Hey everyone! This is just a heads up to say that I am not dead. I know I'm supposed to be working on Spark, and I do have part of a chapter done, but I got utterly swallowed by school and real life. This is probably going to be a two-shot fic, so it's lil florist AU. Feel free to follow me seawritten on tumblr, which is my new writing blog, or ofsaltandseas, which is my main!
Either way, I hope you enjoy this drabble! You can find here, on tumblr or ao3!
This was the story of Beca Mitchell.
Wannabe music producer.
Unwilling, part time florist.
Her father hailed it as a sort of 'bonding experience' - a way for Beca to bridge the gaps that she had made when her parents divorced and her dad remarried. But, if you had asked her, the DJ would have said that she was fine with the bridges she had made and fine with the fact that she kept both her stepmother and him at arm's length since her senior year. A flower shop and a three month summer break was not going to change her mind or ease her sense of betrayal, especially with her father stressing her attendance to Barden instead of her dreams of moving to LA.
But the man was ever persistent, and his constant pressure of the part time job and one year's attendance ( just one year, Beca! ) at college eventually had her relent; if only for the fact he was offering to pay for the entire move if she hated it.
Her stepmother's shop was located in one of those open-aired arcades; a dying breed against the ever-creeping malls that erected themselves either side of the street, and the shops beside her own held dusty windows and large, red 'For Sale' signs printed on white cardboard. It was inevitable that the arcade would be swallowed by the change but, when asked about it, Sheila began to prattle that her flowers needed to breathe and feel the sun and, holy shit, Beca thought,they were just flowers - why was she talking about them like they were her children?
The shop was nice enough - boasting a sort of vintage, rustic look with its weatherboard paneling and rows of potted plants. Each morning Shelia would wander out to arrange the realistic plastic into weaving bouquets of pastels and white and, each morning, she accepted the boxes of freshly cut flowers from the grower who arrived two hours before opening.
Then, at ten am, Beca would arrive to the shop with headphones mashed to the top of messy brown hair, plaid shirts and dark pants to contrast the delicate beauty of the shop. At ten am she worked the shop for the next few hours; taking orders, selling flowers and making random arrangements out of the flowers Shelia left behind. As much as she griped and grumbled about the job, it had its perks. A steady income was one; not to mention she was able to put on her music while she worked - and her remixes were commonly commented on by regulars and new customers alike.
She came on the second of July, where white and blue chrysanthemums were strung about the shop like Christmas lights, and posies of brilliant roses lined the tables and held up the buntings laid across its surface. Beca had been working at the back, stringing together a seemingly never ending palette of patriotic hues until a loud crash signaled her arrival, accompanied by one's attempt to muffle their swearing.
A cock of her brow had Beca wipe her hands upon her apron as she made her way outside, spotting... jesus fuck - how many flowers were in that bouquet? There had to be over a dozen roses, and the poor woman clutching them looked liable to run into the table before her intervention. Both finding the situation hilarious and alarming, Beca seemed torn between laughter and concern - but settled on the last as to be a good assistant for her stepmother. She approached slowly, as if fully prepared to have this girl yell at her for whatever fault she had with her order.
"Hey, um... Can I help you?"
"Hi there!" The upbeat nature of the voice caught her off guard, as did the way the flowers were thrust forward with peppiness of the other's tone. "Listen, this is really embarrassing, but I - can I put these down somewhere?"
"Uh... sure?" Awkwardly directing the mass of green and red towards the counter top, the voice was able to pop the posy down upon the wood, and Beca was finally able to see the girl's face. She looked about her age - maybe a year or two older - with her face the colour of her hair and her eyes a light blue. Relieved at the mass no longer cradled in her arms, she began to lunge into an explanation while the DJ just... stared.
"I'm really not sure if this is the right place to go, or even if you can help, but the card on the roses said this shop and I got so lost trying to come here - you wouldn't believe it. My boyfriend, Tom - okay, well, he's not my boyfriend now; we broke up last week... anyway, my ex-boyfriend bought me these roses, and they're beautiful, but now it's super awkward because I don't feel for him the way he does for me. I'd show you the letter, but that's not really the point..."
Beca wasn't normally one to get flustered in front of people, as she thought herself the master of one line responses and escaping conversation way before it got to this point. She looked more like a deer than a girl; caught in the radiance of the other as she ranted and raved -
"So, do you think you can help?"
Shit. Blinking twice like a fucking moron, Beca tried to catch on to the rest of her conversation as the other waited expectantly.
"Err-"
"I ranted a bit, didn't I?" Despite the fact she had probably every right to berate Beca for her absent mindedness, the ginger beamed in an expression that only made the other more confused. "I was just wondering if I could sell them back to you... or maybe return them? I understand if you can't, I just... I don't want them in my house -"
"They're flowers, dude." The words fell out of Beca's mouth, unintentional and stilted from the sheer ridiculousness that was this red-head in her shop. Her hands found their way to the pockets of her apron, beginning to fiddle with the fabric as she realised just how Beca-like her response was. "Look, I mean, once the order's done and the flowers are sent, there's not a lot we can do unless there's a problem. You could give them away or something if you wanted, but -"
"Do you think I can give them to you?" Whereas the ginger looked somewhat dejected at Beca's initial response, her face lit up the moment the idea was suggested and she began to wave her hands over the top of the roses. "You could give them away as advertising, or something. Or, If you have a significant other, you could always give those to them."
"I don't-" Beca began to interject, followed by a long pause as she tried to find her words. Get it together, Mitchell! Her hands dipped under the other woman's, careful not to touch her skin as she did, and she scooped up the ginormous bunch of flowers.
"I'll put them out the back for you. You're sure you don't want them?"
"Yes. I'm a thousand percent sure - thank you so much. You're a lifesaver." As Beca turned and awkwardly fiddled with the latch to put the flowers near her work station, the other's voice still called from the front of the shop.
"I didn't get your name! A damsel has to know her hero, after all!"
Jesus. Beca rolled her eyes, though it didn't have quite the same malice as it might have for anyone else. With her back still turned to the other and her fingers fiddling for her scissors to cut away the paper, she spoke briefly.
"Beca."
"It's nice to meet you, Beca! I'm Chloe."
While Beca didn't say anything in reply, her eyes glanced to the leftover pile of flowers, where a small array of delicate hibiscuses lay strewn across orange paper from a 'tropical' wedding. While it was possible that something could be done with them, it was more likely that Sheila would end up putting the petals to compost from not being sold. Plucking a yellow one from the mass, and leaving the roses for when she left, the DJ moved back out to where Chloe stood, holding out the single bloom.
"Here."
Chloe looked surprised at the sight, though her expression turned into something just a little too wicked to be playful innocence.
"Are you flirting with me, Beca?"
"What?" That incredulous expression soon returned on the brunette's face, and she began to draw the flower back towards her. "Jesus, I just thought since you had a break up and everything -"
Chloe beamed and plucked the flower from the other's hand, her smile drawn from ear to ear despite the way Beca floundered. Pulling back her hair, she pushed the hibiscus behind her ear and draped the dark locks over the top.
"Thank you," she said cheerily. "I'll treasure it. But -! You have to take one of the roses home with you. It's kind of an equal exchange thing." Making some vague gesture with her hands, Chloe watched as Beca hesitated, and managed to cut in before an excuse could be made.
"C'mon, you have to promise me. It's just a flower, right?" Right. It wasn't like Beca was struggling to say anything - nor that her face had gone close to beet red, despite her better intent. Beca didn't get embarrassed; she never struggled in front of people or went red in the face. In fact, it would have been far easier for her just to say no and let it be the end of their strange, but otherwise cordial conversation. But, with a groan, she relented.
"Fine. I promise." Before she could let that be the end, Chloe stuck her pinkie finger out in front of her.
"Pinkie swear."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope! And you have to put it in your hair."
"Chloe."
But the red-head began to wave her finger right in front of Beca's face and the DJ, while holding an expression that could kill, eventually lifted her own hand and entwined it with the other's own. Chloe looked beyond pleased.
"Alright! Well, I should let you get back to work." Walking backwards towards the front door, Chloe paused only when her back was to the glass and she pointed to Beca as she had begun her retreat back to her workstation.
"The flower!"
"I know!"
As Chloe pulled open the door, Beca pulled out her florist knife and cut away the stem of one of the roses from the pile that Chloe had given back. Pushing into her own hair, she turned and pointed upwards to its placement, which was promptly returned with a thumbs up by the other woman.
"I'll see you around, Beca!" She called, pulling open the door and shutting it behind her.
This was the story of Beca Mitchell.
Wannabe music producer.
Somewhat willing, part time florist.
And she wore that flower in her hair the rest of the day, until such time as her stepmother returned and she able to go home.