They have to hand it to him, he’s nearly as quick tempering his shock, choking down the flight or fight response that’s clear in his eyes, as the best of them. A few more times taken completely off guard and perhaps he’ll be something close to unreadable from the get-go. Practice makes perfect, after all, even humans tend to need much more practice than anyone else.
And immediately, they’re playing a game. The grin on Katurian’s lips only wides as he takes the flower from them, inspecting it carefully. This is a funny little insight into who he is, completely accidental. Here he is, surrounded by flowers, plucked from nature, so close, and yet still separate. They have to wonder if he realizes how apt a metaphor for his life his job apparently is. Not a surprise this is what he was drawn to, even if he had no clue of his gift when he chose.
A bark of laughter, a little too loud, but in a pleasant, satisfied way, leaves their lips at his assessment, his acknowledgement. They don’t speak, though, instead focusing on watching him as he goes about his business, taking flowers from other arrangements to create a bundle of them. They can feel the nerves wafting off of him, and perhaps this is one of the few times they nearly feel bad for the unnecessary trouble, when what they’re searching for is so simple. But they’ve never been one for coddling. All they can offer was seeing more than others.
And they see something in him, as much as he probably doesn’t want that to be the case.
He returns at last, and he makes the mistake of catching their eye as he moves back behind the counter. And there’s something there, perhaps something he doesn’t even realize they can see. All of the questions, and answers in his eyes, only he hasn’t let himself see clearly, fully yet.
The shoe drops, and he asks the question before he can stop himself or think the better of it, and maybe, just maybe their sharp grin softness ever so slightly.
“You’re so sharp, aren’t you, Oslo?” they say, voice tinged with something like fondness. “Do you know what gardenias symbolize, to my sort? There are dozens of meanings, of course: purity, love, clarity, trust, intuition, hope. Price has very little to do with my choice.”
They don’t clarify. More fun to let him guess which until it becomes clear.
“You’re right, I’m not here to buy a bundle of flowers that I could conjure up from the ground myself. I know this suit looks expensive, as it is, but it’s stolen,” Katurian shrugs. “I don’t have that much of your money, and I don’t much feel like putting in the work to take from another human all for the flowers. I’d be happy to make a trade for them, though, since you’ve already done the work. I could give you something like information perhaps, or a good word with my Queen. A favor owed, jewels, rare flowers for your beautiful work? Or a token of my fondness?”
He’s not sure how Katurian knows his given name (he never introduces himself as Oslo - not before he knew the Fae existed, and definitely not now) but, admittedly, it’s not that much of a leap. Only a few things “Oz” can possibly stand for, after all.
So. However they came about the information - not a surprise, but still unwelcome.
Names carry power, here. More than, perhaps, anything else. He knows that, and he knows that Katurian knows that he knows that, so mentioning it now means either one of two things: a subtle threat, or a warning. He can only hope its the latter.
He doesn’t miss the evasion, despite how smoothly it’s delivered. Katurian obviously came here for something other than small talk and overpriced luxury blooms, but whatever it is, they’re not ready to divulge it yet. It’s always a game, with them. A test. An ebb and flow.
They offer up a seemingly large amount of personal information but it’s largely redundant. The flower knowledge, the stolen suit, the lack of human currency. All pawns, pieces of information given over willingly to placate, to build a rapport - but they really reveal nothing. Not why they’re here or what they want. It’s clever, no doubt. A tactic used in police interrogations and hostage negotiation, built on the principles of deception and misdirection - on gaining and abusing trust. And, though Oz wouldn’t exactly call himself “sharp,” he’s also not stupid.
Refusing to be drawn in by the bait, he choses to return to his work rather than push the issue. If they want to tell them why they’re here, they will. If not, they’ll take the flowers and go - a win for him, no matter how it shakes out. A win that can (will) be accomplished without him giving up anything unnecessary.
Oz carefully ties off and packages the bouquet, wrapping it in a protective layer of brown paper before sliding it wordlessly across the counter. He looks up, meeting Katurian’s gaze again, jaw set in defiance as he fiddles with the iron ring on his index finger.
“A favor, then. Collected at the time and place of my choosing.”
Favors, for the Fae, are almost as powerful as names. More like contracts than acts done out of the goodness of their hearts, they’re definitely more valuable than jewels or gold. And, because they are not handed out lightly, and Oz would be a fool to let an opportunity like this pass him by.
“Unless you have a better offer.”
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