3.2 You have the sweetest face
Author: lauren3210
Rating: T
Characters: Alaric Saltzman, Damon Salvatore, various OCs made up on the spot.
Word count: ~2200
Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did. Then I would make you all write this show!
Warnings: Um, possibly schmoopy, slightly crack-y and really dumb?
Summary: Alaric is asked to cover a colleague's class. He is not impressed.
Alaric stared down into the sludge masquerading as coffee as it sat in the chipped mug before him. He wished he could pour at least a shot of whiskey into it - if anything the alcohol might be able to water it down enough to be drinkable - but his secret stash was hidden away in his desk drawer, far away from the teacher's lounge. He had a free period, and he had been sitting at the table for the last ten minutes, side eyeing the stack of essays he had yet to mark. He knew that once he was done he'd feel better - the weight of them on his mind was beginning to make his eyes blur - but the thought of having to read a bunch of barely legible essays all likely to be written about the same damn thing (the glory of the Founding Families - what else would the kids in this town ever write about?) was enough to start a headache forming at the back of his skull.
He really should be drunk for this. Alcohol made a ton of things so much easier to deal with. He could really go to town with his thick red pen without feeling an twinge of guilt, and he could laugh himself silly at some of the more poorly written ones.
Two hands slapped down on the sticky round table, and Alaric noted with disgust that the coffee in his mug didn't even so much as ripple. Teachers put up with a hell of a lot of crap, the least the school could do in return was provide some actual coffee.
“Alaric, oh thank God!” Jennifer slid herself into the seat to his right, her upper body slumping over the table as she blew out a breath, sucking another one back in through pursed lips, her doughy cheeks tinged with red.
“Bad morning?” Alaric could sympathise; buildings filled with loud bells and even louder kids were like the worst form of punishment after a night out. Sometimes Alaric thought God had created the teaching profession just to fuck with people who liked to drink.
“The worst!” Jennifer groaned, swiping a hand through her bangs, leaving them sticking up in all directions. Alaric thought she looked like a cockatoo. A slightly sweaty and chubby cockatoo. One that wears bright pink lipstick and always manages to smear it over its teeth.
“Jeff's just told me I was supposed to be at this completely stupid training thing this morning, and that I should check my email more often!” She groaned and closed her eyes, head tipped back as if in prayer. Alaric wondered briefly if he should suggest she pray for a stair-master, before deciding against it. Even with a hangover, he wasn't that cruel.
“I've lost count of the number of times I've told him that I have no damn idea how to do things like that and to tell me in person, but he just never listens!” Her eyes flashed as she opened them again, looking around the room in indignation.
Alaric made a noise he hoped conveyed something approaching sympathy and turned back to glare at his coffee. He wasn't exactly known among his colleagues for being the best sounding board, so he was starting to wonder why she had come rushing to find him to complain to.
“So anyway, now I have to find people willing to take over my classes for the rest of the day, before I drive over to this stupid thing, where I can sit around all day and listen to them tell me how to do things that I already know how to do.” Her hands balled into fists on the table, her wrinkled skin stretching white over her knuckles.
“I think Sarah has a free later, she might be able to help you out.” Alaric bit the bullet and picked up his mug, taking a big gulp of coffee. Then he grimaced; it tasted like mud. And shit. Possibly both.
“Already asked. I've managed to fill all my classes except...”
Jennifer's voice trailed off, but Alaric wasn't really paying much attention; he was too busy scraping his tongue against his teeth, trying to remove the foul clogging taste the coffee had left behind as a parting gift. Then his head shot up as the words sunk in.
Oh God. Surely she couldn't be asking...
“You're free first period, right?” her voice had lost its agitation and taken on a tone of desperate pleading, and when Alaric caught her gaze he saw that her eyes were wide and innocent. And also surrounded by far too much black stuff for a woman her age.
“You can't be - I teach history!” He stuttered out, unable to stop the mounting horror from leaking out with his words.
“Alaric please, you're the only one free, and I have -” she looked across at the clock ticking ominously on the wall, “- crap, five minutes before my tenth graders turn up!”
“Jennifer - “ (always Jennifer, never Jen, or even Jenny, because those were just undignified, apparently) Alaric took another swig of his coffee, choking slightly as it slid to the back of his throat like a lump of tar. “But you teach Home Economics! I burn spaghetti!”
“No no no, you'll be fine!” Jennifer reached out and patted his arm in what she clearly thought was an encouraging manner. “They all know what to do, you just have to supervise, that's all, I promise!” She stood up and pushed away from the table, patting his arm one more time. “Oh, and maybe do a few taste tests, just to make them feel good.”
She started stepping away from him slowly, footsteps slow and measured and hands outstretched, as though he was an angry dog she was trying to placate. Alaric was too shocked to feel anything. He was almost positive the anger would come in at some point though. He put the mug down on the table, staring at nothing as he vaguely heard the door open, letting in the sounds of the kids running and shouting in the halls, the slamming of locker doors echoing off the walls.
“Oh, and you might want to keep a bucket handy, just in case someone manages to really mess it up Thanks Ric, see you tomorrow!” The door slammed shut quickly, before Alaric could open his mouth to respond.
Which was a pity, seeing as how he had a really good one about a stair-master.
*****
The kids were already inside as Alaric approached the classroom. Some were already in their aprons, pulling out ingredients, fingers skimming down lists of instructions. A few were just leaning against the rows of work stations, chatting or playing with their phones. A couple of boys were in the corner, flicking each other with already damp kitchen towels. Alaric watched from the doorway as one boy managed to connect a particularly vicious swipe, pumping his fist into the air as he twirled on the spot as his partner yelped and swore. Then he cleared his throat and stepped through, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Mr... Mr Saltzman?” A girl close to the back said loudly, her mouth hanging open stupidly. Alaric resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “What are... Where's Miss Goodwin? Are we having history instead?”
“Miss Goodwin has somewhere else to be, so I'll be supervising for her.” Alaric moved to the teacher's desk, which was also a cook station, what the fuck? and set his battered briefcase down by the sink. “You all know what you have to do, right?”
There was a hush of quiet, interrupting a steady stream of uhs and uhms, and Alaric pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep the swearing only in his head.
Finally a timid voice made itself heard. “Er, Mr Saltzman? We're supposed to be making pastry. For um, you know, pie.”
Alaric sighed. “Who here can lend me a book?” The girl who had spoken held her cookbook out in front of her, and Alaric smiled at her. “Thanks Lilah. Now, where's the board?” He turned his back on the class, looking for the chalk.
“There isn't one,” Lilah said softly, a faint note of horror in her voice.
“What? Why?” Alaric looked around the room, unable to believe it. All the classrooms he taught in had boards to write on, how else could facts and dates be written down? Oh, wait.
“Miss Goodwin says the chalk dust would fly up and get in the food.”
Alaric grimaced and made a mental note to dust his apartment before the next time he tried to cook. “Okay, everyone make sure their books are open at,” he squinted, “page two thirty two, and make sure you have all the stuff you need.”There was a mad scramble as about half the class (mostly boys) found their aprons and grabbed their books.
A hand touched his elbow lightly and he turned to see Lilah leaning over her station. “You need to remind them all to wash their hands, too.” She whispered.
“Won't they already know to do that?”
Lilah shrugged. “They're boys.”
Alaric pondered that for a moment and his eyes widened slightly as he stood up straight. “And wash your hands!”
After a few minutes, the kids started to settle down, only the occasional yell or snigger of laughter. Alaric picked up his borrowed copy of the book and quickly read through the process. He nodded once to himself, as a way of telling himself firmly to man up and push through this. He could do this. How hard could pastry be anyway?
He really should have swung by his desk drawer on his way over.
*****
Turns out, pastry is incredibly hard. Alaric didn't think he would have been able to enjoy the past two hours even with a quick stop by his desk drawer beforehand.
The kids had finally filed out of the classroom, streaks of flour over their faces and butter in their hair, leaving Alaric standing in the middle of what looked like a bombed out cake factory. Lilah had leaned towards him on her way out, whispering, "Miss Goodwin tidies up after, for the next class."
Alaric's hands were tacky with still gooey pastry and his dark jeans and grey shirt were covered in flour. He was certain some of the pastry had managed to find its way down his pants and his face felt sticky. He was irritated and seriously craving caffeine and just generally pissed. He had to get to his own class in less than half an hour, and all he wanted to do was sit down and sleep for a week, try to forget the sheer torture of this morning.
"At least we'll know you'll still look good when you're old and grey."
Alaric lifted his hand to his hair reflexively as he looked to see Damon leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, one leg in front of the other. A curtain of flour fell down over his shoulders.
Damon straightened up and stepped further into the room, his nose wrinkling. "I'm almost certain that smell isn't supposed to be anywhere near food."
Alaric snorted. "Apparently, the feel of butter between his fingers was too much for Trent James's stomach to handle."
Damon cocked his head and squinted. "Don't you mean James Trent?"
"Showing your age, Damon." Alaric brushed flour off his shoulders. "What are you doing here?"
"Had to see a witch about a spell." He shrugged, then rolled his eyes when Alaric just frowned at him. "Oh, cheer up, Teach. Here, I bought you a present." Damon put his hand out in front of him, dangling a small take out coffee cup in front of him, smirk pulling at his lips.
Alaric reached out gratefully and snatched the cup, pulling off the lid and downing the contents in two gulps. Double espresso, perfect.
"Umf, yes thank you."
Damon's smirk grew wider. "There's a reason you keep me around."
Alaric ignored him and looked around the room at the mess coating every available surface. Fuck it, he finally thought to himself. What could they do to him? He'd already been tortured this morning. He strode over to the teacher's desk and grabbed his briefcase, smacking at it to remove the flour. As he made to leave the classroom, he found Damon blocking his way. Damon reached out and grasped his chin with his thumb and forefinger, leaning in closer. His tongue flicked out, and he drew a long slow stripe from Alaric's jaw to his temple. He leaned back again, sticking the pad of his thumb into his mouth and sucking on it. Then he grinned and winked at Alaric.
"You had some sugar on your face."
Rating: T
Characters: Alaric Saltzman, Damon Salvatore, various OCs made up on the spot.
Word count: ~2200
Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did. Then I would make you all write this show!
Warnings: Um, possibly schmoopy, slightly crack-y and really dumb?
Summary: Alaric is asked to cover a colleague's class. He is not impressed.
Alaric stared down into the sludge masquerading as coffee as it sat in the chipped mug before him. He wished he could pour at least a shot of whiskey into it - if anything the alcohol might be able to water it down enough to be drinkable - but his secret stash was hidden away in his desk drawer, far away from the teacher's lounge. He had a free period, and he had been sitting at the table for the last ten minutes, side eyeing the stack of essays he had yet to mark. He knew that once he was done he'd feel better - the weight of them on his mind was beginning to make his eyes blur - but the thought of having to read a bunch of barely legible essays all likely to be written about the same damn thing (the glory of the Founding Families - what else would the kids in this town ever write about?) was enough to start a headache forming at the back of his skull.
He really should be drunk for this. Alcohol made a ton of things so much easier to deal with. He could really go to town with his thick red pen without feeling an twinge of guilt, and he could laugh himself silly at some of the more poorly written ones.
Two hands slapped down on the sticky round table, and Alaric noted with disgust that the coffee in his mug didn't even so much as ripple. Teachers put up with a hell of a lot of crap, the least the school could do in return was provide some actual coffee.
“Alaric, oh thank God!” Jennifer slid herself into the seat to his right, her upper body slumping over the table as she blew out a breath, sucking another one back in through pursed lips, her doughy cheeks tinged with red.
“Bad morning?” Alaric could sympathise; buildings filled with loud bells and even louder kids were like the worst form of punishment after a night out. Sometimes Alaric thought God had created the teaching profession just to fuck with people who liked to drink.
“The worst!” Jennifer groaned, swiping a hand through her bangs, leaving them sticking up in all directions. Alaric thought she looked like a cockatoo. A slightly sweaty and chubby cockatoo. One that wears bright pink lipstick and always manages to smear it over its teeth.
“Jeff's just told me I was supposed to be at this completely stupid training thing this morning, and that I should check my email more often!” She groaned and closed her eyes, head tipped back as if in prayer. Alaric wondered briefly if he should suggest she pray for a stair-master, before deciding against it. Even with a hangover, he wasn't that cruel.
“I've lost count of the number of times I've told him that I have no damn idea how to do things like that and to tell me in person, but he just never listens!” Her eyes flashed as she opened them again, looking around the room in indignation.
Alaric made a noise he hoped conveyed something approaching sympathy and turned back to glare at his coffee. He wasn't exactly known among his colleagues for being the best sounding board, so he was starting to wonder why she had come rushing to find him to complain to.
“So anyway, now I have to find people willing to take over my classes for the rest of the day, before I drive over to this stupid thing, where I can sit around all day and listen to them tell me how to do things that I already know how to do.” Her hands balled into fists on the table, her wrinkled skin stretching white over her knuckles.
“I think Sarah has a free later, she might be able to help you out.” Alaric bit the bullet and picked up his mug, taking a big gulp of coffee. Then he grimaced; it tasted like mud. And shit. Possibly both.
“Already asked. I've managed to fill all my classes except...”
Jennifer's voice trailed off, but Alaric wasn't really paying much attention; he was too busy scraping his tongue against his teeth, trying to remove the foul clogging taste the coffee had left behind as a parting gift. Then his head shot up as the words sunk in.
Oh God. Surely she couldn't be asking...
“You're free first period, right?” her voice had lost its agitation and taken on a tone of desperate pleading, and when Alaric caught her gaze he saw that her eyes were wide and innocent. And also surrounded by far too much black stuff for a woman her age.
“You can't be - I teach history!” He stuttered out, unable to stop the mounting horror from leaking out with his words.
“Alaric please, you're the only one free, and I have -” she looked across at the clock ticking ominously on the wall, “- crap, five minutes before my tenth graders turn up!”
“Jennifer - “ (always Jennifer, never Jen, or even Jenny, because those were just undignified, apparently) Alaric took another swig of his coffee, choking slightly as it slid to the back of his throat like a lump of tar. “But you teach Home Economics! I burn spaghetti!”
“No no no, you'll be fine!” Jennifer reached out and patted his arm in what she clearly thought was an encouraging manner. “They all know what to do, you just have to supervise, that's all, I promise!” She stood up and pushed away from the table, patting his arm one more time. “Oh, and maybe do a few taste tests, just to make them feel good.”
She started stepping away from him slowly, footsteps slow and measured and hands outstretched, as though he was an angry dog she was trying to placate. Alaric was too shocked to feel anything. He was almost positive the anger would come in at some point though. He put the mug down on the table, staring at nothing as he vaguely heard the door open, letting in the sounds of the kids running and shouting in the halls, the slamming of locker doors echoing off the walls.
“Oh, and you might want to keep a bucket handy, just in case someone manages to really mess it up Thanks Ric, see you tomorrow!” The door slammed shut quickly, before Alaric could open his mouth to respond.
Which was a pity, seeing as how he had a really good one about a stair-master.
*****
The kids were already inside as Alaric approached the classroom. Some were already in their aprons, pulling out ingredients, fingers skimming down lists of instructions. A few were just leaning against the rows of work stations, chatting or playing with their phones. A couple of boys were in the corner, flicking each other with already damp kitchen towels. Alaric watched from the doorway as one boy managed to connect a particularly vicious swipe, pumping his fist into the air as he twirled on the spot as his partner yelped and swore. Then he cleared his throat and stepped through, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Mr... Mr Saltzman?” A girl close to the back said loudly, her mouth hanging open stupidly. Alaric resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “What are... Where's Miss Goodwin? Are we having history instead?”
“Miss Goodwin has somewhere else to be, so I'll be supervising for her.” Alaric moved to the teacher's desk, which was also a cook station, what the fuck? and set his battered briefcase down by the sink. “You all know what you have to do, right?”
There was a hush of quiet, interrupting a steady stream of uhs and uhms, and Alaric pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep the swearing only in his head.
Finally a timid voice made itself heard. “Er, Mr Saltzman? We're supposed to be making pastry. For um, you know, pie.”
Alaric sighed. “Who here can lend me a book?” The girl who had spoken held her cookbook out in front of her, and Alaric smiled at her. “Thanks Lilah. Now, where's the board?” He turned his back on the class, looking for the chalk.
“There isn't one,” Lilah said softly, a faint note of horror in her voice.
“What? Why?” Alaric looked around the room, unable to believe it. All the classrooms he taught in had boards to write on, how else could facts and dates be written down? Oh, wait.
“Miss Goodwin says the chalk dust would fly up and get in the food.”
Alaric grimaced and made a mental note to dust his apartment before the next time he tried to cook. “Okay, everyone make sure their books are open at,” he squinted, “page two thirty two, and make sure you have all the stuff you need.”There was a mad scramble as about half the class (mostly boys) found their aprons and grabbed their books.
A hand touched his elbow lightly and he turned to see Lilah leaning over her station. “You need to remind them all to wash their hands, too.” She whispered.
“Won't they already know to do that?”
Lilah shrugged. “They're boys.”
Alaric pondered that for a moment and his eyes widened slightly as he stood up straight. “And wash your hands!”
After a few minutes, the kids started to settle down, only the occasional yell or snigger of laughter. Alaric picked up his borrowed copy of the book and quickly read through the process. He nodded once to himself, as a way of telling himself firmly to man up and push through this. He could do this. How hard could pastry be anyway?
He really should have swung by his desk drawer on his way over.
*****
Turns out, pastry is incredibly hard. Alaric didn't think he would have been able to enjoy the past two hours even with a quick stop by his desk drawer beforehand.
The kids had finally filed out of the classroom, streaks of flour over their faces and butter in their hair, leaving Alaric standing in the middle of what looked like a bombed out cake factory. Lilah had leaned towards him on her way out, whispering, "Miss Goodwin tidies up after, for the next class."
Alaric's hands were tacky with still gooey pastry and his dark jeans and grey shirt were covered in flour. He was certain some of the pastry had managed to find its way down his pants and his face felt sticky. He was irritated and seriously craving caffeine and just generally pissed. He had to get to his own class in less than half an hour, and all he wanted to do was sit down and sleep for a week, try to forget the sheer torture of this morning.
"At least we'll know you'll still look good when you're old and grey."
Alaric lifted his hand to his hair reflexively as he looked to see Damon leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, one leg in front of the other. A curtain of flour fell down over his shoulders.
Damon straightened up and stepped further into the room, his nose wrinkling. "I'm almost certain that smell isn't supposed to be anywhere near food."
Alaric snorted. "Apparently, the feel of butter between his fingers was too much for Trent James's stomach to handle."
Damon cocked his head and squinted. "Don't you mean James Trent?"
"Showing your age, Damon." Alaric brushed flour off his shoulders. "What are you doing here?"
"Had to see a witch about a spell." He shrugged, then rolled his eyes when Alaric just frowned at him. "Oh, cheer up, Teach. Here, I bought you a present." Damon put his hand out in front of him, dangling a small take out coffee cup in front of him, smirk pulling at his lips.
Alaric reached out gratefully and snatched the cup, pulling off the lid and downing the contents in two gulps. Double espresso, perfect.
"Umf, yes thank you."
Damon's smirk grew wider. "There's a reason you keep me around."
Alaric ignored him and looked around the room at the mess coating every available surface. Fuck it, he finally thought to himself. What could they do to him? He'd already been tortured this morning. He strode over to the teacher's desk and grabbed his briefcase, smacking at it to remove the flour. As he made to leave the classroom, he found Damon blocking his way. Damon reached out and grasped his chin with his thumb and forefinger, leaning in closer. His tongue flicked out, and he drew a long slow stripe from Alaric's jaw to his temple. He leaned back again, sticking the pad of his thumb into his mouth and sucking on it. Then he grinned and winked at Alaric.
"You had some sugar on your face."