fandom high: I want to live here
This is a story. It hasn't been betaed, exactly, but pocky_slash and stripes13 are the world's best enablers and I love them.
So yeah. Um, let me explain what this is. It's a high school multifandom crossover that I've been calling Fandom High, for lack of a better title. There is going to be a lot of it. It does pretty much what it says on the tin, but just to describe in brief what this story is so far: if you ever wanted a story where Leo McGarry was a debate teacher and Sam Seaborn and Lee Adama were debate partners (and where Josh Lyman was the Debate Mentor to novice debaters like the awesome winning team of Hermione Granger & Will Bailey), or where Bev Crusher taught biology and Dana Scully was kind of in love with her and kept doodling on her lecture notes to the endless amusement of her lab buddy Martha Jones, or where Kara Thrace took hand-to-hand combat lessons from Teyla, or where John Sheppard taught flight classes but kept getting interrupted by his husband Doctor McKay, or where Principal Laura Roslin kept arguing with her economics teacher Jed Bartlet about taking his students on unauthorized field trips in the TARDIS, or where Ryan from The Office was BFF with Draco Malfoy and generally made a lot of trouble for everyone, well, this is that story and more. Here is the first ridiculous chapter, and I kind of want to live there forever, so, I hope you love it, because my attitude on writing this has been CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP. :D
Leo McGarry does not know why there are students in the debate room this early in the morning. For a brief and horrifying moment, he worries that he has somehow forgotten a tournament, but when he rounds the corner and sees who is occupying the room, he knows he hasn't forgotten a thing, except possibly to tell this particular pair of students to remember to sleep.
"Morning, Mister McGarry," Lee says, sounding altogether too goddamn perky at this early hour. Sam Seaborn, Lee's debate partner, sits next to him, shuffling through a stack of bright neon stock paper. Leo can barely see either of them for the file folders and reams of paper that surround the two boys like some kind of makeshift fort, and he has to smile when he sees that one of them has affixed a sign to the outside of one of the stacks. "Fort Necessity," it reads, and if he squints he can just see an asterisk and Sam's much smaller notations, which, if he knows Sam at all, is probably some obscure factoid about George Washington.
As Leo steps closer, he can see why they're so chipper: there's an empty four-pack of energy drinks on the table next to them, and the coffeemaker in the corner is half-full of what smells like the hypercoffee that Doctor Song keeps in the staff room.
Leo chucks his briefcase onto his desk and shuffles over to them. "How long have you kids been here?"
"We never left," Sam says brightly. "We're young men, gathering our rosebuds. Before the ground shall have us. Or whatever."
"Please," Lee says, pulling a face, "don't start that again. You don't know the whole poem and we wasted at least half an hour this morning on that already."
"It'll come to me," Sam insists, but he doesn't continue his recitation aloud.
"Look, you've got months 'til the big tournament," Leo points out. "It's not time for all-nighters yet."
"We've got a practice round in an hour," Lee explains. "We'll be out of here after that."
"I won't have you neglecting your other classes for this," Leo tells them. It's difficult, sometimes, to be stern with them, because they're both so unbelievably earnest, but he feels responsible for them, like they're his own kids, and if he wouldn't let his own kids stay up all night staring at card stock and writing cases and researching, then they can't, either. "Don't you have homework?"
"We have an essay due in lit today," Sam tells him.
"Have you written it?"
"Not yet," Sam says honestly, and Lee elbows him in the ribs and shoots him a look, then mumbles something about how they had a deal that Leo can't quite hear.
"It's a five-paragraph three-point essay on a short collection of poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay," Sam says, still shuffling through papers. "It'll take half an hour. I could write it in my sleep."
Leo frowns down at them. "Aren't you in the advanced lit class?"
"Yes, of course," Sam says, as though the thought of taking anything else had never occurred to him. Knowing Sam, it probably hadn't.
"Right. Look, I don't need any more crap from Toby Ziegler about extracurricular activities detracting from the quality of your work."
"He's never complained about the quality of my work before," Sam says. "I had top marks at midterms, sir."
"He's probably talking about me," Lee says, frowning. "I'm the one who always gets snide comments on my papers."
"I thought that thing about the platoon of painkillers was actually funny. I did warn you about your overusage of alliteration in your penultimate paragraph of that paper on Proust." Sam stops talking and frowns. "Well. That was entirely unintentional."
"Teacher's pet," Lee grouses. "I still don't know why I let you talk me into that class when I'm already loaded up with political philosophyand Mechanics of Flight, and--"
"I don't know why you took Mech Flight," Sam sighs. "I told you last year that sims would take all your free practice time, and we need it for rounds."
"I took it to shut my dad up," Lee reminds him. "Besides, Sheppard's a good instructor and the class is fun, when we're not subjected to random lectures from Doctor Doctor Doctor McKay."
"I dropped drama for this, and they're doing Pirates of Penzance this year," Sam says snippily. "Mister Fünke cried when I told him. So I thought you were going to explain to your dad--"
"Okay, enough," Leo says, interrupting. "Stop squabbling like married people and go write your essays. And if I see you sneaking back in here before you're scheduled to be here for class, I'll send a junior team to Intergalactics in your place. Granger and Bailey would love a shot to compete outside of novice division."
They both look up at him, horrified. "But sir!"
"My room, my rules," Leo says, pointing at the door. "Out!
So yeah. Um, let me explain what this is. It's a high school multifandom crossover that I've been calling Fandom High, for lack of a better title. There is going to be a lot of it. It does pretty much what it says on the tin, but just to describe in brief what this story is so far: if you ever wanted a story where Leo McGarry was a debate teacher and Sam Seaborn and Lee Adama were debate partners (and where Josh Lyman was the Debate Mentor to novice debaters like the awesome winning team of Hermione Granger & Will Bailey), or where Bev Crusher taught biology and Dana Scully was kind of in love with her and kept doodling on her lecture notes to the endless amusement of her lab buddy Martha Jones, or where Kara Thrace took hand-to-hand combat lessons from Teyla, or where John Sheppard taught flight classes but kept getting interrupted by his husband Doctor McKay, or where Principal Laura Roslin kept arguing with her economics teacher Jed Bartlet about taking his students on unauthorized field trips in the TARDIS, or where Ryan from The Office was BFF with Draco Malfoy and generally made a lot of trouble for everyone, well, this is that story and more. Here is the first ridiculous chapter, and I kind of want to live there forever, so, I hope you love it, because my attitude on writing this has been CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP. :D
Leo McGarry does not know why there are students in the debate room this early in the morning. For a brief and horrifying moment, he worries that he has somehow forgotten a tournament, but when he rounds the corner and sees who is occupying the room, he knows he hasn't forgotten a thing, except possibly to tell this particular pair of students to remember to sleep.
"Morning, Mister McGarry," Lee says, sounding altogether too goddamn perky at this early hour. Sam Seaborn, Lee's debate partner, sits next to him, shuffling through a stack of bright neon stock paper. Leo can barely see either of them for the file folders and reams of paper that surround the two boys like some kind of makeshift fort, and he has to smile when he sees that one of them has affixed a sign to the outside of one of the stacks. "Fort Necessity," it reads, and if he squints he can just see an asterisk and Sam's much smaller notations, which, if he knows Sam at all, is probably some obscure factoid about George Washington.
As Leo steps closer, he can see why they're so chipper: there's an empty four-pack of energy drinks on the table next to them, and the coffeemaker in the corner is half-full of what smells like the hypercoffee that Doctor Song keeps in the staff room.
Leo chucks his briefcase onto his desk and shuffles over to them. "How long have you kids been here?"
"We never left," Sam says brightly. "We're young men, gathering our rosebuds. Before the ground shall have us. Or whatever."
"Please," Lee says, pulling a face, "don't start that again. You don't know the whole poem and we wasted at least half an hour this morning on that already."
"It'll come to me," Sam insists, but he doesn't continue his recitation aloud.
"Look, you've got months 'til the big tournament," Leo points out. "It's not time for all-nighters yet."
"We've got a practice round in an hour," Lee explains. "We'll be out of here after that."
"I won't have you neglecting your other classes for this," Leo tells them. It's difficult, sometimes, to be stern with them, because they're both so unbelievably earnest, but he feels responsible for them, like they're his own kids, and if he wouldn't let his own kids stay up all night staring at card stock and writing cases and researching, then they can't, either. "Don't you have homework?"
"We have an essay due in lit today," Sam tells him.
"Have you written it?"
"Not yet," Sam says honestly, and Lee elbows him in the ribs and shoots him a look, then mumbles something about how they had a deal that Leo can't quite hear.
"It's a five-paragraph three-point essay on a short collection of poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay," Sam says, still shuffling through papers. "It'll take half an hour. I could write it in my sleep."
Leo frowns down at them. "Aren't you in the advanced lit class?"
"Yes, of course," Sam says, as though the thought of taking anything else had never occurred to him. Knowing Sam, it probably hadn't.
"Right. Look, I don't need any more crap from Toby Ziegler about extracurricular activities detracting from the quality of your work."
"He's never complained about the quality of my work before," Sam says. "I had top marks at midterms, sir."
"He's probably talking about me," Lee says, frowning. "I'm the one who always gets snide comments on my papers."
"I thought that thing about the platoon of painkillers was actually funny. I did warn you about your overusage of alliteration in your penultimate paragraph of that paper on Proust." Sam stops talking and frowns. "Well. That was entirely unintentional."
"Teacher's pet," Lee grouses. "I still don't know why I let you talk me into that class when I'm already loaded up with political philosophyand Mechanics of Flight, and--"
"I don't know why you took Mech Flight," Sam sighs. "I told you last year that sims would take all your free practice time, and we need it for rounds."
"I took it to shut my dad up," Lee reminds him. "Besides, Sheppard's a good instructor and the class is fun, when we're not subjected to random lectures from Doctor Doctor Doctor McKay."
"I dropped drama for this, and they're doing Pirates of Penzance this year," Sam says snippily. "Mister Fünke cried when I told him. So I thought you were going to explain to your dad--"
"Okay, enough," Leo says, interrupting. "Stop squabbling like married people and go write your essays. And if I see you sneaking back in here before you're scheduled to be here for class, I'll send a junior team to Intergalactics in your place. Granger and Bailey would love a shot to compete outside of novice division."
They both look up at him, horrified. "But sir!"
"My room, my rules," Leo says, pointing at the door. "Out!