The Florist and The Tattooist

"Rumlow’s Flowers & Furniture" is written with big, roman letters across the facade. It is small boutique, with panorama windows. You can smell the fresh flowers when you walk by on a sunny day. If you choose to enter the boutique, you are quickly convinced that this store has… Style. What a charming place to buy beautiful flowers or some décor for your home.

Unfortunately, the owner doesn't share the same charm.

Most women would describe Brock Rumlow as handsome. With his sun kissed skin, deep brown eyes and careless dark hair, he never had any problems with attracting female customers. He is average of height, but with a muscular, lean body from working hard. He has all odds for success with his business, as long as you don't calculate his temper and stubborn nature. Customer service is not really Brocks thing. He probably wouldn't have any costumers if it wasn’t for his assistant Jack. Not a week goes by, without Brock calling out someone’s bullshit – and every time, Jack will be there to tell him to calm the fuck down. Brock is convinced it’s all about teaching people good manners – Jack calls it mental abuse. But that depends on how you look at it, he supposes.

Jack opened the flower shop today, so Brock had the opportunity to get some paperwork done at home. He is good with numbers, and he likes sitting for himself. It’s easier than licking some shitty customer’s ass, to make them buy a damn flower.

He is done with the paperwork for now, so he is walking back to the store. He is just about to walk inside, when he notices a new shop on the opposite side of the street. He is standing right there for a couple seconds, just glancing at the brand new sign, but then he shakes his head and walks inside his own place.

“Rollins!” Brock barks, as soon as he gets inside. His assistant peeks out from the backroom. “Huh?”

“Who opened a shop across the street?”

Jack shrugs. “Some tattooist… You should walk over and say hi.”

“.. I should what?” Brock doesn’t seem very fond of that idea. That would mean he has to socialize.

“Yeah, you should say hi and welcome, check out what he is doing… Hell, if you’re in a good mood today, you can even give him a flower.” Jacks lips curl up in a little, teasing smile. Suddenly he looks like nothing but an annoying schoolboy. Brock snorts, but then he reach for his jacket. “No flowers. But I suppose a ‘hi’ never hurt anybody…” It’s not like anything ever happens in this part of town, so you might as well grab the opportunity. Brock steps out of the shop and walks across the street to his new neighbor. Judging by the sign out on the sidewalk, the guy has open. He steps inside to the classic ring of a doorbell, takes a look around.

“Just a second!” Someone shouts from the backroom. This place is nice. All the tattoo designs are hanging on the wall, but it doesn’t look all messy and weird. It’s just... decorative. A nice brown leather sofa is standing to the left and a desk to the right. There is also a small table, magazines, a hanging rack and even a fucking coffee machine. The radio is playing in the background. It’s actually really nice, but Brock bet it has to be. You want to be comfortable in the place where someone puts a needle into your skin for hours.

“Hey, there. What can I help you with?”

The tattooist has returned, and what a sight. Brown hair, blue eyes, and pale skin, which make the ink on his body, truly stand out. The guy is tall, well, taller than Brock, and in a good shape. He has red lips – obscurely red lips. Maybe they’re tattooed too? And maybe Brock should answer the man’s question? Wops.

“Hi. Um. I’m Brock. I own the shop across the street.”

“The flower shop? You’re the florist?” The guy looks a bit surprised, but at least not skeptical. Brock nods.

“Yeah. I just came by to say hello and welcome. We small shop-owners gotta’ stick together, eh?” He sends him a smile, actually a bit proud about his own politeness. But to his surprise, the guy starts laughing. He raises an eyebrow.

“What’s so funny about that?” He probably sounds a bit grumpy, because the guy stops laughing and replace it with a soft smile on his lips. It’s surprisingly cute.

“I don’t really think we’re sharing the same target group, but thanks anyway. I’m James. Most people call me Bucky.”

They shake hands and Brock can’t help, but stare at his hands. One is not tattooed, while the other is completely covered of a tattoo that looks exactly like metal. It is like a piece of art. This guy is talented.

Bucky notices his stare, but he just chuckles and pulls up his sleeve, so Brock can take a look. “Cool, isn’t it?”

Brock nods and runs his fingers across the skin, tracing the shadows and all the little details. His whole arm looks like a metal arm, complete with shadows and amazing colors. Even the red star on his shoulder, looks like it has been painted on the metal. “You made that yourself!?” He can’t hide his admiration. He has never seen anything like that. “It looks so… Real. But it’s all ink…”

“I only came up with the idea. My friend Steve made it. He is an illustrator, so he can draw and paint like a fucking Michelangelo. One day he was bored, so…” Han shrugs and smiles. “He made a couple designs for me, but I also make some of my own. I don’t mind being the one with the needle.” He laughs again.

Brock nods again, still stunned by the piece of art he just saw. This will be on this man’s arm for the rest of his life, and holy crap that must be amazing. Brock clears his throat and start speaking, before this Bucky sends him a soft smile more. He doesn’t trust his own thoughts right now.

“I, eh, have to go back now. Nice chatting to you. Good luck with your shop,” he murmurs, giving him a short glance before he finally starts walking out. He just reached for the door, when he hears Bucky’s voice again.

“How about coffee one day? Or lunch, if you’re into that stuff.”

Brock looks back over his shoulder. Fuck. The guy is giving him that smile again.

“Yeah… Maybe.” He almost slams the door before his face turn red, or anything even more embarrassing. He rushes back to his own shop and prays that he doesn’t look like a goddamn tomato. Jack is standing in the corner, arranging some buckets with flowers. He turns around when Brock comes inside.

“So what’s up? How is he?”
Brock swallows and turns his back to his assistant while hanging his jacket on the rack.

“… I think I want a tattoo.”