For the lovely anonymous soul that wanted a bookstore AU. Fair warning, I like this prompt a bit too much and will probably revisit it.
-
There are worse fates than this, Jim thinks as he flips the lock on the deadbolt. A lot of people run away from their past and problems and own them like an unwanted gift they’re too guilty to part with. Jim doesn’t own his past anymore. He owns a bookstore.
He’s about to walk away from the door, the early autumn air is exceptionally bitter this morning, but he notices the figure practically slumped in the vestibule. Scruffy, still in scrubs and with a fraying jacket that looks just as worn down as the man himself.
Jim sighs and waves his hand to Chekov at the cafe counter. They’re going to need a lot of coffee. Possibly spiked.
-
I’m a man set in my ways. Leonard McCoy said one night when Jim kept the store open later than he should and sat on the threadbare couch around the cafe area, a little too close, sharing a bottle of something a little too sweet.
Jim laughed and said that sounded like something a character in any of the books on his shelf would say.
-
The first time Doctor McGrump comes in, Jim’s reorganizing his Must Read table. This table is organized bi-weekly because as Chekov says, Jim inhales books like people inhale air. It gets lonely in his studio and he has shoddy bootleg cable. Books are company. Books are the opposite of loneliness.
“‘Scuse me,” Smooth southern drawl like buttery maple syrup on a short stack startles Jim out of arranging the books into a star. He drops Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close on the floor. “I’m looking for a book.”
Jim whirls around, a witty stuck on the tip of his tongue when he gets a look at the guy. Stubble and green eyes, floppy brown hair and a screwed up expression (is he allergic to books?) and definitely the hottest guy Jim has seen all week, month, year, forever. “Uh, yeah.” Jim rubs his hands on his pants for lack of anything to do with the rebellious digits, and licks his lips. “Anything specific?”
“It’s for my daughter. She’s read most of the popular teenager fiction, young adult, I think it’s called?"
Jim nods, focusing so much on the way the way there might be noticeable grey in the man’s stubble that he trips over daughter. Daughter means wife. White picket fence. Happy family and definitely no room for Jim Kirk, collector of books and lost causes. Fuck. "Yeah.”
“Well, she’s coming to visit me this week and I’d like to have a few books for her.”
Jim feels a million years lighter, like balloons are tugging him up and up into the ceiling. Visiting means separation? Divorce? He grins, realizing he’s a very bad man to want another person to be divorced. “I’ve got some ideas.”
-
He loads McCoy up with his usual picks. (Yes, he’s twenty-seven and still reads young adult fiction). The new Jandy Nelson, his favorite from Walter Dean Meyers, Jacqueline Woodson, a few underrated novels that usually skip the notice of the top YA lists. Well, fuck that. He makes his own lists.
McCoy buys all ten. Jim had only intended to give him a few choices but McCoy waved him away said, “Trust you,” and handed Jim his credit card. He was impressed.
-
“What made you open a bookstore?”
“Books are easier to deal with.”
“Than what?”
People. Responsibilities. Expectations. You name it, I’m running from it.