Chapter Text
Lewis Nixon III stumbled into the office of Nixon Nitration at precisely 8:12 a.m., three minutes later than he’d managed the day before. He was nursing the remains of a raging headache, which had little to do with the ancient springs of his mattress and everything to do with the empty bottle of VAT 69 still sitting on his kitchen counter.
He didn’t know why he even bothered locking his office door when the first thing he saw upon arriving was Harry Welsh, Operations Manager, lounging in his chair like he’d been there since sunrise. Harry had a talent for making himself at home in other people’s spaces, an annoying but forgivable habit, mostly because Harry could manage the actual operations of the plant without accidentally setting the place on fire—a low bar, but one few people here managed to clear.
“Late night?” Harry asked, smirking, because he was one of the few people who could get away with it. He gestured toward the files piled haphazardly on Lew’s desk, almost as if he were proud of having contributed to the mess.
Lew grunted and slung his coat over the back of a chair. “Don’t start.”
“Relax, I’m just saying you look like you slept in a ditch. Again.”
Lew pointed at the door. “You want me to fire you? Because I’ll do it.”
“You wouldn’t know how.” Harry grinned. “Anyway, Stanhope’s already circling the drain this morning. Something about production numbers not adding up, blah blah. I wasn’t really listening. You’re gonna want to jump on that before he decides to… I don’t know, light the factory on fire to save on energy costs.”
Lew pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ. Okay. Give me five minutes, I need coffee.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, looking down pointedly at the cup already in Lew’s hand. Lew glared at him before taking a long sip. It was cold. He grimaced but drank it anyway, because he needed something to take the edge off the distinct pounding in his temples.
His day went downhill from there.
First, there was Stanhope, the so-called President of Nixon Nitration, who had managed to confuse two entirely different quarterly reports and was now convinced they were hemorrhaging money on equipment they didn’t even own. Lew spent forty-five minutes patiently explaining depreciation schedules, only for Stanhope to nod sagely, clap him on the shoulder, and say, “You’ll handle it, son.”
Then there was Ron Spiers, the head of logistics, who materialized in his doorway like an ominous ghost. “We’re out of acetone.”
“What do you mean we’re out of acetone?” Lew asked, staring at him like he’d announced they were out of air.
“I mean,” Ron said calmly, “we don’t have any. The shipment didn’t come in, and now production is behind schedule.”
“How does a logistics department lose track of acetone?”
Ron shrugged. “Ask Buck. Sales said they needed a bigger order out west, so we diverted stock.”
“Of course they did,” Lew muttered. “Okay, fine. I’ll—wait, why am I fixing this?”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re the only one who actually fixes things around here.”
Lew muttered something under his breath that even he couldn’t quite make out, poured himself more cold coffee, and got to work.
By noon, he had sorted out the acetone issue, reviewed three proposals for new machinery, and endured Buck Compton barging into his office to pitch some half-baked idea about expanding their reach into “consumer fireworks.”
“Fireworks, Buck,” Lew had said, rubbing his temples.
“Yeah! It’s the next big thing, Nix. People love a good explosion.”
“Buck, the last time you suggested we ‘branch out,’ we spent two weeks cleaning up the factory floor after that disaster with the paint thinner.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Buck said indignantly.
“It was entirely your fault!” Lew snapped, standing up and pointing a finger at him. “You signed off on—” He stopped himself, taking a deep breath. “Just. Go. Please.”
Buck shrugged like he hadn’t just narrowly escaped a homicide. “Your loss.”
It was only after Buck left that Lew noticed the headache he’d been ignoring all morning had settled into a familiar, gnawing ache at the base of his skull. He sighed, reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of VAT 69.
He didn’t bother with a glass.
By the time 5:00 rolled around, Lew was still at his desk, jacket discarded, tie loosened, staring blankly at a spreadsheet that no longer made sense to him. Outside, the rest of the office had cleared out, the hum of conversation replaced by silence.
He leaned back in his chair, swirling the bottle absently in one hand, and stared at the ceiling. He could still hear Buck’s voice in his head, chipper and infuriating, like some cursed jingle you couldn’t stop humming. Harry had probably gone home to his wife and kids by now, and Ron was probably off sharpening knives in the dark or whatever he did for fun.
Lew sighed, setting the bottle back down on the desk. Another day done, another crisis averted, and another inch closer to madness. He wondered, not for the first time, why he even bothered.
/
The thought of going home made Lew want to drive his car straight into the river. Not in a dramatic way, mind you, just in a reset button for his entire life sort of way. His house was too big, too empty, and too full of Kathy’s lingering, passive-aggressive energy. Every time he walked in, he half-expected to hear her voice saying something like, “I told you that chair didn’t match the couch.” Never mind that she hadn’t lived there in a year. The place was haunted, and not by ghosts.
So instead of turning toward home, Lew turned down some random side street he’d never noticed before. He wasn’t trying to find anything; he was just avoiding everything. The car rolled along quiet streets, past houses and little shops, until something caught his eye.
The Parachute Press.
It was a small bookshop, tucked between a bakery and what might have been a tailor’s, though Lew wasn’t entirely sure because the tailor’s display mannequin looked like it was wearing a Halloween costume. The bookshop, however, seemed promising. The sign hanging above the door was simple and neat, and the words painted on the window sealed the deal: Seats inside – long stays welcomed. Open til late.
Lew squinted at the sign, then at the building, then at the sign again. A bookshop with coffee and no closing time in sight? That sounded like the closest thing to salvation he’d found all week. He parked his car, climbed out, and stepped inside.
Immediately, the smell hit him—a combination of books, coffee, and something faintly sweet, like cookies or cinnamon. It was the kind of smell that made you want to take a deep breath and maybe lie down on the floor, except that would’ve been weird, so Lew restrained himself.
The place was cozy but crammed, with bookshelves lining every wall and spilling into the middle of the floor. Some shelves were neat, with pristine new books arranged by color or genre, while others were a total mess, with old, worn paperbacks stuffed into every available space. There were mismatched chairs and tables scattered around, the kind you’d find in a grandma’s attic or a yard sale. One table near the back held a stack of books next to a chessboard that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.
At the counter stood a tall man with auburn hair, hunched over a notebook like he was trying to solve a math problem with sheer force of will. He didn’t look up when Lew walked in, though Lew could tell the guy had heard him because his pen paused mid-scratch for a second before continuing.
Lew wandered toward the nearest shelf, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but the idea of going home to his silent, Kathy-infested house made him determined to stay here as long as possible. He pulled a book off the shelf at random and stared at the cover. It was some kind of fantasy thing with a dragon on it. He flipped it over to read the back, then immediately put it back because the description involved six made-up words he didn’t know how to pronounce.
The next book was worse. It was about something called time management strategies , which made Lew laugh under his breath because, let’s be honest, if he was any good at managing his time, he wouldn’t have ended up drinking half a bottle of VAT 69 and passing out on the couch the night before.
He tried another shelf, then another. Nothing grabbed him. Everything either seemed too boring, too complicated, or too optimistic, which was frankly offensive. After ten minutes of wandering, he found himself standing in the middle of the shop, empty-handed and increasingly annoyed.
The man at the counter finally looked up. “Can I help you with something?”
Lew turned, blinking like he’d forgotten there was anyone else here. The guy had blue eyes that were sharp but not unkind, like he was sizing Lew up but not in a way that made him want to leave. He looked calm, the kind of calm that was either deeply comforting or deeply infuriating, depending on your mood.
“Uh, no,” Lew said, a little too quickly. “I’m just… browsing.”
The man nodded, his face neutral but his eyebrows raising just enough to suggest he didn’t entirely believe him. “Take your time.”
Lew gave a quick nod, turning back to the shelves. He pulled another book at random and immediately regretted it. Poetry. God help him. Who the hell reads poetry on purpose?
He put it back and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He was starting to wonder if this had been a mistake. Maybe books weren’t his thing after all. Maybe he should’ve gone to a bar instead. At least bars didn’t expect you to pick something meaningful off a shelf.
“Not finding anything?” the man asked, his tone calm and lightly curious.
Lew hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. “There’s just… a lot,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the shelves. “I’m not much of a reader, I guess.”
The man smiled faintly, almost like he’d expected that. “No rush. Sometimes it takes a while.”
After a solid twenty minutes of shuffling around and pulling books off the shelves only to put them back immediately, Lew finally gave up. He sighed, loud enough to be heard across the room, and turned toward the counter where the auburn-haired man still stood, scribbling something in his notebook.
“Alright,” Lew said, running a hand through his hair, “I surrender. What do you recommend?”
The man looked up, and for the first time, Lew caught a glimpse of amusement flickering across his otherwise calm face. He leaned back slightly, tapping the end of his pen against the counter, and then— damn it —he chuckled. It wasn’t loud, more like the low rumble of someone who’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” the man said, standing up straight and stretching slightly before setting his pen down.
Lew blinked. “You were waiting for me to give up?”
The man tilted his head, his faint smile deepening just a bit. “You didn’t exactly look like you were having the time of your life over there.”
Lew opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, realizing he didn’t have much of a leg to stand on. Instead, he let out a short laugh, gesturing vaguely at the shelves. “Alright, smart guy. Fix it. What’ve you got for someone who has no idea what they’re looking for?”
The man considered him for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was assessing Lew the way a doctor might assess a particularly stubborn patient. Then he nodded, as if coming to a decision.
“Okay,” he said, stepping out from behind the counter. “Let me ask you a couple of questions first.”
“Questions?” Lew repeated, half-skeptical, half-intrigued.
“Relax, it’s not a job interview.” The man’s tone was dry but not unkind. “First question: Do you want something funny?”
Lew nodded almost immediately. “Absolutely. If I take home anything serious, it’s going straight in the trash.”
“Got it,” the man said, pulling a book from a nearby shelf. He flipped it over in his hand, checked the spine, and then set it down on the counter before moving to another shelf.
“Second question: Do you hate self-help books?”
Lew narrowed his eyes. “I don’t hate them, but they’re not really my thing. Too preachy.”
The man chuckled again, soft and low, as he grabbed another book. “Noted.”
Lew watched him for a moment, fascinated by how deliberate he was. He didn’t just grab random books; he studied the shelves, flipping through pages here and there before deciding.
By the time he returned to the counter, he had three books in hand. He set them down one by one, the covers bright and slightly ridiculous, like something out of a cartoon.
“Alright,” the man said, pointing to the first one. “This one’s about a snake who eats a bull, and then spends the rest of the book slinking around trying to digest it without getting eaten itself. It’s surprisingly profound for a story about indigestion.”
Lew blinked, then snorted. “Okay, you’ve got my attention.”
The man moved to the second book. “This one’s about a corporate guy who snaps, quits his job, and moves to a cabin in the woods to get away from everything. But instead of finding peace, he ends up in a feud with a gang of raccoons who won’t leave him alone. It’s absurd, but it’ll make you laugh.”
Lew laughed again, the mental image of a man battling raccoons so ridiculous he couldn’t help it. “Alright, that’s two for two.”
Finally, the man tapped the last book. “This one’s about a platypus that’s born without a sharp elbow. It has claws instead, and it spends the entire book trying to figure out how to swim better with claws. It’s strange, but kind of endearing.”
Lew stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, shaking his head. “What is this theme? ‘Self-help but make it weird’ ?”
The man smiled faintly. “Something like that. They’re funny, but they make you think. They’re good if you don’t want to feel like you’re being talked at.”
Lew considered the books for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, I’ll bite. How much for all three?”
The man rang them up with practiced ease, sliding them into a paper bag. “You’ll have to let me know which one’s your favorite,” he said, handing the bag over.
Lew hesitated, then took the bag, meeting the man’s steady gaze. “What’s your name?” he asked, almost without thinking.
The man tilted his head slightly, as if surprised by the question. Then he extended a hand. “Richard Winters. Most people call me Dick.”
Lew took his hand, his grip firm but not overdone. “Lewis Nixon. Most people just call me Nix.”
“Well, Nix,” Dick said, his tone dry but faintly amused, “don’t let the raccoons scare you off.”
Lew laughed again, feeling lighter than he had all day. “I’ll try not to.”
Lew lingered by the counter, the weight of the paper bag in his hand feeling heavier than it should have. He looked toward the mismatched chairs and tables in the corner of the shop, surrounded by walls of books that seemed to absorb the world outside. It was the kind of space that begged you to sit down and forget everything else for a while.
“Mind if I sit here for a bit?” he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.
Dick looked up from his notebook, his sharp blue eyes meeting Lew’s with a softness that caught him off guard. “Of course,” Dick said easily, like the answer had been obvious. “That’s what the seats are for. Stay as long as you want. We’re open until midnight.”
Lew nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line as he glanced back toward the corner. “Thanks,” he muttered, already heading toward the armchair that looked like it had seen better days.
He sank into the chair, sighing deeply as he let himself settle into the worn cushions. It was a good chair, solid and comfortable in a way that felt lived-in rather than old. He rested his elbows on the arms, staring at the bookshelves around him, rows of spines lined up like quiet sentinels.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his flask, unscrewed the cap, and took a slow sip. The burn was familiar, warm and sharp as it worked its way down. It wasn’t enough to numb anything, but it took the edge off the restless energy buzzing under his skin.
For a moment, he just sat there, the flask resting loosely in his hand. He felt… odd. Not bad, exactly. Just different. The hum of the shop, the faint clink of Dick’s pen against the counter, the smell of old paper and coffee—it all felt like a kind of bubble, separate from the rest of the world.
Lew leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes for a moment. The knot of tension in his chest loosened just slightly, like a cord that had been pulled too tight for too long. He let out a long breath, his shoulders sinking deeper into the chair.
/
The book was funny in a way that snuck up on Lew. It wasn’t the kind of humor that made you laugh immediately—it crept up on you, catching you off guard when you least expected it. More than once, he had to stop reading, his shoulders shaking as he stared up at the ceiling to avoid laughing out loud and breaking the peaceful quiet of the bookstore. His face felt hot from the effort of holding it in, the corners of his mouth twitching with suppressed amusement.
At one particularly ridiculous scene, he bit his lip, eyes watering slightly, and pressed the book against his chest as if that would somehow help. He was in the middle of recovering from another near-laugh when movement caught his eye. He glanced up just as Dick appeared, quietly placing a steaming mug of coffee on the little table beside him.
Dick didn’t say a word, just offered a small, warm smile before slipping away as quickly as he’d come.
“Thanks,” Lew called after him, his voice soft, and he saw Dick’s hand lift in acknowledgment before he disappeared behind the counter.
Lew sipped at the coffee, surprised at how good it was—smooth and rich without the bitterness that usually accompanied the sludge at the office. It was the kind of coffee that made you slow down, savor it. He let the warmth of it settle into his chest, blending with the comfort of the armchair and the quiet hum of the bookstore.
Eventually, though, his stomach began to growl, a low, persistent reminder that coffee wasn’t going to cut it for much longer. He didn’t want to leave, not yet, but hunger was a cruel mistress. Reluctantly, he closed the book, setting it on the table, and stood.
Walking back toward the counter, he cleared his throat lightly to get Dick’s attention. “Hey, uh, would it be alright if I left my stuff here for a minute? I was thinking of grabbing something from the bakery next door.”
Dick looked up, tilting his head slightly before holding up a finger. “Hang on,” he said, disappearing into the back for a moment.
Lew waited, confused, until Dick reappeared carrying a plate piled high with baked goods—croissants, muffins, cookies, and what looked like a slice of pie teetering precariously on top.
“Anything here work for you?” Dick asked, setting the plate down on the counter.
Lew blinked. “Where did you even—?”
“I’m friends with the baker next door,” Dick explained with an easy shrug. “They always drop off more than I can eat. I can’t go through it all before it goes bad, so I’m happy to share.”
Lew stared at the plate, his stomach growling louder now that the food was right in front of him. “Are you serious?”
Dick smiled, nodding toward the plate. “Take whatever you want.”
“Well, if you insist,” Lew said, reaching out to grab a croissant and a muffin. He paused, eyeing the slice of pie, before shaking his head. “I’ll save that for later. Don’t want to clean you out.”
Dick laughed softly. “There’s plenty more where that came from. Take what you need.”
Lew hesitated, then added the pie to his haul, muttering a sheepish, “Thanks.” He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been this easygoing, this… nice. It threw him off balance in a way he couldn’t quite articulate.
Balancing his loot, he nodded toward the counter. “I owe you one.”
Dick shook his head, smiling again. “Just enjoy your evening.”
/
Lew was completely taken by the book, his surroundings falling away as he lost himself in the ridiculousness of Stan’s feud with Gary the raccoon and the increasingly absurd traps they set for each other. The warmth of the bookshop, the soft jazz humming from the corner, and the occasional sound of the door chime as customers came and went only added to the stillness. It wasn’t the oppressive silence of his house or the chaos of his office. It was the kind of quiet that let him breathe, that let his mind wander without completely losing itself.
At some point, he finished the croissant, setting the empty plate on the little table beside him without looking away from the page. His coffee went cold, but he didn’t mind, sipping it anyway as he worked through another chapter. Time slipped away from him, measured only by the turning of pages and the occasional muffled footsteps of someone browsing a nearby shelf.
He didn’t notice how late it had gotten until there was a soft knock on the shelf above him. Startled, Lew looked up to see Dick standing there, an apologetic smile on his face.
“Sorry,” Dick said, his voice low and kind, as if he were the one intruding. “I’m closing up in about five minutes.”
Lew blinked, glancing at his watch and realizing, with no small amount of embarrassment, that he’d been sitting there for nearly five hours.
“Oh, right,” he said, scrambling to gather the book, his flask, and the empty plate. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to—”
Dick shook his head, his smile soft but genuine. “Don’t worry about it. You’re always welcome here.”
Lew hesitated, standing awkwardly with the book clutched in one hand and the plate in the other. “Thanks. For, uh… the coffee and the croissant, too. How much do I owe you?”
Dick’s smile widened just slightly, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. “Nothing. Call it a welcome.”
Lew frowned, opening his mouth to argue, but the look on Dick’s face made him stop. There was no smugness there, no sense that he was doing this out of obligation. He was just… being nice.
“Well, I appreciate it,” Lew said finally, feeling a little off-balance. He shifted the book in his hand, glancing back at the armchair that now felt like it belonged to him somehow. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
Dick nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. “Whenever you want. Have a good night, Nix.”
Lew paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder at Dick, who was already tidying up behind the counter. There was something about the man’s presence—calm, steady, and just warm enough to make Lew feel like he’d been seen without being scrutinized.
“Yeah,” Lew said softly, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You too, Dick.”