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A Girl Walks Into a Bookshop: Chapter 1: Something Tender Inside
Pairing: eventual Ezra (Prospect film) x f!reader
Rating: T for now. Soft AF.
Warnings: None.
A/N: @grogusmum put the idea of bookkeeper Ezra in my head and I couldnât stop thinking about him. (Although, I canât stop thinking about Ezra just in general.) If yâall like it, his may be a soft little slow-burn series, not much will happen, just a pile of fluff to curl up with when you need something disgustingly soooooooooooft and chewy and dreamy (or if youâre @cannedsoupsucks and need a little Ezra + books to help you through a migraine). This is set a couple of years or so after the events of the film.
Summary: Youâve passed by this bookshop a hundred times. But today, Ezra convinces you to enter.
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MASTERLISTÂ - BOOKSHOP MASTERLIST
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The book is a work of art. Red binding, gold lettering, scrollwork. The Streamer Girl. When was the last time you sat down and read something new? Held a beautiful volume like that in your hands and smelled the pages? Watched the curling script fall over sentences and create worlds in your head? It might do you good, just to take an evening to let your mind wander away from things. Youâve been low for far too long. It really isnât good for your health to fixate on your failures over and overâŚ.
But not this book. Not this expensive looking book in this quaint little bookshop window. Youâve passed by this shop a hundred times, meant to check it out, but tore yourself away. You had books back at your workshop you could read again. Points were scarce and new books were a luxury you werenât able to justify at the moment. You knew if you ever entered the shop it would just break your heart for not being able to bring them all home with you. And so you usually tucked your head down and moved on. But today, that unexpected transmission from your exâŚ. You made bad choices, babe, told you youâd be sorryâŚ.You were in a haze of self-doubt and not really paying attention to your errands and this little red book just caught your eye. Took you on a stream-of-consciousness tangent. Screamed out âyou need a little escape.â
What was this place called again? Youâve been staring at the book in thought for a few minutes now and when you lift your eyes to read the sign above the door, you jump when you catch instead the eyes of someone on the other side of the glass whoâs obviously been watching you. Crooked smile under a rough mustache. Patch of blonde hair over one temple among a thatch of brown. Heâs got a canvas apron on, must work here. Leaning forward over the window display not a foot away from your face. How long has he been there? Weirdo.
You huff a short laugh and give him the universal look of âyou scared the shit out of me, buddy,â which only causes the smile to creep up further on one side of his face. He jerks his head, âcome on in.â And you throw a smile that doesnât travel up to your eyes and wave your hands, âno, just looking, sorryâ and start to move on.
But as you pass the door, heâs leaning out, calling apologetically. âIt seems you are in want of a good book, gentle wanderer. The volume you were sizing up is indeed a fine choice.â You might just harden, wave him off and pass by, but now that the door is half-cracked, thereâs the whisper of a pull to enter the shop. Thereâs also something warm in his tone, a fringeling twang that youâre a sucker for, something you donât hear often on Kassiot.
âAh, thank you. I was just looking.â
âI could see that. You were looking, but you were also wanting. How many times have you passed by this establishment and fought within your fine person the want to come in and explore?â
He...has an eccentric way of speaking that you find both fascinating and a bit of a red flag. If you stop for a conversation, you might find yourself trapped with someone you canât nicely break away from. But you also canât resist a character and make the decision to engage with thinly veiled amusement.
âHow do you know this isnât my first time seeing this shop?â
âWell, I could answer that, but it might betray the amount of time I spend looking out of windows.â
âHm. Sounds like a lot.â
âEnough to notice.â
Wait. What does that mean? Has this guy been watching you? Is it time to get confrontational? âYeah? What have you noticed.â
âIt is the nature of the human beast to detect the gaze of a face that turns their way, as yours does toward these windows âmost every afternoon. Youâre the one whose eyes linger when her feet will not. But today, they did. And here you are.â
Something in this sincere, poetic reflection softens you, tugs at you. Like he hears a yearning within that you thought was quieter than it was. But itâs not his job to analyze you. Itâs his job to sell his wares.Â
âHonestly...I love books. I do. I just...itâs a luxury I canât afford right now. And this is just the kind of shop I think would ruin me.â You look up to the sign--The Queenâs Lair--and behind him to the dark wood paneling and high ceilings and chaotic but tightly-packed shelves, exactly the type of shop youâd wrap around yourself for comfort, but would feel guilty about spending hours in without buying anything.
The man smiles again, this time not so crooked, but it crinkles his eyes and throws a light into them. âWell then, youâre in luck! We have a traders and borrowerâs policy here--nobody should go without a story in their clutch if they are in need.â He steps out to open the door for you, and itâs here that you notice his right sleeve is neatly folded and pinned up over a missing arm. âIf you would be so kind.â
You might have said no. But heâs the one asking your favor, asking to be the one to serve you, with that dialect and some kind of rough charmâŚ. And so you step in.
Itâs exactly as you feared, dense rows to get lost in, narrow passages weaving back Kevva knows how far, wandering paths lined with books from floor to heaven, shelves higher than can be reached. But above that, the ceiling is painted deep blue with gold stars.
He notices you gasp a little at the detail. âMy nieceâs embellishment. Insisted on it. Enchanting, are they not? Youâll want to step over this way. Iâll ask you to mind the stacks, if you would.â
You barely hear your footsteps on the floor as the space is so muffled, so softly deadened of all harsh noises by the masses of bound paper all around you, nothing but the welcome creaks of the wooden floorboards. Thereâs something in the air thatâs giving off a clean smell over all the leather and old paper, something of fresh--you spy jars of fillianweed in some of the corners and on shelves. Of course. Filianweed is poisonous to book mites. Lightly fragrant and useful. The little jars stuffed all around give the shop a bit of an arcane apothecary feel.
He leads you over to a small side room of the store with books stacked up in piles on the floor, the shelves mostly empty but with a few loose volumes haphazardly thrown on. Looks like heâs in the middle of a re-shelving project here. Youâre barely able to squeeze in next to him, a little closer than youâd like, being that you seem to be the only two in the shop. Heâs a large-ish man, a little backwater roughness in him, but he doesnât come off as untrustworthy. In fact, you feel oddly safe around him. Heâs not what you would expect in a place like this. Seems too sturdy. Built for harder labor. Which, you suppose, could be lifting and staking books after all.
His voice brings you back to the matter at hand.
âThis is the kipperâs room,â he gestures to the piles, âI hope youâll forgive its not-so-temporary disorder. Volumes tend to come and go fairly regularly here and I have not had the time or help of late to make it more presentable. But youâre welcome to skitter things around at your discretion.â He picks up an impressive amount of books with his one broad hand and plops them on a shelf, uncovering a paperback that he grabs and wags at you, gesturing as he speaks. âInitiates can take a book from this room free of charge. If I never see it again, well, thatâs on me. But you can return it for trade or bargaining. You do that enough times, and Iâll discount a newer model for you. You bring in more, well, then weâll have a spirited conversation regarding worthwhile compensation.â
âReally? You just...give books away.â
âWell, if you can learn to look past an inelegant cover, you just might find something tender inside. As you can see, many of these are well-loved and worth more for their stories than for their looks. Hard to sell. Probably been on many a freighter trip. But a bookâs a book. Iâm not going to turn one away to the scrap heap if it means another soul might find some comfort in it. Now if itâs the one youâre pining for in the window, I donât currently have that particular story on loan at the moment, but this one,â he hands you the paperback, tapping a finger on the cover, âmay be on the same cue. Little mystery, little adventure, but a bit more of a...ripened theme. Itâs got a hell of a love story will knock you back on your softer sections.â
You feel your stomach twist and you breathe out a nervous laugh to cover it. âOh no. Thanks. Ah...I canât do anything with romance right now.â
Heâs quiet for a second, his eyes sinking into the slightest sad squint as his bottom lip purses his mouth and mustache up. Damn. That was revealing too much and now this peculiar man is pitying you. I donât know you, sir, please donât ask questionsâŚ..
But just as youâre about to backpedal and make unsteady excuses, he quickly lifts the book away in as much motion now as he was stock still just moments ago. âOkay. Then may I suggest--â he bobs his head searching a couple of stacks before grabbing and moving a few handfuls off one to uncover a smaller, less worn book. âThis one starts off on an amorous note, but let me assure you, the man is a scoundrel and it does not take long for the heroine to kick him cleanly aside and find a more heartening adventure.â
The book fits into your hands like it was made for you to read. The Shillytern. The blue cover just shows a picture of a fairy tern, a tiny bird native to Kassiot, one that can fly over oceans without rest, but makes its nests in high places, building them out of rare purple bellflowers. Thereâs an old Kassiot song about a fairy tern that grows tired of purple flowers and flies out over the ocean to find those of pure white, never to be seen again. Rather than assume the bird has died, the lyrics imagine that she triumphantly finds a land of white flowers and better mates. An old classic for heartbroken lovers. Fly away, shillytern, go follow your heartâs desire. You havenât seen a fairy tern or heard that song since you were a child and the picture twists a nostalgic dial within you. Happier memories. A means of escape.
You nod. This is the one youâll take. âDo I need to fill out a loan card or something?â
He throws his head back just a little, his smile cocky enough to hold pride that heâs picked out the right book for you, but also kind--heâs happy to have been of service. âNot at all. Just need your name.â His voice is low and soothing; for someone who just met you, he genuinely seems to care and know that youâre not having the best day. He holds out his hand to you.Â
If you can learn to look past an inelegant cover, you just might find something tender inside.
You slip yours within his. But not with your opposite as in a handshake. Something grateful comes over you and you take his hand like a friend and squeeze it, give him your name and thank him, surprising yourself with this strangely intimate and awkward gesture in this cramped space.Â
His hand is warm and dry from handling books, it circles yours greedily, burying it, dwarfing it within his sturdy fingers. You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. But you donât care because this man magically appeared out of nowhere and just gave you something you didnât even realize you desperately needed today. Just a small thing, just a book, the hint of a memory, the promise of a little tranquility, the invitation to enter an environment that closes around you like a warm hug and smells like a long ago youâve never seen.
He chuckles softly and squeezes back. âNameâs Ezra. And I am more than delighted that weâve found something to your liking, but Iâll be needing the book to mark it with a loan stamp.â
âOh.â Of course. The book. That heat in your cheeks shifts to a different kind of embarrassment as you realize now what he was actually reaching for. âSorry.â Shit. Now whoâs the weirdo here.
âNo need for atonements, gentle friend. Far be it from me to turn down a gesture of connection or kindness from one who gives it in sincerity, nor from one who seems to crave its return.â Ezraâs keen eyes search your own before he nods his head around you in the direction you came in from and the rest of him follows, stepping over a short tower of books so as not to crowd you as he moves through the passage. âFront deskâs this way.â
Heâs an odd mix of arresting stillness and sporadic energy, mirroring both the quiet atmosphere and visually busy aesthetic of the shop. If youâd laid in bed after waking and had to guess what twisting turning kind of a day youâd have, you never could have written this plot. The stinging slap of the transmission from your ex. The low morning. The burned toast. And then the moment you zoned out on your way to the markets, it brought you this little adventure with this strange character and his wondrous shop.Â
As he fumbles with the balance of opening the back cover and placing the stamp one-handed, you avert your eyes back to the painted stars overhead.
âIs this shop yours then?â
âIt is. Bought and branded. The whole caboodle.â
âHuh. So is there a second floor?â
âThere is, but it is devoid of books. That is where I lay my head at the end of a day tending to them.â
âYou live upstairs? I didnât think this sector was zoned for living quarters.â
âSquatters rights. You privately buy and sell on a piece of land, you have a right to sleep on it as well. All the enterprises on this street enjoy that little luxury.â He taps the spine of the book on the counter to get your attention. âYour paper fantasy awaits. Treat her like you love her.â
The little book passes reverently from his hand to yours, your thumb catching the back cover to peek at the insignia marked there--a classic English Q with an integrated L surrounded by little stars. âMust be nice, living above a bookshop,â you muse. âIf you canât sleep, you just have to come downstairs and grab a story to help.â
His dark eyes read you, judging your own set of strangeness, as if nobody else would point that out. Surely itâs not a unique thought. He must get that all the time.
âIt does have its perks.â
Thereâs that stillness again as he watches you benignly, warmly, as you examine the paperback. Nothing more to say. The transaction is complete, heâs done his job, got you in the door and a book in your hands. Although, itâs not like there was a profit or currency exchange. Just a⌠an exchange of⌠what? Time? Kindness? Youâre suddenly a little overwhelmed by it, sorry youâd resisted at the beginning.
âWell. Thank you. Ezra. It's nice to have a place toâŚâ You gesture generically to your surroundings. âIâll be sure to come back to exchange it.â
âI have no doubt. I anticipate it and look forward to your thoughts on it. No need to be carrying a book to step through that door. The shop is always welcome to wanderers. The novels like to be surveyed from time to time, and I would not mind the company in the quieter hours.â
You suddenly notice how still the shop is, the way the dust rides the sunlight, undisturbed. Youâve seen more people here, seen folks step aside at the door as someone entering makes way for a patron exiting with an armful of books. There must be little pockets of slow periods like this, and you can imagine him tooling around the shelves, dusting, replacing the jars of fillianweed, lazily stocking and rearranging...even staring out the window in thought. You bet he whistles... If heâs inviting company, that means he must run the place by himself.
âDo you⌠need anything?â You ask before you even know what you mean.
Ezraâs head tips back as he looks down at you in amusement, and his body leans forward, his elbow on the counter. âThat is a simple question with many complicated answers could fill several afternoons and easily keep me from my vocation.â
Itâs the first time youâve genuinely smiled today. âI mean. It seems you work on your own here. Do you need...I donât know. Can I run and get you some lunch or something? A coffee?â
The crooked grin from earlier returns. âI do appreciate the offer. But I assure you that for today at least, I am wholly content.âÂ
Weirdly on cue, the door opens and an older man totters in, grizzled and greying, carrying a paper bag smelling of something freshly grilled. âHey Ez,â he coughs and grumbles, setting the bag on the counter as you back off to give him clearance. âBrought your order. Ma says hello and wonders if you have that new Caldwell novel.â
âI believe I do. Iâll return with it shortly.â A short nod and a small smile float your way before Ezra disappears between the stacks.
It takes a moment to adjust back to the warm sunlight and the sound of insects when you reach the street. Where were you going? Supply market for parts. Farmerâs stall to see whatâs available for fresh vegetation. FrieghterPost...thatâs right, thereâs a paper transmit in your pocket, an angry message back to your ex. Hmm. Scratch the FrieghterPost. Youâre only half the heartbroken you were this morning, and a lot less angry for sure; youâll just recycle the paper when you get home. The book fits nicely in your jacket pocket as you head off toward the market, hardly weighing you down at all. In fact, you couldnât feel lighter in your heart and on your feet.
Dayâs taking a better turn after all.
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Chapter 2: Has a Glow in It -->
Iâd just like you to squee over this wonderful illustration Maia did of our boy and the bookshop:
Illustration by @mjpens Original post can be found here at here.
Taglist: @extraterrestrialdork @14mcmd1122 @grogusmum @cannedsoupsucks @melobee @bruschi3Â
Also tagging @honestly-shite because of this post and its comments....and mostly for the mutual love of Ez + books.Â