For The Prompt Meme, Sorry I Really Want To Send You "all Of Them" For Carcar, But Containing Myself

For the prompt meme, sorry I really want to send you "all of them" for carcar, but containing myself as much as possible: 11, 37, 38, 40 - whichever sparks joy 😌

omg thank you anon, i am going for #11: hiding from pursuers [1.2k; notting hill au] put that guy in a situation prompts

It’s teeming down rain. The perfect kind of weather for curling up with a good book, but not so much for strolling down high street popping in and out of shops, which means Oscar hasn't seen a single customer all afternoon. He doesn’t mind the quiet, but hopes and dreams can’t pay the bills. It would be nice to actually sell a few books before Oscar has to resort to desperate measures, like selling novelty socks or adding whatever’s trending on booktok to his inventory.

Oscar shudders and flips the page in his book.

He’s only read a few pages when the door bangs open, the bell above it jangling as someone stumbles inside, bringing buckets of water with them. It’s to be expected with the weather, but what’s not expected is the way they shake their arms off, flinging water everywhere like a dog running from the bath.

“Do you mind?” Oscar says loudly. “Those aren’t waterproof, you know.”

The man looks up, eyes wide as he takes in his surroundings. “Sorry,” he says, wiping wet hands down his soaking t-shirt, white cotton gone translucent from the rain. He looks back over his shoulder, peering out the window. “I didn’t mean to – do you mind if I wait here for a moment?”

“If you’re planning to wait out the rain, it’ll be a long moment,” Oscar says. Destruction of property aside, the man can stay as long as he likes. His wet shirt clings to his frankly outrageous figure, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, his dark hair hangs over his forehead, dripping down the dramatic slope of his nose. Oscar won’t remember a single word he reads for as long as this man is in his shop.

The man ducks away from the door as a few shadowy figures rush past outside, hurrying closer to the counter. “It’s not the rain,” he says. “It’s, um…”

Oscar closes his book, frowning. “It’s what?” he asks suspiciously. The man’s jeans are as soaked as the rest of him, hanging low on his hips. If he’s stolen anything, it would have to be quite small to fit in any of his pockets. 

The man grimaces, a “what can you do?” sort of expression. “Fans,” he says, brushing his hair off of his face only for it to swing back down a second later. 

Oscar takes another look at him. He’s handsome, but not in a way that’s immediately familiar. “Are you in movies or something?”

“Ah, no.” A little smile appears on his face, too crooked to be a movie star’s. “You don’t follow football at all, do you?”

“More of a cricket man,” Oscar says, unable to keep himself from glancing at the man’s body again. An athlete – with all those abs, he should’ve guessed. “Are you any good, then?”

He ducks his head. “The team are doing well this season,” he says. It’s such a canned answer, as though Oscar’s a reporter at the side of the practice pitch. The man folds his arms over his stomach, pinching the fabric of his t-shirt between his fingers. A small puddle has started growing at his feet.

Oscar slides off the stool, abruptly coming to his senses. There’s a tiny break room in back with a kettle for tea and a spare jumper for days when the shop is particularly drafty. “Let me get you a towel,” he says, almost certain there are no actual towels in his shop. At best there might be a tea towel, but even that is better than nothing. “D’you want some tea?”

The man wrinkles his nose. “No. Thank you,” he tacks on, trailing after Oscar towards the back of the shop.

Oscar was right about the tea towel. “Best I can do, I’m afraid,” he says, offering a faded floral tea towel and a knitted jumper left behind by the previous owner of this shop to the professional footballer dripping rainwater perilously close to the travel guide section. 

He takes the towel first, wiping it over his face and then his hair, leaving it standing up in a dozen dark spikes. The disorder somehow suits him. Still Oscar’s fingers itch to brush the strands back into place, until the guy grasps the bottom of his shirt and whips it over his head with the casual disinterest of a man who knows exactly how good his body looks. 

He holds his empty hand out, and it takes Oscar an embarrassingly long moment to realize he’s waiting for the sweater.

Oscar passes it over and turns away in an attempt to salvage what’s left of his dignity. He doesn’t know what’s come over him. Up until ten minutes ago, Oscar would have said jocks aren’t his type. His ex was smaller than him, lanky and lazy and prone to playing video games ten hours a day. Oscar had been attracted to him, but they’d also toppled over in a laughing heap whenever Lando tried to lift him. This guy could throw Oscar over his shoulder and take off down the street without breaking a sweat.

The man clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Not a problem,” Oscar says, turning back around. It’s no surprise that he should look so good in a lumpy sweater of indeterminate color and origin. “Wish I could offer you a pair of glasses, no one would recognize you.”

The crooked smile makes a triumphant return. Oscar considers strangling himself with the tea towel, just to save himself any further embarrassment. “The dry clothes are more than enough,” he says. “I had to leave in a hurry.”

He must be quite famous, Oscar thinks, to be chased through the rain by a mass of fans. “Well,” Oscar says, gesturing at the empty shop. “Feel free to stay as long as you’d like. As you can see, we’re not very busy.” Oscar turns away and hurries towards the front of the shop, keen to hide his face behind his book. “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” he calls over his shoulder, the same as he does with all his customers. Few people ever take him up on it. Customers in a bookshop are mostly content to wander in silence.

“Is this your shop?”

Oscar looks up, surprised to find the man has followed him. “Yes,” Oscar says.

He shifts his jaw, giving Oscar a considering look. “You are Bertram?”

“God, no,” Oscar laughs. Oscar had started off working in Bertram's Books part-time in uni, and when Bertram retired a few years ago, he’d signed the shop over to Oscar. “He was the original owner of this place. I’m Oscar.”

“Oscar,” the man repeats slowly, holding his hand out over the counter. It’s warm when Oscar takes it, a pleasant strength in his grip. “I’m Carlos. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Oscar says, quickly pulling his hand back when he realizes he’s gone on shaking Carlos’s hand for far longer than is normal.

Carlos looks around the shop again, then turns back to Oscar with a smile. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve read anything for fun,” he says. “What would you recommend?”