A/N: This was inspired by my dearest friend Jess who works in a book shop and without whom I would have no one to spontaneously send me lyrics that eerily apply to Captain Swan and thus make me burst into tears.
Whatever Floats Your Boat
CS Book Shop AU.
The first time she saw him she had wished he hadn't come in at all.
She was perched, crouching, between a cardboard cut out of a dragon and a leaning tower of promotional pamphlets; stuck in a window display. There was a storm blowing haphazardly outside and with each person who lingered too long in the doorway a gust would rip through the shop, spreading the precariously presented pastiche into pathetic disarray.
Not that he had done that. In fact, aside from the rather loud bang of the door as he entered, he had swept in rather smoothly allowing very little of the wind to follow him inside.
No, it was more that he had brought the rain in with him. With each quiet manoeuvre around another browsing individual, he swaggered dangerously close to display tables, dangerously close to allowing the sopping state of his hair to make contact with the vulnerable paper of the books.
However, he had headed instinctively towards the second-hand section towards the back of the shop and eased her discomfort a little, far less concerned for damage done to books that had already been damaged.
Climbing out from the window with the attempted grace of a swan several minutes later, she frowned at the small puddles of water that lingered around the front of the shop, knowing full well her boss would have something to say about it when he returned from his lunch break.
The instant that she sat behind the counter, on an old and fraying leather stool, another potential customer burst into the shop, their volume much louder than the whispered quiet that was in store today – the wind followed them, knocked the dragon and the whole display she had spent the last twenty minutes putting back together toppled as a result.
"Really?!"she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
But he had heard her, and chuckled in response. She had not noticed him approach the counter, and so was a little startled by his presence – even more startled by his appearance.
She swallowed the uncomfortable feeling of attraction that dark hair and light eyes brought, slid off the stool, and gestured for him to put his purchases on the counter.
Four books. An extremely weathered looking copy of selected Coleridge; a dusty copy of some historical work from a period she'd never heard of; a lesser known novel by Daniel Defoe; and a newly printed copy of what appeared to be some sort of modern day Mills and Boon novel, with its tacky choice of colour and half shirtless model on the cover, the title reading The God of Love.
She blinked momentarily at the fourth option. She had been working in the bookstore for several months, milling about its wood panelled walls and nonsensical piles of books in the middle of aisles, answering often inane questions, and in all that time she had learnt to never judge or question someone's taste in novels.
After all, you should never judge a book by its cover.
So she stopped frowning at it – in what she hoped was in short enough amount of time that he wouldn't notice – and scanned the barcode, placing his books into a paper bag on the counter.
But he had noticed. He was standing across from her, head bowed and fingers absentmindedly scratching the back of his ear while he paid.
"I, erm," he started, a foreign cadence even in so few syllables. "I may have dripped on it by accident. Figured I should pay for it."
This time she blinked at him. She smiled gratefully, before saying something about how it really didn't matter, and would he like her to take it off his purchase. He probably should have bought it ("you break it you buy it"– her boss loved speaking in clichés) but his gentle customer consideration brought a warmth to her cheeks.
Before he could respond – his mouth hung open in impending response - their brief conversation was interrupted when her boss came stumbling in from the rain, ranting about the OH&S issue the puddles on the floorboards presented, and why on earth the window display was a shemozzle. He took the bag off the counter and disappeared out the door.
—-
Their next encounter had been a physical one.
She had not seen him in what was easily the most dimly lit section of the old shop, camped out crossed-legged on the floor with at least seven different second-hand copies of the Aeneid,seemingly trying to determine which one was in better condition.
Until she had stumbled over his knee and onto the floor behind him.
He scrambled to his feet, a string of apologies rolling off him.
"Bloody hell, I'm so sorry," he said once more in case the other seven times hadn't sunk in. "Can I help you?"
He extended his hand – studded with an array of large rings - out to her and she took it, allowing him to haul her back upright.
"I believe that's my line."
His face broke into a grin, little crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes – his appearance and his mannerisms once again setting her at ill ease. She ran a hand through her hair in order to try and gain some composure, her breathing a little uneasy from her fall, and more than a little uneasy from the sensation from the hand that was still gripping hers.
"Thanks," she loosened her grip on his hand, and as though he could read her frazzled attraction, he quipped an eyebrow before releasing her fingers. "Virgil, huh?"
He eyed his small pile on the floor, seven books all opened up at the same segment of text, his leather jacket squashed together in a make-shift cushion.
"Aye, I'm just trying to discern which one has been written in less, has fewer coffee stains, and which translation I hate the least."
"Yeah, well the writing shouldn't be too big an issue – my boss has a strict 'no student scribbles' policy."
He smiled again with his eyebrows, before bending down and picking up one of the books, flicking through it in one thumb movement, slowly enough to show an almost continuous colouring of red and blue inks in illegible annotation.
"Okay, well that one had nothing to do with me."
—-
He started coming in at least once a week, and mostly on Thursdays.
Didn't have classes, he had told her when she jested that he didn't have anywhere else to be, and although he didn't necessarily buy anything he always turned up with scruffy hair and a jovial disposition.
He – Killian, he had told her his name was Killian ("Emma"she had mumbled awkwardly in response) – had cottoned on pretty quickly to her dislike of her boss, most notably his clichés.
Her boss had been making idle chat with Killian one day at the counter, as he processed two Robin Hobb novels (new books this time, to her surprise) when he suddenly started a spiel of amazingly awkward fantasy related proverbs ("…this one will slay the dragon of your fantasy thirst"). Standing relatively behind him, Emma closed her eyes briefly in second-hand embarrassment, agony, and a vain attempt to control her impatience with the nutty old man. She opened them to find that Killian was smirking at her, one brow at a jaunty angle in understanding.
From thereon out he made sure to slip at least one cliché into each of their interactions.
("A smile today? Well that is one for the books!")
("Save your breath, love, I know this book is wretched, but it's required reading".)
("Well at least there's a long weekend coming up – there's always a silver lining".)
She hated it (well, she wanted to hate it).
—-
What she hated more was the absent feeling in the pit of her stomach when he didn't turn up for two weeks.
Hated herself for getting attached, hated herself for missing his sly comments and the way he seemed to make her smile when she was having a bad day (God, she hated that he had made her start thinking in clichés).
Hated everyone who bought a second-hand book that wasn't him.
—-
Midterms.
He had had midterms.
She only knew this because he came in one day - looking strung out on caffeine with that mad look students often get on little sleep and too much information - desperately seeking a book. She had to tell him no, they didn't have it in stock, and watch as he pinched the bridge of his nose and take a deep breath, muttering a "bloody hell" under it. While Emma had not gone to college (didn't spend enough time in high school to warrant the exorbitant cost), she appreciated the need to buckle down and work, and therefore forgave him instantaneously.
Perhaps too quickly, but she had already considered her emotional reaction absurd, and it was raining again, the gentle patter outside mimicking the dripping water from the errant hairs around his forehead. She was reminded of their first meeting and she couldn't resent him when he looked like a wet puppy.
(What would you even reprimand him for anyway?She wondered to herself later on, again making her feel uncomfortable about her attraction to this relative stranger).
He strode out of the shop, his usual swagger lost to the effects of coffee, and wished her a happy holidays in case he didn't see her.
In case he didn't see her.
It hadn't meant much to her at the time, but she soon realised when he didn't appear before Christmas.
—-
Emma hated Christmas.
Well, that wasn't strictly true. She loved the food, love the weather, loved the woolly clothes that it brought, loved the general atmosphere of warmth that seemed to surround the season – it was just the day itself she hated. So she was dreading it. Her roommates gone home to their families, and she was at work: both begrudging being there, and also thankful that it gave her somewhere to be.
It was only around midday on Christmas Eve but there was a manic bustle of mayhem and difficult customers who had left their shopping until the last minute, the mysterious scent of cinnamon infiltrating the air. Emma was thankful that her boss had allowed her a break from her other duties so that she had time to address her email enquiries: dozens of people asking to come in that afternoon for a particular book. Perching herself upon her faithful leather stool she manned some of the front desk at the same time.
Inbox (54)
Emma groaned pathetically, scanning the subject headings for anything that looked simple – and then she saw something that she had not expected.
Killian Jones – Enquiry: read between the lines
To whom it may concern,
I am taking a literature class and need a book about clichés and popular lines and quotations. Preferably with mostly historical quotes, but with the inclusion of some modern. Would you be able to help me with this? Not required until the new year, as I am in England.
Kind regards,
Killian Jones
Ignoring all of the other emails she made sure she wrote to him first – firstly admonishing his excessive obsession with clichés, before telling him that yes she knew exactly which book, and he could feel free to come in when he gets back to pick it up. Finally, she wished him a nice holiday, hoping that England at least rewarded him with some snow (unlike here, she added), before addressing some of the other emails.
He replied back within half an hour.
Emma Swan,
Thank you - you're my saviour. I will make sure I come back in post haste. I didn't realise you answered email enquiries too. What a jack of all trades.
It is snowing, actually. If it is not snowing, what will you do for Christmas? I will have to build a snowman for you.
Killian Jones
Killian Jones,
I'm going to ignore you every time you use a cliché. Just so we're clear.
I've actually found a few books that might be of use to you. You're happy to use any number of them, but I would suggest steering clear of the one that uses old hat misogynistic quotes, such as "boys will be boys" and "women: can't live with them, can't live without them".
Don't actually have any Christmas plans - no family around these parts. Will probably have a hot toddy or two and watch Christmas movies. I'm assuming you went home for family? I hope they are well.
Emma
Emma,
Depends on the other quotes in the book. I can always scratch out unkindly quotes with a permanent marker. Actually, is this a service you would provide?
Please see attached photo of my brother. Note: it is only early afternoon here.
Killian
The photo was of a man similar in appearance to Killian, passed out on a settee, an empty bottle of wine in clear view, and a Santa hat obscuring half his face, mouth open in what she assumed was a snore.
Emma snorted and accidentally spent half the afternoon emailing him back and forth.
—-
She relished the nights where her boss let her close.
On Friday nights the shop stayed open until midnight, though hardly anyone ever came in. The occasional drunk student would stop in for an impulse buy, but other than that, it stayed silent. She could turn the radio on to whatever station she pleased, thankful to be able to finally stop listening to the lute music her boss insisted on looping ("music is the food of love, Emma") and settle herself in an armchair most nights. It was definitely more peaceful than her crappy apartment, with the boisterous roommates she shared it with.
Tonight was only slightly different. Outside a Winter street festival was going on, and the common outside was littered with lights, and sounds, and people, muffled marginally by the shop windows. Emma left the door open despite the cold, allowing the atmosphere outside to envelop the shop.
No one came in. It surprised her somewhat, expecting that more people around the square would mean more curious eyes – but no.
Emma didn't mind. Wandering the tall rows, letting her fingers slide gently along each book binding, half-heartedly making sure they were all in line. She heard the faint sound of boots walking along the wooden floors of the shop, barely paying heed. Her mind was a little fuzzy tonight: her yearning for escape twice as strong and the smell of roasted nuts outside settling her into a strange sort of melancholy.
"Fancy seeing you here, Swan."
It would have surprised her more, but his rough whisper was so familiar to her at this point. She turned around to lazily greet him with a soft smile.
"Of all the gin joints in all the world…"
He laughed at her response, before asking her about her holidays. They fell into a strange sort of companionship, wandering around the small shop as Emma tidied shelves (Killian eventually following suit and doing the same) discussing nothing in particular.
He told her more about college (or 'Uni' as he kept calling it), about how he was on exchange until the end of semester before he would return back to England. She tried (and failed) to not let this news affect her, realising that at some point their game of cat and mouse (stupid clichés) would end. Killian noticed the way her face fell – even if it was for only a moment – and made as if so say something about it. Instead, Emma pretended it had barely registered with her, and questioned him further on his major ("Classics") and his family back home.
"It's just my brother and I. He lives on a small canal boat just outside of London."
While he continued talking about his brother, Liam, Emma noticed a distinct absence or even mention of parents. It hit her unexpectedly, the feeling of camaraderie she felt towards him at the realisation that they were both without parents. She wondered how long. She also knew that despite their emailing having aided a stronger familiarity between the two, she was not about to pry so far.
So instead, she listened to him recount – animatedly – Liam's penchant for blind optimism and how it extended to his being talked into buying too large a turkey.
Emma had long ago lost track of time. One lone musician in the distance playing an erhu seemed to fill the esplanade and the shop with a sombre emotion. The beauty of the moment, here with him in an easy intimacy, intensified the familiar ache that she had had all day deep in her chest.
She couldn't help but feel that the feeling was considerably worse with Killian here. She'd be kidding herself if she didn't admit that she had missed him while he was gone, and that the emailing and distance had (damn it) only made the heart grow fonder.
She stopped to rest against the table in the centre of the shop, upon which various books were neatly set amidst staff recommendations. Killian stopped and leant against it with her, a curious expression on his face, and a question in his eyes.
"Are you okay?" His voice so soft it was as though he had hardly spoken it.
"I'm fine."
Studying his face she was struck by just how openly he was looking at her. Their dalliance has been carrying on for months now and she wasn't really sure when they had broken that boundary between strangers to strangers-who-have-intimate-moments.
Because that's what this moment was. The dimly lit night, the music, the distance (or lack there of, really) between them – Emma didn't know what to make of it.
"I've just been remembering a lot today about some things."
"Such as?"
She wanted to tell him. Especially as he had just told her so much about his brother, but she couldn't find the words; didn't know how to express sentiments she had never had to say before. Instead she just seemed to be stuck in a staring contest, mouth slightly agape, pulse raising slightly (raising a lot-ly).
She hadn't meant to say it. Quickly realising where this conversation would go if she didn't reel herself in, Emma got up and moved to the counter, calling out over her shoulder – "Just thinking about being here, and how much I want to be travelling instead – it's what I'm working to save up for" - before reaching inside one of the cupboards to pull out two large books. She hauled them onto the counter, placing them with a soft thud.
Killian was wearing an odd expression: a mixture of disappointment and relief. Disappointment because she had shut down their conversation, but relief because he was not being dismissed. Pushing himself gently off the table, he sauntered over to her, blue eyes shining impossibly in the shadowy light, coming around the counter to stand beside her.
"I believe you requested some books?"
He leaned closer into her space, before peering to look at the volumes she had ceremonious plopped down.
A broad grin set into his features as he opened the second of the two to find a series of black lines marking several of the pages. Although there were many pages that contained no black lines at all, there were others that contained more black inked out marks than not.
"So it is a service you provide," he was whispering in her ear as suggestively as he could. She rolled her eyes even though he couldn't see it before replying.
"I told you – didn't have much to do over Christmas. Although, if you don't buy it, I will have to."
Emma made the mistake of looking over her shoulder at him. They were far too close all of a sudden, she had forgotten that his mouth had been just behind her ear whispering insinuations moments ago, and all at once they were an inch away from each other and his face – his face– was looking at her with such adoration that she wanted to run. How he could flit from innuendo to honesty in a flicker of time was beyond her. The concept of personal space was a bubble carelessly burst by the intangible thrumming that pulsed between them and she was scared. What was the point?She wondered. He would be leaving in a couple of weeks.
Alternatively, she could kiss him. She could sway a couple of inches forward and just kiss him. God, she wanted to. She could smell something indescribable on him from this distance and it was making her groggy, and she wanted to kiss him; wanted to grab him by the collar of the same old leather jacket he always wore and swing him into her.
He stood staunchly still, breath coming out unevenly, hoping, waiting for her to make the move.
She never made it.
Emma in her desperation for an interruption noticed a distinct lack of noise. The erhu had ceased its melody and prompted her into wondering what the time was. She barely moved away from Killian, glancing at the clock behind them.
12:09
"I should have shut up shop by now," she whispered, still a little disorientated.
He moved away, sighing ("In this world we are slaves to time" "I'm going to regret giving you these books, aren't I?").
Emma took the elastic out of her hair, and ran her fingers through, trying to ease her restlessness. Killian stared at her as she processed the books and put them into a bag until he swiped his card in a practiced fashion. He took the bag, purposefully grazing her fingers as she passed the bag from her grasp to his and made towards the door as they whispered a soft farewell ("Nunight, Killian" "Goodnight, Swan") looking both unfazed and unsurprised by her emotional and physical retreat.
—-
It had been an irritatingly long day. It was uncharacteristically muggy for late January and every third person had come in with either something sticky like ice cream or something dripping with condensation. Emma had no idea when she had started caring so much for the books she kept watch over, when she cared so little for her job on the whole.
Her boss had decided to leave early for a weekend getaway with his daughter and so she was resigned to the fact that this endlessly understaffed establishment would keep her there until midnight again this week.
As her boss finally flitted out the shop, after getting distracted three times ("Right, I'm off – third times the charm!"), Emma made her way to the counter to change the music once more.
There was something left on the counter however that caught her eye. A trashy romance novel with the title The God of Lovesat there, its cover slightly bowing as though it had been wet, and a bright green post it note slapped on the front of it: a note from her boss. The note read: "Emma, please return this book, as the boy didn't want it anymore".
Picking up the book cautiously Emma turned the first few pages before her heart stopped – only momentarily – and then when it resumed it was beating at (at least) twice its normal speed.
He had scribbled in annoyingly beautiful cursive on the dedications page:
Emma,
It was raining cats and dogs
You fell head over heels (literally)
I may or may not have done the same (figuratively).
Take a leaf out of my book
Wear your heart on your sleeve
Drop me a line
Killian
Underneath which, he had written a phone number. She didn't know whether to laugh or groan at his insistent use of clichés. She braced herself, smothering that part of her that told her to ignore his message, before grabbing the phone from the counter and dialling the number he'd provided.
"Hello? This is Killian."
"Hi, Killian, this is Emma from A Novel Idea book shop.I'm afraid we have a strict 'no damage or writing' returns policy."