(Record) Library Girl- Zapp Brannigan x F!Reader
This was from an anon request a while back but I didn’t want to spoil it since it was a lot of plot, so I hope you recognize your story anon this is for you 🫶🏻
Vinyl was a dying art. Sad but true. According to patrons at your shop it died not too long after you were frozen, then temporarily resurrected in the 2020s for a certain sound quality and aesthetic. In the 3000s, though? Data processing and file capacity had been streamlined to an almost overwhelming degree, rendering one of the only ways you ever played music an antiquity— no, a novelty. Your passion had been relegated to a shop akin to taxidermy art and wearable plants, a fun quirk most people browsed and muttered over but didn’t adopt as part of their livelihood. Never would. That or it was “collectors” trying to haggle you down so they could jack up their own prices even higher. Scalpers. Pathetic.
Did anyone want to just jam anymore? Sighing, you turned the records over in each of your hands as if Squeeze or Duran Duran would come to life and console you, assuring you they’d love to jam. Knowing this cockamamie future, their heads were probably off collared and singing in brine as you spoke…er, thought. Record shop owner was a lonely job, but you knew you shouldn’t complain. You tended to err on the side of introversion or at least survived alone and your savings had compounded incredibly over a thousand years. You didn’t need to work at all, but still fantasized about the day someone would say…
“Well, if this isn’t a sight for sore eyes and I am not talking about the shop!”
Wait, no, what? Snapping out of your record reverie, you focused your attention blearily back up to the source of the eager, saucy voice. It was a man in some sort of costume, almost like a cross between a Star Trek Uhura cosplay and some admiral or another. Badges, maroon…dress? Tunic? Gold shoulder pads that you couldn’t help smiling at— they reminded you of the 80s.
“Are you… er, you mean the records?” Stammering, you looked between the bulky blonde and the albums you were clutching.
“I was here for them, but…” Trailing off, the man leaned further onto the counter, shrinking the gap between you and waggling his eyebrows up and down a few times.
“But?” You urged, your own brows rising.
“I get it,” he chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, “You’re stunned. Velour Fog got your tongue. Maybe I really will soon. Hey, wait a minute! You may not know a lime when you hear it, but you sure know music! Is that Notorious?”
Blinking, you fully returned to reality, confused whirl of shoulder pads and velour all but forgotten at the sound of a Duran Duran album name as if you were a dog hearing the word treat. Glancing down before meeting the man’s big blue eyes, you nodded. “That’s right! It’s not my number one favorite album of theirs, but it’s a classic.”
“I still like the song they put out for the James Bond movie.”
“A View to a Kill? That’s a good single too.”
“You’re…a Bond fan too? Classical music and historical fiction?”
“Historical fiction? It’s just fiction! I suppose it is a bit old now,” you chuckled, “But Bond’s rad— he’s a total classic! Who- who doesn’t love our favorite sexy spy?”
“You know, I’ve often been told if they ever rebooted the franchise again that I would make a good Bond.”
“I can see it,” you agreed with a faint giggle, "Better than that robot who's in everything now!"
"Calculon? Ha! He's a legend or whatever, but he doesn't have my good looks!"
"Certainly not," you joked back, "Duran Duran would never write him a song!"
"And what kind of Bond girl would he get, a vending machine?"
A full-blown laugh escaped your lips at that as you propped your display albums back up. “Exactly. I much prefer flesh and blood myself.”
"So, as I’m sure you know, does Zapp Brannigan. Well, my name-tag-less wonder, what other treasures do you have tucked away?"
"I only have one copy of Rio and it's my favorite so it's not for sale. Sorry I'm a little basic."
"Are you crazy? Critics put it in the top three for a reason. You're one smart cookie if you ask me. I see your copy of Argybargy, too, and if you're as smart as I think you are you'll hold onto that gem too."
"Oh, yeah," you waved a hand, "This is my teenage years right here!"
"Your beauty has temporarily blinded my amazing deduction skills, but they are back in full force! Don’t tell me you’re another popsicle like Fry!”
"I don't know who Fry is, but..."
"You're from the 80s!” It was the blonde man’s turn to resemble an excitable dog, his posture hunching slightly as both hands gripped the sides of the desk. “I knew I liked you! Tell! Tell all! For once I’ve met a woman I actually wanna listen to.”
“Nothing. 80s. Continue.”
“I can’t believe you were alive in the greatest era of music and girls on film and you didn’t go to any parties!”
“I was a shy kid,” you shrugged, “I’m a shy adult. Parties aren’t really my scene versus a night in. Some music, a movie..."
"Why ever did a girl like you make a popsicle of herself in the prime time?"
A girl like you? Did that mean what you thought it did? You shook your head faintly.
"It was a hot day," you joked, posture relaxing after such a long conversation, "alright, no, but every day since that stupid Walt Disney head rumor started it was stuck in everyone's minds. I didn't have many friends, much...well, you know the old song and dance. I made a good guinea pig. I was hoping I'd wake up and the world would be a better place. Better medicine, maybe I'd have a Trek moment and wake up on a spaceship peering down at everything I ever knew."
"'You're looking at Planet Earth'," Zapp quoted. Zapp was apparently this guy's honest-to-god name. Zapp Brannigan, born and raised. A real-life Flash Gordon or Han Solo, except you had a feeling it was all bravado. That underneath it all was a fear he'd never met face-to-face. The worry about not being liked that had eaten you up from the inside with every party invite made to your face but not extended your way, every night spent in the corner wondering if you'd become the Invisible Woman and no one had told you.
Nodding softly, you said, "Maybe I'll go to space one of these days. See that new Disneyland on the moon or what have you, run by a severed head or not."
"You really haven't been anywhere, have you?"
"Well," you stammered, cheeks burning, "I haven't been defrosted all that long. I woke up and there were aliens and robots everywhere! I guess I was just getting my footing and—"
"That's ok," Zapp cut you off, "because you have me now, and a more premier pilot you could not ask for!"
Zapp spoke your name with a degree of confidence you'd never heard a man use. "You're the first woman I've ever spoken to for an hour straight like this and kept our clothes on. Everyone—well, that is to say... people don't understand good taste, you know. You see how few people appreciate this stuff the way you do. The way we do. I'm not letting that get away. Not without a date."
"And what if I say no?" You teased, running a hand over your again-shelved copy of Notorious.
“Would you? Say no to all this?” Zapp waved hands over his tall form, but you heard the wavering in his tone and felt a stab of pity, instantly shaking your head at his words.
“Maybe this’ll answer your question.” Fingers dancing over your counter, you tore a scrap of paper—something that hadn’t gone obsolete even a thousand years later, thank god—and scrawled seven digits on it.
Taking it gingerly between white-gloved fingers, Zapp broke into a shaky grin. “I’ll put on all the classics,” he assured you, “And we’ll blast off anywhere and any way you want.”
“Aye aye, captain,” you remarked as he leaned across your counter, kissed your cheek, and then walked out with a salute.
On the way, he bumped a display tape deck and his grin faltered, but only long enough for him to give the device a curious glance and run a hand over it. He looked down only to light up again and switch the tape, filling your shop with the lyrics of another 1980s classic that brought a matching grin to your lips.
Jenny I've got your number
Jenny don't change your number
Eight six seven five three oh nine
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