Tim Wright was having a shit day.
Forget terrible. Forget tiring. This day had been monumentally shit, complete with a majestic shitty flagpole, and as much as he loves his job, he fucking hates it on days like this. Anyone who sneers at his job - "you manage stock items? seriously?" - has obviously never had to deal with the crap that gets donated or bought into the company.
This morning, for example. A frankly disgusting Ercol three-piece suite has turned out to have serious woodworm, and Tim can't move the thing without it spluttering sawdust everywhere. And then some moron has fly-tipped a corner unit outside of the shop, and the thing is the biggest piece of shit Tim's seen in a good month, and then oh my god why would you put adhesive stickers on Wedgwood.
Tim, of course, does not interact with any of their customers or dealers. Previous mental health conditions mean that he and his employer (who is a lovely middle-aged lady called Dorothy, who happens to be quite well-versed in business strategy) agree that it's for the best. He shifts the furniture in and out - she makes sure it arrives and departs. It's quite neat, now that he thinks about it - there are five of them there, and usually he and Dorothy share the same shifts.
The business has run into an obstacle lately.
Tim is the muscle, and knows a bit about furniture and china. Dorothy is fantastic at valuing furniture, and knows the dates of seemingly every piece that comes through the doors; the co-owner is similarly familiar with plates, cups, and the other shit that Tim would never bring into his house. The other guy who shifts stock around is fairly dense when it comes to most things. And Lorna - a slightly odd girl who comes in every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday - is primarily an expert in vintage records and music, as well as sorting the linens and fabrics. She's moody and rude enough to rival Tim's personality, but manages to be one of those charming assholes that Tim isn't sure he could be friends with.
What does that leave?
It leaves books.
"You gotta hire someone soon, Dot," he tells her, leaning against the counter. It's been quiet today. "It's really piling up in that room."
"I know," Dot sighs. "It's hard to find someone who wants to do it, though."
"You don't want someone who'll half-ass the job, am I right? But you can't just keep letting in the dealers to nick the best stuff. They always rip you off."
Dot tucks a stray lock of whitening hair behind her ear, and takes a long sip at her cup of coffee. "Maybe I should get a college student in here..." she murmurs thoughtfully.
Tim doesn't reply. It won't make a difference to him who they happen to be.
One week later, the news gets broken to him: "we got the new kid starting on Saturday!" Lorna yells to him that Thursday, sweeping out of the door.
"Wait-" Tim replies, bringing his sack barrow to a juddering halt. The wardrobe resting on it sways worryingly. "Wait, what?!"
"Oh yeah," Dot tells him, smiling, "we hired someone. Job got taken almost straight away. Knew he was the one the moment we put vintage sci-fi in front of him."
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demands, transporting the wardrobe with renewed vigour.
"Because you'll show him where everything is. The less time you got to stew over his arrival, the less grumpy you'll be with him."
Dot is right. She's always right about him. But dammit, he isn't a cane armchair that she wants to put a price on, and she shouldn't scrutinise him in that way.
Especially not when he's...
Well.
Nice.
...Kind of.
"Hi," the new kid mumbles, grinning awkwardly and raising a hand in greeting. "I'm Jay."
"Book boy, huh?" Tim manages to get out. He's shocked, he really is. Jay can't be more than a couple of years younger than Tim himself, and it's surprising how nice he just looks. Tim has literally only spoken a sentence to him, yet Jay has this way about him that makes it seem like he could (quietly, and in a geek-like fashion) be friends with anyone.
Jay shrugs. "I guess so."
"Come on through, I'll show you the book room."
Tim beckons him forwards, through the staff area, and turns the corner into an astoundingly untidy room. He watches as Jay's eyes widen in terror, and really doesn't blame him at all; the staff have been dumping crates of literature - modern, vintage, or otherwise - in corners of the room for about six months. It's piled almost to the ceiling in some places. Great, teetering towers of boxed books that could fall any second.
God, they hadn't even cleared a space on the table for him to work with. Tim feels guilty all of a sudden.
"If you need any help lifting any of this," he says, motioning to... everything, "then, uh, gimme a shout. I can do that for you, I don't want you to hurt yourself."
"Thanks," Jay says.
"You okay?"
"Just wondering where to start..."
He trails off, tilting his head slightly as he examines the cardboard structures that surround them. "I'll leave you to it," Tim chuckles, and then leaves very quickly, mentally berating himself for laughing. Tim doesn't laugh. That's a fucking stupid thing to do. Why did he do that?
The AU that nobody asked for. I actually work in a reuse centre that deals with this kind of stuff! It's not antiques, and we don't buy stuff in, but it's pretty similar. Writing what I know for a change, which is pleasant.
JARGON GLOSSARY:
Ercol - a British manufacturer of furniture, est. 1920s.
Woodworm - tiny parasites that basically eat the shit out of wooden furniture and leave little holes everywhere. They're a pain in the arse.
Fly-tipping - illegal deposit of waste items.
Wedgwood - pottery firm, est. 1759.
Sack barrow - a tall trolley that can be used to transport awkwardly sized or heavy furniture.
Anything else you're not sure of, let me know!