Book 1, Chapter 1: Office Hours
And so it begins, again. Just a few start of term announcements:
Firstly, the guest book and office_hours are always available for comments and questions and we welcome you there. Additionally, since these are now completed stories, please feel free to leave comments on individual threads if you are so moved. You can't begin to know how much we would love to hear from you.
Secondly, we've kept the original index as we know some people have linked back to that and we want to make this as painless as possible. It will be updated on Fridays.
Lastly, we truly hope that you enjoy reading these stories as much as we've enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) writing them. We'll be posting a new chapter each Tuesday and Thursday and taking a short break between books.
--kiltsandlollies and escribo
Title: Office Hours
authors: kiltsandlollies and escribo
characters: Billy
rating: PG
word count: 1492
summary: Billy's first day
Index
disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
This is the part no one tells you about, Billy thinks as the door closes behind him and he's alone, facing the quiet half-darkness of his new office at Baskerville College. This is where you make it real.
In school no one had told him of the rush one gets at never having to share an office again, never having to abide the conversations of others--and never having to turn down Christopher Hogwood's leading the beautiful hell out of the Brandenburg Concertos just because one's office mate preferred Britten's dry, soullessly conducted version. In school they had stressed their hardships and too rarely the joys--and one of Billy's chief joys is finding himself with a room of his own, its bookshelves emptied and gagging to be filled again, its walls bare and smelling of fresh, buff-colored paint.
He'd been guided to his office by a clerk who had looked terribly like a younger version of Billy himself, and Billy had thanked him expansively, even offering to buy him a drink if the clerk would tell him the best place in town to find one. The clerk had stuttered a bit before providing Billy with directions to a pub called The Three Gables. Billy had thanked him again--and then had taken both a deep breath and the keys to his new office.
That smell of paint almost disguises the fact that the previous occupant was a smoker, and not a cheap bastard either, Billy thinks; cheap cigarettes don't leave scents like this. He peers at the ceiling, looking for sprinkler valves, and then laughs, realizing that while Baskerville is not nearly as old an institution as St. Andrews, it's aged enough to suit Billy's tastes. He casts his eyes then around the room, until they settle on the most important part of any office--his new desk.
It's almost as nice as his father's, which Billy will have shipped down to him as soon as he finds a proper house, and is no longer living in the shoebox of a flat Baskerville found for him. He's only slept there two nights and already hates it--the view looks over an industrial park, and the grounds around the building are unkempt, uncared for. If he didn't know already how beautiful the Baskerville campus was, Billy would despair over living here. He wants a house, just the smallest house on the smallest parcel of land: not too far away from campus, but far enough that it feels elsewhere. He will be in debt for decades if he buys even the saddest dwelling in the area, but it doesn't matter. He wants to make his time at Baskerville work, and to do so he must find a home, and comfort in it, but for the moment Billy has enough work ahead of him just unpacking this box and deciding how best to distribute its contents. He pushes it with some effort onto the desk and fishes in the top drawer for scissors or a blade of some sort to drag across the top of his box. Once it's opened, Billy reaches for the first thing he finds: a brass trivet, once glossy and now warmed and aged into dullness-one of Billy's most treasured possessions.
It, too, belonged to his father, and Billy remembers the mug of coffee that rested upon it every morning and the cup of tea that did the same every night. His father was a creature of habit, but not frustratingly so. He earned his comforts, and Billy never had the chance to find him too set in his ways. When Billy sets the trivet down on the corner of his desk now, it's with a little bit of reverence and a great deal of love.
Next there is the poster tube, the protective casing around Billy's ratty, beloved portrait of Francis Hutcheson, Scottish philosopher and resident ghost of Edgecliffe Hall at St. Andrews. There's something rather perverse about bringing Hutch here, to a new school, Billy thinks as he tacks the portrait carefully to the wall to the right of his desk, but he doesn't care. He returns Hutcheson's stern expression with one of his own, and then turns back to his box. Under a layer of tissue are pictures, several of them, and Billy takes delight in placing them along the bookshelves. Pictures of his own graduating class of doctoral students, of Margaret, Peter and their children, of himself with Dr. Helden in front of Edgecliffe, both of them smoking, both of them smiling. Pictures, too, that Billy has taken over the years in his travels through Scotland. Pictures of home.
Staring at the images, Billy finds the urge to break out his cigarettes almost overwhelming.
Billy remembers walking into Edgecliffe as a student, bearing the weight of questions and the fear that he might not walk back out alive. When he found a professor willing to listen to and encourage him, Billy felt more confident about stepping into the shaded doorway and climbing the steps to the man's office for hours of conversation and--more than a few times--a shared glass of something Billy couldn't pronounce, and that made his eyes water. Professor Helden is now a friend, one without whom Billy would have left only a month into his teaching position, and he is one of only two people Billy believes he will miss now that he's gone from St. Andrews.
He hadn't been worried about teaching again; he'd had leads on two schools, both in desperate need of a jack-of-all-trades philosophy junkie. Between the two, Billy had always leaned toward Baskerville, an offshoot campus of the University of Sydenhurst. They'd offered tenure, but beyond that the Baskerville campus is beautiful, with generous copses of trees and buildings that are expansive, welcoming. He'd even noticed on one interview how light had seemed to stream through the Humanities building, filling the corners of the classrooms and offices. Billy had been quite ready to step out of the darkness of St. Andrews and into the light of somewhere and something new. But Baskerville represents more than just an escape for Billy. It's a fresh start, with no history to it other than what Billy will make himself. That history starts now, he knows, in this room.
Most of his books have yet to arrive, and so Billy arranges the few he's brought with him: Plato and Aristotle, naturally, though Billy's not an extremist fan of either; Kierkegaard and Kant, Shakespeare and Yeats, Eliot, Boethius and Spinoza, and anthologies galore. Putting them away means Billy can get to what he loves best in this box, after the trivet-his ancient CD-and-tape player, purchased as a splurge while he was in his third year of university and still working today.
He pulls it from the box and sets it on the credenza behind his desk, dusting it off with his shirttail and checking that it's survived the move undamaged. Contented, Billy reaches back into the box for the leather binder he knows is jammed with music he can and will play while in his office, ones that will get him through good days and bad.
His hand finds Sea Drift/Songs of Farewell, Delius at his kindest, and Billy slips the CD into the player, moving quickly afterward to douse the overhead lights in his office before the music begins. There's a ritual to be performed now, to make this place indeed his own. After retrieving a saucer from the box he sinks to the floor, ignoring the couch that waits for him and his visitors-as if instead of teaching philosophy Billy's meant to practice psychiatry in this office (which, he thinks, might not be the worst idea. For one thing, a psychiatrist's wages could bear the weight of a mortgage better than those of a professor).
Billy can hear himself laughing, and he forces it back down, lest he attract company. He peers up at the ceiling, already pulling the cigarettes from his back pocket, and then lights up quickly, eager to get to a point where he wants to and can slow down. The smoke is very sweet, and Billy's eyes burn a little as it rises. He keeps them closed and taps the cigarette twice on the saucer beside him before he falls to his back for another deep inhale. You'll die like that, Margaret had baited him one night a few months before this, standing over him like a frustrated nanny. On your back and smoking.
You might have a case there, Maggie.
So stop, then, Billy. Promise me you'll stop at Baskerville.
And he had, and he will. Right after this.
Billy crinkles the empty package in his hand now, in odd time with the soaring voices that fill the room-the office, his office. This is the part no one tells you about, Billy thinks. This is where you make it yours.
Next...
Firstly, the guest book and office_hours are always available for comments and questions and we welcome you there. Additionally, since these are now completed stories, please feel free to leave comments on individual threads if you are so moved. You can't begin to know how much we would love to hear from you.
Secondly, we've kept the original index as we know some people have linked back to that and we want to make this as painless as possible. It will be updated on Fridays.
Lastly, we truly hope that you enjoy reading these stories as much as we've enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) writing them. We'll be posting a new chapter each Tuesday and Thursday and taking a short break between books.
--kiltsandlollies and escribo
Title: Office Hours
authors: kiltsandlollies and escribo
characters: Billy
rating: PG
word count: 1492
summary: Billy's first day
Index
disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
This is the part no one tells you about, Billy thinks as the door closes behind him and he's alone, facing the quiet half-darkness of his new office at Baskerville College. This is where you make it real.
In school no one had told him of the rush one gets at never having to share an office again, never having to abide the conversations of others--and never having to turn down Christopher Hogwood's leading the beautiful hell out of the Brandenburg Concertos just because one's office mate preferred Britten's dry, soullessly conducted version. In school they had stressed their hardships and too rarely the joys--and one of Billy's chief joys is finding himself with a room of his own, its bookshelves emptied and gagging to be filled again, its walls bare and smelling of fresh, buff-colored paint.
He'd been guided to his office by a clerk who had looked terribly like a younger version of Billy himself, and Billy had thanked him expansively, even offering to buy him a drink if the clerk would tell him the best place in town to find one. The clerk had stuttered a bit before providing Billy with directions to a pub called The Three Gables. Billy had thanked him again--and then had taken both a deep breath and the keys to his new office.
That smell of paint almost disguises the fact that the previous occupant was a smoker, and not a cheap bastard either, Billy thinks; cheap cigarettes don't leave scents like this. He peers at the ceiling, looking for sprinkler valves, and then laughs, realizing that while Baskerville is not nearly as old an institution as St. Andrews, it's aged enough to suit Billy's tastes. He casts his eyes then around the room, until they settle on the most important part of any office--his new desk.
It's almost as nice as his father's, which Billy will have shipped down to him as soon as he finds a proper house, and is no longer living in the shoebox of a flat Baskerville found for him. He's only slept there two nights and already hates it--the view looks over an industrial park, and the grounds around the building are unkempt, uncared for. If he didn't know already how beautiful the Baskerville campus was, Billy would despair over living here. He wants a house, just the smallest house on the smallest parcel of land: not too far away from campus, but far enough that it feels elsewhere. He will be in debt for decades if he buys even the saddest dwelling in the area, but it doesn't matter. He wants to make his time at Baskerville work, and to do so he must find a home, and comfort in it, but for the moment Billy has enough work ahead of him just unpacking this box and deciding how best to distribute its contents. He pushes it with some effort onto the desk and fishes in the top drawer for scissors or a blade of some sort to drag across the top of his box. Once it's opened, Billy reaches for the first thing he finds: a brass trivet, once glossy and now warmed and aged into dullness-one of Billy's most treasured possessions.
It, too, belonged to his father, and Billy remembers the mug of coffee that rested upon it every morning and the cup of tea that did the same every night. His father was a creature of habit, but not frustratingly so. He earned his comforts, and Billy never had the chance to find him too set in his ways. When Billy sets the trivet down on the corner of his desk now, it's with a little bit of reverence and a great deal of love.
Next there is the poster tube, the protective casing around Billy's ratty, beloved portrait of Francis Hutcheson, Scottish philosopher and resident ghost of Edgecliffe Hall at St. Andrews. There's something rather perverse about bringing Hutch here, to a new school, Billy thinks as he tacks the portrait carefully to the wall to the right of his desk, but he doesn't care. He returns Hutcheson's stern expression with one of his own, and then turns back to his box. Under a layer of tissue are pictures, several of them, and Billy takes delight in placing them along the bookshelves. Pictures of his own graduating class of doctoral students, of Margaret, Peter and their children, of himself with Dr. Helden in front of Edgecliffe, both of them smoking, both of them smiling. Pictures, too, that Billy has taken over the years in his travels through Scotland. Pictures of home.
Staring at the images, Billy finds the urge to break out his cigarettes almost overwhelming.
Billy remembers walking into Edgecliffe as a student, bearing the weight of questions and the fear that he might not walk back out alive. When he found a professor willing to listen to and encourage him, Billy felt more confident about stepping into the shaded doorway and climbing the steps to the man's office for hours of conversation and--more than a few times--a shared glass of something Billy couldn't pronounce, and that made his eyes water. Professor Helden is now a friend, one without whom Billy would have left only a month into his teaching position, and he is one of only two people Billy believes he will miss now that he's gone from St. Andrews.
He hadn't been worried about teaching again; he'd had leads on two schools, both in desperate need of a jack-of-all-trades philosophy junkie. Between the two, Billy had always leaned toward Baskerville, an offshoot campus of the University of Sydenhurst. They'd offered tenure, but beyond that the Baskerville campus is beautiful, with generous copses of trees and buildings that are expansive, welcoming. He'd even noticed on one interview how light had seemed to stream through the Humanities building, filling the corners of the classrooms and offices. Billy had been quite ready to step out of the darkness of St. Andrews and into the light of somewhere and something new. But Baskerville represents more than just an escape for Billy. It's a fresh start, with no history to it other than what Billy will make himself. That history starts now, he knows, in this room.
Most of his books have yet to arrive, and so Billy arranges the few he's brought with him: Plato and Aristotle, naturally, though Billy's not an extremist fan of either; Kierkegaard and Kant, Shakespeare and Yeats, Eliot, Boethius and Spinoza, and anthologies galore. Putting them away means Billy can get to what he loves best in this box, after the trivet-his ancient CD-and-tape player, purchased as a splurge while he was in his third year of university and still working today.
He pulls it from the box and sets it on the credenza behind his desk, dusting it off with his shirttail and checking that it's survived the move undamaged. Contented, Billy reaches back into the box for the leather binder he knows is jammed with music he can and will play while in his office, ones that will get him through good days and bad.
His hand finds Sea Drift/Songs of Farewell, Delius at his kindest, and Billy slips the CD into the player, moving quickly afterward to douse the overhead lights in his office before the music begins. There's a ritual to be performed now, to make this place indeed his own. After retrieving a saucer from the box he sinks to the floor, ignoring the couch that waits for him and his visitors-as if instead of teaching philosophy Billy's meant to practice psychiatry in this office (which, he thinks, might not be the worst idea. For one thing, a psychiatrist's wages could bear the weight of a mortgage better than those of a professor).
Billy can hear himself laughing, and he forces it back down, lest he attract company. He peers up at the ceiling, already pulling the cigarettes from his back pocket, and then lights up quickly, eager to get to a point where he wants to and can slow down. The smoke is very sweet, and Billy's eyes burn a little as it rises. He keeps them closed and taps the cigarette twice on the saucer beside him before he falls to his back for another deep inhale. You'll die like that, Margaret had baited him one night a few months before this, standing over him like a frustrated nanny. On your back and smoking.
You might have a case there, Maggie.
So stop, then, Billy. Promise me you'll stop at Baskerville.
And he had, and he will. Right after this.
Billy crinkles the empty package in his hand now, in odd time with the soaring voices that fill the room-the office, his office. This is the part no one tells you about, Billy thinks. This is where you make it yours.
Next...