Gertrude has lived in this apartment building for seventeen years, give or take, and lord willing, she'll be here another seventeen. She's seen people come and go, friends she let go and friends she kept close, more than a few deaths both shocking and peaceful, and kids growing up as they ran past her through the halls. Her knees have gotten creakier, the elevator to her apartment has become an everyday necessity rather than a nice bonus, and her cat Dorothy went from a spry kitten to a lazy old lady. The only things that haven't changed are that Barb is as handsome as the day they fell in love and that no one in the building seems to want to put any effort into taking care of the garden.
It was one of the selling points of the place for Gertrude. Barb was never a gardener, though she loved the flowers Gertrude snipped and gave to her every other week to set on their little dining table, but if Gertrude didn't have a place to get her hands in the soil, she'd have lost her mind. When they'd come here, it was a pitiful, overgrown thing, but Gertrude rucked up her sleeves and got to work. Now, it's beautiful, if she does say so herself. The weeding and watering get harder every year, but like hell will she let that stop her.
Gertrude knows her garden. Every inch and every plant and every stone, and when she comes down one morning to unfamiliar boot prints, she narrows her eyes at them. Whoever it was tromped right on through like they owned the place.
"Isn't that what you want?" Barb asks when she's feeding Dorothy that night, scraping smelly wet food into a little plate. Dorothy's spoiled rotten, she really is. "What's a garden without anyone to enjoy it?" Gertrude huffs.
"They could have asked first." Barb laughs. Her eyes crinkle in a way that Gertrude's always loved, and then she comes over with her hands still smelling like tuna. "Barb!" She bats Barb away playfully, but her wife hugs her despite her protests. Gertrude shakes her head fondly.
"What's the harm?" And Gertrude has to concede.
She vows to wake up early one morning to catch the interloper. Saying and doing that are two different things, and it takes a few tries and Dorothy yowling at five in the morning for her to actually get herself out of bed and dressed to investigate.
It's barely turning fall, but there's enough of a chill in the air to make her wish for a thicker coat. Still, she makes her way to the iron bench she bought and set up a few years back, and she waits. Has to stand up a little while later to make sure her legs don't freeze up and leave her stranded, but by the time the interloper finally shows himself, she's settled back down on the bench.
She's never seen him before. Now, that's strange. Gertrude doesn't consider herself a nosy type, but she usually hears whenever someone new moves in. He doesn't notice her at first, giving her ample time to observe him. Blonde, tall, and she's bad with ages but she'll put money on him being in his forties. There's a tense set to his shoulders as he crouches down to see the hydrangeas better, and when she clears her throat, he doesn't jump in surprise but he moves like he's expecting to get kicked while he's down there, hand dropping to provide a counterbalance for an attack he's anticipating from her direction, head snapping to look at her.
"Those aren't yours," Gertrude informs him. He stares at her the same way someone would a fly landing in their coffee. She turns her nose up in kind. She has her flowers all arranged exactly how she wants them to get the best sun, and if he moves a single leaf, she'll get Barb to drag him out by his ear.
She's fully expecting an argument. He looks like he knows how to throw a good one, and his mouth is twisting.
Instead, he leaves. That, Gertrude thinks, was easier than she thought it would be. Too easy.
Sure enough, the next time she comes in without bothering to stake out in the early morning, there are shoeprints off the stone paths and one of her roses has been snapped right off the bush.
"This can only mean one thing," she tells Barb that night over dishwashing duties. "War."
"Whatever you say," Barb says as she dries the plate Gertrude hands her. "Just try not to let any innocent plants get caught in the blast radius, yeah?"
Gertrude is not in a good mood the next time she catches him. She's cold, and she's tired, and Dorothy caught a mouse and left it on the kitchen floor for them to clean up. She doesn't have the energy to put up with entitled young (relatively) men who don't know the first thing about gardening. She doesn't bother with clearing her throat this time. She marches right up to him to give him a piece of her mind.
She tries to begin by jabbing her finger into his chest. He reels back before she even touches him. For a moment, his expression twists before falling back into nonchalance, but the change is so drastic and so sudden that it knocks a lot of the wind out of her sails.
"I told you those weren't yours. If you want one of my roses, you'll ask for it, and I'll cut it for you. Otherwise, keep your hands out of my garden." He's staring very, very hard at her. He almost seems surprised when nothing happens except her getting impatient and crossing her arms.
"I didn't take it," he says. His voice surprises her. It's quieter than she was expecting.
"I suppose it jumped off the bush itself, then?" He looks frustrated.
"It was flawed. I got rid of it." Gertrude narrows her eyes and tries to recall the state of the bush. Yes, she does remember one of the roses never perking up as pretty as the others, petals brittle and stem drooping. It had as much a right to be there as the others, if not more. It had so much trouble growing and still bloomed for her.
"And I'll say it again, this isn't your garden and you're not allowed to decide what grows in it. I do, and I wanted it there. You owe me."
"Owe you?"
"That's the deal," she says, and when she says it, he tilts his head like the words have hooked him.
"You want…" he pauses like he's searching for the word. "Money?"
"Like hell. What would I do with that?" This is for Barb's sake, she tells herself. For her lovely, brilliant, infuriatingly forgiving wife who insists that someone else taking an interest in the garden is a good thing. "No, you're going to pick up that can over there"—Gertrude points at her watering can, large and heavy as lead when it's full—"and get to work."
She's fully expecting him to walk away and not come back. When it comes to intimidation, old women with gone-gray hair standing a foot shorter than a man rarely get a response. He blinks at her, looking stunned, and then he turns to get the can. She raises an eyebrow. Hm.
He's a good worker bee, and it's clear that he does care about the garden, even if he looks at nibbled-on stems and brown leaves and then at her like he's trying to figure out what she sees in those plants. She has to walk him through proper watering and weeding. That's only made stranger by the fact that when asked, he knows every plant by name. He even has the stones to correct her about one, flowers she'd thought were poppies getting reclassified as anemone coronarias. He's not much of a talker when not prompted, and for the most part, she gets to rest for the day and watch someone else do the busywork.
"-And it's the strangest thing. The way he looked at me, you'd think no one had bossed him around in years. Shocked him dumb," she's telling Barb one night as they're going to bed. Dorothy jumps up to take her spot between them, and Gertrude pushes her closer to Barb.
"Well, I know I certainly enjoy it when you get bossy," Barb teases, "but should I be worried about some young man stealing you away?" Gertrude laughs, loud and full, and Dorothy sneezes at her for it.
"Hardly."
"And what is the name of your kept boy? You didn't say." Barb yawns and turns on her side to face Gertrude. Gertrude opens her mouth.
All that comes out is, "Well, damn."
She doesn't him the next time they meet or even the time after that. It feels like an awkward thing to bring up, strangely personal for two people that only weed a garden together a few times a week. Eventually, she does. No better time than over spreading fertilizer.
"So, what's your name?" she asks.
"That's a good question." She pauses to look him over. He's not at all squeamish about getting his hands dirty to take care of the plants. Gertrude looks between the mud on his jeans and the focused furrow on his brow.
"What do I call you?" she asks instead. He stops. He doesn't look at her. For a moment, she's expecting him to stay silent, and she'll stop pushing. Keep calling him her kept boy, her garden angel, and whatever else Barb comes up with.
"Lucifer," he says.
"Odd name. Pretty. Pick that one out yourself?" The corner of his mouth pulls up, and he does glance at her then.
"I did." Garden devil has the same ring to it, come to think.
Lucifer's a mystery, that much is for sure. He lives at the complex, but Gertrude's still not sure which apartment. She sees him outside late at night sometimes, a little dog jumping along at his feet as they walk.
She still isn't nosy, she swears. She's curious.
"Sure you are, honey," Barb tells her before she heads off to buy their groceries for the week. Gertrude pouts until she gets a kiss goodbye.
"So, you're married?" Gertrude probes as she watches Lucifer weed. He digs down to the roots. Her joints thank her for leaving that work to someone with younger hands. She'll still get in the dirt plenty, but it's good to know she has someone to fall back on.
"No," he answers, mildly. She nods.
"Divorced but kept the ring?"
"No." She frowns.
"You're widowed?" She says that gently. The thought's never actually crossed her mind before, but there's a look he sometimes gets when he's checking petals for damage, quiet and sad. She's had a lot of friends who wore that same expression. Lucifer hesitates, his fingers curling in the soil, but then he shakes his head slowly.
"Hm," she says, "rings without marriage, then?" That, Gertrude would also know a thing or two about. Lucifer considers that.
"…yes," he settles on. He doesn't sound completely sure of himself. Gertrude lays a hand on his shoulder. He startles a little.
"You're family. No need to hide." She wonders if that's fallen out of use. She and Barb keep contact with their old gang of dykes, and even if she takes ear plugs now, she'll ride on her wife's motorbike during Pride until the day she dies. Still, she's been at this for decades. Lingo comes and goes. Lucifer stares up at her, confusion on his face for a long minute before he swallows and looks down.
"Thank you," he says, softly. Gertrude squeezes his shoulder. It's a very hard thing, to think you might be alone in the world.
"Introduce me to them sometime?" she says. "And remind me to bring you up to meet Barb. She's been asking after you for weeks now."
"You know what?" Barb says, "I'll bet it's the janitor."
"The janitor?"
"Used to live in 667. Disappeared for a few months. He's back now."
"You think he ran off and fell in love?" Gertrude is... aware of him. She's not sure she knows anyone on a first-name basis with the man. Come to think of it, that dog of his could be the one Lucifer walks at night.
"A whirlwind romance," Barb carries forward, "full of drama and mystery and heartbreak-"
"Heartbreak?"
"Sh. They got together in the end, didn't they?" Gertrude shakes her head.
"If they're even together."
"They'd make a cute couple."
She's not entirely sure she believes Barb's little story. It's a flight of fancy, but it's not like they know either of them well enough.
Until, of course, the day she heads down to the garden and catches a little lover's tiff.
"Leave me alone, Gabriel," Lucifer mutters. It's not as cutting as it is defensive. He's keeling in the dirt, hands at the base of a bush.
"Relax," the other man says. His voice is flippant, but his expression is something else. Gertrude's been alive a long time. She knows what love looks like, and it's there in his eyes, no matter how much it's hidden. "I was just curious where you were running off to. The flowers you've been bringing back"—those ones, Gertrude remembers. She helped cut them. He'd earned a spot of color or two for his own apartment after all the work he was putting into them.—"gave it away. A garden's a bit cliche, don't you think? Looking for the comforts of home-"
"Gabriel," sharper, then. The other man stops. His expression shifts, a little surprise, a little hurt, and then he looks around at the garden around them, taking in every well-cared for flower. His gaze stops when he spots Gertrude with her weeding gloves already on, standing a few feet away. He frowns, looks back down at Lucifer, then back to her. A smile jumps onto his face, accompanied by an astonished little huff.
"Happy wife, happy life, I guess," he says, half for Lucifer and half for Gertrude to hear.
"That's what I always say," she responds. Lucifer straightens, glancing back over his shoulder. "Who's this?"
"Gabriel," he answers, getting to his feet. "He's my... Gabriel."
"Your Gabriel?" Gertrude teases. Lucifer doesn't look embarrassed. His expression closes off, and she's sure she's struck some sort of nerve. Only,
"If I'm anyone's." Gabriel bumps their shoulders together. Lucifer lightens up, though Gabriel doesn't see it, already extending a hand to Gertrude. She shakes it. He whistles. "Strong grip." He doesn't wear a ring, Gertrude notices, but then, if he's taken up the job he had previously, he might not wear it all the time for fear of it getting dirty. Not that Lucifer seems to have that worry. He never takes his off. "Well, sweetheart, I'll leave you to it. Be back before lunch."
Gabriel turns back to Lucifer, plants a kiss on his cheek that's more theatrics than anything, and breaks away from the two of them to go back inside.
"So I was right!" Dorothy murrps, unhappy with Barb swinging her around so fast. Gertrude puts a hand on her arm to settle her and the cat.
"Maybe."
"Admit it," Barb laughs. "I've always been better at this than you."
"You have not."
"Oh?"
"Which of us didn't notice I was head over heels for two whole years?" Barb tips her head forward to bump Gertrude's.
"Well, excuse me for being a little distracted," she murmurs, "but I was a little in love myself. With this stubborn butch who won every fight she got in."
"Got the missing tooth to prove it." Gertrude says back. She kisses Barb and knows that those two years were more than worth it for all the ones that follows.
Winter comes soon enough. Little changes this year. Diane a floor down is still moving her father's things out after his death. The two girls who make a ruckus in the halls whenever school is up are as loud as ever. Bernard has started complaining about someone moving his mousetraps, and Gertrude offered to let him use Dorothy instead. She learns that Gabriel and Lucifer aren't the only residents of 667, since living with them are a young woman around Gabriel's age with the kind of countenance that would've made her quite popular in the circles Gertrude ran in when she was young, imposing but kind underneath, and an even younger boy. He bears a striking resemblance to Lucifer.
She doesn't make the reach until she and Lucifer are safeguarding the garden for a freeze. He's on pot-moving duty, and she's doing her best to cover up what plants can't be moved. They'll probably still lose a few, but if that happens, it only means that Lucifer will get a say in what new ones they plant. It is their garden now. Not just Gertrude's anymore.
She wanders inside to warm her bones up. (She swears that no matter how many layers she wears, the chill still gets in.) That's when she runs into them. Lucifer is leaning against a wall, catching his breath. There's a few more he needs to move from outside into the warmth. Across from him is that same boy that Gertrude's seen going in and out of the apartment.
"What are you doing?" he questions, with all the obstinance that only a teenager can muster up.
"That's none of your business, Michael," Lucifer answers, with all the frustration of someone who has been dealing with said teenager a very long time.
Now, really, Gertrude has no right getting involved. That being said, it hasn't stopped her yet.
"Young man," she says. Both their heads shoot up, as they should, but she's talking to... Michael, that's his name, now. "Don't talk to your father like that when you could be helping us." Michael's face goes completely blank. Not surprised, not dumbfounded that he's being ordered around by someone he's never met before. Completely and totally blank, like she's managed to halt all his trains of thought at once. Lucifer's eyes go wide, and he looks like he's going to say something but it won't come out. She crosses her arms and gives Michael her best disappointed look. He yields fast. She's a little impressed with herself for cowing him so easily, but like father, like son, as the old saying goes. "Go fetch a pot. Get a move on." Michael nods. He doesn't say yes, ma'am, but she's pretty sure that's because his ability to speak is still winding up. She and Lucifer watch him go.
"Kids," she says sympathetically. "Not that we ever had any. Cats are better behaved."
Lucifer doesn't say anything.
Michael helps them move the next four pots in, and he's quiet all the while. Sometimes, he sneaks a look at Lucifer, and then a look down at himself like he's expecting to find something. Whatever he's looking for, it isn't in his hands. When they get to the end and Gertrude invites Lucifer and his son up, "so long as he promises to continue being a polite young man," Michael blanches and turns her down. She can't help a little cackle watching him him make a dash for it. Lucifer, on the other hand, accepts the invitation.
It's so strange having him and Barb in the same room. For so long, he's just been a story Gertrude was telling her wife.
He's sitting on their couch now. Barb's offering him a drink.
Lucifer who is, in so many ways, still a mystery to them. Lucifer who has a kid he's never talked about and a partner she's only met once. Lucifer who knows the names of every plant she's ever presented to him but couldn't properly weed to save a life before she taught him how. Lucifer who carries himself like someone hurt him a long time ago and the wound never healed right but still comes down to the garden every day he can.
Lucifer who is currently becoming a seat for Dorothy. She plops herself down right in his lap and starts purring loudly. He rubs her head, smushing her ears down, until she shakes and he starts petting her back.
"Looks like she's made a friend," Gertrude says as Barb comes back to her. The two of them stand in their kitchen, looking out over at Lucifer. He looks even more relaxed than she's ever seen him, leisurely petting their cat and looking around at the knick-knacks they've collected over the decades. His eyes land on a graffiti print that Barb picked up six years ago from an old flame of hers. It's one of the brightest ones in the room.
"I like him," Barb says. "You were right. We should keep him."
Gertrude watches Dorothy bite his fingers. Lucifer rolls his eyes, withdrawing his hand but not even snapping at the cat. She resettles on his lap, and when she's calm again, he pets her more gently than before.
"I guess he's useful to have around," Gertrude says. Barb laughs. Gertrude ducks her head. "And maybe I like him, too."
"You think the girls would?"
Gertrude imagines the chaos that would come from dragging Lucifer into a room of old lesbians.
"Oh, absolutely," she says. Lucifer looks up at her. It's hesitant, but when she smiles at him, he smiles back.