When she first saw it, she was tempted to crack him over the head with it.
After all...it was pretty clear who had left it for her and why.
It was a fern. Her unwanted nickname was 'Fern'.
Obviously, her partner had given it to her as a joke.
Fern's fern.
An unfunny joke.
But a cute little fern.
Dwarf-like. Short stems. Small fronds.
Kind of exotic and elegant, actually.
And since the pot it was planted in was small too and didn't take up much space on her already cluttered desk, she decided she might as well leave it there.
It mocked her every time she looked at it.
She hadn't realized it would. It was just a plant, after all.
But the implication of its name was the only reason it was even there.
"Good morning, Fern," he greeted upon strolling in. "And Fern's fern," he added impishly, proud of his pun.
She might have bid him a good morning in return, had he not started the day by calling her 'Fern'. And twice in the same breath, no less.
"What?" he spied the expression of intolerance on her face. "Fern doesn't like Fern's fern?"
Oh, dear god — stop it with the 'ferns'! she thought in irritation.
"It's a nice fern," he continued, unaware of his partner's dislike for both the plant and his constant use of the word. "Don't you think?"
"If you like it so much, why don't you keep it?" she suggested a bit acidly, removing it from her work station and placing it with a firm thud on his desk.
He looked at the new addition to his desk with a solemn face, disappointed that his gift hadn't been received in the same affectionate manner it had been given.
It was still a nice plant, even if she didn't want anything to do with it.
So he kept it on his own desk. And he gave it a little water every day. And he told himself that even if he couldn't have the one Fern, he could still have the other fern.
A sad, strange way to look at things…but look at them that way, he did.
And then one day he didn't water the plant.
He couldn't, because he wasn't there. He was undercover for the LAPD.
So the fern sat lonely on his desk while his partner sat lonely at hers.
Days went by, until they became a whole week. And that week turned into two.
He was just fine, she knew. But the plant wasn't.
It seemed to miss its daily drink of water, and its lush dark greenness was turning more of a silvery deadness with every day that passed.
The more she looked at it, the more she felt sorry for it.
And the more she felt guilty for rejecting it in the first place.
He'd given it to her out of endearment, not impudence. And out of a joke, yes…but a joke shared between just the two of them and nobody else.
It was cute that he'd given her a gift that reflected the nickname that he'd also given her.
And rejecting the plant had kind of meant something similar to rejecting the man. She understood that now.
Rising from her seat, she traveled the few steps separating her desk from her partner's. She picked up the pathetic fern, cupping its small yellow pot gently between her hands.
A trip to the restroom for a refreshing dampening of its soil, and the fern was placed once again in its former spot on her desk.
Oh, what irony that the very thing she'd despised at the beginning would be the one thing to keep her company until its giver returned to her.
For every day that her partner was absent, she would look at her fern and feel that in some odd way he was still with her.
Like the fern was her connection to him.
Small comfort, but still comfort nonetheless.
She watered it regularly, and its lush greenness soon returned.
And then one day she accidentally knocked it off her desk.
Down it went, silent in its free-fall but jarringly loud in its landing.
Horrified, she dived after it.
There was no saving the clay pot — it had shattered on impact. But the fern itself could be rescued.
She plucked the plant from the mess on the floor and looked around frantically for something else to put it in.
Finding nothing else suitable, she substituted a paper cup and packed as much of the spilled soil as she could back around the roots.
And she watered it. And she cared for it. And she missed its giver more and more every day.
But the fall from her desk had shocked the poor little plant, for it lost its lush greenness again and appeared dangerously close to expiring once and for all.
"Fern's fern is looking a little worse for wear."
Her fingers froze poised over the keys on her laptop computer.
It couldn't be. Not yet. He was still supposed to be gone.
And yet there he was, standing right behind her.
She glanced at the plant on her desk, a smile gracing her face before she turned in her chair to look up at him.
"Fern's fern fell on the floor," she confessed simply, echoing his double use of the name and the word. All of a sudden, she didn't mind her nickname anymore.
He nodded, as if expecting that kind of response. "To be honest, I'm surprised you've kept it alive this long."
"It kind of grew on me," she answered with a shrug of one shoulder. "I figured it had a right to live."
She said nothing about it coming to symbolize her lifeline to her absent partner. There would be no end of the teasing if she did that.
"So Fern finally likes her fern."
"It kept me company while you were gone." She gave him a genuine smile, so glad that he was back home to OSP safe and sound. "Don't even think about taking it back."