Fic: Wager (1/3)
Hey new fandom! I wrote you a fic! It is a- a, well.
A 26k academic AU with gratuitous philosophical/religious/random academic debates. Yeah. I don't know either. (Okay, I do know. I basically just spilled my brain on to the computer writing this over the last couple weeks.)
Wager
Dresden Files, Academic AU
Rating: NC-17
(explicit sex, swearing, brief allusions to child abuse)
Characters: John Marcone/Harry Dresden, ensemble cast with other background pairings.
Wordcount: 26,500ish, separated into three posts.
Summary: Harry Dresden's first semester as an assistant professor of religious studies comes with its own unique challenges. Like dealing with Doctors Marcone and Vargassi of the philosophy department.
A/N: Written for this prompt on the Dresden Files anon meme. Thanks to religious studies anons there who pointed out a couple errors - obviously any remaining are mine.
(This fic also on the AO3 here.)
I really hate talking to people about Pascal's Wager. Normally I would just walk away at the first chance, but the guy talking about Pascal's Wager was the head of his department, and I also really hate being unemployed. I gritted my teeth and hoped it looked like I was smiling.
"I've been writing a paper about it," continued the guy - hell, I couldn't even remember his name. "It's fascinating, how the problem of belief was solved hundreds of years ago and people still persist in arguing that atheism is a rational choice."
"Yeah," I said. Irrational to a fault, that was me. I grabbed my glass and took a gulp of my drink. The conference didn't have an open bar, but I needed the buzz to get through this, never mind whether I could afford it or not.
"The potential benefits of belief vastly outweigh the potential benefits of non-belief, and-"
I had learned all this in undergrad. I had learned all this freshman year of undergrad. I could feel my head drifting ever closer to the polished wood of the bar.
"Of course, the Wager only works if we're discussing the Christian God in isolation," said a new voice, and I looked up.
There was a tall guy - not as tall as me, but tall - with a sharp suit and gray-green eyes leaning over whatsisface the Pascal man. I grinned at him, thankful for the rescue.
"After all," said the man, nodding at me in return, "if you believe in the wrong deity or force, you might be punished even worse than a non-believer might be. Depending on the religion."
"Some religions don't even require belief," I chimed in. "Just a certain level of conduct." I paused to let that sink in, but Pascal Man just looked at me as if he was expecting a trick. Which, okay, fair enough. "What we need to do is make a spreadsheet, compare the different acceptable levels of belief and behavior, and pick the route that fulfills the most strictures."
"That sounds a bit complicated," said Pascal Man, frowning.
"Sure," I said. "But Pascal's Wager still stands. If you could guarantee yourself heaven or whatever, any inconvenience in this life is better than hell."
"Although," said my new friend, thoughtfully, "if the true religion is one that doesn't punish non-believers or one that doesn't allow you to hedge your bets by believing in other gods, your success becomes dependent on luck. If you'll be wasting your time by making the Wager, perhaps atheism is the wisest course after all."
There. A nice, neat, logical argument. I grinned at my ally and got a faint smile in return.
"Is that the time?" said Pascal Man, looking down at his watch and breaking the moment. "I have a talk to give, so sorry-" He stood up and hurried away without a backward glance.
Yeah, I hadn't wanted to work for him anyway.
"Can't put up with the least dissent," said my new friend. "John Marcone, by the way." He took Pascal Man's seat next to me.
"Harry Dresden," I said, and held out my hand to shake his. "Thanks for-" I reclaimed my hand to make a wobbly gesture that was supposed to mean 'chasing off the most boring guy whoever lectured on Pascal, and that's saying something.'
Marcone chuckled. "Doctor Davies has been writing that paper for the last fifteen years," he said. "Or so I'm told. He labors under the delusion that someone will actually want to read it. Theologians." He shook his head, indulgently.
"Hey now," I said, stung. "I'm a student of religion myself. It doesn't automatically turn you into a fanatic about stuff nobody cares about." I couldn’t speak for theology, but Pascal Man hadn’t been a theologian either. Not that most people understood the distinction.
"No offense meant," said Marcone, holding up his hands. "Though I do notice a preponderance of irritating fanatics within your discipline. Most of us are taught not to discuss religion out of private quarters. It takes a certain," he paused, "let us say, strength of conviction to bypass that."
"Yeah, well, most people are taught not to discuss sex either, yet colleges have no problem with a biology department." Most colleges, anyway, I said in my head. Normally it would be outside of my head, but I was making an effort to play nice here. "You don't have to be a fanatic to be interested in a subject."
"So you'd be an atheist, then," said Marcone.
I was, actually. Religions and their effects on people were fascinating, but I didn't have a lot of faith to spare. My field was sociology of religion, not seminary studies. I drew breath to say as much, but I caught the glint in Marcone's eye and stopped myself. He wanted me to say that, so he could turn me into an exception that proved the rule. Reasonable only because I lacked belief, which was wrong, and also beside the point. Plenty of people of plenty of different backgrounds study religion, and if there are a couple fanatics, well, every field has them. But I wasn’t going to let Marcone put me in a category apart from the rest.
"No," I said, instead. "Methodist. Now, I'm going to assume you're not involved in religious studies."
"Philosophy professor," said Marcone. "I'm giving a talk on morality in about an hour. The seminar on relativism."
Ooh, I had been going to go to that. Not that I was going to tell him that now.
"Sure, fine," I said. "And I suppose you always avoid talking about religion, even in connection to morality."
"There's a difference between discussing religion briefly and dedicating your career to it," said Marcone. "While I have the utmost respect for you and your colleagues-" I snorted, but he just raised his eyebrows at me. "The utmost respect, my experience with those who are drawn to religion has hardly been a pleasant or an easy one."
"Oh, I see," I said. "Look, thanks for helping me with whatsisface-"
"Davies," supplied Marcone.
"-but I've got somewhere to be." I stood up, unfolding into my full height. Marcone's eyes widened a bit, though the rest of his expression didn't change. I grinned at him, anyway. I'm not above taking advantage of my ability to look down on practically everyone.
"See you around," I said, fully intending not to. Things I don't need in my life: strangers telling me what I should be studying. I got enough of it from my professors in undergrad. Here I'd thought having a doctorate made you immune.
"Mister Dresden," said Marcone, nodding again.
"Doctor Dresden," I corrected, and got out of there. I felt his eyes on my back briefly as I fished a piece of gum out of my pocket and stuck it in my mouth to try and get rid of the alcohol smell. The only thing worse than being an unemployed postdoc is being a drunk unemployed postdoc. Actually, being drunk can actually help - just not with the unemployed part.
Right. I was here at this conference to network, and network I would.
---
I networked. And I networked. Eventually I realized I didn't really know what networking was, but it didn't matter at that point because I had gotten an interview.
"You came very highly recommended by Doctor McCoy," said Dean Leanansidhe. She smiled at me over my CV.
Okay, so maybe I hadn't exactly gotten this interview on my own initiative.
"I really enjoyed working with Ebenezer," I said. Standard interview stuff, but it was true. "He's the one who convinced me to try for my doctorate in the first place, way back when."
"I see," murmured Leanansidhe. She flipped through the CV a bit more. I was pretty sure she was finding the typos, but she hadn't kicked me out yet. "You're currently researching Augustine?"
"I'm writing a book about his defense of the omniscience of God and the importance of perceived free will for early Christian sects." The phrase spilled off my tongue easily - I'd typed it often enough. "I've written a lot of academic papers about Augustine, but I was going to try for a more accessible style this time."
"But you're familiar with religions outside the Christian tradition?" Leanansidhe set my CV down. "It's very important to this university that we offer students as many areas of study as possible."
"I did my doctoral thesis on modern Iranian Zoroastrians," I said. "I've been a bit buried in Augustine lately, but I've done postdoc work on Fuuru nu Kami of the Ryukyu Islands with Doctor Liberty."
"Well, we'll let you know within the month." Leanansidhe tapped a finger against her mouth. "Do you have any questions? Comments?"
I really need to eat, I didn't say. And I'm so sick of postdoc positions.
Instead I stammered out something inane about classes I might be expected to teach, and got out without pleading with Leanansidhe. Much. It probably wouldn't be good to look too desperate.
When I got home I called Ebenezer.
"Hello?"
"She hated me." I scrubbed at my face with one hand. "She hated me and my book."
"You haven't finished your book, Hoss." Ebenezer actually chuckled at me. No sympathy at all.
"You don't know that," I said, weakly. "Okay, you do know that. She hated the idea of my book. What did you tell her?"
"I told Lea that you were the best graduate student I ever had," said Ebenezer, slowly. "I told her that you were too good to keep bouncing around doing other people's research. I told her that everyone knows her religion department is losing professors and students and she needs to start taking it seriously."
"You scolded her into giving me an interview." I tucked the phone in between my shoulder and my ear and started sorting through the papers on my kitchen table.
"Go work on your book," said Ebenezer. "Call me again when you get hired."
He hung up on me.
"Your confidence in me is the reason I'm in this mess," I said into the dial tone.
It didn't answer, so I hung up too. After a while I managed to clear enough space on my table that I could actually sit down and have dinner without dripping ramen on The Confessions.
---
I got the job. Assistant professor, teaching intro to religion studies and a senior seminar on Augustine. I called Eb again, though I don't actually remember what I said, and was over the moon for about a week and a half.
Then I had to figure out what I was going to live on until September.
I made it, through the power of clean living, personal virtue, and a job at the laundromat down the street. Then I packed all my books into my rickety car and drove to the other side of Chicago so I could move into my office.
I'd had offices before. I'd had many offices. But this one was mine, and I didn't have to share it, and my name was on the door, and it was mine.
It was also on the third floor of Winter Hall. I pulled my car into the tiny lot behind the Hall and gamely carried the first box upstairs.
The office was just past the top of the stairs. My key fitted the lock, and the door swung open. Desk, chair, bookcases, all bare. I set the box down and went for another.
By the time I was carting up the fifth box out of way-too-many-what-was-I-thinking, I was puffing a bit. I may have been working out a bit less as I concentrated on getting the first draft of the book finished.
There was a familiar-looking guy coming out of another office at the top of the stairs, watching me with amused green eyes.
"Doctor Dresden," he said. "A pleasure to see you again."
"Uh, yeah, likewise," I pushed past him and dumped the box in my office.
Must be a guy from a conference, because he definitely wasn't anyone I'd worked with. Suit, green eyes, oh, starts with an M. Or an N. No, an M.
"How are you?" I said, playing for time. M. Some Italianish name.
"Passable," he said. "Of course, the undergraduates will be reappearing soon, that always puts a bit of a damper on things."
"I like undergrads." I shrugged. I knew his name was Italian and started with an M. Mussolini? Machiavelli?
Wow, this guy must have really rubbed me the wrong way. I peered over his shoulder, trying to read the nameplate on his door.
"I'm sure," he said, shifting as if to purposefully block my view. "Do you need help getting things from your car?"
"That'd be very kind-"
"John Marcone, Doctor Dresden." He smiled slightly.
"Oh, right, the philosophy prof." This guy again, what were the odds? "I'm not so great with names. I guess our departments share the building?"
"Yes. Now, your boxes-" Marcone stuck his head into his office, calling for a Hendricks.
The red-haired mountain that came out of the office was wearing a tweed jacket and a worn pair of jeans. I'd never seen a mountain do that.
"Professor Marcone?" the mountain said.
"This is Doctor Dresden," said Marcone. "Doctor Dresden, this is Mister Hendricks, one of my graduate students. I'm sure he'd be happy to assist you with your boxes."
"Thanks," I said, meaning it. I meant the next words too, but I probably shouldn't have said them. "Wouldn't want your suit to get rumpled, huh, Marcone."
"Oh, I'm also happy to assist, Doctor Dresden." Marcone took off his suit jacket and put it carefully away in his office. "Shall we?" He started down.
I followed, shaking my head. Only a philosophy professor would talk like that.
"Thanks," I said again, to Hendricks. "I hope it's not too much trouble."
"Won't be," said Hendricks.
Well, with his muscles, I could believe it. His arms were bigger around than I was. I looked away from them to concentrate on getting down all of the stairs, and caught Marcone frowning at me. Okay, my attention had been wandering a bit, it wasn’t a crime.
It took about three more trips to get the last ten boxes, with Marcone and Hendricks helping. They hung around as I unpacked, Hendricks reading the titles of my books and Marcone staring at each of my weird knickknacks like they held untold secrets.
"They're just junk," I told him, as I lifted my skull carefully out of his case.
"Really," said Marcone. "Is that real?"
"As far as I know," I said. "This is Bob." I set Bob down on a pile of books and started rooting through another box.
"Memento mori," said Hendricks, and started reading my copy of Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling.
"Yeah, sure," I said, and hit the button on the back of Bob's head that made him cackle.
Hendricks jumped, just a little, and glared at me. Marcone just picked up the skull and turned him around and around in his hands.
"Someone wired a real human skull and made into a Halloween noisemaker," he concluded, setting Bob back down. "Macabre."
"I didn't do it," I said. "Friend of mine found him at a thrift store like that."
Marcone looked like he was going to ask more questions, but there was a knock on my open door.
"Hi," said the newcomer. I would have said he was muscular before I met Hendricks, but he was still pretty built for an academic. I really would need to start working out to make it in this department. "I'm Michael," he said. "Shiro asked me to talk to you about your classes?"
"Oh, right, we talked on the phone," I said. "Let me just- I know the syllabi are in one of these boxes-"
"I'll leave you to it," said Marcone. He headed back to his office.
"Can I borrow this?" Hendricks waved Fear and Trembling at me.
"What? You haven't read Kierkegaard?"
"Different translation," said Hendricks.
"Whatever." I shrugged. "Just don't lose it."
Michael smiled at us. I was probably giving the impression that I was settling in well. Yep, I could lend books with the best of them.
"Sit down," I said, pushing the lone chair at him. "Tell me what I should be doing."
"Well, you've got the syllabus and slides for Intro to Religion," said Michael, taking a seat. "The ones Slate left before his contract expired."
"Yeah," I said, having finally located the stack of papers Michael had mailed me the week before. "I have to tell you, Michael, this stuff is pretty incoherent." That was understating it. I still wasn't sure how Lloyd Slate had managed to segue from Max Weber to a rant about the Dalai Lama, and I had decided I really didn't want to know. That kind of crazy can be infectious.
"Slate had some problems," allowed Michael. "You should feel free to revise his course plan as much as you want, although I'm afraid you'll have to keep the book - at this point most students have already bought their copies."
"So I can do whatever I want, as long as it's based on," I looked at the syllabus, "A Basic Guide to Religion, by Lloyd Slate."
"You can always assign more readings online," said Michael, offering a sympathetic smile.
"Great," I said. "I'm haunted by the spectre of the man who last had my job."
"You do have the seminar," said Michael. "Which you'll need to assign books for soon. The students who signed up for that only had it listed as a Senior Seminar, no topic."
"Great." I sat down on my desk, for lack of another chair. "It's cross-listed as a graduate course, right?"
"Right, but you probably won't have to do anything special for the graduate student. Give her longer papers."
"Wait wait wait," I held up a hand. "The graduate student."
"There are a couple others," said Michael. "But Shiro has taken them into his research, so they'll probably never be heard from again." He smile hadn’t gone, but he didn't exactly look happy. "We're a small department, Harry, and you're coming in at a difficult time. Two people are on sabbatical, so it's just you, me, Shiro and Sanya. And Shiro's not teaching this semester, except for his research class."
"Do I ever get to meet Shiro?" I asked. "I mean, I should say hi to the head of the department, shouldn't I?"
"He won't be in until the freshman orientation's over," said Michael. He shrugged. "I'd concentrate on getting your classes together. Let me know if I can do anything to help," he added, getting up.
"Sure, thanks," I said. Not that I'd need it. I'd taught Intro to Religion as a lecturer twice before. I just had to read Slate's book, see what I could make out of it.
---
Slate's book was awful. And boring. And awful. I groaned and nearly tossed it across the room, except I'd just got it from the library and I didn't need them coming after me. Instead I set the book carefully on my desk and leaned my chair back until I was nearly tipping over.
If I ignored the book, the undergrads would complain about having had to buy it. If I used the book, they would complain about having to read the book. Not that undergrads ever stop complaining about having to read things - I certainly hadn't shut up about it in my day.
I stared gloomily at Slade's book, willing myself to pick it up, but I couldn't do it. Instead I glanced out my open door, across the hallway.
If I leaned back just a little more, I could see right into Marcone's office. I anchored myself to my desk with my feet and tried to divine the secrets of John Marcone, relativist philosopher and assistant box carrier.
He was talking to some older guy in a suit. I looked down at my own t-shirt and jeans and decided I might need to get some better clothes before I started lecturing. At least today I'd had the excuse of moving in.
Marcone didn't look very happy about whatever they were talking about. I couldn't quite hear what was going on, but if I went just a bit further back I could see their faces more clearly...
I lost balance and fell over, cracking my head against one of the bookcases. It was pretty much inevitable, but that didn't make me feel any better, just dumber.
While I was lying there, rubbing my head, Marcone came into view.
"Are you all right, Doctor Dresden?" He looked concerned, but I was pretty sure he was laughing at me.
"Yeah," I said, struggling up. "Just testing my chair. For stability."
"I'm sorry to see it failed," he said. Definitely laughing at me. He offered me a hand, but I pulled myself up using the edge of my desk.
"Don't let me interrupt your meeting," I said.
"Doctor Vargassi was just leaving," said Marcone, looking back at Vargassi, who didn't look like he was ready to leave at all.
"Still a few things to clear up, Johnny," said Vargassi. Marcone made a face at me. Well, sort of a face - it wasn't anything more than a twitch of his mouth and a lift of his eyebrows, but I was certain he wouldn't have even done that if Vargassi could have seen him.
I didn't blame him for the not-face. I wouldn't want anybody to call me Johnny in that tone of voice. Or Harry, for that matter.
"Just a moment," said Marcone. "Doctor Dresden, I was meaning to ask you if you'd obtained a parking pass for your car."
"Uh, no." I had forgotten, actually.
"You might want to move your car, then. That's a restricted lot down there." He turned and followed Vargassi back into his office without waiting for me to respond.
I waited until his attention was occupied before running down the stairs and into the lot. Some enterprising university official had already ticketed my car. When I flipped over the ticket, I found that they'd also made some nasty remarks about the state of the various paint jobs on my patchwork Beetle.
I could already tell that I'd love it here.
---
I had a week and a half until classes began. I spent the first half trying to fix Slate's lesson plan, then spent another half trying to get my seminar together. I kept catching myself staring longingly at the pile of paper that made up my manuscript, but I didn't have time to work on my book. This is what happens when you finally get a real job.
It was edging on two in the afternoon with three days left until classes began when somebody knocked on my door. Usually it was open, but today I'd kept it closed so that Marcone couldn't see me despairing at the draft of my first lecture.
"Come in!" I shouted.
The woman who pushed the door open was around my age, short, blond hair and blue eyes. She walked a little stiffly, but her face said she was used to it.
"Professor Dresden?" she said. "Wait - Harry Dresden?"
"That's me," I said. Weird that she knew who I was but didn't seem to have been expecting me. My name was on the door, after all.
She looked sort of familiar, but I couldn't place her off the top of my head. I'm terrible with names.
"I'm Karrin Murphy." Her lips quirked. "The graduate student."
"Right, right," I stood up and pushed the chair around so she could sit on it. "Nice to meet you at last."
She didn't answer, just looked at the chair, then at her leg, then at me. I got a glare.
"I'd do the same for any lady," I said, nobly. The glare intensified. "I'd do the same for anybody," I amended. "I give Michael my chair when he comes in. I'm tall, I can sit on my desk." Murphy laughed at that.
"You need another chair," she said, and sat down.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said. "So, what can I do for the graduate student?"
"You don't remember me, do you?" she said, ignoring my question. "Well, I guess you wouldn't - we only met the once. But John Stallings used to talk about you all the time."
"You're police," I said. I couldn't quite keep the coldness out of my voice. Shit, shit, shit.
"Used to be." Murphy glanced down at her leg again. "You nearly broke my nose, ring any bells?"
"You'll have to be more specific," I said. I kind of wasn't joking, but the memories were coming back. Back in Chicago for the summer, instead of staying at school, like I would later. I had been pretty drunk - I wouldn't normally throw a punch at a lady, even a cop. I didn't feel much better about it when I remembered that she'd pinned me to the ground in a shoulder-lock almost immediately after. "You must have been a rookie, because I wasn't more than nineteen."
"Twenty's what it said on the paperwork," said Murphy. "Look, Professor, I don't want to make things difficult for you. It was just a surprise, seeing you." She smiled, but I wasn't quite sure whether to take the offer of truce, not yet.
"Yeah, real surprise," I said. I took a breath, and then another one, and then decided to go with it. "Look, why don't we start over? What can I do for you?"
"I was mostly just stopping by," she said. "I had an advisory meeting with Michael, and he said I was going to TA for you. And I'm in your seminar."
"Did you find the books for that okay?" I asked. The itch in my hands and the tightness at my temples were starting to die down, and I managed a real smile.
"I already owned most of them." Murphy shrugged. "I was actually wondering if you knew what you needed out of a TA. I mean, am I going to be running a review section, or just grading papers?"
"I have no idea," I admitted. "The kids didn't sign up for a review section, but there are nearly two hundred of them. An optional one might be a good idea."
Murphy made a face, and I actually laughed.
"Tell you what, I'm starving." I got up off the desk. "Why don't we get lunch and we can discuss it?"
"I've already eaten," she said, but she stood up too.
"You can watch me eat," I said. I grabbed my duster and walked out. She followed me to the stairs, but then kept going when I stopped.
"Elevator," she said over her shoulder. I hurried to catch her as she turned a corner down the hall.
"There's an elevator here?" I had carried all those boxes up all those stairs when I could have been riding?
"Don't get too excited, Professor," said Murphy. She fished a key out of her pocket and waved it at me, before using it in the lock next to the elevator door. "Use restricted to those who actually need it. The rest of you get to enjoy the exercise."
"I'll just have to hang out with you, then," I said, and jumped in when her hand hovered over the door close button.
She didn't really try to close the door on me. That's how I could tell we were hitting it off.
"There's a pizza place on the other side of campus," I said. "We can drive if you want."
"I'll be fine, Professor," said Murphy, sounding a bit exasperated. The elevator stopped and we got out. "Let me grab my stick from my car."
It was a bit chilly for September, with a light breeze catching my coat and making it flap. It blew Murphy's hair into her face, and she constantly had to brush it away with the hand that wasn’t occupied with her forearm crutch.
"So," I said. "You don't want to teach a review section."
"Everybody hates review sections," she said. "I hate them because I have to spend time explaining basics to kids who don't really care, and the kids hate them because that's another hour out of their week when they could be drinking. Or doing homework," she said, sounding generous.
"I guess," I said. "But I'm worried that I won't be able to take many questions, and office hours won't cover it."
"No, it's a good idea," said Murphy. "We're just all going to hate it."
"I am resigned to being the bad guy," I said. "Wait, what if I give you a big bowl of candy-"
"Professor, they're eighteen, not twelve."
"I didn't say the candy was for them." I grinned. "And call me Dresden. Or Harry. I insist all my former arresting officers call me by my name."
She laughed at that, and I felt a lot better. I had gotten past that stage in my life, and it could be a joke now.
We got to the pizza place and I ordered a pie with pepperoni. Murphy had a piece of it to keep me company, and I devoured the rest.
"So," I said, mouth full. "What made you want to study religion?"
She eyed me over her slice of pizza. She'd probably heard the question a thousand times - every academic has. She was thinking about it, though.
"I saw some things, on the force," she said, at last. "I've been a Catholic all my life, but dealing with- with all that, it showed me how powerful faith can be. I want to understand it."
"Good luck," I said. "The subject of a million theses."
"Yeah, I guess," said Murphy. "What about you, Dresden?"
"Had a good professor," I said. "Got interested." I was going to say something trite about redemption, but I figured she might read too much into that. Instead I changed the subject, asking after Stallings.
"He's fine," she said. "I'll tell him I saw you - I don't know if you understand how it is, but it's a bit awkward when you stop seeing a repeat. You're glad they're staying out of trouble, but you're worried something's happened."
"Yeah, something happened," I grinned. "I got religion."
"Nice, Dresden." Murphy rolled her eyes.
---
On the first day of classes, I stood in my apartment and looked at the clothes I'd laid out on my bed. Black button-down, suit jacket with only a few patches here and there. Jeans, but they were nice jeans and I'd found out that my cat had shed all over my dress pants. I got dressed and put my boots on, letting the jeans disguise the fact that they were my favorite cowboy boots. I though for a while about whether or not to put on my silver rings - I don't usually wear them, because I worry about them getting lost or stolen, but today was a special occasion. Then I spent awhile trying to decide whether the students would think I was loveably eccentric or laughably eccentric if I showed up with my fingers covered in silver. I already had my mother’s pentacle tucked away under my shirt. Finally I put about half of the rings on, three on each hand.
I drove to campus, parked my car in the lot behind Winter Hall and adjusted my new parking pass so it was clearly visible through the window. I hadn't been ticketed since I'd moved in to the office, but I still caught one of the security guys, Morgan, watching me from the distance every once in a while, waiting for me to trip up and park in a fire lane.
I got to the lecture hall at a quarter after ten, early so I could watch the students trickle in. It was one of the big auditoriums with a stage, so I sat on the edge of the stage and enjoyed letting my feet dangle for once. Murphy turned up and I offered to give her a boost up, but she glared at me and just sat down in the front row.
Some of the kids were sitting in the back, far enough away that they could stare without being worried about me doing anything about it.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Come down here - I don't have a mic, and I don't want to wear out my voice. And I don't want to make Murphy walk around everywhere passing out the syllabus."
The kids muttered, but they collected their stuff and came down. I had to repeat myself more than that once - more than ten times - but I finally got to the point where all one hundred and eighty-seven students (more or less) were ranged in the seven rows in front of me.
"Hi," I didn't stand up, because right now I could see their faces and if I stood up I would have to bend in two to do that. "Welcome to Intro to Religion. I hope this is where you were planning to be, but if not, I'm sure someone can give you directions to your Econ class or whatever." Nobody moved, but a couple people giggled restlessly.
"Right," I said. "I'm Professor Harry Dresden, and this is my lovely assistant Karrin Murphy. Give the kids a wave, Murphy." Murphy did so, not looking up from where she was rummaging in her messenger bag. "Murphy has two stacks of paper for you. One is the syllabus, one is blank index cards. Take one of each and pass it down the row." Murphy got up and started handing out stacks to the student at the end of each row.
"Don't start reading the syllabus yet, and don't do anything with the card. We're going to do some student-teacher interaction first." I looked around the room. A couple kids had notebooks out, but most of them were just sitting there. One guy already had his eyes on the clock on the wall to my right.
"Show of hands," I said. "How many people here practice a religion? No need to specify which or your level of involvement." A jumble of hands went up, some fast, some hesitant. Karrin's was among them. I didn't bother to try and count them, just nodded. "Okay, how many people don't practice a religion? Again, doesn't matter why - atheists, agnostics, and lapsed whatevers." Another batch of hands went up. "How many didn't raise their hands for either?" Five or six hands went up, and I grinned. "How many refuse to raise their hands because I am obviously not keeping track and they're too lazy to move their arms if it's not going to count toward participation?" Two hands went up, both belonging to the same ironic hipster chick. I made a face at her and the class laughed.
"Okay," I said. "Now we're going to do the part where I try to learn your names and fail miserably. At least this time I have the excuse that there are a ton of you." I took a spare notecard out of my pants' pocket and held it up. "What I want you to do is write your name and a physical description on the card Murphy gave you."
Kids started scribbling or borrowing pens from neighbors.
"Can we do a sketch?" asked one of the kids in front.
"As long as it's not a stick figure," I said. "Sure, knock yourself out."
I waited until almost everybody was finished, and then added, "and put your religious belief on there." A couple kids groaned, and I raised my eyebrows at them. "What did you expect, your favorite ice cream? Look, these cards are for my use only. If I make statistics, they'll be completely anonymous. If you still don't want to answer, that's fine. Just write 'refuse to say' or 'Professor Dresden is an asshole,' and we'll call it good."
I got another couple chuckles at that, and I went back to waiting.
"Right," I said, at last. "We've got forty-five minutes left, and I know no one wants to be here the full time today. I'm going to read the syllabus first, because that's the only way I know for sure that you'll actually pay attention to it."
Not even then, I amended, as I read from the master copy I'd folded up and stuffed in my pocket. Most of the kids were doodling on their copies, and the sketch artist kid was still working on the headshot on his index card. I finished up and took a few inane questions about grading and the fact that yes, really, there were two papers. Yes, really, they were three whole pages each.
"Okay, any more questions, I just told you when my office hours are. And before you ask, they're still written on top of the syllabus if you forgot. I need you to pass your index cards down the row - try to keep them in order - and Murphy will collect them. I'm going to talk about why we're here."
The hipster chick raised a hand.
"Yes?"
"You mean, why we're here on this planet, in this state of being?"
"No," I said. "I mean, why we're in this class."
"It's because it's an easy humanities credit," said a guy with glasses sitting next to the sketch artist. He got a laugh and a lot of nods.
"That may be why you're here-" Murphy handed me the pack of cards and I shuffled through it. "William Borden. Will? Bill?"
"Billy," he said. I took a pen out of my pocket and made a note. He'd listed his religion as 'follower of Erythnul and Obad-Hai.' Geeks. "Well, Billy, that may be why you're here. Those of us that have made a career out of the study of religion, maybe we have a slightly less pragmatic reason.
"The study of religion can take many forms," I held up the hand that wasn’t full of index cards and ticked off fingers. "We can talk about anthropology, history, psychology, biology, or, my particular field, sociology. One thing we're not going to talk about is the essential truth of any religion." A few of the kids made noises, and I talked over them. "There's a place for that, and that place is in the philosophy department or a theology school. In this class, we're going to discuss what religion is and what it does to people, not whether god or karma or spirits exist."
I got a few confused frowns and a few approving grins. A lot of kids just looked bored.
"Any questions?" I asked. "Or do you all want to leave early?"
"What about you?" asked the sketch artist. All he'd written down on his card was 'Fix, pagan.' The sketch of him on the back was nice, his hair a little spikier than it was in the bleached reality. But his thin face was portrayed in a realistic rather than flattering way.
"You know our beliefs now," said Fix. "But do we get to know yours?"
"I'm trying to preserve a mystique," I said, and grinned. "Or the illusion of neutrality. All right, get gone, get out of here." I made a shooing motion with my hands. "Read the introduction to your textbook, and I'll see you here on Wednesday."
The class rushed out, far faster than they had come in. Murphy gave me a wave as she left - I knew she had a class with the mysterious Professor Sanya after, so I didn't try to stop her. Instead I waved back as I fielded a half-dozen questions from the hipster chick. Georgia, my cards informed me, worshipper of 'the moon goddess.'
I guess the standard Christians didn't want to talk to me, or something.
I spotted Marcone sitting in the back as Georgia finally realized she had another class in five minutes. I fanned my cards out and back in a half-hearted shuffle as I walked up the aisle past him.
"Decide to enroll, Marcone?"
"I have class downstairs." He picked up a briefcase and followed me out. "I finished early and decided to see how you were faring."
"Aw, I didn't know you cared," I said. "What did you think?"
"A standard opener," said Marcone. "You shouldn't feel bad - every first class is boring, practically without exception." I scowled at him, but he kept talking. "It was probably wise of you to conceal the fact that you already have a stake in religious truth."
What, that I thought all of them were wrong? Or, wait, no- He still thought I was a Methodist. I couldn't really remember why I had told him that, especially since American religions weren't really my field, but I couldn't back down now.
"I don't want to make the non-Christians feel alienated," I said, loftily. "I already got a lecture about inclusiveness from Dean Leanansidhe."
"Laudable," said Marcone, "in that respect. But I have rather less admiration for your emphasis on refusing to examine the truth of what you will be lecturing on."
"Oh, you heard that part, did you?" I looked at him sideways, trying to decide if he was serious or just trying to get a rise out of me. "Look, Marcone, the effects of religion and religious belief are real, whether or not the belief itself has a factual basis. That's what matters to me." I started walking faster, hurrying back to my office.
"I simply think that's a limited point of view," said Marcone, matching my long strides with shorter and faster steps of his own. "What's the point of restricting your avenues of study to stimulus-response rather than the metaphysical nature of-" I held up a hand to stop him.
"What's going on here?" I asked. "Are you following me to argue about my lecture?"
"I'm going to my office, Doctor Dresden." Marcone lifted his eyebrows. "It happens to be in the same building as yours, as I thought you were aware."
"Yeah, okay," I said, and resigned myself to another fight with Marcone about the validity of the study of religion. At least I hadn’t been drinking this time.
---
After that first day, things settled down and ran smoothly. Intro to Religion didn't have any work for the students yet, just lectures, and I already had those planned out. Mostly. My seminar was ten interested seniors plus Murphy, and I had no difficulty with moderating a discussion of Augustine.
The Augustine did make my fingers itch to be working on my book, though. I finished off my last class on the Thursday of the second week of classes and practically ran to my office. Murphy gave me a weird look, but my brain was already buried in Augustine again and I ignored her.
I took the stairs two at a time, slammed into my office, and set up to get typing.
The first draft was more or less done, but that didn't mean much. I flipped through the pages, seeing my notes and the places that needed to be fleshed out. There were a lot of those. Chapter Six, for instance, just had a title and a two sentence description of what I had been too lazy to actually type out. It had been so boring and obvious at the time.
"In Creatures," I read, "Finding God - importance of intelligence and memory. Early Christianity valuing intellect more than corporeal form - contrast with contemporary Roman religions. Connection to free will thesis."
I stared at the paper some more. Then I held the page of Chapter Six up, letting the light from the window filter through it. The light didn't really illuminate the contents for me.
"What the hell does that mean?" I asked.
I got no answer. I put Chapter Six down, and thought. That didn't help. I picked up Bob from where he'd been holding some paperwork down, and pressed the button. He cackled, and I had it.
I started typing, a grin edging through my face. I didn't stop to make references, so the text was full of things like "snappy quote from Confessions Ch X here" and "think this is possibly already proven wrong." But I had the idea, and the rest was just editing.
I was still in full flow when Marcone knocked on my open door.
"Hi," I said, not stopping. "Busy. Come back later."
"I see that you're busy, Doctor Dresden," he said. His voice was a little surprised, a little amused, and I had no time for thinking about that when there were words to be put on pages.
I grunted, hoping he'd get the hint.
"I was just coming in," said Marcone, taking another step inside, "to ask if you could do something about that loud, interminable clacking noise, only to find that you have procured an Olivetti typewriter and appear to actually be using it."
I looked down at my trusty blue typewriter, and then up at Marcone.
"I didn't procure it," I said. "You carried up the stairs for me."
"Ah," he said. "That would explain why that box was so light - I had assumed it was more of your anatomical collection."
"One skull is not a collection," I said, glancing at Bob. "Listen, what can I do for you?" The flow was gone, irrecoverable. I had to get Marcone out of here so I could try and get a new one going.
"Why do you have a typewriter?" he asked. Answering a question with a question was not cool. This was not an improv class, this was serious academic business.
"To write with," I said, as if explaining something to one of my freshmen.
"Yes," said Marcone, in the same tone of voice. "That is what a laptop and a word processor are for."
"I had one of those once," I said. "Three times, actually. And they cost a fortune and I broke them within a week. Do you know how much this typewriter cost me?"
Marcone did not.
"Ten dollars," I said, proudly. And another three hundred to keep it running, but that didn't sound as impressive. It was still cheaper than a computer, anyway.
"You realize your department would provide you with a laptop if you asked," said Marcone.
I hadn't known that, but I wasn't about to abandon my typewriter in the face of Marcone's scorn.
"Sure, and then I'll break it and they'll bill me." I gave him a glare. "What do you want, Marcone?"
"If you're going to type," he said, "please keep your door closed. It's extremely distracting for your colleagues."
He shut the door for me on his way out. Considerate.
I seethed. He was cutting me off from the life in the hallway! No longer could I see what was going on outside my box of an office.
But I resolved to be the better man, and didn't get up just to open the door. I did forget to close it after having gone to get coffee, but Marcone came and closed it for me again, without comment. After that I just couldn't work on the book any more, so I went home. My cat needed feeding anyway.
---
Friday I had no classes, but I did have office hours. I came in at nine and set up my typewriter again.
At ten Hendricks stopped by.
"The professor says keep your door closed," he said. He didn't say it like a threat, but any order from a man that size sounds like a threat.
"The professor meaning Marcone?" I snorted. "You tell him I have office hours today. The door stays open."
Hendricks shrugged, and turned to leave.
"Hey," I said. "When do I get my Kierkegaard back?"
Hendricks paused with his back to me, thinking. "When the door gets closed."
I made a face at him as he left and typed louder. I had to stop hitting the keys so hard when I remembered what a pain they were to repair, but the thought was still there.
At ten thirty Marcone himself deigned to walk across the hall. He didn't say anything, just picked up one of the stacks of paper cluttering my desk - probably Chapter Four. That was a good chapter.
"You realize this is littered with spelling errors, don't you?" he asked.
"It'll get fixed in the next draft," I said, still typing. "I'll get Murphy to look it over for me, that's what grad students are for."
"Word processors," said Marcone, "generally come with built-in spellcheck. Sometimes even automatic capitalization, which I see you seem to have a problem with."
"My shift key is a bit sticky," I muttered. "Look, Marcone, I'm not closing my door while I have office hours. The kids will think I've left."
"They will undoubtedly be able to hear your relentless tick-tacking and binging, even through the door. You seem to think that it is an impervious barrier, but your door is in fact merely a cushion that makes the typing bearable."
"What's eating you?" I asked Marcone, matching his calm, reasonable tone. "Is it really me? Because I think you've got some misplaced anger problems."
Marcone's face went blank. He set the chapter down and left, closing the door behind him. I sprang up and opened it, making a rude gesture at Hendricks as he glanced at me from inside Marcone's office.
A little while later the first undergrad showed up. Billy. I gave him my chair and sat on the desk, as usual.
"The first paper’s coming up, right?" he asked. "I wanted to discuss potential topics with you."
"Not for a couple weeks," I said. "But shoot." Billy was an engineer, and I knew he had some trouble with creative writing. I didn't blame him for wanting to get started early.
"I was thinking I could write about the logical fallacies in-"
"Hold up," I said, putting up a hand. "Do you remember what I said we weren't going to be discussing in this class?"
"Yeah," he said. "But I was talking to Georgia in review, and it got me thinking-"
"Thinking is good," I said. "But unless you can spin the paper so that your 'logical fallacies' relate to the people or the history - the physical, not the metaphysical - I'm afraid I'm going to have to nix it."
"So I could write about how Catholic dogma is complicated by, like, the measures demanded by the military during the Crusades."
"Sure," I said. "That sounds like an interesting topic."
"Okay, I'll work on that," said Billy. He shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. "Also, are you planning any extra credit-"
Every undergraduate in the world will ask that question. The proportion increases exponentially by how badly they think they're going to do in a class. I started to give my standard 'no, better do your work instead' answer, but a thought occurred.
"Billy, I will give you an extra one percent toward your final grade if you go across the hall and ask Professor Marcone your metaphysical questions."
"That's not much," said Billy. He looked to Marcone's office and back at me. "And are you even allowed to do that?"
"People give out extra credit for weird stuff," I said. "I had a professor way back when who gave it out for answering trivia questions." Billy didn't look convinced, so I tried again. "Come on, I'm giving good value for what I'm asking you to do. Just head over there and ask Marcone annoying questions."
Billy shrugged, giving me a look that said something like 'I'll never understand professors/academics/liberal arts-and-crafts types.' Then he adjusted his glasses, which had come askew in the progress of the look, and went to.
I did the same thing with the next undergrad, and the next. Murphy stopped by and she wouldn't do it, but she did take my first chapter and the chair and started checking for typos.
Which was when the last student I'd sent across the hall came back.
"Professor Marcone said that you don't have a computer," she said, accusingly. "Is that why you haven't been doing powerpoints? Because I take much better notes with powerpoints."
"Powerpoints let you ignore the lecture," I said. Also I had no idea how to make them. "Begone before I revoke your extra credit!" I tapped Bob's button to make my point, and she left, giggling in counterpoint to the cackles.
"How are you going to do online grading?" asked the next student. "And is that why you haven't been answering my e-mails?"
"I do have access to the library computers," I said. "I just haven't gotten around to your e-mails yet." And now I wouldn't have to, since he had come to office hours.
Still, that question made me feel guilty, and Murphy was definitely making fun of me silently, so I gave up on sending my students to Marcone for the day. I shut my door when office hours were over, too.
But only to lull Marcone into a false sense of security. Not because he had won.
---
I thought about staying home on Saturday, but lugging all of my notes and books back to my apartment sounded like too much work. Instead I came in to the department and started up with the typing again.
If I left my door open, it was because I didn't think anyone else would be in on a Saturday afternoon.
"Hi, Harry." Michael walked in. "I've been getting some complaints about noise."
"Michael, tell me honestly," I said. "How many of those complaints have come from Marcone?"
Michael tried to hide a smile, which told me everything I needed to know.
"He's got it in for me," I informed him. "It's a grudge."
"Sure, Harry," said Michael, humoring me. "Anyway, I really came to ask if you would come to the departmental dinner next week."
I hesitated. I mean, I probably had to go, but it sounded really boring.
"Departmental dinner meaning I invite everyone to my house to eat burgers and hot dogs," said Michael, and I was in.
After he left, I got back to the book. I had just about gotten to the point where I couldn't make any more progress until I did more research, and I couldn't get back into Augustine and my secondary sources until I caught up on lectures for my classes. By the time I'd done that, the due date for Intro to Religion would be coming up, and Murphy and I would be buried in essays.
I wound a last sheet of paper into my typewriter with a sigh.
Marcone walked in as my fingers hovered over the keys.
"Don't you have to leave soon?" he asked. He sounded almost hysterical - for him that meant his tone had another tiny inflection besides amused or cold. "Go home, eat dinner, go to bed early?"
"Why would I go to bed early on a Saturday night?" I asked, mystified.
"So you can get up tomorrow morning and go to church," said Marcone.
Oh, right, I had forgotten. Was he going to ask me where I went to church? I had no idea if there was a local Methodist congregation I could claim as my own - I mean, there had to be, they were everywhere, but I might need a name-
"Doctor Dresden," said Marcone, interrupting my thoughts. "I have to completely rewrite three of my lectures today, and I have made little to no progress because of your typing, so-"
"Okay, okay, sorry," I said. "You should have said something."
"I may have mentioned once or twice that your typing was driving me to distraction," snapped Marcone.
"Maybe I'd like a little explanation to go with your orders," I threw back. My hands itched, and I could feel my face getting a little hot-
And then it broke. I forced myself down, and I saw Marcone doing the same. It looked so similar that I wondered for a second if we'd gone to the same anger management counselors. Or maybe that whole counting to ten thing was more widespread than I had thought.
"Look." I stood up and pushed my chair around to him. "It sounds like you're having a bad day. Why don't you sit down for a minute? I'm nearly done here, I'll be out of your hair in no time."
"Thank you," said Marcone, slowly. He took the chair and sat down, propping his elbows on his knees and folding up his hands in front of his face. He looked tired without his anger, and I felt a little guilty.
I started gathering up my papers and scattered sources to distract myself, trying to get something like order back to my desk.
"Doctor Vargassi told me he'd had some complaints about my last lecture in my ethics class," Marcone said.
"So?" I asked.
"So I don't think any of my students actually complained," said Marcone. "At the very least, they took it to Vargassi first without mentioning anything to me."
"That sucks," I said. It did. It's one thing for there to be a problem, it's another for that problem to be taken to your superiors before you have a chance to fix it.
"Mhm." Marcone sat back, watching me move around.
I finished up, and put my typewriter back in its box on the bottom shelf of my smallest bookcase. That last page could wait until I'd done more research.
"Finished for now?" asked Marcone. He sounded more himself now that he'd got the Vargassi thing off his chest.
"For a while," I said. I picked up my duster and my bag, and Marcone got up out of my chair. "Tell Hendricks that he can stop holding my book hostage." Marcone smiled at that.
"I think I owe you an apology," he said. "You may have been right about misplaced anger."
"I probably should have taken you more seriously," I offered. Goodwill gestures are important, or so I'm told. "Anyway, see you on Monday."
"Good night, Doctor Dresden."
I could feel his eyes on me again as I tromped down the stairs.
---
Marcone started making a habit of coming by to hang out at the end of the day. We still snapped and argued at each other a lot, but it felt much more comfortable than before. I didn't have to worry about pushing it too far or getting in trouble with him for saying something I shouldn't have. Which was nice. My brain-to-mouth direct connection has caused problems in the past.
After about a week, he even brought me another chair.
"I don't mind sitting on my desk," I said, eyeing the hard grey plastic. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
"Harry, you're tall enough," said Marcone. "My neck is starting to wear out from having to look so far up."
"Don't call me Harry," I said, but I ducked my head and grinned. "Thanks, Marcone."
"Don't get too excited," he said. "I only borrowed it from a classroom downstairs."
"You're very good at carrying things up stairs," I said. "Such talent should be recognized."
"Mister Hendricks carried it up the stairs," said Marcone, a little reluctantly.
This led to an argument about the proper use of grad students, in which Marcone pointed out that I was making Murphy copyedit my book and I pointed out that Marcone was making Hendricks do everything else. And that I still hadn't gotten my Kierkegaard back, which was really nothing to do with Marcone, but I figured I'd bring it up for completeness' sake.
When I stormed out at six, though, it was less because I was angry and more because I had remembered that the departmental dinner was tonight. I came back after a second and kicked Marcone out of my office - if I left him there, he'd only go through my things and write unwanted comments on whatever drafts I had lying around.
---
Part Two.
A 26k academic AU with gratuitous philosophical/religious/random academic debates. Yeah. I don't know either. (Okay, I do know. I basically just spilled my brain on to the computer writing this over the last couple weeks.)
Wager
Dresden Files, Academic AU
Rating: NC-17
(explicit sex, swearing, brief allusions to child abuse)
Characters: John Marcone/Harry Dresden, ensemble cast with other background pairings.
Wordcount: 26,500ish, separated into three posts.
Summary: Harry Dresden's first semester as an assistant professor of religious studies comes with its own unique challenges. Like dealing with Doctors Marcone and Vargassi of the philosophy department.
A/N: Written for this prompt on the Dresden Files anon meme. Thanks to religious studies anons there who pointed out a couple errors - obviously any remaining are mine.
(This fic also on the AO3 here.)
I really hate talking to people about Pascal's Wager. Normally I would just walk away at the first chance, but the guy talking about Pascal's Wager was the head of his department, and I also really hate being unemployed. I gritted my teeth and hoped it looked like I was smiling.
"I've been writing a paper about it," continued the guy - hell, I couldn't even remember his name. "It's fascinating, how the problem of belief was solved hundreds of years ago and people still persist in arguing that atheism is a rational choice."
"Yeah," I said. Irrational to a fault, that was me. I grabbed my glass and took a gulp of my drink. The conference didn't have an open bar, but I needed the buzz to get through this, never mind whether I could afford it or not.
"The potential benefits of belief vastly outweigh the potential benefits of non-belief, and-"
I had learned all this in undergrad. I had learned all this freshman year of undergrad. I could feel my head drifting ever closer to the polished wood of the bar.
"Of course, the Wager only works if we're discussing the Christian God in isolation," said a new voice, and I looked up.
There was a tall guy - not as tall as me, but tall - with a sharp suit and gray-green eyes leaning over whatsisface the Pascal man. I grinned at him, thankful for the rescue.
"After all," said the man, nodding at me in return, "if you believe in the wrong deity or force, you might be punished even worse than a non-believer might be. Depending on the religion."
"Some religions don't even require belief," I chimed in. "Just a certain level of conduct." I paused to let that sink in, but Pascal Man just looked at me as if he was expecting a trick. Which, okay, fair enough. "What we need to do is make a spreadsheet, compare the different acceptable levels of belief and behavior, and pick the route that fulfills the most strictures."
"That sounds a bit complicated," said Pascal Man, frowning.
"Sure," I said. "But Pascal's Wager still stands. If you could guarantee yourself heaven or whatever, any inconvenience in this life is better than hell."
"Although," said my new friend, thoughtfully, "if the true religion is one that doesn't punish non-believers or one that doesn't allow you to hedge your bets by believing in other gods, your success becomes dependent on luck. If you'll be wasting your time by making the Wager, perhaps atheism is the wisest course after all."
There. A nice, neat, logical argument. I grinned at my ally and got a faint smile in return.
"Is that the time?" said Pascal Man, looking down at his watch and breaking the moment. "I have a talk to give, so sorry-" He stood up and hurried away without a backward glance.
Yeah, I hadn't wanted to work for him anyway.
"Can't put up with the least dissent," said my new friend. "John Marcone, by the way." He took Pascal Man's seat next to me.
"Harry Dresden," I said, and held out my hand to shake his. "Thanks for-" I reclaimed my hand to make a wobbly gesture that was supposed to mean 'chasing off the most boring guy whoever lectured on Pascal, and that's saying something.'
Marcone chuckled. "Doctor Davies has been writing that paper for the last fifteen years," he said. "Or so I'm told. He labors under the delusion that someone will actually want to read it. Theologians." He shook his head, indulgently.
"Hey now," I said, stung. "I'm a student of religion myself. It doesn't automatically turn you into a fanatic about stuff nobody cares about." I couldn’t speak for theology, but Pascal Man hadn’t been a theologian either. Not that most people understood the distinction.
"No offense meant," said Marcone, holding up his hands. "Though I do notice a preponderance of irritating fanatics within your discipline. Most of us are taught not to discuss religion out of private quarters. It takes a certain," he paused, "let us say, strength of conviction to bypass that."
"Yeah, well, most people are taught not to discuss sex either, yet colleges have no problem with a biology department." Most colleges, anyway, I said in my head. Normally it would be outside of my head, but I was making an effort to play nice here. "You don't have to be a fanatic to be interested in a subject."
"So you'd be an atheist, then," said Marcone.
I was, actually. Religions and their effects on people were fascinating, but I didn't have a lot of faith to spare. My field was sociology of religion, not seminary studies. I drew breath to say as much, but I caught the glint in Marcone's eye and stopped myself. He wanted me to say that, so he could turn me into an exception that proved the rule. Reasonable only because I lacked belief, which was wrong, and also beside the point. Plenty of people of plenty of different backgrounds study religion, and if there are a couple fanatics, well, every field has them. But I wasn’t going to let Marcone put me in a category apart from the rest.
"No," I said, instead. "Methodist. Now, I'm going to assume you're not involved in religious studies."
"Philosophy professor," said Marcone. "I'm giving a talk on morality in about an hour. The seminar on relativism."
Ooh, I had been going to go to that. Not that I was going to tell him that now.
"Sure, fine," I said. "And I suppose you always avoid talking about religion, even in connection to morality."
"There's a difference between discussing religion briefly and dedicating your career to it," said Marcone. "While I have the utmost respect for you and your colleagues-" I snorted, but he just raised his eyebrows at me. "The utmost respect, my experience with those who are drawn to religion has hardly been a pleasant or an easy one."
"Oh, I see," I said. "Look, thanks for helping me with whatsisface-"
"Davies," supplied Marcone.
"-but I've got somewhere to be." I stood up, unfolding into my full height. Marcone's eyes widened a bit, though the rest of his expression didn't change. I grinned at him, anyway. I'm not above taking advantage of my ability to look down on practically everyone.
"See you around," I said, fully intending not to. Things I don't need in my life: strangers telling me what I should be studying. I got enough of it from my professors in undergrad. Here I'd thought having a doctorate made you immune.
"Mister Dresden," said Marcone, nodding again.
"Doctor Dresden," I corrected, and got out of there. I felt his eyes on my back briefly as I fished a piece of gum out of my pocket and stuck it in my mouth to try and get rid of the alcohol smell. The only thing worse than being an unemployed postdoc is being a drunk unemployed postdoc. Actually, being drunk can actually help - just not with the unemployed part.
Right. I was here at this conference to network, and network I would.
---
I networked. And I networked. Eventually I realized I didn't really know what networking was, but it didn't matter at that point because I had gotten an interview.
"You came very highly recommended by Doctor McCoy," said Dean Leanansidhe. She smiled at me over my CV.
Okay, so maybe I hadn't exactly gotten this interview on my own initiative.
"I really enjoyed working with Ebenezer," I said. Standard interview stuff, but it was true. "He's the one who convinced me to try for my doctorate in the first place, way back when."
"I see," murmured Leanansidhe. She flipped through the CV a bit more. I was pretty sure she was finding the typos, but she hadn't kicked me out yet. "You're currently researching Augustine?"
"I'm writing a book about his defense of the omniscience of God and the importance of perceived free will for early Christian sects." The phrase spilled off my tongue easily - I'd typed it often enough. "I've written a lot of academic papers about Augustine, but I was going to try for a more accessible style this time."
"But you're familiar with religions outside the Christian tradition?" Leanansidhe set my CV down. "It's very important to this university that we offer students as many areas of study as possible."
"I did my doctoral thesis on modern Iranian Zoroastrians," I said. "I've been a bit buried in Augustine lately, but I've done postdoc work on Fuuru nu Kami of the Ryukyu Islands with Doctor Liberty."
"Well, we'll let you know within the month." Leanansidhe tapped a finger against her mouth. "Do you have any questions? Comments?"
I really need to eat, I didn't say. And I'm so sick of postdoc positions.
Instead I stammered out something inane about classes I might be expected to teach, and got out without pleading with Leanansidhe. Much. It probably wouldn't be good to look too desperate.
When I got home I called Ebenezer.
"Hello?"
"She hated me." I scrubbed at my face with one hand. "She hated me and my book."
"You haven't finished your book, Hoss." Ebenezer actually chuckled at me. No sympathy at all.
"You don't know that," I said, weakly. "Okay, you do know that. She hated the idea of my book. What did you tell her?"
"I told Lea that you were the best graduate student I ever had," said Ebenezer, slowly. "I told her that you were too good to keep bouncing around doing other people's research. I told her that everyone knows her religion department is losing professors and students and she needs to start taking it seriously."
"You scolded her into giving me an interview." I tucked the phone in between my shoulder and my ear and started sorting through the papers on my kitchen table.
"Go work on your book," said Ebenezer. "Call me again when you get hired."
He hung up on me.
"Your confidence in me is the reason I'm in this mess," I said into the dial tone.
It didn't answer, so I hung up too. After a while I managed to clear enough space on my table that I could actually sit down and have dinner without dripping ramen on The Confessions.
---
I got the job. Assistant professor, teaching intro to religion studies and a senior seminar on Augustine. I called Eb again, though I don't actually remember what I said, and was over the moon for about a week and a half.
Then I had to figure out what I was going to live on until September.
I made it, through the power of clean living, personal virtue, and a job at the laundromat down the street. Then I packed all my books into my rickety car and drove to the other side of Chicago so I could move into my office.
I'd had offices before. I'd had many offices. But this one was mine, and I didn't have to share it, and my name was on the door, and it was mine.
It was also on the third floor of Winter Hall. I pulled my car into the tiny lot behind the Hall and gamely carried the first box upstairs.
The office was just past the top of the stairs. My key fitted the lock, and the door swung open. Desk, chair, bookcases, all bare. I set the box down and went for another.
By the time I was carting up the fifth box out of way-too-many-what-was-I-thinking, I was puffing a bit. I may have been working out a bit less as I concentrated on getting the first draft of the book finished.
There was a familiar-looking guy coming out of another office at the top of the stairs, watching me with amused green eyes.
"Doctor Dresden," he said. "A pleasure to see you again."
"Uh, yeah, likewise," I pushed past him and dumped the box in my office.
Must be a guy from a conference, because he definitely wasn't anyone I'd worked with. Suit, green eyes, oh, starts with an M. Or an N. No, an M.
"How are you?" I said, playing for time. M. Some Italianish name.
"Passable," he said. "Of course, the undergraduates will be reappearing soon, that always puts a bit of a damper on things."
"I like undergrads." I shrugged. I knew his name was Italian and started with an M. Mussolini? Machiavelli?
Wow, this guy must have really rubbed me the wrong way. I peered over his shoulder, trying to read the nameplate on his door.
"I'm sure," he said, shifting as if to purposefully block my view. "Do you need help getting things from your car?"
"That'd be very kind-"
"John Marcone, Doctor Dresden." He smiled slightly.
"Oh, right, the philosophy prof." This guy again, what were the odds? "I'm not so great with names. I guess our departments share the building?"
"Yes. Now, your boxes-" Marcone stuck his head into his office, calling for a Hendricks.
The red-haired mountain that came out of the office was wearing a tweed jacket and a worn pair of jeans. I'd never seen a mountain do that.
"Professor Marcone?" the mountain said.
"This is Doctor Dresden," said Marcone. "Doctor Dresden, this is Mister Hendricks, one of my graduate students. I'm sure he'd be happy to assist you with your boxes."
"Thanks," I said, meaning it. I meant the next words too, but I probably shouldn't have said them. "Wouldn't want your suit to get rumpled, huh, Marcone."
"Oh, I'm also happy to assist, Doctor Dresden." Marcone took off his suit jacket and put it carefully away in his office. "Shall we?" He started down.
I followed, shaking my head. Only a philosophy professor would talk like that.
"Thanks," I said again, to Hendricks. "I hope it's not too much trouble."
"Won't be," said Hendricks.
Well, with his muscles, I could believe it. His arms were bigger around than I was. I looked away from them to concentrate on getting down all of the stairs, and caught Marcone frowning at me. Okay, my attention had been wandering a bit, it wasn’t a crime.
It took about three more trips to get the last ten boxes, with Marcone and Hendricks helping. They hung around as I unpacked, Hendricks reading the titles of my books and Marcone staring at each of my weird knickknacks like they held untold secrets.
"They're just junk," I told him, as I lifted my skull carefully out of his case.
"Really," said Marcone. "Is that real?"
"As far as I know," I said. "This is Bob." I set Bob down on a pile of books and started rooting through another box.
"Memento mori," said Hendricks, and started reading my copy of Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling.
"Yeah, sure," I said, and hit the button on the back of Bob's head that made him cackle.
Hendricks jumped, just a little, and glared at me. Marcone just picked up the skull and turned him around and around in his hands.
"Someone wired a real human skull and made into a Halloween noisemaker," he concluded, setting Bob back down. "Macabre."
"I didn't do it," I said. "Friend of mine found him at a thrift store like that."
Marcone looked like he was going to ask more questions, but there was a knock on my open door.
"Hi," said the newcomer. I would have said he was muscular before I met Hendricks, but he was still pretty built for an academic. I really would need to start working out to make it in this department. "I'm Michael," he said. "Shiro asked me to talk to you about your classes?"
"Oh, right, we talked on the phone," I said. "Let me just- I know the syllabi are in one of these boxes-"
"I'll leave you to it," said Marcone. He headed back to his office.
"Can I borrow this?" Hendricks waved Fear and Trembling at me.
"What? You haven't read Kierkegaard?"
"Different translation," said Hendricks.
"Whatever." I shrugged. "Just don't lose it."
Michael smiled at us. I was probably giving the impression that I was settling in well. Yep, I could lend books with the best of them.
"Sit down," I said, pushing the lone chair at him. "Tell me what I should be doing."
"Well, you've got the syllabus and slides for Intro to Religion," said Michael, taking a seat. "The ones Slate left before his contract expired."
"Yeah," I said, having finally located the stack of papers Michael had mailed me the week before. "I have to tell you, Michael, this stuff is pretty incoherent." That was understating it. I still wasn't sure how Lloyd Slate had managed to segue from Max Weber to a rant about the Dalai Lama, and I had decided I really didn't want to know. That kind of crazy can be infectious.
"Slate had some problems," allowed Michael. "You should feel free to revise his course plan as much as you want, although I'm afraid you'll have to keep the book - at this point most students have already bought their copies."
"So I can do whatever I want, as long as it's based on," I looked at the syllabus, "A Basic Guide to Religion, by Lloyd Slate."
"You can always assign more readings online," said Michael, offering a sympathetic smile.
"Great," I said. "I'm haunted by the spectre of the man who last had my job."
"You do have the seminar," said Michael. "Which you'll need to assign books for soon. The students who signed up for that only had it listed as a Senior Seminar, no topic."
"Great." I sat down on my desk, for lack of another chair. "It's cross-listed as a graduate course, right?"
"Right, but you probably won't have to do anything special for the graduate student. Give her longer papers."
"Wait wait wait," I held up a hand. "The graduate student."
"There are a couple others," said Michael. "But Shiro has taken them into his research, so they'll probably never be heard from again." He smile hadn’t gone, but he didn't exactly look happy. "We're a small department, Harry, and you're coming in at a difficult time. Two people are on sabbatical, so it's just you, me, Shiro and Sanya. And Shiro's not teaching this semester, except for his research class."
"Do I ever get to meet Shiro?" I asked. "I mean, I should say hi to the head of the department, shouldn't I?"
"He won't be in until the freshman orientation's over," said Michael. He shrugged. "I'd concentrate on getting your classes together. Let me know if I can do anything to help," he added, getting up.
"Sure, thanks," I said. Not that I'd need it. I'd taught Intro to Religion as a lecturer twice before. I just had to read Slate's book, see what I could make out of it.
---
Slate's book was awful. And boring. And awful. I groaned and nearly tossed it across the room, except I'd just got it from the library and I didn't need them coming after me. Instead I set the book carefully on my desk and leaned my chair back until I was nearly tipping over.
If I ignored the book, the undergrads would complain about having had to buy it. If I used the book, they would complain about having to read the book. Not that undergrads ever stop complaining about having to read things - I certainly hadn't shut up about it in my day.
I stared gloomily at Slade's book, willing myself to pick it up, but I couldn't do it. Instead I glanced out my open door, across the hallway.
If I leaned back just a little more, I could see right into Marcone's office. I anchored myself to my desk with my feet and tried to divine the secrets of John Marcone, relativist philosopher and assistant box carrier.
He was talking to some older guy in a suit. I looked down at my own t-shirt and jeans and decided I might need to get some better clothes before I started lecturing. At least today I'd had the excuse of moving in.
Marcone didn't look very happy about whatever they were talking about. I couldn't quite hear what was going on, but if I went just a bit further back I could see their faces more clearly...
I lost balance and fell over, cracking my head against one of the bookcases. It was pretty much inevitable, but that didn't make me feel any better, just dumber.
While I was lying there, rubbing my head, Marcone came into view.
"Are you all right, Doctor Dresden?" He looked concerned, but I was pretty sure he was laughing at me.
"Yeah," I said, struggling up. "Just testing my chair. For stability."
"I'm sorry to see it failed," he said. Definitely laughing at me. He offered me a hand, but I pulled myself up using the edge of my desk.
"Don't let me interrupt your meeting," I said.
"Doctor Vargassi was just leaving," said Marcone, looking back at Vargassi, who didn't look like he was ready to leave at all.
"Still a few things to clear up, Johnny," said Vargassi. Marcone made a face at me. Well, sort of a face - it wasn't anything more than a twitch of his mouth and a lift of his eyebrows, but I was certain he wouldn't have even done that if Vargassi could have seen him.
I didn't blame him for the not-face. I wouldn't want anybody to call me Johnny in that tone of voice. Or Harry, for that matter.
"Just a moment," said Marcone. "Doctor Dresden, I was meaning to ask you if you'd obtained a parking pass for your car."
"Uh, no." I had forgotten, actually.
"You might want to move your car, then. That's a restricted lot down there." He turned and followed Vargassi back into his office without waiting for me to respond.
I waited until his attention was occupied before running down the stairs and into the lot. Some enterprising university official had already ticketed my car. When I flipped over the ticket, I found that they'd also made some nasty remarks about the state of the various paint jobs on my patchwork Beetle.
I could already tell that I'd love it here.
---
I had a week and a half until classes began. I spent the first half trying to fix Slate's lesson plan, then spent another half trying to get my seminar together. I kept catching myself staring longingly at the pile of paper that made up my manuscript, but I didn't have time to work on my book. This is what happens when you finally get a real job.
It was edging on two in the afternoon with three days left until classes began when somebody knocked on my door. Usually it was open, but today I'd kept it closed so that Marcone couldn't see me despairing at the draft of my first lecture.
"Come in!" I shouted.
The woman who pushed the door open was around my age, short, blond hair and blue eyes. She walked a little stiffly, but her face said she was used to it.
"Professor Dresden?" she said. "Wait - Harry Dresden?"
"That's me," I said. Weird that she knew who I was but didn't seem to have been expecting me. My name was on the door, after all.
She looked sort of familiar, but I couldn't place her off the top of my head. I'm terrible with names.
"I'm Karrin Murphy." Her lips quirked. "The graduate student."
"Right, right," I stood up and pushed the chair around so she could sit on it. "Nice to meet you at last."
She didn't answer, just looked at the chair, then at her leg, then at me. I got a glare.
"I'd do the same for any lady," I said, nobly. The glare intensified. "I'd do the same for anybody," I amended. "I give Michael my chair when he comes in. I'm tall, I can sit on my desk." Murphy laughed at that.
"You need another chair," she said, and sat down.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said. "So, what can I do for the graduate student?"
"You don't remember me, do you?" she said, ignoring my question. "Well, I guess you wouldn't - we only met the once. But John Stallings used to talk about you all the time."
"You're police," I said. I couldn't quite keep the coldness out of my voice. Shit, shit, shit.
"Used to be." Murphy glanced down at her leg again. "You nearly broke my nose, ring any bells?"
"You'll have to be more specific," I said. I kind of wasn't joking, but the memories were coming back. Back in Chicago for the summer, instead of staying at school, like I would later. I had been pretty drunk - I wouldn't normally throw a punch at a lady, even a cop. I didn't feel much better about it when I remembered that she'd pinned me to the ground in a shoulder-lock almost immediately after. "You must have been a rookie, because I wasn't more than nineteen."
"Twenty's what it said on the paperwork," said Murphy. "Look, Professor, I don't want to make things difficult for you. It was just a surprise, seeing you." She smiled, but I wasn't quite sure whether to take the offer of truce, not yet.
"Yeah, real surprise," I said. I took a breath, and then another one, and then decided to go with it. "Look, why don't we start over? What can I do for you?"
"I was mostly just stopping by," she said. "I had an advisory meeting with Michael, and he said I was going to TA for you. And I'm in your seminar."
"Did you find the books for that okay?" I asked. The itch in my hands and the tightness at my temples were starting to die down, and I managed a real smile.
"I already owned most of them." Murphy shrugged. "I was actually wondering if you knew what you needed out of a TA. I mean, am I going to be running a review section, or just grading papers?"
"I have no idea," I admitted. "The kids didn't sign up for a review section, but there are nearly two hundred of them. An optional one might be a good idea."
Murphy made a face, and I actually laughed.
"Tell you what, I'm starving." I got up off the desk. "Why don't we get lunch and we can discuss it?"
"I've already eaten," she said, but she stood up too.
"You can watch me eat," I said. I grabbed my duster and walked out. She followed me to the stairs, but then kept going when I stopped.
"Elevator," she said over her shoulder. I hurried to catch her as she turned a corner down the hall.
"There's an elevator here?" I had carried all those boxes up all those stairs when I could have been riding?
"Don't get too excited, Professor," said Murphy. She fished a key out of her pocket and waved it at me, before using it in the lock next to the elevator door. "Use restricted to those who actually need it. The rest of you get to enjoy the exercise."
"I'll just have to hang out with you, then," I said, and jumped in when her hand hovered over the door close button.
She didn't really try to close the door on me. That's how I could tell we were hitting it off.
"There's a pizza place on the other side of campus," I said. "We can drive if you want."
"I'll be fine, Professor," said Murphy, sounding a bit exasperated. The elevator stopped and we got out. "Let me grab my stick from my car."
It was a bit chilly for September, with a light breeze catching my coat and making it flap. It blew Murphy's hair into her face, and she constantly had to brush it away with the hand that wasn’t occupied with her forearm crutch.
"So," I said. "You don't want to teach a review section."
"Everybody hates review sections," she said. "I hate them because I have to spend time explaining basics to kids who don't really care, and the kids hate them because that's another hour out of their week when they could be drinking. Or doing homework," she said, sounding generous.
"I guess," I said. "But I'm worried that I won't be able to take many questions, and office hours won't cover it."
"No, it's a good idea," said Murphy. "We're just all going to hate it."
"I am resigned to being the bad guy," I said. "Wait, what if I give you a big bowl of candy-"
"Professor, they're eighteen, not twelve."
"I didn't say the candy was for them." I grinned. "And call me Dresden. Or Harry. I insist all my former arresting officers call me by my name."
She laughed at that, and I felt a lot better. I had gotten past that stage in my life, and it could be a joke now.
We got to the pizza place and I ordered a pie with pepperoni. Murphy had a piece of it to keep me company, and I devoured the rest.
"So," I said, mouth full. "What made you want to study religion?"
She eyed me over her slice of pizza. She'd probably heard the question a thousand times - every academic has. She was thinking about it, though.
"I saw some things, on the force," she said, at last. "I've been a Catholic all my life, but dealing with- with all that, it showed me how powerful faith can be. I want to understand it."
"Good luck," I said. "The subject of a million theses."
"Yeah, I guess," said Murphy. "What about you, Dresden?"
"Had a good professor," I said. "Got interested." I was going to say something trite about redemption, but I figured she might read too much into that. Instead I changed the subject, asking after Stallings.
"He's fine," she said. "I'll tell him I saw you - I don't know if you understand how it is, but it's a bit awkward when you stop seeing a repeat. You're glad they're staying out of trouble, but you're worried something's happened."
"Yeah, something happened," I grinned. "I got religion."
"Nice, Dresden." Murphy rolled her eyes.
---
On the first day of classes, I stood in my apartment and looked at the clothes I'd laid out on my bed. Black button-down, suit jacket with only a few patches here and there. Jeans, but they were nice jeans and I'd found out that my cat had shed all over my dress pants. I got dressed and put my boots on, letting the jeans disguise the fact that they were my favorite cowboy boots. I though for a while about whether or not to put on my silver rings - I don't usually wear them, because I worry about them getting lost or stolen, but today was a special occasion. Then I spent awhile trying to decide whether the students would think I was loveably eccentric or laughably eccentric if I showed up with my fingers covered in silver. I already had my mother’s pentacle tucked away under my shirt. Finally I put about half of the rings on, three on each hand.
I drove to campus, parked my car in the lot behind Winter Hall and adjusted my new parking pass so it was clearly visible through the window. I hadn't been ticketed since I'd moved in to the office, but I still caught one of the security guys, Morgan, watching me from the distance every once in a while, waiting for me to trip up and park in a fire lane.
I got to the lecture hall at a quarter after ten, early so I could watch the students trickle in. It was one of the big auditoriums with a stage, so I sat on the edge of the stage and enjoyed letting my feet dangle for once. Murphy turned up and I offered to give her a boost up, but she glared at me and just sat down in the front row.
Some of the kids were sitting in the back, far enough away that they could stare without being worried about me doing anything about it.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Come down here - I don't have a mic, and I don't want to wear out my voice. And I don't want to make Murphy walk around everywhere passing out the syllabus."
The kids muttered, but they collected their stuff and came down. I had to repeat myself more than that once - more than ten times - but I finally got to the point where all one hundred and eighty-seven students (more or less) were ranged in the seven rows in front of me.
"Hi," I didn't stand up, because right now I could see their faces and if I stood up I would have to bend in two to do that. "Welcome to Intro to Religion. I hope this is where you were planning to be, but if not, I'm sure someone can give you directions to your Econ class or whatever." Nobody moved, but a couple people giggled restlessly.
"Right," I said. "I'm Professor Harry Dresden, and this is my lovely assistant Karrin Murphy. Give the kids a wave, Murphy." Murphy did so, not looking up from where she was rummaging in her messenger bag. "Murphy has two stacks of paper for you. One is the syllabus, one is blank index cards. Take one of each and pass it down the row." Murphy got up and started handing out stacks to the student at the end of each row.
"Don't start reading the syllabus yet, and don't do anything with the card. We're going to do some student-teacher interaction first." I looked around the room. A couple kids had notebooks out, but most of them were just sitting there. One guy already had his eyes on the clock on the wall to my right.
"Show of hands," I said. "How many people here practice a religion? No need to specify which or your level of involvement." A jumble of hands went up, some fast, some hesitant. Karrin's was among them. I didn't bother to try and count them, just nodded. "Okay, how many people don't practice a religion? Again, doesn't matter why - atheists, agnostics, and lapsed whatevers." Another batch of hands went up. "How many didn't raise their hands for either?" Five or six hands went up, and I grinned. "How many refuse to raise their hands because I am obviously not keeping track and they're too lazy to move their arms if it's not going to count toward participation?" Two hands went up, both belonging to the same ironic hipster chick. I made a face at her and the class laughed.
"Okay," I said. "Now we're going to do the part where I try to learn your names and fail miserably. At least this time I have the excuse that there are a ton of you." I took a spare notecard out of my pants' pocket and held it up. "What I want you to do is write your name and a physical description on the card Murphy gave you."
Kids started scribbling or borrowing pens from neighbors.
"Can we do a sketch?" asked one of the kids in front.
"As long as it's not a stick figure," I said. "Sure, knock yourself out."
I waited until almost everybody was finished, and then added, "and put your religious belief on there." A couple kids groaned, and I raised my eyebrows at them. "What did you expect, your favorite ice cream? Look, these cards are for my use only. If I make statistics, they'll be completely anonymous. If you still don't want to answer, that's fine. Just write 'refuse to say' or 'Professor Dresden is an asshole,' and we'll call it good."
I got another couple chuckles at that, and I went back to waiting.
"Right," I said, at last. "We've got forty-five minutes left, and I know no one wants to be here the full time today. I'm going to read the syllabus first, because that's the only way I know for sure that you'll actually pay attention to it."
Not even then, I amended, as I read from the master copy I'd folded up and stuffed in my pocket. Most of the kids were doodling on their copies, and the sketch artist kid was still working on the headshot on his index card. I finished up and took a few inane questions about grading and the fact that yes, really, there were two papers. Yes, really, they were three whole pages each.
"Okay, any more questions, I just told you when my office hours are. And before you ask, they're still written on top of the syllabus if you forgot. I need you to pass your index cards down the row - try to keep them in order - and Murphy will collect them. I'm going to talk about why we're here."
The hipster chick raised a hand.
"Yes?"
"You mean, why we're here on this planet, in this state of being?"
"No," I said. "I mean, why we're in this class."
"It's because it's an easy humanities credit," said a guy with glasses sitting next to the sketch artist. He got a laugh and a lot of nods.
"That may be why you're here-" Murphy handed me the pack of cards and I shuffled through it. "William Borden. Will? Bill?"
"Billy," he said. I took a pen out of my pocket and made a note. He'd listed his religion as 'follower of Erythnul and Obad-Hai.' Geeks. "Well, Billy, that may be why you're here. Those of us that have made a career out of the study of religion, maybe we have a slightly less pragmatic reason.
"The study of religion can take many forms," I held up the hand that wasn’t full of index cards and ticked off fingers. "We can talk about anthropology, history, psychology, biology, or, my particular field, sociology. One thing we're not going to talk about is the essential truth of any religion." A few of the kids made noises, and I talked over them. "There's a place for that, and that place is in the philosophy department or a theology school. In this class, we're going to discuss what religion is and what it does to people, not whether god or karma or spirits exist."
I got a few confused frowns and a few approving grins. A lot of kids just looked bored.
"Any questions?" I asked. "Or do you all want to leave early?"
"What about you?" asked the sketch artist. All he'd written down on his card was 'Fix, pagan.' The sketch of him on the back was nice, his hair a little spikier than it was in the bleached reality. But his thin face was portrayed in a realistic rather than flattering way.
"You know our beliefs now," said Fix. "But do we get to know yours?"
"I'm trying to preserve a mystique," I said, and grinned. "Or the illusion of neutrality. All right, get gone, get out of here." I made a shooing motion with my hands. "Read the introduction to your textbook, and I'll see you here on Wednesday."
The class rushed out, far faster than they had come in. Murphy gave me a wave as she left - I knew she had a class with the mysterious Professor Sanya after, so I didn't try to stop her. Instead I waved back as I fielded a half-dozen questions from the hipster chick. Georgia, my cards informed me, worshipper of 'the moon goddess.'
I guess the standard Christians didn't want to talk to me, or something.
I spotted Marcone sitting in the back as Georgia finally realized she had another class in five minutes. I fanned my cards out and back in a half-hearted shuffle as I walked up the aisle past him.
"Decide to enroll, Marcone?"
"I have class downstairs." He picked up a briefcase and followed me out. "I finished early and decided to see how you were faring."
"Aw, I didn't know you cared," I said. "What did you think?"
"A standard opener," said Marcone. "You shouldn't feel bad - every first class is boring, practically without exception." I scowled at him, but he kept talking. "It was probably wise of you to conceal the fact that you already have a stake in religious truth."
What, that I thought all of them were wrong? Or, wait, no- He still thought I was a Methodist. I couldn't really remember why I had told him that, especially since American religions weren't really my field, but I couldn't back down now.
"I don't want to make the non-Christians feel alienated," I said, loftily. "I already got a lecture about inclusiveness from Dean Leanansidhe."
"Laudable," said Marcone, "in that respect. But I have rather less admiration for your emphasis on refusing to examine the truth of what you will be lecturing on."
"Oh, you heard that part, did you?" I looked at him sideways, trying to decide if he was serious or just trying to get a rise out of me. "Look, Marcone, the effects of religion and religious belief are real, whether or not the belief itself has a factual basis. That's what matters to me." I started walking faster, hurrying back to my office.
"I simply think that's a limited point of view," said Marcone, matching my long strides with shorter and faster steps of his own. "What's the point of restricting your avenues of study to stimulus-response rather than the metaphysical nature of-" I held up a hand to stop him.
"What's going on here?" I asked. "Are you following me to argue about my lecture?"
"I'm going to my office, Doctor Dresden." Marcone lifted his eyebrows. "It happens to be in the same building as yours, as I thought you were aware."
"Yeah, okay," I said, and resigned myself to another fight with Marcone about the validity of the study of religion. At least I hadn’t been drinking this time.
---
After that first day, things settled down and ran smoothly. Intro to Religion didn't have any work for the students yet, just lectures, and I already had those planned out. Mostly. My seminar was ten interested seniors plus Murphy, and I had no difficulty with moderating a discussion of Augustine.
The Augustine did make my fingers itch to be working on my book, though. I finished off my last class on the Thursday of the second week of classes and practically ran to my office. Murphy gave me a weird look, but my brain was already buried in Augustine again and I ignored her.
I took the stairs two at a time, slammed into my office, and set up to get typing.
The first draft was more or less done, but that didn't mean much. I flipped through the pages, seeing my notes and the places that needed to be fleshed out. There were a lot of those. Chapter Six, for instance, just had a title and a two sentence description of what I had been too lazy to actually type out. It had been so boring and obvious at the time.
"In Creatures," I read, "Finding God - importance of intelligence and memory. Early Christianity valuing intellect more than corporeal form - contrast with contemporary Roman religions. Connection to free will thesis."
I stared at the paper some more. Then I held the page of Chapter Six up, letting the light from the window filter through it. The light didn't really illuminate the contents for me.
"What the hell does that mean?" I asked.
I got no answer. I put Chapter Six down, and thought. That didn't help. I picked up Bob from where he'd been holding some paperwork down, and pressed the button. He cackled, and I had it.
I started typing, a grin edging through my face. I didn't stop to make references, so the text was full of things like "snappy quote from Confessions Ch X here" and "think this is possibly already proven wrong." But I had the idea, and the rest was just editing.
I was still in full flow when Marcone knocked on my open door.
"Hi," I said, not stopping. "Busy. Come back later."
"I see that you're busy, Doctor Dresden," he said. His voice was a little surprised, a little amused, and I had no time for thinking about that when there were words to be put on pages.
I grunted, hoping he'd get the hint.
"I was just coming in," said Marcone, taking another step inside, "to ask if you could do something about that loud, interminable clacking noise, only to find that you have procured an Olivetti typewriter and appear to actually be using it."
I looked down at my trusty blue typewriter, and then up at Marcone.
"I didn't procure it," I said. "You carried up the stairs for me."
"Ah," he said. "That would explain why that box was so light - I had assumed it was more of your anatomical collection."
"One skull is not a collection," I said, glancing at Bob. "Listen, what can I do for you?" The flow was gone, irrecoverable. I had to get Marcone out of here so I could try and get a new one going.
"Why do you have a typewriter?" he asked. Answering a question with a question was not cool. This was not an improv class, this was serious academic business.
"To write with," I said, as if explaining something to one of my freshmen.
"Yes," said Marcone, in the same tone of voice. "That is what a laptop and a word processor are for."
"I had one of those once," I said. "Three times, actually. And they cost a fortune and I broke them within a week. Do you know how much this typewriter cost me?"
Marcone did not.
"Ten dollars," I said, proudly. And another three hundred to keep it running, but that didn't sound as impressive. It was still cheaper than a computer, anyway.
"You realize your department would provide you with a laptop if you asked," said Marcone.
I hadn't known that, but I wasn't about to abandon my typewriter in the face of Marcone's scorn.
"Sure, and then I'll break it and they'll bill me." I gave him a glare. "What do you want, Marcone?"
"If you're going to type," he said, "please keep your door closed. It's extremely distracting for your colleagues."
He shut the door for me on his way out. Considerate.
I seethed. He was cutting me off from the life in the hallway! No longer could I see what was going on outside my box of an office.
But I resolved to be the better man, and didn't get up just to open the door. I did forget to close it after having gone to get coffee, but Marcone came and closed it for me again, without comment. After that I just couldn't work on the book any more, so I went home. My cat needed feeding anyway.
---
Friday I had no classes, but I did have office hours. I came in at nine and set up my typewriter again.
At ten Hendricks stopped by.
"The professor says keep your door closed," he said. He didn't say it like a threat, but any order from a man that size sounds like a threat.
"The professor meaning Marcone?" I snorted. "You tell him I have office hours today. The door stays open."
Hendricks shrugged, and turned to leave.
"Hey," I said. "When do I get my Kierkegaard back?"
Hendricks paused with his back to me, thinking. "When the door gets closed."
I made a face at him as he left and typed louder. I had to stop hitting the keys so hard when I remembered what a pain they were to repair, but the thought was still there.
At ten thirty Marcone himself deigned to walk across the hall. He didn't say anything, just picked up one of the stacks of paper cluttering my desk - probably Chapter Four. That was a good chapter.
"You realize this is littered with spelling errors, don't you?" he asked.
"It'll get fixed in the next draft," I said, still typing. "I'll get Murphy to look it over for me, that's what grad students are for."
"Word processors," said Marcone, "generally come with built-in spellcheck. Sometimes even automatic capitalization, which I see you seem to have a problem with."
"My shift key is a bit sticky," I muttered. "Look, Marcone, I'm not closing my door while I have office hours. The kids will think I've left."
"They will undoubtedly be able to hear your relentless tick-tacking and binging, even through the door. You seem to think that it is an impervious barrier, but your door is in fact merely a cushion that makes the typing bearable."
"What's eating you?" I asked Marcone, matching his calm, reasonable tone. "Is it really me? Because I think you've got some misplaced anger problems."
Marcone's face went blank. He set the chapter down and left, closing the door behind him. I sprang up and opened it, making a rude gesture at Hendricks as he glanced at me from inside Marcone's office.
A little while later the first undergrad showed up. Billy. I gave him my chair and sat on the desk, as usual.
"The first paper’s coming up, right?" he asked. "I wanted to discuss potential topics with you."
"Not for a couple weeks," I said. "But shoot." Billy was an engineer, and I knew he had some trouble with creative writing. I didn't blame him for wanting to get started early.
"I was thinking I could write about the logical fallacies in-"
"Hold up," I said, putting up a hand. "Do you remember what I said we weren't going to be discussing in this class?"
"Yeah," he said. "But I was talking to Georgia in review, and it got me thinking-"
"Thinking is good," I said. "But unless you can spin the paper so that your 'logical fallacies' relate to the people or the history - the physical, not the metaphysical - I'm afraid I'm going to have to nix it."
"So I could write about how Catholic dogma is complicated by, like, the measures demanded by the military during the Crusades."
"Sure," I said. "That sounds like an interesting topic."
"Okay, I'll work on that," said Billy. He shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. "Also, are you planning any extra credit-"
Every undergraduate in the world will ask that question. The proportion increases exponentially by how badly they think they're going to do in a class. I started to give my standard 'no, better do your work instead' answer, but a thought occurred.
"Billy, I will give you an extra one percent toward your final grade if you go across the hall and ask Professor Marcone your metaphysical questions."
"That's not much," said Billy. He looked to Marcone's office and back at me. "And are you even allowed to do that?"
"People give out extra credit for weird stuff," I said. "I had a professor way back when who gave it out for answering trivia questions." Billy didn't look convinced, so I tried again. "Come on, I'm giving good value for what I'm asking you to do. Just head over there and ask Marcone annoying questions."
Billy shrugged, giving me a look that said something like 'I'll never understand professors/academics/liberal arts-and-crafts types.' Then he adjusted his glasses, which had come askew in the progress of the look, and went to.
I did the same thing with the next undergrad, and the next. Murphy stopped by and she wouldn't do it, but she did take my first chapter and the chair and started checking for typos.
Which was when the last student I'd sent across the hall came back.
"Professor Marcone said that you don't have a computer," she said, accusingly. "Is that why you haven't been doing powerpoints? Because I take much better notes with powerpoints."
"Powerpoints let you ignore the lecture," I said. Also I had no idea how to make them. "Begone before I revoke your extra credit!" I tapped Bob's button to make my point, and she left, giggling in counterpoint to the cackles.
"How are you going to do online grading?" asked the next student. "And is that why you haven't been answering my e-mails?"
"I do have access to the library computers," I said. "I just haven't gotten around to your e-mails yet." And now I wouldn't have to, since he had come to office hours.
Still, that question made me feel guilty, and Murphy was definitely making fun of me silently, so I gave up on sending my students to Marcone for the day. I shut my door when office hours were over, too.
But only to lull Marcone into a false sense of security. Not because he had won.
---
I thought about staying home on Saturday, but lugging all of my notes and books back to my apartment sounded like too much work. Instead I came in to the department and started up with the typing again.
If I left my door open, it was because I didn't think anyone else would be in on a Saturday afternoon.
"Hi, Harry." Michael walked in. "I've been getting some complaints about noise."
"Michael, tell me honestly," I said. "How many of those complaints have come from Marcone?"
Michael tried to hide a smile, which told me everything I needed to know.
"He's got it in for me," I informed him. "It's a grudge."
"Sure, Harry," said Michael, humoring me. "Anyway, I really came to ask if you would come to the departmental dinner next week."
I hesitated. I mean, I probably had to go, but it sounded really boring.
"Departmental dinner meaning I invite everyone to my house to eat burgers and hot dogs," said Michael, and I was in.
After he left, I got back to the book. I had just about gotten to the point where I couldn't make any more progress until I did more research, and I couldn't get back into Augustine and my secondary sources until I caught up on lectures for my classes. By the time I'd done that, the due date for Intro to Religion would be coming up, and Murphy and I would be buried in essays.
I wound a last sheet of paper into my typewriter with a sigh.
Marcone walked in as my fingers hovered over the keys.
"Don't you have to leave soon?" he asked. He sounded almost hysterical - for him that meant his tone had another tiny inflection besides amused or cold. "Go home, eat dinner, go to bed early?"
"Why would I go to bed early on a Saturday night?" I asked, mystified.
"So you can get up tomorrow morning and go to church," said Marcone.
Oh, right, I had forgotten. Was he going to ask me where I went to church? I had no idea if there was a local Methodist congregation I could claim as my own - I mean, there had to be, they were everywhere, but I might need a name-
"Doctor Dresden," said Marcone, interrupting my thoughts. "I have to completely rewrite three of my lectures today, and I have made little to no progress because of your typing, so-"
"Okay, okay, sorry," I said. "You should have said something."
"I may have mentioned once or twice that your typing was driving me to distraction," snapped Marcone.
"Maybe I'd like a little explanation to go with your orders," I threw back. My hands itched, and I could feel my face getting a little hot-
And then it broke. I forced myself down, and I saw Marcone doing the same. It looked so similar that I wondered for a second if we'd gone to the same anger management counselors. Or maybe that whole counting to ten thing was more widespread than I had thought.
"Look." I stood up and pushed my chair around to him. "It sounds like you're having a bad day. Why don't you sit down for a minute? I'm nearly done here, I'll be out of your hair in no time."
"Thank you," said Marcone, slowly. He took the chair and sat down, propping his elbows on his knees and folding up his hands in front of his face. He looked tired without his anger, and I felt a little guilty.
I started gathering up my papers and scattered sources to distract myself, trying to get something like order back to my desk.
"Doctor Vargassi told me he'd had some complaints about my last lecture in my ethics class," Marcone said.
"So?" I asked.
"So I don't think any of my students actually complained," said Marcone. "At the very least, they took it to Vargassi first without mentioning anything to me."
"That sucks," I said. It did. It's one thing for there to be a problem, it's another for that problem to be taken to your superiors before you have a chance to fix it.
"Mhm." Marcone sat back, watching me move around.
I finished up, and put my typewriter back in its box on the bottom shelf of my smallest bookcase. That last page could wait until I'd done more research.
"Finished for now?" asked Marcone. He sounded more himself now that he'd got the Vargassi thing off his chest.
"For a while," I said. I picked up my duster and my bag, and Marcone got up out of my chair. "Tell Hendricks that he can stop holding my book hostage." Marcone smiled at that.
"I think I owe you an apology," he said. "You may have been right about misplaced anger."
"I probably should have taken you more seriously," I offered. Goodwill gestures are important, or so I'm told. "Anyway, see you on Monday."
"Good night, Doctor Dresden."
I could feel his eyes on me again as I tromped down the stairs.
---
Marcone started making a habit of coming by to hang out at the end of the day. We still snapped and argued at each other a lot, but it felt much more comfortable than before. I didn't have to worry about pushing it too far or getting in trouble with him for saying something I shouldn't have. Which was nice. My brain-to-mouth direct connection has caused problems in the past.
After about a week, he even brought me another chair.
"I don't mind sitting on my desk," I said, eyeing the hard grey plastic. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
"Harry, you're tall enough," said Marcone. "My neck is starting to wear out from having to look so far up."
"Don't call me Harry," I said, but I ducked my head and grinned. "Thanks, Marcone."
"Don't get too excited," he said. "I only borrowed it from a classroom downstairs."
"You're very good at carrying things up stairs," I said. "Such talent should be recognized."
"Mister Hendricks carried it up the stairs," said Marcone, a little reluctantly.
This led to an argument about the proper use of grad students, in which Marcone pointed out that I was making Murphy copyedit my book and I pointed out that Marcone was making Hendricks do everything else. And that I still hadn't gotten my Kierkegaard back, which was really nothing to do with Marcone, but I figured I'd bring it up for completeness' sake.
When I stormed out at six, though, it was less because I was angry and more because I had remembered that the departmental dinner was tonight. I came back after a second and kicked Marcone out of my office - if I left him there, he'd only go through my things and write unwanted comments on whatever drafts I had lying around.
---
Part Two.