Lorne used to hate that smell. It meant falling, and running, and kneeling in the mud as you waited for the shooting to stop, for the bleeding to stop, for it all to wash away and be clean again. It meant things gone wrong.
Now Parrish comes home, cradling a tiny green seedling. “Look!” he says. “Remember, from M4H-673?” Weeks ago. “It finally sprouted!”
He sets it down, precious, between them on the bed.
He does smell like dirt—but dirt graced with rain. He smells like soil, and other things that grow.
At the End of the Day
Lorne used to hate that smell. It meant falling, and running, and kneeling in the mud as you waited for the shooting to stop, for the bleeding to stop, for it all to wash away and be clean again. It meant things gone wrong.
Now Parrish comes home, cradling a tiny green seedling. “Look!” he says. “Remember, from M4H-673?” Weeks ago. “It finally sprouted!”
He sets it down, precious, between them on the bed.
He does smell like dirt—but dirt graced with rain. He smells like soil, and other things that grow.