Note de los author: hahaha, remember that one time I wrote two chapters of a sick fic and never finished it? Well. I haven't! And I might, someday! I still dream of thinking about trying to some day considder finishing it. But today is not that day. This fic is for winddream over on LJ for basically being awesome in all ways.

Charles Amadeus Schadenfreude--or, as he was known for most of his life, Charley-- was a rather simple plant. His original owner had believed firmly that his name should be every bit as regal and refined as the verticulated fern himself, and had dubbed him accordingly. She used his full name rarely though, often only on occasions at which he had committed some perceived transgression such as an overabundance of unseasonally wilting leaves, or the mysterious displacement of dirt from his pot onto the floor. He, in turn, was of the opinion that believing such happenings to be an act of malice or negligence on his part was ridiculous, and taking his personification much too far. Either way, he was more than content with his life in her office. When his mistress had died-- taking his full name with her, no less-- he found he missed her far more than one would expect of a being without a central nervous system, let alone a concept of grief. But Charley the verticulated fern was a simple plant, and as long as he had water, sun, and the occasional application of fertilizer and office gossip, he would get by just fine. And he, more than anything else, was what irrefutably made that office ithat office/i. Through changes of ownership and even profession, Charley stood a mute guard, doing his best to add a touch of elegance and a bit of extra oxygen. There was only one time, in all the drama, upheaval, victory and tragedy that centered around that office, for which Charley was absent. For nine days, one August that the humans all found miserably sticky, Charlie's home was a sterile white room.
To say that he remembered the bus ride through the city would not really be accurate at all (because, as we have discussed, he lacked the neural capacity to make any such an act possible), so we will have to resign ourselves to accepting that he did not remember being held tightly on a lap by small, tense hands. Nor did he remember the very precise and stern notes delivered to him that morning before he left the office as to how he should behave during his stay. Neither set of hypothetical memories were necessary, in the end. In the former set's case, dwelling too long on the Los Angeles public transit system would only serve to upset the pedigreed plant, and in the latter's case he held himself on his sojourn much as he always did: with an air of compassion and dignity. Instruction to do so was not necessary.
Wooden sandals clack-clacked against speckled grey linoleum. A pair of wiry arms jostled and shifted his pot as the owner of said arms struggled to keep him upright. Together, a girl and a plant made their way though the long halls of the hospital towards the terminal care ward. When they finally made it to room 212, the girl received a smile from one of the nurses, who held the door open for them. She bowed quickly, spilling a little of the dirt in his container and then ducked quickly into the scarcely furnished room.

Being a plant, Charley had a very narrow vocabulary, which was just as well as lacking the necessary structures to take in such information as appearance, noise and scent. Even knowing the words, he would not have been able to say that the room looked bleak and sanitized. He would not have been able to describe to you the hums, beeps and moans of the various life-support systems nor how the mind easily filtered them out, but never quite perfectly enough to let anyone in the room ever be truly comfortable. He certainly wouldn't have been able to tell you how strongly the room smelled of band-aids. Given this, it should come as no surprise that even if pressed, Charley would not be able to describe for you the man laying in the bed, nor the weary, frustrated look he gave the girl as she marched purposefully into his room.

"What are you doing back here, Little Kitten," he asked, turning his head to look at her with milky eyes, nearly as useless at seeing as Charley's nonexistent ones. The girl ignored him. "I thought I told you how I felt about visitors." Still, she didn't respond as she made her way to the window, shoving a small table out of the way to make a spot for the plant on the floor. The man grunted and let his head fall back onto the bed. "For a family that's supposed to be so concerned with the dead, you sure don't know how to let a man rot in peace."

"This is Charley," she announced as she crouched down to rotate the plant in question a bit, trying to get him as much of the small patch of light as possible, "he was basically Big Sis's best friend in the whole word while she worked there."

"Look, Little Kitten," he mumbled, "this is cute and all, but I just want-"

"You need to talk to him, or he'll wilt," the girl continued, ignoring the man's interjection completely, "Big Sis told me that. She also told me that he can spot a lie a mile away and won't stand for them at all." He didn't seem to really be paying attention to a word she said, but still she continued, "So you better start talking to him and you had better be honest. I had to get Big Sis's permission to take him out here, and she said only if she could come out and make sure that Charley's OK herself."

The man idid/i pay attention then.

"Absolutely not, Maya. I told you that-"

"One week," she said, marching towards the door, content now that Charley was properly situated, "and she takes Charley as serious business, so you had better not be a big, stupid jerk to him too, or Big Sis will know. Charley, remember what we talked about." And with that, she all but slammed the door behind her.

Charley, of course, had no idea what they had talked about.

The next day, the man in the bed did not talk to the plant. In fact, he quietly and privately declared it anathema. He did not look at the plant, he did not think about the plant. By mid-afternoon, he had, though sheer force of will, convinced himself that he didn't even remember that the plant was here and that even if he did he didn't care. Thus, when some hospital something-or-another came to test his whatever levels, he was sublime at feigning indifferent ignorance to the plant's existence.

"Sorry Bambi," he said though gritted teeth. Just how much blood did they need from him daily anyway? "Someone must have put it here when I wasn't looking." (Given his near total blindness, nor looking iwas/i something he did quite often.)

"Mr. Armando, we've been over this. I'd appreciate if you called me 'Dr. Marks'."

"Anything you say, Sweetness."

"So. Plant," he said the second morning.

Charley said nothing.

The man in his bed snorted and didn't say anything else.

"She always talked to plants, you know," he said on the third afternoon, appropos of... something, certainly, but nothing Charley could figure out. "Way before she met you. Before she met me. Did you ever hear about a spider plant named Hal?"

He gave the plant a moment to respond. Insulting as the implications of the comment were, Charley held his peace. It was possible that he had elected to wait and see where the man in the bed was taking this before he spoke up. Possible, but very, very unlikely. The man grunted and sat up a bit.

"Tche. I didn't think so."

On the fifth day, a nurse had to poke her head in to see who he was yelling at.

"Who the hell does it look like I'm yelling at," he demanded. "That smug, green bastard there by the window."

The nurse pursed her lips.

"Mr. Armando, there's no one by the window."

He turned, slowly, to face the woman in the door. He blinked at her several times, and then turned back to face the window. Then, slowly again, he turned back to face her. "What? The plant gone?"

"No, Mr. Armando," she said, the thin line of her lips tugging into an outright frown, "there is still a plant..."

The man in the bed laughed. "Oh good, I was about to feel like a fool there for a minute."

Neither plant nor man were paying attention on the afternoon when the allotted week expired. The man was, as he was ever more often, asleep. The time had long passed when he could have named all the drugs forcing his body to live. More and more, it seemed, the workers of his body had decided to simply punch out and go home. Charley was not paying attention for an entirely different reason when long, slender fingers took one of his leaves in hand.

"He's getting too much water," she said, simply, "and not enough sun." The man in the bed was awake very quickly. His body stiffened as if he were trying to hide against his bedding. Pale gown, pale skin, pale hair: it wouldn't have been that bad a camouflage. He didn't breathe. The woman turned to face him. "As for his mood, it seems you certainly had a lot to say." The room was silent, aside from the steady beeps of his heartrate monitor, which had become just a fraction faster since the woman had entered the room.

"Kitten," he said finally, the word coming out as if it were broken glass, cutting him up inside as he spoke it. She smiled, fondly.

"It's been a while again, hasn't it Diego?"

"I didn't want you to come here," he said.

"I know," she said. Her lips pressing into a thin line, but never quite stopped smiling. "But when you hit my student in the head with an IV stand, you should anticipate certain consequences." He laughed a bit. She stroked the leaf again. "I wish you had been just a little politer to him. He's a sensitive little guy."

"Ha...! After all that Hazakura business, Wright went and tattled on me? Maybe I did give him too much credit..."

"Hm?" she asked, taking another of Charley's leaves between her fingers, running her nails down the path of its veins. "Oh, no, of course not. I meant Charley. Did you really need to call him a... 'cholrophylic half-wit'? That seems a little harsh."

The man in the bed, seemingly having resigned himself to having been spotted, relaxed a little, and even moved himself a little to face his visitors.

"Can you really tell all that from one of his leaves?"

"Hahaha, my, but that would be talent wouldn't it?" She laughed. Her footsteps were light and sharp across the floor. He followed the vague outline of her form, but it was really more sound than sight that told him that she had come over to his bed. "No, from his leaves I can tell that your room doesn't get any direct light, and that he's probably got a bit of root-rot going." And then those long, soft finger were in his hair, smoothing a bit back away from his face. "You look pretty terrible yourself, if you don't mind me saying so." The man in the bed smiled and laughed, but neither act was performed very convincingly.

"I'm tired, Kitten. I have been ever since I opened my eyes to a world without you in it."

She hummed a thought to herself, quietly, and her fingers left his hair and trailed down his face, closing his eyes.

"What are you waiting for, then?"

"Ha...!" The laugh had a little more humor to it. "'What am I waiting for?' You really are a piece of work," he said, moving one shaky hand to cover her own.

"If you're tired, rest," she said. Her fingers moved to intertwine with his, and she lifted his hand up to her lips. "I'll be there when you open your eyes this time."

"That's... something to keep in mind," he replied.

"Do keep it in mind." She kissed his hand, before setting it to rest back down on the bed gently. "And don't leave me waiting too long again. I still miss you, you know."

If either of them noticed the tears leaking from his foggy, useless eyes, neither gave any indication.

Charley did not, of course, remember the ride home, though he would have appreciated (were he capable of appreciation) the extra helping of fish emulsions he got upon his arrival. Having fed him, Maya set him back down in his favorite corner to get some much-needed direct afternoon sun.

"You know what, Charley my man," she said, smiling in a way that- had he vision to see it, the Limbic System to process emotion, and the face on which to express it- would have made not smiling in return quite impossible. "I think you did alright." And she kissed him on his topmost leaf that had the same sets of systems been in place, would have made him blush.