#professor hottie (via drunktuesdaze)
UHM i’m going to be needing a comprehensive list of all the sections he teaches in.
I’m gonna say FILM 346: The
Role of Impressionism in Post-war German Cinema
#professor hale goes on mini tangents when he gets excited#then gets embarrassed and apologetic#he knows they have a syllabus to get to#but anyone who wants to stop by office hours can talk further#stiles took this as a blow off class#but professor hottie is the only one gettin blown#HEYO
HEYO but what if stiles took it as a blow off class and then gets super into it and not just because he wants to lick professor hale’s beard, but because he’s genuinely interested in the material. at first he goes to hale’s office hours to pretend he’s struggling with finding sources for his paper, but professor hale is so earnest and helpful and he gives stiles all these books to look into, and it’s not like stiles can just not read them, no, he has to read them because he can picture the quickly-shuttered look of disappointment on professor hale’s face if stiles tells him he didn’t read the books, so he reads the goddamn books and it’s actually. kind of interesting? and pretty soon he’s getting all stiles-y about it, trying to absorb as much information as he possibly can, which means he’s in professor hale’s office nearly ever day for actual legitimate reasons - okay, yeah, he’s got a boner the whole time, especially when professor hale says things like ontological or auteurism or contemporaneous, but that seems to actually work to stiles’s advantage because in an attempt to cover his embarrassed arousal, he acts like a smart ass, calling hale out on everything, and in order to maintain his ability to be smart ass, he has to keep up in class - not just keep up, but get ahead of the class - which means even more time in the library and hale’s office, sometimes using hale’s office as a library because his books are way more relevant to what stiles wants to know, and hale doesn’t seem to mind when stiles just shows up out of the blue to sit on his couch and read in silence. stiles never takes the books out of the office, even though derek offers, until one day stiles realizes that maybe that’s derek’s super non-confrontational way of asking stiles to leave him alone. he feels like an idiot for not taking the hint sooner.
MEANWHILE derek can’t figure out why stiles stops coming around all the time, so he assumes it was just because stiles finally picked up on the creepy lecherous vibe that derek was putting out. it’s not like derek meant to get a crush on a student, that’s never happened before, but stiles is so engaged with the material and smart and clever and insightful and sarcastic and so breath-takingly beautiful and yeah whatever maybe part of the reason derek kept telling stiles to take some books home with him was because he liked the idea of something of his being so close to stiles in such an intimate way, and jesus christ he’s a fucking creep, no wonder stiles doesn’t want to hang out in his office anymore.
Professor Hottie goes out to a bar, somewhere he’s pretty sure there’ll be people over twenty-one, people he won’t feel bad being surrounded by, but he’s not really cut out for bar crawling, staring forlornly into his clear drink when he spots Stiles. He’s just there, hanging back on the edge of a group, sipping slowly at something dark amber, sweating glass held in the tips of his long fingers, lips trying for a smile and not quite managing.
Derek pays his tab before Stiles sees him, leaves the rest of the gin he wasn’t really drinking anyway, puts his hands in his pockets and heads for the door. He’s fucked up again, of course someone as clever, as bright as Stiles has a fake ID, wouldn’t want to hang around in college bars where he might run into gross professors-
"Hey," Stiles is saying, just a quick tap on the shoulder stopping Derek in his tracks, "I’m- you don’t have to leave, I shouldn’t be here, I’m sorry I made you-"
"I’m not stalking you," Derek blurts, "I promise I’m not, I won’t bother you again, you- I’ll give you an A, if you don’t want to come to class."
Derek is already walking, can’t bear the cliche of chancing a look back at Stiles’ face. He’s nothing if not genre savvy.
Derek wonders how many times he can cancel office hours before anyone notices. He’s not under the illusion that many of his other students would mourn the absence of opportunity to come talk to him in his tiny, cramped little space, but in the end he can’t do it, even if there’s the possibility of a single student in need.
He cracks the door open as usual, and stares at his computer screen, watching the same reel of Torgus over again for the third time. His coffee cools in his hand, and he’s hit with the strangely dissonant hope that maybe-
Derek turns back to the flickering black and white images, looking for faults in the digital transfer, disgusted with himself.
He’s halfway through an email to the department about their preservation quality when there’s a sharp little knock on the door. “It’s- it’s open,” he croaks, somehow knowing exactly who it is.
Stiles steps forward like someone’s holding a gun to his head, dropping a stack of books onto Derek’s desk, kicking up a puff of dust and a whiff of something else, must and weed and the strange, sharp scent of Stiles himself that had started to gently suffuse Derek’s office. “Guess I won’t need these. If you don’t want me to- if you’re just going to give me an A.”
"I don’t want you to think I- I’m sorry-"
"No, I’m sorry, forget it." Stiles runs a hand through his hair, shadows beneath his eyes bruise-dark. "I get it. You don’t have to say it, right? You’re always talking about subtext.”
"Wait-" Derek says, confused, but Stiles is already going, shoulders hunched up around his ears, braced for a blow.
IT GOT BETTER but also somehow worse? oh god pining why does it hurt so good.
stiles doesn’t stop coming to class, he just stops sitting in the front row and participating in discussions - and derek doesn’t know what to say to him, doesn’t know how to fix this, isn’t even sure if he should try to fix this. he can’t sleep, he can’t write, he can barely drag himself to the gym, he completely misses the ingmar bergman retrospective - he was going to tell stiles about it before everything fell apart, and in his weaker moments he’d even had fantasies of attending together, of watching stiles’s face during the last scene of wild strawberries, of going out for coffee afterwards and listening to stiles talk. derek loves the way stiles talks, gesticulating wildly and raking his fingers through hair - except now stiles doesn’t talk at all, just sits in the back of the lecture hall with his head bent over his notebook, studiously taking notes and avoiding derek’s eyes.
#okay now someone write the part where they bang
On the day of the final exam, Stiles stumbles into the room ten minutes late. He looks terrible, pale and worn, dark shadows standing out like bruises under his eyes. Derek holds a test booklet out at arms’ length, keeps his eyes fixed on the back row as Stiles’ mumbled apology trails off into silence.
He walks back and forth in the front of the hall, up and down the two aisles, stands at the back left for a while and watches over their shoulders as his students scribble away. He doesn’t go to the back right; that would mean standing too close behind Stiles- Stiles, who’s hunched over his test, left arm curled around the paper as if he’s afraid someone might see, alternating between writing furiously and chewing on the end of his pencil-
He pulls his eyes away, goes back to scanning the room, trying not to let his gaze settle on Stiles. It gets harder when the students begin to turn in their exams and gather their things, trickling out of the hall one by one; he keeps expecting Stiles to get up, but he just sits and frowns at his test booklet as the room empties around him.
Twenty minutes before the end of the exam period, Stiles starts writing again. He doesn’t look up when Krista Barrett sighs and flips her booklet shut, or when Derek gives the ten minute warning, or when Mike Hollister and Brian Graves turn in their tests and push through the doors, leaving the two of them alone in the hall. The scratch of his pencil sounds impossibly loud. Derek straightens the messy pile of exams, stares at his hands, fumbles with his briefcase.
At the two minute mark, Stiles closes his booklet and walks slowly to the front of the room. Derek pretends to be preoccupied with the exams until Stiles stops in front of him, awkwardly clearing his throat. He lays his paper on the pile. “I’m, um,” he says, “I’m sorry. For, you know. I really…” he bites his lip, looks away. “It was a good class,” he says hurriedly. “So, y’know. Thanks. For that. Sorry.”
By the time Derek’s parsed the words, opening his mouth to respond, Stiles is halfway across the room.
The door swings shut behind him.
Derek has to rush through lunch to get to Gilbert Hall in time for the two back-to-back Brit. Lit. exams he agreed to proctor for his friend Jen, who’s gone to Wisconsin for a wedding. By the time he gets back to his office at four thirty, he’s stopped pretending, just sinks down on the sofa, right where Stiles used to sit, and reads through his exam.
In the first section (“define the following terms”) Stiles has illustrated each of his definitions with an example from one of the films covered in class. In the second section (“choose eight of the following twelve questions”) Stiles has circled 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 12, but answered all of them. In the last section (“write a short essay on one of the following topics, using details from at least two films”) Stiles has sketched an outline for each of the four topics, then filled three pages with a wonderfully detailed analysis of grief and longing in Margarethe von Trotta’s sister films.
On the last page of the test booklet, he’s written a note to Derek.
(it says, after a mess of crosshatching scribbled over the original salutation)
I know you said you’d give me an A, but I wanted to earn it. I wasn’t just pretending to be interested in the material all those times in your office- I really did like learning about this stuff. You’re a good teacher. I don’t want you to think I asked all those questions just to watch you talk- ok, maybe at the very beginning, and I’m sorry. If I’d known I was making you uncomfortable I would have left you alone sooner.
(there are three lines scratched out and scribbled over, then, completely illegible)
This is really awkward, and cowardly, and I’m sorry. I just want you to know- I know it’s selfish, okay, and it’s not fair of me, when I already overstepped, but I don’t want you to think I’m totally shallow.
I admire you I admire you as a scholar and a person and I think you have a gift for inspiring passion this is so fucking corny, I’m sorry, everything I say sounds like something someone with a stupid inappropriate crush would say anyway. But I’m not I guess what I’m trying to say is I learned a lot, I watch movies differently because of this class. I think I’m going to try and do a grad minor in film next year. So thank you. And I’m sorry I made everything weird. I hope you have a really good break, and finish your book, and get tenure. Sincerely, really,Stiles