Archive of Our Own

It was Dear Santa's birthday today!

Tomme had been torn between gifting him a coloring book (fun, but not very productive) or a regular book (productive, but not very fun), so in the end, her choice tentatively landed on one of those color-by-number books. As she'd predicted, Bro spent an awkwardly long time explaining to Dear how they worked, which gave Tomme the perfect cue to promptly interrupt with the second gift she'd been holding on — a bag of candy! — and his eyes lit right up.

Then dimmed back when the lights turned off and his ears were assaulted by the solemn chant of the Happy Birthday song echoing off the walls. Dear was anything but stupid, though — grown enough to know that the procession would carry with it a huge cake. And so he sat through it like a trooper.

The Cleaners themselves didn't mind distracting him with excessive sweets so they could focus on the main purpose of any child's birthday: the adults getting hammered. So when the alcohol made their movements a tad too rowdy and conversations a bit too raunchy, Bro announced, very apologetically and uncertainly, that oh, would you look at the time! It was Dear's bedtime, earlier than usual! But Dear didn't seem to notice, perfectly content with retreating to his room and focusing on the gifts, away from the fussing, bustling grown-ups.

Which is how Tomme found herself at the table with Gris reaching over to refill her glass of beer — too weak for her taste, but she wasn't one to complain. Follo sat by his side, nursing the soda he'd poured into a similar glass, its chemical color a sharp contrast to the cold yellow goodness they were savoring.

It was a quiet cacophony that filled the room: the cackle of voices, the clink of bottles, the drone of a TV reporter. One glance at the screen mounted in the corner of the ceiling was all Tomme needed to decide its contents weren't worth her attention. She could've sworn she'd already seen this exact baseball replay at breakfast. And yesterday. And the day before. The channel had found its golden goose and was running it on a loop, apparently.

Still, amid the noise and clamor, an overly loud exclamation commanded her attention.

“What!!”

Tomme turned to find the next table occupied by Delmon, explaining something vigorously while gesturing wildly at the small TV — deprived of anyone's attention but his. And Tamsy's, apparently. With Delmon occupying most of the space, Tamsy perched on his seat and craned his neck at the screen with an expression that Tomme would describe as cautious curiosity. Or borderline boredom. It was hard to tell.

She could see Tamsy utter something — a question, perhaps — inaudible beneath the cheer of the celebration. What she could hear perfectly, though, was Delmon’s scandalized response:

“What? No! I just told you—” He sputtered. “Those are the basics, come on now!”

Gris chimed in from his seat, redirecting attention:

“Not everyone immediately knows how to play baseball, Delmon.”

“You did! You were a natural! Follo had caught on pretty quickly, too.” Follo rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile where he was sitting. Delmon turned back to Tamsy and lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret: “We tried gathering a group to play for our day-off once, but couldn’t find enough people for a proper session. Still, was fun enough!”

Tomme remembered. She had immediately claimed the role of umpire for herself, preferring to watch over the group and remind them of the rules. It didn't take long, however, before she got dragged in as an active participant, forcing her to stop occasionally to explain the mechanics, while still trying to keep track of her own play. It had been all over the place, but— fun, like Delmon said.

He continued talking to Tamsy:

“Next time our schedules align, you join us. How’s that sound, hm?”

Tamsy offered him an endearing smile.

“Sure thing.”

Delmon straightened up with a laugh. “I’m going to hold you to that!”

He raised his absurdly large pint for a toast, clinking it against Tamsy's branded can. The Supporters exchanged amused glances before cheerfully clinking their glasses in the same fashion, everyone taking their respective sips.

With an ahh (or rather an AARGH) Delmon clunked the heavy pint down on the wooden surface. Then, a grating scrape of a chair, a blink of an eye, and his imposing frame shifted to reign at the head of their table, like he'd always been there. Bracing against it, he launched into a thorough recollection of a story each of the Supporters had been present to witness — a ramble of “remember when— and then—” that none of them had the heart to cut short.

Following him, a presence alighted onto the vacant seat at Tomme's elbow:

“Excuse him for intruding,” came Tamsy's airy whisper, as he leaned away from Delmon and toward her.

She huffed a laugh. “Gris intruded first, so—”

Delmon slapped the table, rattling glasses.

“Tomme! Check our schedules!”

She grabbed her glass to save its contents from spilling, then groaned, slumping further into her seat. “Delmon, it's late. Can we not—”

“Come on! Bring out the ancient volumes,” he egged her on.

With a theatrical sigh, Tomme reached down for her bag. Out came the hefty binder, stuffed with tabs, color-coded sections, and handwritten notes. She flopped it on a table with a satisfying thump and flipped through it with practiced ease, scanning pages until she found what was asked for.

After she uncertainly voiced out two, maybe three possible days — and that was a strong maybe — she held up a hand to curb Delmon's growing excitement. “Don't get your hopes up, you know how rolling these schedules are!”

Boss's system was beyond comprehension, even for her.

Delmon deflated slightly, but only slightly. “We'll play something else!”

Beside her, a soft weight shifted.

“Your handwriting is impeccable.” Tamsy scrutinized the pages, voice tinged with awe. “But minuscule.”

Tomme blinked. “Eh, you know. I write all the time. Don't wanna run out of space at the wrong moment.”

He squinted, absently lowering whatever drink he'd been holding below the table, away from the delicate pages.

“Can I—?” He lifted his hand, fingers curled.

Tomme met his tentative gaze. The correct answer was no. That notebook was her baby, and she felt queasy at the thought of anyone but Corvus touching it. Not to mention the table was packed with spillable liquids and decidedly un-sober people.

But the polite answer was sure. Besides, as she pulled out the book, Tamsy didn't lean any closer. If anything, he straightened, the only one at the table not slumped against it.

So Tomme slid the notebook an inch toward him — only him. The others hadn't earned an ounce of that same trust.

She folded her arms on the table and tucked her chin into them, watching as he turned the pages. The next one was just as boring — a list of supplies that needed restocking, nothing urgent. For those moments when someone would inevitably ask her: I'm heading to the market, need anything? Tamsy scanned it briefly, then flipped further. More walls of text.

“This is where I keep the routine stuff,” Tomme mumbled. “Behind the yellow divider are my actual logs. Here.” She hooked it with her finger and flipped through a stack of pages in one go.

His expression showed exactly what she'd been looking for: Tamsy's eyebrows lifted a fraction, and he hummed in admiration, now hovering inches from the ink. There they were. Dense paragraphs of mission reports, annotated with timestamps and observations, but most strikingly — her illustrations of various trash beasts, detailed maps of locations, all refined during late nights spent hunched over her desk, as she referenced dozens of rough sketches thrown together mid-mission.

“These are photographically accurate.” Tamsy tapped one of the illustrations. “This place I definitely recognize.”

“Yep. The cliff to the north. Where there were those...”

“The trash beasts with spikes. I remember.”

Tomme hid her smug grin behind a gulp of beer. “The red divider I use for rough pages.” Tamsy's attention shifted to it as she pointed. "They're like the foundation for the final reports. Yeah, these. I never throw them out. You never know when they might come in handy. Oh, here's the spiny beast actually.” Its first rendering, done in chaotic, frantic pencil strokes, and beside it, a half-page of scribbles about its behavior and attack patterns. Tomme had nearly gone over the edge of that cliff trying to count its spikes accurately. Good thing Gris had grabbed her by the collar. Too bad he'd then lectured her for burying her face in her notebook in the middle of the battlefield. Some damn notes weren't worth her life, or so he'd said. Tomme had wanted to argue, but— fine, the battlefield was no place for arguing either.

Speaking of Gris: Delmon was now passionately discussing with him the prospect of gathering in HQ's yard later for a game of basketball. For team building, he exclaimed.

“Not tonight you won't,” Tomme couldn't help but cut in.

A warm laugh rumbled in Gris' chest. “Obviously,” he agreed, ignoring Delmon's sulking. “I don't think I'd be steady enough on my feet anyway.”

“You bet your ass you won't be,” Tomme grumbled and settled back. At least she knew that tonight Gris could be wholeheartedly trusted to shut down any bad ideas before they took root. Including her own, she thought, and took a generous gulp of the bitter beer.

She froze mid-sip when Tamsy's fingers pinched a thick stack of pages that would land him squarely in the back of the notebook.

“Ah, that's—” Her hand set the pages back down and dragged the book toward her. “That's where the more personal notes are. They're… unexciting.”

Tamsy blinked at her. “You keep your personal notes with the reports?”

Tomme tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “It's a binder. I get to reorganize everything before handing it to Corvus anyway.”

A lie. She handed everything just the way it was. Thoughtful and tidy mixed with scattered and messy. Boss never explicitly told her to keep them together, but… for some reason, she always felt like it was the correct thing to do. Like he appreciated it more that way.

Tamsy stared at her for a moment longer, then raised his hands in surrender. As Tomme began fussing with slipping the book back, he graciously turned away to tilt his can for a sip.

When she rose from below the table, a familiar chemical smell reached her nose. Everyone in the mess hall knew by now which direction to turn: the wide wall near the entrance had been left half-finished for some time, its intricate graffiti already impressive despite existing as a mere outline. Well, that was about to be fixed.

Gob dragged a spray can across the wall in confident strokes, filling the outline with vibrant color. He had sealed himself inside a world of sensation: the pungent bite of paint fumes, the bloom of color bleeding into shape, and the thump of music leaking from his oversized headphones, rendering him nonexistent to the party's chatter and clatter.

People sitting close to him started moving to farther seats. Some simply dragged their chairs and tables away from the sharp, invasive odor. Thankfully, only its lingering trails managed to reach where Tomme was sitting.

“…Hey,” Delmon raised his voice. “Hey you!” He got up abruptly and pointed an accusatory finger at some poor frail Cleaner, trying to carry three chairs at once, who was now staring back at him with a hollow, frantic alarm. “Stop right there. I'll help you!!”

He bolted toward them, sending his chair reeling in his wake. The table's residents simply watched him go with profoundly unimpressed gazes before snapping back to the decidedly more engaging artistic process.

Follo peeked from behind Gris. “Gob's totally in the zone today.”

“He really should consider putting a respirator on at least sometimes,” Tomme observed with a sympathetic wince.

“Agreed.” Tamsy fluttered his sleeve in front of his nose. “These fumes will catch up to his lungs someday.”

“You guys are babying him.” Gris raised his drink. “Gob's a whole Spellcaster, not your average artist. I bet he's got some charms in him. Pun intended.”

A cracking sound caused him to nearly drop his glass. “For crying out loud—” Gris twisted in his chair to see Delmon holding onto a table, trying to keep it steady above the ground. A table. That had been nailed to the floor. Now dangling from his hands.

The frail Cleaner added another layer to the cacophony, their clamor directed at Delmon but clearly intended for everyone within earshot: I didn't ask you to touch it! This one's on you, I ain't paying for that! Wh— I didn't ask for your help in the first place!

Gris heaved a sigh. “I'll be right back.” He took one final swig for courage and got up to stride over to the thoroughly lost Delmon.

Gob was now outlining the colors with black spray paint.

Follo stared after Gris, who raised his hands in a “calm down” gesture, then at Delmon, still wrestling with a no-longer-bolted-down table. He murmured:

“Should we—”

“No.”

The identically exasperated words left both of their mouths at once.

Follo, poor thing, darted his eyes between the two sides: Delmon serving as a solid table-holder while Gris squatted on the floor hunting for scattered nails and bolts — and whatever creepy synchronization Tamsy and Tomme had going on in their heads. With no idea where to fit himself.

Tomme blinked at Tamsy, almost offended at the unison, but he didn't react, too busy picking at the tab on his can with his thumb.

She kept sneaking glances at him while lifting her glass to her lips— only to do a double take and confirm that, yes, its bottom was so empty she could see the blurred outline of the table through it.

That view was quickly obscured by an equally blurred bottle that Tamsy hurriedly offered her with a charming smile, being all gentlemanly and shit now that Gris, the designated refiller, had wandered off.

On his side, Follo watched absently as the stream of liquid restored Tomme's glass to its familiar yellow, a frothy head forming at the top. He traced meaningless patterns in the condensation on his own empty glass.

The bottle glided in front of Tomme's face, then pivoted toward him.

“Need any?” Tamsy smiled.

“Oh, I wasn't—” A beat. “Well…” The patterns smudged as Follo gripped his glass to slide it.

Hold up. “I thought you told Gris you don't drink,” Tomme couldn't help but inquire. Follo looked like the type to drink sugary soda pop and somehow get wasted.

“No, I meant— I haven't yet, in general, but… I can? Technically.”

Tamsy, it seemed, got tired of holding the bottle mid-air, and swayed it a bit. “Well, the night's still young. With us, you're in safe hands.”

Tomme side-eyed Follo's baby-face with a look that screamed 'your call, but be sure, I will judge you' and leaned back with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

The golden eyes ricocheted between the two, back and forth, back and forth. In the end Follo pressed the glass to his chest, cheeks flushing pink. “Actually— nah. Thanks, but I… probably shouldn't,” he mumbled, shrinking slightly. “I'm not even sure I can yet.”

Tamsy's eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “Follo.” He settled the bottle in the center of the table to bring a hand to his chest. “You can't? And you were about to agree? Are you trying to make me look bad?”

The pale cheeks lost their color. “What? No! I— sorry.”

The sports commentator on TV let out a victory wail so unenthusiastic that Gob's spray can had more personality in its hiss.

Tomme caught the dimming of Follo's eyes and was reminded of Dear Santa for some reason. Maybe a bag of candy would've defused the awkwardness here too. Though, as much as she prided herself on her forethought, she hadn't assumed she'd need a second one.

Follo’s weight shifted restlessly, his entire body already angled toward the far end of the mess hall. He scrambled up. “I'm gonna go check on Delmon and Gris, be right back—” and was gone before anyone could respond.

Tomme tracked his flight and then turned to Tamsy, their eyes snapping together.

“Do you think he took it seriously?” He clicked his tongue. “I was just about to say I was kidding...”

She pointedly furrowed her eyebrows at him. “You don't say.” And, with a sigh, took a sip of the freshly refilled beer, still pleasantly fizzy. “Another cleaner down...”

“Delmon's not down.”

Indeed, he was quite vertical, serving as a stable pillar, despite buzzing with a desire to help, and holding up the humbling table. Gris crouched on the floor, screwing nuts back into place, and when he sensed Follo approaching, he turned, a flashlight clenched between his teeth. Where did he even get that? He immediately dumped a handful of nails into Follo's palm along with the flashlight of unknown origin, and Follo crouched down beside him, illuminating the work.

And then Tamsy did something that looked weirdly uncharacteristic, until she realized why. His previous posture melted as he slumped, sinking lower in his chair.

“Boring,” he drawled, tapping his chin with fingers drowsily. “Maybe I should go bother the mess staff...”

“Do as you please,” she said, still tracking the chaos across the hall. “I'm watching over these idiots."

He hunched forward, nestling his face in his hands. “That's my teammate you're calling an idiot. Should I defend his honor?”

“He lost his honor the moment he got drunk tonight.” A pause. She glanced at him, suddenly unsure. “But, uh… Sorry.”

A warm smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I was joking. And he's not drunk yet. Look at him. You'd need a barrel to bring that hulk of a man down.”

Tomme followed his gaze. The poor, battered table was finally standing upright. Gris studied it with his hands on his hips — and then waved them frantically when Delmon reached out to give it a good shake to test its stability.

“You're saying Delmon's always like this?” she asked. Now that she thought of it, she had never conversed with Delmon closely enough to get a real grasp on him. Her sense of him was purely surface-level, which, considering how much surface the man had, felt unfairly shallow.

Tamsy tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like, you know.” When he shook his head with a look of mirth — or confusion — she groaned. “You're just baiting me to spell it out for you.”

“Naturally.”

She sighed, letting the silence stretch while she found the words. The party buzzed around them.

“I dunno. Loud. That's obvious. And strong. No, what I meant is…” She thought of Delmon's presence tonight. A storm. A storm that dragged everyone into its radius. Probably wouldn't land as a nice sentiment, comparing someone to a natural disaster out loud. Still, she privately praised herself for the creativity. “He's got this very unorthodox way of bringing everyone together, I guess. By force, but it's… endearing, nonetheless.”

“It is.”

“Is that how he got you to stick around?” she tried asking. “I don't think I'd be able to have joint missions with Delmon as much as you do.” Tomme laughed, awkward and self-deprecating. “He'd drive me up a wall.”

A knowing glint flickered in his eyes. “You just can't help taking jabs at your colleagues, can you?”

She almost apologized. Then almost defended herself. A beat later, her brain caught up to his tone and whispered: he's baiting you again.

“Yeah,” she quipped, mirroring his slouch. “It's called workplace gossip. Harmless. You should try.”

He actually chirped a laugh at this.

“Fair point. Although, if anyone asks, I don't approve of gossip.”

He pursed his lips in contemplation, the labret stud poking out awkwardly, and looked at the cracked ceiling in search of a thought. “Delmon's not as intolerable as you assume him to be,” he assured her. “He's rather reserved in private, actually.”

She chuckled. “Is he now?”

“Mhm.” He shrugged. “I'm afraid he's desperate for connection. So he tries to establish it in ways others may find — what was that word you used? — 'unorthodox'.” A heavy sigh. “Which ends up leaving people disconcerted.”

Her eyes caught sight of Delmon in the distance, chatting away with Gris and Follo. At some point he'd found a replacement bottle for the pint he'd abandoned.

“They don't look too 'disconcerted' to me.”

“True. You're all impressively patient with him. I'm glad Delmon's genuinely engaging with others right now, not merely… scaring them into submission. It's a healthy distraction. I doubt I could've borne tonight had he nothing to do but get all drunk and gloomy. You know how he gets.” He snickered, his expression softening into a mellow look. “The man is far too hung up on that late wife of his.”

The natural reaction was to laugh. The words had been uttered in a joking manner, and the one uttering them laughed while doing so, and the alcohol had a way of dulling perception oh so pleasantly.

But then the meaning settled and burst any bubble of laughter that could have risen, leaving a bitter taste in Tomme's mouth. She lifted her drink to her lips to wash it away, its fizz had dissolved.

“Is he now…” she repeated, more to herself.

Right. She'd heard about that. Delmon had never shared this part of his past with them himself; Tomme had only managed to hear bits and pieces from some fellow Cleaners in low voices, before their eyes would shift away and they'd wave their hands to suggest not bringing the topic up any further. An open secret kept taboo, out of respect for the widower.

Delmon's wife had died tragically. No. The right word was murdered. By the raiders who seized their home.

So to hear Tamsy bring it up so lightly…

She shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to continue the conversation further. She should say something. Should she say something? She had no right to call him out — she didn't know the full extent of their relationship. Tamsy and Delmon seemed totally comfortable with each other. Perhaps Delmon had confided in the quieter man not as a teammate but as a friend, for the first time trusting someone enough to let them raise the topic. Or perhaps—

A hand landed on her arm, startling Tomme out of her racing thoughts. She looked up to see his piercing eyes smiling at her.

“Asleep at the wheel?” he hummed and tucked his hand back. “Gris wouldn't appreciate that. Were you even listening?”

“I was. It's just… I thought Delmon, well…”

She fell silent, trusting her eyes to convey what her brain couldn't formulate and her mouth couldn't voice. She watched him do just that: searching her gaze with measured calculation until he appeared to reach a conclusion.

“Ah.” He winced. “You didn't know.”

“No, I did.” Everyone does. “I guess I didn't realize how much he's…” Hung up. “You know.”

He shook his head with a look of confusion — or mirth — and she suppressed a groan.

“How much he's actively burdened by it,” Tomme gritted out.

“Really? Hm. Perhaps I do talk to Delmon tete-a-tete too often. To me it's so obvious. Or maybe my company softens him up enough.” He snorted lightly, amused by something. “Don't tell him I called him a softie. He'd be embarrassed.”

Delmon's carefree laughter pierced the air for a second.

Tomme's face tightened as she let out a strained laugh of her own. “Hah… Good thing he's not here, then...”

“Exactly. I can't imagine the conversations we’d be having around this table if he were. We share everything so carelessly, being teammates and all. Another round of drinks and all my embarassing stories would've been out by now.” He gave a dismissive wave of his can, making the liquid slosh heavily. “Not like I care. You're welcome to ask him whenever.”

Not interested, she thought, feeling queasily warm. She hadn't been since the start of this conversation. Besides, asking would mean admitting it had taken place at all.

“What?” Tamsy’s eyes swept over her expression. "Don't worry, he'd see you can be trusted. Considering your character and all.”

“My… character?” she heard herself ask.

“Of course,” he murmured, studying the fine print on the back of the can.

Tomme stared at his profile, hoping he'd elaborate, her brain sizzling like it was being flipped and fried. When Tamsy stared back, she dropped her eyes to her fidgeting hands, not knowing what to do with them, and almost huffed a laugh at the absurd thought that crossed her mind: she was kind of wishing she'd been fiddling with that dumbass table.

She settled on:

“I just haven't heard him bring that up. That's all.” Like a period at the end of a sentence.

Tamsy brought the can up, angling it just a fraction, and savored his sip, allowing himself a moment to consider her words. A blissful silence followed, and Tomme wistfully hoped it might stretch, until she heard a grating:

“What do you mean?”

“Tamsy!”

Delmon's voice boomed across the hall, louder than the acoustics should've allowed. They spotted him settling the full weight of his upper body on—on that goddamn table?!—cracking his knuckles, while Gris occupied the other side, warming up his wrists. Follo fidgeted behind him, serving as referee.

Were they actually about to arm-wrestle.

“The Supporters have turned against me!!”

Tamsy's head lolled back. He sighed and cleared his throat, as if raising his voice required deliberate preparation. “Coming!”

Then he gave a short laugh, leaning in toward Tomme for a final word. “Aww, see? I did say you're all patient with him.”

Tomme watched his face drift from hers as he uncoiled from his seat and pushed the chair in. There was a breath of a pause, and then:

“Hey.”

His concerned expression reappeared in her space as he leaned over the back of the chair.

“Your face is all flushed,” Tamsy cooed, gesturing to his own cheeks. “Are you feeling alright?”

Her hand mirrored his, reaching up unsteadily to touch her skin.

“I'm alright.”

“I see.” He picked up the bottle left in the center of the table, swirling it as if only now discovering its contents. He set it back with a click. “Maybe you've had one too many? Why don't you sit here for a while and rest?”

Maybe she had. That would explain the wave of nausea and dizziness that suddenly washed over her.

He flashed her one last grin before turning away.

“Call out if anything's wrong. We’ll be back soon!” His voice rang out, bleeding into the general chatter and the dying hiss of the spray can. Then, he too became a blur, ducking cheerfully out of sight behind Delmon’s massive frame.

And Tomme was left with nothing to do but observe.

A figure was hunched on the floor. Sitting on his knees so peacefully, so gingerly that the sight would evoke the kind of tender emotion only children could, had it not been a hungover grown man over two meters tall. Tentatively checking on his plants, tending to them.

Because the pulsing headache after a night of drinking had to try harder if it wanted to force Delmon to neglect his babies.

He settled under the window, cradling a potted plant, and buried the tiny holes he had filled with fertilizer in its soil. His own recipe.

As he worked, he sleepily mumbled words of praise and encouragement to the weak little shrub: that it was a fighter, a trooper, tougher than any damn Hell Guard—

A knock on the door interrupted him.

“Huh?” Delmon grunted in confusion. “It's unlocked, come on in.” And once he realized, he blossomed and barked a greeting (inducing a throb of headache in himself):

“Hey, Tamsy!”

Tamsy's eyes instinctively went to where Delmon's face should be — somewhere up near the ceiling. Then, they traveled down to the floor, where he knelt, looking up at him with a comradely smile. Tamsy returned it with his own gentle one.

“Good morning,” he hummed and closed the door behind him. Immediately his eyes squinted against the morning light — that rare hour when the rays pierced the thick clouds strongly enough to blind. They glinted off the glassed frames hanging on the wall above the bed, herbarium of various shapes and sizes. Everyone sleeping their eternal sleep, safe and sound in their glass cradles. He kept studying the wall as he sauntered over to Delmon. “Semiu couldn't reach you through the choker. We'll have work in a couple of hours once she figures out the logistics. And finishes gathering the support group.”

“Oh.” Delmon's smile dropped for a moment. Right, he was wondering what was the source of that noise interrupting his prolonged sleep. At that moment the hungover brain's suggestion to take off the constraining choker sounded absolutely reasonable. It fixed the issue, after all. “Damn bungler.” He slapped himself on the head. “I'm totally out of it after yesterday.”

“Yes, yes. Most are. She said likewise, so don't worry.” A sigh.

Then, Tamsy squatted down by Delmon and tilted his head to get a better look of whatever he was doing. “What have you got there?”

“Huh? Ah, this—!” Delmon scurried to proudly present him the potted plant. “It's been chilly lately, so I moved this little family down to the heater. Some of their leaves fell off anyway, but...” He sighed heavily. “At least I didn't spot more withering.”

He hurried to see Tamsy's reaction, but the man was staring at the shrub like he'd rather be sleeping now, eyes half-lidded and void of focus. Shit. Surely he was hungover, too. Delmon carried on with his chatter:

“I tried feeding it fertilizer, but it's hard to come across proper ingredients, you understand. Had to come up with my own recipe. That's right!” He waved his hand, chuckling. ”First, I ground up—”

“Is that one not 'chilly'?” Tamsy was looking up at the ceramic pot left alone on the windowsill. At Delmon's pause, he turned back: “Sorry, I interrupted you.”

“No! I mean, yes. That one is different, you see.” Delmon lifted one of the trooper's siblings from the floor and demonstrated its greenish glory. “These are more like saplings. Got them from the Kamuatari district. These guys are accustomed to having a shield over their heads, so an occasional shadow won't hurt. All that's left is quenching their thirst, and that's no trouble for me!” Delmon patted the jinki on his belt. “That other one, though... what can I say? Flowers are needy.”

In one fluid motion, Tamsy rose to his feet and turned his head toward the flower, observing it from a respectful distance.

Its slender stem bent under the weight of its head, framed by delicate white petals. Peering past them, one could spot a yellow core reaching eagerly upward.

“Something-something bellis, the old book called it,” Delmon continued. “I think.” Hard to say. His book was so worn and faded he could barely make out the words. And while its floral descriptions were enthralling, he'd never found much practical use for them.

“Bellis? 'Pretty'?”

"Uh— maybe? Found it during one of the missions as a mere seedling, growing right in the polluted zone. Can you imagine! I dropped everything to get it out of there! But…" He sighed. "That diva wants more sunlight than I could possibly give."

"What about the HQ roof? Closer to the light," Tamsy suggested. His hands moved toward the bloom but stopped mid-air. He looked to Delmon. "May I?"

“Of course! As for the roof...” Had it been anyone else, Delmon would've scoffed at the advice — teaching a master his craft, he'd say. “I can't risk it getting caught in a passing trash storm. The stem is thin as it is, it'll break at the slightest mishandling.”

Tamsy gripped the pot securely with his fingertips. He turned it this way and that, studying the flower's body, taking a look at its face.

“I bet that's how it wound up in that filthy soil, too,” Delmon carried on. “Discarded among the rest of the trash. Unforgivable!”

“Tsk… That is not inconceivable," Tamsy muttered, and the subtle furrow in his brow was enough to spur Delmon on:

“Right?! I'm not gonna lie... I may have gained more experience over the years, but the green guys haven't been sitting idle, either. Gotten more and more prissy on me, that’s what. It’s been tough to take care of them lately. I keep looking out the car window, but I’ve never once spotted a nice, protected patch of grass. And in my room? They just mope.” Delmon let out a deep sigh that melted into a yawn. “Welp. Least I can do is keep them alive.”

He heard Tamsy breathe a laugh through his nose.

“That's very pessimistic of you, isn't it?”

“Nah.” Delmon gave a lopsided smile. “It's just how it is. Not much I can do about it.”

“I wonder what would've grown out of it had you left it there,” Tamsy mused in that tone Delmon had never quite learned to pin down, half talking to himself, half to others.

“Nothing, really. It would've withered.”

“Dull,” Tamsy drawled. “Any other scenarios?”

Delmon didn't hesitate. “It wouldn't have been able to acclimate to the toxic soil, that’s only possible in Tori. So that's out of the question. And even if it had made it past the seedling stage, a stray piece of trash or a beast would've stomped it out.”

Tamsy groaned, though there was no bite to it. “You're so knowledgeable, it's unbearable.”

With a smug grin, Delmon tapped his forehead. “Years of experience. Why? Were you hoping for something a bit more miraculous?”

“All those years of experience and the plants still mope, you say.” He rolled his eyes fondly. “Of course I was looking for something miraculous. Is it just me, or do I believe in that grand garden of yours more than you do?”

“No point in believing.” Delmon checked the bottom of another pot. This one repurposed from a discarded plastic container, cleaned and punctured with tiny holes. No leaking: water levels just right. “I just work toward it. And I'm good at what I do.”

Tamsy sighed. “You are. Can't argue with that. Well then, you keep doing your thing and fuss over them. Meanwhile, I'll watch your back.” He held up the flowerpot, watching the fading light skim its surface. “And the surroundings.”

“You?” Delmon snorted at the image: behind his back, one wouldn't be able to see past his shoulders, let alone the surroundings.

“Yep,” Tamsy chirped. “Someone has to. You're so focused on these little—” he squinted, searching for the word before settling on Delmon's term, “—guys, you've blurred out the rest of the world.”

Delmon shrugged. “What's there to look at? Not like it's changing anytime soon.” His shrubs and flowers, though, he could actually make something out of them.

Tamsy made a noise that was almost petulant. “There you go, being a downer again. Of course it's going to change.”

Delmon tried to imagine it, but his mind drew a blank. A change like that would take more time than he could wrap his head around. Long enough to affect much, much more than just plants. And while he didn't feel old, by Cleaner standards, he was ancient.

“I probably won't live to see the change anyway,” he offered, as certain as the sky was gray.

Tamsy’s eyes flickered down to him for just a second, and Delmon expected him to argue again, but all he said was:

“Maybe.”

Then he returned his gaze to the dim light filtering through the window, leaning his weight against the sill, and the movement reminded Delmon why Tamsy had come at this hour in the first place: he was here to deliver a briefing, not discuss botany.

So Delmon used the comfortable silence to water one last tiny pot that had been patiently waiting its turn. Outside, soft footsteps and murmurs drifted from the corridor as people slowly started their day.

Then he heard Tamsy hum a laugh. Looking up, he saw him about to set the ceramic back in place, and it was then that something clicked in Delmon's mind.

“Sorry,” Tamsy said with a cheerful lilt. “Didn't mean to bore you again. You always manage to get me—”

“Keep it!”

Tamsy stopped himself mid-emotion. With the groan of an old door flung open, Delmon hauled himself upright, and Tamsy only managed a low, incredulous:

“Huh?”

“Keep the flower!”

The young man and his flower regarded him with identical expressions. Somehow.

“I really don't—”

The pot drew a strangled huff as it was pressed into his chest with little grace and plenty of affection. Delmon loomed over him, grinning.

“You wanted change, contribute to it.” He raised a hand to curb the protest already forming on Tamsy’s lips. “Ah-ah, don't worry. Any questions you have, I'll help.” He slapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder and took a long look at the man.

He forgot sometimes. Under all that seasoned composure, all that kindness and patience, Tamsy was half his age, barely a green sprout in comparison. And from this angle, with eyes cast upward, lips pressed tight in an amusing line, it was undeniable: this was someone who needed a little nurturing.

“I mean,” Delmon laughed encouragingly, “if you can't look after a single flower, what can you do, am I right?”

The corners of Tamsy's mouth flickered down, just for a breath. Then up, settling into that gentle smile Delmon had come to recognize.

“Right,” he breathed, tightening his grip on the ceramic. “Well, we've got work today. Questions later, then.”

“Questions later.” Delmon grabbed his choker from the bedside table where he'd dumped it earlier. “Work's in a couple of hours, you said? I've still got time to grab some grub?” The choker clicked as he fastened it around his thick neck.

When he glanced back at Tamsy, the man was boring his gaze into the plant.

“Hm?” Tamsy's head perked up, his eyes darting as he counted quickly. “Plenty of time.”

“Good.” Delmon was already at the door, imagining some greasy breakfast burning through the last of his hangover. Some bitter coffee wouldn't hurt either. Better yet… "Brew us that killer spicy tea, will you?"

“Oh, what's the point... You inhale it instead of savoring it anyway.” The haughty grumble was of comfort to Delmon's ears. “Alright. I'll join you after I—” He lifted the pot crookedly and followed him out the door.

Delmon could feel warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of those white petals traveling to a new home. Their yellow-cheeked face hid itself against Tamsy's shirt, almost fearfully, and he pointed to it before fishing out his keys.

“Consider it a little miracle,” he said, fiddling with the lock.

Behind him, Tamsy muttered groggily:

“Aw, you shouldn't have.” The dry note in his voice was enough to convince Delmon they both needed a hangover cure. “Really.”

“Don't mention it. Find me downstairs!” Delmon called. His voice rang down the tiled hallway as he marched off, making a passing Cleaner wince and rub their ear.

Questions later.

He’d settle in, and then Tamsy would arrive with tea and questions.

Or maybe just tea. Most likely just tea, judging by that tepid look he occasionally sent Delmon’s way, as if he were thinking, this goofball doesn't know what he's talking about, but was too polite to voice it aloud and too naive to realize it was written all over his face.

He’d place the white flower on his windowsill — assuming he had one, surely he had one — and water it pragmatically, with a kind of cold tenderness he’d never admit to.

That was assuming he'd remember to water it at all.

Delmon rounded the corner into a familiar corridor. The graffiti-covered walls signaled to his brain that he was nearing the mess hall, and his brain, in turn, signaled to his stomach.

What was he thinking about again?

Oh, right.

In all honesty, whether the flower ever got watered didn't matter much.

What mattered was that he'd given it to him.