Chapter Text
The library was quiet.
It was so quiet, in fact, that every time you turned the page of your English book, breaking the silence made you internally cringe. Everyone (two people) could hear it loud and clear.
It had been about 2 hours since the end of school – the perfect window between all the smooching couples/nosy bookworms/loud crowds leaving and the library closing for the day (as you had learned through several anti-procrastination work sessions that had taken place between these familiar, dusty bookshelves). The sun began to transition from midday brightness to golden hour; the shadows of the trees were just starting to lengthen, but it was still bright enough to be considered the afternoon.
Besides the librarian, the only other library inhabitant was a pale-skinned guy in your grade whose name stood on the tip of your tongue; he had mid-length, dark hair that fell into his face as he hunched over some little notebook of his, spontaneously writing at random intervals. The only thing you could recall from a glance at his character was several nasty (and obviously untrue) rumors someone had spread a while back.
You had been ignoring him, but that wasn't mutual.
“Hey,” a baritone rings out to your left, where he was seated opposite you at the following table.
You ignore him, figuring he’s talking on the phone or to someone else.
“Hey, you, with the book.”
A poke of embarrassment heats your cheeks, and you drag your eyes from rows of text to find him.
You hadn’t been expecting to meet his own eyes right away — they were an intense blue turned almost black by the lack of light, and held something you’d almost title “quiet rage.” Typically, you’d have continued to ignore his advances but fuck it — you were bored, and he wasn’t half bad looking either.
So you reply, “What’s up?’
“I have a question,” he leans toward you slightly, clarifying, “it’s for a psychology project.”
“Uh, okay,” you can’t help your unease, but curiosity softens the warning. “Shoot”
He tilted his head just barely, face graced by a crooked smile dripping with enigma, and continued in a softer tone. “If, let’s say tomorrow morning, a guy came into school with a gun and started shooting up the place,” uncomfort ran through you like a string being plucked, “what would you do?”
You scoff to cover the foreboding feeling. “Run, obviously.”
The boy shrugged, lifting his eyebrows in a that’s-a-good-point gesture.
“Fair, I would too,” he mused, yet that borderline-impish twist of his lips returned, “but let’s say you can’t run. Let’s say you come face to face with him. What then?”
“Some project,” you blurt, mortification promptly crashing down over what you just said. But instead of getting pissy, he chuckled softly.
“Yeah, but c’mon,” he pushed, his smile deepened just a smidge – he truly was good looking – “humor me.”
“Well,” you draw out the L in a casual attempt to buy time. If you came face to face with this hypothetical shooter – a stranger, an absolute stranger who can and will end your life before you can even blink, just like god knows how many others before you– what would you do? The thought itself twisted your gut in anxiety and fear.
“I would probably get him to stop, somehow,” you gave a half shrug, eyes looking over his shoulder, “or at least stall him.”
You brought your wandering eyes back to his face, mildly offended by his cocked eyebrow and eying of your, quite frankly, weak-looking physique.
You sharply add, “mentally, not physically. I wouldn’t challenge someone with a gun – I’m not an idiot.”
“Hm.” His eyes left your face and stared off into the distance, glazed in thought; clearly, he wasn’t satisfied.
After a few heartbeats, he pressed on, “What do you mean, mentally? Mind games or something? Play on his fears?”
You shook your head, exhaling a laugh, “No, I’ve seen horror movies – that stuff never works. I mean, of course he knows the police are on their way.” You cock your head, eyes wandering to the ceiling, “I think I mean, hm, keeping him occupied so he can’t kill anyone else.”
The boy’s raised eyebrow and playful smile made you realize what that sounded like.
A mortified “GOD!” escapes you, followed by a forceful shush by the librarian.
After murmuring an apology, you continue. “But god, no, nothing like that. I mean questions, getting him to talk about himself or something.”
The boy’s eyebrows had reverted to normal, but remnants of that wry smile remained. “I know, I know. I was just playing.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” you rolled your eyes, returning to your book while muttering about all boys being the same. There was less than a chapter left, and thank god the book was, at the very least, an interesting read.
It had hardly been five minutes before you had finished the assigned chapters, marked your place, and stuffed the book in your bag.
As you hauled it onto your back and pushed in your chair, you turned to the dark-haired boy and wished him luck on his project.
Just as you were turning to leave he called, “Wait.”
Your playful caricature of annoyance glared back at him. “What?”
His eyes narrowed, just enough to make you feel like you already knew what was coming. “If you could make it all stop by just fucking him, would you? I mean really – seriously.”
You dropped your playful demeanor. If not for the awful intensity behind his eyes, you would have played this off as some perverted fantasy. He asked with such a determined force that you felt his question truly held the lives of students. The least you could do is give an honest answer.
Exhaling a long, shaky breath, you meet his terribly serious, astoundingly blazing eyes — the windows into a person's soul.
“If it really came to it? Yes, I would.”
His eyebrows quirked up ever so slightly, and he smiled – but it was a different kind of smile. It was the impulsive sort that slips through one’s demeanor. He was grateful, eager, and so immensely ecstatic.
A cold wave washed over your body. If it was possible, your answer was wrong.
You had no idea what his gaze meant – probably for the better.
Alex was analyzing you in a new light, tracing your eyes, your cheeks, the slope of your nose, your lips – especially your lips. They looked tantalizingly kissable, terribly biteable. He’d always had a minor crush on you.
He said nothing more, observing you intensely, as a predator watches prey. You turned heel and rushed out of the library, only feeling at ease when you were closing (and locking) your front door. He had practically undressed you with that stare.
Alex wondered if he could maybe, just maybe, make a little extra time for you and him. He’d been a virgin all his life, and he wasn’t about to die as one.
Less than a week later, it was needless to say that your fear was a bump above average terror when two students began their gory rampage of slaughter, shooting everything that moved.