Chapter Text
The original purpose of the loft was unclear. Lit only by a trio of weak, bare bulbs and a bleary window facing the woods, it had possibly once been used for storage, though that didn’t explain the display counter or the slightly fresher-looking sink and electrical outlets. Possibly the last owner had lived in this room, but he had never seen it on the few occasions he’d gone here, when it was still an antique store. Before it became his store. It couldn’t be called “his store” quite yet, with opening day tomorrow, but he took a quiet pleasure in the thought nevertheless.
There wasn’t much to be done for his product in this space, with lighting this poor. Later he might install a couple of trellises that could support some hardy climbing plants, not to sell but for the atmosphere. But for now, that mysterious counter was begging for some fresh inhabitants, and he’d been more than happy to volunteer a few. He’d taken these belljars from home with the greatest of care, and now set the last of them in place, rotating them so that the flowers within were all in alignment. Their petals, specially treated to retain their color throughout the years, practically glowed beneath the glass.
Asgore had always had an intuition when it came to plants. When to pull, what to keep, the seasons of cultivation. Gardening was about the careful balance of life, and a proper green thumb had to know exactly how much pressure to put on those scales. This flower assortment was his highest achievement, and his most ambitious – weeks of cross-breeding had gone into these vibrant, complementary hues, and when they’d come together into a single bouquet, years of happiness had followed. Back at home was Toriel’s wedding photo, the flowers clutched to her chest and her face even brighter, and after the ceremony he’d preserved them using his own special methods and set them across the shelves in their bedroom, those memories greeting them with each new day.
Lately she had let him know in subtle ways that she’d grown a little tired of seeing them. So he’d compromised, and re-homed them in his shop, now that his career had come back around. Chief of police had been a fine title, but this would always be his passion.
The rest of his stock was downstairs, waiting to be arranged. Asriel had helped him bring it all in before heading off. Now Asgore would set them on the shelves in advance of his grand opening, and carry the bags of fertilizer and potting mix to the smaller storage room in the back of this loft. Just thinking of the latter chore made his knees ache – those stairs were steep – but it was what it was. He’d scope out the basement later.
He took a dustcloth and gave the jars one final polish, then rested his hand against the one in the center. The gold specimen was the one he’d been proudest of, the one that had taken the most work. He didn’t believe this color could be found anywhere else.
“Big day tomorrow,” he said, his smile cutting through the gloom. “Hope you’re all looking forward to it.”
* * *
Aside from the shop itself, the truck had been his priciest investment after he’d left the police force. He’d bought it secondhand, and while it certainly handled worse than his old cruiser, beggars couldn’t be choosers – he and Asriel had endured its jostles, jumps, and unsettling grinding noises as they drove to another florist outside of town for his initial stock, then loaded up the bed and drove back. Asgore’s country music selections crackled out of the truck’s speakers. The two of them spoke little. He made a few light remarks about the pleasant weather, summer cooling to autumn, and Asriel smiled obligingly and went back to staring out the window.
They returned to the shop around ten in the morning, its newly minted placard sparking in the sun – “Flower King,” it read, and while Asgore had thought a simple “Flowers” would have been enough, Rudy had argued for something with a little more panache. By the time they finished unloading, it was close to noon, the menagerie of potted plants huddled in the center, waiting to migrate into their shelves and display cases. The air was already spiced with pollen. Asgore popped open the cash register and grinned at the cheery ding! it made as Asriel staggered through the door with the last sack of potting mix in his arms.
“Where do you want this?” he wheezed.
“Just drop it by the stairs with the others,” he said, and Asriel did so gratefully, massaging his forearms. “Listen to you huff and puff. I wouldn’t have expected Hometown’s track star to get worn out so easily.”
“Totally different muscle groups,” he said dryly.
“Well, we could always have a race later to even things out.”
Asriel snorted at that. And he had a point – he only came up to Asgore’s chest, the growth spurts that would send him rocketing upward still months away, and he was so skinny that someone could probably plant him in a field and use him as a scarecrow. Despite that, he hadn’t uttered a word of complaint during this errand. A great deal of careful diplomacy had recently been constructed in the Dreemurr household.
Now Asriel regarded the shop’s stock, hands on his hips. “Will we have to do this every time you run out?”
“Luckily, your father’s too good for that. I can grow clippings of my own. Maybe even with plants taken from the woods.”
“Doesn’t that mean you’d be selling people weeds?”
“Weeds can look nice too,” he said. “But no, there are others. You’d be amazed what can grow out in the wild.”
“That’s good, I guess.” He prodded a pot of chrysanthemums with one toe. “I mean, Hometown’s not that big. People won’t need flowers all the time, will they?”
“That would sure be nice. But most of it will likely be for big events. Like the grand opening tomorrow. The harvest festival. The holidays.”
“I don’t think Rudy will want to buy all your stuff himself, Dad.”
“No, I meant—” He stopped short when he noticed Asriel’s grin, then sighed. “Everyone’s a comedian in this family.”
“You walked into that one.” He took in the shop, the new lighting, the dirt that speckled its tiles. “Wasn’t this place an antique store or something? I barely remember the last time it was open.”
“You were awfully young.” Asgore stepped around the counter, trying to recall the place’s old interior. “But yes. Knickknacks, curios. The owner kept to themself – come to think of it, they probably lived in that loft space upstairs. They had their own boat they’d take out on the lake sometimes and tried to dredge the bottom. Can’t imagine they came up with anything more than garbage.”
“It’s a lot of space for an antique store,” he remarked. “Guess that’s why they went out of business.”
“Most likely.” Asgore didn’t mention how abruptly the owner had left town, with no forwarding address, or that they’d left behind all their stock – and their boat, still moored on the lakeshore. That was something he’d have to keep in mind for the basement setup later.
Silence descended, threatened to become awkward. He stepped out from behind the counter, briskly clapped his hands together.
“Hungry?” he asked. “We can head to the diner and treat ourselves before setting all this up.”
“Oh, uh, I was actually about to ask if I could be excused.” Asriel sheepishly scratched one of his horns. “I was planning to meet up with Ren today.”
“Ren? Who’s… ah, that expressive young man from down the street.”
“Yeah, he wants to hang out with Catty and he could really use some backup. I’ll ask Kris if they want to come along, too. They’ve been really quiet since… you know.”
And now the silence came back with a vengeance. Asriel was suddenly hesitant to meet his eye. This was a hole that all of them had been stepping around in the last several months, but they still felt its gravity. Asriel showed it the least, which wasn’t much of a comfort to Asgore.
“Son, how have you been holding up?” he said quietly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Asriel shrugged. “It is what it is, I guess.” Asgore gave no reply, and eventually he was forced to say more. “I just hope… I want to think that she just doesn’t want anyone to find her. But wouldn’t that mean we did something to make her leave? I keep wondering if it was my fault. And Kris—”
“It wasn’t your fault. And definitely not theirs.”
“It wasn’t yours either.” And now his words had a brittle edge.
“Maybe not, but I understand her mother’s reasoning. Responsibility comes with the job. Someone had to take the blame.” He drummed his claws on the counter. “Not to say I’m giving up, either. I’ve asked Undyne to keep her ear out. We'll track her down, don't you worry.”
“All right,” he said, but he still wouldn’t look at Asgore until he walked over and laid a hand on Asriel’s shoulder. The expression on his face was much too weary for someone so young.
“One last thing before you head off,” Asgore said. “Mind taking a picture? To commemorate the new business.”
That got him to perk up again. “Oh gosh, I was going to bring that up myself. Totally forgot. Let’s get one of you with all the flowers.”
“You’re the photographer. Just tell me where to stand.”
Asriel took position in the shop’s doorway and got out his phone, while Asgore stood in front of his new product. He stared into the lens with a grin, both hands raised in peace signs. Asriel was aware of the occasional deficiencies in his photography skills – more often than not his pictures resembled watercolor paintings left out in the rain – and took some time to make sure he had the camera steady, long enough so that Asgore’s say-cheese face began to ache. But he kept up the smile regardless, waiting for his son to tell him it was over.