Accidents of a Florist [complete]

10: The End and the Seed

This time when she walks in, she's calm and her head is clear. She's turning over in her mind all the things she wants to say to him when he wakes (he will wake, she is certain). Oh, but she must filter first, decide which words are best, which words will convince him to take her back.

'I'm glad you're awake,' she imagines telling him, 'I've been waiting a while. I was wondering-' cross that: if she said that, he'd think her insecure.

'Good morning,' maybe she could tell him casually. 'You were run over by-' if she said anything more impersonal, he'd assume she was there on official duty.

As much as her mind is occupied with this mix-match process with words, it all slips away from Callia when she notices the bed, or rather who's upon it.

Before even noticing the pale pink skin, the unlevelled tracks across his arms, the crooked nose, the damaged corner of his mouth which won't quite close, she sees his eyes. She sends her purse careening to the ground as she very nearly flies to his bedside, halting just before him as she remembers herself.

"Jeffrey." She says in little more than a whisper of astonishment. Despite the fear making her knees weak, a smile grows on her face. "You're alright."

He smiles in response. "Now that my darling's here."

Her knees nearly give out at the impossibility of that statement. Thankfully, at the same moment, he's pulled her onto the bed with him. "You know, when I suggested we each explore the world on our own, I didn't mean this long."

Seeing her eyes fill with the tears she didn't shed the last time he'd spoken to her, ten years previous, he gently strokes her face, repeating her name. "If I'd known you'd take it as a rejection, I never would have said those words."

"I know, I know." She buries her face into his shoulder, trying to slow her breathing and regain a modicum of self-control. He pushes her away after a bit because his arm is still sore but, still, he keeps her close.

After a long talk, he sends her home. "You'll sleep better in your own bed."

Callia isn't sad to go. His eyes are warmer, more loving than she remembers, and she knows he'll be here when she returns. She kisses his cheek after she picks up her purse and walks out feeling as though she's right where she belongs: a bullet in the center of a target.

It is not love: it is peace, the knowledge that things will work out.