#flutterbee

The sun is setting, turning pinks and yellows in the blocky slivers of horizon visible through the towering buildings that make up her slice of the city. There's a cool breeze blowing past her cheek, dragging dried, crunchy leaves across the pavement. Cars pass by, easy, without the rush of daytime. She can hear a distant echo of street musicians, and they aren't bad. Maybe it's just the day she had, but- for a moment- she considers tracking them down and staying a while to listen.

She really should go home, though, and she will. Two cats await in her apartment, and the poor things must be starving.

A flier flutters against the phone poll it's been stapled to.

THE OFFICIAL HONEYBEE HOTLINE, OPEN 8PM TO 12AM WEEKDAYS.

The fluttering edge of the paper catches her eye, and then the bumblebees that border the page. It makes her smile, even before she really knows what she's looking at. 

Stopping, Florence takes the flier in her hand, and skims it.

Is this... real?

She giggles at the idea. That Honeybee runs a hotline- that Honeybee runs around to put up fliers advertising her hotline!

Florence tears off one of the little paper tab thingies with the phone number on it, from the bottom of the page. Her nails are dull, digging against the paper, tearing it unevenly. She sticks it in her pocket.

– – –

With the cats fed, Florence curls up on the couch. She's changed into her pajamas for the night, pulled her hair into a messy bun, and she puts on Gilmore Girls, for peaceful and kind background noise. 

There, in her soft sweatpants, with her long, fluffy blue hair, Florence looks down at the number she pulled off the flier earlier.

.... She smiles, giddy. Because if she really needed Honeybee, she could use the miraculous communicators. But... no, that's not what she wants right now.

She glances at the clock on the wall. 8:04 PM. Honeybee should just be starting to take calls, right? Florence tugs out her phone- an Android user- and dials the number.

Her heart flutters in her chest. She lifts it to her ear. Her neck warms with the blood rushing to her cheeks, butterflies filling her stomach. She waits.

"You've reached the Honeybee hotline! Please hold!"

Florence giggles, just to herself, alone in her living room. "Anything for you, Honeybee," she teases nobody.

"...Oh! Well, in that case-" 

Florence's eyes widen, and she just barely fights the urge to chuck her phone across the room. 

"What can I do for you tonight, civilian?" 

Honeybee's voice... is like sunshine passing through honey. Smooth, sweet, but bright, beautiful. Not to mention playful. The teasing lull in her voice makes Florence's heart tumble around her chest, making her face flush darker. 

Florence opens her mouth- simultaneously, her hand flies to cover her mouth.

"... Civilian? Civilian, is this an emergency? You-" 

"No! No," Florence blurts, hand falling to grip at the couch. Her heart is doing funny things in her chest- completely new things in her chest. "I- I'm just a f-f- a fan!"

Honeybee laughs. 

And Florence can't even pretend she's bothered that Honeybee's laughing at her. Because Honeybee's laughing at her. She covers her mouth with her hand again, hiding a delirious smile. Oh, to be made a complete fool for Honeybee. 

Florence opens her mouth again, but- but no words come out. She stumbles, stutters- and then in a sudden sapphic panic, she hangs up.

Her phone is lost to the couch cushions, and her face meets the warm embrace of a pillow.