Work Text:
Ever since the day that you went away
You’ve been sending flowers to me.
Robin usually wakes to flowers.
In the earliest moments, when her consciousness still lurks under the surface of sleep, she can only smell them. Dainty and sweet, mingling with the scent of freshly roasted coffee beans and just baked pastries. All together, the smell fills the air and wraps around her, warm and gentle and safe.
For as long as she can, Robin hovers between the realm of unconsciousness, and the real world. Just aware enough to breathe in the soft scent and find peace in it.
All too soon, though, Robin wakes fully. The smell, still warm and soft all over, grows sharper with the burden of clarity. She’s still light, but that’s quickly evaporating with the addition of other senses.
The pressure of her body against the mattress comes first, followed by her sheets. In the winter, her covers are hardy, resting heavily on her body to protect her against the chill. Robin enjoys it, but has found her sheets in the warmer months offer more to the illusion of sleep. In the summer, they’re more a protection against the breeze, soft and light against her skin. She likes to imagine it’s like being enveloped in sea foam.
Against whatever skin is uncovered by the blankets — her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her hands — she feels the wind. Usually just a slow gust, blown in through the open window during the summer. In winter, Robin’s skin meets the cold instead.
Then, the sounds of the world shuffle into her ears. Cars in the road below, birds twittering in the tree by the apartment, pedestrians chattering as they travel. Sometimes there’s rain, splattering against the concrete of the sidewalk, making gentle plinks on the glass of the window. The birds and pedestrians are silent, if not absent. The cars spray water when they drive through puddles.
Sometimes there’s snow, dampening all other sounds. Maybe Robin will hear a squirrel scamper up the tree, or footsteps crunching through what rests on the ground, but usually, the snow makes the world quiet.
Sometimes there’s just wind, which flies through the streets and carries away loose papers and dead leaves. It’ll make the pride flag hanging outside the window flap and crack like a whip, and the branches of the tree sway and rustle.
After all this has set in, and there’s no denying her lack of sleep, Robin sighs and blinks her eyes open.
She is greeted by flowers.
The vase on the bedside table is consistently full of them. Vivid and bright, the combination shifts every day. Violets and dandelions, bellflowers and Queen Anne’s Lace. Baby’s-breath and poppies, fennel and snowdrop. Freshly picked, all for Robin.
They’re always the first thing she notices. The next is the empty spot beside her, the covers smooth and full of barely lingering warmth. Later, she’ll acknowledge the other gifts; the cup of coffee on the counter, the pastry on the plate beside it. But always, regardless of the weather or the date, Robin zeros in on the flowers before anything else.
She always stares at them for a moment. Blinking slowly, letting her eyes trace over the buds. Robin examines the soft velvet of the petals, the delicate bend of the leaves, the stoutness of the stems. She finds her favorite; the one with the brightest hues, the healthiest petals, the sturdiest stem. And then she sits up.
Robin, careful not to lose sight of her favorite flower, reaches over and slides open the nightstand drawer. From it, she takes a ball of twine and a pair of scissors, unwinding as much she needs and snipping off the length. Once the items are back in the drawer, and she has her small bit of twine clutched in her hands, she’s ready to begin.
She relocates her favorite flower and plucks it from the vase. Then slowly, methodically, she ties the twine to the bottom of the stem, her tongue sticking out of her mouth slightly as she works. Once the flower is connected to the twine, Robin grins and gets up to hang it in her closet. It joins all the flowers from the past weeks, each with its own story and morning. She finds the oldest, and unties it from its perch.
With the dry flower in hand, Robin bends down and pulls a thick, handmade notebook from a darkened corner. She finds an empty page, and slots the flower between the papers, gently shutting it once it’s secure.
Robin replaces the notebook in its corner, stands, and shuts the closet door. She’s well awake, now, and has gotten her morning ritual over with. For a moment, she lets herself mourn the loss of the pure morning.
Robin usually wakes to flowers. She admires them, cherishes them, freezes one in time to remember every morning by. And she loves it. Robin can hardly imagine waking to anything else.
Send me no flowers today
‘Stead of sending flowers come back to me
And hold me in your arms again.
Today, Robin wakes to flowers.
The floral scent laces through the air, just like every morning. The coffee beans and butter-rich pastries join it, wrapping around Robin like the well-loved blanket it is. She breathes it deep. She’s peaceful.
Like usual, the other senses flood in. Today, there’s no rain or snow or thick wind, only a gentle, lazy breeze. It’s warm; the sea foam sheets rest on her body. Distantly, Robin thinks about summer. It’s a good summer morning.
Cars drive past, birds stutter through their songs, pedestrians make the bells of shop doors ring. Robin breathes in deep again.
With her body’s presence in the bed and the sounds of her surroundings registered, Robin finds the courage to open her eyes.
There are flowers, but for once, they aren’t the first thing she sees. Today, Robin opens her eyes and finds Nancy in the bed beside her.
Elation and joy fill into the pit of her stomach. That spot, usually vacant in the morning, filled only with Nancy’s leftover warmth, is burning up with her girlfriend’s body.
Robin blinks slowly, staring at the sharp lines of Nancy’s face. A smile spills slowly on Robin’s lips, warm and wide.
“Good morning, love,” Nancy whispers. Robin closes her eyes again and inches closer, tucking her head under Nancy’s chin. Nancy’s arms pull her in until every bit of them is touching.
“Morning,” Robin mutters against her neck. Nancy’s hand comes up and threads through her hair, scratching at Robin’s scalp gently. “What are you still doing here?”
Nancy hums. “I took the day off. I missed seeing your eyes in the morning.”
Warmth pools through Robin. She sighs contentedly.
“Missed you.”
Robin doesn’t know how long they lie there, tangled in each other’s arms. Maybe they’re there for minutes, maybe they’re there for millenia. Either way, Robin has never felt so light. She loves her flowers — Nancy picks them for her every day, after all — but nothing can compete with her love’s arms around her, feeling completely safe and secure, knowing everything is perfect.
Eventually, Robin remembers her ritual. With a reluctant sigh, she pulls away from Nancy’s arms and lifts her head, examining the vase. Today, it holds honeysuckle and daisies, a beautiful cloud of white, yellow, and green. Robin reaches over and takes two honeysuckle flowers and one daisy. She sets the honeysuckle on her pillow, and moves to get up.
Nancy’s arms tighten around Robin’s waist, a small, adorable grunt escaping her.
“Don’t get up yet, Robbie,” Nancy sighs. “Not yet.”
Robin considers her routine, staring at the daisy in her hand. Oh, well, she thinks.
She scoops the honeysuckle back up and lays back down.
“Here,” she says softly, handing Nancy one of the honeysuckle flowers. “It’s sweet.”
Nancy takes it. “I’ve never had one before. How do you do it?”
“You pinch the end off,” Robin says, demonstrating. “And pull the string. A little droplet comes out. That’s the part you want to eat.”
She pulls the flower up and licks the droplet off the stem. Nancy, her brow furrowed in concentration, mimics her.
Nancy smiles. “It is sweet. Thank you.”
“Mm,” Robin hums, twirling the daisy between her fingers. After a moment, she reaches up and tucks it behind Nancy’s ear. “Thank you for picking them for me.”
With her hair tousled by sleep, decorated by the flower, Nancy looks positively radiant. An angel.
Robin cups her cheek with her hand and shifts closer, resting their foreheads together. Their eyes meet, and at the first touch of their lips, Robin thinks she falls in love all over again.
Surrounded by the scent of daisies and the taste of honeysuckle, Robin feels impossibly safe. These are the best flowers to wake up to.