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perennial pages | w.s.

Pairing: college student au!Wilbur Soot x bookstore employee/college student!reader; no Y/N, gender-neutral (no pronouns mentioned)

Synopsis: You’re working at a bookstore when your favorite British man bursts in with two plane tickets to travel the world. 

Warnings: one (1) passing ref. to prev. fic Ozymandias, some cursing, cameo from Tina except she’s an old woman, one (1) dirty joke from Wilbur but what did you expect, failed British slang from an American author

Word Count: 2.2k

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Prev. on the semi-related Wilbur Soot series: Ozymandias

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You’re working alone today, but you don’t mind. You have classical music to accompany you, playing from the cheap speakers around a meter above and to your left. 

When you move to lean back against the wooden stool you’re sitting on, multiple synthetic leaves fall onto your face. You scowl, splitting the part that got into your mouth. 

“Plastic does not taste good,” you mutter under your breath. 

You shake your head to force the leaves off. The ceiling and most of the surrounding walls of this shop are adorned with the fake vines that Tina purchased at a yard sale with you around a month ago.

Tina founded the dual bookstore and plant shop Perennial Pages at a rather rough stage in her life. She had married young and been a trophy wife till 37, then divorced her wretched old money husband after discovering his mass tax fraud; it was a way out of the marriage. She clung onto his illicit economic activities as a subtle form of blackmail, threatening that she would expose him for it if he didn’t sign the divorce papers. He was a cheating bastard anyway.

Following the split, Tina used the cash from the split to make her childhood dream a reality in Brighton, England. 

Tina is a shorter, stout woman nearing her sixties with a personality that others might call downright appalling for someone born at such a conservative time. But you love the straightforward yet free approach that Tina takes on life. 

As your boss, Tina is nothing short of delightful. Well, except when she isn’t there. Then, you have no one to talk to but stone-faced customers who wish to release some stress by feeding their book addictions. All you’ve been doing today is watering plants, shelving and organizing books, and making a point to ignore the unhappy teenagers who come to Perennial Pages to escape from other people. 

Tina never fails to take at least one day off every month. The philosophy was to make as many memories as possible before she runs out of time. The thought brings you back to memories from the month before. 

A few weeks ago, Tina had announced that she’d continue to pay you for your normal hours if you accompanied her to a spontaneous four-day getaway to New York City, even though there was no one else to manage Perennial Pages in the meantime. Well, you didn’t argue with the prospect of a fully-paid vacation with someone who acts more like an older sister than an employer to you. 

The two of you had spent your first afternoon in New York shopping around Manhattan, browsing through vintage clothing—and the vines that attacked you—at various thrift shops across the borough. 

As you shopped, you discussed deeply philosophical topics, just because you could. It was during that trip that you had an epiphany; you prefer deep conversations over small talk. The gritty ones that expose personal trauma and bare core beliefs are much more fulfilling and fascinating to listen to than superficial complaints about professors who cannot teach well.

Mulling over it, you realize that it’s probably because you find conflicting opinions to be intriguing. It’s interesting how and why a person comes to form their beliefs regarding controversies. People, after all, are merely mosaics of the different ideas they come across. Learning which ideas created the mold that a certain person emerged from is a fascinating way to sincerely get to know someone and empathize with the experiences that shape their central ideals. 

The chimes tied in fuchsia yarn to the topmost hinge of the front door ring, jolting you out of such reminiscing. 

“Welcome to Perennial Pages, let me know if you want a specific book or plant and if you have any other questions,” you state with as little facial movement as possible, not bothering to look up to identify the figure stepping inside. Your shift began not that long ago, but without Tina there to entertain you with other arguably deep conversations, you’re too tired to give anything but a blank expression to customers today. 

Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule (it’s more of a common occurrence than a rule, really); some people are far too captivating to demand anything lesser than your utmost attention. 

“Hello, darling.”

Case in point. 

Your head snaps up to meet the gaze of the familiar voice. The height of the man before you is quite towering, even more so since you’re sitting down on the rather stout maroon stool behind the cash register. 

But you know better than to be intimidated. 

He’s dressed particularly well today. He dons a plain red beanie covering that mess of curls and what has to be a receding hairline—you’ve previously attempted to whisk it off of him, but he refuses to give a forehead reveal—but the beanie is slipping slowly away from his hair and closer toward the carpet made of fake moss.

“Well, well, well, isn’t it Mister Soot? My most loyal customer.”

“For Christ’s sake, call me Wil,” he says as he rolls his eyes. But he’s smiling all the while. 

He shakes his head and the outside fringes of his hair sway as he does so. The beanie slips a centimeter more down his right ear. When he meets your mock unapproving gaze, a chuckle escapes his mouth even though he’s bitten the inside of his cheek to prevent such an action. When you hop off the stool and fully stand up, the grin on his face widens even more than you thought possible. 

That smile never fails to not catch your eye. He’s always grinning whenever you’re around, so much that you’d think his cheeks would hurt. But you’re not complaining, as you’d be a hypocrite to comment about his smiley tendencies without addressing your own. 

If Tina were here, she’d elbow you and say, “The rascal makes you happy, that’s why you get all smiley.” 

Then Tina would return to humming an obscure Elvis song and walk away into the storage room. It would be just as if she hadn’t left you all alone in your thoughts with heat rising to your cheeks as you think about him. 

He’s made a beeline for the historical bookshelf today, near the peonies and sunflowers. 

“You should fix that,” you say, nodding toward the beanie that is half-falling off of his face. 

There’s quite the pause and it’s as if you can see the gears in Wil’s head shifting. Then, his grin has turned into a smirk.

“Fix what? I don’t know what you mean.” 

“You think you’re so sly, don’t you? I can tell you’re faking confusion,” you respond, lips curling upward despite your attempt to remain impassive. 

Granted, it wasn’t a very good try at concealing your happiness, but, then again, it’s always hard to hide your emotions around Wilbur Soot. He can read you like an open book, even if you’d like to think of yourself as one of those locked childrens’ princess diaries with voice-activated codes in them. 

“Cheeky bastard,” you mutter. 

But even as you’re complaining, you’re walking to the left of the counter and using your hip to push open the small door beside the counter. 

Honestly, curse the man’s charms. 

You make a come-hither motion with your hand, but the 6’6” man refuses to bend his knees or lean forward so you can properly adjust the beanie. 

“C’mere,” you insist, stopping right beside the nonfiction aisle, which is about a yard away from the plaque titled “HISTORY” in bold.

He crosses his arms and fervently shakes his head like a dog shaking water off of its fur after a bath. You have to bite back a laugh at his played-up mannerisms.

“No.” He frowns, then lights up with another eager smile. “If you call me Wil, though, I’ll consider your offer.”

“You’re a real drama queen, you know that, Soot?” 

You speak with as much force as you can muster, channeling stoicism, but your face betrays you. And your body too, which moves forward to meet him until you’re less than a meter apart. 

“Why won’t you just call me Wil?” He flashes the eyes of a sad puppy. 

“Whatever. Bend down so I can fix your stupid beanie for you.”

The man immediately begins to cough. It’s a shoddy attempt at covering his initial reaction.

All you do is roll your eyes and shake your head in disdain.

“What, it was funny! ‘Bend down,’ you know what else you can do when you bend down?” 

You’re pursing your lips, glancing around the room to see if anyone has heard. Of course, no one is in the room. Why would anyone be browsing for books or plants on a Tuesday morning at 9 o’clock in the morning? Well, anyone other than Wilbur Soot, that is. And he doesn’t even count, because you know that he’s only here for you. 

“Well, you’re the only one laughing,” comes your monotonous reply.

“Won’t you say ‘Wil’ and not ‘Well’ for me, love?”

All of a sudden, heat rises up your body, spreading like a wildfire underneath your skin. Unfamiliar to such a reaction, you clear your throat to break the odd silence between his question and your lack of a response. 

“What is with you and your odd infatuation with me calling you by your name? I think calling you Soot is–”

When Wil walks toward you, you immediately stop speaking. Your head tilts in confusion, eyebrows furrowed. It’s no secret that the man has an ego; he never submits to your will like this. 

You wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t, so you say, “Go on, then. Tell me, why have you dragged yourself all the way out to the middle of Brighton? I assume it isn’t just to have me fix your beanie up.”

You fail to mention that you still haven’t shifted the position of his beanie yet. Partly because you’re afraid of how you’d feel if you touched him that closely, and partly because you think you already know how you’d feel. 

A smile stretches across his face for what must be the twentieth time since he’s walked in; actually, you don’t think that he’s truly stopped smiling, except for his fake frowns to coerce you into walking closer to him.

He doesn’t answer you verbally. Instead, he reaches into the right pocket of his trenchcoat and pulls out two slim sheets of paper. Curious, you step forward until you’re less than a meter apart. 

“Florence? You booked two tickets for Italy?”

Bewildered, you take a step back. Wil walks forward to keep the previous distance, and maybe even closer because now you’re just a few centimeters away from his face. He’s sheepish now, biting on his bottom lip in anticipation. 

“Haven’t we been talking about traveling the world in the Blade’s class? I don’t want to leave you. Will you come with me?”

“Wil, of course I will.”

Before he can make a comment about the pun in that sentence, you embrace him in a hug. On reflex, he rests his chin on top of your head. Although his trenchcoat is cold from the weather outside, his breath is warm. Fearing that he’ll be able to see the rather embarrassing happiness plastered on your face that you can’t seem to pat down to a cool neutral position, you shove your face into his chest. 

He smells like coffee and sandalwood, like home and something more. 

When your hand reaches to grasp his hair, with his arms still wrapped around your lower back, you’re met with the soft fabric of his beanie. Finally, you adjust it so that it’s not exposing his hairline anymore. 

A laugh escapes your mouth as you tug the beanie down over his ears, the tips of which are bright red. He looks ridiculous like this, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Huh, a hug right after we got on first name basis? Seems like you’re moving too fast,” he jokes.

“Sod off,” you say as your cheeks heat. “You’re the bloody one who bought plane tickets without asking me first. What if I said no?”

“You wouldn’t have,” he says, and he states it like it’s a fact.

Lacking a rebuttal, you shove your face in the crook of his neck. And the two of you stay there, content because you’re in one another’s arms.  

When your supposedly absent boss Tina walks into Perennial Pages an hour later with a half-eaten bagel and a cup of chai tea from the bakery next door, your mouth hangs open in shock.

“I thought you were visiting your sister in Carlisle?” 

Tina looks at your hands, which are entwined with Wilbur’s. Her initial reaction is a soft smile, one that hints at knowing that this would happen before you did. When she looks back up at his face, she confirms your suspicions. 

“Congratulations. I told you she’d say ‘yes’ anyway.”

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