She didn't say much. Upon her arrival, he'd almost expected endless amounts of conversation from her – to make up for those endless years he spent with nothing to speak to but the cats. Granted, he was grateful for her presence at all, but more conversation would be nice.
For the several days, she was distant, but rarely left his side. He had learned plenty about Earth animals, thanks to these little games they often played, but he knew very little about her, about the other plants on Earth…She told him very little about the topics of which he cared most. They'd parted 100 Earth years ago on what he considered to be bad terms. If she hated him as much as then, maybe her return was self-punishment? Was she regretting it now? What about Vash? And Tessla, Vanessa's offspring with Vash, what of her fate?
But he could not bring himself to press such matters. It had only been a week. Certainly, he felt an urgent need to know everything, to know her, to touch her…No, not yet. Not yet.
O
O
Several hours before first sunset, a very sweaty Vanessa awoke in the shack. She didn't remember getting back to the garden, or getting into bed – she must've been asleep. Knives must've carried her. They probably arrived around dawn and seemed to have slept through most of the day.
He hadn't stirred yet. She felt him pressed against her back, knees tucked behind her own, one hand upon her waist. The thick layers of blanketing they needed at night were wadded up at the foot of the bed; it was quite hot and arid in the shack. She wore thin, loose drawstring pants and a tank top when sleeping in the day, and Knives was likely dressed similarly.
Vanessa lifted herself, slowly, out of bed and went to shower. Her back was sticky, where he'd slept against her. Huddling together for warmth at night made sense, but when the sun was up she avoided his touch. She assumed he held her so close at night due to insecurity, to prove to himself that she was there, and no illusion. It was hard to criticize it. Since he was still respecting her unspoken limits, she never asked him to stop pressing himself close while he slept. The topic had never come up.
As she gathered clean clothing and a towel cloth, she saw him stir. He barely opened his eyes, then rolled over to stare at the wall. "There's still light, weeding to be done in the outer chambers before sunsets," he mumbled, voice scratchy and dry. She always showered after sleeping, and he always stayed in bed until after she left the room.
Upon cracking the shack's door to the garden, a rush of heady air met her. Insects buzzed about and the occasional feline darted here and there. She stepped out, into the shade of occasional trees, past vines and ferns, to the favored showering spot. Here, in a grotto surrounded by dense pine trees, she undressed and pulled the water chain, to let the grotto rain about her.
Sand and dirt fell from her tangled hair as she attempted to comb with a pinecone. Her hair was long and not easy to care for under the circumstances. There were no soaps or brushes here. She wanted to chop it all off, but somehow doing so wouldn't be fair to Knives, she felt.
The water slowed to a trickle and she toweled herself dry. Not for a moment did she leave the privacy of the grotto, not until she was fully clothed in her thick workpants. At all times, she wore a bra from Earth that kept her breasts tight to her chest, almost flat, and over that she wore Knives' shirts – large and billowy on her far narrower shoulders. It was better that way.
O
O
Knives was already in the outermost chamber, weeding, working his way in. He'd only changed his sleep pants for heavily-patched jeans, the same pair as always.
The more delicate plants were in the outermost chambers, the heartiest in the closest. He likely began building this garden using the plants most likely to take to it, and with additions came riskier and more 'frivolous' planting, such as small flowering plants, plants requiring large amounts of water, non-edible shrubbery, and medicinal species.
She joined him without a word, pulling what looked like dandelions from large pots of poppies. She'd never weeded before – she'd helped him seed one of the fields the other day, but not weed.
Stepping to the nearest poppy, she grabbed a weed stalk. Oops, that one came off without the roots. But it was small, there's a big one. Slowly.
The roots slipped out, so carefully, with little tugs. She tossed the thing into the pile she had started, and began to slowly pull another, nearby.
Glancing up, she met Knives' gaze. She hesitated, and turned back to her work.
She felt him staring at her. In the corner of her eye, she saw him climb to his bare feet and walk to her.
Her third weed came out.
Knives grabbed the next nearest to her and gave it a quick yank. Out it came.
She went for number four and tugged. It caught, and snapped off. She tried another, it also left its roots behind.
"You're grabbing too tight and pulling too slow," he suggested. With dirty fingers, he grasped her hand loosely and brought it to hover over a particularly large dandelion. Their hands rested gently upon the stalk. "Like this," he offered, guiding her with his hand atop hers, with a swift motion. "Perfect." Pulling his hand away, he met her eyes. "Slow and gentle."
Vanessa watched him walk back to his spot and yank weeds with ease. She breathed a sigh and let her nerves unwind, her stomach and throat unknot. The weeding continued without further incident.