Chapter Text
Something about the warm lighting of the library felt like home. There were no hospital-like, fluorescent ceiling panels to cast a sterile feeling over the aisles. No too-bright, squint-your-eyes light. The ceiling had a number of small, rectangular skylights, some sections being covered by translucent colored sheets of plastic to cast a subtle baby blue or magenta light. Most of the light came from these paneled openings in the plank wood ceilings, but there were also long, narrow light fixtures lining the book aisles and some small ‘spotlight’ style ones that gave off a warm yellow glow. Maybe, to the average library-goer there was nothing special about it, but after having worked for so long at libraries, you had grown used to it, and fond of it, and found it easy to romanticize among the backdrop of generally uneventful days.
The floor was covered in worn carpet woven with navy, maroon, olive, and brown, the colors forming tightly-knit braided stripes that covered the expanse of the library. You wondered how many people had walked the carpets--what they looked like, why they came--and how many kids had tracked mud and other substances to their parent’s protest. People came by for a number of things. Internet use and checking out books, mainly, but also to use the restroom, as a quiet date spot, for air conditioning, what have you. It was a quiet place to enjoy doing your thing, where others would (generally) respect that kind of thing. The main bookshelves were painted dark brown and covered in a glossy lacquer that, over time, had begun to yellow and peel off in rubbery chunks--you often spotted people absentmindedly peeling bits off as they browsed. You couldn’t blame them, you did it too sometimes. Metal racks held an assortment of audiobooks, DVDs, CDs, and magazines, and the entrance had pin boards decorated with flyers advertising local and library events. There was a kids section, closed off somewhat to the general area, with chipping shelves painted in primary colors, an alphabet rug, and some toys. All around the library were signs of human presence--dick drawings, initials with hearts, doodles on the computer desks, scraps of paper, forgotten pencils--and there you were, in the middle of it all. Well, not technically in the middle as you were set up at the front desk just past the entrance. The desk/clerical area was painted in teal, purple, and off-white, and you had a comfy black office chair that swiveled around. You had a three monitor display, which seemed ridiculous but was actually necessary for all of the organization needs of the library, a keyboard with black clackity keys, and a rolling shelf to the side with a number of books needing organizing. Sometimes a student volunteer would come by a couple times a week to reshelve, but they were all mostly busy with the fall semester, so it fell to you. Your name tag had your information on it, clearly printed (Y/N L/N) with a rather low quality picture of yourself against one of the cream walls with a sort of awkward smile.
It was currently mid-November in your hometown, and the weather had been nothing short of blissful lately. The air was just cold enough that you could layer comfy clothes and comfortably wear a sweater inside, but not so cold that your ears or nose would go numb outside. The air was filled with a nostalgic and festive feeling that reminded you of childhood–it smelled like fall: dirt, change, and the occasional overpowering scents of Glade plug-ins or spiced holiday candles. As you had gotten older, these associations were mostly replaced by views of fallen leaves, thin tree branches, work schedules, and drinking caffeinated (though sometimes still festive) beverages in the morning to get through the day.
A last minute attempt to rack up some volunteer hours in high school left you with your current employment. As a somewhat introverted teenager, you figured a library job would be fairly low profile: supervise the teen center, organize documents and books, direct people to resources, easy hours. You kept yourself busy with hours of cataloging, re-shelving, labeling new purchases, and getting lost in the abundance of picture books during the lulling hours. There were interior design books, magazines, world maps, manga, classic art compilations, the works. Over time, your interest in the library grew from just wanting to volunteer a few hours a week, but as an escape--a second home, a place to be absorbed by fantasy. It was like you could travel through space and time, and around the world, with the turn of a few pages. In college, you interned at the library, and found it to suit your skills, energy level, and made good money in a stable, safe environment--you were offered a job in junior year and had been working part time for the last two years, and recently started full-time after graduating college. You were now 21 years old working as a librarian’s assistant and library resource specialist. You didn’t have the post-bac degree required to be a head librarian, but the pay was comparable and you had less responsibility and oversight. It was a pretty sweet gig.
Despite the often understimulating environment, you found small ways to entertain yourself, namely by people-watching. There were so many peculiar figures in such a small space. You wondered if they paid any attention to you like you did to them. Probably not. It was fun to note especially strange characters, like the Elvis impersonator who frequented the restrooms and window tables on the weekend, hair always perfectly shiny and pompadour-ed
In some way, being the only observer brought you a sense of peace. You felt in control, aware of your surroundings, and it was really entertaining without having to worry or be self-conscious about anyone staring back at you. At the same time, though, you wished for a stranger to enjoy your presence from afar, and to take curious note of your behaviors as you did with others. Sometimes, on really boring days, you’d find yourself getting absorbed in your own head in daydreams about potential lovers–bumping into someone while reshelving books and being smitten after a period of prolonged eye-contact, or checking out a romance novel to a beautiful person and them looking at you knowingly. Being around books and fiction all day might have started to get to you.
You were sitting at the front desk watching the influx of students and parents returning and checking out books as Winter break neared. People were hurriedly finding books for final projects and returning books that overstayed their time in homes over summer. You found your eyes drifting around the room and always falling back on the clock as the people moved in and out, counting down the minutes before you had to boot everyone out and start locking up. As the clock turned to 5:35, you figured it was time to remind people you were closing in a little less than half an hour--people were typically pretty considerate of the hours of operation, which you were grateful for. There were no squadrons of theater students coming in 20 minutes before closing to be obnoxious and order copious amounts of food like you had seen at restaurants and food service establishments. You made the PA announcement to the small group that was still around, and watched them pack up, haphazardly putting books and pens away and leaving chairs pulled out. You sighed, knowing you would have to clean up after them. Even though it was your job, it was sometimes surprising how inconsiderate people were--adults, mostly--about leaving trash behind and leaving the communal areas a mess. You started up, walking towards the seating areas, wanting to get everything sorted as soon as possible to beat the much colder weather coming with sunset and be on your way home to a big, comfy bed. You were gathering crumpled papers in one hand and picking up discarded writing utensils in the other when you noticed a figure out of the corner of your eye, still sitting in one of the single desks with the reading light on. You sighed again, checking the clock and seeing it read 5:56, feeling badly about having to be so personal about reminding them to leave soon.
You walked towards the hooded figure, who seemed to be dressed for the outside elements despite being in a comfortably heated building. You took a moment to assess the sight before you--he was dressed in a strange sort of mixed-style outfit--it was a little bit lumberjack, a little spy/ninja, and a little…steampunk? Maybe? He was wearing mostly dark clothes: black jeans that were a bit baggy, from what you could see, a dark brown hoodie and a worn, sherpa-lined denim jacket over it, a knit hat similar to your own, gloves, a scarf, and a sort of…mouthguard? It was odd-looking. His look was complete with orange goggle glasses. You had never seen that color before, and wondered if it was some sort of visual aid. It wasn't the strangest thing you'd seen, as many homeless people came in dressed in hodgepodge clothing, so you ignored it and continued to approach the figure–decidedly male–and tell him it was time to head out. His outfit wasn’t the most eye-catching part, though--he was also twitching, jerking his hand and neck, and making small sounds under his breath. Again, people on drugs came in every now and then so it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen. You inhaled a bit as you got closer, mentally scripting the least rude-sounding way to kick him out.
"Hi there,” he didn’t even turn to acknowledge you, so you repeated yourself after a pause, “Hi, excuse me, I'm really sorry to have to boot you, but we close in about five minutes now and I have to start cleaning and locking up. If you’d like, I can check that book out for you real quick before you leave?"
You said, trying to be as friendly as possible. Sometimes people got really defensive when asked to leave, and you wanted a painless departure. Glancing down, you recognized the open book on the small desk, and the stack next to it, were Walking Dead graphic novels. The one on the top of the stack was peppered with small pieces of paper used as bookmarks. You smiled softly to yourself--a truly great franchise.
The man didn't respond at first, nor did he look up, which made you a little antsy. After a few beats of silence, he scooted his chair out and closed the book. You backed up a bit as he rose. He was quite a bit taller than you, and seemed to be quite lean, though it was hard to tell under the dark layers of clothes. He spoke in a quiet, raspy voice, not super deep but not high either--somewhere right in the middle--with his words punctuated by his head jerking to the side, eyes blinking forcefully, and quiet noises coming from the back of his throat.
"No, tha-tha-thank you," was all he said. You realized you would have to sift through and remove all of the small bookmark scraps since the books would need reshelving. You sighed internally at this.
“Okay, no problem--I can take those from you, don’t worry about it. Thanks for stopping by today!” You said, reaching to gather the books as he stood and walked away, not acknowledging your sentence.
You took note of how he kept his head down, turned away from you after his initial glance to you, and left wordlessly. It was odd, but again, not the strangest thing you’d seen. You couldn’t help but fix your gaze on him for a few more moments as you watched his retreating figure, sliding double doors closing behind him. It was only slightly disturbing when he turned, ever so slightly, and wiggled his fingers in a bye fashion from behind the glass, before disappearing from your line of sight. It almost gave you the chills.
You finished making your rounds, checking that all doors and exits were secured, discarded books were put on the reshelving cart, and then gathered your belongings and locked the main entrance. Climbing into the driver’s seat with a contented sigh, you turned the ignition on and felt the warm air blasting with a familiar wshhhhhh sound, warming your hands and face. It was finally time to head home and do a whole lot of nothing.