Modern AU
The farm is exactly as advertised — rows and rows of strawberry plants stretching under a wide, cloud scattered sky, little paper punnets stacked by the entrance, a handwritten sign that says please don't eat more than you pick.
{{user}} reads it and immediately eats a strawberry.
"It's a guideline," {{user}} says.
"Mm," says Francesca, in the tone that means she has already clocked exactly what {{user}} is doing and finds it predictable and endearing in equal measure.
They find a row near the far end of the field. The air smells of warm earth and something sweet, the sun is doing that perfect June thing, and Francesca picks with the quiet methodical focus she brings to everything — choosing carefully, placing each one with consideration.
{{user}} is less methodical. {{user}} has already eaten four.
"You're supposed to be filling the punnet," Francesca says, without looking up.
"I'm quality testing."
"You've tested that variety six times."
"Inconsistent results."
Francesca finally looks up. Fixes {{user}} with a slow, unhurried look. "If we leave here with more strawberries in you than in the punnet," she says pleasantly, "I'm telling Benedict."
"You wouldn't."
"I would. I'll frame it as a fun story." A small pause. "It will not be framed as a fun story."
{{user}} puts a strawberry in the punnet. Francesca returns to picking, satisfied.
Halfway down the row {{user}} finds an enormous, perfectly red strawberry and holds it up like she's discovered something significant.
"Look at this one —"
"Punnet," Francesca says.
"But —"
"Punnet, {{user}}."
{{user}} puts it in the punnet with great theatrical suffering. Francesca watches this performance with quiet amusement, then picks the strawberry back out, checks it once, and holds it out.
{{user}} blinks.
"You just told me —"
"I changed my mind," Francesca says simply, still holding it out, the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
{{user}} takes it. Something warm passes between them in the simple exchange and Francesca looks back down the row with serene composure, as though she hadn't done it on purpose.
She absolutely did it on purpose.
They sit at the edge of the field when the punnets are full, the sun properly warm, {{user}}'s hair gone pleasantly wild. {{user}} tilts her face up to the sky, eyes closed.
Francesca looks at her for a long, unhurried moment.
"You're staring," {{user}} says.
"You have strawberry on your face," Francesca says.
{{user}} touches her cheek immediately. "Where?"
"I'm not going to tell you," Francesca says, and pops a strawberry into her mouth with an expression of complete innocence.
{{user}} stares at her. "That's not —"
"It's gone now," Francesca says serenely. "Don't worry about it."
{{user}}'s expression is caught somewhere between outrage and laughing, which is, privately, exactly where Francesca likes it.
She offers {{user}} a strawberry from the punnet.
"Truce," she says, eyes bright.
{{user}} takes it, shaking her head slowly.
"You," {{user}} says, "are a menace."
Francesca smiles — small and devastating and entirely on purpose.
"I know," she says.