Title: Bouquet

Author: lauraloo

Rating: pg

Category: Romance, Vignette

Summary: A little vignette from Mac’s POV, written shortly after “A tangled Webb” aired.

Bouquet

The knocking at my door had come only minutes before. I’d heard it just as I was tying the loose knot that secured my long, plush bathrobe. The steam from my mid-morning shower still filled the room, blanketing my mirror. For good measure, I grabbed a matching towel, wrapping it around my wet hair like a turban. With my hand, I hastily cleared a circular spot on the glass, nodding, my lips curving upward. There was no hint of lawyer, no trace of marine. For just a moment, I was only the exotic, ancient Queen of White Terrycloth.

The steam had followed me out of the bathroom, trapped a billowy cloud of vanilla and lilac, hovering briefly as I fiddled with chains and deadbolts.

My eyes grew at the sight in front of me. It was a peculiar creature, with a head and torso consisting of an enormous vase filled with tall yellow roses. I could distinguish a couple of hands wrapped around the bottom of the vase, everything attached to a pair of sensible blue trousers and brown lace-ups oxfords.

Then it spoke. “Sarah Mackenzie?” a youthful voice had asked, struggling to shift the vase sideways to reveal an equally youthful face. He couldn’t have been much older than seventeen.

At my stunned and simple affirmation, the vase and roses had been presented to me. I set them down on my entry table and proceeded to sign on the space next to my name. Seconds later, he was gone.

This vase is now sitting in the center of my coffee table. And I’m sitting on the sofa right in front of it. For a few moments, I test myself, trying to see just how long I can hold out. It’s funny, the way curiosity builds upon itself...it’s doubling every second...it’s tripling....it’s, God I can’t stand it anymore.

But I move with admirable prudence. Slowly. Meticulously. The first thing I notice is this isn’t some cheap arrangement from some random flower stand. Someone spent some serious green here. On me.

The vase is fine, etched crystal, not ordinary glass. And the flowers are breathtaking. They brighten up my living room like sunlight. I lean forward to touch one, then another. Each rose is big and plump and absolutely perfect. There’s not a bruise or brown spot to be found. Each is precisely the same height and width and trained with a hidden wire to keep the whole design of them in place. They are mixed with feather-like greenery and the entire array bursts up and outward, as fireworks do.

The card. It’s nestled right there on clear plastic prongs, near the rim of the vase. Something flutters around in my stomach as I reach for it. The ivory parchment envelope bears my name, written in black calligraphy. A small gold seal at the bottom corner reads, Capitol Florist. Wow. Capitol Florist is simply the best. Flowers are flown in from all over the world every day, servicing the White House, major embassy functions, and now, even the Queen of White Terrycloth.

I hold my breath, drawing out the unadorned ivory card. Air shoots from my mouth in a single, hot puff as I read the words. Only three little words. No, not those three little words. But three words nearly as dynamic. My eyebrows draw inward- it’s a puzzle. It’s a mystery. And the card is unsigned.

Ask me again, it says.

Ask me again. Only three words. Only four syllables.

Ask what?

Hmm...okay. What about, how do you make a perfect pie crust?

Or, just what exactly is the meaning of life?

How many dimples are there on a golf ball?

Why does it always rain at picnics?

Ask me again.

I’m getting nowhere. I’m sitting here in my bathrobe, the towel still wrapped around my hair, getting nowhere. I temporarily abandon the ‘what’ and focus instead on the ‘who’.

Ask who again?

My eyes dart from the card to the flowers. Yellow roses. Yellow roses are my absolute favorites. White is for weddings, pink is sugary sweet and girlie, and red is just, well, RED. In fact, nearly every man I’ve ever dated has given me red roses. Sure, I was delighted to receive them. After all, they are the standard love flower. They should probably even be my favorite. But they’re not.

I’ve always loved yellow roses. Yellow is subtle and secretive. It whispers instead of shouts. But I don’t care for flowers in the bright, noisy shade of yellow. Only the pale, softly tinted variety. Exactly like these.

Now I realize that none of those men had ever thought to ask me what my favorite rose color is. And it’s common knowledge, too, that every woman has a favorite. My hand is shaking a little now. It realizes a half-second before the rest of me does that only one man has ever actually asked which roses I like the most. But, God, that must have been at least three years ago. I was helping him pick out Mothers Day flowers and he’d just asked, out of plain old curiosity.

My still-trembling hand moves to cover the opening at my mouth. Could it be? Could he have remembered? I close my eyes tightly, daring myself to believe it, scared out of my wits that the very act of believing itself could somehow make it all vanish. Make it all untrue.

But, it has to be. It has to be him.

Ask me.

I’m back to the matter of ‘what,’ as laughter and tears bubble up simultaneously, fighting for control of my face. Somehow, I manage to suppress both. For now. And suddenly, questions fall like raindrops upon my skin.

Ask me again.

Three little words. I speak them aloud. I say them in Farsi. I whisper them in Russian. I watch them bounce around the walls of my living room. Four little syllables – I nibble them daintily. I stuff them into the fleshy pockets of my cheeks before swallowing them whole.

Ask me again.

It’s like a gift. From this man who’d rescued me, who’d sensed that I’d needed him, who’d followed my heart’s cry of desperation, miles and miles from his home. From this man who’d surely saved my life not two weeks ago.

But we’ve hardly talked about it. I know full well what he did, what he gave up, what he was damn lucky to get back. It’s not exactly guilt that I feel; I’m not quite sure what it is. But I do know that it just kills me. So many things have still remained unsaid.

The card speaks now. The words are not afraid.

Ask me.

Where do I start? There’s so much I want to know.

Do you wrap a towel around your waist when you shave?

Do you prefer watching sunrises or sunsets?

Did you know that as you smile sometimes, your tongue barely grazes the inner edge of your two front teeth?

God, that smile. With whom or what did you bargain for it? What did you have to give up to get it? It’s simply not a standard issue smile.

Ask me again.

I realize now that I’ve seemed to have it wrong. I forgot the ‘again’ part. It’s something I’ve already asked. It’s something........my thoughts fall into a pause at the sound of knocking. The little card is still in my hand as I pad to the door, not knowing whether each step will lead me closer to a place of past or future. Or maybe a little of both.

Good, deep breaths become a scarcity as I peer into the doorway. It’s him, dressed in black jeans and a gray pullover. He’s silent, but he smiles at me, eyebrows creeping up his forehead at my peculiar ensemble. His glance cuts briefly to the card clamped between my two fingers. His eyes. I know they’re green. They’ve always been green. But I could’ve sworn, that just for an instant, they’d flashed a clear and brilliant blue, like they’d managed to capture a bit of sky.

Say something.

“Harm.” Okay, it’s an obvious, logical start. But I can do better. “Thank you.”

Brilliant.

“You’re welcome.” He strides into my apartment, locating his gift on my coffee table as I shut the door behind us.

“Whatcha’ got under there, Mac?” He chuckles, gesturing at the swirl of towel atop my head that now, unfortunately resembles the Leaning Tower of Pisa more than anything. I don’t look very regal.

With a half-laugh, I release my hair, slicking it all back behind my ears as the towel drops to the floor. The robe, however, is staying put. At least for now...

He turns to face me, a little unsure of what to do with his hands. They jump from his sides, to his pockets, finally settling in front of him. Clasped. He’s nervous. It’s something I rarely witness, but I still feel like I’m gonna faint.

“Ask me again, Mac,” he mutters. Three simple words, all rich and melodic, finally spoken by their author.

“Ask what?”

“Anything.” He takes a single step forward.

“Anything?” I challenge.

“Everything.”

And now I understand. It’s the questions I’ve asked him, from days long past, in settings near and far. I’ve held onto them for years, like a bouquet; not of perfect roses, more like wildflowers – in different shapes and colors. The hearty ones have lived throughout the years. But some have died. He knows it. I know it. I still clutch them tightly in my grasp. I just can’t let them go.

But, now does it mean that some of the answers have changed? That, perhaps, the answers once given, no longer apply? That maybe the answers that were never spoken will finally get their chance?

Ask me again.

It’s all I have left to do. I gently place the card on the entry table.

I watch him, watching me. His face, his stance, they wait patiently. He knows it’s hard. He knows it’s new. He sees the tears begin to wander around the rims of my eyes. I start with something easy. And it’s a test. “Why yellow roses?”

He grins. Dazzling. “Because they’re your favorite.”

Instantly, a runaway smile bursts upon my face, much bigger than the one I’d ordered up. No, the color hadn’t been a lucky guess after all. My confidence builds.

“On the ferry. Why did you back away?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. He’s thought about this lately. “Partly because of fear. Mostly because I wasn’t worthy of you yet.”

The words spin a cocoon around me, warm and true. Honesty is pure bliss. This honesty. I’m now convinced I could live off of it alone.

“And there’s that little part about you not being able to let go?”

He shakes his head. “Not...not anymore.” He brushes a few of my tears with his thumb.

Ask me again.

“What would you be willing to give up to have me?” He’s actually answered this one loud and clear, without words. But I need the words. I’m starved for them.

He takes my hands. “Everything, Mac,” he whispers fiercely. “I gave it all up in a heartbeat. And whether it was through some marvelous act of grace, or some convenient mishandling of paperwork that I happened to get it all back, it doesn’t change anything. I’d do it all again tomorrow, consequences be dammed.”

My eyes close then open again. No, it’s not guilt. It’s amazement, it’s humility. It’s love.

I squeeze his hands. “I know, Harm. And I’d do it for you.”

“I know you would.”

I manage a deep, cleansing breath. “What was Brumby right about?” I know it’s a strange question. But the instant flicker of recognition in his eye tells me he remembers, like it was just yesterday.

He smiles softly, his head tilting in reverie. I swear I see him wink, too. “About some people being in love with you.”

“What people?”

He draws me into his arms, his answer, a quiet murmur against my lips. “This people.”

My head starts to spin as the kiss deepens, as it grows. Like a flower.