This fandom is so addictive. I got this from a tumblr prompt, "a florist with something to hide". Tratie, because they don't get enough love. I don't own anything. Reviews feed my lonely inbox.
Of all the days to forget your umbrella, Stoll, you have to pick this one, Travis berates himself over and over as fat, acidic raindrops splatter across the freckled bridge of his nose. Life was pissing on him, and now Chicago was doing it, too. He shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning. It was a horrible day to be Travis Stoll.
It was too far to walk home in weather as wonderful as this, and waiting for a bus to pick him up would ensure him soaked to the bone in clothes he couldn't afford to replace and surely a cold to boot. He'd been looking for a place to wait of the rain, but it was almost seven; most of the shops had already darkened their lights for the evening.
Right at the corner was a store still bright. The dim sign said it was a florist and the frosted rose on the window confirmed it. A bell tinkles as Travis opens the door, suddenly very grateful he wasn't allergic to pollen. After a minute or two the door to the back room opened in woman steps out. She has the looks of a woman who should be posing for magazines or starring in advertisements not one that should be wrist deep in dirt.
She pushes back a wavy strand of brown hair, "Can I help you, sir?"
Travis blinks, before stepping back, "Uh, just...getting out of the rain. Lovely Chicago weather and all."
He tries not to kick himself. Presented with a gorgeous woman and what does he do? Brings up the weather that's what. Bravo, Stoll, bravo. But in all seriousness, he knows he's blown it when she looks at him like he's crazy, which maybe he is, just a little, and turns to go back to the back room. He's going to lose his chance at possibly the most attractive part of Chicago so he makes a snap decision that his ADHD makes him so very good at.
The worn leather wallet his granddad gave him has 20 bucks in it, dinner money, and he's about to spend it all on flowers. "What will $20 get me?"
Another look with those dark brown eyes. The color of fertile soil, he notices, and the woman presents him with a green binder filled with laminated pictures. Soon he realizes he's no good at this, all the flowers the same to him, so with another snap decision he says, "Whatever you think is good."
She points to one filled with red and white roses. It's not big or flashy. "Is they're for your girlfriend, roses are always nice."
It's cute she thinks a loser with a crappy job and a towed car has a girlfriend, but he just nods. If she likes them, they're perfect.
The florist presents him with some paperwork which he fills out. When asked if he wants them delivered he says a pick them up in person. After he's handed her the money and he's gotten the receipt he realizes two things: 1) The woman's eyes aren't entirely brown, but ringed with green and 2) the rain's stopped.
...
Travis surprised even himself when he bounded out of bed, eager, for once, for the day to begin. He gets to pick up the flowers today, and he gets to see the woman behind the counter again. He's in such a good mood even cleaning out his cat's litter box doesn't seem so bad, even when he actually remembers to do it.
Travis is in such good mood that even find the library for nine hours can't stifle him. Before he even realizes it, it's almost seven and he's walking into that obscurely placed florist shop. The woman is binging out a small basket with roses, almost as gorgeous as she is.
"Thanks, they're perfect." The just like you, goes unsaid, but Travis thinks it. "You're welcome, thanks for doing business," is what he gets in return. Travis takes the basket from her, and sets it down on the windowsill before he walks out the door.
He's halfway down the street when she starts after him.
"Sir, sir, you forgot your flowers!" She's holding the basket and pointing to it frantically like he's forgotten the last five seconds. He smiles, blows a kiss, and shouts with earnest, "The words you're looking for are thank you!"
The realization and he blush on her face are more than enough to make up for the $20 so carelessly spent.
...
He keeps going back, even though it's a longer walk home than he likes. Sometimes the florist has customers, and sometimes she doesn't, and when it's just the two of them, which it is more often than not, Travis likes to strike up conversation over a styrofoam cup of coffee he's been offered.
By the third visit, a Thursday, he gets a name out of her: Lydia. No last name, but he's done more with less, and it gives himself an excuse to introduce himself anyways.
Finally, Lydia asks him why he keeps visiting her, he must have more important things to do (which he laughs at even now). The answer is easier than he thought it would be, "It's an escape."
She smiles. There you go, Stoll. You didn't completely throw your chances out the window.
Most of the time, they make small talk, about Chicago, the politics, and the weather (which is really all the same; dull, boring, and yet, out to get you) and Travis finds himself telling Lydia all about himself in that little florist shop over bad coffee that tastes more like the styrofoam cup it's served in than actual coffee. He tells her about his cat, Luke, whose Lucifer personified (she laughs, but he's completely serious.) He mentions he's a reformed klepto, and his baby brother is a not so reformed klepto who refused help, jacked a car, and is now in jail; he even tells her that all his extra income at the end of the month goes towards Connor's bail.
The only thing she tells him is that she's from the west.
Finally, after six weeks, and the nth cup of coffee, he mans up, grows a pair, and asks her out to dinner. At the end of the month the only place he can afford is a cheap Italian place, but she agrees.
At seven, on the Friday night they agreed on, the florist shop is lit up as per usual, but Lydia isn't there to greet him out the counter. She isn't brushing dirt off her palms, or wrinkling up her nose at the hideous tie he's worn that day, and there's no styrofoam coffee. "Lydia?" He calls. Of course, it would he his great luck for her to bail on him but-
"TRAVIS-BACK-mmph-HERE!"
And like that he's running, pushing open the back door before he knows what the hell he could be getting himself into. All he knows is that the woman he's fallen in love with these past weeks has given him a purpose again, and he can't lose the only good thing he has left in Chicago.
There's a man, a bear of a guy. A thug, really. He's got a gun pressed against Lydia's throat. Travis's pulse is erratic. There's a gun shot. Lydia's screaming something, but she's not hurt, and he can't hear her over the blood and adrenaline rushing through him.
Before he even realizes it, a vase is being brought down over the thug's head, and he's out and down for the count. Lydia's in his arms the next moment, crying, and Travis holds her.
A pain, a searing pain, and the synapses in his brain are working again. The bullet from the shot is in his side.
The floor is rushing to meet him. Between crying, call 911 and holding his hand, Lydia explains she's part of the Witness Protection program. The man he just brained would have killed her.
The lack of personal information was explained. Travis'd feel more heroic if there wasn't metal in his torso.
The EMTs finally made it to the back shop. He's breathing heavily now, but he's told he's not going to die, and Lydia, or whoever she is, is getting into the amulance with him. Whatever drugs they gave him are working great, so well in fact that he doesn't recognize his voice when he slurs out, "Hey, what'syourname. Yourrealname."
She doesn't hesitate, "Katie Gardner."
It's probably the meds talking, but he asks, half delirious, "Would youever considerbecoming KatieStolllll."
It has to be the meds, because he swears he hears a, "Yes."