Not Keen on Tuesdays, Either (10/14)
Title: Not Keen on Tuesdays, Either.
Author: mothergoddamn & rebness
Pairing/characters: Blaine/Kurt, Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Finn, Kurt/Karofsky (one-sided)
Warning: Character death. Extreme violence. Dark!Fic.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When the students of McKinley High are staring death in the face, who will live to tell the tale?
Previous:
1/ 2/ 3/ 4/ 5/ 6/ 7/ 8/ 9
A/N: Thank you all for your feedback and for your enthusiasm for this story. We promise no more cliffhangers now*
Not Keen On Tuesdays, Either
Chapter 10
Dave felt like he had been punched in the gut.
This was all their fault! He should never have let Santana and the others in! He should've known they'd blow his cover, but he'd relented and now they were all going to get shot in the face. He should have hid, and kept Kurt safe. He should've looked out for himself. Hell, wasn't that what everyone expected of him?
I should never have chased after him, he thought before he could stop himself. I could be home. I could be safe.
I could be a coward.
Wasn't this year about changing that? Keeping his head down, blending in, being left alone? And then no one could ever look at him the way this damn loser club did again. One more year. That was all he had needed.
But wasn't doing nothing the same as being a coward?
People who do nothing don't get shot in the face. Wait. Yeah, they do!
Fuck it.
'You son of a bitch,' he growled, moving forward slowly. He hoped he looked steady. Strong. Brave. He certainly didn't feel it.
He hoped the Evans kid couldn't tell how fucking badly he was shaking.
'Just stay back!' Sam cried, pulling Brittany tighter towards him. 'Okay, I don't-- I don't want to do it anymore.' He licked his lips. 'Is that-- Is that Kurt?'
Dave heard Kurt groan behind him and he moved slowly to the side, blocking him from view.
'What's left of him,' Santana snapped, her jaw tight.
'Sam, I don't understand,' Quinn asked, her eyes glued to the gun aimed at Brittany. 'Why?'
'I don't...' he shook his head. 'I can't, okay? You wouldn't understand.'
'We wouldn't understand? We're not the glassy-eyed loon shooting people for no reason!' snapped Santana.
'Mr. Schue,' Finn whispered. 'Why? He was good to you! He helped you!' He pointed behind him. 'So did Kurt! We all did, man. We were there for you. Why did you have to kill--' A sob tore from his throat.
Rachel gave a pained gasp on hearing the teacher's name, and Finn pulled her to him, hugging her tight round the waist. 'You're just saying that, right?' she mumbled, 'you're just saying that.'
Fuck, Mr. Schue. Dave shook his head. He'd kinda liked the guy, he was decent. He hadn't had that air of us-versus-them that most of the fucks in this place had.
'Mr. Schue?' Sam said, in a dazed voice. 'He's-- gone?'
'He's dead! What did you think would happen when you shot him, you crazy son of a bitch!' Finn practically screamed. Dave flinched at the pain in Hudson's voice. He barely knew the guy, but these glee kids thought he hung the moon. That had to be rough. 'I just,' Finn wiped at his face with the back of his hand, 'wanna know why. That's all, Sam.'
'You wouldn't understand. I can't just explain it to you in the few minutes we have, guys. It took me so long to understand.' He shook his head, Brittany wincing as the gun pressed deeper into her hip. 'Maybe if they explained it to you! Like they did to me?'
'They?' asked Quinn softly. 'Who are they, Sam?'
'I can't tell you that. I can't give it all away, not yet. That's not part of the plan.'
'Fuck you,' Finn said in a quiet voice. 'Just fuck you.' He turned apruptly on his heel and began to head towards Dave and Kurt, dragging Rachel behind him.
'W-wait,' stammered Sam, 'what are you--'
'Checking on my brother,' Finn flung back over his shoulder. 'Shoot me in the back if you want.'
'Er, Finn, that would hit me,' said Rachel hurriedly. Still holding his hand, she moved so she was leading. 'There.'
Finn nodded at Dave as he moved past him, quickly kneeling beside Kurt. 'Hey, dude. Are you okay? Does it hurt?'
'Only when I laugh,' Kurt answered dryly. 'And I'm trapped in here with these clowns, so--' His voice was muffled and by the scrambling, he could discern that Finn had probably scooped him into a hug. Fantastic. Armed siege with the Waltons.
'Look! I er-- I want you all on the seats! Now, move,' Sam cried out making them all jump. 'Or I'll kill her.' His voice softened into a whisper. 'Don't make me kill her. Please.'
'This is so like CSI,' said Brittany. 'It's making me all nervous.'
Santana was the first to sit, like a fucked-up game of musical chairs. But instead of losing your chair, you lost half your face. Sam watched them impassively as they moved into position, Finn holding Kurt like china as he carried across the room.
'My legs are fine, Finn,' Kurt sighed. 'I'm not Fay Wray.'
'Hey,' Finn said. 'Being carried doesn't mean you're a fairy, Kurt. Don't talk like that.'
'What? I didn't say--'
'Shh, shh.' As he sat Kurt down, Finn met Dave's eyes over his shoulder, his gaze flickering to the blood now coating his fingers. Dave looked away; there was too much accusation in that stare for his liking.
Jesus, he thought bitterly, I tried, didn't I? It's more than Puck did. He'd tried to keep Kurt safe, at least he'd done that. Kind of. He'd tried to make up for everything that had gone on before. Wasn't he the hero of the hour? Where the hell was his recognition? This ugly little scene with the glee club totally wasn't what he'd expected. Some hero's welcome.
Well, you failed, didn't you? Just like you always do.
He took his seat morosely.
'Dave.' Rachel tapped at his shoulder. 'Can we switch chairs?'
'What?'
'It's just that as I was recently reunited with Finn, I would like to be at his side. There's a seat next to Santana, if you--'
'Fuck's sake!' he snapped, standing up and moving in between Quinn and Santana. And these dorks wondered why everyone hated them. No wonder Evans had gone fucking batshit. 'There. Happy?'
'No,' she whispered, straightening her prim skirt and sitting down. 'In case you hadn't noticed, this is a critical situation. Don't be so selfish.'
Dave wished he had a slushie right there in his hand. He'd slam it right into her face. He decided on some nasty retort, but bit the words back. She was trembling, though her dark eyes were inscrutable in the dim light. She actually smiled -- smiled -- at Sam, as if a friendly expression would make that psychotic fuck hold off. He realised how precariously brittle her composure was right now. She was retaining that annoying fucking persona as if it would shield her, clinging to little things to cope.
After all, this was their team mate, their friend holding a gun on them. Schuester was dead, others were dead. Kurt was still bleeding from that ugly wound. This was as real as it fucking got.
'Okay, okay,' Sam whispered, placing his hand on Brittany's shoulder and catching some hair by accident. Her head jerked back and he jumped at the motion.
This was bullshit! How could the Coupon Kid be holding him like this, like he was some fucking pussy? Dave had taken him easily enough in the locker room, and he hadn't needed a fucking gun to do it. Any other day, and he'd pound that blond cissy's face in.
Clenching his fists, he glared at the scene around him.
Didn't anyone have the guts to take this prick on?
Quinn was to his side, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared at the floor. Well, she was just a girl, after all. Ditto that Rachel, humming some stupid broadway number. Finn was preoccupied with Kurt -- goddamn Kurt, couldn't you butch up for this one thing? -- and Brittany stared out with sad scared eyes, her gaze locked on Santana, who was shaking with fear.
No, not fear, he realised, but sheer unadulterated rage. As if sensing his gaze, she glanced over, grimacing.
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them in that second, an understanding and an idea. It was the fastest Math he had ever done. There were five and a half of them and only one floppy-haired, gun-toting asshole.
He looked from Santana to Sam, who was babbling to a severe Quinn with empty apologies, and back again.
Santana shook her head, just slightly.
Brittany, her eyes said. I can't.
He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. If we don't, she'll die anyway, he tried to say with his face. It must have just looked like gas, because she frowned and glanced back over at Sam, and at the gun, which was now pointing towards the floor.
There was no cry of attack, no cool spaghetti western nod before they launched. It simply was. One moment, Dave and Santana were sitting there like ducks, the next they were on Sam.
He'd always been glad that Santana wasn't as big as him, because with his strength, she'd be formidable. She went right for Sam's eyes, clawing at his face. In the ensuing struggle, Brittany fled towards the others as Dave joined the fray.
Santana shrieked as the gun flew upwards and hit her in the face, knocking her to the floor. Sam's face flashed before him as they struggled, frozen in an expression of horror. Fancy that, feeling bad about hitting a girl when he had shot up half the school. Dave snarled and butted Sam's face, pain flaring across his head as it came into contact with Sam's nose, breaking it clean.
'Hudson! Help me! Stop groping Kur--oof!' Dave doubled over as Sam's knee met with his stomach. The sly fucker!
Giant, clomping footsteps announced Finn's arrival as he ran head first into Sam's back, causing the boy to cry in pain and drop the gun. It fell to the floor with a heavy clank.
'Grab it!' Santana yelled from the ground.
Dave dived, hearing Kurt and Rachel screaming Finn's name as he struggled to hold Sam down.
'Yes!' Dave shouted as his fingers curled around the gun, pulling it to him and burying it against his chest. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled it out in front of him like he was Jack Bauer in 24, or something less gay. 'Hudson! Move!'
Finn continued punching Sam, over and over, tears flowing free. 'Why? Just tell me why, Sam!'
'Fucking get off him, Finn!' Dave shouted. Finn looked back, eyes widening on seeing the gun's aim. He rolled off, scooting backwards as he stared at the gun in horror.
That left Sam, face a mess and completly unarmed. He didn't even try to get up, just looked at Dave through one puffy lid. 'Please,' he whispered. 'Don't.'
'No! Mátalo, Dave!' snarled Santana.
'No! Dave, don't!' Rachel cried.
'Shut it, puta!'
'Are you serious?' Finn snapped. 'After what he did? Do it, Dave!'
'You don't mean that!' Rachel countered. 'Don't do it, Dave. You can't! You're better than that!'
'I don't--' The gun began to waver in his hand as voices began to mingle into one. No, Dave. Yes, Dave. Do it. Don't be a coward. You can. You can't. Coward.
An image sprang to his mind. A local newspaper, no, The New York Times: FOOTBALL HERO TAKES DOWN SCHOOL SHOOTER.
Who'd argue about his being a hero, then?
But this isn't taking down Al-Qaeda. This is Sam Evans. The kid whose ass you scope out in the locker room. That dorky kid who does a badass Christopher Walken impression.
'Dave,' a small voice cut through the noise like a blade through silk. 'Don't.'
Dave looked sideways, at Kurt's frightened face, clutching the letterman jacket tight to his wound. Dimly, Dave thought that he had never looked as fragile as he did right now. Not even last year when Dave had pushed him to the edge, when seeing that fear was the only thing that could make Dave feel better about himself. Validated. Normal.
He had promised himself that he would never put that expression on Kurt's face again -- on anyone's face again. And he had. Yet again, he had failed.
Tearing his eyes away, he tightened his grip on the gun. All because of the murdering fuck at his feet.
'David Karosfky,' said a firm voice behind him. 'Don't you dare.' Quinn came to stand next to him, gazing down at Sam as he burst into loud sobs. 'There's been enough bloodshed for today. No more.'
*
'Blaine,' Mercedes whispered, her body pressed close. 'Is he alive?'
'He's breathing and he has a pulse,' Blaine confirmed, removing his fingers from the Figgins' throat. 'I can't believe it. I was just in here. Barely a--' He looked at the clock. 'An hour ago.'
'Our boy's a fast worker,' Mercedes muttered. She moved to the desk and held up the phone. 'They cut the line.'
'Doesn't matter. There are kids still in here. Siren's outside. They must have called for help.'
'That's what we should be doing,' she hissed as Blaine got up and moved past her. 'Hey, we're just leaving him?'
'He's a lot safer than most,' Blaine said, edging out of the door. 'I think he can hold on.'
'I think you need to hold on!' Mercedes snapped. 'Let's try and get out of here, Rambo. Or at least hole up somewhere until this is over.'
Blaine came to a halt in the hallway, his eyes squeezed shut. She was right. On some level, he knew she was right. He didn't have what it took for a situation like this. But he had to find Kurt, just know that he was okay. He had to.
Slowly, he turned to her, his eyes pleading for her to understand. 'You should go. Try and get into one of the classrooms or--'
'Oh, just quit that thought,' she tutted. 'You think I'm just going to let you mooch around here by yourself? You'll probably shut yourself in the eye.' Her voice softened. 'I'm worried, too. About all of them. But we're just kids, Blaine. Not the militia.'
Blaine blinked back tears. 'It's just--'
A sound in the distance cut him off, and he followed it with his eyes.
'Blaine! We should go!' Mercedes tugged at his arm, pulling in the opposite dircetion. 'Wait--'
Blaine shrugged her off. Kurt could be down there! They could leave, if they just checked this, if he could just be sure.
'Wait, why are we running towards the screaming and yelling?' gasped Mercedes as she caught up with him.
'Please, let's just see what's going on. It could be anyone--'
'It could be Kurt, you mean.'
'No! I mean, if someone's in trouble, we should help, right?'
She considered. 'Yeah. But we leave after this. Promise me!'
'I promise.' He frowned, coming to a halt. 'I recognise that voice.'
'That sounds like Santana,' Mercedes said, his fingers tight against his hip.
'It's Karofsky! Oh my God, I knew it! It's Karofsky! She just said 'don't shoot me, Dave!'
'Are you sure?' said Mercedes. 'It sounded like kill...'
'Well, of course,' he huffed. 'I just wanted to avoid saying that. I definitely heard her say "don't kill him, Dave!"'
'Oh, hell!' Mercedes stepped back in horror. 'Come on!' She turned and began running down the hall.
Blaine winced as he followed, the gun feeling slippery in his palms. Their steps pounded out loud in the hallway, making it hard to discern if Kurt's voice was amongst the yells.
Please be there, please be okay!
Mercedes halted at the doorway, almost violently, Blaine just stopped short of crashing into her back. 'Oh, my God,' she whispered.
'What--' Blaine's voice trailed off as he took in the scene before him.
He saw Santana on the floor, her cheek red and angry looking and her arms around a shaking Brittany.
He saw Rachel, a hand to her mouth and her eyes wide and wet.
He saw Finn curled on the ground nursing his gut and moaning.
He saw Karofsky, arguing heatedly with Quinn, who was standing protectively over a boy who was covering his bloody face in terror, pleads on his lips. In his hands Dave held a gun, and on his face a determined scowl.
He saw Kurt-- oh, God. Kurt. His arms were wrapped around his knees, his face pale, blood on the collar of his shirt. So much blood. He was staring at Karofsky in terror. 'Dave! Don't!'
Karofsky turned to Kurt, gun in hand.
Blaine didn't hesitate anymore. The anger soared through him and he lifted the rifle. The son of a bitch wasn't going to hurt anyone else.
Setting Karofsky firmly in sight, he pulled the trigger.
Chapter 11
*We totally lied about the cliffhangers.
Author: mothergoddamn & rebness
Pairing/characters: Blaine/Kurt, Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Finn, Kurt/Karofsky (one-sided)
Warning: Character death. Extreme violence. Dark!Fic.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When the students of McKinley High are staring death in the face, who will live to tell the tale?
Previous:
1/ 2/ 3/ 4/ 5/ 6/ 7/ 8/ 9
A/N: Thank you all for your feedback and for your enthusiasm for this story. We promise no more cliffhangers now*
Not Keen On Tuesdays, Either
Chapter 10
Dave felt like he had been punched in the gut.
This was all their fault! He should never have let Santana and the others in! He should've known they'd blow his cover, but he'd relented and now they were all going to get shot in the face. He should have hid, and kept Kurt safe. He should've looked out for himself. Hell, wasn't that what everyone expected of him?
I should never have chased after him, he thought before he could stop himself. I could be home. I could be safe.
I could be a coward.
Wasn't this year about changing that? Keeping his head down, blending in, being left alone? And then no one could ever look at him the way this damn loser club did again. One more year. That was all he had needed.
But wasn't doing nothing the same as being a coward?
People who do nothing don't get shot in the face. Wait. Yeah, they do!
Fuck it.
'You son of a bitch,' he growled, moving forward slowly. He hoped he looked steady. Strong. Brave. He certainly didn't feel it.
He hoped the Evans kid couldn't tell how fucking badly he was shaking.
'Just stay back!' Sam cried, pulling Brittany tighter towards him. 'Okay, I don't-- I don't want to do it anymore.' He licked his lips. 'Is that-- Is that Kurt?'
Dave heard Kurt groan behind him and he moved slowly to the side, blocking him from view.
'What's left of him,' Santana snapped, her jaw tight.
'Sam, I don't understand,' Quinn asked, her eyes glued to the gun aimed at Brittany. 'Why?'
'I don't...' he shook his head. 'I can't, okay? You wouldn't understand.'
'We wouldn't understand? We're not the glassy-eyed loon shooting people for no reason!' snapped Santana.
'Mr. Schue,' Finn whispered. 'Why? He was good to you! He helped you!' He pointed behind him. 'So did Kurt! We all did, man. We were there for you. Why did you have to kill--' A sob tore from his throat.
Rachel gave a pained gasp on hearing the teacher's name, and Finn pulled her to him, hugging her tight round the waist. 'You're just saying that, right?' she mumbled, 'you're just saying that.'
Fuck, Mr. Schue. Dave shook his head. He'd kinda liked the guy, he was decent. He hadn't had that air of us-versus-them that most of the fucks in this place had.
'Mr. Schue?' Sam said, in a dazed voice. 'He's-- gone?'
'He's dead! What did you think would happen when you shot him, you crazy son of a bitch!' Finn practically screamed. Dave flinched at the pain in Hudson's voice. He barely knew the guy, but these glee kids thought he hung the moon. That had to be rough. 'I just,' Finn wiped at his face with the back of his hand, 'wanna know why. That's all, Sam.'
'You wouldn't understand. I can't just explain it to you in the few minutes we have, guys. It took me so long to understand.' He shook his head, Brittany wincing as the gun pressed deeper into her hip. 'Maybe if they explained it to you! Like they did to me?'
'They?' asked Quinn softly. 'Who are they, Sam?'
'I can't tell you that. I can't give it all away, not yet. That's not part of the plan.'
'Fuck you,' Finn said in a quiet voice. 'Just fuck you.' He turned apruptly on his heel and began to head towards Dave and Kurt, dragging Rachel behind him.
'W-wait,' stammered Sam, 'what are you--'
'Checking on my brother,' Finn flung back over his shoulder. 'Shoot me in the back if you want.'
'Er, Finn, that would hit me,' said Rachel hurriedly. Still holding his hand, she moved so she was leading. 'There.'
Finn nodded at Dave as he moved past him, quickly kneeling beside Kurt. 'Hey, dude. Are you okay? Does it hurt?'
'Only when I laugh,' Kurt answered dryly. 'And I'm trapped in here with these clowns, so--' His voice was muffled and by the scrambling, he could discern that Finn had probably scooped him into a hug. Fantastic. Armed siege with the Waltons.
'Look! I er-- I want you all on the seats! Now, move,' Sam cried out making them all jump. 'Or I'll kill her.' His voice softened into a whisper. 'Don't make me kill her. Please.'
'This is so like CSI,' said Brittany. 'It's making me all nervous.'
Santana was the first to sit, like a fucked-up game of musical chairs. But instead of losing your chair, you lost half your face. Sam watched them impassively as they moved into position, Finn holding Kurt like china as he carried across the room.
'My legs are fine, Finn,' Kurt sighed. 'I'm not Fay Wray.'
'Hey,' Finn said. 'Being carried doesn't mean you're a fairy, Kurt. Don't talk like that.'
'What? I didn't say--'
'Shh, shh.' As he sat Kurt down, Finn met Dave's eyes over his shoulder, his gaze flickering to the blood now coating his fingers. Dave looked away; there was too much accusation in that stare for his liking.
Jesus, he thought bitterly, I tried, didn't I? It's more than Puck did. He'd tried to keep Kurt safe, at least he'd done that. Kind of. He'd tried to make up for everything that had gone on before. Wasn't he the hero of the hour? Where the hell was his recognition? This ugly little scene with the glee club totally wasn't what he'd expected. Some hero's welcome.
Well, you failed, didn't you? Just like you always do.
He took his seat morosely.
'Dave.' Rachel tapped at his shoulder. 'Can we switch chairs?'
'What?'
'It's just that as I was recently reunited with Finn, I would like to be at his side. There's a seat next to Santana, if you--'
'Fuck's sake!' he snapped, standing up and moving in between Quinn and Santana. And these dorks wondered why everyone hated them. No wonder Evans had gone fucking batshit. 'There. Happy?'
'No,' she whispered, straightening her prim skirt and sitting down. 'In case you hadn't noticed, this is a critical situation. Don't be so selfish.'
Dave wished he had a slushie right there in his hand. He'd slam it right into her face. He decided on some nasty retort, but bit the words back. She was trembling, though her dark eyes were inscrutable in the dim light. She actually smiled -- smiled -- at Sam, as if a friendly expression would make that psychotic fuck hold off. He realised how precariously brittle her composure was right now. She was retaining that annoying fucking persona as if it would shield her, clinging to little things to cope.
After all, this was their team mate, their friend holding a gun on them. Schuester was dead, others were dead. Kurt was still bleeding from that ugly wound. This was as real as it fucking got.
'Okay, okay,' Sam whispered, placing his hand on Brittany's shoulder and catching some hair by accident. Her head jerked back and he jumped at the motion.
This was bullshit! How could the Coupon Kid be holding him like this, like he was some fucking pussy? Dave had taken him easily enough in the locker room, and he hadn't needed a fucking gun to do it. Any other day, and he'd pound that blond cissy's face in.
Clenching his fists, he glared at the scene around him.
Didn't anyone have the guts to take this prick on?
Quinn was to his side, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared at the floor. Well, she was just a girl, after all. Ditto that Rachel, humming some stupid broadway number. Finn was preoccupied with Kurt -- goddamn Kurt, couldn't you butch up for this one thing? -- and Brittany stared out with sad scared eyes, her gaze locked on Santana, who was shaking with fear.
No, not fear, he realised, but sheer unadulterated rage. As if sensing his gaze, she glanced over, grimacing.
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them in that second, an understanding and an idea. It was the fastest Math he had ever done. There were five and a half of them and only one floppy-haired, gun-toting asshole.
He looked from Santana to Sam, who was babbling to a severe Quinn with empty apologies, and back again.
Santana shook her head, just slightly.
Brittany, her eyes said. I can't.
He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. If we don't, she'll die anyway, he tried to say with his face. It must have just looked like gas, because she frowned and glanced back over at Sam, and at the gun, which was now pointing towards the floor.
There was no cry of attack, no cool spaghetti western nod before they launched. It simply was. One moment, Dave and Santana were sitting there like ducks, the next they were on Sam.
He'd always been glad that Santana wasn't as big as him, because with his strength, she'd be formidable. She went right for Sam's eyes, clawing at his face. In the ensuing struggle, Brittany fled towards the others as Dave joined the fray.
Santana shrieked as the gun flew upwards and hit her in the face, knocking her to the floor. Sam's face flashed before him as they struggled, frozen in an expression of horror. Fancy that, feeling bad about hitting a girl when he had shot up half the school. Dave snarled and butted Sam's face, pain flaring across his head as it came into contact with Sam's nose, breaking it clean.
'Hudson! Help me! Stop groping Kur--oof!' Dave doubled over as Sam's knee met with his stomach. The sly fucker!
Giant, clomping footsteps announced Finn's arrival as he ran head first into Sam's back, causing the boy to cry in pain and drop the gun. It fell to the floor with a heavy clank.
'Grab it!' Santana yelled from the ground.
Dave dived, hearing Kurt and Rachel screaming Finn's name as he struggled to hold Sam down.
'Yes!' Dave shouted as his fingers curled around the gun, pulling it to him and burying it against his chest. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled it out in front of him like he was Jack Bauer in 24, or something less gay. 'Hudson! Move!'
Finn continued punching Sam, over and over, tears flowing free. 'Why? Just tell me why, Sam!'
'Fucking get off him, Finn!' Dave shouted. Finn looked back, eyes widening on seeing the gun's aim. He rolled off, scooting backwards as he stared at the gun in horror.
That left Sam, face a mess and completly unarmed. He didn't even try to get up, just looked at Dave through one puffy lid. 'Please,' he whispered. 'Don't.'
'No! Mátalo, Dave!' snarled Santana.
'No! Dave, don't!' Rachel cried.
'Shut it, puta!'
'Are you serious?' Finn snapped. 'After what he did? Do it, Dave!'
'You don't mean that!' Rachel countered. 'Don't do it, Dave. You can't! You're better than that!'
'I don't--' The gun began to waver in his hand as voices began to mingle into one. No, Dave. Yes, Dave. Do it. Don't be a coward. You can. You can't. Coward.
An image sprang to his mind. A local newspaper, no, The New York Times: FOOTBALL HERO TAKES DOWN SCHOOL SHOOTER.
Who'd argue about his being a hero, then?
But this isn't taking down Al-Qaeda. This is Sam Evans. The kid whose ass you scope out in the locker room. That dorky kid who does a badass Christopher Walken impression.
'Dave,' a small voice cut through the noise like a blade through silk. 'Don't.'
Dave looked sideways, at Kurt's frightened face, clutching the letterman jacket tight to his wound. Dimly, Dave thought that he had never looked as fragile as he did right now. Not even last year when Dave had pushed him to the edge, when seeing that fear was the only thing that could make Dave feel better about himself. Validated. Normal.
He had promised himself that he would never put that expression on Kurt's face again -- on anyone's face again. And he had. Yet again, he had failed.
Tearing his eyes away, he tightened his grip on the gun. All because of the murdering fuck at his feet.
'David Karosfky,' said a firm voice behind him. 'Don't you dare.' Quinn came to stand next to him, gazing down at Sam as he burst into loud sobs. 'There's been enough bloodshed for today. No more.'
*
'Blaine,' Mercedes whispered, her body pressed close. 'Is he alive?'
'He's breathing and he has a pulse,' Blaine confirmed, removing his fingers from the Figgins' throat. 'I can't believe it. I was just in here. Barely a--' He looked at the clock. 'An hour ago.'
'Our boy's a fast worker,' Mercedes muttered. She moved to the desk and held up the phone. 'They cut the line.'
'Doesn't matter. There are kids still in here. Siren's outside. They must have called for help.'
'That's what we should be doing,' she hissed as Blaine got up and moved past her. 'Hey, we're just leaving him?'
'He's a lot safer than most,' Blaine said, edging out of the door. 'I think he can hold on.'
'I think you need to hold on!' Mercedes snapped. 'Let's try and get out of here, Rambo. Or at least hole up somewhere until this is over.'
Blaine came to a halt in the hallway, his eyes squeezed shut. She was right. On some level, he knew she was right. He didn't have what it took for a situation like this. But he had to find Kurt, just know that he was okay. He had to.
Slowly, he turned to her, his eyes pleading for her to understand. 'You should go. Try and get into one of the classrooms or--'
'Oh, just quit that thought,' she tutted. 'You think I'm just going to let you mooch around here by yourself? You'll probably shut yourself in the eye.' Her voice softened. 'I'm worried, too. About all of them. But we're just kids, Blaine. Not the militia.'
Blaine blinked back tears. 'It's just--'
A sound in the distance cut him off, and he followed it with his eyes.
'Blaine! We should go!' Mercedes tugged at his arm, pulling in the opposite dircetion. 'Wait--'
Blaine shrugged her off. Kurt could be down there! They could leave, if they just checked this, if he could just be sure.
'Wait, why are we running towards the screaming and yelling?' gasped Mercedes as she caught up with him.
'Please, let's just see what's going on. It could be anyone--'
'It could be Kurt, you mean.'
'No! I mean, if someone's in trouble, we should help, right?'
She considered. 'Yeah. But we leave after this. Promise me!'
'I promise.' He frowned, coming to a halt. 'I recognise that voice.'
'That sounds like Santana,' Mercedes said, his fingers tight against his hip.
'It's Karofsky! Oh my God, I knew it! It's Karofsky! She just said 'don't shoot me, Dave!'
'Are you sure?' said Mercedes. 'It sounded like kill...'
'Well, of course,' he huffed. 'I just wanted to avoid saying that. I definitely heard her say "don't kill him, Dave!"'
'Oh, hell!' Mercedes stepped back in horror. 'Come on!' She turned and began running down the hall.
Blaine winced as he followed, the gun feeling slippery in his palms. Their steps pounded out loud in the hallway, making it hard to discern if Kurt's voice was amongst the yells.
Please be there, please be okay!
Mercedes halted at the doorway, almost violently, Blaine just stopped short of crashing into her back. 'Oh, my God,' she whispered.
'What--' Blaine's voice trailed off as he took in the scene before him.
He saw Santana on the floor, her cheek red and angry looking and her arms around a shaking Brittany.
He saw Rachel, a hand to her mouth and her eyes wide and wet.
He saw Finn curled on the ground nursing his gut and moaning.
He saw Karofsky, arguing heatedly with Quinn, who was standing protectively over a boy who was covering his bloody face in terror, pleads on his lips. In his hands Dave held a gun, and on his face a determined scowl.
He saw Kurt-- oh, God. Kurt. His arms were wrapped around his knees, his face pale, blood on the collar of his shirt. So much blood. He was staring at Karofsky in terror. 'Dave! Don't!'
Karofsky turned to Kurt, gun in hand.
Blaine didn't hesitate anymore. The anger soared through him and he lifted the rifle. The son of a bitch wasn't going to hurt anyone else.
Setting Karofsky firmly in sight, he pulled the trigger.
Chapter 11
*We totally lied about the cliffhangers.