Chapter Text
She comes in once or twice a week, always making an effort to shut the door quietly although its bell has already signaled her arrival. Fellow customers shouldn’t be tugged so suddenly from the little worlds they had immersed themselves in, no matter how briefly they cast their eyes over the paragraphs in a good book. Most often her hair is tied back in an attractive ponytail, a blonde lock brushed to the side managing to stay just out of her eyes, though sometimes she lets it down.
Fareeha doesn’t know her name, nor have they ever spoken beyond the typical formalities exchanged over the counter. So when she is sorting books at the back of the store, making sure a contemporary author wasn’t mixed in with the sci-fi classics, she doesn’t recognise the voice at first.
“Oh, sorry - could you repeat that?”
The blonde holds a couple books in hand, neither of which, Fareeha notes, is from the top-grossing books section. One by a lesser known japanese author, the other - a classic thriller.
“Do you stock anything by Lacroix?” She asks, smiling, “He writes murder mysteries, if that’s a help.”
“Murder mysteries?” And have you recently become a parrot, Amari? “Ah, right. Lacroix, I know him. Not personally, but - let me find you his section.” Fareeha rushes through the end of her sentence, shoving the misplaced book into the first free slot she can spot.
The store often confused newcomers who weren’t interested in the most recent titles displayed in the window. Proceeding beyond this part in the store, they were confronted by a strange system which placed the store’s oldest acquired books at the back, gradually building up a collection as time progressed. Sprinkled between the books were paper thin maps and tiny antiques that Fareeha would have never recognised if not for her boss, an enthusiastic and by no means mild-mannered man. When not in the loft, pouring over one book after the next, the booming voice he would have kept quiet for hours would be telling those very stories in the pub across the street after the day was up.
Humming to herself as she tries to recall the year Lacroix published his first book, Fareeha runs her fingers over the spine of a journal by H. Shimada. Written in an eloquent though terse tone, the heir to his family’s leading company had made Fareeha remember how disparate people’s lives could be, regardless of the time and distance between them.
Eventually she spots the book, squished between two heavy manuals for omnic construction. Taking it down from the shelf and holding it out for her customer, Fareeha runs through a mental checklist for other books by the same author. She comes up blank.
“It’s the only one we’ve got unfortunately, but if you want I could order some more in.”
“Ah, thank you!” Her face lights up with genuine happiness. “There’s no need to trouble yourself if that’s the case.”
“I’d be more than happy to.”
“If you’re certain?”
“One hundred percent.” Fareeha places a fist on her chest as if swearing an oath, returning the blonde’s smile with a boyish grin.
“Alright then,” she pauses, gaze flicking down before meeting Fareeha’s once more, “Ms. Amari.”
How did she - Fareeha’s surprise takes hold for half a second too long before she remembers she has a name tag.
“I’m Angela, by the way.” Pausing for a beat, she adds, “I would hate to be unfair.”
“Not at all, I’m happy to be of service.”
It’s another week before Angela returns to the store. As promised, more than one of Lacroix’s books sit behind the counter. She asks the price and Fareeha tells her as much, but where their conversation might have ended two weeks ago does Angela continue speaking.
“It’s a wonderful bookshop you and Herr Reinhardt have here.”
Fareeha couldn’t agree more, “There’s no better place for my uncle’s love of stories, though the Swinging Hammer is a close second.”
Referring to the local pub, she wonders if Angela had tried their Laphroaig 18. Justifying the expense was unheard of for Fareeha, but perhaps Angela - who certainly had a great deal of costly vintage books now in her possession - could afford more than just a glass. But what did Fareeha know. Certainly not what Angela’s profession might have been. One conversation solely about books didn’t shine much light on their lives outside the store.
“Ah, I’ve been meaning to visit it for a while now!”
“I could introduce you to the owner later this evening if you would like?” Fareeha tries not to stare at the counter and dares to look up. She’s not dissuaded by Angela’s blue eyes looking right back at her.
“I would love that.”
They agree on a time and Angela bids her farewell, doorbell jingling as she leaves. Fareeha catches herself before she can hop up and down in excitement, Angela wasn’t the only customer that occupied the shop after all.
It’s still early in the evening when Fareeha steps into the pub, looking no different than she had in the bookstore save for the lack of name tag. Thankfully, she chose today to wear her midnight blue waistcoat to work so when she spots Angela looking very well dressed, she can’t say she’s too underdressed by comparison.
Oh but she is underdressed. Angela’s hair, no longer in its ponytail, sports a natural wave that is brushed over one shoulder. Her eyes seem a little brighter, lashes darker, and Fareeha has to admit she looks great in red.
Angela sits at the quieter end of the bar, managing to concentrate on a book that Fareeha can’t quite make out in the dim lighting from where she stands. Was it one of the murder mysteries she had purchased today? Or perhaps a gothic novella by Vaswani, a fantasy piece by Oxton, maybe even one of Shimada’s introspective journals?
“Mind if I sit?”
Angela looks up, slipping a bookmark back into place and shutting the book. She pats the seat beside her.
Fareeha eases into the stool. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Not at all, Fareeha.” Angela tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking almost sheepish for a moment, “I was finishing up some work actually.”
Holding up the book she had been reading for Fareeha to see, she explains she had been analysing it for an upcoming speech. It was next week, if Fareeha had the time to come visit. She spoke every Wednesday if next week didn’t work out. Fareeha says she looks forward to it.
“Why a bookstore then, if you don’t mind me prying?” Angela asks, halfway through her first tumbler of whiskey.
“It’s mostly Reinhardt and my mother, I loved listening to his stories as a child. My mother had an eye for the little details that made them seem so - real.”
Angela nods as she takes another sip. “Sometimes I wish more of my talks could feature the story over the language, I feel like my audience forgets how moving a piece is when they’re focused on the academics.”
Fareeha orders a couple new glasses for the two of them between replies. “The devices can be so clever, though. They enrich that story, gift wrapping it for the reader.”
“When the author is careful not to overdo it,” Angela points out, thanking her for the fresh glass.
“Exactly.”
They clink glasses and drink quietly for a moment, enjoying the sociable thrum of the pub as the bartender - a stout Swedish man who stood on a stool to reach the counter top - jokes about with his patrons.
A couple drinks later and Fareeha is in the middle of a classic Reinhardt adventure tale, full of knights in gleaming armour and angels who flew down in the heat of battle to heal their wounds. Before she can finish the story, however, the bar table shakes and the once jovial banter further down the bar is now replaced with slurred insults shouted back and forth. Fareeha looks over her companion’s shoulder and slides off her chair to get between Angela and a stumbling drunk just in time.
The man shouts incoherently, shoving at Fareeha’s shoulder which barely moves by a hair. When he tries throwing a punch - probably mistaking her for his previous company, still goading him with insults from the other end of the room - Fareeha side steps it and wrenches his arm painfully out of shape, pushing him away before the fool breaks it himself.
Turning back to Angela, whose expression is one of horror and concern, Fareeha barely notices how the man stirs on the floor where he had ultimately fallen.
“Are you okay? I apologise, maybe I shouldn’t have suggested this place.”
“I - yes, yes - you don’t need to apologise, Fareeha.”
“We can leave, if you would like to.”
Angela looks at Fareeha in a manner she can’t quite place.
“I’m not worried about such things happening again in your company,” she says.
As the grumbling man stands up and returns to his spot amidst his once-again laughing friends, Fareeha rubs the back of her neck. “I’m just glad he didn’t try to have a go at you , I would have really broken his arm then.”
Part though not all of Angela agreed with Fareeha on that, but she still rests a hand over the woman’s tense arm. “It’s a good thing you’re so quick on your feet.”
Fareeha starts, not expecting the contact, then shakes her head with a smile.
“So, how did that story end?”
“Oh! Well… ” Sufficiently distracted, Fareeha gladly returns to her narration with new found enthusiasm.
“It takes you to a whole new world, doesn’t it?” Angela comments as Fareeha finishes, imagining that they were not in an urban pub but some medieval tavern, sipping ale from leather wrapped tankards as the story had ended.
“That’s another reason why I like the bookstore, each page takes me somewhere new.”
Angela taps her glass with a fingernail, humming. “I have a question for you.”
“Of course.”
“Is a story owned by the author, or by their readers?”
“Very philosophical, Doctor Ziegler.”
“Oh please, I’m barely halfway through my PhD.”
Fareeha grins, swallowing a mouthful of her drink as she thinks over the question.
“I would say it’s a mix of the two. You can tell a story and have no one to appreciate it, you might as well have strung together meaningless words. But while the readers may appreciate and interpret the language differently, the author’s intention clarifies just what each device adds to the story.”
Angela listens attentively, watching Fareeha over the rim of her glass. “So a story is defined by the variation of interpretation, but also the author’s intentions.”
“That’s my way of thinking about it.”
The soon-to-be-doctor hums, satisfied.
They finish their drinks and talk about little things without further interruption, like Fareeha’s brief display of self defence or Angela’s partiality for murder mysteries. She had once hoped to become a detective, Angela tells Fareeha, who admits she had wanted to do the same.
“To stop criminals and the unjust?” Angela asks.
“Or to save their victims?” Fareeha replies.
"Hopefully I'll do both when I read the Lacroix you procured for me."
Fareeha raises her glass to that.
With spirits a little higher and wallets a little lighter, Fareeha boldly offers to walk Angela home. She doesn’t decline the offer, welcomes it even. The jacket that finds its way around her shoulders is a nice surprise too.
“Are you sure you’re not one of those knights from Reinhardt’s stories?”
“If I was, would you be an angel?” Realising her reply, as smooth as it might have been, Fareeha’s ears grow hot in the cool evening air. Angela only giggles, not lessening her embarrassment at all.
They pause at the door outside the apartment block while Angela fumbles for a business card, fails to find one, and settles for writing her number on the back of a serviette.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday then? Though I may very well visit the store before then.”
Fareeha pockets the serviette.
“If you are not bored of seeing me so often, I would like that.”
Angela squeezes her arm with a promising smile, forgets she still has Fareeha’s jacket, and enters her apartment. Fareeha forgets as well, holding the image of Angela’s smile in mind keeps her warm enough as it is.
It’s not a week but two days before Fareeha hears the doorbell jingle, a blonde ponytail passing under the door frame.