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Plants in Nevada were few and far between. With no sun to provide light or drive a water cycle, the grasses had withered, the trees had died, and most plants in the soil had shriveled to dust.
Fortunately, there has been grow lights in facilities scattered across the state before things had gone to shit, in greenhouses for rare, foreign, or out-of-season flowers, fruits, and vegetables, and basements where college kids grew weed, and pseudoscience mindfulness and youth centers, all quickly scavenged by those wanting to save the natural flora before it died out entirely.
This is to say, of course, that there were flowers, in a few small, beautiful places, separated by miles and miles of wasteland. Much fewer than there were in the early days, as the precious space under the grow lights was mostly reserved for food or tobacco, and the few flowers left were fiercely defended by their protectors.
Sanford was not someone many would pin as caring much about flowers. He was hulking and scarred, face often set in a flat glare. Even before the rather explosive incident that marked his defection from the AAHW, most would say his only real interests were death and destruction. Most were wrong about him. In the beginning of the end of everything, his first worry had actually been how the native plants of the Nevada desert would be preserved.
He'd volunteered himself for a mission to relieve a nearby bandit base of the contents of their greenhouse and bring them back to the AAHW. (he'd later inform Doc on how exactly to steal them back covertly for the SQ, before Hank was set on the base to slaughter every agent in the property.)
At some point, once he had settled down in one of the more permanent SQ bases, he had acquired his own grow light and decently-sized crate of earth, as well as some seed packets scavenged from an already picked-over grocery store. It was surprisingly easy to get them started; all he had to do was soak them in water before he planted them and put a trash can lid he found behind the building over the crate to keep the soil cool. Making his own fertilizer was also easy enough, as the SQ base already received regular shipments of ammonium nitrate to make explosives with.
It didn’t take that long at all for the plants to start growing. Despite knowing that the sprouts should have been green, they sprouted a weird, sickly-looking gray, which didn’t seem right. Sanford hadn’t entirely known what growing sweet peas would entail, only that their purple flowers had looked pretty on the faded packaging, so when they started trying to climb up his wall and down the sides of the crate, he had been a bit intimidated. After conferring with Deimos, though, who was much better at finding creative solutions to problems than Sanford (whose solutions usually were either “put a meat hook through it” or “blow it up”), Sanford relieved an AAHW base of a section of their chain-link fence on his next mission big enough to stand up in the crate and lean against the wall. The vines took to their new trellis beautifully, and left the cracked walls of his room alone.
Soon enough, the plant began to flower. Delicate bluish-purple flowers sprouted on the stalks in perfect clusters, and for the first time since the sun had died, Sanford’s world had color other than gray, black, or blood-red.
It had been a long time since he had smiled, really smiled. He could grimace, or he could leer, but he had not genuinely smiled in years, up until this point. An uncontrollable warmth bubbled like a hot spring in his chest, tightening his throat and making him press his hands to his chest. Rising higher, it pushed up the corners of his mouth and eyes, til he was beaming with pride that burst like champagne bubbles on their way up his throat. Grabbed with the inescapable need to be moving, somehow, he flexed his hands and balled them into fists over and over, before shaking them out in front of him. He had done this, he had facilitated this growth. His legacy may be destruction, but he had managed this one act of perfect creation.
He had to share this with someone. He could keep them for himself, yes, but what was the point of that? Beauty was hard to come by, and who was he to keep it from those who had seen so much death?
First, he invited Doc to his room to see them. Doc had been busy, of course, but when Sanford mentioned flowers, he had found the time. With him, he brought an electric kettle and two mugs, and the two of them enjoyed twin cups of deep blue butterfly pea flower tea while going over plans for the next mission.
Next had been Deimos. Dei had spent some time in a greenhouse before, so he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the concept of plants that weren’t already on his plate, but he was impressed nonetheless. For him, Sanford had picked a flower and placed it behind his ear, telling him that purple suited him. Deimos had turned red and had quickly left afterwards.
Hank was a bit more tricky (hah) to invite to his room. He didn’t talk to anyone except for Doc, and he barely spent time outside his own room. Luckily, that told Sanford that he could just visit Hank at his room after confirming he wasn’t with their medic. If he couldn’t get Hank to come to him, he would track him down and bring the flowers to him.
With that conclusion, Sanford was able to make an unnecessary (but still pleasant) trip to check on Doc in his office, before rushing back to his room to snip a few stems from his plant. By now he’d been informed that this thing was an actual pea plant and not just a flower that called itself a pea, so he was going to leave a few stems to fruit, but he could spare two or three clusters of flowers, couldn’t he?
He rushed through the halls towards Hank’s room, a small grin on his face that made any of the coworkers he passed either do a confused double-take or quicken their pace out of fear. The flowers were certainly odd to most, but most weren’t going to question one of the powerhouses of Status Quo straight to his face.
Sanford knocked on Hank’s door, three polite taps, then waited. A few seconds, then a minute. Then two. No sound from within the room. Sanford knocked again, this time two sharp, impatient raps. Something shifted in the room, probably Hank, and there was a quiet growl. A few seconds that felt like minutes later, the door creaked open, Hank still adjusting his goggles that he must have just put on. His mask, however, was off, revealing his enormous metal jaw and his fangs, the scars where his top lip used to be ugly and obviously healed by cauterization. Sanford’s heart skipped a beat, but not for the reason any sane person’s would. Hank tilted his head in a manner that Sanford knew by now meant to explain what he wanted, and quick.
He held out the small bouquet for Hank to inspect. “Found some flower seeds a while ago, and I figured you probably haven’t touched grass in a while, have you?” If it had been almost anyone else teasing Hank, Sanford would be snapped in half by now, or have his head bitten off, or be shoved into a blender. However, Hank had learned the hard way (read: Doc’s way) not to kill anyone too important to the SQ, and that included Sanford.
Hank stood there for what felt like far too long, head still tilted, as he regarded the gift. Time stretched. Sanford shifted from foot to foot. Hank’s head tilted more by a fraction. Sanford considered putting his hand back down and leaving. Hank’s chest moved finally (he’d stopped breathing?), and he huffed, a sound that could either be interpreted as amusement or annoyance. He took the bouquet out of Sanford’s hands and left the doorway, leaving the door open.
Sanford took at as a signal to follow Hank inside his room. He closed and locked the door behind him, knowing Hank preferred to be unreachable, before surveying the room. It was bare-bones, to be sure. Just a bed, a ratty futon in couch position, and the pre-installed sink, counter, and cupboards. The door to the bathroom was shut.
Hank was at the poor excuse for an en-suite kitchen that had no cooking implements anywhere on it, taking a glass from the cupboard. He kept actual glasses in his cupboard? He was filling it up in the sink, and–
Oh, he was putting the bouquet in it. Hank was putting the flowers Sanford had given him in a “vase.” his chest squeezed. He was being oddly gentle, too, trying to pick the stems with just the pads of his massive fingers without crushing them or snapping them with his claws. Hank had become much stronger after being revived as a half-mag, and didn’t seem to care about tempering that strength. He was nine feet of muscle and coiled violence, and making the conscious effort to not crush things in his hands wasn’t worth a passing thought to him. Watching him be so gentle with the flowers was doing odd things to Sanford’s guts, making the champagne-bubbles feeling come back.
“The flowers are purple, by the way. You probably can’t see the color clearly with your goggles on, uh, just letting you know,” Sanford threw in, attempting casual. He, surprisingly, landed that mark. Hank gave him a minute nod without looking at him. To the uninitiated, it would have looked like barely a movement at all, and that Hank was simply ignoring Sanford. He knew, though after years of working together, that Hank had acknowledged him, and felt warm for it. Hopefully he’d look at them properly later.
Sanford sidled back to the door, his movement making Hank’s gaze snap to him. He tracked Sanford like he was prey. “I’m heading out now, enjoy your flowers. The plant will grow peas in a while, I’ll bring you some if they’re alright?” Hank tilted his head to the side, but didn’t answer. Sanford didn’t hold it against him, he knew Hank was quiet. “Alright. Oh, dunno if Doc’s told you yet, we’ve got a mission soon, us and Deimos. I’ll see you later.” Hank nodded, just as small as before.
Just as Sanford was heading out the door, almost to closing it behind him, he heard something quiet, surprising.
“Thanks.”
His head snapped behind him– there was Hank, right behind the almost-closed door, he had moved without Sanford ever hearing. God, he was terrified of Hank. His face flushed. Hank’s voice had been rough from disuse, guttural from the deformation of his jaw and throat and the unnatural way his transformation into a mag hadn’t been fully completed. It did something to Sanford he couldn’t quite explain.
After a few moments of the two simply staring at each other, Sanford said, “Uh, yeah, ‘course. See you,” he finished awkwardly, and Hank– did Hank just laugh at him? It wasn’t so much of a laugh as a strong exhalation and a forward tilt of his head, and though his goggles hid his eyes, Sanford could swear he saw his cheeks twitch. It was more emotion than Sanford thought he’d ever seen from Hank. His stomach flipped.
He decided that he was just going to leave before he made an idiot of himself, giving Hank a nod and a grin before taking his leave. For a few seconds, he felt Hank’s eyes boring into his back, but finally, he heard the door shut and lock behind him. The animal part of his brain heaved a sigh of relief.
Hank was, at best, worrying to be near. He had kicked off the apocalypse, if Deimos was to be believed, by the sheer force of his blood thirst alone (though the Nexus Core would have also gotten there eventually, if in a different way). He was a wild animal barely kept on a leash by Doc, who could only control him by pointing him in a direction and letting him run.
Still, something about the interaction settled warmly over Sanford's shoulders. Hank had appreciated the flowers, enough to break his silence to thank him. It fluttered in his gut like some extinct bug, it made him feel light on his feet despite his mass. He was looking forward to the next mission; for what felt like the first time, he couldn't wait to see Hank again.