Cosima wakes up to the distinct feeling of something creepily fuzzy tickling her neck. When she groggily opens her eyes and realizes Shay is not in bed with her, so it can’t be her hair, she bats it away in a panic. Rubbing at her eyes as she grabs for her glasses, she inches away from whatever it is until the lenses are on her face and a sufficient amount of sleeping dust has been expelled from her eyes.
It’s a dandelion.
A white dandelion, in its fluffy stage, like the tattoo on her arm. Further examination of the room finds that they’re everywhere.
Dandelions have been carefully placed in her drawers and cabinets so that the stems were pinched in place when they were closed; there are many on her bed, scattered like rose petals; more still were placed carefully on the top of her dresser so the tops seem to overflow over the tall piece of furniture.
The pair of sneakers she left by her bed contain about 25 each, one in each lace hole and 12 or so in the hole where she puts her foot, like it’s a vase or something.
She pulls a few from her shoe, inspecting them before tucking the ticklish flowers behind her ear and walking out of her room in a daze.
Helena is perched on a chair, feet pulled to her chest, drinking a tall glass of milk. She sets it down, next to her plate of half-eaten eggs, to grin at Cosima, excitement evident in her eyes.
“Helena,” Cosima greets, with a smile, “I really loved the dandelions.”
“Good, I was hoping,” Helena tells her, “how did you know eet wasn’t Shay?”
“I did some deducing,” Cosima tells her, as Helena stuffs a forkful of white and yellow scrambled eggs in her mouth, “they’re beautiful, thank you.”
“You are nice to me,” Helena mumbles, around her eggs, which she chases with another swig of milk, “and funny. I thought you liked dandelions because of your tattoo. You can wish with them that you are not sick anymore.”
She gestures blowing on the flowers.
Cosima takes them out from behind her ear, handing the most in tact one to Helena and dropping another in front of Shay, who has been quietly observing the conversation with a light smile on her face. She takes the last for herself.
Shay picks up her dandelion, leaning forward to protect her eggs as she readies it for wishing. Helena is grinning wide in anticipation as Cosima counts down with her fingers.
Cosima does not wish to be cured; she figures Shay will ask that for her- she's been fussing lately.
Looking into the eager face of her almost-sister and thinking to her other genetic identicals, she thinks of many more important wishes.