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They grow fruits in their garden.
It's mostly Yasha doing all the gardening, because Beau’s thumb is only green when it’s bruised from punching someone wrong and that’s generally a bad sign.
Not like she’ll kill plants or anything, or beg off the work, she just doesn’t get the plants. She can dig a hole, or tie them to a stick to straighten them, or water them a little too much, and that’s about it.
But Yasha’s absolutely fascinated by fruits, and it never fails to get Beau grinning.
“We never had any, in the moorland,” Yasha says, fingers tilting leaves like she might scratch Frumpkin’s chin. “Lots of, you know - grasses, shrubs. A few had flowers - pretty ones - but nothing after.” She furrows her brows. Amends: “Nothing you could eat.”
“Yasha,” Beau groans, “babe - please tell me you didn’t-”
“I have a strong constitution, okay? It - it maybe tasted bitter, and I had a bad time, but-”
So - yeah. Of course they have the classic pretty flowers, and veg, and leafy greens Beau can’t help but make a face at still when they’re on her plate. But it’s the fruit-bearing residents of the garden Yasha favors. And they’re Beau’s favorites too for how they make her girlfriend smile.
There’s a pair of tame Xhorhassian berrybushes Essek pulled some strings to acquire, apparently wonderful in jam. Some Zemnian tomatoes Caleb recommended - following an argument about if they qualified as fruit, of course. And a trio of tiny fruit trees, grown from saplings with Caduceus’ help.
Yasha absolutely slaves over these plants. Sweats in the sun like she’s on a battlefield, rage-pulling weeds that dare impose themselves, fussing with stuff like soil acidity and nitrate content and so much math she sheepishly asks Beau for some help with. And more sweating: transplanting one of the trees when it’s getting too little shade, plucking bugs from the leaves.
Tenderly holding the fruits, sometime, in awe that her work is not murder but making something nourishing.
It's all enough to make Beau's heart do an embarrassing kickflip and nail her in the sternum from the inside. Really uncomfortable. Sometimes she'll get it to heel by dragging Yasha in for a kiss, and maybe upstairs, or under a tree. Or she'll just watch, feeling like the most dopey motherfucker, because this is their life now and it's good.
So when branches hang heavy with fruit of midnight purples and dawn’s pinks and blood’s red (how were they all ready at the same time? Bet the wizards had something to do with it, fucking dunamancy), Beau takes a day off work. Wakes up early and picks a sample from each, in a little wicker basket that’s so damn domestic she’d cringe if she wasn’t so pleased with herself.
Beau kisses Yasha awake. “Hm - huh - Beau?” Funny - in the blue sunrise afforded by their curtains, the berries almost match her eyes and her lips.
“C’mon,” she says, tossing Yasha a warm shift - they’ll be in the wind. Throwing things makes the fear, that she’ll say something wrong, that she’ll overstep and fuck up, fly away with it. “Let’s go share these with Zuala - I’m sure she’d want to see what you’ve grown.”
Yasha catches it and beams, cheeks peachy with a warm blush.
“Oh - oh, I’d love that.”