As promised: the BlameTheVechs florist!au continues!
It’s two weeks later, and Blame is in the back office trying to make the numbers in his accounts match up when the bell goes, and he’ll be honest; he’ll take any excuse to leave this incoming headache for a while.
Except the customer standing there, looking almost as confused as the last time he visited, is of course Mr Giant Lost Puppy himself. Looks like the headache won’t be going anywhere then, Blame thinks to himself.
What he says though is, “Can I help you?”
The customer (Vetches? Vaks? Blame can’t remember his name but whatever) grins at him. “I’d hope so, seeing as I want to buy some flowers.”
Yep, Blame has to admit he walked right into that one.
“Well I’d hope so, or else what are you doing in a florists’?” he fires back.
“Can’t I say I came back just for the company?”
Blame’s hackles rise immediately, but even as he’s starting to scowl he finds himself on the receiving end of a grin so bright that the snapped retort never quite makes it out.
“So what do you recommend for a mom?” the customer asks, sauntering over to the displays and starting to peer at the bouquets.
Blame takes a deep (and hopefully calming) breath. “Occasion?”
“Nope! Just thought she deserved something nice.”
Well, that’s simple enough then: perhaps the bright yellow of filial love, maybe mixed with something in the gentler shades, or possibly even carnations in pink and some accompanying lavender blooms. Blame starts listing options, coming out from behind the counter to suggest arrangements already in the window and point out individual blooms loose in their buckets.
This time it isn’t Mr What-The-Hell-Was-His-Name with his teeth around some silly idea whilst Blame is trying to argue him into something more sensible; instead he seems to be listening to Blame’s advice, answering questions helpfully, and chattering cheerfully about his mom, even if he refuses to stand friggin’ still for more than a few moments, and Blame is supremely annoyed when he realises that half an hour has passed in this guy’s company, and that, worse, despite the urge to stab his hand through and pin him to the counter to stop him bouncing around, it’s actually been, sort of, enjoyable. Sociable. He doesn’t quite know where the time went.
Mr Unable-To-Stand-Still is grinning happily by the end, poking at the bright yellow bouquet of roses, lilies, carnations, and some bright greenery to give the whole thing some contrast, which Blame is still finishing up with ribbon.
“Leave them alone, they're delicate,” Blame scolds, and moves to bat the customer's hand away. He looks sheepish, but the grin that's still breaking through means he doesn't look like he means it.
“Awwwww, but they're so pretty.”
From the sensible discussion on his mother's flower preferences that they'd been having five minutes ago, to wheedling like a five year old... Apparently this guy can only act like an adult for a few minutes at a time.
“And they won't be if you damage them,” Blame grumbles, lifting the bouquet to tie and wrap it securely.
“Alright, I bow to your superior knowledge,” the customer says, eyes twinkling mischieviously even as Blame glowers at him.
“You'd better,” he mutters, and his customer laughs outright as he hands over his card. God damn, it seems impossible to tell this guy off successfully. That was his name though: Vechs. Huh. He should spell it with an X, because he sure vexes Blame... Not that Blame really cares what he's called, it's just that every name he’s come up for him in his head is a bit of a mouthful. Mr Giant Pain In My Ass, Blame still considers though.
