Chapter Text
cut the tape, remove the mylar, repair the cover, fold and cut and fold again the new mylar, replace and re-tape, check the book in, set it off to the side. cut the tape, remove the mylar...
your hands move methodically and at tempo as you hum to yourself, repairing books at the front desk of your library in the evening hours when there are precious few patrons with queries and questions to interrupt your rhythm. the background chatter of the arts program across the building ebbs and flows as children play with glue and sequins and beads and beans and biodegradable glitter and paper ribbons and pipe cleaners and other messy things that are delightful to craft with — and rather a pain to clean up — and you set yet another freshly re-covered book off to the side to be re-shelved in the stacks at a later time.
cut the tape, remove the mylar, repair the cover— oh, this one needs spine repair, too. you reach forward, fingertips grazing the small, squeezable, refillable bottle of glue kept at the book repairs counter— and, of course, it was empty again. you were the only one who refilled it consistently, it seemed. you sigh and stretch your shoulders out, your steady rhythm stuttering as the time signature of your movement changes, and you badge your way into the staff area for the mother bottle of glue.
you loved working evenings, and if your library was open late every day you would want to work only the evening shifts. especially now, in the fall season, when the sunlight outside dips elegantly behind the hillside and sets fire to the oranges and yellows and reds of the trees in the parking lot; when you can gaze up dreamily at Mt. Ebbot's own changing foliage — the warm and rotting colors of autumn creeping and marching and stretching and growing up and up and up towards the peak — through the tall glass windows behind the librarians' desk. you do regret that, due to the placement of the windows, the librarians themselves cannot admire the view, but... well, their loss is your gain. though, of course, you would never say that out loud— that would be rude! or, at the very least, it would be smug.
...maybe you were allowed a little smugness.
you return to the front desk, the larger bottle of glue in hand, unscrewing the top in preparation to fill the smaller bottle— and you nearly drop it when your eyes alight upon fire.
a gasp spills from your throat and glue spills over your hands from your fumbled catch (nice save, though! the carpet lives to be glue-free another day!), and your cheeks all but physically burn as you, mildly disgusted at the texture between your fingers, scramble to put the bottle of glue on the counter, and the slow eveningtime ticking of the gears in your head whirs back to life as the customer-service aspect of your job once again becomes relevant.
you relax (somehow managing to not choke on your own spit) when your brain finally registers that the fire is, for lack of a better word, contained. no books are in danger this evening! at least, not from this patron. even now, three full years after the monsters re-integrated into human society, your pulse still throbs traitorously when this particular monster graces your workplace with his presence:
grillby.
gods, he was beautiful to look at. a man made of living fire— literal fire that twists and weaves and flutters and flickers and dances and digs its tendrils deep into your retinas, your daydreams, your heart—
"—hi there!" you blurt out, smiling your widest smile, mentally swatting away your inappropriate for workplace interaction thoughts and hoping the patron on the other side of the desk wasn't paying too close attention to your clumsiness while you grab a tissue to wipe your hands with. "sorry, sorry, i was—" you tip your chin towards the repairs desk, indicating your prior task, "—but nevermind that! what can i do for ya?"
"...i'd like to renew this book," comes grillby's low, soft, crackling response, and your heartbeat flutters again as the warmth of his words, both physical and metaphorical, washes over you. he doesn't speak much, but when he does? it's something you treasure. you look forward to seeing him more (much more) than you probably should. how unprofessional of you.
as he speaks, the fire elemental reaches into the canvas tote bag hooked over his forearm and pulls out a book, offering it to you. 'backyard gardening in dry climates...' cute. you accept the book, your fingertips just barely brushing against his, against the silky texture of living flame, and you suppress a shiver.
"sure! let me see what i can do," you answer on-script, but your lips quirk up into another heartfelt smile. did you even stop smiling in the first place, though? it's hard to tell— you even feel your eyes crinkling up in the corners, your lashes grazing the tops of your cheeks. "do you have the library card you want to use today?"
he nods, and holds out the small, rectangular piece of plastic. your fingertips brush again— he doesn't flinch away, is that a good thing? no, darling, wait— stop overthinking benign workplace interactions! don't do this to yourself, it's bad for your heart!!
beep! you scan and promptly return his card to him, surreptitiously and practiced-ly swallowing a sigh into the warmth bubbling in your stomach when his fingertips yet again brush yours.
a thought intrudes on your reverie: you suddenly hope that you didn't still have glue on your hands. you internally blanch and your fingers flex of their own accord as if to gauge the remaining and decidedly unwelcome tackiness.
...right. book renewal. that's like, library-clerking 101. you glance up at the computer, grillby's account pulled up on the screen, and you scan the book on the RFID pad. the computer prompts that the book is already checked out to this patron, do you want to renew it? yes. an errant lock of your hair falls forward over your shoulder, and you instinctively tuck it back behind your ear. maybe it's about time for a haircut...
beep! the book renews successfully.
"looks like it renewed successfully for you!" you say cheerily, holding back a wince at how loud your voice sounds in the quiet lobby. you hand back the book— and hold back disappointment when your fingers do not touch grillby's again. "you've got another three weeks with the book— would you like a receipt with the new due date?"
"...please," grillby answers, tucking the book back into his bag, straightening his shoulders to stand tall and poised. gosh, he sure is tall...
you bite the inside of your cheek — now stop that! — and hit the f11 key on your keyboard. the computer automatically emails a receipt, and the small printer to your forward right buzzes as it spits out a paper receipt. you pluck it like a flower and offer it to the man in front of you, poor of a bouquet as it is, and absentmindedly slip back into your customer service spiel with a thoughtful: "i always print them for myself when i check out books, too; they make pretty convenient bookmarks."
the flames atop grillby's head flicker and pop in response, and you imagine it's something akin to a smile of agreement on his part— it's rather hard to read the facial expressions of a monster who doesn't exactly have any facial features, after all.
"...i agree."
oh! oh you were right, that time! yes, score!
the paper receipt transfers hands, transfers ownership, and you swallow yet another earnest sigh when his warm, warm, warm fingers brush once again, finally again, against your cold ones. you also smile again —though "again" could really once "again" be interpreted as "never stopped smiling in the first place" — and you lean heavily against the scaffolding of your customer service training, feeling a little wobbly. oh, how utterly shameless of you; weak-kneed and doe-eyed like a wee little lamb after just a brush of physical contact— so, in an effort to root yourself to reality proper, you offer an attemptedly-neutral but secretly-wistful wave as he turns to leave.
"oh," you hiccup out as an afterthought, the surprise in your voice catching you both off guard, "sorry, i just forgot to say—" oh my god you can't be this ridiculous what is wrong with you don't you know how to speak english he's going to think you're a total fool "—we recently had a system update, you can receive account notifications to your text messages now instead of just email or phone call." you pause, then add on (partly because you think it's relevant and mostly because your boss keeps reminding you to tell people): "...and you can always check on your account online or through our app, whether to keep tabs on your borrowing limitations or to renew items. uh, just in case you didn't already know!"
grillby pauses, digesting your words, then politely nods in acknowledgement. "...thank you. i prefer... visiting in person."
your self-disparaging internal monologue along the lines of "oh god now he's going to think you're trying to shoo him away why did you SAY it like that there have GOT to be better ways to provide information you ditzy piece of—" grinds to a dramatic halt and dissolves away into something nauseatingly fuzzy and warm. it would be more than presumptuous to assume, but... maybe, just maybe you're a... teeny-tiny... small... itty-bitty contributing piece to why he likes visiting in person? could it be wrong to hold this little hope?
and while you're still trying to process the about-face of your own brain, while you're still weak and reeling and vulnerable to outside attack— he smiles at you. really, definitively, actually smiles at you. there on his face, where before there was nothing but fire, you see a small flash of bright yellow curve upwards, and, after a few moments, flicker back into nothingness.
so of course you smile back, how could you not? and this time you can't quite tamp down the laugh in your throat. you feel giddy— is it normal to feel giddy over so little?? smiling is a normal social interaction!! you smile at so many people every single day!! you get paid to be nice to people, it's customer service!!
"i'm so happy to hear that!" you say, clinging desperately to the framework of professionalism. a bead of sweat trickles down your back. you... probably could've dropped the "so" from "so happy", that might've been a bit much. "i'm very lucky to be able to say i love my job, and a big part of it is the community i serve! i love the work i do, i love my coworkers, and i love the patrons we have."
WOWIE! okay! time to pump!! the brakes!! you're gonna stumble over your own tongue and spill your literal soul out onto the countertop if you don't redirect, redirect, redirect!!
before even giving grillby a chance to respond, you bring up both hands, this time, into your signature friendly wave, signifying the end of the conversation. it's a gesture you use quite often to show authenticity and endearment, your two-handed palms-forward wave— a gesture to show engagement on a friendly level with the library patrons, but at this exact moment it feels rather... clumsy. inelegant. panicky? "haha, well! thank you for chatting with me! i hope you have a good evening!"
your voice feels a little strained, sounds a little high, tastes a little tight— but, despite your better judgement, despite the fluttering in your veins and the buzzing at the base of your skull and the heat in your face, you simply can't help but tack on a softer, more personal: "...i'll see you next time!"
grillby's flames pop and sway hypnotically, rhythmically, responsively, and he dips his head to you— and the movement is measured, even-keeled; neither clumsy nor inelegant, nothing like you. "...and you, as well."
and when he finally turns and leaves, the warm orange glow of fire passing through the front doors of the library lobby and out into the sunset-darkening parking lot, you have to take a moment to crouch down behind the front desk and bury your face in your hands.
...oh, you have it bad. you'll be riding this high for weeks, you can tell. not even your own particular flavor of awkward can taint this memory for you: he smiled at you! really smiled! with his mouth!! for three years now you've carried this torch, held this candle, nursed this ember— an ember that sparked bright and curious back when you were a library page who didn't work with patrons and he, among his fellow monsters, had just settled in your hometown. the small, fluttery thing sizzled softly through your fingertips, through your promotions across libraries— and now that you're back at your home building as a clerk, it crackles in your ribcage all the hotter.
ah, well— orange has always been your favorite color, and maybe indulging in a burn isn't such a bad thing.
you allow yourself a few moments to reel and blush and swoon and otherwise be absolutely and entirely silly, but, sooner than you would like, your time is up and you have to get back to work. you straighten, popping up from behind the computer like a violently unfurling monstera leaf, and your hair bounces dramatically around your shoulders with the movement. you inhale slowly, exhale quickly, and take a few steps to your right to resume your task.
cut the tape, remove the mylar, repair the cover... and after giving yourself a papercut — a mylar-cut? a plasticcut? — you realize, rather offended, that focusing on your work is somehow much more difficult than it had been about five minutes ago.