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He was babbling. "The point is that I just think that things like this should be done incrementally. Perhaps we could start with conversation, and, uh--although, well, you and I have talked, so I suppose we could bypass that. We'll just move to the next increment. Dancing, possibly. Oh, not now. Not now, of course, because there is no music, although, you know, my parents used to dance without music all the time. I recall a time in my childhood when...well, it's not important."

Fraser's insane interpretation of the conversations she'd had with him all day left her reeling. "You thought that...I...I don't know what to say," she floundered, feeling certain that this was the most ridiculous situation Fraser had ever gotten them into, eggs and trains and amnesia included.

Fraser, perhaps emboldened by the fact that she had not rejected him outright, at least not yet, placed the bouquet in her hand, curling her fingers around the stems. "Say yes," he urged.

She looked from the flowers--daisies, of all things; what were they, kindergarteners?--to his face, which at the moment was more open than she'd ever seen it, showing quite clearly the desire and hope he felt.

What he was offering was so much more than she had asked for, was so much more than she had even dared to daydream about, was...was exactly what she wanted. She wanted everything his hesitant speech had implied, from dancing to children to growing old together.

"Yes," she breathed.

He smiled, and she thought it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

After a long moment, he held out his left hand. "May I?" he asked.

"May you...oh." Of course. The dancing. She carefully set the flowers on the edge of the desk and took his hand. He drew her close, and in the slanting sunlight that came through her windows, they began to waltz to a tune that existed only in their minds.