apothecaries and azaleas - [hazel and vincente]

The wind whistles for two seconds before he slams the windows shut, waves of goosebumps riding up his arms. With a sigh, he turns towards the small desk in the corner of the room, draping a thinning gray cardigan over his shoulders. His eyes are heavy, the night having wrestled with him for hours. Then turning once more, he rests his hands on the worktable.

Plants are scattered across the space: dandelions and tea leaves, the withering petals of dusty rose, lemon peel. With a pairing knife he slices them into precise slivers, fingers distributing them out into various cheese cloths, tying the parcel with string. And then, with a plop he drops it into a mug, watching as the hot water slowly changes color. He takes a sip, and his eyebrows scrunch together.

Shit, he thinks as he hears the door fly open, more from the "tea" than the guest. "I'll be with you in a moment," he calls from the back room, running his fingers through his hair and blinking the drowsiness away. He grabs a jar of elderflower and walks into the front room, into the familiar smell of sage and lavender.

The girl at the counter is familiar enough - not because she passes by him in the hallways, but he knows her family runs a flower shack about a fifteen minute's walk from his home. Small but humble, great during the blooming season. He makes a point after all, to know the dynamics of a district he's lived in his whole life. He smiles, a gentle one without teeth, as he puts the jar back on the shelf. She's friendly enough, greeting him and jumping right into her query. "I need something to help my sick mother, I was wondering if we could work out some sort of deal."

V's eyebrow raises ever so slightly - if you blinked, you might miss it. He takes another look at her basket, and then back at her. She's freezing, standing in front of that door. Quickly (but not too quickly - swiftness with grace is preferred), he pulls out a chair and motions for the girl - Woodward, he knows, Holly, he thinks (or was it Hazel? Something with an H) - to sit while he turns, walking to the stove. A hand delicately opens up a cupboard and graps two ceramic mugs, worn smooth with time. His other hand takes the kettle, the water still hot in anticipation of a customer. V walks back and gently places a mug at two seats, filling both. "We have some lemon too, if you'd like." He makes another run back to the countertop, bringing a small dish of lemons, a little smaller that one would like, but it gets the job done.

A polite grin appears on his face as he sits and faces her. "So, please - tell me about your mother. And if you don't mind, what did you mean by a deal?"

As she speaks, he notes that the lemon must have been too much. But it's no bother, a smidgen off track doesn't mean the end; she continues - her mother has a slight fever; perhaps just rest and a cup of warm broth would do the trick, or perhaps it is a precursor to something more serious - either means business, and he nods in response.

Then she reaches into her basket, revealing layers upon layers of herbs and flowers. A deal, a trade in inventory. Fair, he notes, quietly peering into the basket. Nimble fingers examine the produce, feel for the quality. Recipe cards fly through his memory. For a moment he's silent, brain taking twists and turns. His hand parses through, placing the necessary ingredients to the side.

"We can do a discount, yes. You do have a lot of what we need, but there's one more ingredient and I don't happen to have it on me." He scratches his head, other hand on his hip. Then, a thought.

"But I know where we can get it. Interested in a field trip?"