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If Gil wants to disagree with that plan, he's too squarely outnumbered to speak up. You're led through the grass to a little paved footpath, which turns to a daunting amount of little tiny steep slick stairs, and as you skitter up them (your boots are <span class="mu-i">not</span> made for this) you mark them down as something to note to Gil later, manse-design-wise. Perhaps he could install a moving stairway, like in Headspace. Or an elevator. In either case you make it up without ankle injury, clover stems weeping milk between your clenched nails, and come to the half-a-house. Much of it is still bare wooden beams, or else chalk marks in tamped-down dirt. "I-it's not done yet," Gil apologizes, as if you didn't have eyes. "I mostly just set up the workshed in back, if you want to, um..."
He leads you around to— yes— a big blocky shed, set up right against a droopy tree. With an insect problem, from the looks of its leaves. (You mark this down as something else to mention to Gil, if he starts getting uppity.) Gil clears his throat and pushes the door open. "Um, I-I-I'll find my head..."
Thinking about it, you're not sure you've ever seen a "workshed" before. As a result, you have no idea if Gil's, with shiny counters and high-pitched bright lights and shelves and shelves and shelves and walls and walls full of more tools than you thought actually existed in the world. That must be a wrench, you think, in the middle-left of the left wall, but why is there a whole row of identical tinier wrenches? How many wrenches does any one person need? Maybe he wanted to fill the space, but didn't have ideas for any actual new tools? (You mark this down as something not to mention, just in case he starts trying to tell you about wrenches.) Whatever. The overall effect is a bit scary, since Gil seems to be adhering to a "maximalist" aesthetic, plus there's jagged scrap metal strewn all over the counters, and generally a lack of a natural feminine decorative sense. No curtains on the open window. No mat to wipe one's grassy boots on. You feel pity for Gil. "Do you have a vase in here?"
"Huh?" Gil is busy screwing his head back on. "A... a vase? There might be a can... in the scrap... I-I guess?"
You sniff. "I suppose a can will do. For now. In here?" There's a big bin by the far wall, apparently the source of the scrap metal, and you rifle through it gingerly before pulling out a tin can. The clover flowers fit into it well, if limply, and you place the whole thing on the windowsill. "There. Do you have a sink in here? For—"
"Charlie, they're not real. They're not going to wilt unless he'd prefer it that way." Richard rubs your shoulder. "This is splendid. How long did it take you?"
He means Gil, who stops massaging feeling back into his cheeks and instead looks frightened. "Um... I-I don't know... does it matter?"
(2/3?)
