Chapter Text
The overly bright lights of North Hills Elementary School always seemed to hum a constant monotone song that Buck had (over the past three months) learned to tune out. It was the sad, sad, soundtrack of his new fresh beginning of life, a life he has carefully constructed piece by painful piece, two thousand miles of the unbearable ghosts he's left behind in Chicago. Here, he was Mr. Buckley, the fourth grade teacher with the easy going smile and the seemingly endless patience for multiplication tables and glitter glue projects. Here, the sharp edges of his past were blunted by the routine of lesson plans and the sound of twentytwo children's laughter. Here, he was almost safe.
Almost.
He moved between the clusters of small wooden worn out and stain desks, his hand resting lightly on the back of a chair as he leaned over to check Mata's math worksheet. The classroom smelled of crayons, pencil shavings, and the faint sweet scent of juice boxes he's allowed for their Friday afternoon treat. It was a good smell. A normal smell. The new beginnings smell. It was the smell of a life he so desperately craved one he was still terrified he didn't deserve.
“Excellent, Maya,” he murmured, his voice a low gentle rumble that he's practiced in the mirror until it no longer sounded like his own. It was softer now, less likely to carry, less likely to trigger. “You’ve really got the hang of these carry overs.”
Maya beamed up at him, her two front teeth missing, a gap toothed grin that never failed to make something in his chest ache. “My dad helped me last night.”
“Well your dad is very smart,” Buck said, straightening up and moving to the next desk. He felt the familiar phantom weight of a hand on the back of his neck, pressure that wasn't there but was always there. Undoubtedly engraved into him. He cooled his body down by smoothing down the front of his button down shirt instead of flat out bolting out the classroom filled with 4th graders. It was some sort of gesture that he had developed, a way to ground himself, to remind his body that he was present, and here, in this brightly lit classroom in Los Angeles, and not in the dim, suffocating, sad of an excuse apartment that he fled.
The new life was a performance. Everyday was a new show. Mr. Buckley, the cheerful, totally capable teacher. He arrived at seven thirty each morning, a precise and tries to punctual man who never missed a day of work. He left at 4 thirty, sometimes staying later to grade papers or set up for the day’s science experiment. He never brought anyone home. He never went out after dark unless it was to the grocery store. He never, ever raised his voice. His voice was his most vulnerable asset, and he guarded it fiercely.
Because the voice had been the first thing to go. Not literally, not at first. But the ease of it, the confidence, the joy he used to find in conversation and laughter- it had all been slightly going away. Eroding. Layer by layer, bya steady corrosive tide of contempt and criticism.
“You talk too much.”
“You're stupid when you talk”
“Nobody wants to hear your pathetic opinions”
The words had became some sort of cage, and eventually he just stopped trying to open the door. It was easier and safer to be quiet. To listen. To agree. To be good.
Here, in this new world he was slowly teaching himself to speak again, but it was a careful and calculated process. He chose his words with the precision of a bomb disposal expert thingy. Each sentence was weighed for its potential to cause offense, draw out too much attention (or any), to be wrong. He was building a new vocabulary of acceptable phrases, in a way he would call it a coverstational armor that protected the fragile, little broken parts of him underneath.
He was just crouching down to help Leo (his other student) with a stubborn jam in his pencil sharpener when the first sound ripped through the afternoon calm.
It wasn't loud, not at first. It was a dull heavy thud from somewhere down the hall followed by a strange, muffled shout. Buck froze, his hand tightening on the sharpener. The children didn't seem to notice, their chatter and the scratching of pencils and crayons on paper continuing. He told himself it was nothing. A dropped bookshelf. A clumsy custodian. A locker door slammed too hard. He told himself all of the things a normal person would tell themselves, but the adrenaline that flooded his system was cold and sharp and it screamed at him wrong.
Then came the second sound.
Wrong.
This one was unmistakable. It was a sharp percussive crack that echoed through the school’s concrete corridors like a whip. It was sound he knew, not from personal experience but from a thousand movies and new reports he'd consumed with a sick, detached fascination. It was the sound of a gunshot.
Every head in the room snapped up. The loud noise of the classroom died instantly. Leaving only the frantic humming of the overly bright sound of the lights and the sudden silence of twentytwo children holding their breaths.
“Mr . Buckley?” Whispered a small voice from the reading corner. It was Chole her eyes wide with a fear that Buck felt in his own bones.
He held up a hand gesture that was meant to be reassuring but was probably as shaky as he felt. “It's okay,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Its probably just… the construction crew outside they sometimes use loud tools.”
It was a lie. And they all knew it. The construction was on the other side of the campus. This sound was close. Too close.
Another crack. This one was closer still. And then another, and another, a rapid staccacto rhythm of violence that was punctuated by a new sound, a high, thin scream that was abruptly cut off. A kid.
Panic, cold, and absolute, seized the insides of his brains, through his veins, through his blood, through his bones, and through his shaking hands. His training, the mandated lockdown drills he’d participated in just last month, clicked into place with chilling clarity. Of course, the fucking drill. “Everyone” he said, his voice firmer now, stripped of its usual softness and no form of that easy going smile in sight and honed sharpened by adrenaline. “Everybody, under your desks. Now. Move.”
The children were all terrified yet so obedient, scrambled to obey. They were a well rehearsed machine, dropping to the floor crawling into the designated safe spaces between the worn out desks. Buck moved with them, pulling the smallest ones into their spots, hissing words of encouragement he couldn’t feel. “Good Leo, stay right there. Maya you too. Stay low. Everybody stay quiet.”
His heart was hammering against his ribs, it was constantly huge thumping in his ears, like big huge drums filled the stadiums. He hears shouting now, its distant and sort of distorted. He could hear the pound of running feet in the hallway. He looked around his classroom, his sanctuary, his safe space, and saw it for what it was now; a trap. A literal fucking fishbowl. The door had a small little rectangular (took me 5 minutes to figure out how to write rectangular) window and the blinds were op. Anyone walking by could see right in.
He crept towards the door, his body low in a hunching position, every muscle screaming in protest to stop. He needed to lock it. He needed to cover the window. He reached for the lock, his fingers fumbling with the simple lock. Focus. As he twisted the deadbolt into place he risked a glance thought the window.
Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
The hallway was a science of chaos. A body was slumped against the lockers halfway down the hall- a teacher, he thought with a sick lurch in his stomach, it was Ms. Davison from third grade. And at the far right end of the hall, near the main entrance, a figure was moving. It was aman, dressed in dark clothing, holding onto something long and dark in his hands. Fuck. He was walking with this unsettling strangeness, a predator stalking its prey. The children.
Buck jerked back from the window as if he’d been burned. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps. He scrambled back from the door, his mind racing. The window. He had to cover the window. He looked around frantically, his eyes landing on the large pad of construction paper on his art table. He shoved the paper agasint the window, the bright colors of the childern’s art projects a fucking parody of a supposed happy scene. He used taped from his desk to secure it, his movements clumsy and desperate. (Almost wrote desperate as fuck)
He slid down to the floor, his back pressed against the cool metal of the door, his body wedged between it and the bookshelf. He was breathing so hard he was dizzy. He could hear his own pulse roaring in his ears. He closed his eyes, trying to force the image of Ms. Davison’s body from his mind, trying to silence the memory of the shooter’s calm, purposeful walk. More purpose than me.
“You're pathetic. You can't even handle this.”
The voice was a literal whisper in his head, a venomous bite from a snake. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. No. Not now.
He forced himself to focus on the sounds. The shooting had stopped, but the shouting hadn’t. He could hear a man’s voice, angry and commanding, barking orders, but frantic. And than, to his horror he heard a new sound, a sound just outside from his classroom door. The doorknob jiggled.
Someone was trying to get in.
He held his breath, his entire body rigid with fear. The lock held. The person on the other side jiggled it again, harder this time. Then came a heavy, violent slam against the door that made the frame shudder entirely, almost pushingBuck forward.
Buck let a out a choked sob he could no longer contain. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with terror. He looked over at the huddled students, their small frightened faces peeking out from under the desks. He had to protect them. He had to be Mr. Buckley, the calm, easy going, capable teacher. He couldn't fall apart. Not now.
The slam against the door came again, louder and harder this time, the wood groaning in protest. Buck flinched, his whole body jerking with the impact again. He could hear a low, guttural cursing from the other side, and than- than the silence of those same heavy footsteps retreating down the hall. For a moment, there was silence. A silence so profound yet so relieving it was more terrifying than the noise.
He stayed where he was, pressed against the door listening. He could hear the frantic muffled sobs of his students. He could hear his own heartbeat again. He had to move. He had to do something.
He pushed himself up, his legs trembling so badly he had to brace a hand against the bookshelf to stay upright. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the classroom phone on his desk. 911. He had to call 911.
He crawled on his hands and knees to his desk, staying low, keeping his body between the door and the phone. He snatched the receiver, his fingers clumsy with fear. He pressed the receiver to ear, his heart sinking when he heard nothing but a dead, empty static. The line was cut. Of course it was fucking cut. The shooter had planned this.
He slammed the receiver back down, the clatter loud in the suffocating silence. A small whimper came from under Leo's desk. Buck forced himself to take a breath, to center himself. He was the adult. He was in charge. He couldn’t let them see him fall apart.
“It’s okay,” he whispered again, his voice hoarse. “We’re okay. We are going to be okay.” He was saying it for them, but he was saying it for himself too. He was trying to build a wall of words against the rising of another panic attack.
He moved though the room again crawling down by each desk, murmuring reassurances, touching small shoulders here, and trembling hands there. “You're doing great Chloe. So quiet. I'm proud of you.”
“Almost over Maya, just a little longer.” He was a robot again, performing the function of a comforting teacher but inside he was screaming and wanted a hug.
He found himself back by the door, his gaze sweeping the room looking for anything, any advantage. His eyes fell on the window. It was a different window, the kind that ran along the top of the wall, high up, meant to let light in. It was too high for a shooter to see through, but maybe; maybe he could see out. Maybe he could see where the threat was (maybe he could see hope).
He dragged a chair over, his movements making sure they are quiet and slow, trying not make a sound. He climbed up, his knees protesting and risked a glance over the sill.
The playground outside was eerily empty and quiet. It was uncomfortable. The swings gently swayed with the breeze, in some ghostly motion. Police cars, firetrucks, ambulances, their lights flashing silently, were beginning to form a perimeter at the edge of the school grounds. He could see officers taking cover behind their vehicles, their weapons drawn. They were here. Help was here. But they were out there and he was in here.
He scanned the grounds again, his eyes catching on a figure running across the far end of the playground. It was a child, small boy, running with a desperate, awkward move, his arms pumping, his backpack bouncing against his back. He was running (trying) away from the building, towards the tree line at the edge of the property. Wait-
Buck heart’s seized. He knew that backpack. It was a bright blue backpack, with a rocket ship patch on it. He'd seen it just this morning, hanging on a hook in the hallway just outside his classroom. It belonged to the boy with the crutches and the bright, shy smile. The boy whose father was always waiting for him, a handsome man with kind eyes and a tired smile who always had a word of thanks for the teachers who helped his son.
Christopher.
As he watched, Christopher stumbled, his crutches tangling in his own feet. He went down sprawling in the grass. And from the direction of the main school building, another figure emerged. It was the shooter from the hallway, moving with the same terrifying, purposeful walk, heading towards the fallen kid. He was stalking towards him like an actual prey. Vile went up and down his throat.
It was one thing to be trapped in this room with his students, but to watch this unfold, to be a helpless witness to a child being hunted… it was unbearable.
He scrambled down from the chair, his mind racing, his body moving on pure instinct. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t just hide and watch. He had to do something. He looked at the door then at the terrified faces of his students. His duty was here. His responsibility was to these twenty two children. But Christopher was out there. Alone. And completely vulnerable.
The conflict tore him in two. The teacher’s oath versus the man’s basic humanity. He looked at the door. At the flimsy piece of construction paper taped over the window. The shooter was distracted. He was focused on Christopher. This was a chance. A slim, very suicidal chance, but a chance nonetheless.
He moved to the front of the classroom, to the small storage closet tucked away from the whiteboard. It was cramped space filled with textbooks, art supplies, and the faint smell of old paper. He opened the door and looked inside. It was dark, but it was another layer of protection. Another door.
“Listen to me” he said, his voice low but urgent that cut through the children's sobs. They all turned to look at him, their faces pale and streaked with tears. “I need you to be very very brave. Can you do that guys?”
A few nodded, some stayed looking a bit shell shocked.
“Im going to open this door” he continued, gesturing to the closet. “I need you all to crawl inside, as quietly as you can, All of you. Go. Now”
They didn't hestitate. They scrambled out from under their desks, a stream of small bodies flowing into cramped space. They huddled together, a mass of trembling limbs and wide frightened eyes. Buck counted them as they went in. One, two, three…twenty one, twenty two. They were all in. Good.
“Im going to lock you in here,” he said, his voice trembling slightly at this words. “You stay quiet. You don't made a sound. No matter what you hear, you don't come out until a police officer or a firefighter opens this door and tells you it’s safe. Do you guys understand?”
Twenty two heads nodded in unison.
“Good. You're the bravest kids I know,” he said, and the words felt like a lie, but he hoped they sounded like the truth to them. He looked at Maya who was the closest to the door. “Maya, you're in charge. Keep everyone quiet. Can you do that?”
Maya, her face set into determination, nodded again.
Buck gave them one last, long look, committing their faces to memory. Then he closed the closet door, the click of the lock echoing in the sudden extreme quiet of an empty classroom.
He was alone.
The relief was immediate and overwhelming at the same time. He could breathe. But he couldn't breathe. He could breathe again. He could think. He could move without worrying about the small bodies underfoot. He could be as reckless.
He moved back too the door, his senses on high alert. He could still hear shouting from another area, but it was farther away now, probably a classroom of kids horrified. The shooter was still outside, focused on Christopher. He had to move.
He took a deep breath, his hand hovering over the doorknob. This was it. The point of no fucking return. He unlocked the door, the soft Nick of the bolt sounding like gunshot in the room. He eased it open, just a crack, peered out. The hallway was empty. The body of Ms. Davison was still there, blood pooled under her, it was grim. He looked towards the main entrance. The shooter was gone, right. He was outside.
He slipped out of the classroom, his movements silent and fluid as he could try. He stayed low, hugging the wall, his eyes scanning every corner, every darkened doorway. He moved with a speed and grace he didn't know he had. Maybe it was the pure adrenaline or the way his heart hurt a little seeing the kid outside by himself scared.
He reached at the end of the hallway, the corner that opened up into the main lobby. He peered around it. The front doors of the school were shattered, glass glittering on the floor like ice. And through the broken doors, he could see the playground.
He could see Christopher, still on the ground trying to push himself up. He could see the shooter, now just a few feet away, raising his weapon.
Maybe it was the adrenaline again or maybe it’s because Buck was so pathetic he couldn’t even do this to help. Time seemed to slow down, to stretch and warp up together like taffy and mush against each other so weirdly. Buck knew, with a certanity that settled like a stone in his fucking kidney, that he wasn’t going to make it. He was too far away. The shooter was far but closer. He was going to watch that little boy die.
And then, something happened. Something very impossible. Something impossible that you see in movies or read in books or those quiet prayers you say to your God happened.
A figure burst from the tree line at the edge of the property, moving with a speed that defied belief and God himself. It was a man, running flat out, his body low, his face so desperate with determination. He was wearing a uniform- dark blue pants, a light navy blue shirt. A firefighter.
Buck watched solely mesmerized, as the firefighter closed the distance between himself and the shooter in a matter of seconds. He didn’t have any weapon. He had nothing but his own body and a wall of iron. He launched himself at the shooter, tackling him around the waist taking him down in a flurry of limbs and a spray of dirt and grass.
The two men struggled on the ground, a brutal violent fight. The firefighter was strong, impossibly strong, but the shooter was desperate, fueled by a kind of madness that gave him an unnatural strength. Buck saw the glint of metal as the shooter brought the butt of his rifle down, hard, against the firefighter’s head. The firefighter grunted, a sound of pain and surprise, but his grip didn’t loosen up. Jeez.
Buck knew he had to move. This was his chance. He ran, his feet pounding on the floor, his eyes fixed on the small figure on the grass.
He burst through the shattered doors, the warm California air hitting him like a physical blow. He ran towards Christopher, his heart hammering, his lungs burning. He could hear the struggle behind him, the grunts and curses of two men fighting on the ground. He could hear the distant sounds of more sirens getting closer and closer. He could hear his own blood moving through his ears. How? He didn’t know.
He reached Christopher’s side and dropped to his knees, his hands reaching for the boy. “Christopher,” he said, his voice breathless. “It’s okay. I'm here, you're safe.”
Christopher looked up at him, his face pale and streaked with tears, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hopefully relief. “Mr. Buckley?”
“Yeah buddy” Buck said, his voice thick with emotion. “Its me, we have to get you out of here.”
He looked back towards the school. The firefighter had managed to get on top of the shooter, pinning him to the ground. He was yelling something, his face flushed with exertion, spit coming out of his mouth to the firefighter’s face. Bastard. And than, from the direction of the parking lot another figure emerged.
It was another shooter.
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
This one was different. Taller Leaner. He moved with the same cold chilliness but more scary than the other shooter. He raised his rifle, his eyes fixed on the two men grappling on the ground.
“Look out!” Buck screamed, a raw desperate cry that tore from his throat.
The firefighter looked up, his eyes widening in horror. He rolled off the first shooter trying to get away but he wasn’t fast enough.
The second shooter fired.
The sound was deafening, a sharp, ugly, crack that rippled through the air. Buck watched in horror as the firefighter jerked, a spray of red blossoming on his shoulder. He went down hard.
He had to get Christopher outta of there. He had to hide. He looked around, his eyes scanning the chaos for a place of safety. He saw it then a small door set into the side of the building, just a few feet away. A Janitor's closet. He didn't hesitate. He stopped Christopher up, crutch and all and ran. He ran witha s [need he didn't know he had his legs pumping, his lungs burning. He reached the door, fumbling with the knob, praying it was unlocked.
It was.
Thank God.
He shoved the door open and stumbled inside, pulling Christopher in with him. He slammed the door shut, plunging them into darkness. He fumbled for the lock, his fingers shaking so badly he could barely work it. He found it, turned it, and felt the click hit its home.
They were trapped. But they were safe.
For now.
He leaned against the door, his body trembling, his breath coming. He could hear Christopher’s soft whimpers, could feel the small boy’s body shaking against his. He sank to the floor, pulling Christopher into his lap, wrapping his legs around him in a fierce, protective hug.
“It's okay,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “It’s okay. We’re okay”
He didn't know if he was doing a great job at it.