Work Text:
She stood there, wondering why she was even here and why she was even doing this. The longer she waited, staring at the tent before her, the heavier the tulips in the crook of her arm felt, until they may as well have been a load of bricks. Gerome was hardly the sentimental type, at least outwardly, but she tried to comfort herself with the fact that he would never laugh at her, even if her attempt at thoughtfulness was clumsy.
She shifted slightly, checked the flowers in her arms, and almost wished he would laugh, even if it was at her, but he never laughed at anything, anymore. Even a smile was rare.
She had to trust that he would understand, that he would see her small token for what it was. Nothing more, but nothing less, either. Remembrance, for tulips had been his mother’s favorite; hope, for they were the first real colors of spring after a long and harsh winter; affection…?
Her face grew warm. Yes, that, too, for he was her closest friend and confidante.
Before she could call for him, he appeared, pushing aside the flap of his tent as if he had known she was waiting. He wore no armor but a frown, and even that softened when he said her name.
“Lucina.”
For some foolish reason, it made her heart quicken. She blamed it on her nerves and the fact that Gerome’s mask could not hide the truth from her. For better or worse, she would know exactly what he thought of her gesture; his eyes kept no secrets.
She meant to hand the flowers to him calmly with a smile—had planned to tell him that they were for him, that she had seen them on the side of a little hill a mile from camp and that the orange and pink and cream of them against the new grass had reminded her of him, of how his mother had grown them in boxes at the front of their house and how even after she had died they continued to reappear every spring as a reminder that having little things to look forward to was important. They had reminded her, too, of the fact that Gerome had been forced to leave them there, and that despite his vehement protests and his belief that meddling in the past was reckless, he had come to aid her anyway—to aid everyone. They both represented the same thing to her, the tulips and Gerome.
But the explanation was too long, or perhaps too weighty; it knotted her tongue in her mouth.
She pushed her gift at him, instead, ears burning as she transferred the armful of flowers to him with the kind of care usually reserved for passing an infant to a doting relative.
It was awkward, but he didn’t say so. He simply allowed it, holding his arms out to take them from her. Even after she pulled back, hands flexing at her sides, he continued to cradle the tulips. There was something in his expression as he looked them over, in the gentle brush of his fingertip against a petal, that made her heart trip over itself—that told her far more than he would ever be able to say in words.
“I thought of you,” she blurted out with her usual earnestness, and fled before he could respond.