Title: He Likes Me
Part 1/?
Rating: K
Notes: no powers etc etc yeah yeah
Disclaimer: CMcC owns these beauties and I am college trash.
a/n: yeah... I know I'm probably on your hitlist by now. but here, have a thing. most likely a two shot but if I get lazy, I'm leaving it. and you know how I am.
… Also I'll probably delete this in like a week, sooo yeah bye
Growing up, Bubbles had pretty much always been surrounded by flowers. In the garden, on the kitchen table, on the windowsill— they'd been prominent players in her childhood. When she was little, she used to pick the petals off the roses in her mother's garden and toss them into the grass around her, playing little love games with the drop of each little delicate petal. There was something comforting about the way they floated ever so delicately to the ground, catching the warm summer breeze, twisting and turning over as they fell.
"He likes me," she'd whisper. Her small voice would become lost with the breeze.
"He likes me not," and she'd always frown, praying she'd have more petals to pick.
"He likes me."
"He likes me not."
"He likes me."
Her heartbeat would always quicken as the last petal fell gracefully to the ground.
Deep down she knew the silly petal game didn't really mean anything, it couldn't, how could a flower know something like that? It was just a little flower. Meant for beauty and oxygenation and to brighten up a room, not for fortune telling or matchmaking.
Still, the game was fun and she liked to think it gave her a better chance of being happy each time she whispered "He likes me" into the last petal as it fell.
That was a long time ago.
However, there are some things that simply never change.
Bubbles' eyes lazily glide over the empty flower shop, her elbows resting on the counter. It's pretty late on a Tuesday night, and there's not much work to be done. Her chin rests in her hand. She lets out a long sigh. There isn't a single customer in the store. It's been this way for about an hour now, silent and slow and boring, with nothing but the soft sound of the same old classical tracks on the overhead speaker that she can probably sing all the words to by now.
Her wandering gaze pauses on the security camera in the corner and Bubbles concludes that she should probably at least pretend to do some work just in case her manager decides to peek at the tapes tomorrow. She slides her arms off the counter, tugging her sleeves over her thumbs like always. She meanders over to the floral cooler and swings open the door. A rush of cold air overcomes her and she shivers. Humming to herself, she pretends to straighten the buckets of flowers for what feels like the tenth time that evening. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a hydrangea stem that is drooping over the side of its bucket, looking thirsty as ever. She frowns. No one ever bothers to make sure the stems are actually in the water.
She carefully pulls out the dying stem and takes to straightening its kin, so focused now that she doesn't notice the shop's door chime sound outside.
There's not much water in the bucket to begin with, she notices, and she's elated at the chance to actually do something for once. Bubbles stoops down, scoops up the nearly empty hydrangea bucket, straightens back up and whirls around, only to slam headfirst into a very tall, dark figure that is standing in the cooler doorway.
A startled scream accompanies a puff of vapor as it escapes her lips, and hydrangeas and cold water go flying. A strong hand grips her forearm before she can topple to the ground. The bucket clatters on the floor, but she barely hears it over the sound of her own heartbeat as her wide eyes find glistening sapphire ones.
"Oh my god," a soft, deep voice says quickly. "Uh, you okay?" The voice doesn't match his hard, stone face at all, but it matches his tender eyes, which are framed by a pair of dark rimmed, round glasses. His jaw is clenched stiffly and the faintest of reddish brown shadow on his chin does not match his full head of curly, dirty blonde hair. His hair just long enough to curl around the bottoms of his earlobes and just barely graze the tops of his dark eyebrows. He is clad in a navy blue button down shirt with white buttons adorning the lapels and front pockets. He wears very crisp looking tan dress pants and a pair of brown boots. A brown belt adorns his slim waist. Bubbles' keen eye is caught by the very shiny silver watch around his wrist. She tries her best not to stare at it, but it looks expensive.
Bubbles somehow steadies herself and remembers to breathe. She has to tilt her head back to look at him.
"You scared me," is all she can muster. Her heartbeat is going wild in her ears after being so startled. She eases out from his grip and scrambles to collect the hydrangeas from the floor.
The man lets out a low chuckle. "Well, yeah, I figured that much." He glances downward, his fingers twitching to help her, but he decides against it. "Sorry," he adds quietly.
Bubbles probably wouldn't let him help her anyways. She has gathered the stems in her hands within a few seconds and she turns to look at her perpetrator again. He stands with his back to her now, examining the flowers in the buckets along the wall.
"Don't worry about it," she breathes. She realises how chilly it is in the cooler, especially now with the bottoms of her work pants drenched in icy water. She shivers and steps over the puddle on the floor, making a mental note to clean it up later. "Can I help you find anything?"
The man, at first, says nothing, and Bubbles shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. Another shiver shoots through her legs and up her back. After a moment of silence, she turns to open the door and exit the freezing cooler, leaving the strange man inside alone. But just before she does so, he speaks.
"I'm looking for some flowers."
Bubbles opens and closes her mouth, not sure how to respond. She turns slowly back around to face the man again, only to find that he has done the same and is watching her. His sapphire eyes shine playfully now.
The confused look falls off her face and she smiles at him. "Well, you're in the right place," she responds wittily. He doesn't smile back but smirks, a humourous tug just barely pulling up the corner of his mouth.
He's dashing. They stare into each others' eyes for a split second, a second in which Bubbles can hardly breathe, and then his voice, smooth as silk, reaches her ears again.
"You look like you know a lot about flowers."
Bubbles' cheeks would've flushed were they not already pink from the cold. She glances down at herself, at her soaking wet khakis and baby blue tennis shoes, her pollen-and-leaf-shine-covered purple uniform shirt with the shop logo in the corner. Her hair is in a messy bun on the top of her head with random strands hanging out around her face. She laughs.
"I know a few things," she says modestly, clenching the cold bouquet of hydrangeas tighter in her hands.
The handsome smirk doesn't leave his lips. "I need a gift for someone," he tells her slowly. "Any suggestions?" His sapphire eyes scan the cooler again. He doesn't seem very keen on any of the selection.
"For who?" Bubbles blurts, without thinking. She knows it's kind of a rude question, but it just kind of slips out. Again, her face should have flushed.
The man raises a curious eyebrow. He hesitates. Still does not look at her. He's examining the flowers in front of him. The silence is overwhelming. She considers running into the back of the store and burying herself alive in the potting soil. But just like before, his voice cuts into her thoughts and nails her feet to the floor.
"The most important girl in my life."
Her heart sinks. She immediately feels so stupid. She doesn't realise that she's been holding her breath again. Another puff of vapor escapes her lips. Why does she feel so disappointed? This guy's probably way too old and rich for her anyways. She's just a florist, barely 24 years old and never had a serious job in her life. He's probably manager or CEO of some big fancy company in Citysville and she's just lowly old Bubbles. His girlfriend, or wife, or whoever she is, is probably out at some fancy restaurant in a slinky red dress and gold heels, waiting for him to sweep her off her feet.
Bubbles has the worst habit of turning things like this into impossible love stories. It seems to happen every time a nicely dressed young man comes into the shop, or stands in front of her in line at the coffee place, or holds the door for her in her apartment building. She knows it's so silly of her to think up romances that could never be, but she can't help it.
Her smile falters, but just barely, so quickly that the man doesn't even notice. Or she hopes. "Special occasion?" she squeaks.
"It's her birthday."
The two match puffs of vapor in the cold air as Bubbles thinks a minute. "Can't go wrong with a dozen roses," she muses. She gestures with her free hand towards the buckets of red, white, lavender and pink long stems in the corner.
"Would you doll them up all fancy? I want them to be really special for her." The excitement is clear in his sapphire eyes. It's obvious this girl means a lot to him.
Bubbles can't resist the chill that runs up her spine, this time not due to the cold. She always gets a funny feeling whenever she's around happy couples. Something she can't quite place, like hope, or excitement. She forgets about her disappointment for a second and she grins.
"I can add baby's breath and ferns for a small extra fee if you'd like." Her saleswoman voice kicks in as she tries to convince him. Men are easy to sell flowers, because they're generally clueless.
"Sounds perfect." This time, the man smiles, revealing a row of straight pearly teeth.
"Red?"
He nods.
Bubbles gets to work. She removes twelve of the prettiest red long stems from their bucket and finally heads back onto the warm sales floor. The man follows lazily behind. She drops the hydrangeas into a spare bucket behind the counter and clears off her work station so she can wrap his bouquet. She takes great care to de-thorn each rose, pluck off the bad petals, and uses a special spray to shine up the leaves. Meanwhile, the man wanders around the store, peeking at the knick knacks on the shelves. She's almost finished arranging his bouquet when one of the roses suddenly loses its head. Out of nowhere. It just plops off and falls onto the floor. Her eyes dart to the back of the store. He doesn't notice.
She'll never know exactly what drives her to do what she does next.
There's just something in her brain that encourages her hand to pick up the head of the rose and tuck it back into the bouquet. She doesn't replace it with a new rose. She just leaves the broken one. She imagines the gorgeous girl in the red slinky dress holding the bouquet, picking it up, and seeing one red rose head fall to the ground. The girl in her imagination is sad. Bubbles isn't a particularly morbid person by any means, but something about that imaginary girl being sad at the sight of a broken stem makes her hold back a grin.
So she leaves the broken stem in the bouquet and gingerly hands it to the man.
He half smiles again, politely. Her insides do a backflip. "Could I also get this card?" He hands her one he's chosen from the rack.
Her heart drops for the third time that night. Happy Birthday, Mom! the card message reads.
She smiles meekly, immediately feeling guilty about the broken rose and every naughty thought she'd had in the past ten minutes.
"Thank you very much," he tells her genuinely. "These look beautiful. You really know what you're doing."
She blushes now that her face is used to the warm air. "You're welcome."
Just as the man turns to leave, the broken rose falls out of the bouquet and onto the floor. Bubbles' face is crimson. She pulls her sleeves over her thumbs again.
"Oh, whoops," the man mutters with a laugh, "I broke it." He stoops and picks up the broken head.
"L-Let me get you a new one-" Bubbles starts to say, her eyes going wide.
"Hey, don't worry about it." His sapphire eyes sparkle at her. "Stems aren't invincible. It happens. They break sometimes."
The man gingerly reaches over the counter and hands her the broken rose, still as beautiful as ever.
"Mom always liked the odd numbers better, anyways."
Her heart skips a billion beats and she takes the rose, carefully now. His hand brushes hers and it's warm and soft and lovely. He reaches quickly into his pants pocket and pulls out a very official-looking business card. He hands that to her, too.
His phone number is printed on the bottom of the card, along with his name. Boomer Jojo.
"In case you need any more inspirational flower advice."
She laughs, incredulous. Is this really happening? Her head is spinning. She simply cannot believe this.
She could swear she sees his cheeks flush as pink as hers feel in that moment. But he winks, turns on his heel, and vanishes through the door in a flurry of sapphire and crimson as swiftly as he'd come.
The shop falls silent again, the faint jingle on the overhead speaker reminding her of its presence. Her eyes lock onto the rose in her hand. It is the prettiest one of all. It puts all the others in his bouquet and in the entire cooler to shame.
For the first time since she was a little girl, she picks off a petal and whispers, in a voice she does not recognise as her own, "He likes me."
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