The Language of Flowers pt 2:
Note: I went a little crazy with this one; it’s a lot longer than I meant for it to be. Hopefully everyone enjoyed. Part three should be out in a few days.
Word Count: 2,530
Warnings: assault
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The following Thursday couldn’t come fast enough. I seemed to catch myself always jumping up in anticipation whenever the bell above the door chimed. At exactly four o’clock, he walked in, and I felt like I could finally breathe. He came; he actually came.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne.” I greeted him as he approached the counter.
His gaze lifted from the arrangement of cards on the table to meet mine. A slight sign of annoyance crossed his face.
“I recall asking you to call me Damian.”
A smile bloomed across my face. “My apologies, good afternoon, Damian.”
“ Good afternoon.”
“ I have your order ready; let me go grab it.”
I disappeared into the cooler and returned a moment later with the bouquet wrapped in ivory paper. I held the arrangement out to him.
“ I hope they meet your expectations.”
Damian accepted the bouquet with surprising care, his hands cradling the stems rather than simply taking them. He examined each flower in silence.
Most customers looked at a bouquet the way someone checked a receipt.
Damian looked at flowers the way people admired paintings.
After a long moment, he gave a single nod.
"They're beautiful."
The compliment caught me off guard.
I blinked.
"...Thank you."
"They were arranged well."
For some reason, that felt different than someone saying the flowers themselves were pretty.
"They're one of my favorites," I admitted.
"The camellias?"
I nodded.
"They're simple. They don't have to compete with brighter flowers to stand out."
He looked down at the bouquet again.
"I understand."
I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that.
He reached into his coat, retrieving his wallet before pausing.
"I would like to place another order."
I laughed quietly.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"You were?"
"Business has been slow the last few months."
He looked upset at the news.
“ I’m sorry to hear that. Are you able to keep afloat?”
“ For now at least, it’s the slow season; business picks up around holidays, I should be fine until then.”
His expression still showed one of irritation that I couldn’t understand. Why would it bother him so much if a small flower shop went out of business?
Remembering that I’m running a business and sharing my money troubles with a customer is definitely inappropriate. I took a deep breath while pulling out the pad of paper.
“What are we ordering this time?”
“Red tulips.”
I shook my head while I wrote them down.
"And accompanying flowers?"
"Whatever you believe complements them."
My pen stopped.
I looked up.
"You're... letting me choose?"
"If you wish."
"I thought you preferred everything planned."
"I do."
"Then why leave this part to me?"
He met my eyes without hesitation.
"I trust your judgment."
The words were spoken as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.
Yet they lingered in the air long after he'd finished speaking.
I cleared my throat and looked back at my notebook.
"I'll make sure they look nice."
"I know."
His visits became something I found myself anticipating.
Not because they were exciting.
Quite the opposite.
There was something oddly peaceful about them.
Damian never rushed me.
If I was helping another customer when he arrived, he'd wait quietly near the windows, occasionally studying the potted plants or reading the small cards describing each flower.
One afternoon, I caught him crouched beside a struggling peace lily.
"It needs more drainage," he said before I could ask what he was doing.
I walked over.
"You can tell just by looking at it?"
"The yellowing leaves."
He gently brushed one between his fingers.
"And the soil is compacted."
"You know a lot about plants."
"My grandfather believed understanding living things required caring for them."
I smiled.
"So you've always gardened?"
"I still do."
"I can't picture you with a watering can."
"I use a hose."
The answer was so matter-of-fact that I laughed before I could stop myself.
His brows drew together.
"...Was that humorous?"
"A little."
"I see."
He didn't sound offended.
Only curious.
As if he were making a note to himself.
"You know," I said, reaching for a watering can behind the counter, "you're not at all what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
I shrugged.
"I don't know."
"The newspapers don't exactly paint the Wayne family as... plant enthusiasts."
A faint sigh escaped him.
"The newspapers are rarely interested in accuracy."
"I figured."
The corner of his mouth lifted just enough to soften the seriousness that usually settled across his face.
It wasn't much.
But somehow, seeing even the hint of a smile felt like watching the first flower bloom after winter.
“I have to leave now. Thank you for the tulips; they are perfect.”
“Will you be back?”
“Yes, you can expect me next Thursday; a bouquet of White Carnations will be adequate.”
“For the manor?”
“ Yes… for the manor.”
As the bell chimed behind him, I found myself watching him disappear down the sidewalk until he turned the corner.
Only then did I realize I was still smiling.
By the fifth Thursday, I'd learned two things about Damian Wayne.
The first was that he arrived at exactly four o'clock every week. The second was that, despite always claiming to be in a hurry, he never actually left when his business was finished. He would collect his bouquet. Place another order. Pay, and then somehow remain.
At first, I assumed he was simply looking around. The shop had a habit of slowing people down. The scent of eucalyptus and lavender lingered in the air, soft music drifted from the old radio behind the register, and the afternoon sun always painted warm patches across the hardwood floor.
People wandered.
Damian observed.
There was a difference.
"This fern is declining."
I glanced up from tying a ribbon around his bouquet.
He stepped beside the display, gently lifting one of the drooping fronds between two fingers.
"It would benefit from a pebble tray."
I rested my elbows on the counter.
"You know..."
He looked over.
"Every week you diagnose another one of my plants."
"They are making it rather easy."
I laughed.
"You could've started with 'hello.'"
"I did."
"...You did."
"And now your fern requires assistance."
I pointed at him with my scissors.
"See? That's almost a conversation."
He considered that for a moment.
"...I suppose it is."
His answer was so serious that I couldn't help smiling.
"You'll have to teach me this pebble tray thing."
"I can."
"You don't have anywhere to be?"
"I do."
"But..."
"It can wait."
The following Thursday, he arrived three minutes late. I looked dramatically at the clock before folding my arms.
"You're late."
His brow furrowed instantly.
"I encountered traffic."
I stared at him for a second.
Then laughed.
"I'm kidding."
He was silent.
"I know."
"You hesitated."
"I was determining whether an apology was appropriate."
"You actually considered apologizing?"
"I value punctuality."
"I've noticed."
Instead of waiting at the register, Damian wandered toward the display of pressed flowers near the window.
He picked up one of the information cards and read it quietly.
"The Victorians frequently used flowers to communicate emotions that could not be spoken aloud," he read.
He glanced toward me.
"Is this accurate?"
"Mostly."
"So flowers possess language."
"In a way."
He looked back at the display, thoughtful.
"I appreciate forms of communication that require intention."
There was something strangely wistful about the way he said it.
Before I could ask what he meant, another customer approached the register.
"I'll be just a minute."
He inclined his head.
"I can wait."
By the time I finished wrapping a birthday bouquet and ringing up another customer, nearly ten minutes had passed.
Damian was still there.
Only now he was sitting in the worn armchair tucked beside the shop's bookshelf, one of my flower encyclopedias resting open across his lap.
"I didn't know you sold books."
"We don't."
He looked up.
"...Then why are they here?"
"They're mine."
"You permit customers to read your personal books?"
"I guess I trust people."
He carefully closed the book, making sure the ribbon bookmark stayed exactly where he'd found it.
"You trusted me."
"I guess I did."
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
The silence wasn't awkward anymore.
It had become... familiar.
Comfortable.
Eventually, I carried two mugs over from the tiny break room.
"I made tea."
He looked at the mug.
"I did not request tea."
"I know."
"Then why are there two?"
I slid one toward him anyway.
"Because every Thursday you spend another twenty minutes pretending you're still deciding on next week's bouquet."
"I decide rather quickly."
"I know."
"Then your conclusion is incorrect."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"So why are you still here?"
He looked down into the steam curling from his cup.
"I enjoy quiet places."
I looked around the little flower shop.
The music.
The sunlight.
The scent of roses drifting from the cooler.
"I guess this is a quiet place."
"It is."
As the afternoon stretched on, neither of us noticed the time until the grandfather clock near the front window chimed five.
Damian glanced toward it, then back at me.
"I have occupied more of your afternoon than intended."
I smiled as I began watering the display by the window.
"I don't mind."
Another small silence settled between us.
This one lingered.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Finally, Damian picked up his bouquet.
"I shall see you next Thursday."
"I'll be here."
"I know."
For reasons I couldn't quite explain, hearing him say those two words no longer sounded like an assumption. They sounded like something he looked forward to, and, if I was being honest with myself...
So did I.
By the time I locked the front door, the streets outside had gone quiet. Rain tapped softly against the windows, turning the warm glow of the flower shop into a beacon against Gotham's darkness.
I checked the clock hanging on the wall
9:18 p.m.
"Way too late," I muttered.
Now all that remained was cleaning up. I swept stray petals from beneath the worktable, emptied a bucket of cloudy water into the sink, and began wiping down the counter. The familiar routine settled my mind.
Until…
Bang.
I looked toward the back of the shop. Nothing. Probably just the dumpster lid.
The alley had a habit of making strange noises whenever it rained.
I returned to stacking ribbon spools.
BANG.
My pulse quickened. The unmistakable sound of wood splintering echoed through the shop. Every muscle in my body locked. Someone kicked the door again. The deadbolt groaned.
"No"
I hurried toward the front entrance, fumbling with my keys. My hands shook so badly I dropped them. They clattered across the hardwood floor. Behind me, the back door burst inward. The frame exploded into splinters.
“ You are right, Freddy; she is pretty,” someone said from behind me.
Cold flooded my veins.
I didn't think.
I ran.
The bell above the front door jingled wildly as I struggled with the lock, tears already stinging my eyes.
"Come on, come on!"
A hand grabbed the back of my jacket.
I screamed.
The force yanked me backward hard enough that my shoulder slammed into the counter, pain exploding through my arm.
"Let go!"
I twisted, shoving at the man's chest.
He barely budged.
His grip tightened around my wrist.
"Shh, we won't hurt you if you give us what we want.”
I went to scream again when a blur of black and green crashed through the front display window. Glass erupted across the shop. One powerful kick sent my attacker stumbling away from me. Robin caught my arm before I could fall, steadying me with one hand while placing himself squarely between the two men and me, now scrambling to their feet.
"You will not touch her."
His voice was low. Cold.
One of the men lunged first. Robin met him head-on. The butt of his sword cracked against the man's forearm, forcing him to drop the knife he'd been hiding. The weapon skidded across the floor, stopping beneath a display of lilies. The second attacker rushed from the side. Robin pivoted. A sharp elbow. A sweep of his leg.
The man crashed into a shelf of ceramic pots, shattering them across the floor. I backed against the counter, unable to tear my eyes away.
Robin fought with terrifying precision.
Every movement was deliberate.
Controlled.
Almost... angry.
One man tried reaching for me again. Robin caught him before he managed a single step. He slammed the attacker against the wall hard enough to rattle every picture frame in the shop.
"I warned you."
The words weren't shouted.
They were worse.
Quiet.
Measured.
Within moments, both men lay unconscious amid broken pottery and scattered flowers. Robin didn't move. He remained between them and me until he was absolutely certain they weren't getting back up. Only then did he turn. His expression changed instantly. The hard edge disappeared.
"Were you harmed?"
It took me a second to realize he was talking to me.
"I..."
“No.”
“Good.”
Something about the concern in his voice caught me off guard.
He sounded worried. Not because it was his job. Because it was me. The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
Police sirens echoed faintly in the distance.
"I've already contacted them," Robin said.
I nodded.
"Thank you."
He looked around the devastated flower shop.
Broken glass. Shattered pots. Flowers scattered across the floor.
"I regret the damage."
Despite everything, I laughed.
A shaky, exhausted laugh.
"You sound exactly like someone I know."
Robin tilted his head.
"Do I?"
"Yeah."
"He apologizes for things that aren't his fault too."
Something unreadable flickered behind the white lenses of his mask.
"I see."
He turned toward the broken storefront.
"I should leave before the authorities arrive."
"Wait."
He paused, looking at me, confused. I hurried behind the workbench. Nestled towards the front were several stems of pink carnations I'd been saving for tomorrow's arrangements. I chose the healthiest bloom. Walking back towards him, I held out the single flower.
Robin looked from the flower to me.
"What is this for?"
"You."
He hesitated.
"I don't understand."
"In the language of flowers, pink carnations mean gratitude."
His gaze lingered on the bloom.
"They can also mean," I swallowed. "That you'll never forget someone's kindness."
For a long moment, Robin simply stared.
Then, with a reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts, he accepted the flower.
His fingers brushed mine for only an instant.
" No one has ever given me flowers before," he admitted quietly.
“ Well, now someone has.”
Finally, Robin tucked the flower carefully inside his cape, protecting it from the rain rather than stuffing it into a pouch.
"I will keep it safe."
"I know you will."
He looked at me one last time, a slight smirk showing.
"I'm relieved you're unharmed."
Before I could thank him again, he disappeared into the Gotham skyline.