Awkward/Dorky Paige vying for the heart of our favorite young heroine? Yes please.

AU after Paige tries to frighten Emily at the pool. She then realizes her true feelings and decides to try and get the girl. A big thank you to the wonderful Angel!

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

You, Paige McCullers, have never been called a romantic person.

You have never been likened to a romance movie heroine, never swooned or blushed at the drop of a pin, and have never been properly wooed.

Hell, you've never even had a proper valentine.

So, the fact that you're currently standing in front of a flower shop in Midtown that is notorious for their extravagant and romantic (not to mention expensive) floral arrangements may come as a shock to some.

The fact that you've been standing outside of this certain shop, equivocating on whether or not to go in (really it's remarkable you haven't been picked up for loitering yet), would probably be an even larger shock.

"You're the Paige McCullers!" they would cry.

"Indecisiveness is for the weak of heart! Hell, we're not even sure you have a heart!"

Well, while this may come as news for some, you do have a heart.

The heart of an insecure maladapted teenage girl with a myriad of issues, but a heart nonetheless.

A heart that one Emily Fields makes go pitter-patter lately.

Emily.

You used to be fine pretending. Pretending that, yes you were Supergirl and could excel at everything. Yes, of course you could withstand all the pressure your father puts on you. Pretending that obviously, you were straight, nothing less than perfect of course!

You were fine, but you weren't happy.

Until Emily Fields decided to take a reoccurring role in your life, rather than one of the walk-on extra Swim Team Member (Rival) #5.

Then everything went to shit.

Suddenly, pretending wasn't enough anymore. You wanted to see, hear and oh god touch all the things you had denied yourself for so long.

But you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

Emily? Well, Emily was radiant, sweet and self-assured. She was also out.

Moreover, happy.

God, she was so happy. You were unbelievably jealous. You were also confused, in denial and oh so frustrated. So incredibly frustrated/confused/in denial that all your excess energy and passion was misdirected in an enormous way and you tried to scare Emily away. Away from you, away from the swim team, away from your goddamn life, so she couldn't make you feel these things anymore, hold this power over you anymore.

And you frightened her.

"You stupid useless oaf," you had cried at yourself.

Nevertheless, here you are trying to make amends (and perhaps a bit more).

Because you know the truth now. How could you not when it's so glaringly obvious?

Paige McCullers is not one to deceive herself.

If it's the truth, it's the truth, and there's nothing else you can do about it.

You know exactly what you want (Emily), where you want it (anywhere she is), and how you want it (romantically).

You've already decided that both your dad and your reputation can go to hell. You'd do anything just to have Emily.

Emily is worth more than all of that.

Hell, she's probably worth more than all of your pathetic passive-aggressive angst ridden attentions.

But, she's the best thing you've ever seen and you'd like to at least know of your feelings before shooting you down, goddammit.

Despite all the other things people may or may not have called you over the years, a coward is not one of them.

Which is why you've been standing outside the nicest flower shop in town for the better part of thirty minutes, while deciding whether or not to go in.

Suddenly you get a burst of resolve. Enough of this shit, you're going in. Here goes nothing. Roughly, you yank open the door and saunter in coolly making sure to exude a certain devil-may-care je ne sais quoi.

You manage to make it the counter without vomiting.

Baby steps, baby steps.

You look up from your scuffed sneakers and holy fuck.

The shop is completely filled with flowers (well duh), but it's the amount of them that make you stare. Splotches of color as far as the eye can see as more flowers than anybody could know what to do with fill literally every viable surface in the store.

This is insane. You don't even recognize a third of the flowers in here.

As the pimple faced youth behind the counter greets you and asks what you're looking for today, you realize something important.

You don't know what kind of flowers Emily likes. How can you not know this? She must have a preference; nearly everybody has a preference in most things.

Oh god, you're an idiot. Okay, think McCullers think.

You're doing this. Can't back down now, not when you're so close.

So fucking close. Okay, start with what you know.

Flowers are essential in any modern cliché teenage courtship ritual. And you most definitely want to court Ms. Emily Fields, so flowers are a must. Coupled with a romantic note, of course. Thankfully, you had spent half the night looking up (male) dating advice on line so as to be prepared with a card that is perfectly proportioned in it's sappiness, sweetness, and romanticism (an apparently winning trio).

Perhaps Emily was one of those girls that like bouquets of variety rather than a mildly monotonous or monochromatic single-flower arrangement. Plus, wasn't bigger always better as the adage goes?

If this is true then the biggest bouquet with the most variety will surely be the winner, your ever logical brain deduces. It'll naturally be more impressive and out of all the different types of flowers, the chances of it containing some she finds pleasant will be much higher.

God, you hope so.

So, in the end you buy a hugely expensive colossal bouquet to be picked up tomorrow morning promptly at 7, giving you enough time to sneak it into her academic locker before swim practice.

Where you will not covertly appreciate (ogle) her body from a respectable distance. Of course, not.

As you slip your considerably thinned wallet into your jacket pocket and head out the door and towards your trusty bike, you can't help but fantasize about all the possibilities tomorrow may hold in stock.

You really hope she'll like it.

All around, certain people (they claim they have allergies, you claim that allergies are for the weak-willed) were sneezing and coughing from the large amounts of pollen coming off the flowers. One girl's face had actually begun to swell into something resembling a giant grapefruit, and everyone was running around, calling the paramedics and generally acting like fools.

Collateral damage is a necessary evil.

While the crowd generally acts like morons, you observe the chaos absentmindedly from your vantage point around the corner of the hallway, waiting for your real target to come onto the scene.

Emily.

You were really hoping she would like this. So much that she would fall into your arms, let you kiss her like one of the heroines from a black and white picture, and ride off into the sunset with you on a white steed you'd have named Sunshine. (The Princess Bride was the shit, okay?)

Or, you know, at least agree to go out with you.

However, after what you did to her the last time you saw her, you'd probably settle for her having a positive reaction.

Here's hoping.

In fact, you had picked this place because of its strategic placement that allowed you to watch for her reaction. Your calculations had proven this spot to be the best to observe while being discreet.

And you mean discreet in a completely non-stalkerish way.

Not stalkerish at all.

All of the aforementioned tangents vanish from your mind

Eye on the prize, McCullers. Nothing to do now but bide your time.

So.

Here you are.

Waiting. Lying in wait. Stalking your prey. Like a lioness. A beautiful big cat.

Who rules the pride lands with the help of her trusted ensemble of friends including a sassy meerkat and slightly over-weight warthog.

Okay, seriously, where was Emily?

As soon as that errant thought crosses your mind, there she is just walking down the hallway with her friends.

And, it's like an old 80's movie, y'know? The cameras roll, the frame focuses on her and the wind machines run. Nothing else exists in this hallway. (You're a romantic, so what? It's not as if anybody around here has the cojones to say that to your face anyway. You're Paige freakin' McCullers, for god's sakes.)

Dewy dark eyes?

Check.

Tanned smooth kissable skin?

Check.

Bouncy luscious locks that smell like amazing?

Check.

Cute little smile on perfect pouty pink lips?

Have mercy.

You snap back to attention when you see her swiftly approaching her locker.

All systems are a go! T-minus 5!

(Oh god, what if she doesn't like them?)

You honestly cannot breathe when she reaches for the handle on her locker.

(oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god…)

The locker door swings slowly open.

Your heart stops.

And Emily starts to blush.

She blushes as she struggles to pull the gigantic mass of flowers out of her locker. She blushes as her friends start to crowd her, wanting to know the name of the person that was so audacious as to give her this huge bouquet. She blushes as the people in the hallway start to gawk, craning their necks, while a couple wolf whistle and shout comments. She blushes as she plucks out the delicate off-white card from between the blooms and begins to read it.

These flowers don't hold a candle to you. –P.

Romantic, yet tasteful. (Holy shit, it worked.)

You're the one that blushes when her eyes find you over the top of the flowers. You can feel the blood rushing to your face, probably resembling the color of your hair by now, as you try to feign an aura of general nonchalance without seeming like a total tool.

Suave, McCullers, suave.

As suave as you can get when you're currently resembling a sun ripened tomato posing as a lovesick fool.

You stop blushing when you hear the late bell ring and realize that the hallways are completely empty, Emily and Co. set off in the opposite direction a while ago, and you've just been staring off into space for the last two minutes.

Also, you're late to Calculus.

But you don't dwell on that as you practically run (see: skip) down the halls. The most gorgeous human being you know is now aware that you are courting her, à la Gone with the Wind, and seems pretty doggone receptive for somebody you recently tried to drown (which was a violent lashing-out of now obvious misdirected repressed passion on your part).

Score one for the former self-repressed self-loathing bully!

As you reach the door of your mathematics classroom and quickly tell the teacher a concocted excuse about your tardiness, you suddenly recall that you have this class with a certain Miss Emily Fields.

Of course, you suddenly recall this when you pivot to go to your seat and your eyes meet hers from across the room from where she's sitting, her desk veritably covered with flowers.

She has such gorgeous eyes.

Moments pass.

You don't look away.

Neither does she.

Your body practically thrums with the intensity of the connection between the two of you. You feel like she's looking right into the very core of you. Looking past all the self-hate. Past all the denial, the anger and oh god the frustration. She's looking past all of that.

Right now, she's just looking at Paige.

Right now, you're just looking at Emily.

You stop looking at Emily the second you trip over your own desk.

Oh shi-

Seems you had forgotten that your feet were actually moving and the connection is instantly severed once you find yourself facedown intimately acquainting yourself with the linoleum.

But that's alright because while you're sinking into your seat and trying to ignore the snickers of the Neanderthals you call classmates, she glances back at you from her seat near the wall.

She meets your eye and then -you think your heart is going to explode from the cuteness- tips her head toward the bouquet and quickly mouths a shy thank you.

Whilst blushing.

You're pretty sure you've just melted in to a pile of warm fuzzy heart-shaped goo.

Good lord, her smile should be considered a dangerous weapon for all the apparent damage it does to your cognitive functions.

She whips her head back to the front quickly when the moment is gone though, but even then, you can't bring yourself to try and wipe off the idiotic grin that's left spreading across your face in her wake.

Swiftly your mind turns to the new task at hand: Successfully Wooing Emily Fields Part Two.

A.K.A. the next charming sappy chickflick-esque stunt you will carry out, bringing her one step closer from finally swooning straight into your arms.

She won't know what hit her.