Work Text:
Declaration
The first one is a rather impressive colored picture of a blue flower with the word “Cornflower” beneath it which clearly stated what it was set neatly on his kitchen table. What he isn’t sure of is why it’s here in his home. He gently picks it up gazing at it curiously a moment. There is a mystery here and he hates how intrigued it makes him. More so when he flips it over and at the bottom corner is written in small print 1 of 6. Curious and curiouser. Instead of throwing it away which part of him is sure is the best option, he slips it into the top drawer in his bedroom dresser wondering where this was going to lead and far more interested in that then he probably should be. But at the end of the world sometimes, one just had to accept entertainment however it manifested itself.
Even suspicious drawings of flowers.
The second is a few days later on the couch; a bright red flower he recognizes as a tulip even without the word “tulip” beneath it. And turning it shows 2 of 6. “Okay,” he says to the empty room, “I’m gonna just let this be and figure it out ‘cause now I’m really curious as to what the hell someone is doin’ drawin’ me flowers.”
The third is five days from the first and is a white and pink petaled flower with the words “Apple blossom” on the dining room table. He gently picks it up and turns it over. 3 of 6. His lips curve as he realizes that shifts on the walls were more entertaining because he never knew if he was coming back to one of these. “Okay, wiseass,” he murmurs, “Gonna forget the breakin’ an’ enterin’ ‘cause this is definitely makin’ the days a bit less tedious. What is the game here?” He’s pretty sure he’s going to have to wait until the sixth one arrives.
Four is there when he returns from a few day run and is on the dresser by the door and is another red flower. “Carnation” is written beneath it. “So got an artist wit’ a thin’ fer flowers…” He cocks his head a moment. “End of the world an’ there aren’t florists so…”
And he realizes it’s taken four of these to realize that this was clearly someone’s version of giving him flowers. A soft snort escapes before ending in a chuckle. “Seriously? Someone in this place thinks giving me flowers is a smart idea? Well, two are left so let’s see how this plays out, I suppose.”
Five is a picture of yellow tube-like flowers with the caption of “Honeysuckle” and is on his bedroom dresser. He gazes at it a moment, his lips curving upwards. “So…what’s the endgame little artist?” His curiosity is probably getting the better of him at this point but he wants to know as he carefully slides it with the others in the top drawer of that very dresser.
And it’s almost a week before he comes home to find a paper on his bed by his pillow. Slowly, he pads over before reaching and picking it up. This one is not a picture. Instead it’s a note explaining the flowers and what they were symbolizing. He stills and slowly sits as he reads.
One is asking you to be careful with a heart like mine.
Two is my admittance that I am falling in love with you.
Three is me telling you that you are my preference above all others.
Four is how much the broken heart in me beats for you alone.
Five lets you know I’m yours…if you want me.
Abraham gazes at this intently. He’s a bit unsure what to do with all of this because it’s someone telling him that they’re in love with him. Him. Because that was definitely a wise idea to have. However, he has to admit that it’s never been done like this before. Flipping it over there is a little bit more.
If you want to know my name then you must follow the rules. You must do as I say but only when I tell you to.
The last “I” is underlined meaning it’s important to learning who this is. Abraham cocks his head a moment before reading the list and then turning it back over. He’s a bit confused but there is something nagging and familiar about all of this though he can’t say as he recognizes the handwriting. Or the art. But he’s sure he’s seen it. Both of them.
Two days is what it takes and it’s an accidental conversation that does it. He’s on shift staring into the distance but there isn’t a lot after dealing with Negan and his nonsense so most shifts are spent in idle conversation. Or at least everyone else having idle conversation. “Fuck I hated that game as a kid,” he hears from his left, “Would always end up not listening properly and doing an action and…you know fucking Simon didn’t say.”
He stills. Simon Says. Simon. Oh. OH . His shoulders tightening before loosening in a motion that nearly has him losing his gun and he finds himself laughing before he can help it. “Dammit, Ford, it’s not that fucking funny.”
He shakes his head managing, “S-sorry, wasn’t ‘bout ya. Jus’...” He cackles a moment longer before managing, “You just made me think about something else.” Someone else. A tall, lanky someone who had just pretty much declared his love for him.
The shift ends up taking longer than he thinks though the sight of Rosita almost has him groaning before she remarks, “You losing your shit, Abe?”
“Not even close,” he says, “Just got a bit amused is all. I’m good.”
“You sure because I heard you nearly had everyone wondering if you haven’t finally just cracked.”
“Sometimes I wonder but nah, nothin’ that detrimental. Least I don’ think so. Not yet. I jus’ need to go and talk to Carol.”
“Carol? That might get you an arrow in your face if you are not careful.”
He snorts. “Not for that. Ain’t about to get anywhere near in that mess though Daryl really needs to tell her. Or she needs to just shove him down and ride him like he does his bikes until he gets it at this point.”
“Abe, visuals,” Rosita groans, which just makes him grin.
“Have a nice night,” he offers before heading off hearing her spitting what he can assume are epithets as it’s definitely not in English. It’s not long before he ends up at Carol’s and knocks on the door before waiting. It seems to take forever before it opens.
“Abraham?” Carol’s voice is curious because this is not a normal occurrence which means that he probably needs to be better at visiting the people he did claim.
“Hey, you busy? Could use some…advice if you’re willin’.”
She gives a wide, warm grin before stepping aside. “Come on in and we’ll see if I can help you.”
Inside, he finds that Daryl is there; one of the few times he hasn’t been on a run and is focused on his arrow-making. He sees Carol give a fond grin and indicate the couch so Abraham makes him comfortable. Of course he’s seated when Daryl’s head shifts and he blinks. “Abe?”
“Just here to get some help from Carol,” he answers.
“I’m very curious as to what kind of help I can be,” she remarks as she makes herself comfortable on the table nearby gazing at him. “What’s going on?”
“Got flowers. Well, drawings of flowers. Five of ‘em.”
“Someone…gave you flowers?”
Abraham nods. “They were specific at the end ‘bout what they were meaning. And a bit cryptic but I have a good feelin’ I know who this is. So my question is…when someone gives you flowers and you might sorta be okay wit’ the message…what is the usual response?”
“Well, that depends. If you want to do it simply then just tell them outright and answer what they asked. If you want to go a more romantic way then return it with flowers for them in return that symbolize your feelings.”
He gazes at her. “I don’ really see myself as tryin’ ta draw ‘em. And honestly, I think I’m more an action type of guy.”
“But you still came here so…”
His lips curve upwards. “I need a favor an’ yer th’ best cook fer sweets we have.”
Carol grins at him. “If I do this will you tell me who it is?”
“Might be surprised but I will tell you what the note said and you can tell me.”
Carol waves him into the kitchen and murmurs, “What are you wanting?”
“Do you have enough fer a small thin’ of brownies?”
“Just enough. Special occasion?”
“Special person, I suppose,” he says before reciting what was written on the front and back and ending with, “so that was what I got.”
He watches her still a moment before breathing, “Simon.”
“Ah huh.”
Her lips curve upwards at the edges. “Wondered when his desire would overrun his fear.”
Abraham blinks. “You knew?”
Carol chuckles softly. “You’ve not been great at seeing passed choices made so you wouldn’t have noticed. But it’s in the way he watches you.”
“Well, here I am having brownies made and definitely not in the desire to poison him. He likes chocolate. Has a sweet tooth.”
“And you are a softy.”
“Not a chance in hell. You know better than that.” Her laughter says otherwise but she doesn’t push and he just huffs. A few minutes later he mutters, “Don’t you dare tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” she tells him immediately, “but I think someone might find out.”
“Well, if he does then I’ll have ways of making him keep it to himself as well.”
“I suspect I do not want to hear about any of those.”
His lips curve upwards and he gives an amused, “Yeah, probably not.”
So she just directs and gives the occasional swat if he tries anything before the tray is put in the oven. “Can I at least lick the spoon?”
She snorts but holds it out to him. “You better be grateful for this.”
“I owe you and Daryl. Whatever you want at this point.”
“Well, we’ll take that under consideration. But between you and me? Take care of him. I think he could use a good man in his life. A good aggressive man.”
Abraham coughs before his lips curve upwards. “Going to make that attempt. Apparently.”
“Know that your family will support you, always.”
“Ain’t me I’m worried ‘bout…and I know I bear some of th’ blame. Ain’t been as easy on him as I know Rick has wanted us to be. So gonna change that and hopefully put him on a better path ‘cause…yeah, he’s somethin’ when he’s not flinchin’ or losin’ his humanity in the service of a goddamn monster.”
“You won’t hear an argument from me because nothing you said was wrong. So go and make sure that he knows all that. And definitely spoil him. Think he could use some of that.”
“Honestly, don’t think he’s going to know what to do with it but here we are.” Abraham grins, finding the ideal a lot more appealing than he had at first considered.
“Gee, if that’s the worst part of the end of the world for him, I think that’s a pretty damn good problem to have don’t you?”
“Oh, definitely.”
So armed with a small thing of brownies, Abraham heads to the house on the corner housing their newest and most reclusive member. He knocks and waits to see if there will be an answer. Part of him is sure there isn’t a threat devised that will make him open the door if he’s not expecting someone. Three repetitions is enough of a hint. Abraham’s lips curve upwards. “Not to worry, Stringbean. You wanna break and enter then I will, too.”
And it’s not long, even balancing the pan, until he’s letting himself in and setting the pan on the dresser by the door. Carefully, quietly, he shuts the door before removing his shoes so that he can pad more quietly deeper into the house. Of course an overflowing trash in the living room has his attention and he moves to it before lifting the crumpled papers and opening a few to realize that they were discarded sketches of the flowers that he’d left for him.
Simon had wanted them perfect. His lips curve into a softer expression knowing that it was clearly important the message be clear. He gives a cursory look around the first floor but he has an idea that his quarry is upstairs. He makes his way up calling upon some training to keep as quiet even on the stairs with his weight and finally peers into a room to note the man curled up on his side tucked as tightly as he can. He’s not sleeping; there is too much tension in him for that.
He’s waiting for something terrible to happen.
The thought is a sobering one because he can tell how much Simon has risked in all of this even though he has yet to realize that there wasn’t a danger to be had here. He makes his way over to the tense, trembling figure and doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just climbs onto the bed behind him and tugs him back against him. The soft sound has him just humming as he tucks him against him.
He’s not sure how long it is until he slowly feels the other loosen and go more pliant and then would come a soft, tentative, “Gingersnap?”
“Heya, Stringbean,” he murmurs, “Got some brownies.”
“You brought brownies?”
“Mmhmm, remembered that you admitted to having something of a sweet tooth.” He feels him shift before the other is gazing at him; it’s a wary look because this was a man used to terrible things happening, to just accepting terrible things happening because that was where he’d ended up.
“I…”
“You are pretty damn good artist is what you are. Also would have made a fabulous cat-burglar but I don’ think that’s a good career path.” He’s rewarded with a soft, shaky laugh.
“N-no, probably would not be the best choice.”
Abraham smiles. “So, brownies?”
“Sounds delicious to be honest.”
“Thought you might think so. So wanna come downstairs to th’ dining room or should I go and get them and bring them up here?”
Slowly, the other untucks himself. “We’re not heathens,” he murmurs after a moment, “We can use the dining room like civilized people.”
Abraham grins. “Sure thin’. ‘Sides only place ‘m sure should have all the heathen-ing is th’ bedroom.” He’s rewarded with a flush of red and a sound of embarrassment before he feels himself get swatted with a pillow. A laugh escapes before he murmurs, “Wasn’t a ‘no’ there, Stringbean.”