Work Text:
The man who owned Time and Motion was a smart businessman. He understood the uniqueness of his shop, a real storefront watch- and clock-making establishment independent from the large businesses that dominated the market. He'd carved out a niche for himself, then cultivated word-of-mouth by giving the public a glimpse into the intricate profession. His staff's workbenches filled the shop windows, one person per display, and passers-by could stop and watch the custom, handcrafted timepieces being made.
It fascinated Viggo, the process both precise and artistic, requiring a variety of skills most people probably assumed had been phased out in favor of machines. He walked the long way round to and from his job at the bookstore just so he could pass the shop and catch a glimpse of the artistry on display. And he wasn't the only one. Every day the shop garnered crowds of varying sizes, enthralled by the craftsmen's work.
Some of the artisans dressed for the occasion, wearing smart clothes with polished buttons and stylish accessories in recognition of their audience. Others played to the crowd, working with a flourish Viggo thought must be a hindrance to their work. Some made silly faces to the children or waved to the teens; others openly flirted with whoever caught their eye across the glass. But the one Viggo always came to see was the one who never looked out the window, never acknowledged the presence of anyone on the sidewalk outside.
He always dressed comfortably, usually in a sweater or a loose-fitting shirt, and he seemed to work effortlessly, his fingers nimble and lithe, floating over the intricate mechanisms in a way that reminded Viggo of a dancer. Other than his hands, the most Viggo ever really saw was the top of his head and his profile. But those hands spoke volumes about the man; they drew Viggo to the shop just as undeniably as if they were sirens pulling a crew into a rocky shore. He began to make note of the man's schedule, to make sure he was passing during one of the watchmaker's shifts - and only when he had time to pause and admire him and his work - so he could watch every move those elegant hands made. He'd memorized the shape of them, the flex of tendon and bone, the delicate artistic balance of the palm and the arch of the knuckles.
It became part of his routine, these regular sojourns to the corner shop, taking up his usual place off to the side, never directly in front of the one who interested him. At times he wondered if he was becoming slightly stalker-ish, but he pushed those concerns aside. As long as he didn't impose himself on the man outside of his working hours, what was really the harm. The owner of the shop intended people to watch his employees; that was the whole point, after all.
Viggo sat behind the bookstore cash register idly thumbing through the newspaper. Normally he wasn't keen on filling in for one of his staff, even temporarily, but this morning it was somewhat of a relief. There were only a handful of people in the entire store, and no one appeared to need to check out any time soon, which left him plenty of time to think, to let his mind wander to the corner shop and the one who made timepieces with such grace and aplomb. He'd decided that morning to avoid the shop on his way home even though he knew the man would be there. It was starting to feel inadequate somehow, as if part of him wanted more but the rest of him refused to act. He was starting to feel like a creep and a coward, and the momentary pleasure he received from watching the man work wasn't making up for that anymore.
A hand with long, well-formed fingers slid two newspapers onto the counter, lingering just enough to draw Viggo's attention before pulling back. There was no denying who those fingers belonged to; that hand was all too familiar, imprinted for weeks in Viggo's mind. Slowly he raised his eyes and for the first time saw the face that belonged to those extraordinary hands.
"You're the watchmaker." The words came out uncensored, embarrassing and discomfiting, but the man across the counter look unfazed. In fact, Viggo thought he looked amused.
"And you're a hard man to find. You don't work anywhere near the shop."
"I'm sorry?" The man could have been speaking a foreign language for all that Viggo understood him. Unbelievably, the man's voice was even more distracting than his hands. Just those few words caused a cascade of synaptic misfires in Viggo's brain and he struggled to right the connections.
"What, you don't think we notice our regulars? You're there almost every day."
"But I've never stood in your line of vision."
"And that would be proof that you're not actually a spy." The man chuckled then, and Viggo couldn't help noticing how sexy were the lines around his eyes, the warmth in his expression and demeanor. Viggo smiled back, the slight vertigo he felt just moments before settling into a pleasant hum of excitement at the base of his spine.
"So," he said, taking the money the man had lain on the papers and quickly making change, "I've been painfully obvious. And you've been trying to find me because ...?"
"I thought it was about time for some introductions." He dropped the change in the tip jar and extended his hand. "I'm Sean."
Viggo clasped one of the hands he'd been obsessing over for weeks, his mind filing away the strength in the grip and the feel of the fingers as they settled on his skin. "Viggo."
"Viggo. That's unusual."
"My father's Danish."
Sean nodded, that quirk of a smile growing as they both realized they were still shaking hands. They let go and Viggo instantly wished he could find some excuse to take hold again.
"Anyroad, you're working and I need to get to the shop." He folded the papers under his arm then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card, laying it down on the counter. "If you're ready to do more than watch me make timepieces, call me."
Viggo slid the card off the counter and immediately put it in his front jeans pocket. "I think we're well past window displays and workbenches."
"Agreed." He gave Viggo a half-wave, mock-salute then walked out the door. Viggo stuck his hand in his pocket, worrying the edge of the card with his thumb, wondering if it would be completely uncool to make the call even before Sean made it off the block.