Chapter Text
Angela has barely slept all night. She knows it's bad, for her work day starts in an hour and she's tugging her shoes on with sluggish reluctance. The streets of Los Angeles seem to shun her at this hour, sun not quite breaching the gloomy clouds.
She forces one eye closed, suppressing the urge to close both, and aggressively puts on eyeshadow. Not bothering with eyeliner today, she slides out of the door of her apartment, before realizing with a jolt that she's missing the bouquet. Fuuck…. She fumbles with her keys, almost dropping them repeatedly.
With the bouquet in hand, she half-sprints, half-jogs down the corridor and skips the idea of elevators entirely. She jumps down the stairs two at a time, heart spinning circles in her throat. The set is, luckily, within walking distance of the hotel.
Her feet begin to find a rhythm on the sidewalk, concrete hitting her thick-soled heels. They're only filming one or two shots today that need her in it, so she's forgone bringing her lunch. The leaves seem to fall faster in the dingy November light, and the air against her face agrees.
She glances around, eyes catching on a random florist boutique, and she flushes an obscene red shade. She feels the warmth travel through her fingertips and settle on a particularly tender place of her heart, and she begins to move faster. She runs her fingers through her hair—a bad habit she'd gained from her mother—and blinks quickly. That damn florist. That damn smile.
That damn smile. The way the corners of her mouth seem to fold inwards, accentuating her lips, and oh, those lips. Her angry, puffed-up self esteem shining furiously at Angela's indignant request. She could comfortably stare at Amanda for hours. She would be whoever Amanda wanted her to be.
Forget the acting. Forget her life, forget her career, if Amanda told her that she wanted her to be a florist with her, she probably would just go. Angela hates that she would. She hates that she never saw that flash of recognition in her eyes, hates that she knows Amanda doesn't know who she is.
Before Angela can fully reconcile her thoughts, she's on set. She marks herself in, and finds whatever couch Chanse is becoming a part of. She sits on the slim part of the couch which he has yet to consume and sighs. Loudly.
"What? Why are you being an annoying critter today?" He scoffs, before his eyes sparkle, and Angela immediately shoots him a look that could kill. His fingers waggle nefariously. Oh good, it’s Chanse’s devotion to the bit again.
"Don't you dare-" She covers his mouth with a hand, her free hand holding the bouquet far above his head.
He frees his mouth in the only way he knows how; licking a long stripe up her palm. She reflexively jumps away, only for the flowers to tumble out of her hand. She scrambles after them, only to be met by a firm, wet hand against her forehead. She tries to act mad, failing intensely when she dissolves into giggles and lets him look at the bouquet before it gets crushed under the weight of them both.
Her eyes catch on a slip of paper. An ornate, beautiful card which reads, 'love you angel', and some other cursive words which are too far obscured by stems. She reaches it, unseen by the curly-haired man sat next to her, and wraps her fingers around the tough material. She feels the red shade hit her ears—a beat of time, where Chanse is too engaged in the flowers—and then a screeched comment.
"Why are you so red!? Show me your hands, critter!"
She tightens the grip, feeling the sharp points dig grooves into her skin, and shakes her head.
"Give me that, I need to go give it to the ass hat. It's a 'fuck-you' bouquet and if you're not careful, I'll give it to you instead," her walls have risen, forming a block between the pair. She's not willing to deal with his teasing as she figures out why Amanda called her angel.
It had to have been purposeful, there was no way it wasn't. The sprawling handwriting shows no signs of regret. The lines are sleek, wrapping around the next letter, ending in curls of ink. Amanda wanted to call her angel, and did so. Her eyes flicker down towards the embossed numbers at the bottom. The corners of her mouth lift, a fickle thing, gentle in the way her teeth never show. Chanse gives it up, and lets her leave.
She keeps the arrangement of flowers held behind her back, trying to keep them covered. She finds her target; a man called Chris. He's a stern man on set, but his directorial ways are akin to that of a good dad. Until someone makes a mistake. He's prone to yell, and in most cases, he calls off the rest of the shoot day. Almost always, Angela agrees with his yelling. For example, leaving non-taped cables out, or not fully attaching the tripod to the dolly.
But this time? It was just Angela messing up a line. She gets it's frustrating, and that he wants this film to be over—they've been shooting for over 5 months—but it was an easy mistake to make. She walks up to him, and he ignores her. Blatantly ignores her. Her mouth falls into a scowl, and she forces herself to breathe and act kind.
"Chris?" She drawls, for way too long, "I've got you a gift. You know, after yesterday and everything.."
"I don't need an apology gift, Angela. I just need you to be better," he never meets her eyes, hand on lips, focused on the story-boarder showing him pictures.
"You're going to want it." Her voice shifts into a firmer tone, and that draws his eyes to hers.
"Oh, really? Sure. Shoot me," He smirks,and it's a smarmy, honey-covered lie. She knows he doesn't mean his attention that she's giving her, and it feels like a boning knife cutting through her flesh. She wants to yell, pay attention to me!
She brings her arm, gripping the bouquet, around from behind her, and watches as his eyes soften and flick through each separate colour group.
"Oh… er, thanks Angela. I wasn't," He pauses his lying for a little chuckle, "I wasn't expecting you to get me a bouquet?" He holds his hands out to take it, and Angela thrusts it forward. She swallows the hate spewing off of her in waves, and smiles. She's an actor, after all. She feels the revenge settle deep into her bones, and it comforts her. Even if it’s a lame sort of comfort, it works.
She performs her scenes seamlessly. As always, she’s an outstanding, world-class actress. The praise soups up her head, swimming like fish against the thick shelled bowl. The spotlight was made for her to be in it.
Angela’s daydreamed about being a famous actress since she was very little; performing for people was one of the things she loved the most. So, the little flashes of future hopes were a familiar sight. What was shockingly new, however, was the addition of a florist waving and hollering from the crowd. A stupidly bright light coming from above the stage, shaking until it finds its target; Amanda. She doesn’t even know the woman’s last name, but she’d be happy to take it.
She signs out, waving hello to Ian, her driver, as she climbs into the passenger seat of his tinted, modded vehicle. She’s advised him against it, but she can’t shake the thrill of the 0-60. She laughs at his shitty jokes, before eyeing a Starbucks on the way to the photo shoot.
“Stop here, man, I want to get,” She pauses, pursing her lips and catching her words by a thin string, “Get out. I wanna get out,” She side-eyes him, and he nods gently. He knows why, but she refuses to explicitly say. The sun shifts beneath layers of frothy clouds, sheltering the sky in grey. “I trust you’ll cover for me?” She flashes a cheap smile, and he scoffs, laughing, and just pulls the door shut.
It only occurs to her when Ian’s sped off, that she has no idea what type of coffee Amanda would want. She drags her hands down her face, and slides her hood up. It draws attention, sure, but it makes her less recognizable even through that attention. She orders a black coffee for her, watching the steam pour through the wand, and then orders an iced mocha. It seems like it might get quite warm in that little shop of hers, so Angela’s only being nice. She’s not doing it because she swears she smelt mocha on the taller woman’s breath yesterday. She promises to herself.
The air has shifted, temperatures dropping and the humidity suffocates Angela where she stands, and she glances up at the deepening sky, forming folds between each layer of cloud. She pulls her jacket higher, and begins to run. She vaguely remembers the alleys she took to get to Amanda’s yesterday, so it shouldn’t be that hard to retrace steps.
Her boots match in time to the slowly dripping rain, and she keels over, wheezing. Angela’s an actress, not a marathon runner. For good reason, too!
The rain hits her hood, and she scowls at the paper Starbucks lids becoming smooth dark brown shades, dotted like ladybugs. She finally sees the comforting green awning and buckets full of shades of purple, and she crosses the street, just as rain begins to hail down on her. Her boots hit newly formed puddles, splashing up and painting her jeans with nature’s acne. She laughs a little as she practically falls through the door, spilling some of her coffee.
She gathers herself, and stands, expecting to meet brown eyes, and finding it empty. A blank stretch of shop, and her heart jumps to her throat the memory of yesterdays empty shop. She opens the door once, closes it again. The bell rings clear.
She watches as the whirlwind that is Amanda runs down the stairs. Her sleeves on her strawberry cardigan are rolled up high, gloves strapped tight to her wrists. A bead of sweat rolls down her forehead, and she uses her forearm to push the hair out of her eyes. She’s wearing an apron atop the cardigan, and it’s covered in bright splotches of colour. Angela assumes it’s… petal residue? She’s not sure, all she knows is that she’s only noticed the heat of the shop she’s entered. The patter of rain against the window brings Angela back to reality, and she stops staring at the woman.
“Hey, I… I got you coffee. Iced, because it was a vaguely warm day, which.. it isn’t anymore, obviously,” She snorts a little, and then furrows her brows at the noise her body produced. She’s never once consciously snorted in her life, “Mocha, too, because… You seem like a.. Mocha kinda gal!” Oh god. Angela is fumbling.
Amanda laughs, and slowly folds her gloves and forces them into the front pocket of the apron. “Thank you, angel. I appreciate that,” Her voice is gentle, not unlike her handwriting. Angela gulps at the nickname, approaching her. She holds out her arm, fingers wrapped as loosely around the cup’s body as she can get them.
“I tried keeping it dry, but… can’t be helped.” Angela’s heartbeat slows to regular intervals the longer she lingers in the shop. Amanda’s hand outstretches, and the cool metal of her bracelet hits against Angela’s fingers. She’s looking at her own coffee while the other woman wraps her hands around the cup, and it shoots jolts of lightning through Angela’s hand, and she suppresses the urge to reflexively let go of the cup.
Despite time feeling slow-motion, the entire actions just described happened in a heartbeat. Maybe two, if Angela was lucky. Amanda takes a sip of her mocha, and nods, pleased.
“Sorry about that. I’d gotten a little bored, so, I was just upstairs making some for-fun bouquets. Want to see?” Her voice has gotten a little louder against the screech of the rain hitting the windows. Angela glances backwards, eyes pinning at the puddles rising, and nods enthusiastically.
Amanda goes to grab Angela’s wrist, then retracts like she was scalded. Angela follows without question, assuming it was an electric shock. (It wasn’t.)
Stepping upstairs, her eyes flit along the rows and rows of flowers, landing once more on Amanda. The rain is quieter here. It’s easier to hear the heavy breathing coming from the other woman, easier to hear the hitches in her breath every time she meets Angela’s eyes. She blinks, gently, and takes a gulp of her coffee.
“Mind if I stay?” Angela blurts, shocked at her own boldness. “At least until the rain dies down. You said you’d be happy to see my face, so why not for a little longer?” She smirks, as Amanda swallows a huge sip of mocha and nods.
“Yeah! Yeah, you can stay. You’ve not got a coat,” Amanda whispers, reaching out and fiddling with Angela’s leather jacket. The air seems to form a vacuum around the pair, forcing them to breathe harder. Angela lifts her hand, trailing until she can pull Amanda’s apron off. Then the seal shatters in one swift move. The taller steps backwards. The shorter reaches behind her until she finds the wall. She slides down, and waits for Amanda to join her. She does so shortly.
Time is fragile, Angela knows this. She’s got first-hand experience with how fragile time truly gets. Whispers of threads in time weave and wind to form a sunken callous of hours. However, in this place, with this florist, time is impossible to pop. The rain stopped at least two hours ago, but they are still sat there. Talking, gentle whispers and short, genuine barks of laughter fill the room.
Angela’s found out about Amanda’s love for flowers, quite especially snapdragons. She finds out tons about her family, about the thin layers of family that stack to make up the Lehan-Canto name. She’s less vulnerable, but she opens up. At least, about her acting history. The years of auditions and singing lessons and, oh god forbid, the dialect coaches. She tells Amanda about the failed stand-up comedian path she was on for a few years, and grins when she snorts.
As Angela walks back home, that night, in the blurry smog of Los Angeles, she wraps her fingers around the business card in her pocket. With Amanda Lehan-Canto’s number on it. Seeing how no customers came in for the whole duration of them being sat upstairs, she assumes that it’s her personal number; could Amanda even afford the business? The mere thought drains Angela’s energy. She can’t imagine that street without the bucketfuls of flowers.
Lying on her bed, she sends a text. Names the contact “mandy flowers”, and tosses and turns to get comfortable. The breath she inhales hits the back of her throat. She falls asleep shortly after.