretty big get for them, all things considered. And anyway, John's right — Kim wouldn't trust flying in a plane jury-rigged together by anyone other than Nick.

But that's a resource that will come in the nebulous future, and Kim's too realistic to worry years in advance right now. There are more pressing concerns to deal with, first — like food, water and security. Any caches John can find will at least fulfill one of those priorities, although Kim can't imagine the cult storing anything other than ammunition and weapons. But even if the caches don't pan out, they might find valuable scrap, like logs for firewood, furniture they can re-purpose, or even old survivalist caches that nobody thought to dig up after the world ended. And now that there are four of them, Kim won't feel so uncomfortable when Nick wants to drive to the middle of nowhere looking for supplies.

Kim sighs with relief, feeling a weight roll off her back that she hadn't been trying to remove. "Things will be a lot easier if you can help us with supplies. And I'll feel better about Nick going out if he has somebody to watch his back."

John pulls the same face he usually makes when someone implies they trust him. Kim could ignore it — after all, John doesn't need to believe they trust them for it to be true. Too bad for him, it's too late at night for her to turn a blind eye. "Oh, get over it," she tells him, unable to help a lopsided smile at his offended scowl. "I seriously doubt you're planning on murdering us at this point. And I know Nick is smart enough to knock the crap out of you if he thinks you've changed your mind."

"I won't," John immediately replies.

Kim believes him, if only because there's nobody left for John to rely on other than them. "Good. Because if I can trust you, that means I won't worry about Nick when he decides to go farther than town. It means we can spend more meaningful time with Carmina, too. Anyway, Nick likes bossing you around, and you like being bossed around, so everybody wins."

John ducks his head, embarrassed, but Kim laughs to let him know she's only teasing. "Seriously," she says, relenting for his benefit, "It does help. It's good to have somebody else to rely on."

"I... want to be helpful," John replies, although Kim suspects that he might be confusing his wants and needs again. It's not quite a compulsion anymore, but even John's most heated attempts to argue about a job end with him rolling over quick. He hasn't outright refused to do something, and Kim doesn't think he ever will, if only to prove to himself one more time that he might actually be capable of change.

It might get annoying one day, but for now, Kim can respect his intense desire to make amends. She just wishes he would accept some form of gratitude or praise in return, to make it less awkward on her end.

Kim rests her hands momentarily on the tabletop, tapping her fingers briefly against the wood. "Okay," she softly declares, "I think I'm going to try to get back to sleep." Whatever she winds up dreaming about now, she's pretty sure it won't be the same awful nightmare again — and that's at least partially because of John's intervention. She figures it's worth telling him as much. "You made a pretty good distraction, so thanks."

He nods immediately in response. "Of course," he replies, momentarily bewildered as he checks Kim's expression for signs of sarcasm or annoyance. His posture relaxes as Kim stands, although Kim imagines his relief is temporary. He's pretty good at working himself up into anxious frenzies — staying out of them is another matter entirely.

"Try to get some sleep yourself, okay?" Kim suggests.

There's no way John means it when he says, "I will," but at least he's willing to placate her instead of getting mad at her being concerned in the first place.

"And try not to wake up Carmina."

John nods affirmatively. Kim's positive that he'll sneak outside once she's gone upstairs, but at least he's waiting patiently for her to leave. If it weren't for her returning exhaustion, Kim might've used him as an excuse to do her own late-night workout, but it'll have to do to merely turn a blind eye to him edging around her rule about going out after dark alone. Kim and Nick have both been woken up by the exterior doors, but John never goes beyond the planters out back, and he always closes up when he comes back in. Kim could call him out on it, but... well, it seems like he needs the freedom.

Kim says goodnight and is mildly surprised when John returns it without any lingering sarcasm. He must be pretty tired, but that's not really a surprise. Hopefully, he'll try to take some of her concern to heart, or at least pretend for her sake.

Although Carmina is definitely still asleep when Kim returns to the bedroom, Nick is watching her with bleary-eyed curiosity. He waits until she's closed the door to speak up, and even then it's a dull, quiet whisper.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

He doesn't mind waiting for Kim to creep back to bed before she answers. "It is," she tells him, gratefully crawling into bed as he opens his arms for her. He folds his arms over her shoulders, letting her wiggle into a comfortable spot before she explains in a whisper. "I needed to move around, and John came downstairs. That's all."

"Hope he wasn't a creep," Nick mumbles into her hair. Kim sighs laughingly into his collarbone, which is already sticking to her cheek with sweat. There's no way she's going to be wrapped up in Nick's arms all night, not when it's this hot, but she'll appreciate it while she's got it.

"Not yet," Kim says. "Just talking about supplies." She presses a kiss to Nick's shoulder and whispers, "We'll talk about it in the morning."

Nick hums happily into Kim's hair. "Sounds good to me," he mumbles. The less they talk about John Seed, the better, after all. Especially right now, when they're tangled up in bed with their daughter snoring next to them; there's no room for serious conversation, and there's absolutely no room for John. There's no space for the nightmares that woke her, either; as Kim falls asleep, Nick's hand tangled up in her hair, she thankfully forgets everything save for a warm, melancholy amber glow.

[bittysvalentines]

growing on me

From: @poindextears

To: @starryeyed-cat

Rating: T, for allusions to sex but nothing on-page

Hi lovely person! There's a part 2 to this fic, because apparently I'm out of control. When I see it go up on ao3 on the 14th, I will send you the link via tumblr. Until then, here's part 1! I hope you enjoy this fluff :)

May

The best thing about the new apartment is that there’s a garden behind the building.

It’s not the main reason Will chose to move here, exactly. But it did have some bearing on his decision. His old apartment was tiny, on the fourth floor of the complex, tucked into a dark corner with poor lighting and roaches and a leaky ceiling. He couldn’t so much as keep a houseplant alive in that place, much less any good spirits.

But for two years after college, it was all he could afford at his entry-level salary. His raise last fall put him in a better spot, and it led to this— renting out the bottom floor of a small house on the southwest side of Boston. The landlord says there’s another tenant moving in upstairs in about two weeks, but for now, Will enjoys the peace and quiet, the building all to himself. It has actual windows and floor space and sanitation that would pass inspection.

And… a garden out back.

It’s not the most lush thing in the world. If he could even call the area out back a backyard, it’s right in the center, amidst dingy grass full of brown patches that could use a proper irrigation system. The thing itself is a square patch of dirt, not the best soil but something he can definitely work with. It’s no more than ten feet across.

It’s not much. But if working in Boston means he can’t have the forest or the wide open sea or the yard his parents worked so hard to upkeep around the house he grew up in… then he can have a little garden.

So he resolves to bring the thing back to life.

*

It’ll be a vegetable garden, he decides, just like Ma always plants by the shed in the summer, because if there’s one thing that’s nice, it’s not having to buy your produce. He can envision it now— tomatoes on the left, cucumbers and summer squash under them, snap peas in the center, maybe autumn squash or pumpkins on the right side in a few weeks.

It’s the perfect summer project. When you spend all day working in front of a computer, a little dose of the outdoors in the afternoons is a nice balance.

He plants on a Saturday afternoon, donning his old work boots and a backwards snapback and stationing himself out back with Shep, who ambles around enjoying the mellow sun and napping on the patchy grass.

Shep is an Australian shepherd, or at least that’s what Will is pretty sure he is. Will adopted him by accident, after finding him on the street. His old apartment was no place for a dog, but he couldn’t stand to turn him into the shelter. It was another factor in his wanting to move out as soon as possible.

He’s shaking cucumber seeds into his dirt-stained hand when Shep lets out a little bark, not so much an alert noise but a happy one. Will grins as he hears him trot by, towards the house, and doesn’t look up from his seeds. “What’s up, Shep?”

But then, a voice. “‘Sup, doggy.”

Will whips his head over his shoulder, fearing for a moment that someone is trespassing on the property, but almost immediately he remembers the sounds of people going up and down the stairs this morning. The second tenant has moved in.

And here he is. After giving Shep a pat on the head, he makes his way across the yard and stops a few feet away.

“Oh, chill,” he says, laying eyes on Will for the first time. “Is this garden spoken for?”

Oh, no.

He’s beautiful.

He’s tall, probably about Will’s size, and looks his age, too. He has light-brown skin that makes his lavender t-shirt look bright, and he wears a floral snapback atop an undercut that ends in floppy, dark curls. He has a jawline that could cut glass, and both of his arms are covered in sleeves of tattoos, mostly of what look like flowers.

He’s… holy shit. Will is not mentally equipped to process this right now. He’s not sure he’s ever seen a prettier man in his life.

It only occurs to Will after what must be a slightly awkward few seconds that the guy has asked him a question, though. Is this garden spoken for? He tries to clear his throat, like he hasn’t just been staring blankly for the past several moments. “Some of it is.”

“Are you…” The guy pauses to scratch behind his neck, which is really not fucking fair, because it means he has to flex his tattooed arm. And he’s, um. He’s jacked. “... planning on using the some of it that isn’t?”

Will really hopes his face isn’t red. He weighs the implications of what the guy is asking, surveys the part of the garden he’s reserved for squash. If this guy wants to use the garden… so much for squash.

“I mean,” he says finally, “not if you want to use it.”

“Oh, chill,” says the guy, strolling the rest of the way up to him. He sweeps his eyes over Will’s patches of upturned soil and empty seed packets. “What are you planting?”

Will exhales. “Vegetables, mostly.”

The guy calculates for a second, then walks around the empty side of the plot. “Are you cool if I do flowers on the other side?” He spreads his hands out over the space like he can already imagine it. “Wildflowers, a trellis or two, maybe a rosebush.”

Truthfully, Will is not ‘cool’ with this. He doesn’t want to share the garden. He especially doesn’t want to share the garden with a beautiful hipster man who wears floral snapbacks and has sleeve tattoos. He wants to plant squash. He was not informed that his new neighbor was, apparently, also a gardening person, not to mention the most beautiful man in Boston.

As much as he wants to say no, he’s not cool with it, he also knows that there’s this thing called common human decency, and that they’re both tenants on the same house, and that, unfortunately, this garden technically belongs to both of them.

“That’s fine.”

The guy grins. His smile, infuriatingly, is just as gorgeous as the rest of him. His eyes are light— green or hazel, maybe. “Chill.”

Will is pretty sure he’s said chill three times in the past five minutes, which is way too many times.

The guy kneels at the edge of the dirt. Shep, meanwhile, lies down next to the spot he’s chosen, among Will’s empty seed packets. Will pauses for a second, and he wonders if the guy will leave without entertaining further conversation. When he’s still looking at the garden after a moment, Will’s curiosity (and gay frustration) gets the better of him. “Are you the other renter?”

“Oh— yeah, sorry; yeah, I am,” he says, then adds, “I’m Derek. I just got here this morning.”

“Yeah, I heard you moving your boxes,” Will replies. “I’m Will. I live downstairs.”

Derek reaches to pat Shep on the head. “Is this your dog?”

“Yeah, that’s Shep.” Will pauses. Shep closes his eyes as Derek scratches his ears, like it’s an incredibly zen experience. Will adds, as if it were not obvious, “He’s friendly.”

“Hey, Shep.” Derek smiles. He has nice hands. “You’re a fluffy guy.”

Quiet falls in the backyard for a moment. Will mourns the loss of his prospective future squash. Derek smiles vaguely at the stolen patch of dry dirt.

“Well,” he mumbles. “I should probably get unpacking, but hey, it was nice to meet you.” He stands up, and when he smiles at Will, Will feels his stomach do an entire acrobatic routine. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, uh—” Will clears his throat again. He really really really hopes he’s not blushing. “You, too. Nice to meet you.”

Little does he know that this is only the start.

*

June

Derek plants in, like, four stages.

Will doesn’t understand his process, but he keeps seeing him outside, walking back and forth between the staircase that leads down from his apartment to the garden. He plants from seed, like Will does, except for this one time he carries a mini rosebush across the yard and puts it in the corner next to Will’s tomatoes. He puts a little wire trellis in the center, and his saplings start popping up about a week after Will’s do.

Will successfully avoids talking to him for a little while, aside from the occasional hello when leaving for work in the morning or when their watering times overlap. This is good, because avoiding talking to Derek means avoiding doing something stupid and embarrassing himself.

Then, one warm afternoon in early June, he lets Shep out and sees him go straight up to Derek, who’s watering his rosebush.

Will sighs from his open window. He could use to water anyways.

“Hey, Will.” Derek waves when he approaches, and Shep, thankfully, turns back from the enemy’s side to bound up to Will. “‘Sup?”

“Not much.” Derek is wearing a sun hat and Birkenstocks, and his curls blow in the gentle breeze. He’s ethereal, like a male Persephone. “Just came down to water.”

Will cringes at himself. Of course he’s here to water. He’s holding a watering can.

“Same.” Derek grins, ignoring Will’s stupidity. Will kind of wants to die, but he starts on his cucumber and tomato mounds anyway.

Just be calm. Be cool. He’s just a hot neighbor.

“So, new neighbor,” Derek says, all bravado. “I feel incomplete. I’ve shared a garden with you for two weeks and I don’t know anything about you.”

Will shrugs. “You know my name.”

Derek snorts. “Okay, Mr. Technical. Where are you from?”

“Maine.”

“Like, beach Maine or middle of nowhere Maine?”

“Northern coast Maine.” Will pauses, and almost feels a pang. He hasn’t been home since Christmas, and he misses it. “Near Bar Harbor.”

“Oh.” Derek pauses, then kind of snorts again. “It’s bold of you to assume I know where that is.”

“Well, where are you from?”

“New York,” Derek says, which, really, Will should have been able to guess. “City, not state. I just moved up here.”

“Why did you move to Boston?”

“Work.” Derek pauses, then smiles at his rosebush. “I’m a magazine editor, but I just got promoted, so I relocated to the main office up here.”

“What kind of magazine?” Will asks, for no other reason but curiosity.

“Northeast Lawn and Garden.”

Oh my God. Will might be actually blushing now. “Wait, seriously?”

Derek grins. The brim of his hat casts a shadow over his face. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Of course I’ve heard of it,” he replies. “My ma has been subscribed to that magazine since, like, 1995.” And so have I, since I moved out, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

Derek laughs into the blue sky, and it’s a sweet sound. “Hey, that’s chill. I’m glad she enjoys it.”

There’s a brief quiet between them, and Will could choose this moment to leave. His watering is technically done— the garden is so small that it’s low-maintenance— but there’s something about Derek that keeps him, something enticing that wills him not to go just yet.

Besides, it’s not like he has anything better to do.

So when Derek asks, “So what do you do?”, he keeps the conversation going.

*

July

The drive from home in Maine to Boston is long.

Four and a half hours, actually, and although he gets up bright and early at his parents’ house to come home this morning, it doesn’t go by any more quickly than it has in the past. He’s been visiting for the Fourth of July, and even though his brother and a few of his cousins can be prejudiced assholes, he loves his parents, and it feels nice to be home, to be someplace not quite so lonely.

When he and Shep get back to the apartment, it’s high noon, and Derek is outside in the garden.

Will discovers this because he goes to water his plants. They’re getting bigger every day, flourishing in the summer heat, but they’re also super thirsty all the time. Derek is in the same boat— he’s put in wildflowers and a hydrangea and his rosebush and his climbing things. The garden is a tangled mess, and it’s full of weeds.

Except the thing is… Derek is outside today, and… he has no business looking as good as he does.

His shirt, for starters, is a tank top, which leaves little to the imagination when it comes to his arms with all their muscle and ink. He’s also in running shorts, and his weird sun hat, and his skin shines in the sun, and he’s… he’s a lot.

Will has talked to his neighbor, has gotten to know him a little when they’re both out here gardening at the same time. He has managed not to let his annoyance about sharing the garden be his guiding principle with regard to their interpersonal relationship. But still… Jesus fucking Christ. Derek is too much for him to handle.

He pulls his window open, and Derek seems to hear the sound, because he looks up from his flowers and waves.

“Will!” He smiles. “Hey, welcome home, dude! How was Maine?”

“It was fine.” Will pauses, tries to steady himself and maybe not just gape at the fact that he looks so fucking hot oh my God stop being such a gay disaster please focus. “How was your week?”

“Super chill.” Derek stands and steps back from the garden. “Hey, you should come down here. You have a ton of flowers on your tomato plant.”

Shep paws at the door that leads to the backyard, as if to accentuate Derek’s invitation.

You know what? Fine. He needs to water anyway.

*

That’s it. Will is going to kill his neighbor.

Derek may be beautiful, but sharing this garden is not working out. Will’s beloved snap pea plants, having climbed the trellis, are starting to choke out before they bear actual snap peas. And the reason is that Derek’s sweet pea flowers are wrapping around them, turning them brown, tearing the life out of them.

“Derek!”

Derek pokes his curly head out the window of his apartment. “Are you seriously yelling at me from the backyard?”

Will whirls around on his heel. “Your sweet peas are choking out my snap peas!”

Derek snorts. “You’re the one whose plants hijacked my trellis, bro.”

“But they’re—” Will sifts through the plants gingerly, tries to distinguish between the flowered plant and the vegetable one. “They’re dying!”

“Uh, ch’yeah, because you’re encroaching on their territory.”

“The snap peas are dying, not the sweet peas.” Will lets out an anguished sigh. “And the plants were so big—”

Derek, in his window, leans his cheek into his hand. He looks like a noblewoman in a play, in her castle while her suitor confesses his love from the streets below. “Looks like this garden just ain’t big enough for the two of us, Poindexter.”

Will groans again. “You’re an asshole,” he says. While Derek laughs at him from above, he points at him menacingly. “And if my peas die, I’m blaming you for it.”

“I’ll happily take the blame,” Derek replies. “But they’re not gonna die.”

“Yeah.” Will bristles. “We’ll see.”

*

August

The peas don’t die.

Nothing does, actually. The flowers and the vegetables grow into each other, sure, but it’s more like reluctant cohabitation than beautiful cooperation. He and Derek work around each other well into the produce season, and Will vows never to agree to share the garden again. It’s a terrible idea. Derek’s flowers are everywhere, and there could’ve been so much more room for vegetables had he claimed the whole thing before he showed up.

The upside is getting to talk to him. He guesses.

Sunset is getting earlier, but tonight, Will heads out to gather tomatoes at golden hour. Derek is sitting in the grass next to his flowers, in his floral snapback, not really working in the garden but not leaving either. If anything, he’s soaking up the sun.

“Your tomatoes are huge,” Derek says, in lieu of a greeting. “They’re shading my rose.”

Will rolls his eyes and pulls a huge beefsteak off the vine. “The sun is on that side of the yard for half the day.”

“Oh, I’m impressed, not annoyed,” he replies. He looks down at something in his hands— he’s weaving a chain of his wildflowers together, by the stems.

He seems to notice Will studying what he’s doing, so he adds, “I’m making a flower crown.”

Will almost rolls his eyes again, but restrains himself. It’s exactly the kind of hippie shit he’d expect from Derek.

“Do you want one?” Derek continues. “You’d look cute.”

Will fully blushes. He yanks a tomato, hard, and nearly knocks over his entire plant and stake in the process. “No.”

“Okay.” Derek smiles, without a care in the world, and pulls his hat off to put the flower chain on his head. It looks, of course, perfect on him. “Then you can wear my hat.”

Will pauses with his hand in his cherry tomato stalk. “Beg your pardon?”

“Here.” Derek tosses him his snapback, and it lands in the grass by his feet. Then he adds, like it means nothing, “Bet it’d look good on you.”

Will has ascertained that Derek is bi— half because he has a shirt he said he got at NYC Pride that says pretty fly for a bi guy in purple, blue, and pink, and half because he flirts with Will and then pretends like he’s not flirting. Will hasn’t disclosed his sexuality yet, for this reason. For all he knows, Derek could be like this with everyone else in his life.

He’s not in the business of getting hurt by pretty boys, especially not when they share a garden and a building with him.

“C’mon,” Derek urges, still smiling. “Just try it.”

Will bends over and picks up the hat. It’s white, with florals in pink and yellow and green. When he puts it on backwards, Derek falls into the grass and whistles.

“Wow,” he sighs at the afternoon sky. “I was right.”

“I’m keeping this,” Will says, matter-of-factly.

Derek beams. His flower crown falls crooked, daisies and cosmos and nasturtium among his curls. Will wants to kiss him, but can’t and doesn’t. “Be my guest.”

*

September

It’s September, and the grass is green.

Will is picking the very last of the tomatoes off his vines. Some of them aren’t quite ripe yet, but rumor has it the season’s first frost could come tonight, and he doesn’t want to take any chances. While he’s piling them into a basket, he hears movement behind him, and he doesn’t even have to turn to know Derek is there.

“Hey, Will.”

“Hi.” Will pauses. The tomato he pulls next is completely green. “How’s it going?”

“It’s chill.” Derek sidles up next to him and investigates the tomatoes. Today, he’s in a cardigan, like he’s anticipating the cold. “Taking the last of the goods?”

“Yeah, I have to,” Will replies. “Or else the frost’ll get ‘em.”

“I know what you mean.” Derek gazes at his end of the plot. “I cut my last few bouquets earlier.”

Will glances at him sideways. “Do you, like, give them to people?”

He shakes his head. “No one to give ‘em to.” He pauses. “There’s one on my desk at work, then two in my apartment.” He folds his arms and looks at Will’s basket of green tomatoes, then meets his eyes and adds, “You could have one, though. If you wanted.”

Will chuckles. “I’m okay.”

“Well, the offer stands if you change your mind.”

Derek stands with him while he finishes gathering the tomatoes. He picks them slowly, like dragging out this small task will maximize on the time Derek chooses to spend with him before they both retreat into their apartments again.

Like always.

“So your last harvest,” Derek says. “Are you sad?”

Will shrugs. “No. Seasons change every year.”

“Yeah, I like the fall,” he replies, then nudges his arm a little as they walk back toward the building. “But hey, this might mean we won’t see as much of each other.”

“We live a floor away from each other,” Will mumbles, which. Are they friends? He’s pretty sure they are. They’ve spent an entire summer bickering and chatting and bonding over this garden. Derek even flirts with him. But he’s pretty sure friends-slash-neighbors is all they’ll ever be.

“I guess.” Derek pauses. Will hoists his tomatoes under his arm, and they meet eyes, and for a moment, Derek is looking back at him and Will’s stomach is butterflies.

He opens his mouth to say goodnight. And at the same time, Derek says, “Do you… wanna come upstairs for dinner or something?”

Dear giftee, there is a part 2 to this! Stay tuned and I’ll make sure you get it.