It took a minute for Tim to remember what he was looking for, and then he scanned the books around him to see what section he was in. Poetry, perfect. He followed the alphabet down to the Ns, but didn't see anything that he wanted.

Bracing himself, he looked around the corner and saw that the man at the counter was working diligently on something, maybe a drawing. His head was down, concentrating as his hand swept across the paper. There was something in it; charcoal he realized a moment later. There was a smudge of it across his cheek too.

"Excuse me. I was looking for Pablo Neruda, but I don't see it back here."

When the man looked up, a curled lock of hair fell across his forehead and all Tim wanted to do was brush it back for him. He smiled again and made his way around the counter. The snug, faded FDNY t-shirt and loose-fitting slate gray cargo pants were quickly overshadowed by the black forearm crutches the man was using. Tim was surprised but tried not to let it show. There was something very sexy about the ease with which the man handled the crutches.

"Y aquel reloj cuyo sonido era la voz de nuestras vidas, el secreto hilo de las semanas…" He quoted as he dodged a display of calendars and the rotating rack of 'leave a book, take a book' paperbacks. "Are you looking for a specific book?"

Tim's mind went blank, and he froze, wide-eyed, until the other man laughed.

"It's okay. I know we have three or four copies over here." He crutched around the corner from where Tim had been looking. "I'm Matt, by the way."

That's from Ode to Broken Things, the very first Bookstore story.

My question: Why did you write this as RPS and not simply a WC A/U?