smell the flowers;

Nick nods, and Winston doesn't think much of it. Why should he? It was a nod. But it had been a push back, if not a big one, and he's glad the man doesn't keep poking. He's also not worried or surprised the other man knows about his company. It was open to the public, so it made sense, though he's always a touch surprised.

Winston forgets, sometimes, that he's not technically considered regular anymore.

"What inspired you to make your start up? Uni is pretty young for that sort of thing."

It was habit to ask questions, to tug at the thread of stories to see what he could learn. Partially because Nick was just genuinely interested in people. What were the pieces that made up Winston? What had brought him here? Where might it take him next?

At Nick's, he assumed, good natured teasing, Winston grins, snorts, and shakes his head with his own chuckle. "Eh, more like someone fueled by term deadlines and backer agreements falling through last minute."

Yes, he thinks back, it'd been fun. Fun and stressful.

Shifting in his seat, Winston takes a drink of his take away cup, then shrugs a shoulder, thinking back. It wasn't an unusual question, and one that he'd answered plenty of times before.

"A few different things, really: I grew up here, from the time I was about ten. My mum was a native before she moved, met my da. We came back after she passed. But, uh, seeing all the weird shite that happens here leaves a mark, and I'd seen time and again how badly some of our townspeople were effected bt errant Magick. Not that, mind, it's purposeful," he adds, giving a little smile and a shake of his head, "but it happens. And th' last was my boyfriend. Talked me into it; he was my best friend, still is, actually. He was one of the first backers I had."

Winston looks at the other man, then, full in the face and arches a brow, as though to say 'is that enough, or do you have more questions?'

The younger man - one of the Moreys, though Winston hadn't the foggiest idea which one, right now - wipes the sawdust off his hands and comes closer. It's almost endearing, in a way, that painful looking smile on his face as he tries to be friendly and clearly doesn't succeed at it.

It makes Winston want to laugh, but he feels like that just wouldn't go well if he did. So, he doesn't.

This man, whoever he was, didn't seemed deterred by his presence and hands being on this project. It was nice, good that he didn't have to worry about being shooed away, but he also wondered if this customer knew who he really was given that he'd referred to him only as Mr. Morey.

"Good to hear," Griffin grunted, the awkwardness rising again. "Cabinets are simple enough but the curio might take a bit more time depending on design, detailing, and if you want glass in it as well." Griffin would have to order that, he wasn't going to make glass here at the shop.

Winston doesn't lean any closer on the counter. In fact, he waits for the younger man – to talk or move, anything that would indicate interaction – until he continues the conversation.

And while the other's gruff demeanor was probably off-putting to most, Winston wasn't deterred. His sister was bad when she didn't have sleep, after all. This was about as bad, maybe a touch worse.

And Mads did not have time for situations today.

"See what, mate? That old bird jus' knick the last of the mallow fluff I was gonna get for my sister's monthly crashout," Winston deadpans, eyeing the man across from him in amusement, trolley cart between them, "or the fact that she gave me a dirty look when I was reaching for it?"

He’d said floorplan, after all. So Phil had to lock in and visualize. 

“A fireplace,” said Phillip. When he pictured his pub — his pub — there was always a fireplace. “Some chairs and tables around it. Dark wood for the bar. Loads of pictures. Not sure of what. Maybe ol’ Swynlake town photographs? I don’t wanna do any of that heraldry and crest nonsense that some places do.”

Phillip had enough of looking at old family emblems for an entire lifetime. 

“Oh and roses out front.”

This was a surprise, even to himself. He almost laughed after he said it.

“I know that’s not part of the floorplan but… I’d like that.” 

Winston waits, lets the words sink in and for the other man to really consider what he's asking, what he wants the younger man to think about. Because yes, this pub was for other people, but it was for Phil, most of all.

And Winston wants to make sure he gets that.

He listens. Then, he nods, simple, and a grin stretches, slow and soft and easy, across his face. "We can do that. All of that. Still got some of your roses in th' green house, if yah want them."

Because they were Phil's, in every sense of the meaning Winston just kept them, bred them, but they were officially licensed as the Knightly Rose. They were planted at Phil's home. They could - should - be at his pub, too.

"Pictures could be anythin' but if you're wanting to tie it to the town," he says, shifting tone easily as he steps forward, nudges Phil to walk with him, "I'm fairly certain town hall would have some, or copies. No crests, jus'...history. Could get Si to give you some stuff, too, if you'd like."

"Custom? Well, I would have to start it tomorrow morning but I can jot an order down." He tried to put on a customer service smile but it came across a little pained so he dropped it entirely. Probably best that he keep his neutral-to-mildly-inconvenienced expression instead.

He grabbed the clipboard with the blank order sheets, sliding it across the nearest workbench toward the gentleman. "My dad will probably pop in a bit tomorrow too but I'm mainly the one working on the custom pieces right now." His teeth practically itched with nervous static. "What were we thinking?"

The younger man - one of the Moreys, though Winston hadn't the foggiest idea which one, right now - wipes the sawdust off his hands and comes closer. It's almost endearing, in a way, that painful looking smile on his face as he tries to be friendly and clearly doesn't succeed at it.

It makes Winston want to laugh, but he feels like that just wouldn't go well if he did. So, he doesn't.

It did make sense, didn't it? The plays were a commonality in the town that drew people together, people who, otherwise, might never even meet. It was rather nice, and one of the things he had found himself missing as a far younger man off on his own at uni.

Winston is a little bit surprised, though, when Nick says he's heard of his company. Many people here have not and, if they have, they don't always view it favorably - regardless of what they actually know about what he does.

Winston pauses and lets the comment wash over him before he nods and grins slightly, shrugging wide shoulders easily. "Well, I s'pose. Mainly this was just to help a friend. I've no reason to connect my company to the pub. Not unless Phil decides he wants infrastructure reinforcement with some of our tech, and that would be treated like any other client."

That was the thing he'd learned early on: even if a client was a friend first, they were still a client. If you treated them differently, better even, than others, it eventually got out. It always did, and it had hurt good companies.

The real reason he knew the company as well as he did was Riley, of course. But he wasn't going to mention them now. No need to make things complicated.

Nick nodded at the gentle push back on his other statement. Touchy it appeared.

He did laugh at that statement. "I doubt I could teach you much about taking a gamble. From what I've seen of businesses, they're constantly gambling in one way or another."

Nick nods, and Winston doesn't think much of it. Why should he? It was a nod. But it had been a push back, if not a big one, and he's glad the man doesn't keep poking. He's also not worried or surprised the other man knows about his company. It was open to the public, so it made sense, though he's always a touch surprised.

Winston forgets, sometimes, that he's not technically considered regular anymore.

He was trying to get the drill bit out of his electric drill when he heard the door swing open. He turned, brow furrowing. It was close to closing time which usually kept most of the customers away for him to have time to clean up. Plus Papa had left for the day, leaving Griffin to actually have to deal with customers one-on-one.

Let's see how this goes...

Winston hadn't been able to come into the Mill earlier than just before closing. Normally, he didn't do this; he was cognizant of the time people put into things and the effort it took to do them.

But, he had a few questions. He hoped they weren't busy and, well, if they were? He could simply return another day, when he didn't have a number of client meetings.

That said, however, he walks into the shoppe, a little bell dinging overhead, and offers the man in the place a friendly, though tired, grin.

Phil's nodding along, understanding what Winston is saying. It makes sense, after all. He's got the experience. He's got the business acumen.

Then, Phil frowns. The question stumps him. Winston snorts a bit and shakes his head.

"No, not particularly. I just didn't know if yoh had anything fancier in mind. An English pub is perfectly fine, an' sorely missed, I'd say, from older patrons."

Be that as it may, Winston had seen Poiret ( he thinks that's the name? ) It was fancy, showy, flashy. Not something this little town needed two of.

What kind of English town didn’t have a proper pub? Phillip wondered how Swynlake had lasted this long. 

“Yeah, I want it to be a nice place,” Phillip agreed. “Not too fancy that it’s intimidating, but I don’t want sticky floors or worn chairs or piss-covered toilets. A bit leveled up. I want it to be comfortable, for everyone.”

That was another thing too, wasn’t it? He did want it to be comfortable for everyone — blokes and birds, gays and straights, Magicks and Mundus. He knew Gaston’s reputation hung over this empty lot, just as his own Order ties would follow him in this town no matter what he did. He knew that there was gonna be a certain group of people convinced that he could never ever reform. 

Truth be told, at this point in his life, Phillip didn’t give a flying rat’s ass about whether or not someone was Magick or Mundus or whatever. Sure, he wasn’t about to go holding hands with demons and vampires. But if they were all out to have a good time, who was he to judge?

He just had to prove to the town that he was true to his word. His pub would be a place for everyone: comfortable, inviting, and inclusive. 

“I definitely want a pool table,” he added, with a laugh. 

"It can still look nice an' be comfortable," Winston murmurs, nodding. He agrees wholeheartedly. A place like this needed to be a far cry from what the Deer had been, even if a pub was a staple for a town like their's.

The comment makes him snort, then laughing, and Winston smiles as he shakes his head. "Could get you a pool table, too. But so long as you know all that, it helps plan out the floorplan, what you want for the space."

He knew well the reputation that had hung over the lot. The way people hadn't felt welcome. And Phil was trying to change that, maybe, in his own way.

If he wanted to, he could sit there and analyze his life and choices and how that made it challenging for him to bond the way humans did and blah blah blah. He wasn't in the mood for introspection like that. It was enough that he'd recognized the phenomenon and it provided him with an answer to the question. It was a very Swynlake answer in its way.

"I've heard of Dev Tech. You all have a lot of fingers in interesting pies. Town businesses are another step."

With a careless shrug and a smile, Nick said, "Me, I'm a gambler and I like a good pub. I'm happy to throw some cash at an idea that has a chance to gain some traction."

It did make sense, didn't it? The plays were a commonality in the town that drew people together, people who, otherwise, might never even meet. It was rather nice, and one of the things he had found himself missing as a far younger man off on his own at uni.

Winston is a little bit surprised, though, when Nick says he's heard of his company. Many people here have not and, if they have, they don't always view it favorably - regardless of what they actually know about what he does.

Winston pauses and lets the comment wash over him before he nods and grins slightly, shrugging wide shoulders easily. "Well, I s'pose. Mainly this was just to help a friend. I've no reason to connect my company to the pub. Not unless Phil decides he wants infrastructure reinforcement with some of our tech, and that would be treated like any other client."

That was the thing he'd learned early on: even if a client was a friend first, they were still a client. If you treated them differently, better even, than others, it eventually got out. It always did, and it had hurt good companies.

After all, Phil had given him the pitch already. He had a good story and good ideas to go along with it. It might still fail in spectacular style, but the risk was half the fun. Nick had the money to indulge that kind of risk after all. Better to be entertained along the way.

It wasn't like Phil had any measurable experience running a business. A smidge of worrying about money was probably good for him. But first, better to get to know his new business partner in this whole venture.

The question receives a nod and a small grin. "I like to think so, yes. Met a few years ago, doing one of the town plays."

And, really, sometimes Winston wondered how they had still stayed friends, their ages being as far apart as they were, but he also supposes that was just the way of things, sometimes. He liked Phil and Phil, as far as he knew, liked him well enough. That was what really mattered.

And this? It's an investment, not something he sees as a poor move. A pub was a staple in English towns, small or not, and the fact that they didn't have one was hard for some people to wrap their brains around. Swynlake received income from the tourism as much as they did the regular townspeople and university students.

And, hell, it wasn't like he didn't have the money to help on start up, and even that was well-protected.

"Could do a half balcony, with set up for a sound system. Any local music or music through a radio system could filter up that way," he suggests, nodding along as he listens to Phil speak. "Extra seating 's good, too. Storage could be off there, or beneath in the basement, if you've kegs."

At the breadth of Phil's arms, Winston snags one and makes it slightly wider, then flashes two fingers. "Could set it in the middle, make it a statement piece. Could warm both sides." It was all suggestion, hypothetically right now, but Winston enjoys it.

Nodding, not absently but more like a man thinking, Winston curls the hand that had been near Phil's arms and tugs slightly, nodding his head to follow. He moves them toward the charred bits they could see, pointing out the stress fractures in the foundation, both from age and the heat.

"I'd already counted on figuring in a new building foundation, Phil. Place is old, these fractures aren't jus' from the fire. 'S already set aside, too, before yah say shite."

See — this was exactly why it was a good idea to bring Winston along. Winston knew this shit. He knew how about stuff like foundations and how much it cost. He knew how to budget and account for things that Phillip had definitely thought of, but filed away in the back of his brain, which quickly accumulated with all the other things he filed away, like doctor’s appointment times and the lyrics of catchy radio jingles.

That being said, he didn’t want to be a burden. He wanted to learn. Winston could show him the ropes, but eventually Phil wanted to take the reins on his own —

Winston’s next question did stump him for a second. 

“Theme?” Phil repeated. “Er — pub? Just a good old fashioned English pub. I’m not really trying to reinvent the wheel here. But it is shocking that we don’t have one right now, y’know? Definitely provides a necessary cornerstone of the small English town ecosystem.” Immediately, he started to question himself. “D’you think there needs to be more of a theme?” 

Phil's nodding along, understanding what Winston is saying. It makes sense, after all. He's got the experience. He's got the business acumen.

Then, Phil frowns. The question stumps him. Winston snorts a bit and shakes his head.

"No, not particularly. I just didn't know if yoh had anything fancier in mind. An English pub is perfectly fine, an' sorely missed, I'd say, from older patrons."

Be that as it may, Winston had seen Poiret ( he thinks that's the name? ) It was fancy, showy, flashy. Not something this little town needed two of.

Meeting up at [name redacted] had been an easy decision. It got Winston out of the office, and it got him out from under the thumb of his international clients for, at least, a moment.

That being said, coffee in hand as he settles across from another person – one he recognized but did not know – Winston has to stop his curiosity from overriding his manners. Undoing the button of his suit one-handed, Winston offers a pleasant, easy smile, to Nick before extending his free hand for a shake.

"Mm might do, yeah. But maybe until after we hear it all out first," he jests, leaning back once he's dropped Nick's hand. "Wilde, isn't it? Glad to finally put a name to the face, and the comic book shirts."

Winston nods toward said shirt, grin still in place, before he takes a sip of his coffee.

Men like him had always been a favorite of Nick's to target for scamming. Partially because they thought they would never fall for it themselves.

But he was here to play nice. So he'd play nice.

"That's right, but call me Nick. Sounds good enough. What are you thinking of all this?"

You could tell a lot about a man through his handshake. Winston's daddy had always told him that, and it still rang true to this day. He doesn't think if it right now, though, just drops the hand with a pleasant grin still in place and a nod as he settles, too, into his chair.

"Well, Nick," he starts, free habd gesturing loose at the wrist, "'m here as a friend, but also as a business partner. I believe that Phil has a business model, one that could do well here. It'd be replacing an existing name and site, but with a fresh twist. Think that'd be useful here."

In a town like Swynlake, where things coukd stagnant, Winston had always believed that.

The flower growled at the sparrowman. Actually growled.

Now, see, Winston was fairly used to odd things occurring in and around this town. He'd been experiencing them since he was a lad, so not much phased him anymore. But even this was a bit off.

Steve growls back, making Winston arch a brow, but he also moves away from the Wolfshowl until it stops showing thorn-teeth.

"Didn't know they had pack leaders," he observes, curiosity on his face as he tilts his head, watching the funny little flower. "Willow just told me the basics. I've kept them well up, but I thought this one was sick. Acts differently than the others, different coloring, all that."

Or maybe it was just the scent of Isles muck that was so thick in the greenhouse.

"They pop up when there's enough Wolfhowls in an area, and since most people growing them in captivity don't have that many, they don't show up often." You couldn't breed pack-leaders, after all. It was one of those funny tricks of the Titan. "If you move it closer to the center, it'll be a lot happier," Steve offered. "May have to bribe it, though, so it doesn't bite off your hand if you get too close. Got any raw meat?"

"Mm might be," Winston agrees with a nod, shifting on his feet to look at the sparrowman beside him. "Could be all the magic here that changes them. Wouldn't be too big of a stretch, honestly."

And it wouldn't, was the thing. Swynlake was...a peculiar place. Winston had been here most of his life, save for his university and recent years before his return, and it never ceased to amaze him what all went on here.

At the information, though, Winston nods again. "I've got about two dozen, maybe a little over that. Last count was closer to twenty, I think. And I keep them all here, in a single area. Might be why."

Winston glances at the man and chuckles, a little grin tilting his mouth up, shaking his head. "Not on hand, no. But I could grab some, or I can just do what I did the last tine I had to transplant him."

Winston's hands were shoved into the pockets of his jacket, trailing behind Phil as he surveyed the burnt out husky of what had once been The Hunted Deer.

The man had rung him up to ask if he'd tag along, and Winston happily did so, shuffling his schedule around to make time for the man. Phil needed, Winston thinks, someone who had a successful business model. They weren't remotely thr sane thing, but just the thought of it seemed to help.

Besides, it gave Winston a chance to hear more about Phil's ideas, too.

Feeling eyes on the side of his face, Winston tears his eyes away from a boarded up window, brow twisted into something almost mournful, before he registers what Phil's said.

"Mm yes, I would. At least down to the foundations. Even then, that might have to be torn up or fixed. Depends entirely on the damage done by the fire, really."

He gestured, one hand higher than the other, to try and convey his vision. He wasn’t sure he did a good job of it. In fact, he probably looked a bit like an idiot, but that was alright.

“The main floor will be more of the pub. So the bar and high-top tables and some of those nice leather seats. Big fireplace too.”

He spread his arms wide to show off the enormity of this hypothetical fireplace. “

And for the basement, I was thinking a couple of billiards tables, darts, you know. Smaller bar down there — the one where I’ll serve the saucier cocktails.” He winked here. “People can rent that out for private events if they want. Birthday parties, stag parties … hell baby showers, if that’s the vibe.” 

Phil cast his gaze back upon the charred husk of the Deer and sighed.

“I know that’s gonna run me a pretty penny, but hey — there’s something exciting about building from scratch, y’know? Don’t have to worry about the legacy of an old building hanging over me.” 

"Could do a half balcony, with set up for a sound system. Any local music or music through a radio system could filter up that way," he suggests, nodding along as he listens to Phil speak. "Extra seating 's good, too. Storage could be off there, or beneath in the basement, if you've kegs."

At the breadth of Phil's arms, Winston snags one and makes it slightly wider, then flashes two fingers. "Could set it in the middle, make it a statement piece. Could warm both sides." It was all suggestion, hypothetically right now, but Winston enjoys it.

Nodding, not absently but more like a man thinking, Winston curls the hand that had been near Phil's arms and tugs slightly, nodding his head to follow. He moves them toward the charred bits they could see, pointing out the stress fractures in the foundation, both from age and the heat.

"I'd already counted on figuring in a new building foundation, Phil. Place is old, these fractures aren't jus' from the fire. 'S already set aside, too, before yah say shite."

"Ah, not a blackthumb, then," he teases, tone good natured. He'd heard many cruel names for fairies in his time, but this was one he was fairly (no pun intended) sure was less offensive and more humorous. "Pardon the question, but why learn to fly in town? If you're Scouting for the Hollow?"

Winston knew enough that he could get by, but he was no expert. His work merely rubbed elbows with these groups, as had he when he was a lad.

She answers his question moments later, and Winston chuckles quietly to himself at it. "That makes sense, I suppose. But why, really, would you fly everywhere? Do you not walk in a larger, ah, human shape? Because for us - no it isn't. We don't have wings, so it's not something we could miss."

"I prefer not to walk, no," Dot answered. "I like flying. I'm good at it, even if I crash sometimes. It feels better than walking. It's like being limitless." She could almost feel the itch to fly again creeping into her shoulders. Being clumsy-sized always felt like she was walking on stilts. Her balance was better, her body adjusted, but there was something about it that she wasn't sure she'd ever be fully used to.

Dot pulled her hand back from the one she was about to touch at his warning, a sheepish smile pulled across her face. "Sorry!" She sidestepped to the one he had mentioned, reaching out to touch the soft leaves there instead. "They're all so beautiful."

Winston hums, nodding, a brief furrow to his brow indicating both his acknowledgment and a thought. His mum had hated car rides, too. He remembers that, but never why. And he couldn't exactly explain why he remembers it now, but he does.

Filing it away as an innocuous thought, Winston grins a bit at her sheepish smile. "'S alright, love. The thorns are just coming in on those. You don't have gloves. Hate for yah to hurt yourself."

He thanks her quietly at the praise, a slow smile spreading on his face.

"They take a lot of work, lot of love, but 's alright. Always been good at it, same as me mum was. These, over here," he continues, gesturing toward the Knightley roses where they'd come deeper into the greenhouse, "I bred myself, for a friend."

Flower had given him permission, after all, to use the space, and he had the license and the know-how to do it all.

"Those are a mite more friendly if you'd like to look. We've some from the Isles, too, but can't really give those to the general public," he says, half-grin hitching his mouth charmingly to the side as he looks down at the fairy, rolls his wide shoulders into a shrug.

The Grove had been quiet all week. More often than not, Winston figured it was due to the fact the weather had turned and most people, save their regular customers, didn't think their flora could grow in such conditions.

Clearly, most people did not understand the concept of a greenhouse, nor their function, but Winston rarely had anyone around that let him explain it.

During these slow times, Winston kept himself busy by taking Flower's intake, making sure their daily orders were put out and put to rights, that sort of thing. When all of that was done, though? He made his own busy work – typically, that meant going through the houses and pruning, repotting, deadheading, and any other general maintenance Winston could think to do.

Still, he sometimes wished he could just grow flowers on a whim. Oh, the ways he would surprise his Promised with gifts, make crowns for his daughter, and decorate their home beautifully. It was a wistful thought.

The reality, however, was that if Bobby wanted flowers, he'd need to procure them himself. Winter was not the time to be flower picking though, so he found himself at the Garden Grove. It was a beautiful oasis of greenery and warmth in a long and chilly white winter.

He only got to admire them for a moment before finding something else to admire as Winston straightened to greet him. "Oh! Winston, hello! How are you doing?"

Winston turns at the sound, as he always does, a practice, customer service smile on his face. When he sees that it's someone he knows and, better still, likes, the grin softens into something more real – the edges fall into a half smirk / half grin, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle up.

"Hullo Bobby, I'm alright. Look a bit of a mess though, 'm afraid," he says, tone warm, laughing. Winston dusts his hands off, showing the rag he'd been using in the back pocket of his jeans, ignoring the way the fabric was sprinkled with fertilizer.

"Girls alright? Gary? Assumin' you're here for them," he says. It isn't a question, just a simple fact. Because the man surely wasn't here to see him, particularly not with the surprise in his tone.