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inclineoftrees2010-07-30 12:08 am
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Book 5, Chapter 1: Meetings and Greetings
Title: Meetings and Greetings
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kiltsandlollies and escribo, with magickalmolly
Characters: Billy, Cate
Word count: 3734
Summary: The new, the old, and in between.
Index
Note: Original text and characterization of Cate created bymagickalmolly; in some chapters through the rest of this story, we’ve adapted both text and characterization, but Molly’s work happily remains the foundation for Professor Blanchett.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
Billy feels like he’s hip-deep in essays this evening.
He’s promised Dominic a quiet night in, with the proviso that because Dominic’s chosen dinner, Billy gets to choose the movies. The thin envelopes of the DVDs Billy had rented earlier poke out from the corner of his briefcase--taking the space that should belong to all these sodding papers he’s marking right now--tempting him, making him think of Dominic waiting at home, stretched out across his old couch, the remote twirling in his long fingers.
Billy shakes himself out of his reverie, and turns back to the essays. Dominic’s is only three papers down in the pile--Billy can see his handwriting, and the sloping, slanting sharp curves and dips of Dominic’s Ls and Ps and Ns are all too familiar now, from notes academic and otherwise--and Billy knows he’s not in the mood to appraise Dominic’s work tonight. He turns over the next sheet of paper, for a moment surprised by its slightly different weight, and sighs.
Even after being asked not to, Elijah still maintains the confounding habit of turning in his work on higher quality paper that makes his essays stand out, even when they don’t merit the added attention. Billy reads over the first three paragraphs impatiently, trying hard to push back his exasperation. Short of fidgeting too much in class and doing assignments generally when the mood strikes him, Elijah’s done no further personal or professional harm to Billy since their discussion in the men’s room, and therefore Billy knows he should move past whatever they’ve all said and done, as Dominic has, and treat Elijah like any other student irritant: with the vague patience and tough marking Billy has come to be known for.
Billy sighs as he reaches Elijah’s conclusion--not a bad one, as these things go, and it was a difficult topic Billy had assigned--and circles a deep, stabbing 16/20 mark on Elijah’s paper before he turns it over on his desk and looks up to check the clock. He releases a surprised little noise and then reaches for his blazer, tightening his tie as he stands. He’s already ten minutes late for a short reception in the main conference room of the next building over, a meet and greet for new professors and old, and seeing how he’s missed the last two, the onus is on Billy to move his arse and get down to this one before someone notices. As he trots down the halls, Billy wonders if anyone would, really; if anyone ever has.
Outside and up the stairs of one of Baskerville’s more elegant structures, Billy steps inside and follows the noise and light chatter to the conference room. He enters and scans it for familiar faces, hoping to latch onto a small group, make his presence felt, and then get the hell out in time to meet Dominic back at his house forty-five minutes from now, as planned.
But groups have already formed, and Billy stands back a little from them all, watching. It occurs to Billy that he has passed into the middle ground of professors at Baskerville: there are young ones, fresh from their doctorates, and there are very old ones, hanging onto their tenure for dear life, publishing rubbish just to say they’ve done so. Billy hasn’t published anything for two years, and often he’s content with that, not just because it keeps from becoming one of those grasping, frightened older men, but there are other times when Billy knows he’s making life difficult for himself by holding back on applying the suggestions of Noble and others; to throw his most recent work out into the world with those amendments would at least make it look like he could take direction, however grudgingly. The desire to publish when he can do so with all elements of the work intact is stronger though, and at least as hard to ignore as Billy’s own pride. That pride and stubbornness is easier to take from--and looks better on--newer, fresher faces, Billy knows, but he is still young, if not as much as he would like to be. Again, the thought of his significantly younger significant other rushes through his mind, and again Billy shakes his head to clear it.
The urge for a drink makes itself known sharply and suddenly, and Billy wanders to the little bar of cheap wine and spirits set up at the back of the room, aiming to fix something short and strong for himself while some administrative mix of bluster and nerves in a bad suit--the Esteemed Emeritus Chair of Fuck Knows or Cares, Billy decides to call the man, if only in his distracted thoughts--directs attention his way. The man’s introducing the new professors one by one, and oh, Christ, Billy thinks, in alphabetical order. Billy frowns at the weak taste of his drink--it would take a handful of them to make him register more than the mildest blur to the vision--and then lets his eyes move to the ornate clock on the opposite wall, ticking away, and lets those distracted thoughts continue to roam until the Chair is midway through the Bs, and Billy finds reason to pay mild attention.
"Moving on to our Science department. Most of you are aware that Baskerville has lost a handful of life sciences instructors to our communal advancing age. We’re grateful for the contributions of our retired professors, but pleased to announce as well that we were finally able to add some new blood, including our incumbent professor of biology, who comes to us from St. Andrews. If you would please welcome Cate Blanchett."
Billy’s only one of the assembled staff watching intently as the Chair extends his hand toward Cate and she smiles, taking his hand and allowing him a certainly welcoming peck on the cheek. Billy has to choke back what would be a too-loud snort of amusement as the Chair’s face colours up and Cate takes her hand back politely, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of pale blonde hair behind her ear.
The Chair moves on with his list, and Billy watches now as Cate takes that as a good opportunity to get herself a fresh drink. She smooths her hands down the front of her black cocktail dress, clearly feeling overdressed in Baskerville’s sea of tweed and scuffed oxfords. Billy lets himself stare a bit, almost willing her to relax, and is startled when she looks his way, warming enough to the smile he offers her to let her shoulders drop and her eyes flash him an expression of shared boredom and sympathy.
Billy recognizes more under that look, and reflects it back on Cate; they both would rather be anywhere else, however grateful they are for their jobs--especially, Billy supposes, having escaped St. Andrews--but these meet-and-greets can make one want to hide in the kitchen and get tremendously, shatteringly drunk. There are only so many hands one can shake in one night, and Cate looks like she's reached her limit already, and the evening’s only really begun for her, Billy knows. He continues to watch as Cate pours herself a glass of white wine, taking a bracing sip before she closes the distance between them.
The first thing Billy notices about her this close is her scent, so different from anything else Billy's experienced: gentle perfume with an underlying hint of metal, of chemicals. Flowers and steel, Billy thinks. Chemistry of nature and machinery, of warmth and chill.
"Do you think he’d notice if we nicked a few of these bottles and snuck out the back?" Cate leans in and murmurs, her smile a narrow tease behind her wine glass as she pulls back.
"Aye," Billy laughs, watching the new professor's eyes flicker. "I think he would. I doubt he'd notice me gone, but you, well." he laughs again. "St. Andrews, was it?” Cate nods, but before she can speak, Billy continues. "Good school. Stuffy as shite, but good. I barely survived it, myself."
Enough, Billy’s thoughts snap at him, and he hides his own surprise at having made such a bizarre confession to someone he knows little more than as a name. Professor Blanchett is looking at him with an intensity Billy fully intends to write off as professional, clinical interest in his sanity, nothing more, and Billy checks the time again, one quick dart of his eyes up at the clock, and then lowers his glass and extends his hand.
"I'm Billy--Bill--Boyd," he says, about as smoothly as possible, considering. "Humanities. Philosophy, actually, and I’m much too old for this, I think, sorry." Professor Blanchett's hand is cool and dry, and it shouldn't be, not after she's been holding the cheap rental glass dappled with condensation. Billy wonders when he began to think of everything like a bloody forensic psychologist, and he swallows down a laugh at his own expense, blaming Dominic for his relentless viewings of criminal procedurals.
"Cate Blanchett, yes? May I call you Cate?" Billy smiles broadly up at her, and is pleased to find her gaze warming again. "You've got a monster job ahead of you, eh? They say your office is cursed, too, though you never heard it from me." There is a brief, icy pause, and Billy takes a deep breath. He checks the clock--again--and steps gently around Cate to make himself another drink, given how unlikely it is he’ll survive this conversation with any dignity intact.
"Cursed.” Cate’s laugh is charming, if just as glassy as the rest of her seems. Billy decides to go with that, smiling back at her. Cate pivots lightly, tilting her head and still peering at him. “I’m prepared to take on any challenge here, frankly, but that’s a bit much. You can't expect me to believe in curses, Bill; we're professors. Learned persons,” she continues, and Billy barks out a low laugh at the sudden mocking plumminess in her accent. “We don't believe in hobgoblins and spirits and things that go bump in the night. Well,” she shrugs with another laugh. “We don’t. Do you?”
“I happen to like hobgoblins, Cate,” Billy says, the smirk in his voice almost involuntary. “I like the idea of something a little otherworldly. I’m open–minded. Like that guy. On the show, yeah? ‘I want to believe.’ Sometimes it makes things easier to take.” Billy leans into Cate so his mouth is near her ear, conspiratorial and friendly. “An’ if you tell any of my students, I’ll have to kill you.”
Cate’s laughter this time is brittle but musical, and Billy’s smile widens. He points toward a row of chairs behind the bar and lays a hand on Cate’s back, beckoning her to sit. “You must be tired,” Billy says kindly. “These things are a fucking--sorry--these things are a bore, especially if you’ve been in class all day. Can I get you another drink?”
Cate nods and moves to sit, but the look she throws Billy over her shoulder as she does so is one Billy’s not seen in a long while, one that makes his own smile twist a bit and something in his chest flip, both pleasantly and very much not. As he pours drinks for both of them, Billy works hard to convince himself he isn’t seeing or feeling what he thinks he is; there’s nothing happening here but two professors chatting, keeping each other company. Cate is not in the least bit interested in him, and good thing, too; it’s been years since Billy’s been with a woman, and the thought of it now makes his abdomen clench a little with fear and confusion.
Billy looks at the clock again, for longer this time, and then looks up to find himself faced with the ageless Professor Holm, already well into probably his third gin and tonic.
“Well done,” Holm murmurs, and Billy’s mouth flies open.
“Sorry?”
“She’s been here, what, an hour?” Holm leans in and laughs. “Not really your type, though. Little out of your league, don’t you think?”
Billy feels his face colour up hard, and he spins away from Holm, the two fresh glasses splashing slightly on to the floor. Billy’s eyes land on Cate, only fifteen feet away, and he’s grateful she’s looking elsewhere, and couldn’t have heard any of Holm’s coarse babble. Still, Billy can’t deny the truth behind one thing: Professor Blanchett is out of Billy’s league, in more ways than one. The most important, of course, being that he no longer plays for that team, much less in that league.
Cate doesn’t seem concerned with the reactions of anyone around them as Billy comes back to where she sits; her eyes are everywhere at once, scanning the room, scanning him, scanning their drinks, scanning. And while Billy has no idea what she sees, he’s curious about why she’s doing it, and what she’s looking for. He settles down into the chair next to her and meets her refocused smile with one of his own, still lopsided from the drink and feeling relaxed again away from Holm and the rest of the people in the room. As if she’s read Billy’s mind, Cate relaxes too, turning to her side to face him while he leans against the back of the chair and crosses his legs at the ankles.
"Tell me about philosophy, Bill,” Cate says, propping her elbow on the back of her chair and leaning her head against her hand. “I've always been much more interested physical things myself--sights, sounds ... tastes. Reality, not ideals. Convince me there’s something fascinating I’m just not seeing."
If he’s honest, Billy’s not capable of enough hard thinking or pretty speeches just now to justify or explain his profession or love of it, and he’s not much in the mood to do so, either. But he’s heard the same thing from others before and managed to come up with the right response, so why not now, too; why not make himself look a little less ridiculous after what had tumbled out of mouth earlier.
“D’you know Kierkegaard, Cate?” he begins, quietly. “He said there were stages to a person’s life--aesthetic, ethical and religious, yeah? He thought that only by attaining a ‘religious’ existence--by which I mean a spartan, kind of suffering, difficult life, could a person achieve true freedom. I was brought up by people who believed in that wholeheartedly, who threw themselves into suffering like some people throw themselves at love, at sport or hobbies. Not my parents. Just--just people. And I tried to understand why--” Billy pauses, turning his glass in his hand and looking down at the liquid swirling inside until he finds the right words again. “When you read Kierkegaard, you don’t always get the impression that he means for people to suffer, understand; I think he’s read incorrectly more often than not. And I’ve always been more of a Kant man, m’self. I believe in stretching the mind to its conclusions--logical or otherwise, yeah?”
Billy can hear his voice rising a little, growing stronger, and for once he’s not annoyed by the sound or caught up in wondering if his accent’s gone slurry or betrayed more than he’d like. “I fight every day in that classroom, Cate. I have up to twenty students looking at me at one time, and not one of them thinks they have something to prove to me. They all believe I have something to prove to them. They’re not all bad, don’t get me wrong--I have some wonderful young minds to corrupt, eh?--but my job is to make sure they don’t leave my classroom believing only one thing, to the denial or ignorance of something else.” He places his drink on the nearby table and leans in again to Cate, blood flowing hotter in his veins suddenly. Cate’s listening, certainly more intently than Billy would ever be able to in return were they talking about biology, and Billy’s both chagrined and thrilled by her focus. “My job, Cate, is to make them find their own way. Belief is acceptable; it’s attainable. But what d’you do with that belief? Where d’you let it take you?” There is a long pause, and then Billy laughs. “I’m talking a load of crap, aren’t I?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned.” Cate’s smile is on the right side of amused, and she retrieves his glass from the table, pressing it back into his hand and holding it there until Billy’s fingers wrap tightly around the drink, brushing her fingertips with his own. Cate nods almost approvingly, and then her hand drops from Billy's knuckles to his knee, just a light touch, but one that makes him blink and then makes her smile widen. Cate sits back again, rubbing her neck idly and tilting her head again, the movement shifting the fabric of her blouse just enough enough that Billy’s eyes are drawn to an expanse of soft skin from Cate’s throat to the slight rise and curve of her breasts. Billy blinks again, feeling like an idiot and then some, and forces his gaze back to Cate’s eyes. She shows no sign of discomfort with Billy’s awkward, unintentional attention, and he’s grateful once more when she speaks. "You're obviously passionate about your work, Bill. Passion is more important than a lifetime’s worth of paper, isn’t it? So what do you do with that belief, hmm? Where has it taken you?"
To hell and back, Billy thinks and knows he can’t say, to anyone, including himself. His pulse is still pounding a little, riled up from speaking about philosophy and belief and Christ, had he actually said something about his parents? He stares at the glass Cate replaced in his hand and swallows, still fighting with whatever it is about Cate and her searching eyes that’s turning his guts inside out, whatever it is that he’s not felt in ages or wanted to again. In theory he’ll be able to write all this off as quickly as it’s come over him; if anything, it’s a mere animal reaction, something he’ll laugh about later, when the memory of it is overtaken wildly by Dominic’s presence beside him. The idea of this new professor, pale and soft and cool and sharp, along with that of Dominic, all burnt edges and strong muscles, is enough to make Billy suddenly uncomfortable in this chair, in his own skin.
Billy sits up in the chair, a little taller, a little stronger, and takes yet another hard swig from the glass. It’s almost empty now, and Billy’s eyes settle on Cate’s hand, gentle again on his knee. She is waiting, still expecting an answer, and Billy feels her stare burning all the way into the pit of his stomach.
“I don’t think it matters to my students or much of anyone else what I do with my beliefs. It should be enough for them that I do believe. In many things.” Billy’s well aware of how ridiculous he sounds, but he feels trapped, caught in some invisible conversational web, and has no idea how to get out of it, much less with dignity. “Right now, Cate ...” and with this, Billy offers her another charming smile before he checks the clock once more. “I’m giving the White Rabbit a run for his money. Late for a very important date, or god help me, dinner.” Cate’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, and Billy is quick to finish, with the sort of practiced lie he can make sound lovely when he must or wants to. “I’ve got about fifteen more essays to mark before tomorrow morning, and a reputation to protect. I never return papers late, even when they’re turned in late themselves.”
Billy stands, with not quite as much strength as he’d like, watching Cate’s impassive expression from the corner of his eye. Her face has drawn a little tighter, and Billy feels something different now--a sort of smoldering fire under her glassy, chilly exterior. He catches her hand, meaning at first to shake it but then suddenly changing his mind, lifting Cate to stand, knowing she could easily choose not to follow his lead but pleased when she does. On another night, Billy might allow her height and poise to rattle him even more than it has, but for some reason leaving the chair’s made him feel a bit stronger, and it’s his turn to tilt his head to look at her closer, better, before he speaks.
“Tell me why you left St. Andrews, Cate,” he says softly, with just a hint of teasing menace, and Cate’s pale skin goes rosy and warm beneath her eyes as she tightens her grip a little, stepping closer to lower her voice, too.
“Use your imagination,” she murmurs, and then laughs, throaty and low this time as Billy smiles and nods, doing just as she’s recommended. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Cate shakes her head with a disappointed tch and leans in for one last time, brushing her cheek against Billy’s. "Think I'll head home myself, Bill. Have a good night, and don’t spend it all working, hmm? Exhaustion’s like cheap fear on the rocks an hour after it’s poured, and students can smell and taste it."
Cate laughs again at Billy’s stare, and then touches his shoulder kindly as she steps around him and into the dispersing crowd. Inconsiderate git, Billy hisses to himself as he watches her leave and then catches sight of Holm and two other professors staring at him. He’d had no right or even much of a reason to ask her why she left the same school he was only too thrilled to escape, and of course she'd reacted poorly, though politely, Billy thinks; again, were their roles reversed, the results might have been more than a little different.
Holm takes a step toward him, and Billy raises one hand, backing away with a grin he hopes is disarming enough to let anyone in this room think whatever they like, cheeky and not at all defensive, no. He’s got another escape to make now, inelegant and tardy, and it begins with the long walk back to his office and car.
Authors:
kiltsandlollies and escribo, with magickalmollyCharacters: Billy, Cate
Word count: 3734
Summary: The new, the old, and in between.
Index
Note: Original text and characterization of Cate created by
magickalmolly; in some chapters through the rest of this story, we’ve adapted both text and characterization, but Molly’s work happily remains the foundation for Professor Blanchett.Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
Billy feels like he’s hip-deep in essays this evening.
He’s promised Dominic a quiet night in, with the proviso that because Dominic’s chosen dinner, Billy gets to choose the movies. The thin envelopes of the DVDs Billy had rented earlier poke out from the corner of his briefcase--taking the space that should belong to all these sodding papers he’s marking right now--tempting him, making him think of Dominic waiting at home, stretched out across his old couch, the remote twirling in his long fingers.
Billy shakes himself out of his reverie, and turns back to the essays. Dominic’s is only three papers down in the pile--Billy can see his handwriting, and the sloping, slanting sharp curves and dips of Dominic’s Ls and Ps and Ns are all too familiar now, from notes academic and otherwise--and Billy knows he’s not in the mood to appraise Dominic’s work tonight. He turns over the next sheet of paper, for a moment surprised by its slightly different weight, and sighs.
Even after being asked not to, Elijah still maintains the confounding habit of turning in his work on higher quality paper that makes his essays stand out, even when they don’t merit the added attention. Billy reads over the first three paragraphs impatiently, trying hard to push back his exasperation. Short of fidgeting too much in class and doing assignments generally when the mood strikes him, Elijah’s done no further personal or professional harm to Billy since their discussion in the men’s room, and therefore Billy knows he should move past whatever they’ve all said and done, as Dominic has, and treat Elijah like any other student irritant: with the vague patience and tough marking Billy has come to be known for.
Billy sighs as he reaches Elijah’s conclusion--not a bad one, as these things go, and it was a difficult topic Billy had assigned--and circles a deep, stabbing 16/20 mark on Elijah’s paper before he turns it over on his desk and looks up to check the clock. He releases a surprised little noise and then reaches for his blazer, tightening his tie as he stands. He’s already ten minutes late for a short reception in the main conference room of the next building over, a meet and greet for new professors and old, and seeing how he’s missed the last two, the onus is on Billy to move his arse and get down to this one before someone notices. As he trots down the halls, Billy wonders if anyone would, really; if anyone ever has.
Outside and up the stairs of one of Baskerville’s more elegant structures, Billy steps inside and follows the noise and light chatter to the conference room. He enters and scans it for familiar faces, hoping to latch onto a small group, make his presence felt, and then get the hell out in time to meet Dominic back at his house forty-five minutes from now, as planned.
But groups have already formed, and Billy stands back a little from them all, watching. It occurs to Billy that he has passed into the middle ground of professors at Baskerville: there are young ones, fresh from their doctorates, and there are very old ones, hanging onto their tenure for dear life, publishing rubbish just to say they’ve done so. Billy hasn’t published anything for two years, and often he’s content with that, not just because it keeps from becoming one of those grasping, frightened older men, but there are other times when Billy knows he’s making life difficult for himself by holding back on applying the suggestions of Noble and others; to throw his most recent work out into the world with those amendments would at least make it look like he could take direction, however grudgingly. The desire to publish when he can do so with all elements of the work intact is stronger though, and at least as hard to ignore as Billy’s own pride. That pride and stubbornness is easier to take from--and looks better on--newer, fresher faces, Billy knows, but he is still young, if not as much as he would like to be. Again, the thought of his significantly younger significant other rushes through his mind, and again Billy shakes his head to clear it.
The urge for a drink makes itself known sharply and suddenly, and Billy wanders to the little bar of cheap wine and spirits set up at the back of the room, aiming to fix something short and strong for himself while some administrative mix of bluster and nerves in a bad suit--the Esteemed Emeritus Chair of Fuck Knows or Cares, Billy decides to call the man, if only in his distracted thoughts--directs attention his way. The man’s introducing the new professors one by one, and oh, Christ, Billy thinks, in alphabetical order. Billy frowns at the weak taste of his drink--it would take a handful of them to make him register more than the mildest blur to the vision--and then lets his eyes move to the ornate clock on the opposite wall, ticking away, and lets those distracted thoughts continue to roam until the Chair is midway through the Bs, and Billy finds reason to pay mild attention.
"Moving on to our Science department. Most of you are aware that Baskerville has lost a handful of life sciences instructors to our communal advancing age. We’re grateful for the contributions of our retired professors, but pleased to announce as well that we were finally able to add some new blood, including our incumbent professor of biology, who comes to us from St. Andrews. If you would please welcome Cate Blanchett."
Billy’s only one of the assembled staff watching intently as the Chair extends his hand toward Cate and she smiles, taking his hand and allowing him a certainly welcoming peck on the cheek. Billy has to choke back what would be a too-loud snort of amusement as the Chair’s face colours up and Cate takes her hand back politely, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of pale blonde hair behind her ear.
The Chair moves on with his list, and Billy watches now as Cate takes that as a good opportunity to get herself a fresh drink. She smooths her hands down the front of her black cocktail dress, clearly feeling overdressed in Baskerville’s sea of tweed and scuffed oxfords. Billy lets himself stare a bit, almost willing her to relax, and is startled when she looks his way, warming enough to the smile he offers her to let her shoulders drop and her eyes flash him an expression of shared boredom and sympathy.
Billy recognizes more under that look, and reflects it back on Cate; they both would rather be anywhere else, however grateful they are for their jobs--especially, Billy supposes, having escaped St. Andrews--but these meet-and-greets can make one want to hide in the kitchen and get tremendously, shatteringly drunk. There are only so many hands one can shake in one night, and Cate looks like she's reached her limit already, and the evening’s only really begun for her, Billy knows. He continues to watch as Cate pours herself a glass of white wine, taking a bracing sip before she closes the distance between them.
The first thing Billy notices about her this close is her scent, so different from anything else Billy's experienced: gentle perfume with an underlying hint of metal, of chemicals. Flowers and steel, Billy thinks. Chemistry of nature and machinery, of warmth and chill.
"Do you think he’d notice if we nicked a few of these bottles and snuck out the back?" Cate leans in and murmurs, her smile a narrow tease behind her wine glass as she pulls back.
"Aye," Billy laughs, watching the new professor's eyes flicker. "I think he would. I doubt he'd notice me gone, but you, well." he laughs again. "St. Andrews, was it?” Cate nods, but before she can speak, Billy continues. "Good school. Stuffy as shite, but good. I barely survived it, myself."
Enough, Billy’s thoughts snap at him, and he hides his own surprise at having made such a bizarre confession to someone he knows little more than as a name. Professor Blanchett is looking at him with an intensity Billy fully intends to write off as professional, clinical interest in his sanity, nothing more, and Billy checks the time again, one quick dart of his eyes up at the clock, and then lowers his glass and extends his hand.
"I'm Billy--Bill--Boyd," he says, about as smoothly as possible, considering. "Humanities. Philosophy, actually, and I’m much too old for this, I think, sorry." Professor Blanchett's hand is cool and dry, and it shouldn't be, not after she's been holding the cheap rental glass dappled with condensation. Billy wonders when he began to think of everything like a bloody forensic psychologist, and he swallows down a laugh at his own expense, blaming Dominic for his relentless viewings of criminal procedurals.
"Cate Blanchett, yes? May I call you Cate?" Billy smiles broadly up at her, and is pleased to find her gaze warming again. "You've got a monster job ahead of you, eh? They say your office is cursed, too, though you never heard it from me." There is a brief, icy pause, and Billy takes a deep breath. He checks the clock--again--and steps gently around Cate to make himself another drink, given how unlikely it is he’ll survive this conversation with any dignity intact.
"Cursed.” Cate’s laugh is charming, if just as glassy as the rest of her seems. Billy decides to go with that, smiling back at her. Cate pivots lightly, tilting her head and still peering at him. “I’m prepared to take on any challenge here, frankly, but that’s a bit much. You can't expect me to believe in curses, Bill; we're professors. Learned persons,” she continues, and Billy barks out a low laugh at the sudden mocking plumminess in her accent. “We don't believe in hobgoblins and spirits and things that go bump in the night. Well,” she shrugs with another laugh. “We don’t. Do you?”
“I happen to like hobgoblins, Cate,” Billy says, the smirk in his voice almost involuntary. “I like the idea of something a little otherworldly. I’m open–minded. Like that guy. On the show, yeah? ‘I want to believe.’ Sometimes it makes things easier to take.” Billy leans into Cate so his mouth is near her ear, conspiratorial and friendly. “An’ if you tell any of my students, I’ll have to kill you.”
Cate’s laughter this time is brittle but musical, and Billy’s smile widens. He points toward a row of chairs behind the bar and lays a hand on Cate’s back, beckoning her to sit. “You must be tired,” Billy says kindly. “These things are a fucking--sorry--these things are a bore, especially if you’ve been in class all day. Can I get you another drink?”
Cate nods and moves to sit, but the look she throws Billy over her shoulder as she does so is one Billy’s not seen in a long while, one that makes his own smile twist a bit and something in his chest flip, both pleasantly and very much not. As he pours drinks for both of them, Billy works hard to convince himself he isn’t seeing or feeling what he thinks he is; there’s nothing happening here but two professors chatting, keeping each other company. Cate is not in the least bit interested in him, and good thing, too; it’s been years since Billy’s been with a woman, and the thought of it now makes his abdomen clench a little with fear and confusion.
Billy looks at the clock again, for longer this time, and then looks up to find himself faced with the ageless Professor Holm, already well into probably his third gin and tonic.
“Well done,” Holm murmurs, and Billy’s mouth flies open.
“Sorry?”
“She’s been here, what, an hour?” Holm leans in and laughs. “Not really your type, though. Little out of your league, don’t you think?”
Billy feels his face colour up hard, and he spins away from Holm, the two fresh glasses splashing slightly on to the floor. Billy’s eyes land on Cate, only fifteen feet away, and he’s grateful she’s looking elsewhere, and couldn’t have heard any of Holm’s coarse babble. Still, Billy can’t deny the truth behind one thing: Professor Blanchett is out of Billy’s league, in more ways than one. The most important, of course, being that he no longer plays for that team, much less in that league.
Cate doesn’t seem concerned with the reactions of anyone around them as Billy comes back to where she sits; her eyes are everywhere at once, scanning the room, scanning him, scanning their drinks, scanning. And while Billy has no idea what she sees, he’s curious about why she’s doing it, and what she’s looking for. He settles down into the chair next to her and meets her refocused smile with one of his own, still lopsided from the drink and feeling relaxed again away from Holm and the rest of the people in the room. As if she’s read Billy’s mind, Cate relaxes too, turning to her side to face him while he leans against the back of the chair and crosses his legs at the ankles.
"Tell me about philosophy, Bill,” Cate says, propping her elbow on the back of her chair and leaning her head against her hand. “I've always been much more interested physical things myself--sights, sounds ... tastes. Reality, not ideals. Convince me there’s something fascinating I’m just not seeing."
If he’s honest, Billy’s not capable of enough hard thinking or pretty speeches just now to justify or explain his profession or love of it, and he’s not much in the mood to do so, either. But he’s heard the same thing from others before and managed to come up with the right response, so why not now, too; why not make himself look a little less ridiculous after what had tumbled out of mouth earlier.
“D’you know Kierkegaard, Cate?” he begins, quietly. “He said there were stages to a person’s life--aesthetic, ethical and religious, yeah? He thought that only by attaining a ‘religious’ existence--by which I mean a spartan, kind of suffering, difficult life, could a person achieve true freedom. I was brought up by people who believed in that wholeheartedly, who threw themselves into suffering like some people throw themselves at love, at sport or hobbies. Not my parents. Just--just people. And I tried to understand why--” Billy pauses, turning his glass in his hand and looking down at the liquid swirling inside until he finds the right words again. “When you read Kierkegaard, you don’t always get the impression that he means for people to suffer, understand; I think he’s read incorrectly more often than not. And I’ve always been more of a Kant man, m’self. I believe in stretching the mind to its conclusions--logical or otherwise, yeah?”
Billy can hear his voice rising a little, growing stronger, and for once he’s not annoyed by the sound or caught up in wondering if his accent’s gone slurry or betrayed more than he’d like. “I fight every day in that classroom, Cate. I have up to twenty students looking at me at one time, and not one of them thinks they have something to prove to me. They all believe I have something to prove to them. They’re not all bad, don’t get me wrong--I have some wonderful young minds to corrupt, eh?--but my job is to make sure they don’t leave my classroom believing only one thing, to the denial or ignorance of something else.” He places his drink on the nearby table and leans in again to Cate, blood flowing hotter in his veins suddenly. Cate’s listening, certainly more intently than Billy would ever be able to in return were they talking about biology, and Billy’s both chagrined and thrilled by her focus. “My job, Cate, is to make them find their own way. Belief is acceptable; it’s attainable. But what d’you do with that belief? Where d’you let it take you?” There is a long pause, and then Billy laughs. “I’m talking a load of crap, aren’t I?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned.” Cate’s smile is on the right side of amused, and she retrieves his glass from the table, pressing it back into his hand and holding it there until Billy’s fingers wrap tightly around the drink, brushing her fingertips with his own. Cate nods almost approvingly, and then her hand drops from Billy's knuckles to his knee, just a light touch, but one that makes him blink and then makes her smile widen. Cate sits back again, rubbing her neck idly and tilting her head again, the movement shifting the fabric of her blouse just enough enough that Billy’s eyes are drawn to an expanse of soft skin from Cate’s throat to the slight rise and curve of her breasts. Billy blinks again, feeling like an idiot and then some, and forces his gaze back to Cate’s eyes. She shows no sign of discomfort with Billy’s awkward, unintentional attention, and he’s grateful once more when she speaks. "You're obviously passionate about your work, Bill. Passion is more important than a lifetime’s worth of paper, isn’t it? So what do you do with that belief, hmm? Where has it taken you?"
To hell and back, Billy thinks and knows he can’t say, to anyone, including himself. His pulse is still pounding a little, riled up from speaking about philosophy and belief and Christ, had he actually said something about his parents? He stares at the glass Cate replaced in his hand and swallows, still fighting with whatever it is about Cate and her searching eyes that’s turning his guts inside out, whatever it is that he’s not felt in ages or wanted to again. In theory he’ll be able to write all this off as quickly as it’s come over him; if anything, it’s a mere animal reaction, something he’ll laugh about later, when the memory of it is overtaken wildly by Dominic’s presence beside him. The idea of this new professor, pale and soft and cool and sharp, along with that of Dominic, all burnt edges and strong muscles, is enough to make Billy suddenly uncomfortable in this chair, in his own skin.
Billy sits up in the chair, a little taller, a little stronger, and takes yet another hard swig from the glass. It’s almost empty now, and Billy’s eyes settle on Cate’s hand, gentle again on his knee. She is waiting, still expecting an answer, and Billy feels her stare burning all the way into the pit of his stomach.
“I don’t think it matters to my students or much of anyone else what I do with my beliefs. It should be enough for them that I do believe. In many things.” Billy’s well aware of how ridiculous he sounds, but he feels trapped, caught in some invisible conversational web, and has no idea how to get out of it, much less with dignity. “Right now, Cate ...” and with this, Billy offers her another charming smile before he checks the clock once more. “I’m giving the White Rabbit a run for his money. Late for a very important date, or god help me, dinner.” Cate’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, and Billy is quick to finish, with the sort of practiced lie he can make sound lovely when he must or wants to. “I’ve got about fifteen more essays to mark before tomorrow morning, and a reputation to protect. I never return papers late, even when they’re turned in late themselves.”
Billy stands, with not quite as much strength as he’d like, watching Cate’s impassive expression from the corner of his eye. Her face has drawn a little tighter, and Billy feels something different now--a sort of smoldering fire under her glassy, chilly exterior. He catches her hand, meaning at first to shake it but then suddenly changing his mind, lifting Cate to stand, knowing she could easily choose not to follow his lead but pleased when she does. On another night, Billy might allow her height and poise to rattle him even more than it has, but for some reason leaving the chair’s made him feel a bit stronger, and it’s his turn to tilt his head to look at her closer, better, before he speaks.
“Tell me why you left St. Andrews, Cate,” he says softly, with just a hint of teasing menace, and Cate’s pale skin goes rosy and warm beneath her eyes as she tightens her grip a little, stepping closer to lower her voice, too.
“Use your imagination,” she murmurs, and then laughs, throaty and low this time as Billy smiles and nods, doing just as she’s recommended. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Cate shakes her head with a disappointed tch and leans in for one last time, brushing her cheek against Billy’s. "Think I'll head home myself, Bill. Have a good night, and don’t spend it all working, hmm? Exhaustion’s like cheap fear on the rocks an hour after it’s poured, and students can smell and taste it."
Cate laughs again at Billy’s stare, and then touches his shoulder kindly as she steps around him and into the dispersing crowd. Inconsiderate git, Billy hisses to himself as he watches her leave and then catches sight of Holm and two other professors staring at him. He’d had no right or even much of a reason to ask her why she left the same school he was only too thrilled to escape, and of course she'd reacted poorly, though politely, Billy thinks; again, were their roles reversed, the results might have been more than a little different.
Holm takes a step toward him, and Billy raises one hand, backing away with a grin he hopes is disarming enough to let anyone in this room think whatever they like, cheeky and not at all defensive, no. He’s got another escape to make now, inelegant and tardy, and it begins with the long walk back to his office and car.
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