RPS fic
But It Isn't Insane (On Paper)
Pairing: Alan Rickman/Scott Speedman
Disclaimer: This is fiction.
Warnings: RPS | Ridiculous, inexplicable pairing | University AU | PG-13
A/N: Thanks to tarteaucitron for for the amazing beta and last minute hand-holding, and also to pippinmctaggart for reading bits of this and making encouraging noises. The title is from Nothing and Nowhere by Emily Haines & the Soft Skeleton. This fic is a very belated birthday gift for my dearest darling cindyjade. I love you, bee!
But It Isn't Insane (On Paper)
December 1999
"Bugger off," Alan pushes George's head away from his crotch half-heartedly for the fifth time in as many minutes. He stares at the kettle, willing it to boil, desperate, absolutely desperate, for a very strong cup of tea - he cannot possibly face this night without one. After an age, the kettle finally shrieks its readiness. He sears his fingertips and tongue gulping down two-thirds of a cup, but his shoulders sag with relief and the fog that settled over his brain as he waded through a hundred pages of revision to the book begins to lift.
A glance at his watch quickly ratchets up the tension again. He is going to be late to the party.
He thunders up the stairs with George hard at his heels. Grace is asleep on the pillow, nose to tail, bringing to mind a curl of butter on a plate. She cracks one eye disdainfully when George gallops into the room, trips over a stack of periodicals, and lurches into the bed.
The extent of Alan's ablutions: an astonishingly quick shower (the time a new personal best, he thinks) and a vigorous brushing of his teeth. He wraps a towel around his waist and uses another to dry his hair as he stares into his wardrobe. Where is his charcoal pinstriped suit? Ah, victory! It's there, behind a grotty mac that, Alan notes, will be quite handy if he decides to take up feeding squirrels and occasionally exposing himself to children in the local park.
The cat and the dog are both on the bed now, watching with interest while he strips off his towel. He glares at them as sternly as a naked, frazzled man can. "Do you bloody mind?" he asks. Gracie yawns, George barks. That's a no then.
He ignores their scrutiny and wriggles into clean underpants, vest, and socks, then shirt, trousers, belt, tie, and jacket. He can't do up all the buttons on his jacket unless he makes a conscious effort to suck in his gut. Damn and double damn! When did that happen? Oh well, three out of four will have to do.
Watch, watch, where is his watch? He scrabbles through the mess of loose change, receipts, paperclips, pens without their lids, and tattered post-its in the drawer of his bedside table, but it's not there, not there, where in hell-? Oh, good Christ, he's wearing it. He glances in the mirror and runs his hands through his damp hair in lieu of combing it. It will have to do.
He turns from the mirror. "You're in charge." He scritches Grace's chin and gives George's ear a gentle tug. "Try to keep him out of the drinks cabinet this time."
:::
Alan lingers in the doorway, chewing his fingernail and surveying the crowded room. He's just snagged a glass of red wine from a passing server when he notices Emma, bearing down on him from across the room, beaming like a lunatic. She grabs his shoulders and pulls him into a firm, enthusiastic kiss. He tries to rear back, more out of surprise than anything else, but Emma's got a grip like a longshoreman and keeps him in the clinch for a long moment before releasing him and wiping lipstick from his startled mouth with her thumb in one swift motion.
"Oh, Alan," she laughs. "The look on your face!"
He blinks at her once, slowly. "You could have at least bought me dinner first."
Emma puts two fingers under his chin and lifts. "You're under the mistletoe, darling."
"And you are utterly transparent," he says tartly, "not to mention a desperate slut."
"You're a horrible killjoy," she says fondly, smoothing his tie. "I've missed you."
He opens his mouth to reply, but she's waving at someone over his shoulder and mouthing, come here. He turns, expecting to see Emma's husband (poor, longsuffering Greg) trapped in a corner by an earnest, socially inept PhD candidate or similar, and is surprised to see an unfamiliar young man smiling sheepishly in their direction as he crosses the room, weaving gracefully around clusters of already tipsy academics.
Emma leans over and kisses the newcomer on the cheek. "Happy Christmas, sweetheart! Have the two of you been introduced?"
"I don’t think so," Alan says, offering his hand. "I'm Alan Rickman."
"Scott Speedman. I've read all your books, Professor. They're amazing."
He's about an inch shorter than Alan, with a lanky, athletic frame and an affable, sincere face. His hair is dirty-blond, thick and chaotic, like he's just run his fingers through to try to neaten it and failed. It's just long enough that Alan can tell it would curl given half a chance. His face is not classically handsome, but it's interesting and unusually open. Alan is charmed in spite of himself.
Their handshake lasts a heartbeat too long and the look that passes between them is strangely intense. Alan gives himself a mental shake. "Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet someone with such discerning taste."
They all laugh. Alan's about to ask after Scott's field of study - why is he reading lengthy treatises on the Modern Canadian poets? - when Emma interjects. "Scott's helping me out in the office for a few weeks while Jan's in Glasgow."
He opens his mouth to say something banal and agreeable, but Emma carries on.
"And do you know what's just occurred to me? The two of you," she pauses dramatically, "are perfect for one another!"
Alan stares at her in silent astonishment for far too long until he finally manages a quite stupid sounding, "Pardon?" Emma's been trying to set him up ever since Jack left - with her veterinarian, her financial analyst, her personal trainer and, most recently, her landscape artist - but encouraging him to date a student? He's speechless.
Emma claps her hands and smiles delightedly. "Yes! Scott's doing his thesis on Ondaatje," she says, as though that explains everything. It explains why Scott has read his books, but otherwise Alan is at a loss.
"Wonderful?" he says, when she continues to look at him expectantly.
"Isn't it?" she replies. "He can TA for you this coming semester. It will be fabulous."
Scott rubs a hand through his hair and glances nervously at Alan. "Emma told me you hadn't taken anyone on for next term, so I thought maybe ..." he trails off, shrugs and smiles. "Please don't feel like you have to decide now."
"Actually, I always have an impossible time finding someone with a true interest. Send me your CV tomorrow, and I'll have a look," Alan says.
"That would be great. Thanks very much, Professor." Scott shoves his hands in his pockets, as if he doesn't know what to do with them, and rocks back on his heels. He looks ridiculously pleased, which gives Alan a frisson. A clear sign that he's spent far too much time alone of late.
Emma grins smugly at them. "I am remarkably clever, aren't I?"
Alan sniffs. "If you pull something patting yourself on the back, I can recommend a good chiropractor."
"I've started going to Scott's yoga class, so there's no fear of that," she replies.
Scott turns to Alan. "Her cow's head legs are fierce."
His smile is lopsided and it makes Alan's heart flop like a beached fish. Oh no, this is not happening. Alan ignores the sensation. "That's nice," he says blandly. "Everyone ought to have a hobby."
"Is moping a hobby now?" Emma asks with exaggerated interest. "Or have you decided to go pro?"
It takes everything in him not to laugh, to muster a convincing look of disdain. "I hate you," he says sullenly, draining his wine glass. "I really truly hate you."
Emma slips under his arm and gives him a sideways hug. "Why must you be such an utter beast?"
He squeezes her back and presses a kiss to the top of her head. "Why must you be such an appalling bitch?"
Scott clears his throat, and Alan and Emma look up as one. "I'm going to get myself a drink. Would either of you like one?"
"Oh, me please. I'd love a glass of champagne, thanks," Emma replies.
"And another glass of red wine, please, if you can manage it," Alan adds.
Scott grins and nods. "No problem."
They watch him as he makes his way to the bar in the opposite corner of the room.
Emma nudges Alan with her shoulder. "He's lovely, isn't he? Great bum."
That startles a laugh from him. "Is that why you hired him? You should be ashamed of yourself, Emma! Head of the English Department at Canada's pre-eminent academic institution, and your hiring criteria include 'arse I fancy'?"
"Obviously not! You've seen Jan," she points out, giggling.
He feigns a shudder. "Right. Well, perhaps she's the exception that proves the rule. Either way, you're a dirty old woman."
"Oh, do shut up. He's also absolutely brilliant, eminently qualified and, for some utterly unfathomable reason, he really admires you. It would be so good for him, Alan," she says, her blue eyes wide and imploring. "And I checked the enrollment for your first-year classes - you can't do without at least one TA."
Alan knows he's being a played like a lute, but there's no stopping Emma when she gets her heart set on something. If Scott Speedman and his great bum are the cause she's decided to champion this week, it's quite pointless to fight her, even if he wants to. "I'll think about it," he relents.
"Oh, I knew you would, you wonderful man." She wraps both arms around him and clings tightly.
"Unhand me." He pushes her gently away. "People will get the wrong idea."
Emma laughs and steps back, tilting her chin up so she can meet his eyes. "What? They'll think you have a heart?"
He plasters on his best scowl. "Yes, they'll start to think I'm kindly and approachable. I'll never get any peace."
She laughs. "How horrible."
Alan nods his agreement. "Kiss of death."
Emma's expression turns abruptly serious. "Oh no."
"What?" Alan turns to see what's changed her mood so dramatically and sees Graeme Henderson, celebrated professor of Canadian fiction and the English department's most infamous pervert, cornering Scott at the bar. "Oh shit," he says. "You'd better go and rescue him from the slimy bastard."
"Come with me." Emma's voice is tight. "You can stop me from saying something I'll regret."
"Where's the fun in that?" Alan asks, following in Emma's wake as she strides purposefully across the room.
"Hello, hello, happy Christmas!" Emma's affectionate greeting is quite at odds with the sharp elbow she introduces to Graeme's ribs as she steps between him and Scott.
Graeme doesn't miss a beat. "Emma! Bit wobbly already, I see, but you look absolutely stunning." He bends to kiss her hand. "And Professor Rickman," he leers, giving Alan the once over before reaching out to shake his hand. "Your holiday seems to have agreed with you. How's the book coming?"
"Tolerably well, thank you." Alan is barely able to prevent himself from wiping his hand on his trousers. "And how are you?" he asks in a tone that he hopes conveys his complete lack of interest.
"Excellent. I was just telling young Scott here about the Christmas party five years ago." Graeme's smile is sharp and sly. "But you probably don't remember much about that one, do you?"
It is a testament to Alan's great restraint that he doesn't respond by strangling Graeme with his tie. Instead, he smiles benignly and accepts a glass of wine from Scott. "Piss off, Graeme."
Before Graeme can reply, Emma takes control of the conversation. "Did Scott tell you that he'll be TAing for Alan this semester, Graeme?"
Scott's eyes dart from Emma to Alan, but other than that he hides his surprise well. "Well ... I didn't want to say anything until it was definite."
Graeme looks slowly from Scott to Alan and his expression turns calculating. "Well, my dear boy, if it happens that you don't live up to Alan's exacting standards, I've just had to add another section of the first year Canadian fiction course and would be thrilled to have you." He rests his hand on Scott's forearm.
Alan surprises himself by wondering what it would be like to break someone's fingers.
"I appreciate the offer, Professor Henderson," Scott says, "but-"
He looks so uncomfortable that Alan can't bear it; he has to put Scott out of his misery. Best not to examine that impulse too carefully. "Actually, Emma filled me in on your CV, Scott, and I've decided to offer you the Modern Canadian Poetry TAship. It's yours if you want it."
"You're sure?" Scott's brow is wrinkled with apprehension.
Alan smiles reassuringly. "Absolutely."
"Then I accept." Scott's smile is wide and exultant before he manages to subdue it into a grin. "Thank you so much, Sir."
"To poetry," Alan toasts, raising his glass.
"To poetry," Scott echoes, clinking his glass against Alan's. His voice is low and husky, and it sends a shiver up Alan's spine that he does a poor job of concealing. He can feel Graeme's eyes on him, measuring, evaluating, reading the situation through his porn-coloured glasses.
God, Alan absolutely loathes him.
All of a sudden, he's jittery, restless. The room is heating up. Sweat prickles up on the nape of Alan's neck and behind his knees, under his arms. He takes a long swallow of wine and fidgets with the stem of his glass, trying to ignore Graeme's silent accusation.
He wipes his damp forehead with the palm of his hand, under the guise of pushing his hair back. "Well. Now that's sorted, I suppose we should ..." he gestures vaguely toward the crowded room, "... mingle?" He is pleased to have imbued the word with as much distaste as is humanly possible.
"Is it really as bad as all that?" Emma asks. "Socializing with your colleagues one evening a year?"
Alan looks at her in disbelief. "Hello, I'm Alan. Have we met?"
"Touché," she says. "I'm afraid you're just going to have to put a brave face on it, misery guts."
He scowls at her. "You don't have to look so pleased about it." He kisses her on the cheek and turns to the others, shaking hands with both of them in turn. "Graeme, it was as much a pleasure as ever. Scott, I'll be in touch soon." And with that, he takes a deep steadying breath, another bracing gulp of his wine, and starts to circulate.
:::
Mingling requires scotch, and plenty of it. Thankfully, the university has actually coughed up for some passable whisky this year because Alan is surprisingly thirsty. Not surprisingly, in a trice, he's more than a little tight.
On the plus side, being half-cut makes the company of his colleagues if not exactly pleasant then at least bearable.
Alan doesn't speak to Scott for the rest of the party. He sees him from time to time (across the crowded room, which cliché causes Alan to roll his eyes at himself), and he can't help but notice the way Scott tips his head back when he laughs, the flush of wine on the smooth skin of his throat, or the smile that spreads slowly up his face to light his eyes whenever he catches Alan looking. Not that Alan's looking, but it is a very small room. One's eyes have to rest somewhere.
The food - what little Alan has had of it - is excellent. But the scotch! The scotch is simply beyond compare. He feels lovely, suffused with warmth, and certain of his colleagues are even somewhat entertaining. The party is turning out to be less torturous than he'd imagined.
(At the bar, Scott rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to bare a tantalizing expanse of forearm. The movement of muscles under skin when he lifts his wine glass to his lips is hypnotic.)
Is he staring? Alan suspects he's staring. He looks around the room for Emma and realizes she's standing next to him, talking animatedly to Ipsa from Accounting. He asks a passing server for another refill, though he knows he should cut himself off. If he were being honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he's absolutely shit-faced.
(Scott's eyes are green. Alan imagines he can feel his gaze, like fingertips skimming across his skin, lightly tracing his profile, pressing hot against his lips...)
Sweet merciful Christ, has no one else noticed that the room is fucking sweltering? Alan undoes the top button of his shirt and loosens his tie, but he's still roasting. Finally, he asks one of the catering staff to find the thermostat and turn off the heat before he jumps up on the bar and strips off his clothes.
Best not to risk a repeat of that particular incident.
:::
Alan lets Emma kiss him again and shakes Greg's hand before helping him pour her into a waiting taxi. "Christ, Emma! You're like a bloody barge," he complains, pressing his hands to the small of his back as he straightens.
"Hey!" Emma shouts. "Barges are remarkably stable and buoyant-"
He slams the car door mid-protest and smiles and waves as it pulls away from the kerb.
Alan turns to back to the building to fetch his coat, and sees Graeme and Scott standing between the double glass doors. Strange how, after only a few hours of acquaintance, he recognizes Scott by the thick swirl of hair at the back of his head. Graeme is talking - when is he not? - and gesticulating, his hand cutting drunken swathes through the air to punctuate whatever he's saying. And then he's leaning in and pulling Scott into a hug, the utter bastard, and, before he knows what he's doing, Alan's pulling open the heavy glass door and stepping into the vestibule.
Graeme sees him, of course, and their eyes meet for an instant when he releases Scott to arm's length and says, his voice low and insinuating, "Oh, I have to have you now."
"Graeme, you dirty, deluded old man. Leave the poor boy alone!" Alan's voice is loud in the small vestibule and he sounds even more pissed off than he is, which is very.
Scott startles and turns, his eyes wide. "This isn't-"
"You're all right," Alan reassures him. "But Professor Henderson needs to learn to keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself."
"Afraid he'll take me up on my offer?" Graeme taunts. "You always have been intimidated by the idea of competing with me, haven't you Alan?"
Alan cannot believe Graeme is still on about that. How is it possible to hold a grudge for 15 years? "You're an idiot," Alan says, "and you have no idea what you’re talking about." He puts his hands in his trouser pockets to stop himself from slapping the smirk off Graeme's smug face.
"You want him for yourself, you old schemer," Graeme slurs. "You're not fooling anyone, except maybe yourself."
Alan is too tired for this rubbish. And too old. Not to mention far too drunk. "Graeme, that's enough. Just ... just go home." He rubs at his suddenly stiff neck and sighs. Will this evening never end?
"I am already gone." Graeme tosses his scarf around his neck with a theatrical flourish, steps around Scott and then Alan (quite nimbly for a drunk man), and opens the door. He pauses on the threshold and turns and grins lasciviously at them over his shoulder. "Behave yourselves, won't you gentlemen?"
The arsehole always has to have the last word.
Alan is intensely aware that he should be saying something. He should be apologizing, reassuring, possibly even explaining, but instead he's staring at the door in mute horror, as frozen as the street outside.
He senses more than hears Scott fidget beside him. Alan turns to face him and leans against the wall, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
Scott looks as though he might be ill. "I'm sorry, Professor. I really have no idea what made him think-"
Alan lifts a hand to halt to the apology. "Oh God, stop, please! You've nothing to be sorry for. Graeme is the department's most notorious pervert. Emma and I should have warned you about him earlier. I'm sorry."
"So he propositions everyone?" Scott asks.
"Every handsome young man that crosses his path." Alan grimaces. "And a few women, too."
"I don't know whether to be relieved or insulted." Scott takes a woolly hat out of his pocket and twists it in his hands.
"Just ... be careful," Alan replies. "Graeme can be very ruthless when he wants something."
Scott looks at him as though he's trying to interpret something in Alan's face, like there's something he wants but is afraid to ask. Alan sighs.
"As far as his ... accusation." Alan pauses. He tries to decide exactly how much to say, how to explain something he doesn't fully understand himself, but his mind is muzzy. He doesn't feel drunk any longer, though he must be, but he isn't exactly clear-headed either, so he decides to answer simply. "Graeme has a long history of being a shit stirrer, and he and I have never got on. I'm terribly sorry he tried to pull you into our feud. I'll speak to him, make sure it doesn't happen again."
Scott shrugs one shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Sir. I'm sure he'll have forgotten all about it in the morning." He smiles his crooked smile again and pulls on his hat. "Do you still want me to email my CV?"
"Of course." Alan finds his coat in the closet and shoulders it on, taking his scarf from the pocket and wrapping it around his throat. "Maybe we could meet next week to discuss the class, if you're going to be around." He heaves open the door and Scott walks out ahead of him. It's snowing and they both pause to look up, to watch the tiny flakes swirl around the streetlamp.
"I'll be here over the holidays," Scott replies.
Alan should not be pleased to hear that. "You're not going home?" It's none of his business, but he can't stop himself from asking.
"This is home for me. We all go to my Mum's for Christmas Day, but I'll be around campus the rest of the time." Scott pulls his hat down further and sticks his hands in his pockets.
"Right then." Alan finds his gloves and puts them on. "We'll have plenty of time to get things sorted before classes start again." He feels as awkward as hell, which is not something he's accustomed to. He can't think how to wrap things up gracefully.
It's clear that Scott feels the same way. He kicks at the thin blanket of snow on the sidewalk. "Absolutely. Well." He clears his throat and shrugs again. "Thanks for everything, Professor. Goodnight." He gives a half wave and turns and walks away.
Alan watches him go and suddenly he's exhausted, overcome with the sinking, sobering realization that he's a hypocrite and a fool. He should be disgusted with himself, and he's sure he will be, tomorrow, but right now he's so weary he can barely put one foot in front of the other. The snow is a welcome relief, stinging bites of cold against his overheated face. He sighs deeply, trudging slowly along the silent, icy streets, his mind racing ahead.
Pairing: Alan Rickman/Scott Speedman
Disclaimer: This is fiction.
Warnings: RPS | Ridiculous, inexplicable pairing | University AU | PG-13
A/N: Thanks to tarteaucitron for for the amazing beta and last minute hand-holding, and also to pippinmctaggart for reading bits of this and making encouraging noises. The title is from Nothing and Nowhere by Emily Haines & the Soft Skeleton. This fic is a very belated birthday gift for my dearest darling cindyjade. I love you, bee!
But It Isn't Insane (On Paper)
December 1999
"Bugger off," Alan pushes George's head away from his crotch half-heartedly for the fifth time in as many minutes. He stares at the kettle, willing it to boil, desperate, absolutely desperate, for a very strong cup of tea - he cannot possibly face this night without one. After an age, the kettle finally shrieks its readiness. He sears his fingertips and tongue gulping down two-thirds of a cup, but his shoulders sag with relief and the fog that settled over his brain as he waded through a hundred pages of revision to the book begins to lift.
A glance at his watch quickly ratchets up the tension again. He is going to be late to the party.
He thunders up the stairs with George hard at his heels. Grace is asleep on the pillow, nose to tail, bringing to mind a curl of butter on a plate. She cracks one eye disdainfully when George gallops into the room, trips over a stack of periodicals, and lurches into the bed.
The extent of Alan's ablutions: an astonishingly quick shower (the time a new personal best, he thinks) and a vigorous brushing of his teeth. He wraps a towel around his waist and uses another to dry his hair as he stares into his wardrobe. Where is his charcoal pinstriped suit? Ah, victory! It's there, behind a grotty mac that, Alan notes, will be quite handy if he decides to take up feeding squirrels and occasionally exposing himself to children in the local park.
The cat and the dog are both on the bed now, watching with interest while he strips off his towel. He glares at them as sternly as a naked, frazzled man can. "Do you bloody mind?" he asks. Gracie yawns, George barks. That's a no then.
He ignores their scrutiny and wriggles into clean underpants, vest, and socks, then shirt, trousers, belt, tie, and jacket. He can't do up all the buttons on his jacket unless he makes a conscious effort to suck in his gut. Damn and double damn! When did that happen? Oh well, three out of four will have to do.
Watch, watch, where is his watch? He scrabbles through the mess of loose change, receipts, paperclips, pens without their lids, and tattered post-its in the drawer of his bedside table, but it's not there, not there, where in hell-? Oh, good Christ, he's wearing it. He glances in the mirror and runs his hands through his damp hair in lieu of combing it. It will have to do.
He turns from the mirror. "You're in charge." He scritches Grace's chin and gives George's ear a gentle tug. "Try to keep him out of the drinks cabinet this time."
:::
Alan lingers in the doorway, chewing his fingernail and surveying the crowded room. He's just snagged a glass of red wine from a passing server when he notices Emma, bearing down on him from across the room, beaming like a lunatic. She grabs his shoulders and pulls him into a firm, enthusiastic kiss. He tries to rear back, more out of surprise than anything else, but Emma's got a grip like a longshoreman and keeps him in the clinch for a long moment before releasing him and wiping lipstick from his startled mouth with her thumb in one swift motion.
"Oh, Alan," she laughs. "The look on your face!"
He blinks at her once, slowly. "You could have at least bought me dinner first."
Emma puts two fingers under his chin and lifts. "You're under the mistletoe, darling."
"And you are utterly transparent," he says tartly, "not to mention a desperate slut."
"You're a horrible killjoy," she says fondly, smoothing his tie. "I've missed you."
He opens his mouth to reply, but she's waving at someone over his shoulder and mouthing, come here. He turns, expecting to see Emma's husband (poor, longsuffering Greg) trapped in a corner by an earnest, socially inept PhD candidate or similar, and is surprised to see an unfamiliar young man smiling sheepishly in their direction as he crosses the room, weaving gracefully around clusters of already tipsy academics.
Emma leans over and kisses the newcomer on the cheek. "Happy Christmas, sweetheart! Have the two of you been introduced?"
"I don’t think so," Alan says, offering his hand. "I'm Alan Rickman."
"Scott Speedman. I've read all your books, Professor. They're amazing."
He's about an inch shorter than Alan, with a lanky, athletic frame and an affable, sincere face. His hair is dirty-blond, thick and chaotic, like he's just run his fingers through to try to neaten it and failed. It's just long enough that Alan can tell it would curl given half a chance. His face is not classically handsome, but it's interesting and unusually open. Alan is charmed in spite of himself.
Their handshake lasts a heartbeat too long and the look that passes between them is strangely intense. Alan gives himself a mental shake. "Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet someone with such discerning taste."
They all laugh. Alan's about to ask after Scott's field of study - why is he reading lengthy treatises on the Modern Canadian poets? - when Emma interjects. "Scott's helping me out in the office for a few weeks while Jan's in Glasgow."
He opens his mouth to say something banal and agreeable, but Emma carries on.
"And do you know what's just occurred to me? The two of you," she pauses dramatically, "are perfect for one another!"
Alan stares at her in silent astonishment for far too long until he finally manages a quite stupid sounding, "Pardon?" Emma's been trying to set him up ever since Jack left - with her veterinarian, her financial analyst, her personal trainer and, most recently, her landscape artist - but encouraging him to date a student? He's speechless.
Emma claps her hands and smiles delightedly. "Yes! Scott's doing his thesis on Ondaatje," she says, as though that explains everything. It explains why Scott has read his books, but otherwise Alan is at a loss.
"Wonderful?" he says, when she continues to look at him expectantly.
"Isn't it?" she replies. "He can TA for you this coming semester. It will be fabulous."
Scott rubs a hand through his hair and glances nervously at Alan. "Emma told me you hadn't taken anyone on for next term, so I thought maybe ..." he trails off, shrugs and smiles. "Please don't feel like you have to decide now."
"Actually, I always have an impossible time finding someone with a true interest. Send me your CV tomorrow, and I'll have a look," Alan says.
"That would be great. Thanks very much, Professor." Scott shoves his hands in his pockets, as if he doesn't know what to do with them, and rocks back on his heels. He looks ridiculously pleased, which gives Alan a frisson. A clear sign that he's spent far too much time alone of late.
Emma grins smugly at them. "I am remarkably clever, aren't I?"
Alan sniffs. "If you pull something patting yourself on the back, I can recommend a good chiropractor."
"I've started going to Scott's yoga class, so there's no fear of that," she replies.
Scott turns to Alan. "Her cow's head legs are fierce."
His smile is lopsided and it makes Alan's heart flop like a beached fish. Oh no, this is not happening. Alan ignores the sensation. "That's nice," he says blandly. "Everyone ought to have a hobby."
"Is moping a hobby now?" Emma asks with exaggerated interest. "Or have you decided to go pro?"
It takes everything in him not to laugh, to muster a convincing look of disdain. "I hate you," he says sullenly, draining his wine glass. "I really truly hate you."
Emma slips under his arm and gives him a sideways hug. "Why must you be such an utter beast?"
He squeezes her back and presses a kiss to the top of her head. "Why must you be such an appalling bitch?"
Scott clears his throat, and Alan and Emma look up as one. "I'm going to get myself a drink. Would either of you like one?"
"Oh, me please. I'd love a glass of champagne, thanks," Emma replies.
"And another glass of red wine, please, if you can manage it," Alan adds.
Scott grins and nods. "No problem."
They watch him as he makes his way to the bar in the opposite corner of the room.
Emma nudges Alan with her shoulder. "He's lovely, isn't he? Great bum."
That startles a laugh from him. "Is that why you hired him? You should be ashamed of yourself, Emma! Head of the English Department at Canada's pre-eminent academic institution, and your hiring criteria include 'arse I fancy'?"
"Obviously not! You've seen Jan," she points out, giggling.
He feigns a shudder. "Right. Well, perhaps she's the exception that proves the rule. Either way, you're a dirty old woman."
"Oh, do shut up. He's also absolutely brilliant, eminently qualified and, for some utterly unfathomable reason, he really admires you. It would be so good for him, Alan," she says, her blue eyes wide and imploring. "And I checked the enrollment for your first-year classes - you can't do without at least one TA."
Alan knows he's being a played like a lute, but there's no stopping Emma when she gets her heart set on something. If Scott Speedman and his great bum are the cause she's decided to champion this week, it's quite pointless to fight her, even if he wants to. "I'll think about it," he relents.
"Oh, I knew you would, you wonderful man." She wraps both arms around him and clings tightly.
"Unhand me." He pushes her gently away. "People will get the wrong idea."
Emma laughs and steps back, tilting her chin up so she can meet his eyes. "What? They'll think you have a heart?"
He plasters on his best scowl. "Yes, they'll start to think I'm kindly and approachable. I'll never get any peace."
She laughs. "How horrible."
Alan nods his agreement. "Kiss of death."
Emma's expression turns abruptly serious. "Oh no."
"What?" Alan turns to see what's changed her mood so dramatically and sees Graeme Henderson, celebrated professor of Canadian fiction and the English department's most infamous pervert, cornering Scott at the bar. "Oh shit," he says. "You'd better go and rescue him from the slimy bastard."
"Come with me." Emma's voice is tight. "You can stop me from saying something I'll regret."
"Where's the fun in that?" Alan asks, following in Emma's wake as she strides purposefully across the room.
"Hello, hello, happy Christmas!" Emma's affectionate greeting is quite at odds with the sharp elbow she introduces to Graeme's ribs as she steps between him and Scott.
Graeme doesn't miss a beat. "Emma! Bit wobbly already, I see, but you look absolutely stunning." He bends to kiss her hand. "And Professor Rickman," he leers, giving Alan the once over before reaching out to shake his hand. "Your holiday seems to have agreed with you. How's the book coming?"
"Tolerably well, thank you." Alan is barely able to prevent himself from wiping his hand on his trousers. "And how are you?" he asks in a tone that he hopes conveys his complete lack of interest.
"Excellent. I was just telling young Scott here about the Christmas party five years ago." Graeme's smile is sharp and sly. "But you probably don't remember much about that one, do you?"
It is a testament to Alan's great restraint that he doesn't respond by strangling Graeme with his tie. Instead, he smiles benignly and accepts a glass of wine from Scott. "Piss off, Graeme."
Before Graeme can reply, Emma takes control of the conversation. "Did Scott tell you that he'll be TAing for Alan this semester, Graeme?"
Scott's eyes dart from Emma to Alan, but other than that he hides his surprise well. "Well ... I didn't want to say anything until it was definite."
Graeme looks slowly from Scott to Alan and his expression turns calculating. "Well, my dear boy, if it happens that you don't live up to Alan's exacting standards, I've just had to add another section of the first year Canadian fiction course and would be thrilled to have you." He rests his hand on Scott's forearm.
Alan surprises himself by wondering what it would be like to break someone's fingers.
"I appreciate the offer, Professor Henderson," Scott says, "but-"
He looks so uncomfortable that Alan can't bear it; he has to put Scott out of his misery. Best not to examine that impulse too carefully. "Actually, Emma filled me in on your CV, Scott, and I've decided to offer you the Modern Canadian Poetry TAship. It's yours if you want it."
"You're sure?" Scott's brow is wrinkled with apprehension.
Alan smiles reassuringly. "Absolutely."
"Then I accept." Scott's smile is wide and exultant before he manages to subdue it into a grin. "Thank you so much, Sir."
"To poetry," Alan toasts, raising his glass.
"To poetry," Scott echoes, clinking his glass against Alan's. His voice is low and husky, and it sends a shiver up Alan's spine that he does a poor job of concealing. He can feel Graeme's eyes on him, measuring, evaluating, reading the situation through his porn-coloured glasses.
God, Alan absolutely loathes him.
All of a sudden, he's jittery, restless. The room is heating up. Sweat prickles up on the nape of Alan's neck and behind his knees, under his arms. He takes a long swallow of wine and fidgets with the stem of his glass, trying to ignore Graeme's silent accusation.
He wipes his damp forehead with the palm of his hand, under the guise of pushing his hair back. "Well. Now that's sorted, I suppose we should ..." he gestures vaguely toward the crowded room, "... mingle?" He is pleased to have imbued the word with as much distaste as is humanly possible.
"Is it really as bad as all that?" Emma asks. "Socializing with your colleagues one evening a year?"
Alan looks at her in disbelief. "Hello, I'm Alan. Have we met?"
"Touché," she says. "I'm afraid you're just going to have to put a brave face on it, misery guts."
He scowls at her. "You don't have to look so pleased about it." He kisses her on the cheek and turns to the others, shaking hands with both of them in turn. "Graeme, it was as much a pleasure as ever. Scott, I'll be in touch soon." And with that, he takes a deep steadying breath, another bracing gulp of his wine, and starts to circulate.
:::
Mingling requires scotch, and plenty of it. Thankfully, the university has actually coughed up for some passable whisky this year because Alan is surprisingly thirsty. Not surprisingly, in a trice, he's more than a little tight.
On the plus side, being half-cut makes the company of his colleagues if not exactly pleasant then at least bearable.
Alan doesn't speak to Scott for the rest of the party. He sees him from time to time (across the crowded room, which cliché causes Alan to roll his eyes at himself), and he can't help but notice the way Scott tips his head back when he laughs, the flush of wine on the smooth skin of his throat, or the smile that spreads slowly up his face to light his eyes whenever he catches Alan looking. Not that Alan's looking, but it is a very small room. One's eyes have to rest somewhere.
The food - what little Alan has had of it - is excellent. But the scotch! The scotch is simply beyond compare. He feels lovely, suffused with warmth, and certain of his colleagues are even somewhat entertaining. The party is turning out to be less torturous than he'd imagined.
(At the bar, Scott rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to bare a tantalizing expanse of forearm. The movement of muscles under skin when he lifts his wine glass to his lips is hypnotic.)
Is he staring? Alan suspects he's staring. He looks around the room for Emma and realizes she's standing next to him, talking animatedly to Ipsa from Accounting. He asks a passing server for another refill, though he knows he should cut himself off. If he were being honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he's absolutely shit-faced.
(Scott's eyes are green. Alan imagines he can feel his gaze, like fingertips skimming across his skin, lightly tracing his profile, pressing hot against his lips...)
Sweet merciful Christ, has no one else noticed that the room is fucking sweltering? Alan undoes the top button of his shirt and loosens his tie, but he's still roasting. Finally, he asks one of the catering staff to find the thermostat and turn off the heat before he jumps up on the bar and strips off his clothes.
Best not to risk a repeat of that particular incident.
:::
Alan lets Emma kiss him again and shakes Greg's hand before helping him pour her into a waiting taxi. "Christ, Emma! You're like a bloody barge," he complains, pressing his hands to the small of his back as he straightens.
"Hey!" Emma shouts. "Barges are remarkably stable and buoyant-"
He slams the car door mid-protest and smiles and waves as it pulls away from the kerb.
Alan turns to back to the building to fetch his coat, and sees Graeme and Scott standing between the double glass doors. Strange how, after only a few hours of acquaintance, he recognizes Scott by the thick swirl of hair at the back of his head. Graeme is talking - when is he not? - and gesticulating, his hand cutting drunken swathes through the air to punctuate whatever he's saying. And then he's leaning in and pulling Scott into a hug, the utter bastard, and, before he knows what he's doing, Alan's pulling open the heavy glass door and stepping into the vestibule.
Graeme sees him, of course, and their eyes meet for an instant when he releases Scott to arm's length and says, his voice low and insinuating, "Oh, I have to have you now."
"Graeme, you dirty, deluded old man. Leave the poor boy alone!" Alan's voice is loud in the small vestibule and he sounds even more pissed off than he is, which is very.
Scott startles and turns, his eyes wide. "This isn't-"
"You're all right," Alan reassures him. "But Professor Henderson needs to learn to keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself."
"Afraid he'll take me up on my offer?" Graeme taunts. "You always have been intimidated by the idea of competing with me, haven't you Alan?"
Alan cannot believe Graeme is still on about that. How is it possible to hold a grudge for 15 years? "You're an idiot," Alan says, "and you have no idea what you’re talking about." He puts his hands in his trouser pockets to stop himself from slapping the smirk off Graeme's smug face.
"You want him for yourself, you old schemer," Graeme slurs. "You're not fooling anyone, except maybe yourself."
Alan is too tired for this rubbish. And too old. Not to mention far too drunk. "Graeme, that's enough. Just ... just go home." He rubs at his suddenly stiff neck and sighs. Will this evening never end?
"I am already gone." Graeme tosses his scarf around his neck with a theatrical flourish, steps around Scott and then Alan (quite nimbly for a drunk man), and opens the door. He pauses on the threshold and turns and grins lasciviously at them over his shoulder. "Behave yourselves, won't you gentlemen?"
The arsehole always has to have the last word.
Alan is intensely aware that he should be saying something. He should be apologizing, reassuring, possibly even explaining, but instead he's staring at the door in mute horror, as frozen as the street outside.
He senses more than hears Scott fidget beside him. Alan turns to face him and leans against the wall, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
Scott looks as though he might be ill. "I'm sorry, Professor. I really have no idea what made him think-"
Alan lifts a hand to halt to the apology. "Oh God, stop, please! You've nothing to be sorry for. Graeme is the department's most notorious pervert. Emma and I should have warned you about him earlier. I'm sorry."
"So he propositions everyone?" Scott asks.
"Every handsome young man that crosses his path." Alan grimaces. "And a few women, too."
"I don't know whether to be relieved or insulted." Scott takes a woolly hat out of his pocket and twists it in his hands.
"Just ... be careful," Alan replies. "Graeme can be very ruthless when he wants something."
Scott looks at him as though he's trying to interpret something in Alan's face, like there's something he wants but is afraid to ask. Alan sighs.
"As far as his ... accusation." Alan pauses. He tries to decide exactly how much to say, how to explain something he doesn't fully understand himself, but his mind is muzzy. He doesn't feel drunk any longer, though he must be, but he isn't exactly clear-headed either, so he decides to answer simply. "Graeme has a long history of being a shit stirrer, and he and I have never got on. I'm terribly sorry he tried to pull you into our feud. I'll speak to him, make sure it doesn't happen again."
Scott shrugs one shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Sir. I'm sure he'll have forgotten all about it in the morning." He smiles his crooked smile again and pulls on his hat. "Do you still want me to email my CV?"
"Of course." Alan finds his coat in the closet and shoulders it on, taking his scarf from the pocket and wrapping it around his throat. "Maybe we could meet next week to discuss the class, if you're going to be around." He heaves open the door and Scott walks out ahead of him. It's snowing and they both pause to look up, to watch the tiny flakes swirl around the streetlamp.
"I'll be here over the holidays," Scott replies.
Alan should not be pleased to hear that. "You're not going home?" It's none of his business, but he can't stop himself from asking.
"This is home for me. We all go to my Mum's for Christmas Day, but I'll be around campus the rest of the time." Scott pulls his hat down further and sticks his hands in his pockets.
"Right then." Alan finds his gloves and puts them on. "We'll have plenty of time to get things sorted before classes start again." He feels as awkward as hell, which is not something he's accustomed to. He can't think how to wrap things up gracefully.
It's clear that Scott feels the same way. He kicks at the thin blanket of snow on the sidewalk. "Absolutely. Well." He clears his throat and shrugs again. "Thanks for everything, Professor. Goodnight." He gives a half wave and turns and walks away.
Alan watches him go and suddenly he's exhausted, overcome with the sinking, sobering realization that he's a hypocrite and a fool. He should be disgusted with himself, and he's sure he will be, tomorrow, but right now he's so weary he can barely put one foot in front of the other. The snow is a welcome relief, stinging bites of cold against his overheated face. He sighs deeply, trudging slowly along the silent, icy streets, his mind racing ahead.