#uf!flowey

And so it was decided.

Blood moved on afterwards (after hiring a cleaning team and turning on the light).

After the conversation with Flowey he went down and explored the basement and discovered several gardening things there (he wondered what he would have thought if he saw all that apparatus before he knew the secret of the attic. Maybe it would be a bit of an exaggeration for just a few vases of plants, but knowing the old goat, maybe not).

This room and the “fourth sanctuary” he cleaned himself (he didn't want rumors to reach Toriel's ears, and since she was the one who arranged all the services... better to prevent) and, of course, kept the attic sealed until everyone left.

He had to dismantle Asgore's bed and leave it in the basement (since Toriel's only suggestion, when he finally asked, was to burn it), and tossed his old mattress on the floor, he would buy a bed when he had more time (which ended up not happening, since most of the time he ended up sleeping on the sofa or in the garden (the grass was incredibly soft there).

He visited Flowey almost every day, usually in the afternoon, when the sun didn't bother him so much and spent time with the flower.

But not everything was (heh, heh) flowers in his life. Now that Flowey had a helper (more or less willing) he was able to finally take care of the garden properly, and not just keep it alive like he had been doing.

He had Blood carry bags of soil and compost from the basement to the attic, weed out weeds (Blood had a vague thought if it was not considered a form of genocide, but he quickly dismissed the idea. It seemed kind of offensive to equate his new friend with plant forms inanimated), pruning trees and harvesting fruits (he liked this job a lot, despite ending up with a stomach ache, and a reminder on his cell phone to look for recipes for jam, pies, etc. It wasn’t worth trying to eat all the fruits of a time), among other tasks that often ended up with Blood passing out on the couch or on his mattress without even bothering to change.

He couldn’t complain much about the legwork, which was true left him tired, but it also helped him to sleep through the night (no need to resort to medicine or beers in the fridge) and Flowey’s endless conversation about plants filled his mind and allowed he not to focus on things he didn’t want to remember.

At first he worried that the scent of earth would bring him back into the trenches, but the scent was something so alive, and linked to Flowey's captivating litany, it was as if they were two completely different elements from each other (and maybe it was really He had learned that there were various types of soil) and he had not had any panic attacks or nasty flashbacks.

In fact, since he started helping the flower he felt better (Toriel was right, he needed a hobby, he just wanted to see her face when he said it was gardening of all things).

But despite that, there were days he didn't want (or could, damn wound to the head!) to force himself to face the brightness of the garden, or Flowey's high-pitched voice.

In those days he would curl up on his mattress, cursing the world and trying to control himself not to stick his skull in the wall (and make the hole in it even bigger). And there were days when his “laziness” reigned and he just wanted to be left on the couch facing the TV with a can of cold beer in his hands and a packet of chips beside him.

In those days he felt a twinge of guilt for leaving Flowey alone. While he always assured him that it was okay to be alone (he had spent all this time like that, didn't he?) He imagined how boring it could be to be stuck in a single room (no matter how colorful and smelling that room was) even more when he knew there was someone who could keep him company (especially when he had spent so much time alone). This started to worry him. He knew that both were limited by the fact that the other was a flower, but he didn't like to leave him to his own devices.

(he could only imagine if something happened to him, how Flowey would feel, when he was abandoned again... and how long his new isolation would last. How scary it would be to notice the days passing and no one coming, and when the door opened again , if it would open up, what kind of person would enter? A new friend? Someone who would help and understand you or someone who would despise and abandon you again? Or even worse?)

He started to think about how he could make the flower more independent, at least to be distracted while he was not available (and also something he could do that didn't involve the garden).

When asked what he and Asgore were doing (besides looking after the garden) Flowey said that he and Asgore used to play checkers or that the older monster would read to him.

Blood volunteered to bring some books, but Flowey recalled that he had no members, which made it difficult to turn the pages, even though he learned to read.

The skeleton hesitated to offer to read to him. On the one hand, he feared that Flowey was only interested in botany (and while it was acceptable to listen to his speeches, Blood didn't think he could handle reading books about it). Furthermore, after his incident, reading became a difficult task, the fine print had a tendency to give him a headache and sometimes his mind could simply not assimilate what he read and he could forget things he had read 2 or 3 previous paragraphs. This frustrated him and made it difficult to keep reading.

(He made a note on his cell phone to try to track Alphys and see if the ex-military scientist had anything that could help. She was after all working with prostheses for wounded soldiers, he was sure she could indicate, or even create something that would help the little flower)

In the end he got some board games in which the Flowey could play alone and a radio so he could be distracted when he wasn't there (and he quickly discovered that Flowey was a good strategist, often beating him in checkers. He was going to dig up the chess game from your moving boxes any of these days to see how good Flowey was).

He then moved on to another topic, how to get it out of the garden.

Asgore had taken him there in a vase (Flowey did not know where the place where he was "born", only that it had been a long car journey), and that meant he could be transported. It was just a matter of discovering his limitations now. Blood then decided to bring one of the empty vases in the basement to test.

The first time he took Flowey out of his garden was a time of great tension.

Flowey made sure he could stay a few hours out of the ground, but it was weird to carry a contorting flower around (not to mention that just thinking about it reminded him of all the weeds he had pulled out of the ground, so even if it wasn't the same , he couldn't help thinking that "pulling" Flowey off the ground would be like he was killing him).

Flowey said it was a little awkward after so many years to have his roots confined in such a tight space, but it was nothing that would cause pain or be unbearable to deal with (like wearing tight shoes, Blood imagined) and the discomfort would worth it if he could a walk out of his sanctuary / prison (which proved to Blood, that despite saying he was fine, Flowey was eager to leave that place and be able to see the world. Even if the "world" was just the rest of the house for now).

Then after years, he finally left the garden (Blood descended the stairs all the time in a panic, so much so that the attic would collapse and bury them both, or that Flowey would start to wither. Fortunately the house remained standing as well as Flowey).

As they soon discovered, Flowey couldn’t stay in the pot for a long time (2, or 3 days at most before he started showing signs of wear) and was also kind of uncomfortable for him (although he tried to hide it), so normally Blood would catch him when he woke up (the hours varied a lot) and took him around the house.

Flowey was very interested in the kitchen, finding Blood's meager cooking skills very interesting and often giving suggestions, some very successful (like the suggestion of some spices), but others definitely not (no matter how much the flower guaranteed that carnations were a seasoning and could be used in a soup) and on television.

He often left Flowey in front of the TV while he had to go out and fix something, the TV was really great babysitter, although Flowey's taste could be a little peculiar to a child (but what did he know about children anyway? Perhaps serial killer programs and criminal investigations were popular with children). In addition, Flowey tapped that he was not a child, and as Blood had no benchmarks (he should calculate Flowey's age by the years he lived. or for the life span of a daisy?) he left it at that.

At night he would normally return him to the garden (normally, as he would sometimes fall asleep himself and Flowey would spend the night in the vase, adorning the table in front of the sofa).

So his days ended in a strange routine (which wasn’t exactly a routine), waking up, picking up Flowey, going down for breakfast (even though it was sometimes more lunchtime), usually bacon, eggs and coffee (bacon, the egg white and yolk for him and the bark and coffee grounds for Flowey), then they would go up to look after the garden, do some other housework or just sit together, play checkers, watch TV, or tell stories to each other.

They talked a lot about Asgore. Which made sense since he was the only person in common that they both knew. At first Blood had been concerned that Flowey would ask about the General's death and that remembering what had happened would make him have an episode, but Flowey never asked and Blood found that he had many stories from the pre-war time to tell.

It was in one of these conversations that the “seed” of his future enterprise emerged.

-We should open the store. - Flowey suddenly released.

Blood gave him an appraising look, wondering where it had come from.

-And sell what? The only thing I'm good at is fighting, and it doesn't sell in stores. - and he didn't want (couldn't) fight anymore. It was a big “no, no, no”, as Flowey himself said.

-We could sell tea ... as Asgore was. We have enough herbs...

The suggestion did not surprise him, it was normal to want to honor his father and being a flower his options were somewhat limited. Honestly, he thought that just keeping the garden alive (and himself) was paying enough homage to the old goat.

-Friend, you only say that because there is not much comparison to judge my food!

Not that he was that awful in the kitchen, but preparing eggs with bacon or macaroni and cheese didn't need much experience. Not, the problem was the intention.

He had never been very good and transmitting it correctly for food preparation (sure, he had sold some hot dogs in his youth, but again preparing sausages and putting them in rolls was not the same as cooking a pie), imagine now he was all broken! He will able to end up sending someone to the hospital. Better not take any chances.

-I could sell the tea in bags, but I would still have to dry them, manipulate them... - and that also required a dose of intention, especially if they were “medicinal” teas - Nah! Much work. - he dismissed the idea.

Flowey seemed to want to complain, but was silent, seeming to give up. Blood would not be fooled, he knew Flowey was not going to give up (if anything, the little thing was stubborn. A real weed!) And okay, he would be ready for the next crazy ideas that were sure to come.

The days passed and one day he went up the stairs and when he opened the door he was greeted with an explosion of colors and shapes. He blinked in shock at how many flowers had emerged overnight.

Flowey was more than excited to show him everything. They roamed the garden again and as he looked at the small bouquets in vibrant tones or the long stems, bowing by the weight of the flower at its tip he felt a feeling that he had long forgotten.

Proud.

Proud to do something with your own hands, and to see it blossom (literally). He had forgotten what it was like to be proud of his work, his actions... himself.

Of course, that was only possible due to Flowey's instructions, but the flower admitted that it was only possible because Blood helped (and wanted to do it). That even though he only did what Flowey told him, Blood had done it with the right intention.

That night he was slow to sleep,, feeling energized, his bones a little sore, but almost vibrating with satisfaction and still smelling slightly of the flowers in the garden.

Days later he was not so happy.

Although beautiful, the plants were giving as much, if not more work than before. Yes they had flowered at last, which was the goal (or so he thought) but the work did not end there.

As most of the flowers were of the common type, there was a lot of waste, most were reused, but not all. Flowey (the little general) was happy instructing which ones to cut, which ones to change into pots, or vice versa... soon he was putting bunches of flowers in buckets, pans and any containers that contained them.

He separated the edible ones and took them to the kitchen so that he could later clean and store them properly. Some were taken to the basement, where they would be made into compost (this gave him a pause and made him wonder if Flowey perceived the irony that he fed, in a way, on his “companions.” Could this be considered cannibalism?).

There came a point that he was putting buckets on any available surface (it was lucky that there were a good number of them in the basement. He wondered vaguely what Asgore was going to use them for, had he already predicted that he would need them when the garden ready, as he needed it himself now? It seemed likely knowing how much the old man knew about gardening).

There were a lot of flowers and Flowey advised him to cut some after the lingering smell of mixing some gave him a sneeze (and consequently, a headache).

So he put an end to the work of collecting the leftovers from Flowey's “massacre”. He picked them up first with his hands, but soon realized that instead of taking shortcuts from side to side (and exhausting himself as much as going up and down the stairs would do) it was better to just put them together in containers and reduce the number of trips.

Unfortunately, he soon realized that, however good his idea was, he would have to restrict his shortcuts (his magic was not yet fully recovered and after almost leaving at the edge of the basement stairs, instead of in front of the door, he thought it best to use your legs and avoid breaking your skull further by failing on a shortcut) he then ended up having to make the trips via the cinnamon road.

Blood chose to first collect all the plants cut into buckets and then lower them to the first floor (He would have to stop this soon. Just because Flowey could leave the garden now, it does not mean that the garden could also spread throughout the house !).

He was going down several buckets (it doesn't matter that the blaster was not made for that. If they could be used as freestanding, floating handcarts this is how he would use them) and dropping them anywhere in the front room and then thinking about the that he would do with them. It would probably set aside a handful for composting basins, but most would probably go to waste.

He had just come down another bucket (the last of the day, he wouldn’t make another trip even under the threat of torture!) And dismissed the blaster (he saw one trying to chew a handful of lilies, but he pretended he didn’t see, it wasn’t as if they might have indigestion or something) when a nervous rabbit monster burst through the front door.

Blood turned around, still with a bucket of flowers in his hand, cursing himself for having forgotten to lock the door (how could he have forgotten ?! How ?!) and ready to scream at the invading monster (and stick a bone in nothing friendly) when the monster grabbed a handful of flowers from a bucket he had dropped in front of the window and went towards him talking at a mile an hour.

-Oh for the stars, thank you! I didn't know what to do, thanks to the Angel that you are still open! - he pushed a handful of gold in Blood's hand - Here! Here, no need to wrap. Oh, thank you, thank you very much, sir! You don't know how you just saved my skin! Thank you very, very much!

And he left as soon as he entered, without even giving Blood a chance to react. The skeleton was planted there in the place surrounded by buckets of flowers, one still in one hand and a handful of gold in the other.

-Oh! We can sell the flowers! - Flowey exclaimed in his pitcher on the counter.

Blood almost jumped in fright, he had even forgotten that he had brought him down (even though he would soon have to climb him up again so he could go to sleep) to help him sort out the flowers and decide his final destinations.

-Hmm??? - He articulated still confused.

-The flowers! Let's sell the flowers! - The yellow petals vibrated with joy and contentment at his brilliant idea.

Heavens, he had even forgotten about the idea of opening the store (since he made the first suggestion, Flowey hadn’t touched on the subject anymore and Blood forgot about it completely).

Blood looked around and cannot deny that, in a very sloppy and confused way (for a delusional or endorphin mind full) the room could be mistaken for a flower shop.

Well ... why not? He had a lot of raw materials and if nobody wanted them there would be no damage to him. He was really going to throw them away, if someone was going to buy them then it would be his profit (and if not, they would already go to waste, no damage done).

He needed no intention or more than some paper to wrap them up, and sell them. He would have to do a price research (which he could do online), some documentation (that his lawyer could handle) and voia-lá!

He opened his hand and took a look. Not bad for a handful of half-dead plants... not that he needed the money, but...

He looked at Flowey who looked at him expectantly, his petals almost seemed to shine and he didn't even need to approach to feel the excitement and hope flowing from him.

Hell!