Hello! This is the result of me being up all night. Enjoy. 3
Title: (He is a flower in her untamed garden.) (She is a tattered canvas he would love to mend)
There was always something about flowers that Emma Swan loved.
She remembers as a child escaping the confines of her foster homes in search of gardens filled with beautiful flowers, or large trees with branches that beckoned her to climb higher and higher, or the soothing feeling of tall grass cradling her (the way she imagined a mother would.) She remembers the solace that nature gave her; nurturing her like a dotting parent would.
Deprived of love, she turned to the world around her to fill the void. She fell in love with each petal of every rose, fell in love with the way a breeze caressed her cheek gently in the fall, fell in love with the way winter nipped at her nose...
(She remembers buttercups the most vividly. It was her third foster home, she had barely been there for a week when he struck her. A mistake, she had forgotten to say please when asking for food. She had eyed his plate with eager eyes, watched the way he took every bite slowly, deliberately causing her pain. She was starving, she couldn't think straight, deprived of nutrients essential to her growing body, she begged for just a taste.
"Can I have some?" She whispered, eyes never leaving the plate before the man, her temporary father. He rose faster than she could comprehend, and before she could even process what was happening his hand had already slapped her cheek, firmly imprinting the importance of the word please into her mind forever. She ran from him, before he could see the tears that were streaming down her face. She knew from experience that crying was a sign weakness, and they, those people that claimed to care for her, would use that weakness against her. Once out the door, she haphazardly ran into the field parallel to their farm house. Tears now rushing down her face as she stumbled through the grass. Falling to her knees she saw it, saw them for the first time. The beautiful yellow petals welcomed her, they soothed her tears away, and filled the a void in her lonely heart. They were small pieces of sunshine she could hold, they were her light in the darkest of times.)
She never imagined herself being free from the cycle of foster home to orphanage to foster home. Her entire childhood was filled with false hope and false reassurance that she would find a family who would love her unconditionally. The books that littered these places, these makeshift homes, were always fairy tales. Emphasizing the importance of a belief that she never possessed. Delightful tales of fairies and imps, dancing princes wooing his princess, dashing pirates sailing the seas who coincidentally meet the women of their dreams, marriage, happiness and stupid, stupid love. Lies etched on every page, she scorned them, she hated them.
Yet she had managed to liberate herself. Turning eighteen, she fled the first chance she got. And now, ten years later, she is here. Standing in her own business, her own flower shop.
The Enchanted Florist was her personal nirvana.
She had opened the shop a month ago, and although she was barely making ends meet she felt at home here. Sighing to herself, she drifted between each display of carefully constructed flower arrangements, and flopped down at the counter. She went over the orders for the week, making sure she hadn't overlooked something. It was nearly closing time, and the busy streets of Boston were winding down to a dull roar. She hummed along with the radio as she flipped through every order. The bell chimed, signaling that a customer had entered. She checked over the last order before tucking them neatly below the register. Her eyes traveled to the patron, his back was to her but she could see his strong shoulders and disheveled black hair, she watched as his hands awkwardly fumbled with the various bouquet of roses she had at the front of the store.
"Each rose color has a different meaning" She states simply from her spot behind the counter. She watches as his shoulders slump, and a scoff escapes the man's lips as he turns to face her. She feels suddenly out of sorts, staring into his insanely blue eyes. She watches his jaw muscles tense, as his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip.
"Didn't see you there, lass. Though I'm not sure how I managed to miss seeing such a beautiful face." He replies in retort. Of course he would be English. She practically swoons at the delicate nature of his choice of words.
"As I said, each rose color has a different meaning." She repeats, ignoring his lighthearted attempt at flirting with her.
"What does the pink one mean, love." He says, as he approaches her with different bundles of roses.
"Gratitude." She answers firmly, unconsciously crossing her arms over her chest.
"And white?" He continues, smirking down at her as he traces his fingers over the flowers gently.
"Innocence." She watches as one his eyebrows travels upwards, and a devilish grin plants itself on his face.
"Well that one is definitely out." He says with a low chuckle. "And red of course, means love I presume?"
"Yes." She swallows thickly, as she watches him grip the bouquet of red roses firmly.
"I'll go with the red, then." He says, as he places the dozen roses in front of her. She quickly taps at the cash register and finishes the transaction.
"Have a good day." She says as she hands him his change, avoiding his glance.
"Names Killian Jones." He announces, ignoring her effort of ridding him from her store. "We're neighbors." He reveals as he plucks a single rose from the bouquet a slides it over to her. She follows his eyes as they travel to her wrist, where her single buttercup tattoo is placed.
"Emma Swan." She expresses, as she gently pulls at her sleeve, hiding her tiny tattoo.
"It was a pleasure meeting you." He says as he walks towards the door. He exits, and Emma finally manages to exhale.
She knew opening a flower shop next to a tattoo parlor was not a good idea.