They both had their scars from the whole ordeal. At first, Gina's made her frown at her hand anytime she examined her ring and at her leg anytime she was wearing shorts. She wasn't like Nick. She was tough, sure, and more than capable of taking care of herself. But she wasn't used to that level of violence and combat and it had taken her a little longer to bounce back than she would've liked, emotionally speaking. A lot of that, she knew, had to do with the trauma of thinking that Nick had been dead. Of course, in retrospect, it was kind of ridiculous. Nick was really hard to kill.

But she had bounced back and now she viewed the scars as marks of survival rather than something to frown at. She was in the kitchen, whipping up a pitcher of tea. She still held onto some of her southern roots, and her fondness for sweet iced tea was one of them. She leaned out of the kitchen to see what he was talking about, brows arching a bit.

"You know, Nicko, if you were half as funny as you think you are, I might've considered laughin' at that." She abandoned her tea, though, stepping out of the kitchen to get a better look at the picture anyway. They were definitely flowers up close. And a lot less fitting. "'Sides, do I strike you as a fancy dress kinda girl?"