AN: A quick oneshot written for Slice of Life Sunday, to kick off DaveJade week 2015!

It's a clear, sunny Friday afternoon as you leave work, shrugging your jacket over your shoulders and calling a farewell to your coworkers—something along the lines of "See ya, suckers"—as you breeze on out the door. You've got a date. Last week you promised her you'd be there at 4:00 p.m. on Friday, after work, and lucky for you, it's on the way home, too.

It's part of your weekly routine, actually. You go see Jade at least once every seven days. Is it the most practical schedule in the world, sticking so rigidly to leaving work a bit early every Friday just to say hey to her? Maybe not. Are you gonna keep doing it anyway? Fuck yeah.

It's currently 3:42, so you're actually a little early. Oh well, you guess you walked out of work a little too soon, what an absolute shame! Haha oh you crack yourself up. Fuck work. Work is stupid.

It takes around ten or fifteen minutes to get to Jade from work, walking at a good pace, which means you have just enough time to pop into the florist's shop across the street. Good, good. Jade always has loved flowers, so you've always loved getting them for her.

"Yo," you greet the old lady who runs the place, Mrs. Elena, as you walk in, giving her a casual wave. Normally you might not be so cavalier, but hey, she's used to you by now. Every Friday you buy Jade flowers. It's a commonplace occurrence. Sometimes she gives you advice on which flowers to get, which is really appreciated, because you don't know shit about flowers. They're colorful and they're plants and they're some of Jade's favorite things, and that's all you've gotta know on the topic.

"Afternoon, Dave," she smiles kindly. The sunlight streaming in from the windows glints off of her golden necklace—it's a locket. She's shown you the picture of her husband, dead now, that she keeps inside it. She still wears her wedding ring, too. It's sad, but also kinda sweet, you think. That whole growing old together and being totally in love even after he's dead thing. That's something that you think Egbert would totally eat up. Yeah. Egbert.

"How's it going, Mrs. E?" you ask, sauntering over to the counter she's sitting behind. "Long day?"

"Oh, it hasn't been so bad," she says with a slight shrug, adjusting her glasses on her nose as she looks up at you. "Fridays are never bad. They mean the weekend is almost here."

You raise your eyebrows, feigning hurt and placing a hand to your heart. "Oh, they're never bad just 'cuz of the weekend? And here I was, thinkin' that maybe you liked Fridays because your favorite customer comes in every single time one rolls around!"

Mrs. Elena laughs, shaking her head and then resting it on her hand with a tired sigh. "Ah, yes, that too. My favorite customer is very devoted to his girlfriend, yes?"

"Yeah, just a little bit," you agree, thinking of Jade. A little smile tugs at your lips as you remember the last time you saw her, the way she'd squeezed your hand and told you how much she loved you. "I mean ... She's out of this world, what can I say?"

Her smile doesn't fade, just grows softer, more fond and kind of wistful. She's probably thinking about her husband, you figure. "It's nice, seeing such good things in you young people. It gives me hope for this world."

"That's what Jade does," you nod. And then okay yeah that's enough sappiness for today, no matter how true it is that Jade gives you hope for the world every time you think of her or scroll through messages she's sent you. You're sappy as fuck, but you'll only actually say sappy things out loud to her, not other people. You've reached your sappiness quota for the week, now. Time to buy the flowers and get going.

Besides, you wouldn't want to be late. You were late last week and you promised you'd be on time this week. Sure, she would never in a million years hold it against you that you ran late thanks to the goddamn weather, and forgetting your umbrella, and nearly dying in the thunderstorm because of flooded roads and hydroplaning traffic, but you want to make it up to her anyway. The weather is fine today, so you'd have no excuse, too.

So you straighten and look around at the collections of daisies and daffodils and tulips and hydrangeas and whatever the hell all of these flowers are. What should you buy this time...?

"So, my dear favorite customer, what shall it be today?" Mrs. Elena asks teasingly, echoing your thoughts. "Perhaps some red roses?"

"Oh, nah, come on, that's so cliché," you snort, shaking your head. "Wouldn't something more unique be better? Everyone always gets their girlfriend red roses. A dozen red roses. Oldest bouquet in the book."

"Maybe," Mrs. Elena says with a little shrug, "but come now, you can't deny that a dozen red roses has some cultural significance, no? You can add a little card and everything. I'm sure she'd love it."

"Are you just trying to get rid of some extra roses?" you raise your eyebrows at her again, then shrug. "I mean, I guess you're right. She'd either love them or be like 'Dave, you shouldn't keep spending money on flowers every week'. Actually, she'd do both. So yeah, f—screw it, I'll go for the roses. Why not."

You still have the distinct feeling that Mrs. E was just trying to get rid of some extra roses by dumping a whole dozen of them on you, but she laughs your accusation off and wraps them in silver paper. She ties the bouquet with a dark red ribbon, knotted in a big fancy bow that probably took a lot of practice to master, and surveys it quickly before handing it to you with a flourish. "Here you are," she says. "Give Jade my regards."

"Will do," you agree, accepting the flowers with a slight smile and digging your wallet out of your pocket with the other hand. "Thanks, Mrs. E."

After you pay, you leave the shop and turn to start walking down the sidewalk, checking the clock as you do. It's 3:47. Alright, that's acceptable, you're on time. You're on time and you have flowers—a nice, cliché dozen red roses. Maybe you can just tell her you bought them ironically. She'd probably just laugh at you and tell you you're silly and that she loves roses and then maybe she'd drag you into the garden and get you to help plant them or something. Can you plant roses cut from the stem like this? Would they even grow? You're not sure. Jade would know.

At 3:58 you arrive, strolling right on up to where she waits. She's under the apple tree like she always is, which you think is kind of great because you love apples and you love Jade, and here they are together.

"Hey, Jade," you greet her, plopping down in the grass next to her with no further ado. "It's been a long week, let me tell you. I don't know if John mentioned it already or what, but Rose has been sick, so we've been hauling ass to make sure she's alright, even though she keeps insisting she's fine, which is a fuckin' lie if I've ever heard one. I mean—don't worry, she'll be totally fine, she's just gotta lie down and actually get some rest, you know? Like she never ever does?"

Jade doesn't reply, but it's not like you really expected her to say something anyway, so you keep talking.

"Her books are looking up, though. Apparently the manuscript got approved at the last publishing company she sent it to. She got the email yesterday and woke Kanaya up at three in the morning by screaming into her pillow," you snort, shaking your head. Your sister apparently forgot how good her girlfriend's hearing is, a fact that you find nothing short of fucking hilarious.

"And then she called me, even though it was three in the morning, and pretended she wasn't flipping her shit, even though there would be no reason for her to be calling me at three in the morning if she wasn't flipping her shit, so that didn't even make sense for her. So yeah, I'm running on way less sleep than normal, because, well, you know how I am the world's lightest sleeper. Lighter than a feather with a jet engine shooting it into the high heavens. Which, I think, is technically negative lightness, because it's not even falling down onto anything. I dunno, you've always been the one who knows all this sciency shit."

A bird perched in the branches of the apple tree twitters and trills. You glance up at it as the breeze blows softly, letting a moment of silence hang in the air as you close your eyes and feel the late afternoon sun warm on your face, and then you go on, more softly.

"It's been a while since you lectured me on which stars do what and why some of them are hotter than others, you know." The two of you went stargazing all the time, in the past. At least once a month. You had both agreed that every first Friday of the month, weather permitting, you'd spread blankets out in the back yard, and lie there, snuggled up together as you gazed into the night sky. There also might have been some kisses involved, but you never mentioned that to Bro. He made enough jokes about it without that information, thanks. "Still. I guess I could read up on that myself. Wikipedia and all that jazz, right?"

It's not the same as hearing it in her voice, of course. You can almost hear her laughing as she nudges your shoulder and asks if you're going to cuddle your computer as you read wiki articles—almost. She's ... she's not laughing, now.

"Oh—man, I almost forgot," you suddenly say, bringing forward the bouquet. "I brought you some flowers. I know, I know, a dozen red roses is cliché and all, but we can pretend I bought them ironically if you want to spare my ego and not mention that it's been six months and I am still absolutely and unequivocally head over heels for you, same as I've been since the first day I kissed you."

Your voice catches on those last words as you think about that day, of how soft her lips had been and how warm her hands were and how sweet the sound of her laughter was. You place the roses on the headstone and trace her name—Jade English-Harley.

"I miss you," you tell her simply, plaintively. Your voice cracks just a little. You and Jade will never have what Mrs. Elena did. Growing old together just won't happen for you. The picture on your nightstand shows a girl with a bright smile, a girl who is painfully young for someone who's gone forever. There's a lump growing in your throat, your vision is blurring a bit behind your shades, and your voice is hoarser than it should be. "I miss you so much."

She doesn't answer. She never will again.

It's the first Friday of the month. You sit outside with her until the stars come out, and then you rest your head against the cold, cold stone and watch them, twinkling, eternal, shining, distant, constant, fiery, cold. You can never remember the constellations—that was always her thing, pointing them out and guiding your finger along the maps she saw in the sky—but even if you don't see Orion or Serpens, as you gaze into the quiet darkness, you like to think you can see her, up there, beautiful, shining on into the night forever.

End.