He has a pile of assorted Latin textbooks in front of him and is skimming each one in turn, occasionally making notes on a sheet of paper next to the stack, even more occasionally remembering to pay some attention to the cup of tea next to the notes. He makes a vague noise of acknowledgment when Emily comes in, but doesn't look up, and a minute later seems to have forgotten all about her.

She picks out a book and walks up to the desk. "Excuse me?"

He looks up from his Latin, blinking with an amicable sort of startlement. "Yes?"

She carefully puts her book down on the counter and drives her hand towards his throat like a knife.

It stops just short, not quite as though she hit a barrier, more as though she lost all her strength in the moment before connecting.

He picks up his tea and takes a sip; his hand only shakes a little.

"No violence in the library," he says mildly.

"Ah. Well, I should have expected the ones that were left would start taking precautions. Bit of a surprise I haven't started having trouble sooner, really."

If she reaches for his wrist in a non-sudden manner is she prevented from grabbing it?

He moves his hand out of the way.

"Is there some purpose to this?"

"You're a Watcher."

Grab his shirt?

She can't quite get a proper grip. He moves back a little, out of easy reach.

"I had noticed that, yes. You may have to be more specific."

"Do you know what happened to the current Slayer's predecessor?"

She vaults over the desk.

Well now she's all over his personal space and instead of answering her question he's spluttering uncomfortably!

But can she finally get a grip on some part of him?

She cannot! But neither can he shove her away very effectively! It is the most awkward wrestling match this world has ever seen.

She hears a hand on the doorknob and fluidly backflips back over the desk before some teenager can get entirely the wrong idea.

A fourteen-year-old girl comes in, open backpack slung over her shoulder. The librarian is intently focused on cleaning his glasses and doesn't acknowledge her. She gives them both a funny look and walks past the desk to browse the shelves.

"I am in point of fact sorry about that," she murmurs, too low for the fourteen-year-old to hear.

These glasses are going to be so clean.

"About which—?" he mutters over the faint squeak of cloth on glass.

"Giving that kid whatever impression made her look at us like that."

"Polite of you."

The glasses are clean enough to have lost their use as a coping mechanism. He puts them back on.

The kid emerges with a book, sits down at the table ten feet away, puts in earbuds, and starts reading while listening to Enya.

"I, unlike your organization, have certain standards of conduct."

...he blinks at her in genuine bafflement.

"Oh don't fucking play innocent with me, I'm the last slayer, the Cruciamentum was on purpose even if fucking up badly enough that the vampire got out and killed everyone I ever loved before I even woke up from those drugs wasn't."

"The what—?!" he says, sufficiently shocked that he forgets to keep his voice down. The kid half-turns to glance at them, then goes back to her book. He continues, quieter but still visibly upset. "That practice was supposed to have been discontinued in 1791! I'm so sorry for your loss—what were they thinking, bringing back that—horrific, wasteful, appalling—"

"It was, apparently, something every Slayer who lived to eighteen has gone through."

For a moment he looks like he is considering murdering the entire Watcher's Council.