Special Episode: The Bookshop
This episode is part of a larger story, Soft Touch. If you haven’t yet, you can go back and read it from the beginning right here.
Spencer can’t remember the last time he was this exhausted.
He forgot how tiring the moving process is. He’s also never attempted to move an entire bookshop before, much less two. By the time he and Floyd finally collapsed into bed, his body was so sore, and his head was so heavy that giving its weight over to the pillow felt more like something critically necessary than optional.
He was out before his hair even dried from the shower. He was sleeping someplace unfamiliar for the first time, and aching everywhere, but that just didn’t matter.
Because it was good, rich, satisfying exhaustion that overcame him. The type of exhaustion that follows a long day of sinking his full, whole-hearted effort into something he wants to accomplish.
He sank deep into sleep, with one arm wrapped around Floyd, who was knocked out before Spencer even got into bed. Naomi is burrowed deep in her tank plants. Even Ida, who was only an observer of this busy day, looks thoroughly wiped out. She’s sprawled haphazardly across her dog bed, snoring every now and then.
All inhabitants of the new apartment were sleeping soundly, so Spencer can’t think why he just woke up suddenly. Based on the very dim light, it must be sometime around dawn. He fumbles for his glasses and slips them onto his face, wondering what happened.
As soon as his head clears, he has a pretty good idea of what happened. Some part of him felt that new tremor of anxiety he’s been experiencing ever since he and Floyd made up, decided on their new bookshop, and moved in together.
The worry that Spencer will wake up one morning and it’ll all have gone away, somehow.
That’s not a new worry, now that he thinks about it. It's a familiar, old worry that Spencer hadn’t experienced since the last time he and Floyd were together. A worry he’d long forgotten about, until it made its sweet return.
What a good feeling, to have that familiar worry back again. Even if sometimes it pulls Spencer out of his dreams with a jolt to make sure that Floyd is still curled up beside him.
And he is. Floyd is still there in the bed with Spencer, cozied up to his side, his hand sprawled on Spencer’s sternum.
Spencer smiles at him adoringly in the darkness. He doesn’t know why he ever thought that just because Floyd didn’t want romance, he also didn’t ever want to snuggle or be held. He’s very snuggly, actually. Especially in his sleep.
Spencer tightens his grasp around Floyd. He lays still for a long time in the cool, summer-night quiet of the bedroom. Listening to Floyd’s breathing, to the trees outside shifting softly in the breeze. His body happily tired, his eyes heavy-lidded, his heart swimming with love.
Eventually he eases himself out of Floyd’s arms, slips out of bed. He smooths out his rumpled pajamas, checks on Naomi, and heads for the kitchen, carefully feeling his way along so that he doesn’t knock into anything. The layout is still unfamiliar, in his sleepy state and without the help of some light.
He’s used to his studio apartment, so walking down the little hallway from the bedroom and into the kitchen feels strangely nice. Good to be able to flip on the lights without worrying about waking up Floyd.
Spencer sets about making himself a cup of tea, the soothing kind that will help him get back to sleep. The very earliest of the sunlight begins to line the horizon beyond the windows as the kettle heats up. Spencer watches the way the dim glow of it alights on the buildings. The new view from the new kitchen.
He turns in surprise as Ida ambles slowly into the kitchen, her enormous brown eyes blinking sleepily up at him.
“Hello, you,” Spencer says softly, as she stiffly comes over to nuzzle her nose into his extended hand. “Checking up on me? Aw. I’m alright.”
She sits down in front of him, lets him gently take her face in his fingers.
“You’re a sweet one, aren’t you? Like all of Floyd’s dogs have been. That was very nice of you, to let Ripley’s kitten take a nap on you earlier.”
Ida wags her tail at him, then seems to decide he’s okay, despite being up at this unusual hour. She settles down on the rug beneath the kitchen table and places her muzzle on her outstretched paws, letting out a sleepy dog sigh.
“You don’t have to stay up,” Spencer tells her, when he realizes her eyes are still open, watching him. “You must be tired. You had a long day, too, didn’t you?”
She seems alright, though. Peacefully worn out, like all of them are.
Spencer gazes around at the little kitchen, feeling dazed all over again.
At some point he subconsciously stopped believing that things were ever going to change for him. It had quietly been decided somewhere in his mind that he would spend the rest of his days in the studio above his bookstore in Port Sitka, alone.
The thought filled him with cold fear and terrible anguish when he was younger, but eventually he accepted it as a sad but inevitable truth. So completely had he accepted defeat on this front that the only part of it which actively troubled him anymore was the realization that Naomi - being a well-cared-for turtle - was easily going to outlive him, even if he died at a very old age. Who would take care of her when he was gone? That was the only question left to worry about, in his mind.
Anything else besides repeating his routine in Port Sitka for the rest of forever had grown into an unimaginable thought to Spencer. An impossibility.
Then Floyd came back into his life, and Spencer threw all that to the wind so effortlessly that it’s only dawning on him now, waking up for the first time in their new, shared apartment, just what he did.
There’s no going back to the safe familiarity of his old routine. His landlord in Port Sitka already sold the building to an ex-lawyer who wanted to open a soap shop there. From here on out, everything is going to be incalculably different for Spencer. He essentially has to start over, to learn a whole new way of living his life.
And yet… Spencer isn’t panicking about it. He’s not afraid of it. He keeps waiting to be, but instead he’s getting these strange little thrills when the thought comes into his mind. Little rushes of barely-controllable energy and giddiness, electrical sparks that sweep through his head and chest and wrists.
He can’t exactly think why, but making the one big change has made all the ensuing little changes feel - promising. He has a list of restaurants from Jamie that he and Floyd can try together. He has an entire town to get to know. And he gets to put together a brand new bookshop, the one he and Floyd always dreamed of.
He’s excited.
So excited that he can’t help himself. Once his tea is ready, he takes it and quietly goes downstairs into the bookshop.
Raj finished hanging the sign before he left for the night. It looks so good on the wall behind the counter, one complete piece of the store. Spencer stares at it admiringly, then crosses to one of the moving boxes and opens it up. He just wants to put a few books on the shelves, to see it a little more filled in.
He puts in a row of books from Floyd’s inventory, looking through the titles as he places them. Without fail, they’re all intelligent, thoughtful books, written by excellent authors and researchers. A curated collection that flies in the face of Spencer’s belief that some garbage should also be available for purchase, since there’s much to learn from things that are decidedly imperfect.
Still, Spencer can’t help but admire Floyd’s taste. He’d have fallen for him based on this alone, truth be told.
Spencer startles and turns around as soft footsteps make the stairs creak. Floyd stops at the bottom, in his flannel pajama pants and an old Mainely Murders Bookstore t-shirt. He rubs his sleepy eyes, pushes some silver flyaways out of his face, and settles his glasses onto his nose.
“Spence?” he calls softly, his voice breaking the gentle silence of the bookshop. “What time is it, what - what are you doing? Are you doing more unpacking?”
“Just a little.”
“Wh…? Spence.” Floyd’s tired voice fills up with affection. “We really don’t have to get more done right now, buddy. Hell, we don’t have to get anything done all day today, if we don’t want to. We were on the go for ages yesterday. It’s okay to take a break.”
“No, I know,” Spencer says quickly, straightening up to face him. “I’m not doing it because I feel like I have to. I - I’m just excited.”
He can’t help himself, so he crosses to Floyd and catches his hand.
“Our bookshop, Floyd,” he breathes happily, gesturing to the sign. “After all this time.”
Floyd was drowsily rubbing his eye, but he stops and looks up, beaming at Spencer.
“I know,” he says, in matching amazement. “Can you believe it? Absolutely…”
“Dynamite,” Spencer laughs softly.
They stand there looking around together for a long moment.
“Okay,” Floyd says fondly, squeezing Spencer’s hand. “If you want to get to work at this ungodly hour, I’m with you. But let’s make some breakfast first.”
That sounds nice, so Spencer follows Floyd back up the stairs. They used a cooler to bring some food over from Floyd’s place, so they have just enough to get some eggs, bacon, and toast going. Spencer pushes open the windows, so that the gentle morning breeze rolls through the kitchen and stirs their curtains, illuminating them with a hint of rosy sunlight.
Spencer pulls the curtains back to let in the light, then stops where he is, staring in surprise out through the window.
Someone is quickly climbing up Floyd and Spencer’s fire escape ladder. Someone with the brim of a snapback drawn low over his eyes, a hood pulled up over that. He’s wearing a backpack, and dark clothes that make him melt into the shadows.
Spencer’s eyes focus in on the hands pulling the new arrival up the ladder. They’re colorful with paint stains.
Spencer is completely bewildered, until it strikes him that if Ripley climbs out through the second-floor window of his workshop, he can drop onto the roof of the bookshop, which is only one story. He can easily walk across the flat roof and take the fire escape down without anybody seeing him, and it would look like no one had entered or exited his building.
There are no neighbors who might be questioned by the police about Ripley’s movements in connection with suspected vandalism - not at the moment, anyways - but clearly he would rather be safe than sorry.
Spencer is impressed. It’s a good route. It means Ripley can get out at the end of the little alley, where nobody would see him slip off to go put up some artwork. The only flaw in the route is that the roof of the bookshop is almost level with the kitchen window of Floyd and Spencer’s apartment, so Spencer can clearly see Ripley as he climbs off of the fire escape to land silently on the rooftop.
Floyd sees him, too. He immediately comes over and pushes the window more open.
“Good morning, Ripley!” he calls softly.
Ripley freezes where he is, his head turning sharply to face their window. After a moment he slowly, tentatively lifts his hand in a wave.
“Been out getting into trouble?” Floyd asks, careful to keep his voice soft enough that only Ripley can hear.
Ripley gives his shoulders a sheepish shrug.
“Want some breakfast?” Floyd asks hopefully.
Spencer and Floyd exchange a surprised, delighted smile when Ripley comes over to the window and leans down.
“Really?” he asks.
“Yes, of course!” Spencer jumps in, pushing the window all the way open. “If you w-want! And if you don’t mind that w-we’re in our pajamas.”
Ripley considers for a second, then crouches down and drops in through the window, landing on his feet in the kitchen. He pulls his hood down and his backpack off, then pushes his snapback up and out of his eyes.
“Sit down, please!” Floyd eagerly pushes him into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, beaming from ear to ear. “Make yourself comfortable! Do you want some coffee? We just made a pot.”
Ripley adjusts his snapback over his wild green curls, casting Floyd a smile. “Appreciate it, but nah. I’m probably gonna go back to sleep when I get home.”
“Anything to eat?”
“Whatever you’re having smells good.” Ripley stretches out his legs, then smooths down his ripped-up black jeans, looking a little abashed. “Hey, sorry for walking on your roof. I was just-”
“No, we understand!” Floyd says immediately. “Can’t be seen by the fuzz, and you know they’ll take any excuse to bother you.”
“There are n-no security cameras in the area, are there?” Spencer adds anxiously. “Always make sure to check for those!”
Ripley blinks a few times. A relieved smile steals into his roguish green eyes. He slips something from his pocket and holds it up to show Floyd and Spencer. It’s a shiny eggshell sticker, printed with the words DEFEND THE FOREST.
“I was just doing some slap tagging tonight,” Ripley says cautiously, with a nod at the sticker. “I don’t actually think it’s illegal.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t care if you were doing something illegal,” Floyd tells him breezily. “By all means: more art.”
Ripley breathes out a surprised laugh, the smile in his eyes growing brighter. He relaxes more into his chair, folds an elbow on the table, and rests his chin on his palm. He lets his other hand fall to scratch Ida’s ears, his green eyes wandering to the bookshelf set against the far wall of the kitchen.
Floyd flips on the radio to his and Spencer’s favorite station. A George Jones song is playing, I Don’t Need Your Rockin’ Chair. The old recording starts crooning out from the speakers, softly filling up the kitchen with music. The sky outside is slowly beginning to turn a rosy shade of apricot along the horizon, casting its glow on the spines of the volumes on the bookshelf. Ripley’s eyes linger on them, then flit to Floyd as he returns to the table.
He hands Ripley a plate with a slice of toast with a fried egg on top, and some toasted cheese on top of that. Also a cup of sweet, creamy coffee. Both food and coffee are steaming lightly, smelling tempting, and Ripley has taken a long, grateful sip of the coffee before everyone simultaneously remembers he said he didn’t want any.
“Oh,” Floyd says guiltily, realizing out loud.
“Whatever, it’s fine. I’ll probably crash when I get back, coffee or no.” Ripley looks gratefully down at the plate as Floyd adds some bacon to it and hands him a fork. “Oh, yes. Thank you, man. I already miss having someone make breakfast for me, and I haven’t even been living alone that long.”
“You can always join us.” Floyd flashes Ripley a hopeful smile as he drops to sit down, handing Spencer his cup of mocha. “Although I will say we’re not usually up this early. We’re - excited.”
“I get it.” Ripley breathes out another laugh, already digging into his breakfast. “I’m so fucking pumped about the workshop. Only problem is that I’m so tired from getting everything set up, it’s like my brain doesn’t have enough energy to give me ideas for the actual art. Raj finished a surfboard and a skate deck for the display window, and I haven’t started work on either of them. On - any paintings, actually.”
He’s looking at the bookshelf again, with gathering curiosity in his green eyes.
“What is all that, by the way?” he asks, sitting back with the cup of coffee in his hand.
“Ah…” Spencer exchanges a faintly embarrassed look with Floyd. “That shelf is what w-we call the - the-”
“The Steed of Knowledge!” Floyd says enthusiastically, as if announcing everyone’s favorite comic book hero.
Ripley draws back, letting out a startled little laugh. “The what?”
Spencer has immediate, grave fears that the Steed of Knowledge is an unforgivably nerdy thing, something Ripley is going to laugh at. The thought sends him scurrying out of the room as soon as Floyd begins to explain. He puts down his mocha and wordlessly rushes out into the hallway, then the bedroom.
He realizes a moment later that it was probably a weird thing to do, and that he might need an explanation. He looks around desperately, then takes Naomi from her tank and brings her into the kitchen. She could probably stand to go for a little roam, anyways.
Ripley and Floyd are standing together in front of the bookshelf when he gets back.
“-one bookshelf separate from all the others, in Spencer’s old apartment,” Floyd is explaining, as Ripley watches his gesturing hands with obvious amusement in his eyes. “The Steed was a bookshelf with wheels, so Spencer and I could move it to whichever part of the apartment we happened to be arguing in. That way we could easily get a book to make or defend our point. Or to throw at each other, if the debates got heated.”
“Okay?” Ripley says, biting back a grin.
“Top shelf was our old casebooks, which have the articles we wrote together. Shelf below that had everything Spencer was reading, shelf below that had everything I was reading, and the shelf below that had books we’d just finished that we wanted the other to read so we could discuss it. The bottom shelf was our next-up row. We’ve recreated the Steed here, but now we have more shelves for the casebooks, since we’ve made quite a few.”
Spencer is wincing and shifting from foot to foot behind Floyd, and he winces again as Floyd finishes with a flourish, and a dramatic hand gesture, and a little exclamation of: “The Steed of Knowledge!”
“The Steed!” Ripley laughs, grinning from ear to ear. “That’s amazing.”
Spencer’s shoulders sink in relief.
“There are some DVDs on here, too,” Ripley observes, his eyes coming to rest on Floyd’s copy of Detour.
“We’re thinking about hosting some classic murder and mystery movie screenings at the bookshop,” Floyd explains. “At the very least, Spencer and I will have a screening for ourselves. You and the rest of the boys are welcome to join us, of course!”
Ripley smiles at him. He takes one hand out of the pocket of his jeans and trails his paint-stained fingertips over the books, pauses on one of them. He glances over his shoulder at Spencer to ask a question, then lets out a startled laugh when he spots the turtle very slowly meandering across the kitchen floor.
“Oh, my god. So many incredible things are happening at once.” He gives himself a shake, then catches Spencer’s eye. “First of all, can I pick up your turtle?”
“Maybe… give her a moment to get used to y-you.”
“Okay. Then secondly, can I take this book off the Steed? My hands are clean, the paint stains are old. Like I said, been a minute since I actually painted.”
“Please,” Spencer says, once again surprised and delighted. “If it looks interesting to you!”
Ripley pulls the book out and begins flipping through it, his eyes roving over the pages. He stops on a page with a colorful picture, his eyebrows lifting.
“Whoa, what’s that?”
Spencer hurries over to peer over his shoulder, knuckling his glasses back up his nose.
“Let’s see… that’s Kitezh, a mythical city supposedly at the b-bottom of a lake in Russia. Well - that painting is by Gorbatov, so that’s his idea of it, anyways.”
Floyd, who’s seated himself at the kitchen table, pauses halfway through a piece of bacon to shoot Spencer a fond, exasperated look. “You and your sunken cities.”
“Wow,” Ripley murmurs, staring at the painting.
“I’ve always liked that painting of it,” Spencer adds nervously. “It reminds me of the Swimming Cities of Serenissima project, in some w-way I can’t explain.”
A little crease appears between Ripley’s eyebrows. “The what?”
“Oh, it w-was a communal art project that traveled and did performances. Thirty artists, collaborating to create and then live on these huge, floating, sculptural…”
Spencer trails off, because Ripley has already pulled out his phone and started typing the name of the project into the search bar. His eyebrows arch all the way up as he scrolls through the photos that come up, his green eyes wide with interest.
“I like Tod Seelie’s photos of it the best,” Spencer adds, then glances nervously at Floyd to see how he’s doing.
Floyd gives him an encouraging thumbs-up, busy digging into his cheesy toast.
Ripley sifts through the pictures in silence for a moment, then carefully slips the book back onto the Steed. He takes down a different one, this time from Floyd’s shelf. He thumbs through the pages, then pauses on one where Floyd underlined things.
“Can I read what you highlighted, Floyd?”
“By all means! I don’t remember what it was, but I’m sure it was important.”
“It’s about someone called Sir Everard Digby.”
“Oh, yes!” Floyd’s eyes twinkle warmly behind his glasses. “The section about his time at Cambridge, where I believe he was a student in the late 1500s?”
“Mhm. The part you highlighted says… He was said to be a noisy young man, who told rude jokes on the master of his college, ‘blew an horn, and halloed disrespectfully’. Oh, my god.” Ripley looks up at Floyd with incredulous eyes. “That’s actually on somebody’s academic record from the 1500s? This dude snuck a horn into class and blew it?”
“He did,” Floyd laughs. “I couldn’t help but highlight that, even though it wasn’t all that pertinent for my notes.”
“I might love this guy,” Ripley snickers, breaking into a grin. “What happened to him?”
Floyd spreads his hands, like, alas. “He was executed for being one of the conspirators behind the Gunpowder Plot, alongside Guy Fawkes.”
Ripley’s eyes open very wide. “Are you fucking serious?”
“I am,” Floyd says, with an apologetic wince. “But he went up against a king, and went down in history. And he was described as ‘one of the handsomest men of his time’ in the Brief Lives. Officially. So, he does have that going for him.”
Ripley grins widely as he puts the book back on the Steed. He returns to the kitchen table and sits down again, his green eyes full of laughter.
“Well, if that isn’t some inspiration, I don’t know what is.” He takes a sip of his coffee and retrieves his fork, then lets out a happy sigh once he takes a bite. “Man. I should come over here more often.”
Floyd and Spencer exchange a swift, beaming look with each other.
The truth is that Spencer was exaggerating when he told Jamie he had a lot of friends in his stitch ‘n bitch group. Rose is probably the only one who actually meets that description. Although - Spencer does also think of himself as friends with Rose’s wife Leyla, who often comes to pick her up from the group, usually sipping from a thermos with the words Don’t Worry, A Woman’s On The Job! emblazoned up the side.
Rose and Leyla are both very sweet women. Spencer is fond of them, especially Rose, because she’s shy like he is. She and Spencer tend to sit together to listen quietly while the actual bitchin’ goes on instead of doing any bitchin’ themselves, which is what they prefer. Rose asked Spencer over for dinner a few times, and although he was always too intimidated to accept, the invitations meant a lot to him.
But on the whole, Floyd and Spencer couldn’t truthfully claim too many friends. Before now.
The kind, warm-hearted invitations and offers of all different sorts that they’ve gotten from all sides since moving to Ketterbridge are something new. Neither Floyd nor Spencer is used to it in the slightest, and they’re both tired from all the unusual activity, but both of them are enjoying the hell out of it.
“Come over any time you want a hot breakfast,” Floyd tells Ripley earnestly, getting up to put his plate in the sink. “Or if you want to visit the Steed.”
Ripley flashes him a grin, then glances up at the casebooks.
“Think I’ve seen one of those at Jamie and Aiden’s place before,” he observes. “Does that mean you guys are willing to lend them out? Gotta admit I’m curious, after hearing a little bit about your journalism careers from Aiden.”
Floyd lets out a huge, happy sigh, looking over at Spencer. “D’you hear that, Spence? Someone’s actually going to read our work.”
“Jamie and Aiden read some of it,” Spencer reminds him. “And Ralph read one, too, I believe.”
“Oh. That’s true.” Floyd’s over-magnified eyes blink hard behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “A few people have read our work now, haven’t they?”
“They… have,” Spencer agrees, his eyebrows furrowed.
Spencer and Floyd look at each other wonderingly for a moment, then simultaneously turn back to Ripley.
“Help yourself,” Spencer says, with a gesture to the Steed. “Any one you like. Just bring it back when you’re done.”
Ripley breaks into a smile, gives him a nod of thanks. He goes over and pulls down a casebook at random, then comes back over to finish his breakfast.
“Did you say you guys used to throw books at each other when you got mad during your debates?” he asks abruptly, around an irrepressible laugh.
“Only sometimes!” Spencer rushes to explain. “I mean, only when it was a very good debate.”
“Which it was pretty often,” Floyd murmurs beneath his breath.
Spencer elbows him, and Ripley breaks into a smile.
“How are you two still this close if you fight all the time?” he asks, glancing between them, twisting the stud in his ear.
“Oh, we rarely ever fight,” Floyd says brightly, scratching Ida with his foot. “We argue all day long, though.”
Ripley looks at Floyd with measuring eyes.
“Guess I kinda know someone like that, too,” he says thoughtfully. “Except we’re not tight. The opposite. But he’s gonna be around, since he agreed to do a board for the workshop. Sorry if you hear us yelling at each other.”
“Oh, don’t apologize to us for that,” Spencer answers, secretly relieved to hear it won’t just be him and Floyd.
“Are you sure you want more caffeine?” Floyd asks warningly, as Ripley starts to go for another sip of coffee.
“Oh, yeah, it’s fine. I’m up now, definitely not going back to sleep. There are like five different things I want to look up pictures of, after one single instance of checking out the Steed.”
Ripley laughs when he sees the expressions this comment puts on Floyd and Spencer’s faces.
He sticks around for a bit after he finishes his food, chatting with them about how the bookshop is coming along. He’s a polite young man, but with a directness and fire about him that Spencer immediately likes.
At first he was worried that Ripley might be laughing at him and Floyd inside himself. Over the course of breakfast, though, he comes to see that Ripley is just the kind of guy who almost always has laughter in his eyes. Mischievous laughter, but warm laughter, not at all unkind. Spencer likes that, too, and he can tell that Floyd feels the same.
Ripley slips out of the window as the sun finally rises above the horizon. He turns halfway across the rooftop to wave to Floyd and Spencer, who wave back at him.
His tiny black kitten is asleep on the windowsill, waiting for him. Ripley gently scoops him up as he opens the window, then disappears inside and closes it after himself.
Floyd turns to beam at Spencer. “I think that went well!”
“Did it? Do you think he likes us? Wait-” Spencer looks over sharply at Floyd. “Did we just have a friend over for breakfast?”
“Oh… we did,” Floyd realizes, astonished. “Look at us go! Dynamite!”
They hit a high-five over the table.
Spencer lets out a helpless laugh, dropping his head. “Everything is so different, s-suddenly.”
Floyd hesitates, uncertainty stealing into his eyes.
“Hey, are you - are you okay with all of this, Spence? I know that basically everything has changed for us, and that it’s been a lot. I - I can see that you’re tired, man. The last thing I’d want is-”
Spencer reaches out to catch Floyd’s hand in his. He squeezes his fingers, letting his true feelings on the situation show in his eyes. Floyd pauses, seeing the answer very clearly. He lets out a breath of relief, his expression full of warmth.
He lets go of Spencer’s hand and gets up, then stops where he is, staring out of the window. “Spence - look.”
Through one of the windows on the top floor of the workshop building, in the rising sunlight, Spencer catches sight of Ripley. His careless tumble of bright green curls is falling over his temple, bouncing as he nods his head along to music he must have playing on his headphones.
He’s carefully setting up a canvas on an easel, a pencil tucked between his knuckles. That spot right in front of the window must get the best light.
Eddie is taking a little sunbath on the windowsill, but he keeps his little eyes open to watch Ripley as he steps back and looks at the canvas, rolling the pencil between his fingers.
“He’s doing it!” Floyd says wonderingly. “I thought he was struggling for inspiration?”
“I guess - not anymore,” Spencer answers.
Floyd and Spencer turn to smile delightedly at each other. Floyd lets out a dazed laugh, then turns to go refill his coffee. Spencer catches his wrist, gazing up at him with a hopeful question in his eyes.
Floyd rolls his eyes, but leans down to let Spencer place a little kiss on his mouth.
“Weirdo,” Floyd laughs, shaking his head as he turns away. “Why that makes you so damn happy, I’ll never understand.”
“I know,” Spencer sighs happily. He folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them, watching Floyd with adoring eyes. “That’s okay.”
“I take notes on it every time you want one, and they’ve never helped me figure it out. Not one bit.”
Spencer stands up, then leans down to kiss the top of Floyd’s head. “Because you don’t need help. Just - thank you for doing it. I know it’s nothing to you, but for me-”
Spencer breaks off and whips around as someone calls out, a long sound, sort of the verbal equivalent of a wolf whistle. He and Floyd peer out through their window to find Ripley grinning down at them from his, apparently having caught the little kiss they exchanged.
Floyd and Spencer glance at each other in confusion, then both let out a sputter of laughter as the realization hits both of them at once.
“Oh, my god,” Spencer groans. “He halloed disrespectfully! Floyd! Look what you’ve started!”
“I didn’t know!” Floyd laughs indignantly. He swats a hand at Ripley, who grins widely before he turns back to his canvas. “We’ve got to watch ourselves with that one, we can’t go giving him ideas!”
“What - Floyd,” Spencer laughs helplessly. “The whole reason we wanted the bookshop was to get people thinking, to get ideas out there!”
“Oh. That’s - true.” Floyd smiles brightly up at Spencer. “Then I guess the bookshop is off to a good start!”
Spencer catches his lip between his teeth. “I’m not sure that halloing disrespectfully is the kind of idea we were hoping to get out there.”
“Sure it is.” Floyd cracks a maniacal grin. “It’s anarchy, baby.”
“My god,” Spencer groans, and shoves Floyd towards the bedroom. “Go get changed before you get to work. I’ll clean up in here.”
“Sounds good,” Floyd calls back. “Meet me in our bookshop when you’re done.”
Spencer stops where he is, halfway through gathering up the dishes.
He stands there in the quiet, listening to the rousing birds, feeling the growing sunlight on his face. Watching the sunlight move on the curtains, watching Ripley sketching in his window, watching the wispy clouds pick up the glow of the sunrise, turning peachy against the indigo sky.
After some time he gathers up the dishes, collects Naomi, and gently returns her to her tank.
Then he heads for the stairs to walk down into his dream. A strange, giddy feeling he’ll have to get used to. He’s going to be experiencing it every day, from now on.
Our bookshop.
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