Chapter Text
In another timeline, this is a different story. In a different timeline, a cowboy mans the desk of Tumbleweed Flowers and Plants, and it is an Olympic career archer who storms in, looking for a subtle way to tell his brother to go fuck himself. In another world, they interact with each other for a total of half an hour, and never meet again.
But, that isn’t this story.
Inside of Stems and Pieces, one Hanzo Shimada was preparing for the end of his night. It was twenty past five on a Wednesday, closing time was at six, and everything was going according to schedule until the cowboy slammed open the glass door.
“I need flowers,” he said, storming up to the counter and slamming his hands down on the glass. “I need something to tell my boss in the most eloquent way that I fucking hate him, and I’m quitting.”
Hanzo looked at the cowboy, at the glass countertop he’d literally just finished cleaning, and at the bottle of windex in his hand. It was a bad idea, and it would possibly lose his the business of the man, but really, there'd be others.
Without a second though, he sprayed down the countertop and the mans hands with a liberal amount of windex, then motioned for the man to move. “You’re smudging the glass,” he explained when the man gave him the most confused look.
“I’m—what?” he finally said, pulling his hands away from the counter to wipe on his pants. “What was that for?”
“You were smudging the glass—the countertop I just finished cleaning-- with your hands. Once I finish recleaning the counter, I’ll get to your request.” Hanzo took his time cleaning, making sure that every speck of grime that wasn’t really there was off the glass before he returned his attention to the man.
He was standing to the side, poking at the succulents with interest, and Hanzo coughed, catching his attention. “Do you want a bouquet, or a vase? If this is to tell someone you hate them, I do have a basket in the back that I can use. And how much do you want to spend? I charge between $15 and $180 for something basic.” Already he had a selection of flowers in mind for the man, similar in nature to the bunch he’d sent to his father for his birthday.
The man hesitated for a moment, before shrugging. “I’ve got $35 with me—a twenty and change. I’ll give ya’ that if you can make something work.”
Hanzo smiled. “And can I have a name for the card?”
“Jesse McCree. J-e-s-s-e M-c-Capital C-r-e-e. Feel free to put the recipient as ‘the asshole’, thought. He’s a fucking prick…” the man grumbled, and Hanzo snorted. “So you’ll do it? I mean, you’re the only florist open in this end of town still, and I only have half an hour before my break ends and he ditches town until next Tuesday.”
“You’re lucky I actually have the flowers needed to make this work. I should have it ready in fifteen minutes.” Hanzo could have sworn he told the man that he’d won the lottery with how his face lit up, and he darted forwards, leaving a pile of dirty change and one lone, crumpled bill on the counter.
Hanzo sighed. He was never going to get the damn thing clean, was he?
Leaving the man alone to poke around the shop while he waited, Hanzo gathered the flowers he’d need, and moved into the small back room where he had his prep table. Digging around, he pulled a decidedly rough looking basket up off the floor, former contents unknown, and began to lay out the flowers. It was going to be more disorganized than his usual spreads, and not up to his standards at all, but he doubted that the flowers were going to survive the night.
A mixture of geraniums and yellow carnations went in first, followed by orange lilies, foxglove, and meadowsweet. The final touch was the card he slid into the mix.
‘To: the Asshole
I quit
From: Jesse McCree’
His flowing script didn’t quite match the message, his handwriting fitting better for happy birthday’s and it’s a boy’s, but he doubted it’d matter. After a moment spent making sure everything looked as good as it was going to, he carried the medium sized basket out into the shop, where the man was, unfortunately, leaning against the counter.
“Don’t lean on the counter,” he said, setting the basket down and picking up the money, making sure to count that, yes, it was exactly $35 in one bill and change.
The man, in return, shot up and away from the counter, before practically beaming at Hanzo. “Well, if this ain’t the most amazing thing I’ve seen all week!” Once Hanzo handed him the receipt, he gathered the basket up in his arms. “I’m probably going to be late, but I don’t think it matters much now, pardner. Thank ya’.”
Hanzo waved the praise away with a slight frown, his mind occupied by the extra cleaning he’d have to do now. “It was nothing. Have a good night.”
(It wasn’t until the bell on the door had fallen silent and he’d sprayed down the counter for the third time that night that he’d forgotten to ask why the cowboy was quitting his job, and where he worked.)