Fic: How Does Your Garden Grow?; Cutter, Lester; gen; 12
Title: How Does Your Garden Grow?
Author: reggietate
Characters: Nick Cutter, James Lester
Rating: 12
Genre: gen
Disclaimer: They're not mine, they belongs to Impossible Pictures
Summary: Cutter's garden is in bloom, but he has more on his mind than just the wonders of nature
A/N: Follows on from:
Gardening Leave
The Birds and the Bees
Summer had well and truly arrived, and after several weeks of steady work, and regular weekend assistance from Jenny, Cutter's garden was beginning to really look like a proper garden, rather than a neglected wilderness. Once overgrown shrubs and bushes were neatly trimmed back against the walls on either side, flower beds had been resurrected and replanted, a stone-flagged pathway now meandered around the lawn, the tiny greenhouse was now clean and smart and filled with seedlings and canes and flowerpots and gardening implements, the veg patch in front of it now weed-free and planted with potatoes, runner beans and carrots. He even had a garden shed for the lawnmower and strimmer.
There was still a lot to do, but by and large, so far Cutter was pleased with the results. He stood leaning on his Dutch hoe, having just rooted out a patch of couch grass lurking in one of the beds, and watched a pair of butterflies chasing each other around the new roses, while the sparrows squabbled noisily in the apple tree.
Anomalies,and dinosaurs, and the death they brought, seemed a very long way away. But they couldn't stay like that forever. He needed to make up his mind if he was going back to work at the ARC. He couldn't keep putting off the decision, it wasn't fair on Connor, Abby and Jenny, or even Lester. The anomaly team needed a leader, and if he found himself unable to do it, someone else must be found.
Maybe it was time to let go.
Maybe.
He picked up the clump of couch grass he'd just hoed out, and flung it towards the compost heap, sending a shower of dusty earth into the wind as it landed. Ground was pretty dry, could do with some rain. The water butt was getting low, too.
He smiled at himself. He'd be listening to Gardeners Question Time, next. Actually, about the only reason he wasn't already listening to it was that on Sundays he and Jenny always spent the day together, and he had better things to do in the company of a beautiful and desirable woman than listen to gardening advice.
Of course, he saw her during the week, as well, anomalies permitting, but Sunday had become their special day, to be interrupted only if the arrival of the apocalypse was imminent. They'd spend lazy mornings in bed, making love, talking, reading the papers, making love again - he hadn't been this randy since before he'd married Helen. Sometimes they'd have a pub lunch or Jenny would help him cook, and in the afternoon they'd work on the garden or go for drive in the country. On Sunday, they never talked about the anomalies. an act of avoidance decided by mutual, unspoken consent.
On weekdays, well, it depended. They might meet for a hurried coffee, or go out for an evening meal, or to see a film. Jenny usually kept work-related talk to a minimum, but there were times when she had to vent about some ARC-related disaster, or simply needed to chat about her day without having to self-censor, and he didn't want her to think she couldn't do that with him because of what had happened.
Stabbing the blade of his hoe into the ground, he left it standing there upright, and went back into the house to wash his hands for lunch.
After lunch he mowed the lawn. As he emptied the grass clippings onto the compost heap and spread them around to make an even layer, his thoughts drifted to Stephen, as they often did. Here in the peace of the garden, it was easier to think of him without the pain and horror of the manner of his death, to remember him as he had been in life before everything had gone so wrong.
One part of the lawn, by a kink in the old brick wall, was overhung by a pair of bushes that formed a little grotto. At this time of day the sun poured into it and the trailing branches sheltered the spot from the breeze. Cutter liked to sit there on an old cane chair, watching the birds flit from bush to bush, and the bees trundle about their business. Even with the hum of traffic not so far away he could imagine himself in stillness and tranquillity of the countryside.
Stephen would have liked this garden, he thought. He'd tried to make it old-fashioned and cottagey, not regimented and suburban. There were patches of herbs among the flowers, swathes of lavender, even some nettles by the greenhouse for the butterflies. They could have sat out here on a Saturday afternoon, having a beer, maybe even kicking a football about as they'd sometimes done in the early days of their friendship. His loss had washed away any bitterness over his deceit about Helen. What did any of that matter now Stephen was gone?
Half-closing his eyes in the sun, he pictured Stephen, standing on the lawn in the easy, loose-limbed stance of his. Not doing anything, just standing, a smile on his face. Cutter's throat tightened, and he felt the sting of tears. He made no effort to hold them back, just let them slip down his cheeks till he had to wipe them away with the back of his hand and fish out his hankie to blow his nose. But he felt better for it. Sometimes letting go your feelings was better than bottling them up, even for him.
Time he finally made up his mind what he was going to do with the rest of the life Stephen had given him. His old job at the university was still open to him - he could go back full time, be an academic again. Except now he knew too much about the prehistoric past, knowledge he couldn't use, that he'd have to actively suppress. Lying to his students wasn't something he wanted to do every day.
He could do other work, of course. Lecturing in America - he'd been offered a lot of money not very long ago, to do a series of lectures over there. A lot of opportunities on the side of the water. A fresh start in a place with no bad memories. But he'd have to leave this behind. He'd have to leave Jenny.
I can't, he thought. If I walk away and something happens to Jenny, to any of them, because I'm not there to stop it, how could I live with myself?
Going back to the ARC meant less time to devote to the garden. But by now it was in good shape, and wanted less attention. There'd be fewer lazy Sundays with Jenny, but in compensation he'd see her every day. At the ARC he could make a difference, here at home he could only wait for bad news.
This garden should be his refuge - he mustn't allow it to become his whole world.
He took out his mobile and sat for a while just looking at the screen. Once he called the ARC, that would be it, no going back on his decision. There'd be creatures, and he'd have to face them and not flinch or freeze up or panic and get everyone killed. Could he do that?
I owe it to Stephen to carry on. He didn't run away, and nor can I, while the anomalies exist.
He had valuable knowledge and experience that would be wasted if he stayed at home. And honestly, he'd never been cut out for the life of an academic recluse, had he? He missed his team, and yes, he missed the excitement, too, despite how much he enjoyed the quiet fulfilment he'd gained from working in the garden.
He thumbed his speed dial for James Lester. Their conversation was brief and to the point, all business, except at the end.
"I'm glad you've decided to return to the fold, Cutter. Daphne and Scrappy have been positively inconsolable without you. and it's quite dull having no one around to argue with me."
Cutter smiled. "You might regret saying that."
"I already do," Lester said. "See you on Wednesday. Don't be late."
There remained only one thing left to do. Slipping his phone back into his jeans, he stood up.
The mound of earth was flattening itself, and would soon be levelled properly for a headstone. Stephen had wanted something simple, in black granite, with a minimal inscription and no flourishes. They'd talked about it once, half-jokingly, in the early days, after Stephen's near-miss with the centipede, 'just in case', never believing it would happen.
On the sinking mound lay an ammonite.
Helen. She'd been here. Not recently, but she'd stood by Stephen's grave, and left the fossil as her calling card. A message, a tribute? No way to know. More importantly, he found he no longer cared.
He picked up the ancient stone, and in its place laid a single yellow rose, taken from the garden. When he left the cemetery, he flung the ammonite into the hedge, not looking where it landed.
Author: reggietate
Characters: Nick Cutter, James Lester
Rating: 12
Genre: gen
Disclaimer: They're not mine, they belongs to Impossible Pictures
Summary: Cutter's garden is in bloom, but he has more on his mind than just the wonders of nature
A/N: Follows on from:
Gardening Leave
The Birds and the Bees
Summer had well and truly arrived, and after several weeks of steady work, and regular weekend assistance from Jenny, Cutter's garden was beginning to really look like a proper garden, rather than a neglected wilderness. Once overgrown shrubs and bushes were neatly trimmed back against the walls on either side, flower beds had been resurrected and replanted, a stone-flagged pathway now meandered around the lawn, the tiny greenhouse was now clean and smart and filled with seedlings and canes and flowerpots and gardening implements, the veg patch in front of it now weed-free and planted with potatoes, runner beans and carrots. He even had a garden shed for the lawnmower and strimmer.
There was still a lot to do, but by and large, so far Cutter was pleased with the results. He stood leaning on his Dutch hoe, having just rooted out a patch of couch grass lurking in one of the beds, and watched a pair of butterflies chasing each other around the new roses, while the sparrows squabbled noisily in the apple tree.
Anomalies,and dinosaurs, and the death they brought, seemed a very long way away. But they couldn't stay like that forever. He needed to make up his mind if he was going back to work at the ARC. He couldn't keep putting off the decision, it wasn't fair on Connor, Abby and Jenny, or even Lester. The anomaly team needed a leader, and if he found himself unable to do it, someone else must be found.
Maybe it was time to let go.
Maybe.
He picked up the clump of couch grass he'd just hoed out, and flung it towards the compost heap, sending a shower of dusty earth into the wind as it landed. Ground was pretty dry, could do with some rain. The water butt was getting low, too.
He smiled at himself. He'd be listening to Gardeners Question Time, next. Actually, about the only reason he wasn't already listening to it was that on Sundays he and Jenny always spent the day together, and he had better things to do in the company of a beautiful and desirable woman than listen to gardening advice.
Of course, he saw her during the week, as well, anomalies permitting, but Sunday had become their special day, to be interrupted only if the arrival of the apocalypse was imminent. They'd spend lazy mornings in bed, making love, talking, reading the papers, making love again - he hadn't been this randy since before he'd married Helen. Sometimes they'd have a pub lunch or Jenny would help him cook, and in the afternoon they'd work on the garden or go for drive in the country. On Sunday, they never talked about the anomalies. an act of avoidance decided by mutual, unspoken consent.
On weekdays, well, it depended. They might meet for a hurried coffee, or go out for an evening meal, or to see a film. Jenny usually kept work-related talk to a minimum, but there were times when she had to vent about some ARC-related disaster, or simply needed to chat about her day without having to self-censor, and he didn't want her to think she couldn't do that with him because of what had happened.
Stabbing the blade of his hoe into the ground, he left it standing there upright, and went back into the house to wash his hands for lunch.
After lunch he mowed the lawn. As he emptied the grass clippings onto the compost heap and spread them around to make an even layer, his thoughts drifted to Stephen, as they often did. Here in the peace of the garden, it was easier to think of him without the pain and horror of the manner of his death, to remember him as he had been in life before everything had gone so wrong.
One part of the lawn, by a kink in the old brick wall, was overhung by a pair of bushes that formed a little grotto. At this time of day the sun poured into it and the trailing branches sheltered the spot from the breeze. Cutter liked to sit there on an old cane chair, watching the birds flit from bush to bush, and the bees trundle about their business. Even with the hum of traffic not so far away he could imagine himself in stillness and tranquillity of the countryside.
Stephen would have liked this garden, he thought. He'd tried to make it old-fashioned and cottagey, not regimented and suburban. There were patches of herbs among the flowers, swathes of lavender, even some nettles by the greenhouse for the butterflies. They could have sat out here on a Saturday afternoon, having a beer, maybe even kicking a football about as they'd sometimes done in the early days of their friendship. His loss had washed away any bitterness over his deceit about Helen. What did any of that matter now Stephen was gone?
Half-closing his eyes in the sun, he pictured Stephen, standing on the lawn in the easy, loose-limbed stance of his. Not doing anything, just standing, a smile on his face. Cutter's throat tightened, and he felt the sting of tears. He made no effort to hold them back, just let them slip down his cheeks till he had to wipe them away with the back of his hand and fish out his hankie to blow his nose. But he felt better for it. Sometimes letting go your feelings was better than bottling them up, even for him.
Time he finally made up his mind what he was going to do with the rest of the life Stephen had given him. His old job at the university was still open to him - he could go back full time, be an academic again. Except now he knew too much about the prehistoric past, knowledge he couldn't use, that he'd have to actively suppress. Lying to his students wasn't something he wanted to do every day.
He could do other work, of course. Lecturing in America - he'd been offered a lot of money not very long ago, to do a series of lectures over there. A lot of opportunities on the side of the water. A fresh start in a place with no bad memories. But he'd have to leave this behind. He'd have to leave Jenny.
I can't, he thought. If I walk away and something happens to Jenny, to any of them, because I'm not there to stop it, how could I live with myself?
Going back to the ARC meant less time to devote to the garden. But by now it was in good shape, and wanted less attention. There'd be fewer lazy Sundays with Jenny, but in compensation he'd see her every day. At the ARC he could make a difference, here at home he could only wait for bad news.
This garden should be his refuge - he mustn't allow it to become his whole world.
He took out his mobile and sat for a while just looking at the screen. Once he called the ARC, that would be it, no going back on his decision. There'd be creatures, and he'd have to face them and not flinch or freeze up or panic and get everyone killed. Could he do that?
I owe it to Stephen to carry on. He didn't run away, and nor can I, while the anomalies exist.
He had valuable knowledge and experience that would be wasted if he stayed at home. And honestly, he'd never been cut out for the life of an academic recluse, had he? He missed his team, and yes, he missed the excitement, too, despite how much he enjoyed the quiet fulfilment he'd gained from working in the garden.
He thumbed his speed dial for James Lester. Their conversation was brief and to the point, all business, except at the end.
"I'm glad you've decided to return to the fold, Cutter. Daphne and Scrappy have been positively inconsolable without you. and it's quite dull having no one around to argue with me."
Cutter smiled. "You might regret saying that."
"I already do," Lester said. "See you on Wednesday. Don't be late."
There remained only one thing left to do. Slipping his phone back into his jeans, he stood up.
The mound of earth was flattening itself, and would soon be levelled properly for a headstone. Stephen had wanted something simple, in black granite, with a minimal inscription and no flourishes. They'd talked about it once, half-jokingly, in the early days, after Stephen's near-miss with the centipede, 'just in case', never believing it would happen.
On the sinking mound lay an ammonite.
Helen. She'd been here. Not recently, but she'd stood by Stephen's grave, and left the fossil as her calling card. A message, a tribute? No way to know. More importantly, he found he no longer cared.
He picked up the ancient stone, and in its place laid a single yellow rose, taken from the garden. When he left the cemetery, he flung the ammonite into the hedge, not looking where it landed.