Thechibiotakucat



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    “A-Yuan,” he says, carefully, “did—did you make the flowers grow like this?”

    A-Yuan shakes his head in exasperation. “Baba, I said. Doctor Flowers did it.”

    “Doctor Flowers,” Lan Zhan repeats, pointing at the tiny plum tree, just to confirm that his son is suggesting a magical tree named Doctor Flowers sprouted overnight and made their tame family project turn into a verdant jungle.
     
    A-Yuan nods. “Doctor Flowers,” he confirms. “He’s funny! I like him.”

    -

    A mysterious garden blooms on Lan Zhan's rooftop. His internet forum pen pal gives great gardening advice but never seems to sleep. The man who works at the florist, who keeps reviving the plants that Lan Zhan can't seem to keep alive, has a beautiful smile.

    These things are related.

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    10 Apr 2021

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    It is only a few minutes before a different employee appears with their orders, mugs and bowls balanced precariously enough that Lan Wangji watches the soup in some alarm. But the dishes and their contents reach the table safely, which means that he can look up when the server says brightly, “Can I get you anything else?"

     

     

    Lan Wangji thinks, Oh. He only barely prevents himself from saying it aloud, and the effort keeps him from speaking at all.

    “Oh, wow,” the beautiful man says, staring back at him. Then he shakes himself. “Uh. Sorry. Is this your first time here?”

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    05 Apr 2021

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    On the first day of John becoming a free agent, Marcus said, “Why don’t you start a new job?”

    John stared at Marcus from the armchair. Marcus had come over with a bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle bourbon to celebrate, a rare vintage that John didn’t exactly have the palate to appreciate. Marcus had poured John a couple of fingers of it anyway, and was sprawled over the couch with his grizzled head propped up on cushions. “I already have a job,” John said.

    “Killing people isn’t a job. It’s a hobby.”

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    31 Mar 2021

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    In which John acquires a Tumblr, a therapist, and an interest in birdwatching.

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    30 Mar 2021

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    Crowley raises one dark eyebrow at him. “You sound as though you’ve got something in mind already, angel.”

    His eyes are golden in the sunlight, and his red hair is plaited loosely down his back. It sends Aziraphale back to 1186, to that spring wedding in a sprawling field of eagerly blooming jonquils. He thinks of how beautiful Crowley looked there in all his sunrise colors.

    Aziraphale reaches out to touch a rogue curl that escaped the plait. He can feel Crowley holding his breath.

    “I suppose I do,” Aziraphale admits quietly.

    Language:
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    26 Mar 2021