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How the fuck it happened, he had no idea.
When in doubt, someone once said to him, retrace your steps, because often it’s there that you left the traces to understand your present situation.
So, let’s go back a little.
It had been months since the damp autumn air left its place to a cold winter, and now the snow was slowly leaving for what it prospectively was to be a humid spring, more than half a year, and still he had no idea what to do with himself, but mostly with his feelings. If he could, and in his mind he indeed could, Geoffrey would have let out an open expression of disgust…
Feelings.
Something that he had not had to contend with for years, if one did not consider hatred and disgust for the abominations the Guard hunted regularly.
He pinched his nose and sighed, long and deeply, gaze shifting toward the cause of his late-night crisis: a plant. But, oh no, not just any plant, Lisa, the fucking potted menace to which one Jonathan Emmet Reid was so attached. Leech, who was currently attending a medical conference in France, of all bloody places, and for unknown hairbreading reason, had decided that Geoffrey McCullum, head of the Guard of Priwen, was the perfect candidate to babysit his bloody greenery.
A fucking babysitter!
That's what he called in his note. Because, of course, the posh bastard had left a note! Meticulously written and entirely too long for what it was: Water her every two days. Keep her near sunlight, but not too much. She enjoys music - something calm, preferably classical. And please, don’t let her feel lonely.
Lonely. A plant.
He glared at the green thing – he had faced Ekon, Skal, and worse horrors than any common soul could imagine, but this? This was torture of a unique sort. Worse was that the plant just sat there, smug in its silence, its leaves glossy and defiant, as if it knew exactly how ridiculous he felt.
The first day, he had ignored – fuck the leech and his damn plant. But, by the second day, guilt, and most likely the horror of Jonathan’s mild disappointed stare, had forced his hand, and he started taking care of the plant – meticulously counting how many times he watered her and repositioning the pot near the window so she could get the advantage of the best sunrays, as rare they were in the city.
And he started to call the plant her.
“Bloody hell,” Geoffrey grumbled, turning away before he could think too much about it.
Lisa, naturally, said nothing. But if she could have, Geoffrey was quite sure she would’ve laughed.