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The bookstore was a modest one. A tiny brick and mortar building nestled between two goliath business firms.
Concrete cocooned trees sat sickly and limp outside the modern monstrosities, the long term negligence leaving scars deep in their development.
Dr. Seuss trees, as many who frequented the bookstore called them, was an apropo name, the plants looking straight out of Whoville with their long spindly trunks and branches too full of nearly black leaves that reached desperately up, searching for the promise of sunlight the towering firms forever withheld. They looked like sad pom-poms, waving at passersby like hitchhikers desperate for water instead of a ride.
The poor things were watered perhaps once every two weeks when the bookstore owner found time to care for them and his roses, his care the only thing keeping the trees off death’s door.
The trees looked at the roses with envy, their beautiful stems twining up the face of the bookstore, sprawling across the brick that a patch of sunlight managed to warm every morning and stay on till the afternoon. And their roots were low enough that passing dogs could water them nearly every day.
The roses loved their lives, spent basking in the light and the soft breeze left in the wake of people’s passage whenever they entered the shop, pouring into it from sunrise to well after sunset.
It was those people the roses loved most of all. They loved to watch everyone who walked in those doors and they knew every one of them by heart. They knew every regular, every newcomer, who would water them and who would step on their branches.
That particular day, it was two people the roses knew very well who walked into that bookstore mere minutes after sunrise.
The roses watched them approach from almost the moment they turned onto the street. They were brother and sister, the roses knew that much from how similar they looked, not to mention the conversations they heard that also told them they were good friends of the bookstore’s owner.
And they never stepped on the roses' branches.
The sibling duo walked into the bookstore, a wave of freshly brewed coffee wafting across the roses as they peered eagerly inside. The bookstore always smelled of fresh coffee and everytime the door opened and let some of it out, the roses savored it and its welcome contrast to the dusty chemical smell of the firms on either side of them.
The siblings all but skipped to the register where the owner sat, each of them taking their own time to cast a subtle but scrutinizing look over the room, watching for people or surveillance of any forms. And each of them, once satisfied with the emptiness of the store, turned their attention to the owner.
The owner paid no attention to them in return, his focus visibly on the book he held in his lap, boots resting on the desk as he leaned back in a chair mere millimeters from tipping.
The bookstore owner cut quite the interesting character. Especially for one in such a soft profession. The softest thing about the man was the pair of small black reading glasses that perched on the tip of his bulbous nose through which he peered intently at the book that, held in hands such as his, looked positively miniature.
The size of his hands, massive as it was, wasn’t even the most interesting thing about him, or even them. After one got past the sizable stature of the man, his body well-matched to his hands, the first thing anyone noticed was the scars.
There were cuts on his knuckles, ragged and pale. There were scrapes across his nose, pockmarks on his cheeks and fingers. And the burns. There were so many burns. Wrapping around his hands alone was enough to make anyone wonder what had happened. And the edges of more peeking around the low collar of his shirt made them wonder even more.
This was a man who had seen things in his life and who looked more than a little out of place among the stacks of aging books and cozy lighting.
The owner continued to read his own book, rather pointedly ignoring his guests even as they stared him down.
Finally, the girl had enough. She let out a short huff and clicked her tongue before leaning heavily over the desk.
“Mick!” she said sharply, more excitement in her tone than real anger.
Her brother let out a snort of amusement and copied her posture, leaning over the desk as well.
“Now, now Mick. If you prefer, we could always take this little job we’ve cooked up somewhere else, if you’d rather spend your day here that is. But if you’d like something special…” the brother trailed off, eyes scanning the face of the owner, Mick, intently.
Mick’s eyes left the book to read instead the faces of his friends. And you know, he liked what he saw there. He shut his book with a snap as he swung his legs off the desk and his chair righted itself with a thud. He set the book down beside him and leaned forward.
The siblings shared a grin with him before getting down to business.
“What’s the offer?” Mick asked gruffly.
The sister began. “New bakery in town. Run by a little girl whose parents made it big in the science world, leaving her and her shop fully loaded.”
“What say we relieve her of her financial burden?” the brother finished.
Mick nodded slowly as he turned it over in his mind. “This is public. Needs careful handling, not my speciality. Where do you want me to come in?” he finally asked.
“We need you to be you. Mr. Bestseller himself, come to try the new bakery in town and maybe order some for his shop. We need security, staff, patrons, how much is kept where. You know the list,” the sister answered, propping her chin in her palm.
Mick frowned at her. “Isn’t that your job?”
Her brother spoke up before she could. “Yes. However, I need Lisa in place as a distraction while I slip in the back and none of us can be seen in there twice until after the job.”
The bell on the front door jingled as it opened and someone stepped inside. Smoothly, with practice born from years on the wrong side of the law, the siblings switched topic.
“Please, Mr. Rory. I just want one autograph!” Lisa begged, her voice high and pitiful.
“It's our sister’s birthday and you are her favorite author!” her brother continued, the two of them shifting their postures so their hands were clasped over the desk rather than trailing through the air. Lisa grabbed the nearest paper from Mick’s desk and held it out to him.
Mick sighed and grabbed a pen from the pencil cup beside his book.
“Alright. But you have to promise that she will enjoy it as much as you say she will.” He signed the paper with a flourish, sparing one moment to see that it was a receipt for his latest coffee order. He glanced at the customer, a blond man in a police uniform who was currently running his fingers over one of the bookshelves as he perused the titles, and waved him over, the very image of ease and nonchalance. “Are you needing one as well?”
The man started. “Oh, oh I’m sorry what did you say?”
“An autograph,” Mick grunted almost nicely. “They’re all for free, on anything you’ve got.”
“Oh, oh no I’m alright. Just looking for a book. Thank you. Very much.” The man quickly turned back to the shelves and dove into his search once more.
“Suit yourself.” Mick grabbed the book from his desk and settled in to finish reading it, keeping half an eye on his customer as he browsed, the siblings having “cheerfully” made their exit after scoring their “priceless autograph” which Mick knew would soon belong to a trashcan or fireplace.
They had gotten their answer, and once this man was finished Mick would close shop and be on his way so score some cookies and intel.
Unfortunately, it ended up being well after sunset by the time he had enough time to lock the door and flip over the “Closed” sign, his first customer having been not even halfway done before the next one arrived. And from there it had been a veritable torrent of them all day.
He was exhausted, but had no time to waste, being already halfway through nearly running to the bakery, as he had no idea when it closed and knowing that if he didn't get the intel that day the siblings would be on his case for weeks after.
He was fortunate that many of his customers had been eagerly chatting about the new bakery so he knew exactly where it was.
And, indeed, as he turned the next corner, it was right where he expected it.
It certainly stood out from its neighbor, that was for sure.
Sitting on a corner across the street from him, the building next door being some sort of gym, it was the most colorful thing for as far as he could see.
The outside was painted a soft ombre of dark blue to white with silver-frosted windows on every side.
Above the door hung a wooden sign dripping with icicles that proudly proclaimed the more than apropo name: The Ice-ing Queen.
He almost groaned at the pun. Almost.
Inside was just as thematic, though he noted that he was lucky enough to see it still fully lit, with no “Closed” sign in sight.
He ran across the street and pushed open the delicately frosted-glass door—easy to smash through going in or out—and stepped inside.
The first thing he noticed was the smell.
He was used to roasted coffee, city smog, sterile chemicals, heaps of trash.
He was not used to fresh baked bread, heady yeast, spices after spices, and chocolate. So much chocolate.
He had to take a moment to absorb the near physical impact of stepping into the bakery, but once he was stable he cast a shrewd eye over the interior.
The walls were painted a cheery winter wonderland that gave the place a fantasy feel that felt out of place in the realness of the city.
The decorations were minimal, however, nothing that could hide a security camera. And as best he could tell there were no visible ones either.
The woman probably hadn’t had enough time to set up a decent security since she’d moved in.
Perfect for them.
Horrible for her.
Speaking of.
He turned around towards the counter to look for the owner, but his gaze was caught instead by the array of baked goods that lined the countertop, the wall behind it, and the displays beneath it.
There were bagels, cheesy ones and fruity ones and inbetween ones.
There were doughnuts, glazed, plain, frosted, sprinkled. Bear claws and strudel, pies and cupcakes, loafs of bread and baskets of rolls.
It was the end of the day so the goods that were left were aired out, dry, and perhaps a fifth of them remained. And yet his mouth watered at the sight of the ones who did, the day old pastries looking just as good as if they were fresh.
He was almost sad they would have to rob this place.
Almost.
He placed his hands onto the counter and leaned over, trying to see into the back half of the shop to spot the owner. He could hear movement for sure, the unmistakable sound of metal clanging against metal, the shuffling of feet and the soft humming of a woman. He occasionally caught the glimpse of someone moving, too, but so far she hadn’t shown her face.
“Hello?” he called, too loud in the peace of the bakery.
There was no reply and the noises in the back continued.
He cleared his throat and tried again, louder. “Hello!?”
The sounds disappeared. But again, there was no reply.
He took a deep breath in, preparing to shout it again, even louder, but was stopped last second by a woman turning the corner and crossing smoothly to stand at the counter before him.
He quickly shut the mouth that had been half-open in a shout and straightened up so he wasn't leaned over into her personal space.
The first thing he noticed was that she was short.
She barely came up to his chest and he certainly wasn’t the tallest of men.
Which, of course, gave him the perfect view of her brown hair, and not many features aside from it.
“Why hello there, dearest customer with the utmost grace and patience, what can I get for you today?” the woman said, a thinly veiled layer of sarcasm draped heavily over every word she spoke. “A 2am bagel? Or perhaps a refill of oil, don't want that midnight lamp to run out this late at night.”
It was strange, the way she spoke.
Her words were dry and cut like ice, but her eyes flashed with emotion and her lips were almost perpetually quirked into a smirk. He could feel the challenge in her eyes and had no desire to back down.
“No, I’m good. Wouldn’t go with the smell of burning kerosene. Got a name?” He replied, as blunt as he wanted to be.
Her eyes flashed again in amusement, and he was almost certain they were a pale, pale blue, though they shifted every time he thought he had it down for sure.
“Ah, then I guess you’ll have to settle for our special tonight. Got some creme brulee left over. It won’t last till the morning, so take it for free,” she answered, pointedly ignoring his question. “Got a name for the order?” And that smirk was back.
“Mick. Need help spelling it?”
“No, I think I’ve got it down.” She pulled out a paper bag and a sharpie, carefully saying each letter as she wrote them on it. “M-I-C-K-O-L-A-U-S. Mickolaus.”
“Got it in one, Queenie.”
The woman’s brow furrowed, frown deepening as she glared at him.
Then, quite abruptly, her face lit up with a grin as she tipped her head back and laughed and laughed.
He hated to admit it, but he liked her voice. It was raspy and cold, almost cracking at times that made it hypnotizing to listen to. But it was her laugh that really caught his ear.
Deep, raspy laughs that came from the depths of her chest with such emotion he couldn't begin to describe.
He could write pages on that laugh alone.
The woman slowly calmed herself, wiping at the corners of her eyes as she straightened back up and met his gaze.
“You and I? We are going to be great friends.”
Something almost remorseful twinged in his chest.
No they wouldn’t, his head said.
“I sure hope so,” his mouth told her instead.
She was one he wasn’t looking forward to swindling.
To thieving.
To ruining.
But a job was a job and rule one of any job was to not get attached.
That was how mistakes were made and Mick was in the business of fixing mistakes rather than making them.
He scooped his paper bag, that was now full of the creme brulee she had slipped inside after labelling it, up from the counter and carried it to one of the tables.
“Khione,” she called after him as he pulled the chair out to sit. He froze, awkwardly crouched over, halfway through sitting before slowly straightening and turning to face her.
“Huh?”
“I do got a name.” Her back was to him as she spoke, one hand on her forehead and she leaned against the doorway that led to the back of the shop. “Khione.”
He let himself smile a little as he turned back around and sat fully in his seat.
Khione.
Now that was a name, and one his little author heart loved.
He knew that name, Khione. She was some sort of greek goddess of snow.
Or of ice.
An ice queen.
His hand slapped across his face hard enough to be audible as just how many layers of pun the shop’s name contained hit him.
Curse this woman and her beautiful sense of humor.
He let his hand slide from his face as he turned his attention from that horrible revelation and towards the pastry in front of him.
Opening the bag was simple enough, but once he got the treat clear he found himself stuck.
It was held in a white ceramic ramekin with a spoon beside it.
But as far as he could tell, it was just solid sugar.
He tapped the spoon against the top, and it sounded hollow, but it also wouldn’t break.
What in the world was this thing?
He very gingerly set the ramekin and spoon back on the table before pushing back his chair and walking to the counter, from which Khione had disappeared back into the back. He listened for a moment for her, but heard nothing.
“You still here?” he finally called.
A soft thump and some shuffling answered him a few moments before Khione came around the corner, eyes so much harder than before, her mouth set in a thin line.
“I’m so sorry, I had to go grab some stuff from the back.” She flashed a quick smile before her face returned to the blank expression it had before.
That was weird.
Her voice.
It wasn’t her voice.
It was smooth, and clear, almost musical how it sounded.
And she spoke so much softer, with none of the emotion from before, like she was trying to live up to her name suddenly.
“You alright?” he asked, trying not to sound too gruff. “Your voice’s gone funny.”
Her eyebrows twitched upwards, the only sign he had to show that she was surprised. They settled back down almost as quickly as her eyes softened just the slightest amount in understanding.
“I’m sorry, you must have met Khione,” she explained as if it made everything make sense and didn’t instead make everything make no sense. She continued speaking and it took nearly everything Mick had to listen to her words instead of her voice. It was a beautiful voice, but it was so dead. So flat. But she was saying things. “My name is Caitlin. Khione is my… other half for lack of a better way to put it. She’s the one in charge of baking so you must have caught us right after we switched. I apologize for the confusion, this doesn’t happen often.”
He nodded, not even trying to wrap his head around how something like that was possible, and moved on. She seemed nice enough. Guarded almost more so than Khione had been, and yet so much softer. She was the one they’d be able to easily steal from.
Khione, maybe not so much.
Anyway, thoughts of the job could wait. He had a much more pressing matter at hand.
“How do you eat a cream brelly?” he asked shortly, eyes glued to hers.
Her eyebrows rose all the way at that one and didn’t come down for a while, the most emotion he’d seen on her yet.
“Creme Brulee?” she clarified.
“Yes. I have one. I want to eat it. How does one eat it?”
“Just stick the spoon in. You have to break the caramelized sugar layer on top, but after that it's just cream you can scoop out easily. What are you having issues with?”
He decided not to answer that one, his lack of shame only went so far. “Thanks. Caitlin.”
He went back to the table and reached down to pull out his chair and sit, then changed his mind.
He grabbed the ramekin and spoon and instead took them back over to the counter to where Caitlin was already bent over, writing something on a piece of paper.
He reached the counter and leaned casually against it before raising the ramekin up to eye level and giving it the nasty glare he usually reserved for people who threatened his bookstore or friends.
If he couldn’t figure out how to eat this thing, he would scare it into working with him. Then it would behave and let him eat it for sure.
He lowered it again, gave it one last glare for good measure, and stabbed his spoon into it as hard as he could.
The spoon cracked against the bottom of the ramekin, narrowly avoiding breaking it like it broke the sugar layer, the top shattering into good sized chunks to reveal the creamy inside.
So that was how one ate a cream brelly.
He would have to teach the trick to Len and Lisa later.
He took a bite, savoring the smoky sweet crunch of the caramelized sugar mixed with the smooth creamy sweet of the inside.
This was perhaps the best dessert he’d ever had.
And he turned to Caitlin to tell her just that, but just as he opened his mouth he happened to glance down and see the paper she was writing on.
Well, not writing.
Drawing.
She was drawing a rose.
He smiled, setting down the ramekin and spoon. “I have roses just like that outside my bookstore. Beautiful, yes?”
She started just a bit and instinctually moved to hide her paper before freezing and turning to him instead. “Yes. They are my favorite. You have a bookstore?”
“Yeah. Paging All Readers, about a block to the south of here.”
Something almost like a smile ghosted her face. “I’d love to come see your roses some time, if you don’t mind. I might have to take a moment to look around as well.”
“You are welcome anytime. What do you love most about them?”
“The roses?”
“Yeah.”
“They remind me of my family. Back when they still wanted me.”
“Who wouldn’t want you?” Mick was genuinely confused. Both Caitlin and Khione were good people who parents should have been proud of. Then again, family was complicated and so very rarely did it ever go well. He should know.
“My mother.” Caitlin shrugged. “She tossed me out when I told her I didn’t want to follow her in the company. Gave me all my inheritance at once and told me not to return until I was respectable again.”
Caitlin ducked into the back of the store for a moment, leaving Mick time to eat a few more bites of his cream brelly.
When she returned she was carrying a heavy briefcase that she hefted onto the counter with a thud before opening and turning towards him.
It was a large briefcase, big enough to be inconvenient for day to day travel, and it was stuffed to the brim with cash, bundles of large bills filling every last centimeter of it.
“This is it. Isn’t it ridiculous?” She shut the lid and shook her head. “I feel ridiculous keeping it on me, so I leave it here all the time. After all, with no staff besides me, who is gonna take it?”
Jackpot.
Bingo.
Eureka.
The last few numbers on the list were crossed off and the Snart siblings would be good to make their move.
Time for him to make his.
“I can imagine. Mine never left me a dime. Maybe cause they were caught in a house fire and died a while back. Don’t dwell on your mother much, I don’t dwell on mine.”
Caitlin nodded, sliding the briefcase off the counter and gesturing to his half-eaten cream brelly.
“How is it? Worth the trouble of figuring out?” As she said that, a tiny bit of Khione shone through as her voice gained a raspy edge and sarcastic tone for a single heartbeat.
He smiled at her.
“Worth every bit.”
They chatted long into the night, trading stories and observations, Khione reappearing once to wish him a good evening as he left the bakery and went to his bookstore to sleep.
He paused for one moment outside his door, looking over the roses that climbed up its brick and mortar front and at the pair of sickly trees that framed it on either side.
He stepped inside, letting that familiar but now lonely scent of coffee wash over him as he headed straight to the back to fill up a bucket of water and give it to the roses and the trees.
He pulled a few weeds from the concrete pods that surrounded the trees and carried them inside with him, letting them drop from his fingertips as he trailed his hand over his garbage can, feeling as light as a feather.
The roses watched as not even an hour later he unlocked his door and flipped away that “Closed” sign, opening up for the day just in time for the siblings to approach his store.
They listened eagerly as the Snarts badgered him for details of the bakery.
“How is security? How many staff? How many entrances and blindspots?” Len, the brother, asked.
Mick raised his fingers to tick off each item as he answered. “No cameras or alarms yet. Just the owner. One front door, one back door and most likely another at the back of the shop. Visibility is hard towards the back, with plenty of shelves and crates to hide.” He thought for one split second before lowering his hand and looking the both of them in the eye. “One snag.”
“Oh?” Lena asked.
Mick scrunched up his nose. “She doesn’t keep the money in store. Said it felt weird to leave it at her work and not at home. She also emptied out the register before she left. It's easy to rob, but nothing to take.”
Len hissed softly. “Always the fruit that looks the sweetest that tastes the most bitter.”
“Got any other jobs? This one was a bust and I still want to haul.” Mick asked bluntly.
Len shook his head.
“Not now,” Lisa answered for him. “We’ll have one by the end of the week, you can count on it.” She turned and walked out the front door.
“Thanks,” Len said to Mick as he followed his sister. “You saved us a pointless run. Hope the next one isn’t as well.” With a lingering look on Mick’s face, he turned and walked out the front door.
He knew. Of course he knew. He was Leonard Snart, it was his job to know.
Even the roses knew he knew.
But they also knew how much it meant to Mick if he was lying to his best friend. And that knowledge had nothing to do with seeing the way his face lit up when the door to his bookstore jingled and he looked up to see Caitlin standing in the doorway, hand trailing over one of their blossoms.
The roses knew everyone who walked into their bookstore.
They knew who was a regular and who was new, who would water them when they passed and who would step on their branches.
And now they knew the one who would caress their flowers with the same love and tenderness she grew to show the bookstore owner.
And they knew, just as the two sickly trees began to flourish under the care of the owner and his wife, that he was flourishing by her side.
The roses loved their lives.