Chapter Text
It happens again. Catches him off-guard- and it isn’t you, initially, that hooks his attention.
It’s your barbaric, modernistic best friend that treats all the flat surfaces in his bookstore like a drink coaster. She’s loud. And opinionated, which in and of itself isn’t wrong, it’s the volume she tacks on to all of her thoughts that makes him want to clock her over the back of the head with a hardback cover of John Steinbeck.
He holds his distance, wraps his hands tighter around the metaphorical leash he’s placed on himself, it becomes a noose the longer he listens to you debate with your friend about the moral soundness of Raskolnikov. You sound so…sage-like, patient, with an underlying tone of profound disappointment that is lost on your 2D best friend.
He trails after, ghosting from stack to stack, zig-zagging his eyes along your back, catching details he’s filing away for use later. He pauses, once, when your friend lays a book on top of another row of books, non-chalant, oozing crass superiority. He’d like to tip a bookshelf over on her. He’d like to. But he doesn’t want to hurt any books, they don’t deserve that.
He watches you pick up that neglected book and return it to its proper place, a disapproving tug to your lips and a sharp glare thrown at your friend’s back as she continues defending her viewpoint. It’s shit. Her viewpoint. And he may be just the least bit biased.
You’re not high-class, are you? Not the way you trail after your arrogant friend and clean up her messes. That protective shine to your eye as you re-home books, and look around for employees, prepared already to offer genuine apologies- You apologize for her all the time, don’t you?
He wouldn’t go so far as to say he likes you. It’s more, rose-tinted respect. You’re not exactly his type. Combat boots that have seen some things, skinny jeans with holes that aren’t aesthetic but worn in. The leather jacket you wear is definitely too hot for the bookstore, but you don’t take it off, probably because the tank top you’re wearing underneath is a little too tight, a little too little.
And your hands.
He gazes down at them as the two of you pass him at the end of a bookshelf, oblivious to his presence. Your hands, your knuckles are bruised, scabbed over. He doesn’t know what to think of that. He’s neutral to it at the moment, peering over his shoulder, eager for another look. Instead, he’s treated to a shock.
Your friend, grimacing at you sourly, as if you’ve spit in her face, grabs a hefty book from a stand and then tosses it at your feet, aiming, no doubt, to crush your toes. The book hits the hardwood floor with a loud thud that turns more than a few heads, and he’s bristling where he is, indignant for you, for the treatment of the book, and the disturbance of the store ambiance.
She says something, something scathing and personal because her voice has lowered and she’s gotten closer, pokes you in the chest- who the hell does that? -and then marches out of the store with a ridiculous sassy toss of her hair, flouncing.
Fuck. He’s never been more revolted by anther person so strongly.
He makes a decision and starts towards you, hands hanging on the verge of tucking into his apron. He’s politely patient as you stoop down and pick up that book, assessing it tenderly, opening it, frowning sadly as the heft of pages slide away from the spine.
“You alright?” He asks you softly and you whip around to look at him, surprised by his sudden phantom appearance.
You’re flustered and not for the reason he thinks.
You shake your head, “To hell with me,” You say, and lift the book in implication. “Look, I’ll buy this, I don’t care about the price. She’s got a temper-” you shake your head again, and sigh. “Almost wish she would’ve tried taking a swing at me.”
Oh wow. You are…damaged-? No, not damaged. Complex. There’re layers to you, aren’t there? The tender care for the books, but you let her walk over you like a doormat. Your healing knuckles imply you’re no stranger to violence, and you said ‘tried’. You wouldn’t have let her you, but you would’ve preferred it over her man-handling this collection of C.S. Lewis.
He smiles, somewhere between humor and relief, “Well, I’m glad she didn’t,” he holds his hands out for the book, adores the guilt that makes you hesitate to relinquish it, “This is easily reparable. No need to buy.” He reassures you.
You smile shakily, tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He’s disarmingly attractive, very forgiving. He carefully puts the book back on the stand, opening it to the perfect middle and then turns back to you.
“I’m Joe. Joe Goldberg.” He says, lips widened just to get to the bare minimum of ‘a smile’.
You measure something, weigh pros and cons, he can see it behind your eyes, the thought and contemplation, the curiosity that fights back against self-preserving instincts. There’s baggage, he can see it so clearly, like you’ve got it strapped to your back…or coloring your knuckles varying shades of yellow and purple.
But there’s something else. A gleam of daring in your eyes, a little recklessness. A want for adventure.
Your lips quirk the smallest bit, and you cock your head- how cute, he thinks -and say, “Tossy.”
His eyebrows jolt, and then curl. “I’m sorry?” Is the best he can come up with.
You grin with wry humor, light dancing in your eyes like reflections of skittish stars. “Everyone calls me Tossy.”
He slides his hands into his apron, properly inquisitive, and amused. “A nickname?”
You hum in affirmation, wait for the inevitable question of-
“What’s your real name?” He’s taken bait, and never been so pleased to become hooked, even with the rude sting of metal tearing tender flesh. He’d just gotten out of a relationship a year ago, hit rock bottom, went through a fucking wood-chipper. He’s felt hollow and overused, bleached, and sucked dry like he’s been left out in the sun for too long, where the warmth has crept from comfort straight to punishment.
But you…you’re refreshing and new, alluring, wrapped in mystery in such a way that it doesn’t cause him to recoil, but linger. He’d like to know you. He will. There’s something, a weight in your eyes, a minute shift in color that speaks of unimaginable emotional depth- you’ve been through some shit too. You’ll be shy and flighty, you’ll be a chore, he can tell. But-
“Something you’ve gotta earn, Joe.”
Oh, there’s that spark. A spark that makes him realize those bruises on your knuckles are very well-founded, not a cry for help or a detail for scrutiny. No, it’s a qualifier. You’re a fighter, in more ways than one, and you won’t hesitate to bloody your knuckles on him. But that baggage, that baggage you carry tells him you won’t want to. And he’s going to do his best to make sure you never have to raise your fist for anything.
He smiles, curbing his excitement, “How do you suggest I do that?”
You shrug nonchalantly, cast your cheeky gaze round the stacks and say, “Well, moving some of your Fitzgerald into the discount section is definitely a good starting place.”
He laughs softly, nods with it, chest vibrating. “Noted. I just might, if it means you’ll be back.”
You tip your chin, “I won’t be back for a ‘might’, Joe. Only a definite yes will have me walking back in that door.” You point at the door- timing cosmic -as someone walks in and jingles the bells.
Wow. Just wow. I’ve gotten nothing out of you. In fact, I’m going to have to give something up, not knowing if the sacrifice will be rewarded. But you…you’re worth it.
“Alright,” He extends his hand for you to shake, grinning, unrestrained. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Tossy.”
You grasp his hand, ignoring the throb of pain in your knuckles, and nod tartly. “Then I will see you at a later date, Joe. Let’s see if you’re a man of your word,”
Oh, Tossy. You’ll learn. My word is my bond, and you have my word-
The bells jingle as you open the door and slide through, out, into the brazen sunlight of late fall-
-That I will give you everything.
-turning just in time to lock eyes with him through the front window, not knowing how that small, seemingly pointless gesture, has sealed your fate.
But you’ll learn.
“Wow,” he murmurs after you disappear from his line of sight. “You…”
You could be the one.