Getting shot while literally dismissing people’s concerns about gun violence under a tent with the words “Prove me wrong” printed on all sides is the most fucking hilarious way to die
warnings: mutual pining, steven is a shy babygirl, marc playing wingman (but he's kinda terrible at it cause he's also falling in love), no jake (the crowd is booing), no khonshu, steven still works at the museum, post mk s1, no use of y/n
an: rewatched the whole of mk last night and needed to write about my dearest stevie :)) don't forget to repost to support your fav writers
summary: Steven's apartment has become overrun with more bouquets of flowers than any one man could ever find use for, but they would continue to pile up as long as the pretty girl at the flower shop continued to melt him with that syrupy smile each time he walked in.
Steven Grant had never given much thought to flowers.
Sure, he could offer a momentary appreciation for a flicker of yellow growing out the cracks in London sidewalks or maybe if he passed a house with a particularly impressive rose bush he could smile, but beyond that flowers remained mostly inconsequential.
Steven never had girlfriends in high school, or - to be frank - thereafter either.
He’d never had to pick out a bouquet, one that he would need to consider: does this match her eyes? will it match her dress? how does it smell?
In the face of discovering that he was unalone in the occupancy of his five foot nine frame and fighting in the name of an Egyptian moon-god, Steven had less time than ever to consider his frighteningly barren love life or the lack of interest in flowers on account of it.
Isn’t life funny? In the way that we look so far beyond ourselves for answers, when sometimes they’re just around the corner.
Specifically the corner one street over from the museum.
Steven had walked the path to work plenty of times. A designated route. In the days when he still worked at the gift shop, the same route now that he’d been bumped up to tour guide.
Until one otherwise unimportant morning when construction bound his usual way, forcing him a walk further around the block: adding another four minutes to his trip and a view of the quaint shops down Little Russel street.
He hadn’t been down there in months. His last venture had been in search of a pharmacy for sleeping tablets, when Khonshu was still a nightmare and Marc nothing more than a migraine.
Steven noticed first that the pharmacy no longer stood. In fact, the previously white brick face of it’s stand had been painted a lush lemonade-pink. The Petal Parlour.
Almost immediately, in just about the same breath, Steven’s eyes found a woman leaned over a broom and sweeping the edge of the shop step. She was humming, he could just make out a Stevie Wonder tune.
The morning light flickered off your hair as if off the face of a pond out in a beautiful garden. An elderly man passed your work, uttering a greeting, and you'd perked up with a melodic: "good morning Mr B!"
Steven's footfalls stalled down the sidewalk. A man crashed into his back, strewing the contents of his messenger bag around him. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" He'd seethed at him.
By the time Steven had looked up, you'd already retreated back into the shop. He could make out your outline through the stained glass front.
There hadn't been a day since that Steven had taken his normal, considerably shorter, route to work. He got up five minutes earlier each day, brushed his teeth, made a cup of tea and let the memory of you swim behind his eyes. He could hear Marc's sighs every time.
Most mornings you were inside. Steven would deflate when he rounded the block to an empty corner, but he refused to consider it a total loss because - more often than not - he could make out your figure beyond the window fiddling with petunias on a shelf or smiling at a customer.
Some mornings, when he found himself most lucky, you'd be outside the shop. Usually clipping stray leaves off the rows of bouquets that glimmered happily at the people passing down the street. When it rained, Steven was privy to the way your hair clung to your forehead and the smudge of black mascara beneath your eyes. In the sunlight your arms were exposed from under a pink work shirt and a soil-stained apron.
It went like that for nearly a month. Between Steven and Marc's alternating schedules, he learned to appreciate the slim sightings of you he could manage. Marc didn't make it any easier, mind you, with the way he would whine and complain into Steven's ear.
"Jesus, Steven, just go up to her and say hi!"
Once or twice, Marc had managed to gain control of Steven's legs: teetering him drunkenly in your direction.
The fright would rise quickly up in Steven's chest, steering his legs back in the direction he was walking. You'd looked up one of those times, meeting his eye and spilling out a soft laugh that dissolved into a syrupy smile, but he'd rushed off before you could say anything.
Steven's face stayed red that whole day. "See. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Marc jeered.
"That was mortifying." He muttered back.
The bus rocked beneath his feet and his palm was growing sweaty around the pole he was using to steady himself. Frost was creeping up at the edge of the window he was watching out of.
"Okay, so all you're going to do is go in there and ask for ... help with something." Marc clarified again, his voice echoing around Steven's head.
He'd been bugging Steven since he was brushing his teeth before bed the previous night, something about how "I can't handle any more of this, please Steven. Put me out of my misery."
"Help with what?" Steven whispered. A woman looked up at him from her seat. He smiled shyly, turning away from her.
"I don't know ... tell her you're looking to buy some roses. Tell her it's someone's birthday."
Steven nodded slowly to himself. "Okay ... okay."
Marc had worked hard over the last twelve hours at convincing him. The endeavour was initially futile, but after Marc threatened to go in there and ask her out himself with a - frankly insulting - cockney accent, Steven was left with limited options.
He rounded the corner with wobbly legs and The Petal Parlour loomed in the distance. A bunch of sunflowers taunted him with swaying faces.
It drew ever closer and Steven's heart was beating loudly in his throat. The pink brick was crossing his vision now, his footsteps growing heavier, faster, past the floral print on the window--
"Steven don't even think about it--"
Against Steven's will, his legs knotted around each other: collapsing his body in the direction of the white painted door. It crashed open and Marc, more than Steven, caught his body before it hit the tiled floor inside the shop.
"Oh my god, are you alright?"
The shop was cramped now that he'd gotten his first glimpse inside and the three people crowding the space had their eyes on him.
As if appearing from a mirage, you pressed past the people towards him. He nodded frantically, the scalding touch of embarrassment burned his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah ... I'm fine."
Your earrings jingled from where your head was tilted to inspect him. Ringed fingers pressed down over your soil-covered apron. "Okay then, if you're sure."
Your concerned brow dissolved slowly and that syrupy smile he'd seen pointed in other's directions was suddenly overwhelming him with it's warmth. "Well then, can I help you find anything? Are you looking for some arrangement in particular?"
Steven nodded dumbly, he was fidgeting with the edge of his coat. "Yeah ... I'm looking for, uhm..."
"Birthday!" Marc called from somewhere deep in his mind.
"Birthday!" Steven spluttered loudly. There followed a quiet moment of confusion dripping between you and him.
"Jesus, Steven."
Your giggles crumbled into the space before Steven had the ability to conjure more words.
"I-- I'm sorry, I'm being rude ..." Laugher spilt between your words and your cheeks were turning a soft pink, "you want something for a birthday?"
An embarrassed smile had reached up into the corners of Steven's mouth. He liked the tinkle of your laughter, half convinced he could get drunk off the sound. A molecule of pride floated in his chest knowing that he was responsible for it.
"Uh, yes. Sorry, yes." Steven nodded, fidgeting with the bag strap over his shoulder. "Someone's birthday."
"Well, we just gotten some new arrangements in this morning ..." You turned on him, steering across the little shop to a orange, yellow and pink stacked shelf. He followed you tentatively, trying to pretend that he didn't smell perfume where you moved past him. Pretend that it wasn't making his knees buckle.
"They're pretty." He said quietly. You smiled again. You're pretty, he thought.
"Focus!" Marc's sharp voice sliced through his thoughts.
"Who's birthday is it?"
Steven's tongue lodged back into his airways. "Uhm--"
"Oh shit ... uh, say--!"
"My girlfriend's."
"Not girlfriend, you idiot!"
"Oh, alright--" Your hands fidgeted with your necklace, eyes wide.
"My sister." Steven interrupted you again, the argument in his brain between his thoughts and Marc’s voice was rattling his resolve. "I ... not my girlfriend, I don't have ... I don't have a girlfriend."
"You don't have a sister either." Marc quipped.
Steven ignored him. You were watching him with another smile flirting at your lips. "Okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes? Or have an idea of what you want?"
Steven shrugged, head wobbling into a shake. "Uh no ... what kind do you like?"
You seemed taken back by his question. "Oh. Well, I like the tulips. The yellow ones, especially, but they're tough to find around here ... they have tons in Netherlands and Turkey, which not many people know because everyone thinks of them--"
Steven was sure you could see the little birds floating around his head, and how his pupils turned to tiny black hearts: maybe that's why you stopped.
You blushed a velvety red.
"I'm sorry ..." you turned back, hiding your warm face to wave your hand over the shelf of stacked bouquets. "We have some orchids and some irises if you think she might like them?"
"Yes." Steven nodded, hands folding over each other. His eyes were trailing the outline of your profile, savouring the closeness he'd finally been granted. "Those ... they're beautiful. She'll like them."
Your eyes twinkled where you nodded and it made his stomach churn. "Great."
He lingered patiently by the register while you wrapped the flowers with careful hands.
"Say," your gaze flickered up between him and the brown paper. "Do you work around here? I'm sure I've seen you passing in the morning sometimes."
Steven's breath tripped in his throat. She noticed me?
"Yes, now answer her." Marc's voice rung again.
"I-- yeah, I work by the museum actually." His voice stumbled nervously from the back of his throat.
"Oh really? That's so cool!" Your voice lilted with a pitch of interest. "I really like their exhibit on the liberation of India from English colonial regimes. I've only been once or twice though."
Chest buzzing delightfully, Steven nodded. He knew the one you were referencing, it was a couple corridors down from the Egyptian exhibits.
"Well, you should definitely come see the Ancient Egyptian section. The exhibit is huge and we have hundred year old pieces, sarcophaguses and vases and slabs of cave walls with carved hieroglyphics. I work there and it's really the most fascinating--"
"Let her respond, Steven."
But you seemed content to allow him to continue his splurge, your eyes warm and gentle where it caressed over Steven's face. He stopped talking, winding off embarrassed.
"So, uh, yeah."
"You've made a very good case. Maybe I will come visit." You nodded, fingers stroking absently at the edge of the counter. "If you promise me a tour?"
Warm blood rose up from his chest and pooled in his cheeks. "Of course. Anytime."
You handed him the flowers over the stretch of counter. "I never caught your name?"
"Steven." He said quickly, dejection gathering in his throat at the fact that your interaction was nearing a close. "G-Grant. Steven Grant."
You nodded. "Nice name. It's very James Bond."
"Thanks."
"Ask her name!" Marc poked at the back of his brain.
"Uh-- and you are?"
"Oh!" your eyes fell down to your chest where the corner of your stained apron was obscuring the sharpened edge of your name-tag. You shifted it for him to see.
Steven's eyes followed over the letters, he tried your name out on his tongue. It tasted sweeter than he thought a name ever could, rolling off his lips like a song or a bird whistling on a summer evening.
"It's ... it's a beautiful name."
You blushed, eyes moving back to the keyboard for momentary solace before paralysing him with your warm gaze again. "Thank you. I guess I'll see you 'round Stevie."
His mind whirred with how casually the little nickname slipped from you. "Yeah, yeah you will ..."
Leaving the store, Marc called from between the sludge of Steven's muddy mind.
"Good job, Stevie."
-
Steven was consumed by the interaction the whole rest of the day and when then next morning loomed overhead, he could hardly believe his luck when you were pinching together some lilacs out on the front step where he passed.
Half convinced by the nauseating twist in his stomach to just march quietly past, the decision was made for him when you glanced up from the flowers and offered him a friendly wave: “good morning, Stevie!”
His brain dissolved into a warm, gloopy mess. “… Morning.”
-
In the coming weeks, Steven’s apartment had become a botanical garden of epic proportions.
Vases and cups and pots, and whatever he could fit a flower into, lined his kitchen counters and his shelves and his bathroom sink with every possible kind of flower that The Petal Parlour had to offer.
Marc grumbled most days, in search of a coffee mug or apartment keys between what he described the “Amazon jungle in here.”
But Steven paid him little mind. It was a harmless jab and Steven noticed in the reflection of the shop’s stained glass window how Marc watched you too, eyes glazed with a soft affection. He mentioned nothing of it to Marc.
Steven had begun frequenting the shop when he could, on mornings he got up early enough or afternoons when the day’s work brought soil stains across your ruddy, tired cheeks.
He’d bought flowers for every possible celebration to be had in London, seemingly nabbing an invite to each one. Bat mitzvahs, birthdays, weddings, farewells, funerals: he’d bought bouquets for one of each kind.
Each visit would play out similarly. He’d step into the shop, maybe once a week or every other week - with Marc muttering somewhere in his mind, we’re hardly gonna be able afford groceries at this rate - and you’d beam at him from behind the counter or from beneath a brightly coloured shelf.
“What’s up, Stevie?”
The nickname made him shiver every time.
“Let me guess … Christmas in July?” You’d tease.
When he’d find you behind the counter, that was his favourite, because you’d lean lazily over it. It blessed him with the view down the slope of your nose, the smell of your fading perfume, the jingle of your clinking earrings.
“Baby shower.” It comes out almost as a question, curling upward at the end.
You’d giggle softly. “Right. Boy or girl?”
It had been long enough that Steven could just about draw out your work schedule.
Fridays you didn’t work, Sundays and Tuesdays you only clocked in the afternoon. He tracked it with the little greetings he got, or didn’t get, as he passed on the way to or from the museum.
“You know,” Marc was fronting an early morning in August, subjecting Steven to a cup of coffee. He hated the stale taste it left in his mouth. “We’re quickly approaching, if not already long surpassed, the point where you need to actually ask her on a date. You know that right?”
Steven remained quiet in the depths of Marc’s mind.
He stayed like that until Marc had cleaned out the mug and stuck a wet toothbrush into his mouth.
“Can I please just get ready for work now?” Steven muttered after nearly twenty minutes of silence.
Marc huffed, letting his eyes roll back and the toothbrush dangle from his lips.
Steven shook out his shoulders, Marc was always so tense. “Thank you.”
It was only when he’d passed the flower shop that he remembered that it was Friday. A group of school kids were expected at the museum around nine that morning.
He was almost grateful for your absence, it allowed him to wallow in Marc’s words for at least one more day. He should ask you out, god does he want to.
The day passed like most of them do.
The school children were rowdy and mostly impartial to the magnificent feats of Ancient Egyptian architecture, but he took another tour around two o’ clock with three couples and a family who were significantly, thankfully, more engaging.
Steven had just wrapped up the hour, on the tail end of explaining how do we know what hieroglyphics mean? to the man who’d asked, when a flitter of shifting fabric floated past the back of his head.
Emerging like a bottle-green wet dream, Steven's gaze found you drifting under the arch between rooms. Your eyes alight in searching, they caressed momentarily over each framed painting and encased ornate vase.
He'd never seen you in anything more than your tight pink work shirt, which - don't get it mistaken - did enough damage to his psyche on it's own, but he immediately knew he'd never recover from the little green dress that clung to your frame.
A square neckline reached past clinking necklaces, long sleeves brushed along your palm - a job Steven desperately wished was his own - and a ruffled edge that teased an upper expanse of thigh which he'd never before been gifted a view of ... and if you shifted just a little, bent just slightly over--
"Hey, thanks a lot. The tour was great."
The middle aged man's face reappeared into Steven's view: dirtied spectacles pressing down the edge of his sweating red nose.
Steven stuttered, eyes flickering between the man's face and your figure in the distance. "Y-Yeah, of course ... anytime, mate."
Your eyes found him, waving a hand.
Uninterested in letting the American tourists keep him from you any longer, Steven slipped past them towards your nearing frame.
"Stevie, hey." You beamed up at his face, hands playing with the strap of your bag: clearly unsure. "You-- well, it was my day off and I thought maybe I could take you up on that tour, but I just saw the board and it says you'd already finished your last one--"
"Hey, hey," Steven shook his head. "No, I'm ... I'm glad you came. I can take you if you'd still like, I'd love to show you around? It will be like a private tour."
He swore he could dissolve under the shine of the smile you gave him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Oh—“ you started digging into the bag draped down over your shoulder. “That reminds me …”
Your hand emerged with a single white flower. It’s petals were wide with a barely there yellow dot in the centre.
“I thought it would match the jacket you always wear.” A hand reached out, tugging gently on the corner pocket of his grey trench coat and slipping the flower in so it stuck half out happily. “It’s a white daffodil. Nicked it last night before I closed up.”
Steven’s chest was clenching up with a tightness that felt like his last remaining decisions in this life were to either immediately faint, or kiss you until the oxygen deprivation lead him to faint anyways.
“I—“ His fingers caressed gently at the edge of it’s petal. “Thank you.”
“Give her a compliment, Steven.” Marc’s voice startled him. He was a rare presence when Steven was at work.
The idea prodded at Steven that maybe it was the sound of your voice that had drawn him out.
“You … you look beautiful, by the way.” Steven pressed out, “the dress, it’s — it’s very nice.”
With nervous hands at the edge of the skirt, your looked quickly between the dress and Steven's face. "Ugh, this old thing. Just thought it would be a good idea to get out of my work uniform for a bit."
"I agree ... a great idea." He nodded, "You wanna ... get started?"
"Of course."
Steven lead you over the same route that he walked three times a day, four times on weekends, but somehow still felt itchy between the rooms. He figured it had to do with you gaze pressing curiously over his face, it made his neck hot and he prayed you couldn't see it.
When he spoke, you leaned close into his frame: eyes flickering between his trembling lips and the artefacts he was describing.
"That's so cool ..." you'd whisper to yourself at different points, sometimes a "that's crazy" or a "that's kinda gross", and Steven was drinking in your reactions like a man parched.
The tour closed off at the spot it usually does, with the replica of the Rosetta's Stone near the West Exit. By then, the sun had already sunk behind the backdrop of summer London and Steven's nerves were downright shot.
Your perfume was sending him on a chemical high and he's sure Marc heard every one of his desperate thoughts about the way your fingers tightened around his arm when they'd bump past other visitors moving room to room.
With the dress swaying merrily at your sides, you recounted points of the tour with animated hands flying ahead of you.
"And the way they managed to get those tombs so far underground? Not to even mention the complex tunnelling systems, how much work that would actually take to figure out--"
The tiny birds had returned to flying in circles over Steven's head, Isn't She Lovely was playing absently from somewhere in the depths of his mind.
Your excited hands came to find your sides and you huffed yourself into silence.
Following beside him, Steven lead you two out under the arched gates towards the steps of the museum. The moon twinkled between streetlights, and Steven avoided its gaze. Like he could feel Khonshu’s presence over his shoulder.
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He smiled at you, a smile that just about suffocated him.
“Enjoyed it?” You laughed. “It was amazing, I mean, you were amazing.”
He laughed softly too, but didn’t respond.
The silence was beginning to turn stale.
“Now is as good a time as it’s gonna get.” Marc pestered.
“Well I should—“ you pointed obviously over your shoulder, before finding the face of your wrist watch. “My bus will be leaving soon.”
Steven nodded. “Yeah … yeah of course. I had fun, you should come by more often.”
“It was … it was very sweet. Taking me on the tour when you probably had better things to do.” Your hand curled over his forearm again, “You’re very sweet, Steven.”
“And you’re very beautiful.”
The words found the air between them before Steven even knew what he’d said.
Your lips parted slightly in surprise, cheeks brushed with a warm pink: “I— thank you, Stevie.”
Steven nodded, not looking at you and suffocating on his own embarrassment. “I’m gonna— need to go finish up inside.”
An unmistakably wounded look passed over your face. It dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.
“Sure.” It was curt. “I’ll see you round the shop.”
“Steven, if you do not stop her so help me God—“
A flurry of hot and cold feelings were chasing up and down his chest: he watched your figure turn and worked to do the same.
The outline of the museum had barely returned to his frame of vision when the cold hand of his subconscious reached out and dragged him down into it’s icy black depths: now watching the view of his eyes as if from a foggy tape recorder.
Marc stiffened his shoulders, turning to where you were bounding down the steps of the museum, heels clicking on each jump.
He chased down after you, skipping two steps at a time.
“Marc, don’t! You’re gonna scare her!” Steven was shouting now, rattling his already shaky consciousness.
He called your name where you’d just reached the sidewalk. You turned up to meet his face.
In barely fractions of a moment, Marc was able to find some sympathy for dear Steven.
Now that he was faced with you himself, as opposed to the blurry lens he’d been cursed to only peer through before, he wondered how Steven ever conjured up the courage to say more than three words to you.
“Steven?”
The light of the street-lamp was flickering in little circles off your eyes in the dim street and Marc was half convinced to abandon Steven in the darkness.
He didn’t.
Rather, he slipped back down into the shadows where he felt Steven surpass him again.
Your brow bent deeper in confusion, “Are you alright?”
If he had time, Steven might have taken a moment to huff at Marc for not even bothering to turn away when he forced himself back to the front, spared you from the sight of his eyes rolling back in their head. But no, you probably thought he was possessed.
“I, yes, that doesn’t matter—“
He could feel ice cold adrenaline pumping down from his brain. Like he did in the seconds before a fight, when the suit would crawl up over his skin.
“Your eyes,” your hand came close up to his face, hesitant enough to just float in its orbit. “They rolled—“
“Will you go on a date with me?”
You blinked up at him. Once, twice.
The silence was reaching far past the limits that it did in all the romance movies Steven had seen and his palms were growing itchy with the passing seconds.
“When?”
Steven’s head was reeling. He hadn’t thought that far, but why quit while he’s ahead?
“Now. Right now, tonight.”
The surprise was fading from your face, replaced with eyes that were glowing around the corners and a smile that made his heart skip every second beat.
“Don’t you have work?”
“You haven’t answered my question yet.”
“If you promise to still come visit the shop ... I would love to go on a date with you, Stevie. Right now.”
Warmth was flooding back into Steven’s hands. “I’ll set up a tent outside on the sidewalk …” he breathed, “you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Steven nodded. Almost tripping on the step up behind him, “I’m going to tell them that I’m leaving. Just wait right here …“
He’d already moved up two steps, legs buzzing with untamed exhilaration.
“Steven, hold on just one sec—“ when he turned, you’d surpassed the small steps separating you.
He’d barely a chance to turn all the way back around when your index finger hooked between his neck and the collar of his shirt and your lips were on his.
They were warm and soft and Steven had no idea what he was doing.
With his experience being limited to the pool of:
A. The girl he’d pecked in first grade on the swings in the playground.
B. A drunken make-out at a college party for a college he didn’t even attend and,
C. His (mostly Marc’s) ex-wife,
It was nothing short of a miracle when his hand came up to find the side of your neck. When he pulled your waist flush against his.
“Atta’ boy.” He ignored Marc.
You pulled back, Steven was pleased to notice your reddened, wet lips.
“Sorry,” you whispered close against him, voice half-drowned out by the rumbling of taxis in the street and people passing by. “Been itching to do that for a while.”
the "I believe in abortion only in extreme situations" people (especially women) truly baffle me because I genuinely consider "a human has another human growing inside of them and does not want to" to be a very extreme situation. to me that feels so deeply like an extreme emergency situation. I know this has been said before but it's incredible to me that this does not feel innately horrifying and "extreme" to everyone.
saying cats don't contribute to the household is slander: they do have a job and it's going into mystery crevices and collecting all the cobwebs on their stupid little head
i need to correct this: wow classic doesn’t have any npcs that can only talk to one player at a time. these lines actually formed for a quest npc that players had to kill to complete the objective. knowing that i think this image is even funnier.
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
germansingergirl
kaledo-art
origamiaround
