Random drabble… um… what haven’t I done in a while? Oh, let’s go fluff.

Let’s call it Flowers - you can’t beat those for fluffiness. And let’s do a DP drabble. And… let’s make it weird and something you wouldn’t expect. So no Danny getting Sam flowers, or vice-versa. Hm… let’s let Dash have his own for once and… *oh!* Delicious. Not sure how canon it is or how current it is, since it’s pulling on first-season episode, but the slight curl of angst is too good to pass up.

Time started: 6:45, time finished: 7:50

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Flowers
A DP FanDrabble by Cordria

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Dash grinned to himself as he slipped away from his friends and made his way down one of the quieter streets. He’d brashly lied to them, saying that he had to do some special training for the upcoming football game and they’d bought it hook, line, and sinker. Of course they bought it, Dash told himself, striding quickly down the street. You’re Dash Baxter. You can do anything.

The money in his pocket was burning against his skin – money that he’d worked hard to get from his father. The man had been positively dead-set against giving him any more money and Dash couldn’t quite understand why. Between the mumblings about getting a job (a thought that made Dash shiver) and doing something productive with his life (a thought that Dash didn’t quite understand since he was doing something productive with his life), he had managed to interject that it was for football. And his father had forked it over, none the wiser that it wasn’t at all for football.

Dash was the man. He’d gotten the money, he’d gotten the free time to do this little task, and he most definitely ruled at anything he set his mind to doing. Losers beware, The Dash Baxter was walking down the street. Move to the side, please, maybe even cross the street so that he didn’t get any loser germs on his pristine jacket. Ruler of the Universe coming through.

He managed to keep that mindset until he stepped up to the small shop at the corner of Fifth and Cavalry. His eyes slid over the girly colors and swirls in the name, his nose wrinkling. There was no way the Lord of Football was going to walk into that shop. He’d find a new shop, even if this was the best one in town. He had to – this place was just too… loserish.

Spinning on his heel, Dash was about to stride away, his agile and slick mind struggling to remember where else he could find another shop to complete his desired task, when he heard the voice of his favorite loser. Dash hesitated, slipping a hand into his pocket to finger the money he’d pilfered from his father, and bit his lip. Should he walk away or should he take a few minutes to torment the loser first?

The thought that Fenton might have seen him made up his mind – there was no way Dash was going to walk away if there was a chance Fenton would take it the wrong way. Dash scanned the sidewalks for the patent loser-shirt-and-jeans combo, trying to hear where the annoying voice was coming from. Tilting his head a little, Dash tracked the sound like a mighty hunter, confident in the knowledge that no loser - especially not the loser named Fenton – would escape his notice.

Dash came to a stop, his nose a few inches from the swirls and curly-cues painted on the glass of the shop he refused to enter. Inside he could see them, the loser and the techno-loser, looking through the shop. They seemed to be arguing back and forth, pointing at various colored things.

A grin drifted onto Dash’s face. Of course the loser would be in this shop – where else would he be? When the sun drifted out from behind a cloud, it suddenly became harder to see what the losers were doing and Dash, unthinking, brought his hands up to the glass to create some shade and pressed his face against the window. He just had to see what the losers were doing in order to best torment them when they came out.

That was, unfortunately, when the loser chose to look up. Those stupid blue eyes widened in surprise and he nudged his techy friend, both of them getting little grins on their faces.

Dash, whose mind had been firmly trying to figure out how best to torment the duo, suddenly realized that he probably looked something like a bug squashed to the window and jerked away, straightening his jacket and scowling. No one made fun of Dash Baxter – he was the best. He was the king of Casper High. He was…

The loser had to pay.

Dash stormed like a prize-winning bull into the flower shop to the soft twinkle of the idiotic bell on the door, his face dark as he sought out the two losers that had made him the butt of some loser-joke. He was going to make them regret ever deciding to do that. Dash’s eagle-like eyes scoured the small shop, stalking down aisles of roses and tulips and other… flowery… things.

But to Dash’s amazement, he couldn’t find either of them. They couldn’t have snuck past his sharp eyes; they hadn’t left or Dash would have heard the stupid bell. But they weren’t in the shop anywhere.

Did I imagine it? Dash wondered, but then shook his head derisively. The Dash Baxter didn’t imagine things that had to do with losers. Obviously they’d managed to get out in some secret loser-exit… or something.

Dash scowled darkly, clenching his fists as he debated what to do with his genius-level mind. He could either attempt to find them – which he was sure he could, no loser could escape his most excellent skills – or he could wait until he saw them at school the next day and take the delay out on them. Relaxing a little, Dash decided to let them go this once. Now he had all night to plan for payback… and it would be something awesome. Dash was the best at planning revenge on losers.

“Can I help you?” came a soft voice and Dash twisted around, his scowl still firmly in place. The old lady behind the counter didn’t look at all fazed – which astonished Dash, because his scowl was the darkest and angriest in the tri-county area – and arched an eyebrow.

Dash folded his muscular arms over his chiseled chest and raised his chin a little, looking at the ancient, wrinkled hag down his nose. “Yes. I need flowers.”

The old woman’s other eyebrow joined the first at the top of her wrinkled forehead and she dared to roll her eyes. “I suppose you’re in the right place. What would you like?”

“Flowers,” Dash repeated, wondering if the she were still sane. He wasn’t always sure if they still understood English when they got to be that old and moldy, not that he'd ever get that old.

“I got that,” she said, pushing herself to her wobbly legs and tottering out from behind the counter. “I kind of flowers?”

Dash, feeling a little green at the thought of the smelly old woman being any closer than she already was, took a small step backwards before stopping himself. Dash Baxter wasn’t going to back away from some disgusting lady. He straightened his shoulders and held his ground. The old bird would back down first. “Nice ones,” he said after a moment, wondering why he – the best football player on the junior varsity squad – would know anything about kinds of flowers.

She sighed, shaking her head, and shuffled into the shop. “Are they for a girl?”

“Duh,” Dash muttered. “I wouldn’t buy flowers for myself.”

“What kind does she like?” the woman croaked, the flab of skin under her chin waving nauseatingly.

Swallowing a little and starting to rethink his idea to stay, surely there was no issue with The Dash Baxter knowing when to make a strategic retreat, Dash frowned. “Why would I know something like that? Flowers are a girl-thing.”

“I’m sure,” the old lady said, pulling a sorry-looking bundle of white flowers out of a holder and inspecting them. “How about these? They’re daisies – very pretty.”

Dash let his eyes linger on them for a fraction of a second, no longer. Star football players don’t look at flowers. “They’re almost dead.”

“They’re also cheap – perfectly priced for a high school boy.”

Bristling at the ‘boy’ comment, Dash ground his teeth. He wasn’t a ‘boy’, he was a man. He was the man. “I’ve got plenty of money.”

The old woman made a sound in the back of her throat – a sound that made Dash shudder a little in revulsion – she put the flowers back and picked up some pink ones. “Carnations?”

“She’s not really a pink girl,” Dash argued, frustrated. Couldn’t this lady do anything right? Not only was she disgusting, she couldn’t even pick out flowers. And she was getting paid to do that!

“Maybe if you describe her?” the hag said, shooting Dash a glance that would have gotten her pummeled if she were a guy closer to his age. “Maybe I could pick something out that was better.”

Dash hesitated, then shrugged. “She’s a girl.”

The woman stared at him with her glassy eyes and pock-marked and wrinkled face for a long moment. “Anything else?”

She wants more? Dash folded his arms over his perfect chest in thought. “She sings,” he finally managed to get out. “She’s got blue hair… and likes black.”

“Ah, a Goth-girl?” The old woman’s face broke into a grin that showed her yellowed teeth. Dash, keeping his lips firmly over his own flawless white teeth just in case the disgustingness was catchy, flinched – just a little, but anyone would have - and nodded. “Those two boys were in here buying flowers for a Goth too. Not the same one, I hope.” She winkled one wrinkled eye at him. “I’ve got the perfect thing.”

Dash, swallowing down a bit of bile at the thought of the old hag winking at him – Dash Baxter, Perfect Son and Football Player – tried really hard to not watch the disaster of a woman totter off into the back of the flower shop. It was just so hard to tear his eyes away; it was like watching a train wreck.

When the door swung shut behind her, Dash had his chance to bolt. He wanted to get out of there and fully believed that there wasn’t anything wrong with him leaving while the witch was in the back. Anyone would have left – Randy Moss would have left, Peyton Manning would have left, Tom Brady would have left, Devon Hester would have left… even Deion Sanders and Joe Montana would have raced out the door.

But he wasn’t any of those men. He was Dash Baxter. He was inherently superior than them. Better at football. A stronger man. No one could hold a candle to him.

So he stayed. And his knees didn’t tremble at all.

“See?” the wrinkled, moldy, old woman said, holding out a small collection of flowers. “They’re perfect.”

Dash, in an attempt to get this ordeal over with, actually looked down at the flowers. The stems and leaves were black as velvet night, the petals of the flowers a soft bloody red. They were – if someone as perfect and masculine as Dash Baxter would have ever admitted it – very pretty. “What are they?” he demanded.

“They’re called Blood Blossoms. They were originally native to the area, but they’re become scarce over the past twenty years. Almost impossible to find, now.” The old hag grinned at him again, showing off her disgusting teeth. “Very rare. Very beautiful. Guaranteed to win your young lady’s heart.”

“Fine,” Dash said, pulling back slightly from the moldy-cheese smell of the woman. “I’ll take them. How much?”

“Seventy for the flowers, plus ten if you want them delivered.”

Dash grabbed for the money in his pocket and peeled off four twenties. “Here,” he said, tossing the money onto the counter. “Send them to Ember McLain.”

The woman set the flowers down in a small vase and pocketed the money before jotting down the name and address in her messy, old scrawl. Dash curled his lip, knowing he could write better in his sleep. “What do you want the card to say?”

“From your biggest fan. Dash Baxter.” Dash carefully spelled his name out, knowing that someone as stupid and old as this hag would get it spelled wrong. He waited just long enough for the ancient witch to get it, promise they’d be delivered the next day, and he walked out of the shop, his shoulders square and powerful.

The idiot bell chimed as the door shut and Dash grinned, heading up the street. He - The Dash Baxter – had survived the flower shop and the hag inside. Something even the greats wouldn’t have been able to accomplish. He was the man. He was a vision of perfect manliness and humanity, given form and allowed to walk amongst the common folk. They should bow at his feet and run to do his bidding.

Fingering the last twenty in his pocket, Dash decided to head to the Nasty Burger to get a celebratory burger to wash down the residual bad taste in the back of his mouth. He was the Master of the Universe – surely he deserved it.

He never even heard the soft laughter as the loser and his techy-loser friend faded back into view just outside the flower shop. “Ember’s getting Blood Blossoms from Dash,” the loser dropped to the ground, clutching his side and gasping for air. “I can’t wait to see what she does when she gets them. And Dash’s expression when she comes after him.”

“Think you can catch it with my new hi-def video camera?” the techno-loser chuckled, digging a small camera out of his backpack. “That’ll be priceless. Think of all the YouTube hits I’ll get. Besides, I think Sam’ll like watching that better than any flowers you could afford.”

Both of them grinned as the broad-shouldered form of the Lord of Football, Most Perfect Teenager in the State, and Craftiest Person in the Baxter Family turned the corner and strode towards the Nasty Burger, completely oblivious as to what was coming the next day.