Chapter Text
Alistair had never, not in all twenty-four years of his life, purchased flowers from a real, legitimate flower shop. He had, in fact, gotten a bouquet from Wal-Mart for 6.97 once, but that was just so he could spruce up his apartment. They’d died within two days, after the bright blue dye seeped into the water, leaving a sad, blue mess on his kitchen counter.
Regardless of his limited experience with plants, he needed a bouquet, and Cullen had specifically requested “something nice, please”. He’d made a point to enunciate that ‘please’, like Alistair could possibly manage to muck up a flower order.
But, upon entering the flower shop, adorably named “Andraste’s Grace” - Alistair was pretty sure that that was a flower, and even if it wasn’t, it was certain to draw the attention of some of the more...religious folk of Denerim - he knew he was in trouble.
The door opens with a little chime, and Alistair is suddenly struck by how out of his depth he really is. There are little gifts and knick-knacks everywhere, and significantly fewer Andrastian items than the name implied. Something he doesn’t recognize plays from a speaker behind the front counter, which means that it isn’t Chantry songs or the songs that play on the radio.
He didn’t even know why Cullen wanted the blasted bouquet, or why he couldn’t just go get it himself, but when Cullen put on his “grownup” voice, Alistair knew better than to try and argue with him.
“Just one moment!” A woman calls from the back room, and he thinks of calling something back. Instead, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at the display of greeting cards, varying from sweet and sentimental to corny and humorous. He pulls one hand from his pocket so he can tilt the card display around so he could look at some more of the funny ones.
He learns the hard way that the display does not, in fact, twist around.
“Oh, Maker - fu - Maker’s Breath, no, no - .” He manages to catch the wire frame, but a majority of the cards spill out onto the tile. He’s blushing, eyes wide as the woman steps back into the room, catching him as he feebly tries to catch the card rack.
He’s clutching a couple of the cards to his chest, and of course, he has to think of how pretty the woman behind the counter is.
He’s certainly expecting her to laugh at him - she’s gorgeous, certainly out of his league. Dark hair barely loosely held on the back of her head frames sharp cheekbones and a defined jawline - honestly, she looks like the sort of women from Ferelden’s Next Top Model, who strut down the runway with angry looks on their face - not that Alistair watches that, of course.
She doesn’t even say anything to the humiliating sight, much to Alistair’s eternal embarrassment. She just steps around the counter, helping him pick up the wire frame before kneeling down to pick up the rest of the cards.
“I am so, so sorry - I didn’t meant to - honestly, I thought it spun!” He says, kneeling with her, plucking up the cards as quickly as he can. His cheeks are burning - Maker, is it hot in here? - and his palms are sweating, and he’s worried about getting the cards wet, because how is she going to sell wet cards?
“It’s alright.” She promises, giving him a kind smile, “It honestly happens more often than you think. I should probably invest in a spinning card display, huh?” She stands after they’ve managed to gather all of the cards up, and he scurries to his feet, holding most of them against his chest, “You can leave them on the counter there, I can put them away.”
She sets down her stack of cards, nice and neat and uniform, and Alistair tries to do the same, but it’s just a messy stack; he manages to drop one more of the cards, and leans down to get it while she’s stepping back around the counter.
“Were you looking for a birthday card today, love?” She asks casually, leaning forward on the counter, still giving him that kind smile - he was still waiting for her to laugh at him, for the jokes to roll out, but he figured that it was her job to make sure he left this place a good review on Yelp.
“Oh, uh, no, sorry, actually.” He places the last card back on the stack clearing his throat, “Sorry about that, again, um...I’m here for a bouquet of flowers?”
She nods, “Did you place an order or are you looking to get some now? We have a couple of options here, some pre-assembled and some I can whip up now.”
Alistair nods, then realizes he needs to actually answer her, “I was hoping that you had,” he looks down at the note Cullen scrawled out for him, “Crystal Grace, roses, and Prophet’s lorel - Laurel, Laurel, sorry.”
She hums, paging through a little book, and Alistair isn’t quite sure if it’s a ledger or a steamy erotica, “I can have that ready for you on Thursday,” it was Tuesday now, “I’m fresh out of Prophet’s Laurel, but it won’t be a problem.” She smiles at him again, and he just nods. “I'll call ahead when it's ready...red roses?” He doesn’t quite get that it’s a question at first, but he nods after a moment, “It’ll be a lovely bouquet - it’ll put you at seventy-three silvers, plus an additional ten if you want a vase.”
Alistair almost balks at how expensive a little bundle of flowers was going to be, but reminds himself that this was Cullen’s money and that he was just playing the errand boy, “Yeah, thank you so much. Do I pay now, or…?”
“Yes, um…” She runs a hand through her hair, and he pays with the sovereign Cullen gave him, opting to go ahead to get the vase, “I’ll get your name and phone number so I can call when it’s ready?” She smiles sweetly, and Alistair wants to know her name.
He should just give her Cullen’s information, but he’s so dumbstruck by how pretty he is that he gives her his first name and all ten digits of his personal phone number. He wanted to come back on Thursday regardless.
She gets out an adorable card cut from stationery, and writes something on the back, “If you have any question in the meantime, don’t hesitate to give us a call.” She smiles at him again, and he just nods dumbly, apologizing for the card mishap all over again. He waves her off, then waves again when he reaches the door, even though she’s focusing on cleaning up the cards by the time he’s even pulling it open.
He groans when he steps outside. He should be used to being embarrassed by now - honestly, it was more like a perpetual state of being. He just needed to learn how to resign himself to this fate, rather than getting that stupid, twisting feeling in his gut every time he acted like a twit.
He turns the little card over in his hand, looking it over.