Dahlias
"I thought you were dead, you know," Roy said conversationally, leaning on his cane. God, how he hated that thing!
"Really. What gave you that idea?"
"Jean, you can look at me, you know. I won't take offense if you stare. Lord knows I do it every time I look in a mirror."
Nothing like a dance with Death to change a man's attitude about everything important. The first time it had frozen him into an icicle. Now, he seemed to have nicely thawed out.
Havoc snorted, looking up from his hospital bed. "I'm looking at you now. I even think I may be staring. What made you think I was dead?"
Roy rested a bandaged hand on the messy mop of blonde hair. "A particularly bad hallucination. You looked like hell."
"I felt like hell." Havoc made a face. "The only reason why I'm still in this over-sanitized pit is that the psychiatrists think I'm suffering from post-traumatic stress."
"I brought you some flowers," Roy said, almost shyly. "I didn't know what you liked, and I didn't think roses fit the occasion. The dahlias just came in, and I thought you might like some of those."
Havoc grinned. "Those will do just fine."