Title: Cowardice & Bad Timing
Paring: Armitage Hux X Reader
Warnings: none! This is an AU. Features Modern AU, Florist AU, and Tattoo Parlour AU.
Spoilers: None!
Author's Note: Based on a tumblr post from www.dailyau.tumblr.com . And well; you all know me -- I couldn't help myself! And here we are, hope you enjoy! P.s. sorry for not updating (I've been swamped with holiday things, home renovation, the whole family over -- the whole shebang. I hope you understand.
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Flowers had always been your thing. Your father always brought your mother a bouquet every Monday, their blooms lasting a ripe fortnight. They were never the same arrangement of blossoms; roses and chrysanthemums, small poppies and daisies. Whatever they were for, an apology, an anniversary, they brought a smile to your mother's lips, and, thus, to yours too. When your father passed on, and left his father's florist store, Hosnian Harmony, all to you to inherit, to work in, to practically live your little life out of.
And it was a lovely little life; you met brides-to-be who worked out their arrangements for tables, nosegays for the bridesmaids, you had boyfriends and girlfriends rushing in for apologetic eyes and their regular order for their regular posies, the odd wanderer who bought flowers for their smell, the need for a centrepiece upon their dining tables at home. You met strange people, and never had a customer who was disgruntled; maybe it was because everyone who came in for flowers came out with flowers, and there was nothing bad about gorgeous blooms and better service.
Across the road in recent times, a tattooist had moved into the abandoned warehouse, renovated into apartments upstairs and industrial-like stores below. It was quite a sight to see, but from the front of your store, it was almost an eyesore with all the glaring metal and concrete aesthetic.
In that store, worked the famed artist Armitage Hux, and his hipster associates Phasma (an ex-drummer from a big name punk band), and the black-clad Kylo Ren, who only worked evening shifts to fit with his metal-head convictions. Not that you really paid them any heed - perhaps you knew the three main tattooists because their receptionist, Dopheld often came in for gossip and bunches of flowers for his poorly mother. He came often; you heard much about Kylo's aggressive history, and affinity for being the one to go to for tattoo sleeves, and of Phasma's no-crap attitude, and love for English Mastiffs. He also talked of Hux, never by his given name, but that he was a hard-headed, driven man, came from rich roots, and explored the world for more meaning in life than dosh and girls painted like dolls and sold off to marry.
By the way you heard of Armitage Hux from Mr. Mitaka, you almost felt sorry for him. You couldn't imagine coming from a home where you had every single thing you wanted, except freedom; you always explored as a child, often falling off bicycles and backwards off roller-skates, bruised and loved, covered in floral band-aids since day one.
It was a slow Wednesday afternoon with three hours until closing time when the bell to the door rang. You expected it to be a weepy friend coming for a few flowers for a funeral, or maybe the delivery of cellophane you were waiting on. Not the ginger crop with a shaved underside and a sleeve down his arm to come in. Unlike the other times you had seen Armitage Hux, he wore thick glasses, and smelt faintly of a cigarette he had politely snuffed out before entering, and walked like he owned your property and knew it. But unlike the time his associate Kylo Ren had wandered drunkenly in, you didn't spray him in the face with pepper spray, and you most certainly did not scream blue murder.
You only spoke it.
"I don't care for the trouble you bring over my threshold, Mr. Hux," you warn, arms crossed. It was hard to look as tough as he did in his hot goth clothes when you were practically surrounded in flowers and bright, cutesy colours. "Or...are you here to browse?" You dared to hope. A man who was built on becoming something more than his military father had foisted onto him, buying flowers?
He shook his head. "No, I'm - I'm just looking." He stammered, a gorgeous accent tumbling from his lips. "I was going to ask if you'd mind if I practised drawing flowers for a while, a patron of mine wants a - a - erm, it's a yellow flower..."
"Dandelions? Sunflowers?" You wondered, un-crossing your arms, eyes narrowed, deep in the act of brainstorming, overthinking. "Daffodils?"
He nodded. "Yeah, that one. And I thought you might have one...you know, since you're a flower shop..." he grinned, a lopsided thing which made you wonder if it worked on everyone he met.
You sigh. "You're lucky its in season, Mr. Hux, it's a winter flower." You turn to the isle beside where he stands, and produce the tub which is bursting with the pop of yellow colour. The side of his mouth quirks up, an almost-smile, but instead of it taking over his stern face, he sighs.
"Please call me Armitage," he wipes a hand over his face, glancing up as if to the heavens. "My father was Mr. Hux, and he wasn't a hero for me in the slightest." He corrects you, and motions to the tub. "Would you mind it if I just...sat in to practice? I don't know what I'd do if I had a bunch of flowers."
You bob your head, placing the tub upon the top of a small table by the window, where glorious sunlight filtered through the glass. "No problem, Armitage." you place your hands upon your hips akimbo, head tilted, wistful. "If not knowing what to do with a bunch of flowers is the height of your problems, I'm sure they aren't problems but issues." You give him a bright smile, the Hosnian Harmony special, and leave him to sketch.
It's every few days for three months when you hear the bell ringing at three hours to closing, see the bright eyes of Armitage Hux, the tattoo collection upon his bare arms growing with every passing week, new ink to cause your eyes to roam around his lithe form. Perhaps yes, you were the small-town florist who worked their ass off to make every bouquet the best the patron had every laid eyes and fingers upon. Perhaps, yes, he was the son of a big businessman who intended him to be the next Wall Street wolf, but found comfort around the buzzing of tattoo needles, the company of those covered in pictures of their life, their love. But what you felt inside after the months, that wasn't admiration for Armitage from breaking away from the crowd, or the fact that he was a fantastic singer, no.
You'd fallen for him.
It was another Wednesday when the visit was unlike the rest of them; his head was lowered, pencil and thick art diary, bursting with designs low at his side. The way he gazed at you wrought your heart, wrenching the strings.
"My boss, Mr. Snoke noticed I'm taking too much time to draw pretty things on paper than on skin," he starts off, unable to meet your eyes. Your hands grew still over the arrangement you were placing together, slowly falling to the bench to rest. You'd feared for this day; the day that brought tidings darker than a Queen of Night tulip, a deep purple pansy. "I - ________, I can't come here to draw anymore."
You shake your head. "Just because a superior - come after hours!" you burst, the words tumbling from your words like a dam shattering. "I mean - the client of yours, they probably don't want a half-assed flower on their arm, do they?" you amend.
Armitage gives you a weak smile. "I can't believe you thought I had a client who liked flowers," his words are almost a breath, faint, you almost missed them with the noises from the outside world playing atop. "_______, as soon as we came across the street, I fell for you. I know - it's really unprofessional of me, and I've never spent three months chasing romance, but you're unlike anyone I've met before -,"
Your heart felt like it was faster than any time ever in your life, yet still, dormant at once. At once, you throw yourself around the counter, and into the picture-clad arms of Armitage Hux, gripping him closer to you than you'd ever held another living being.
"Just say you like me," you whisper into his ear, a grin wide upon your lips.
He laughs, withdrawing from the embrace. His eyes are alive, bright and beautiful, and he is too, and for once, you think of how much cowardice and bad timing it took to get to this point, to be in his arms, to feel his heartbeat under the skin close to your own, and for once, you reconsider if flowers are your thing. Because right now, you have a thing for Armitage; all of Armitage.
"I like you, ________, of Hosnian Harmony," he beams, laying a kiss upon your lips, nearly sucking the air from your lungs. "Perhaps now I have a better excuse to come over to see you."
You smirk, kissing back. "Any excuse to see you is perfectly good."