Ink and Flowers - 19. 19: Finley

Patricia looked at me questioningly when I turned up at the store much earlier than expected. But she didn't say anything and I didn't say anything either, but turned to my tasks.

I had called Tony to tell him what had happened and to ask him to let me know when Emmett arrived home. Or at least that had been my plan. Because first of all, Tony's phone was off and secondly, I wasn't even sure what had actually happened.

It had been nice strolling through the greenhouses with Emmett, pleasant, relaxed, calming. Whether it was just as friends or as a first date didn't really matter. Without the others, it was somehow easier to talk about certain things.

But was that the problem in the end? Of course, I had noticed that he was getting a bit nervous, sometimes eyeing his surroundings critically. Was it me and my stories? Was it instinct? My half-hug had certainly been the straw that broke the camel's back. Or not?

I thought about it, about Emmett, his behavior, my possible misconduct, what I might have said between the lines...

Most of my life I stood in Bomb's shadow. Was practically Bomb's shadow. Because separating twins is bad luck. Bomb was always loud and wild and I kept my mouth shut. At home, at the academy, with the MORRTIMERs. As a logical consequence, I wasn't very practiced at conversation.

It was frustrating, really. They say first impressions don't have to be true, but first impressions are formative. And mine and Emmett's first encounter had not been positive.

With a sigh, I pushed the pile of empty, clean boxes into the corner next to the tap. Maybe I should be happy if we could build a working friendship. He still had his place in my hoard.

“Do you want to go over?”

“Hmm?” I looked up and at Patricia, who nodded her chin towards the store door. But she probably meant Emmett, who was standing in the doorway of the tattoo parlor talking to someone.

Of course I wanted to talk to him, but I didn't want to look like I was chasing after him. Firstly, even for humans that would be ridiculous, not to say pathetic, and secondly, I didn't want to make him feel like I was backing him into a corner when he already had a strong flight instinct.

I had just drawn breath for an answer when Emmett broke away from his conversation partner and headed towards us.

Seconds later, he burst into the salesroom, wrapped in a cloud of peachy-sweet scent and guilt. His gaze only seemed to graze Patricia before landing on me. Sadness and a hint of despair mingled with it as I approached him.

“Hey.” My greeting sounded much more toneless than I intended. Only now, when I looked at him like that, did I realize that I was actually a little hurt.

“Hey.” he mumbled meekly. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just run off like that, but-”

His face gave me the feeling that he was going to talk himself down, so I interrupted him directly. “That's all right. I shouldn't have touched you without asking.” Or at least that's what I wanted to interrupt him with, because he just kept talking. Since the words were out of my mouth now and they wanted to keep coming out, we ended up talking against each other.

I paused when I noticed Patricia's amusement and seconds later she said, probably at the risk of us not even hearing it:

“You're being a wee bit silly, boys. But I guess people are right.”

Emmett blinked at her, puzzled.

“About what?” I asked, frowning.

She grinned a little mockingly. “Gay couples are highly dramatic.”

“Firstly,” I replied, raising an eyebrow “we're not a couple” - her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth twitched tellingly - “and secondly, I'm certainly not dramatic.”

“And apart from that, I don't appreciate being reduced to my sexual orientation,” Emmett said indignantly, his hands on his hips. He let off steam in a torrent of words, which I hadn't expected given his embarrassed attitude previously.

But Patricia took it calmly and with humor; it seemed to me that this kind of banter between the two of them was nothing new.

Finally, Emmett exhaled a little theatrically and looked at me. “Go ahead and say it.”

“What, that you're actually being overly dramatic?”

He sighed, looking like he wanted to drag out the drama- and then slumped a little. Another deep sigh. “I'm a little...” He gestured around, looking for words.

“You're stressing yourself, Emmett,” I said gently. I hadn't met Dex, and I'd only met his brother Dom once, but what I'd heard about Emmett and Dex' not-even-official relationship was enough for me to strongly suspect that Emmett was reading a lot more- and especially more feelings- into this after Dex' messy death than had ever been there. But I refrained from making such a comment.

In response, he held himself by the upper arms and pulled his shoulders up as if he was freezing.

The dragon in me stirred, wanted to hug him, to warm him with our dragon heat, and I held back only barely.

“It was a beautiful morning,” Emmett then said quietly, but sincerely. He fought with himself, obviously swallowing some words.

I nodded and waited. He seemed so vulnerable in this moment and I was afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing now, of keeping him at a distance even further. Although silence was an option, it might be the wrong one.

The moment dragged on horribly, even though it was probably only a few seconds. And maybe I was being a little dramatic after all, because I got the feeling that Emmett was deciding what was to become of us in that exact moment.

“I want to make it up to you,” he finally said. “It was nice to be able to talk like that. I want to... Is it okay if I organize something?”

His insecurity was heavy on my tongue and I would have liked to take it from him, but he was definitely ahead of me when it came to flirting and dating. So I nodded and gave him a smile. “Yeah, sure. It did me good this morning. Just talking like that, I mean, even though I didn't mean to scare you.”

“I shouldn't have-”

And then we both raised our hands to stop the other and grinned a little stupidly.

“Okay.” I said, nodding and smiling and with a probably completely hopeless tingle in my stomach.

“Okay.” he said, nodding and smiling and a little embarrassed. With an oddly stiff movement, he turned away and left.

As the door closed, Patricia sighed languidly. “Oh God, this is better than any soap opera. The drama. The tension. The sizzle.”

I snorted indignantly, exhaled far too much smoke - another problem I should be taking care of - and uncharacteristically remarked: “Sweep at your own front door.”

She snorted back, but then laughed and threw a bruised gerbera flower at me.