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“Great, you’re here,” Gunner said, opening the door with little fanfare before turning his back to Felix and heading back into the apartment. “We need to do this fast, Bellamy’s watching Charlie, but I have no clue how long they’re going to be gone.” If Gunner happened to notice that all of the visible space in his living room looked like the kind of thing a Rose Bowl parade float might dream about, he made no mention of it.
Leading the assassin (and his son’s favorite babysitter, his life was a fucking mess) to a table covered in flowers, Gunner sat down and surveyed the scene like a general preparing for war. “Sit down, I’ll explain while I work,” he said, gesturing to the empty seat next to him.
“Charlie’s birthday is next week, you know this,” he started, looking at Felix intently before his hands reached out, pulling a handful of the flowers closer. “What you wouldn’t know, because I just got told last night, is that he wants a ‘Save the Bees’ birthday party. Fucking five years old, and he wants to change the world.” He was grumbling, but the look of pride in Gunner’s eyes couldn’t be written off.
“Anyways, since we’re saving the bees, he wants everyone to wear flower crowns. And they have to be made with real flowers, so that the bees might want to come get pollen from them. Shut up,” he said, before Felix could say anything. “You and I both see the flaw in this plan. My soon to be six year old does not, and we are not going to enlighten him. As far as he knows, this party is going to save every goddamn bee in the tristate area. That being said, I have no clue where you buy real-flower-flower-crowns, so I’m making them. For everyone.”
He held up a daffodil, pointing it at Felix threateningly. “You, however, have to have a special one. Charlie wants all of his favorite people to match him, so you can’t just get one of the run of the mill ones I’m making. Which is why I need you here, because if there’s anything you’re allergic to, I need to know now. Also, I have to measure your head. Now, Charlie’s crown has forget me nots and marigolds, because he’s a spoiled child and I apparently feel like giving myself Carpal Tunnel. You have to pick one or the other. Go.”