Song Remains the Same

Chapter 115 / The Librarian

"She is too fond of books, and it has addled her brain."
- Louisa May Alcott

Topeka, Kansas

Beneath bike pedals, pavement whizzed by until it was nothing but a gray blur, but that still wasn't fast enough for Molly Ziegler. She was late and nothing could change that she was late, but she was fighting fate anyway out of desperation, risking life and limb with how fast she was going. It just figured that she'd forgotten her bike helmet as she'd rushed out of the class that had gone late… and now she was a mess and a half as she tried to get herself to work on time. In a flash of morbid musing, Molly imagined herself losing control of her bike and wiping out on the pavement. At her funeral, everyone would shake their heads in disappointment because of how she had once been so on-time and put-together until grad school had just proved too much for her to handle.

At that exact moment, she heard the sound she had been silently begging not to hear. Her wristwatch chirped, signaling the top of the hour. When she heard that innocent little beep, her already tight stomach plunged into itself with dismay. No, no, no! Now I'm late for real! AGAIN!

Being late was one of the things she hated most in life. One thing she irrevocably could not stand, and yet here she was, late to work for the third time in two weeks. It was making her sick. Class had run late again, and she could currently conceive of no bigger problem in life than this.

Molly practically crashed her bike into the rack in front of the Shawnee County Library and swung off in an ungraceful stumble, her shaking hands fumbling with the bike lock. She could usually lock it in two seconds easily, but her flustered, breathless state had rendered her incapable of doing anything correctly at the current moment. You'd think she had just been through a traumatic event from the look on her face. For Molly, being late (or even being almost-late) was a traumatic event—it meant she wasn't in control and that she didn't have things organized. It meant that she was a mess. And she really didn't want to be a mess and she really was doing her best with her hectic lifestyle and why won't this thing lock?!

Increasingly agitated, Molly struggled with the lock a couple seconds more and offered up silent prayers and curses to the lock-gods then finally got it to cooperate. The second she got the lock to snap shut, she took off at an embarrassingly full run toward the front doors of the library… and promptly lost one of her shoes. She turned in a dizzy whirl and snatched the shoe back up, hopping awkwardly and trying to shove her foot into her shoe as she skip-hop-jumped toward the shining glass doors of the library. Must—not—be—any—later—than—I—already—am!

"Hiya Molly!" came a cheerful woman's voice.

A very discombobulated Molly turned mid-hop, trying not to stop because she didn't want to get caught up in a conversation. Paranoid about being seen as rude, she gave a quick wave with her shoe and then a polite response to the library patron she recognized—Laura Feeley who checked out books on gardening and chatted to Molly sometimes about the herbs she grew and her hydrangea bush. "Hi Miss Laura!" she called, trying to summon a polite smile even as—wham!—Molly miscalculated how fast she was going and ran headlong right into the solid glass door. With a startled squeak, she fell down onto her butt.

Totally humiliated with low blood sugar, burning cheeks, shaking hands and legs, Molly knew she must look ridiculous and she therefore wanted to die or disappear… whichever would be more convenient and quick, please. But neither one happened and Miss Laura fussed over her (which only made it worse) and then insisted on helping her up (Molly really wished she hadn't) and then started to try and joke around (which only was making her more and more late).

Finally after an eternity of perhaps thirty seconds, Molly was able to hedge away from the horrendously embarrassing moment and back out and smile and nod and laugh nervously enough that Miss Laura gave the "well, I'll let you go hon!" and Molly was free to hurry into the library.

She rushed inside, thoroughly dreading the head librarian's reaction—she sort of hoped that he'd see her obvious disgruntlement and take pity and not write her up for being late. Her long blonde hair was lopsided in a newly askew ponytail, she was out of breath and red-faced, her shoe still wasn't on her foot, one of her backpack straps was ripped (thanks to a clumsy encounter with the bathroom door at college today), she'd spilled coffee on herself in her last class, and she had slept past her alarm this morning which meant she was wearing no makeup whatsoever. In short, Molly felt like a walking, talking accident. It was one of those days she just really wanted to start over. But now that she was in her haven—the library—she thought it had to get better.

But… Mr. Jones was not fun to work with. And today, he was on shift until closing time. As usual, he stood at the circulation desk like he was the king of the domain and God Of The Library. Roger Jones was of average height, average build, average appearance (bald, doughy, very pale) and yet he seemed to think he was the absolute cream of the crop. He was highly educated and real smug about it, too. Calm, quiet, and a little snobbish as per usual, he looked up as Molly rushed in like a deranged lunatic. "Hm," he commented, one eyebrow raised a little higher than the other as his dark eyes meaningfully glanced at the clock and then her again. "Tardy again, Miss Ziegler." He frowned slightly, seeing her bare foot. "Is there some kind of new trend going on with the young people concerning wearing only one shoe at a time?" The way he asked dripped in disdain and she knew it wasn't a genuine question.

Mortified, Molly stopped and awkwardly shoved her size-ten foot into her shoe then smoothed her hair uselessly. She knew he was judging her for looking so unkempt and she kind of wanted to cry about it—her already feeble self-esteem was on its last leg. She tried to explain herself, but words and thoughts currently escaped her and rushed out in an incoherent jumble. "S-sorry Mr. Jones—I, the alarm clock, it—and I didn't hear—so I was late for everything a-and then my bike and oh my coffee, it spilled everywhere, and oh then my backpack just—" she gestured at it and mimed explosions with her hands, forgetting the word for what had happened to her backpack, "and the, my last class ran late and I tried to get here on time, I really did, I'm so sorry…" she trailed off. God, I sound like a total chump.

"Of course you tried to be on time," Mr. Jones said with a supremely false smile, and she didn't know if he actually meant it (he never sounded earnestly nice) or if he was being patronizing. Either way, she got the feeling she always did: that he didn't like her and thought she was an idiot. Which made her feel even smaller than she did already. Still, she slunk around the desk dutifully with her broken backpack and fried nerves. Mr. Jones was typing away at the main circulation desk as she entered the employees' area.

"Window washers came by earlier today," he said mildly. "The doors are so clean you can't even see them." So he'd seen her fall. Flushing with embarrassment—and a little resentment—Molly stewed. Didn't he see how bad of a day she was having? And he knew how sensitive and weird she was… yet he made comments to her all the time that hurt her feelings. Still typing haughtily and not looking at her, Mr. Jones nodded vaguely with his head toward the carts lined up behind him. "I have some returns waiting," he said, and from the looks of it, no one else had done returns all day. "They've been scanned in but they need to be sorted and shelved. Get settled in so Georgina can leave."

Georgina: the idiot undergrad who Mr. Jones thought hung the moon.

Molly glanced darkly at Georgina, who was currently sitting at the secondary desk behind the main desk scrolling through her phone like a lump and not paying attention to anything. That girl never did any actual work. She basically got paid to sit around and do homework and help a few people check out books here and there. She didn't sort books properly, shelved things wrong, and basically didn't give two flying flips about the library code of honor. Well, that wasn't really a thing, but still. Molly swallowed it down, because that was just the way things were for now.

"Yes sir," she said meekly, wondering if she was going to get fired. She was always wondering that though. She was forever-paranoid about all the reasons people might find to want her gone.

As she daydreamed of a library of her own that would be a safe space, especially for anyone who felt like an outcast or had a hard time in life, Molly dutifully went to the break room in the back and put her things away—her lunch container, the heavy backpack—and she took her little purse out of her backpack and moved it to the bathroom lockers for safekeeping. While there, she really quickly tried to get the coffee stain out of her pants by scrubbing at it with a wet paper towel, but she only made the stain look worse. She ended up untucking the pale clover-green button-up she was wearing and letting the length cover up most of the stain (the untucked shirt made her look sloppier, but it was either sloppy or I peed myself). After that she attempted to smooth her hair, which she didn't really do much with to begin with. The twenty-four-year-old let out a sigh through a thin, exasperated mouth, resulting in horse sounds. She looked every bit the disaster she was. With a dutiful sigh, Molly brushed it off and went back to the main circulation desk and set to work sorting all the returns. They went by call number so that when you wheeled the cart out to the main floor, you could go shelf by shelf in a nice, orderly way. Molly loved order and organization and so this was actually soothing for her. Everyone else complained about this task.

Molly sorted the books quickly and wondered about the people who had checked these particular volumes out. She thought you could tell a lot about people by what they read. As she continued, her tired and sleep-deprived mind began to wander and her efficiency dwindled. When she picked up a recipe book to sort, it set off an entire inner dialogue that started with her wondering if she had food at home or not, and she began to stare at the book unseeingly as her mind got swamped in to-do lists, second guessing herself, school-related anxiety, and other spiralling, stressful stuff.

"Molly."

"Molly?"

"Miss Ziegler."

Molly blinked rapidly and frowned, realizing she'd zoned out—again. Third time this week while at work, by her current count. Dammit. She tried to put an alert, earnest expression onto her face even though her anxiety had suddenly increased by the power of twelve. "Yes, Mr. Jones?"

He was very prim. "Less staring into space, more sorting the returns, thank you."

She smiled nervously, an automatic response. "Sorry, sorry." She started sorting again, focusing on staying present even though inside, she was kicking herself and annoyed. I apologize too much.

Saturday evening continued on and Molly calmed down as she settled into the library routine of shelving books, checking out patrons, tidying things, and being in the lull of familiar routine. Around eight forty that night, twenty minutes until they were going to close the library, an old Jewish man with white hair and a shuffling gait approached the desk. Molly recognized him immediately. He was becoming an increasingly familiar sight around the library. He'd been visiting every night for the past week or so. Dressed sharply, he had an old-world air about him… maybe it was the snappy black hat he wore or the round wire glasses perched on his nose, but he looked like he'd walked out of the pages of some World War II novel. As Molly worked on labeling some new books they'd gotten in at the secondary desk behind the main counter, Mr. Jones, who stood at the main counter, put a polite strain on his voice. "Well, well... it's so late, Rabbi Bass. I thought maybe you weren't coming today."

Rabbi Bass had a bright-eyed, crazed look to him. "Sree times I had to transfer zee bus lines to lose him today!" he exclaimed in his heavily accented voice.

Molly peeked up at him as she worked—every night, he said something along the same lines. Mr. Jones kept that fake smile plastered across his face. "Right—your sinister friend."

The rabbi didn't beat around the bush. "You don't believe me I'm being followed," he said in chagrin, then shrugged it off. "Nobody ever does." He leaned across the desk and Mr. Jones backed up a little as if he thought he might catch something. "You know vat you should do? Bring out zee tall girl with the face like sunshine, I like her better than you."

Molly looked down to hide her smile. The rabbi was very nice to her in a grandfatherly way and Mr. Jones was forever-annoyed by that fact. "I can assure you, Rabbi Bass, I'm the head librarian here and I'm perfectly capable of assisting you."

With a smile that looked as false as Mr. Jones, the rabbi said something in Yiddish. "ʼYk hʼáp̄n ʼa qlyyn qynd qyqs ʼyr ʼyn dy qys," he said snidely, and Molly had the distinct feeling he was saying something rude to Mr. Jones—and she thought she heard words similar to 'child' and 'kick.' The old man pulled out the notebook he had tucked under his arm and proceeded onward as if nothing had been said at all. He read from his notes over shining wire-rimmed glasses. "So, yes, I would like to seeing, uh… manuscript F through D one-sirteen from zee Holtzinger estate."

Mr. Jones smiled tightly and patronizingly. "Oh, my. You're going to catalogue that whole collection for us, aren't you?"

The rabbi didn't bother with pleasantries anymore and let his face drop expressionlessly, showing his annoyance with the way the librarian was talking to him. "If I have to."

Mr. Jones swept a hand out to his right, that same fake smile on his face the entire time. "Go have a seat in the reading area, sir, we'll have that brought right out to you."

"Sank you," the rabbi said peevishly and went on his way.

Mr. Jones looked straight at Molly. "Manuscript F-D one-thirteen from the Holtzinger estate." She understood he wanted her to do it. She hurried with the label she was trying to affix to another book spine, but the label was sticky and she was suddenly having problems getting it not to stick to itself. Impatient and self-important, Mr. Jones sent her a look as he pulled a pile of returns toward himself as another patron came to the desk. "Today, Molly."

With shaking fingers, she stuck the sticker onto the book spine crookedly, flustered with herself. "Sorry," she said, then immediately kicked herself for saying sorry. Dammit. She wished she had the courage to sass him instead.

After finding FD113 in the special collections section that was not publicly shelved, she wheeled the book out on a cart. These books were stored in airtight plastic bins because they were bound in leathers that would decompose in sun and humidity. She found the rabbi waiting at the table holding his hat in his hands which twitched nervously. He was already wearing the special gloves required of patrons who wanted to look through this specific collection and he looked very eager to see the contents of the bin she was bringing him. "Here's your volume Mr. Bass," she said mindlessly as she set the bin onto the table. She caught her mistake and corrected it quickly. "Err, sorry, Rabbi Bass."

He chuckled and smiled at her indulgently. "Call me vhatever you like, songbird," he said, shaking an approving finger at her. "Because you I like." His eyes slid to where the circulation desk was. Mr. Jones' bald head was just visible and Rabbi Bass' expression darkened. "I svear to Got, how do you stand zat prick?"

The unashamed comment made Molly smile despite her best effort. "You um, I guess you get used to him after awhile," she said, trying to remain diplomatic and hide her pleased smile. "He's not that bad."

Tutting, Rabbi Bass tutted as if he were enjoying an amusement. "Ah! She is so pretty, but a terrible liar."

Molly fidgeted. "Yes, well… I'll… leave you to your reading." She sidled off, blushing. Pretty. She thought she was okay—not terrible to look at, but she did like her hair. It was very long and wavy, and a pretty natural blond color thanks to her Germanic heritage. Sometimes people told her they envied her because she was so tall and 'statuesque.' But Molly had always felt inordinately awkward above all else. She was one inch shy of being six feet tall, built like a ballerina, and personally thought she looked like a stick-figure. Being so tall and thin, some folks said she should be a model, or asked if she played basketball (no… she would much rather be reading, thanks, but she had enjoyed kickboxing classes in her teen years).

She wasn't like her only brother Arno who was self-assured and comfortable no matter where he went. She wasn't like her hospitable and warm mother who never met a stranger. She was… weird. Uncomfortable most of the time. Never able to relax unless she was totally alone in her own space. Always anxious or worried about something. Obsessed with details and timeframes and symmetry. But Dad always told her 'weird works, Molly-liebling. Weird is good.' He was a comforting and solid presence in her life… he was what he called 'German-import.' He'd come to America when he was in his twenties on a soccer scholarship, met Mom, and never left. Molly had learned her love of books from him—he was a collector and had read her books every night before bed when she was small; he even wrote Mom sappy poetry for their anniversary every year and read it to her (loudly in public). He was weird and embraced it. But Molly wasn't there yet. Maybe someday. Weird is good, she reminded herself.

And then a book smacked down loudly onto the counter in front of her and she jumped and gasped, her heart going through the roof. "Zis book—we need to protect it!" the rabbi said urgently.

Startled, Molly stuttered as she held a hand over her heart. "Wh—I'm sor—protect it from what?"

As if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world, Rabbi Bass got even more urgent. "Zee agents of evil who pursue it!" he exclaimed.

… Molly literally had no clue what to say in reply.

Mr. Jones was suddenly beside her and using his is there a problem here? tone. "Rabbi Bass—"

But the rabbi wasn't listening. "This thing zey put on me—he's too close!" he insisted. "We must protect it! I can't take zis ledger with me!"

The librarian gave the rabbi a weird look. "Of course you can't," Mr Jones said. "It's part of the special reference section, where it will be perfectly safe."

"Oh." The rabbi stood back slightly and his alarm suddenly became replaced by quietness and collected calm. "Oh. Well, I still have ten minutes, yes?"

Mr. Jones was demure. "Eight minutes... before all materials must be returned to the main desk."

The rabbi smiled pleasantly, but it did not reach his eyes. "ʼYk hʼáp̄n zyy bʼaẕʼáln ʼyr gwt ẕw hʼaltn ʼaz zşwq ʼarwyp dyyn tʼákʻs." Molly gaped as the old man walked off. She didn't speak Yiddish of course but she recognized enough words to understand that Rabbi Bass had said something about a bug living up Mr. Jones'… well… ass.

The head librarian leaned toward Molly slightly. "You speak German, right? What'd he say?"

She didn't correct him—that hadn't been German and any dolt with a brain would have known that because the phonetics were all wrong. But she was sort of enjoying the brief moment of being smarter than her boss. "How nice he thinks our library is," she said, a serene little smile playing on her face as she thoroughly relished her inside joke.

Mr. Jones scoffed in the direction of the rabbi's retreating form. "Psh. Well, I'll be glad when that batty old geezer stops showing up and imposing his crazy on us," he muttered.

The very next day, Molly would hear about how that nice old man left the library that night and then for reasons unknown caught fire at a local sports bar. His death was shrouded in mystery and the talk of the town, but Molly was left feeling incredibly sad and shocked about his passing. She hadn't ever really known anyone who had died. And she had liked that odd old man.

Three Days Later

Molly squinted and coughed as in a flimsy attempt to stop breathing dust, she shielded her mouth and nose with a hand. But it didn't really do much… the shelves underneath the circulation desk were filthy. They'd been lined with reference materials and some employee handbooks and other odds and ends, but Mr. Jones had decided Molly needed something extra to do and instructed her to move all those books and then dust thoroughly. And boy, there was a lot of dust behind where those books used to be. She had to crawl halfway into the deep cave-like underbelly of the circulation desk to even reach the deepest parts of the shelves. And that was where she was on what she thought was just another regular Tuesday afternoon. But what that Tuesday turned out to be was the day her life changed forever.

She continued to clean and gripe internally about why this was her job and not Mr. Jones'. He probably thought her doing this menial Cinderella-type task was the default option because of archetypal gender roles but she'd really like to see him on his hands and knees dusting something for once. But oh god she'd never say that to him, yikes. Not until the day she quit and gave a resounding monologue about all the injustice and rudeness he'd subjected her and others to over the years.

She heard Mr. Jones greet a patron overhead. "Yes, can I help you sir."

"Hi." A deep, rich male voice that made Molly's eyes shoot open wide. She stopped what she was doing, freezing as all the blood in her body drained immediately to her toes. No way...! Was that…? Overhead, he kept speaking. "My name is Sam Winchester and I was a research associate of Rabbi B—"

Molly reacted before she could stop herself—by straightening up out of surprise. But she forgot how far under the desk she was and—thunk! "Ow!" She hit her head hard enough to make her vision swim and she quickly withered with mortification as she pressed a hand to the top of her aching head and the other against her mouth. Oh god please let no one have heard that.

She stayed frozen in place, holding her breath and hoping Sam would go away. But Mr. Jones was staring down at her from where he stood over and beside her. "Miss Ziegler, what is going on down there?" he asked, looking at her like she'd lost her mind.

Not sure what else to do, Molly extracted herself from the belly of the desk then very slowly stood, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird. And when she saw Sam, she could have fainted. There he was in the flesh, looking just as stunned to see her again as she was to see him. He was just like she remembered: tall, built, and so painfully handsome with his chocolate brown hair, hazel eyes, piercing features, petal lips, chiseled jaw… he was wearing dark jeans and a sweater vest and a beautiful blazer, like a hot young professor… and she stood in puny contrast to him (covered in dust bunnies and wearing one of her least favorite tops). She felt so inferior she couldn't even begin to fathom what was happening.

Sam's eyes were a little wide and his mouth hung open slightly—like he had never been more surprised in all his life. "…A-Annaliese?" he asked in sheer disbelief.

Oh... my... god. This can't be happening. Her neck and cheeks burned with embarrassment and she reached out to steady her very nervous self on the edge of the desk and alas she missed, knocking over an open box of paperclips which all dumped out noisily all over the floor. Further embarrassed, she wilted and burned redder than a tomato. Somehow, Molly found her voice. "Um… no, it's actually Molly," she corrected feebly. Sam's face fell in confusion as he tried to put it together.

Mr. Jones was looking between them with narrowed eyes. "…Do you two know each other?"

Sam and Molly gave the same false, nervous answer at the same time: "No!"

Mr. Jones seemed to write it off as nonsense he didn't have time for and he looked at Sam impatiently. "You were saying?"

Sam continued after a couple beats, but he was no longer self-assured and confident. He kept looking at Molly, who wasn't sure if she should stand there or run away or just save everyone the trouble and launch herself into outer space. So she settled on standing there like a moron. Sam struggled to speak and focus. "I'm, uh, the, the, research—um, associate of, uh, R-Rabbi Bass," he said, obviously shaken up and distracted at Molly's appearance. "I'm, uh, trying to complete his last paper for the—you know, uh, our publication. I'd just like to… um, review what he was after here…?" Those soulful hazel eyes of his glanced into Molly's again and her stomach flipped and she looked away in panic.

Mr. Jones smiled wanly at Sam. "Well, that would be quite a lot of material," he said airily. "The rabbi was here open to close for almost a week."

"Oh." Sam hesitated, his glance flickering to Molly a couple more times. "Um, okay. How about just the stuff he was looking at... you know, the day he, uh... caught fire?"

Mr. Jones looked distinctly uncomfortable. "That does shorten the list a bit." He turned to his dumbfounded assistant. "Molly, go get the manuscript for the gentleman. Sir, if you'll have a seat in our reading area." When neither Sam or Molly moved (just stood there and stared at each other in mutual awkwardness), the librarian cleared his throat impatiently. "Are we going to do this today, or…?" He made a shoo motion at Molly, who remembered herself and then quickly scampered off. Sam watched her go and Mr. Jones eyed him doubtfully. "The reading area is over there, Mr. Winchester."

Sam watched Molly's retreating form, and it was obvious he didn't really have as much interest in the research as he had when he first walked in here. "Right," he said, distracted and troubled and anxious. "Yeah, uh—thanks."

A Year and A Half Ago
Las Vegas, Nevada

It was like someone had taken Molly's list of things she hated most in the world and decided to roll them all into one. Never in a million years would she have predicted she'd end up here in Las Vegas at a loud glittery bar as she sat at a table full of drunk girls while wearing the most ridiculous outfit she'd ever worn in her life.

Miserable and sober and the only one at the table that way, Molly tried to look like she was having a good time but she was so terribly unhappy and out of place that she wanted to cry. When Kate, a classmate and fellow English major, had asked her to please be a bridesmaid after one of her other ones fell through, Molly hadn't really known how to say no. And when Kate had insisted on having her bachelorette party in Vegas, Molly hadn't been able to find an excuse not to go. In fact there had been a brief day or two of Molly looking forward to trying something new, traveling with friends—but it was turning out to be a disaster.

The girls had taken one look at the modest floral-print dress Molly had been planning to wear tonight and absolutely insisted it was too 'Kansas.' Introvert Molly had caved under the peer pressure and let them re-dress her in borrowed stuff until they were satisfied that she 'looked Vegas enough.' With a short leather mini skirt, skin-hugging lacy black halter top, and heavier makeup than she ever wore, Molly had never felt so self-conscious in her entire life. So much skin was showing, and they'd pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail which meant her neck and back felt naked, too. When she'd seen herself in the mirror, she'd blanched—she looked nothing like herself. But the other girls—Kate and her other nine bridesmaids—had ooh-ed and ahh-ed and said how great she looked and then posed for a hundred group selfies Molly plastered an uncomfortable grin on for. The entire time, her internal monologue had been: I am never doing this again.

That had been hours ago and Molly just wanted to go to sleep and put this weekend from hell behind herself. She was the only one in the bachelorette party who wasn't blitzed (since Molly didn't really drink) which made for even more awkwardness on her end. She didn't fit in with these girls and no one was really talking to her (she'd been okay with that mostly, it was just the principle of the thing). And then about ten minutes ago, Kate (so trashed and loud) had declared Molly was going to have a one night stand here in Vegas, because she never had before. After feeling violated that her private life was being so flippantly aired, Molly had been relegated to listening to all the other drunk girls carry on about how casual hookups were a rite of passage and what a prude she was being and how she needed to do it 'just once in her life.' To make matters worse, they were scoping on guys in the bar and trying to find her a guy to go bang. Molly stewed silently, trying to be a good sport to avoid a confrontation—but she knew she would never in a million years find a man of substance in a place like this, and she wasn't interested in meaningless hookups.

At the constant badgering, Molly was honestly at the point of thinking about calling a cab and leaving on her own, but she was from a small town—this big city had her petrified. She didn't know how to get around on her own in this type of place. However... she was almost to her threshold of misery.

"Oh… my… god," Annie said dramatically—one of the only bridesmaids whose name Molly remembered. She had a hungry look on her face. "Check out that hottie at twelve o'clock!"

Molly reluctantly looked, sure she was about to see another shady over-groomed douchebag looking guy. But she was pleasantly surprised. Seated at the bar and not paying attention to anything going on was a tall looking broad-shouldered young man who appeared to be in his late-twenties. He was clean-shaven and had longish hair, sideburns, a very handsome face, and an air of solemn thoughtfulness that Molly had to admit was immediately intriguing for her. He looked kind of like her actually… like he didn't really want to be where he was. Like he was feeling out of place. He didn't seem to be with anyone and he had a beer in hand that was forgotten. He was even dressed differently than everyone else there—jeans, work boots, a plaid shirt and a worn-in cargo jacket. He looked… authentic. Approachable. Molly stared at him despite herself, fascinated.

Beside Molly, Annie was practically panting as she stared at long-hair-guy. "Oh my god, can you imagine grabbing that hair?" she asked, touching herself on the shoulders as she slouched in her seat drunkenly. "He looks like a Greek god… I bet he's super built under all those layers…" she made a purring noise, winked, then giggled maniacally.

Uncomfortable with the objectification, Molly made a slight face and hoped they would just stop. But Kate elbowed her in the side, making her jump. "Go and just talk to him, Molly-moo! What's the harm?!" The nickname Molly-moo made her even more annoyed but Molly just smiled tightly, trying to be calm and mature.

She wasn't exactly the best with peer pressure. "No, I really don't want to," she resisted, trying to sound light even though she was getting intensely irritated.

"But you look super pretty tonight!" Kate cajoled. "Come onnnn! It'll be fun! Do it before you're like me and tied down to one guy for the rest of your life!"

Molly was scandalized—Kate was about to get married, should she really feel that way? And furthermore: "What part about sex with a stranger is fun?" It was scintillating in fiction but seemed terrifying and dangerous in real life.

"Every part!" Annie replied with a raucous laugh. The other girls at the table laughed too, and Molly felt embarrassed again because she understood that she was being laughed at for her lack of experience. Did people ever stop being bullies, she wondered? She hadn't stepped foot in high school in years and yet this is what that felt like.

Molly looked back at long-hair-guy and was startled when she saw he was looking across the club back at her. And then like he felt her pain, he gave her a little companionable smile and brief raise of the chin. Terrified, Molly froze, then tried to smile back. Hot with embarrassment, she shrank back into her seat and trying to look occupied, she fidgeted with a napkin on the table as her ears burned. It was so unspeakably awkward for her to be noticed by the opposite sex. Well by anyone really, but especially in this environment? Molly wondered for the hundredth time what she had been thinking when she agreed to be Kate's bridesmaid. I just wanna be at home. With my books. And my cat. I hate this music and I hate this outfit and I don't belong here. Why did I say I'd be in this stupid wedding?

"Hey! Hot plaid guy is into you!" Kate said, catching the little smile the guy had given. "Why don't you go say hi?"

Molly started to lose her cool. "Guys, I don't want to—to get with some random guy!" she insisted almost angrily. As soon as she got mad, she covered it over with an obliging smile. She hated confrontation so much.

No one at the table seemed to care. "Just go sit at the bar, Molly, oh my god, stop being such a wet rag," Kate complained. "Just say hi, it's not even a big deal! Where things go from there are up to you." She turned sing-song. "'What happens in Vegas'…!" When all Molly did was make a face to express her discomfort, Kate got exasperated and a little disgusted. "Live a little, my god Molly, it's just sex…" She probably wouldn't have said it if she hadn't been drinking: "No wonder you've only had two boyfriends your whole life."

Stung, abruptly almost in tears, Molly sat there with a stabbed heart.

"Now don't listen to the bitter hag over here," Annie chided carelessly. "Just go for it; be free!" Annie's very helpful and cheerful tone was absolutely infuriating, but not as much as what she said next: "And if you get your anxiety, just stop thinking about it. You'll be fine."

Just stop 'thinking about it'? Clearly these people had no idea what it was like to be stuck inside of your own mind, unable to function when their anxiety got intense. Insulted, Molly gritted her teeth in her mouth and because she was truly at her wit's end, she let her inner thoughts fly out in a bitter, sarcastic jibe: "Wow! I never thought about it that way," she said tightly in a voice that dripped with genuine disdain, and the shocked look on Annie's face was actually kind of awesome. "Thanks," Molly continued bitterly. "All of my years battling anxiety are all solved; you should write a book!" She stood up fast, knocking her chair back—she was shaking all over, she was so agitated and hot with righteous anger. "You can call it 'Useless Bullshit That Helps No One'!"

And with her blood pounding in her ears and her heart going a million miles an hour, Molly stalked off, her cheeks burning even though she kind of felt triumphant. And sick. And good. And horrible. All at the same time. I can't believe I said that. She grinned to herself, kind of awed. Then the smile fell for a frown. Oh my god. They'll leave me here in Vegas and I'll never get home. The smile returned. I can't believe I actually said that…!

Molly went to the bar because she had no idea where to go or how to stand or what to do, and the bar was something to at least lean against. There she gathered herself and wondered if one of the girls would come and apologize to her or something. No one came and Molly realized—crap—hot plaid guy with the long hair is somewhere close to here. She glanced down the length of the bar very carefully, trying not to look too conspicuous. He was about five seats down and he felt her glance—their eyes met again and he gave her the tiniest little approachable, genuine smile. Molly's stomach dropped and her eyes dodged his even as her heart began to thump around like a maniac. Just don't look at him again. He might come over here if you keep looking at him. Molly clasped her hands tightly on the bar top then fiddled with her skirt because it was too short and she felt like everyone could see everything.

Across from her, a man with a rag stopped. "Get you something?" the bar tender asked. Molly immediately shook her head no, which got her a skeptical look. "Suit yourself." Music thumped loudly. And Molly wondered if it were too late to resign as a bridesmaid. She felt someone slide in beside her just then and half expected it to be one of the girls. So when it was a short slightly pudgy guy with slicked back dark hair and a greasy smile, she shrank away in confusion.

He grinned at her with an oily smile. "Hey babe, enjoying yourself? You come here often?" he asked in a voice that was supposed to be smooth and alluring.

Mortified, Molly answered the only way she could: honestly and nervously. "Well I—I'm not even from Vegas and I think this sort of establishment is quite frankly the underbelly of society, so… no." She tried to look away and send the message leave me alone.

But he chuckled easily, eyeing her without any decency whatsoever. "Fancy words, you a college girl or somethin'?"

Molly wasn't sure why that was a flirtation and bristled a little because it felt distinctly insulting somehow. She found a glare on her face and didn't bother to hide it. "Yes, actually." She eyed the moron talking her up. He probably thought Twilight was literature.

"I like me some college girls," he drawled leisurely, grinning at her like that was supposed to be some kind of come on.

Molly wanted to escape this interaction but had no idea how to. "Uh... okay," she mumbled, turning away from him a good bit so maybe he'd get the message.

He didn't. Instead he leaned against the bar, getting too close. "Relax, gorgeous. I'm a photographer, and I'd love to shoot you sometime—really love your look. What's your drink?"

"No thanks," she said, edging away from him with irritation. She decided the next best thing to do would be just walk away. So she did that and headed for the bathrooms where he couldn't follow.

He did follow her though, along the back wall, coaxing her as she tried to walk faster toward the bathroom sign. "Hey wait, don't be shy! Come on, sweetheart, I wasn't tryin' to run you off like that—you're perfect for this shoot I'm doing soon!" He chuckled and then had the nerve to cut her off, standing in front of her. Molly could smell the heavy liquor on his breath. Drunk. He was drunk. "Lemme buy you a drink, quit playing hard to get," he continued, trying to be charming. "Pleeease."

"I said no," Molly reminded, her voice growing surprisingly more assertive, even to herself. She dodged to the side and walked past him, praying that he would take the hint.

Still, he followed. "Hey come on beautiful," he goaded and caught her by the wrist, pulling her to a stop and making her turn toward him. She snatched her wrist back, but her inner alarms screamed and she pictured herself dead in a back alley after having been assaulted. I never should have come to Vegas...

But then Molly suddenly found herself behind a much taller, bigger person who was put himself between herself and her stalker. "There a problem here?" It was plaid shirt guy and he had a deep, assertive voice. He was taller than she'd thought and bigger, too. Like… bodyguard big.

Molly gaped at him even as her slick-haired suitor did too. "Whoa whoa whoa. Bro." The creeper scoffed through a nervous laugh and made a 'get lost' motion with his hand. "Go play knight in shining armor somewhere else."

Tall guy's reply was immediate and cool. "Sure, as long as you go play douchebag loser somewhere else first." Molly gaped. Wow. Who was this guy? Whoever he was, he had apparently sensed Molly's dilemma and was making it his business to help. "Quit bothering her, man."

Obviously threatened, the oily-haired guy began to posture. "Oh wow, morality police huh? Nothin' wrong here, just a photographer talking to a girl."

Plaid shirt didn't budge. "Yeah I don't think so. She obviously isn't into you. Get lost."

Grossness raised his eyebrows a little, trying to be threatening. He looked like he wanted to fight. "What's a city boy like you gonna do about it, huh?"

Plaid shirt stood his ground and didn't resort to any of the thuggish nonsense. "You wanna find out?" he asked evenly, and there wasn't even the slightest hint of fear or intimidation in his voice. Just cool, plain confidence. Maybe even a little amusement. Molly was starstruck.

The oil slick scoffed, his shifty eyes beginning to glance around for a way out—and then he made a 'good riddance' motion at Molly as he brushed past the tall guy hard. "Bah. Keep 'er, she's too skinny anyway."

Ouch. That one hurt—and as in awe as she'd been a second ago, she was suddenly feeling torn down and embarrassed. Molly looked with very ashamed eyes at her savior, who turned around to face her. His expression was no longer severe and warning. Instead, he looked concerned and nice and very observant—his eyes, a beautiful hazel-ish color, looked all around her face in clear worry. "You okay?" he asked.

A little taken aback at what had just happened and his question, Molly managed a nod. She just wanted to disappear. "Y-yeah. Thanks."

Seeing her wounded self-confidence, tall guy gave her an earnest look. "Hey, that guy was an asshole," he said in a tone that boosted her morale however fractionally. Molly looked up into his eyes with less and less difficulty. He hesitated then offered a little smile. "For whatever it's worth, I think you look great."

Really? Her hurt feelings suddenly felt a whole lot better and she flushed warm with a feeling that wasn't embarrassment. "Oh. Um… thank you."

He held out his hand for a shake. "I'm Sam."

She hesitated, then took that hand. It was big, warm, a little rough. "M—" she stopped herself quickly and then out of nervousness and paranoia, she told him her middle name instead. "Annaliese." Just in case.

Sam had a slight smile on his face even as confusion crossed his handsome features. "Mannaliese?"

Sometimes, people questioned your verbal gaffes and the way they did made you feel like they were insulting you or implying you were dumb. But the way Sam had just asked, he seemed to think she was kind of cute. She couldn't help it: she grinned self-consciously and looked down. "Annalise."

Sam nodded. "That's really pretty," he said in a very genuine, friendly tone. Molly flushed again.

"T-thank you," she said, and couldn't think of anything else to say at all. "Uh, thank you."

Sam hesitated. "You sure you're okay? Look kinda shaken up."

Molly nodded automatically. "Yeah, sorry, I'm… being here is..." she cast around for words, trying to look less uncomfortable than she actually felt. "It's… it's just not really my scene."

Sam nodded, looking around with a jaded look in his eyes. "Me either honestly."

Molly hesitated, half out of interest and half out of apprehension—she didn't want to come across as rude, questioning him. So she tried to sound really neutral. "Then why are you here?"

Sam looked distinctly sad and lonely, and Molly was even more drawn to him for that. "Just… tired of being in a room alone, I guess," he said, then pepped himself up. "Buy you a drink? We can commiserate."

He looked kind of hopeful and he had just done her a huge favor and gosh he was handsome… that plus 'commiserate' was a great word choice. She had to wonder if he was for real. Gorgeous, nice, and seemingly intelligent? She didn't even drink but out of burning curiosity to get to know this Sam guy better, she accepted in her typical graceful fashion: "Uh… yeah. Okay. Sure. Cool." She glanced at the table full of bachelorettes nearby and they were all grinning and giving her the thumbs up and making lewd gestures (all except Annie, who looked pissed still) and Molly immediately frowned and looked away. Sam noticed.

"Friends of yours?" he asked, and he seemed mildly amused by the rowdy bunch of girls.

Molly wouldn't really call them that. The correct answer was no. But in the interest of seeming appealing in case she maybe—possibly—perhaps decided to, you know… try the one night stand thing… she nodded. "Yes. Friends of mine."

Present Day

Vegas with Sam replayed in her mind as Molly got the manuscript out for him and worried. Would he bring up what had happened between them...? Was this going to get weird? Oh god who was she kidding, it was weird. And on the same hand, she'd spent so much time regretting leaving without getting his number and without telling him her real name… so, maybe this was a good thing? She shook her head at herself. Once more: who was she kidding?

As Molly wheeled the manuscript out in its bin on top of the book cart, she began to feel the anxiety begin to rise in earnest. When she saw Sam sitting at the reading table ahead, her panic doubled and she began to sweat. He was watching her with an uncertain puppy-dog look in his eyes, like he was wondering about her and anxious to talk and she really didn't want that so she avoided eye contact. When he stood up as she neared, she shoved the cart in his direction and muttered, "Here you go," then tried to escape.

But his voice stopped her. "Your name's Molly?" He sounded mildly wounded. She stopped and managed to look into his eyes fleetingly. His handsome features were screwed up into mildly hurt confusion. "Why'd you tell me Annaliese?"

Her throat was so dry and no amount of swallowing seemed to help. "B-because I was nervous," she answered, trying to laugh it off. But she failed miserably when she looked at his face and her eyes rested on his lips and mouth. She remembered very explicitly what that mouth of his could do and it made her turn redder and get more squeamish. "I mean, I told you," she managed in a barely audible voice. "I don't do…" she swallowed again and wet her lips and tried to say it but she couldn't. Their eyes met knowingly. "That."

Sam smiled ever so faintly, his gaze full of something warm and fond, his voice almost husky as he murmured his reply. "I remember."

Akjdshfkjdshf. So a year and a half later he still did this to her: rendered her into pudding with just a look or a soft couple of words. Trying not to remember the more X-rated details of the night she still barely believed she'd had with the guy standing in front of her, she attempted to focus on facts and make Sam understand why she'd lied about her name. "It wasn't a total lie," she offered feebly, scratching her neck because she felt like she looked stupid if her hands weren't doing something. "Annaliese is, is my middle name." She became mildly rueful and sighed. "I wasn't even creative enough to come up with a fake name like, like I dunno. Roxy or Angel."

Sam did that thing where his amusement at her words translated as affection. "Roxy or Angel?"

Molly withered, giving a weak little laugh. "See?" Feeling dumb, she began to back off again. "I'll… leave you with your book."

Sam looked mildly panicked and held out a hand slightly. "Hey, wait." Molly did wait, but she was bracing herself for something terrible. But Sam just fumbled around verbally like she always did. "Uh—sorry I just… it's always… I've wondered about you." Her stomach jumped and her heart clenched. He had? "Ever since…" he trailed off significantly and a flash of very explicit mental images went through her mind. She gulped hard and he looked similarly awkward. "You know," he said, thankfully not naming it and making her more distressed than she already was. "And why you left like you did."

Molly was honestly surprised that he seemed bothered about how she'd slipped out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. "I mean it would have been awkward," she ventured, but she wasn't so sure now. "…Right?"

Sam took a second. "Maybe." His intense eyes held a sort of hope to them that she didn't know how to name. "Maybe not."

Molly fidgeted with her arms and changed the subject because this was just… too much. She looked at the bin where the manuscript was kept. "Is this FBI stuff?" It had to be. Why else would he show up and pretend to be the rabbi's research assistant? Unless he'd had a career change, maybe.

Sam looked a little surprised at the question then quickly rueful. "Oh. Yeah uh—I'm… undercover," he said in a distinctly uncomfortable tone. "So… if you could keep things on the down low, that'd be great."

Awed all over again, Molly nodded with wide eyes. "Yeah, sure. Wow." It was like a real life dime-store novel. The handsome, mysterious FBI agent and the quiet, odd librarian and their one night of indescribable, breathtaking passion. Heilige scheisse, Molly. You need to stop. She cleared her throat. "I heard about how Rabbi Bass died," she said, and that immediately shifted her mood and thoughts. "He… kept saying someone was following him." She frowned at nothing and felt her eyes suddenly stinging with tears. He had sat right in that chair, poor old man. And now he was just gone. "It's so sad," she whispered, wondering if he'd left a family behind and how they took his death and why the world was such a cruel place to begin with.

Sam appeared to be a little surprised at her emotional turn. "Did you know him?" he asked gently.

Molly swiped one of her hands underneath each eye quickly. "Not really. Why?"

Sam looked a little touched. "You just seem… really sad."

Molly blinked once, not understanding. "Well he died. That's—sad, isn't it?"

Sam looked kind of surprised by her simple statement. "True," he admitted, but the dubious sort of tone he used made Molly's eyebrows knit together.

"You don't think so?"

Sam hesitated. "Well, a lot of people die," he mused slowly. "And of course that's sad. I guess sometimes I just… get sort of numb to it."

Molly nodded faintly, eyeing him sidelong which was the safest way to look at someone. She guessed that being in the FBI he probably saw a lot of things… things people like her couldn't imagine. "Are you gonna find who did this to him?" she asked softly, a little lump in her throat because the poor rabbi couldn't have just... caught fire. This wasn't a book or a movie. There was a logical, scientific explanation and an assuredly sinister person behind the death.

Sam smiled, seeming again touched at her thought process. "Yeah. We are."

Molly tried to smile too but she was just out of social energy. "Good, well, um…" she hedged away, trying to make up an excuse. "I need to get back to the desk." She continued to back up. "Just lemme know if you…" she was interrupted mid-sentence when she backed into another cart hard. Almost falling, she barely managed to keep her balance as everything on it knocked over. Turning red, she acted like it hadn't happened at all. "Need anything," she squeaked then gave a nervous laugh and turned, walking right into Georgina.

Giving a flurry of apologies, Molly fled the scene and left Sam to stare after her.