Work Text:
An early noon in spring seemed so simple to comprehend, which might be why Jim found more fondness for the time in his older age. His life seemed so fast, like he was always on the run from place to place, but now, he may sit. He may sit on his porch next to a pot of yellow flowers. And so he may run his fingers across the stem of one of those flowers and pluck it from its companions. He thought back to those girls when he was a kid, picking wild flowers and braiding, sorting, and of course, plucking their petals. He loves me, he loves me not . It was just a silly mantra for kids, but he found himself plucking the petal of this flower. He started to murmur to himself the same phrase.
“He loves me, he loves me not”
A man his age doing such a thing seemed nothing beyond ridiculous in his eyes, but the soft, repetitive motion of strumming the petals seemed so natural. He plucked a third, then a fourth, still whispering in an early morning rasp.
“He loves me, he loves me not-”
The door slid open, his husband with a cup of tea. He looked up, his love still in his morning robe. “You brought me tea?” Jim asked. Of course, Spock brought Jim tea almost every morning, it was never a surprise, but Jim always mentioned it. He had to let it be known just how much he appreciated it because “thank you” had gone stale after all these years.
Spock sat next to Jim, handing him the mug. He looked to the flower, and then to the petals on the ground. “May I ask what you were saying before I sat down?”
Jim put the flower down and cradled the cup between his hands. “About the tea?”
“About the flower.”
Jim limped his head on Spock's shoulder, sighing with what could only be heard as wonder. “An old game of sorts from childhood. You pluck the petals of a flower to see if the person you love loves you back.” He peered up at his husband, his smile wrinkling his eyes. “I know, it’s not logical, but there’s just something about it.”
Spock picked another flower, observing its form. “Show me how it goes.”
Jim looked back at the flower. “First, pluck one of the petals.” Spock followed, holding the petal. Jim chuckled, “you can just throw it on the ground, y’know.” The yellow fleck floated lightly to the floor. “Okay, so now you say ‘he loves me’.”
“... “He loves me-”
“And on the next one you say ‘he loves me not’.”
“-he loves me not”
Another petal hit the floor.
“And then you just repeat that.”
Spock looked at the petals on the ground. “I agree with your assessment, relying on counting flower petals to determine someone else's romantic feelings towards you seems, as you say-”
“Illogical?”
Spock put the flower in his lap, “-silly.”
Jim couldn’t help himself from laughing. He took the flower from his husband and placed it behind a pointed ear. “It is silly, I don’t need a flower to know that you love me.”
“Neither do I.” Spock stacked his head on top of Jim's, looking about the scene.
“Do you know what kind of flower these are?”
Spock hummed in response before inhaling sharply. “It is a Helianthus angustifolius, also sometimes called the narrowleaf sunflower or swamp sunflower. It tends to grow in central North American wet plain areas…”
Jim chose not to listen to the rest of Spock’s words, he simply laid his head on his shoulder and rested his eyes. It was so simple to comprehend, so nice to feel his head fit perfectly in the nape of his husband's neck. He let Spock’s voice lull him into a daydream, warming his hands with the cup of tea.
He loves me.