Chapter Text
Demeter’s flower shop has been in her family for years. She trades off with her daughter Persephone between the front counter and the back room, just as she did with her mother, long ago.
Persephone’s slated to take over the business one day, she just knows it, loves her work, loves the security of it, arranges irises and larkspur among the sprigs of baby’s breath and fern. She sings with her mom when Demeter is counting the till or sorting poppies. The same few playlists cycle over and over and Persephone makes Demeter laugh by parodying the songs with her own lewd verses. Her mom scolds her but can’t hide the mirth crinkling the corners of her eyes. And so this goes and has gone for all the years since college. But there’s a dreadful finality to all of it that makes Persephone lay awake at night, wasting time on her phone, or staring up through the skylight in her bedroom.
On the other side of town, Hades just received word that the family whose funeral is slated for tomorrow has had a complete cancellation of all their food, flowers, everything. Something about a maxed out credit card… At his mortuary. His . He can’t let that stand. Because he’s seen too many exhausted, shattered families, too many people who need to mourn, and mundane details of final expenses shouldn’t cloud their minds on a day like that. Any other businessman would politely turn them away. He should turn them away, but he doesn’t.
Cursing and walking from store to store in the rain, he finally gets Hecate, one of the better caterers in town, to agree on short notice. He’ll pay her back— he’s not hurting for money. He’s already walked a mile and a wreath of roses is next. And he’s certainly not going to the bastards up the way who made the poor widow cry when they hung up on her this morning.
The bell above the door clangs, and Persephone doesn’t bother to look up from the narcissus she squeezes into the last wedding bouquet. It’s her mother, she figures, back from the next door bakery with lunch. It isn’t until she hears a voice, low and male, edged with frustration and seriousness at first, but under the rough skin of it, softness, as he describes the bind he’s in that she turns around. He looms large in the doorway and he needs her.
Her help, rather. She swallows, remembering what her mom has always said. Net 30, and even that’s pushing it. Only with prior accounts, only with people from this side of town who we know, Persephone. It’s what Demeter’s always warned her about: getting in too deep, going off the books… the death of so many other small businesses in this economy. So it surprises her when she offers to create the arrangements for this dark stranger. And shocks her when she blurts out that she will deliver them herself, tomorrow, across the tracks.
Her car’s overdue for an oil change and the starter that craps out when the weather gets too cold… and now she’s flushed because she’s been talking out loud like an idiot.
He smiles. Briefly. And then comes his offer to pick her up. Hades stutters when she asks him to repeat it, and kicks himself. He’s waiting for her to decline and ask him to leave in that scared, polite tone that women use, because most men with an offer like that are dangerous. But she accepts. It’s impulsive, but seems like the most natural thing in the world that he’s going to just roll up in his chariot and bear her and her flowers to be arranged at a funeral without any warning. He clears his throat again and is gone, muttering that he’ll see her tomorrow, early. 8 o’clock sharp.
Demeter comes back 10 minutes later and unwraps a delicious ham on rye, which they split. No one comes in on a rainy day, Demeter remarks. Persephone merely nods, her mouth full.
She can’t tell her mom about how many white roses she’s going to give away. And what’s worse, Persephone realizes, she’ll have to stay late to finish it. More lies she’ll have to fix later. But she’ll tell Demeter when she gets back from the funeral home. After all, this is Persephone’s shop too, and it’s time to make an adult decision and sometimes compassion wins over rationality. Or at least that’s what she tells herself. His voice still hangs in the air, as does the scent of rain and cypress on his wool coat.
She’ll tell the truth when she gets back.