"And then that nice young man downstairs said the dog wasn't his after all! Can you believe it? Kids these days."
"Kids these days," Blaine echoed automatically. His hands were full of roots and dirt or he might have gestured to emphasize. He was in Mrs. Humphries' apartment. Today was re-potting day, and she had knocked on his door in search of a second pair of hands. Blaine wasn't quite sure what he was actually contributing to the process, but the old lady seemed happy and a little dirt never hurt anyone.
"I think we'll put this #plant in the white pot," Mrs. Humphries decided at last. She slid the ceramic planter over to him and he carefully lowered the plant into it. Apparently just any pot of appropriate size wouldn't do. The type of plant and color of pot both influenced where it could go in the tiny apartment. The criteria were a mystery. He wondered absently if Mr. Humphries had often sat at this same table while his wife puttered about, trying first one pot and then another in the various spots.
"So does he still talk to Mabel then?" Blaine had heard the name somewhere in the last story and it seemed like a fairly safe follow-up question.
"He does! They see each other quite frequently as a matter of fact. Three weeks ago I caught them..."
She was off again, and Blaine disassociated once more. It was strangely cathartic, almost meditative. He stared at the curl of a fallen leaf, his mind drifting back to the action of the last few days. Ever since he'd contracted with Vytke the matches had been different. Long guns introduced the first real role influence in the game. He'd been doing all right for himself, but players at Silver didn't play nearly as aggressively and he was forced to be more selective about his opportunities.
A clink of ceramic brought him back to himself. Mrs. Humphries had set a steaming cup in front of him. He blinked up at her, and saw her eyes were soft.
"My Cole was in the war," she explained gently. "Drink your tea. Don't mind me."
He wiped his hands on a towel and sipped cautiously. Damn, he'd really been out of it if she'd had time to boil water. He hadn't lost himself like that in a while. The doctors had said it was some sort of PTSD, that his brain would sometimes just lose track of time. One had compared it to a stripped gear in a transmission. Either way, it was annoying. "Sorry," he said automatically. "Sometimes I just..."
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"It happens to the best," she said firmly. "You know, my Cole never so much as raised his voice to me, but one day he was taking a nap on the couch and I went to shake him awake, and he knocked me clean out before he knew where he was. Poor man was mortified but I told him it was completely understandable. From then on I always just called his name and he'd sit right up."
Blaine had had quite a few bad wake-ups himself. He'd never hit anyone, but Mr. Humphries's war had been a bad one and he didn't blame the deceased for being twitchy.
"I never went into combat zones," he admitted. "I was an MP who went into #criminal investigations. It wasn't even close to war."
"My grandson is a deputy sheriff, so don't think you can fool me," Mrs. Humphries sipped at her own tea. "You might like him. He'll come by for the holidays."
"Redheaded kid? Six one, two-forty? I think I ran past him last year. That's your grandson?"
"Yes, my daughter married a Midwestern farmer," Mrs. Humphries smiled proudly. "He says he doesn't even have to fight, he just asks nicely and they hop in the back of the car for him."
Blaine laughed at that mental image. Yeah, the kid had been built. "He's a very pleasant young man. You must be proud."
"Oh, I am.... but here I go again. You're probably tired aren't you? Let me take that."
Despite his protests Mrs. Humphries loaded him up with zucchini bread and scooped up one of her smaller ferns. He eyed the plant nervously as she walked him to his apartment. Sure enough, she breezed through his door and set it on the counter. "You need some color," she declared firmly. "It's good for a man to smell some fresh things now and then. You know they filter the air."
"Ma'am, thank you, but you really don't have to..."
"Nonsense," she cut him off firmly. "This one was an extra cutting I needed to rehome. You're doing me a favor. Leave it there and water it twice a week. Don't overdo it."
Blaine surrendered helplessly and bade her good-bye. His apartment probably hadn't seen flora since the last time they'd painted over the mold. He swiveled his chair around and studied the interloper. One could assume it was healthy, there were plenty of green bits at least. But his counter now looked a little empty. Before it had been a clear workspace. Now... it needed something to balance the effect.
The box of knives was still at the forefront of his closet. Blaine dug through it. At the bottom were several random papers, the keys to his old motorcycle, and a few photos in an envelope. He pulled out the photos and started flicking through them.
He'd never been to combat zones, but he'd seen a lot of action during his time on the Special Reaction Team. His younger self grinned stupidly out of the photo, flanked on either side by hard-eyed men. This picture had been taken in Italy. He'd been stationed with the 82nd Airborne, they'd busted a couple of drug dealers on base and worked a joint op with the Italians on a human trafficking ring. Good times.
He leaned the photo against the fern's pot and promised himself to get a frame when he was out next.