Chapter 1

"I'm very good with flowers, so I might as well be good with you."

The blonde woman's remark got the Egyptian woman silent and obedient to the tending touch. Pharah had no idea how she had gotten herself into a situation where a florist would patch her wounds up in a flower shop in the middle of the night during a thunder storm. Or how she was so easily calmed down by a single phrase.

The blonde looked at the dark haired bruised woman for a short moment before putting ointment to a particularly nasty scrape. Then she let out a soft approving humm with a small hint of amusement. There she was, sitting in her flower shop and trying to make a pretty woman bleed a little less than she was 30 minutes ago.

"Uhm, what is your name... I kind of forgot to ask. I'm Fareeha."

Pharah's voice was a bit faint but loud enough for the strange woman to hear it and get her gaze back on her. She smiled calmly and then told her name at the same time as she pulled out a shard of glass from Pharah's knee.

"MERCY!" Pharah's yelp was full of pain. Mercy continued to disinfect the wound in the woman's belly. "Yes, that is my name," she joked to lighten up the mood. She really was sorry that she caused pain to the new acquaintance she had sitting in a chair in the middle of a rug stained with dirt. "And if you stay still and do not try to talk too much I will be merciful and finish this off."

Pharah took a deep breath and closed her eyes, gesturing that she was going to toughen up if Mercy just hurried up. The florist hummed again and rose so that she could see the disturbingly dirty wound on Pharah's chest.

"I'm going to need you to remove that thing that used to be a shirt, if you don't mind," Mercy voiced the fact slowly and tugged on the stained grey fabric. Pharah was a big sports player. She did not get flustered, never, not happening. At least that's what she hoped was the deal. Instead she got dragged back to her high school times when she confessed to her first girlfriend. With shaky hands she threw the bloody shirt to the ground and let Mercy continue. The pain was hard to manage but she was the most scared of needles. Needles in the hands of a florist. Why did a flowershop keeper even have surgical needles and equipment?

"It's done, you can relax your admirable abs now if you want to." The remark made Pharah grab her torn shirt from the ground quick. Too quick, because soon she winced from pain and got a soft slap on to her knee. "Hey! I did an enormous job on those stitches, don't you dare to open them up. You and me both get the bad end then."

Pharah stopped, as if she could have done the movement again from the sheer agony she was put in. She muttered an apology filled with nausea. That's when the florist reached to her left, took a bucket and shoved it into the Egyptian's hands like it was something she did every day. And then, finally, Pharah let it all out. Literally.

Pharah woke up in in an enormous memory foamed bed with warm orange-black blankets and silver pillowcases. Lot's of pillows and pillowcases, she though groggily. Then she let out a confused yelp but couldn't move a muscle from exhaustion. "Where am I," she spoke silently to herself and with hard work got her hand on her belly, which gave a warning sting from the wounds. Pharah winced.

Pharah could only remember her throwing up from all the stress and pain. Then it all went to black. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "That woman," she mumbled to herself. She could hear someone walking around and other sounds which implicated that someone was in the kitchen.

It took Pharah at least half an hour before she got herself sitting up in the bed and reaching for the water glass next to it. Water did more good than all the tequila's she had been having lately. The egyptian rubbed her eyes slowly, just to make sure she was there, alive and relatively well. The ruckus from the kitchen had slowed down and she could hear faint humming of rhymes.

Pharah realized a bit late that she only had her underwear on. She felt lost, understandably, without her clothes but soon she noticed an green old chair next to the pastel green dresser. On the chair there was a worn but soft red hoodie that fit even her. There were also some baggy grey sweatpants and warm woolen socks. And a note that had petite handwriting.

"Come to the kitchen when you wake up. - Merciful florist," Pharah exclaimed at the doorway and looked at Mercy, who was making blueberry pancakes calmly, with a warm smile on her face. "And you came. You could have just ran away from the window and break all your bones." It made Pharah chuckle. "Sorry, I was drunk. And in pain. And uh... how did you even get me here?"

Mercy pointed at a weird art deco chair that was next to a set table. Pharah didn't mind sitting down, since all parts of her body were hurting like hell. "I'm a florist, I have muscles too," Mercy explained and laughed wearily. "No, to be totally honest with you, you weigh a little bit more than a bag of dirt. But I managed. And now you are patched up, in fresh clothes and soon getting breakfast to ponder this all over with. I can't let you home yet, not without something to eat and an explanation."

Pharah sighed deeply but nodded honestly grateful for all that Mercy had done for her. So, when she had a plate of syrup coated pancakes with ice cream and a cup of coffee and fresh strawberry juice, she finally opened her mouth.

"I'll start right from the start, maybe that's the best."