Work Text:
This is the right call.
Athi repeats the thought with each step, walling off her doubts with manufactured confidence. Unfortunately, Professor Makon’s office is a decent hike from her advisor’s, across campus and two floors up, giving her way too much time to cave.
This could've been an email. Should've, really. After what happened, he won't want to see her any more than she wants to see him. Maybe he won't be there. That syllabus was pretty dense; Athi’s only mostly sure she's remembering his office hours right. Maybe she got them wrong and he won't be there and she won't have to admit her defeat to his face.
The dark, polished wooden door is closed when she finally reaches it, and she breathes a sigh of relief. Surely a note will be fine.
But luck is not on her side today. As Athi approaches, it opens, and a student she doesn't recognize emerges. They hold the door and she gives them a tight smile in reluctant thanks.
It snicks shut behind her.
The professor is seated at his desk in the center of the decently sized room. It's a dark, heavy, ornate piece of furniture that matches the door and full bookshelves and is large enough that he doesn’t dwarf it like he undoubtedly would a more delicate one.
“Miss Lavellan.” His voice is calm but his surprise is plain. “Please, take a seat.”
She takes in his office in one discerning sweep. It's lovely, but moody and serious, high ceilings and cohesive décor utterly drowned in black and brown and crimson, though the huge arched windows set into two of the walls help keep the room from being oppressive. Afternoon sun streaming in turns the red from vampire edgelord to pinot noir.
It feels comfortable, but not the lived-in sort. Immaculately clean, and there are no papers on his desk, no garbage in the bin, no personal effects anywhere—save a single picture frame set on one corner of his desk and a pipe stand and humidor on the other.
“I won't be staying that long,” she says.
The large leather chair behind the desk creaks slightly as the professor leans back, arms folded to his chest. His dark eyes are fixed on her in precisely the situation she was hoping to avoid.
“Very well,” he says, then continues before she has a chance to blurt out her confession. “In fact, it is quite fortuitous for me that you visited my office today, as I have been desiring to speak with you since the regrettable events of last week.”
Of course he wants to talk about it. Athi drops her gaze to the desk and clenches her jaw, fully prepared to derail whatever tiresome rant he has planned.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Lavellan,” he says, yanking the fight right out from under her. She scans his expression for signs of insincerity or mockery but finds none. “I singled you out among your peers, and despite any vexation I may have been experiencing, it was not at all my intent to confound or mortify you. I assumed—wrongly, we may agree—that all the students enrolled in a course on the medicinal magic curriculum would already be able to perform the spell I requested, and hoped that by being a part of the lesson you might become more engaged with it.”
The way he speaks, like some century-old thesaurus is swapping words out for him as he goes, is both mesmerizing and irritating. Athi could listen to him speak for hours in that deep timbre which rumbles at the lowest dips in tone, though she has to hold onto the actual words a while, shuffling them around in her head until they fall into some kind of sense. But once they do, she has to agree; his assumption was fair. Most of the others probably could have done it without a fuss.
Athi digs her thumbs into the back of the padded wooden chair as he keeps talking.
“We may not always see eye-to-eye on appropriate classroom behavior. However, it is not my job to embarrass you into submission, but to teach you. I am afraid I did you a disservice, and I am sorry for it.”
He is quiet, then. Finally. Waiting for her acknowledgment? Her acceptance? Her forgiveness?
The silence hovers a little longer as Athi finds her words.
Then she slumps into the chair. “No.”
His straight black eyebrows draw together, a few deep furrows appearing between them. “I beg your pardon?”
She shrugs one miserable shoulder. “You asked me to do something I should have been able to do. I couldn't do it, got upset, and took it out on you and your very nice shoes. I'm sorry.”
Professor Makon waves one hand in dismissal. “Please do not trouble yourself over the shoes. They survived the assault quite unharmed, I assure you.”
“Glad to hear it. I'd hate to force you into sneakers.” Athi bites back a grin.
He sets his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of him. Taps the tips together thoughtfully. “I appreciate your apology, yet I find myself unable to surrender the entire portion of blame for our… altercation. Perhaps we might agree to share it?”
There's the beginnings of a smile on his face, too, uncertain but warm. It disarms her.
“If you insist,” she agrees.
“Excellent. And now, perhaps you and I can start afresh. Your magi—”
“I’m dropping the class.”
His expression sobers. “Oh.”
“My advisor said I should talk to you about options, but I think it's pretty obvious I'm not cut out for this.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Oh, please. I can't even unwilt a few leaves. And there's no way I'll be able to make up for the hands-on portions with theory, much less put it into practice in future.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have even enrolled.”
“May I ask why you did?”
Athi can't stop the sheepish smile that spreads across her face. “Healers get the best gigs. And the biggest paychecks.”
“So this is merely a means to an end?”
“Does that offend you? That I should want to end up with a reliable, stimulating job that pays me well enough to live a comfortable life?”
“Of course not. That is your prerogative.”
“If it's any consolation, I don't mind the part about saving people’s lives, either.”
His low hum of acknowledgement settles in her ears. Gods, but he’s handsome. It's hard to hold his gaze too long. Athi grabs the frame off his desk and flips it around.
It's a picture of the professor with one arm draped around the slender shoulders of a much shorter woman. He's dressed down, shirt open in a loose vee, and she's gorgeous, with tightly coiled green hair and a wide, infectious smile. A lover, likely enough; he certainly seems happy to be with her. His wife?
Odd that the idea should sit so poorly in her stomach.
“Has finesse always been a struggle for you?”
Athi nods, strangely glad for the interruption, and sets the photo on her lap. “Can’t warm a mug of water for your tea, but I can set a pond boiling.”
“I hope you don't know that from experience.”
She smirks and lets him speculate.
“I wonder if you might indulge my curiosity,” he starts slowly, “with another demonstration.”
So she’s to be a circus act? Watch the sad semi-mage bumble through simple tricks—what fun. Athi barely keeps from grimacing at him. “Why? Are you in the slim and elusive market for a hot spring?”
He laughs, then coughs as if to cover it.
“Believe it or not, I gather no pleasure from your success or failure. I am a teacher, Miss Lavellan, and I only wish to assess your abilities for your own benefit.”
Athi fills up her lungs, then hisses out a long breath. “Fine.”
Professor Makon fishes a pair of scissors out from his desk then unlatches one of the windows, drawing in a branch from the outdoors and snipping off some leafy new growth. He lays it on the gleaming unmarred surface.
“Remove some of its life.”
Athi does so. Stretches out her hand and focuses on drawing its life force, its moisture, its vitality, into herself until the leaves lay crisp and withered on his desk.
“Very good. Now restore it.”
It’s but a sip of life, not enough to have her glowing but enough to drain her when it’s gone. The leaves start to unfurl, then a stray thought, a doubt, and she nearly loses her grip on it. Cuts it off to avoid a disaster.
The professor hums again. “You very nearly had it. Based on what I've witnessed, your magic is indeed quite strong,” he says. “Your willpower is formidable, though your focus and discipline are…” His head tilts back and forth as if sifting the right word to the top of the pool.
“Pathetic?” she supplies.
He levels a weary look at her. “Unbridled.”
Athi snorts. “Tactfully put.”
“It is not a matter of tact but of implied permanence. Do you not wish to improve your skills?”
“I guess, but why do you care?”
“Ah, right. You are quitting.”
She hates the way he makes it sound, but it's not inaccurate. “Yes.”
“And so I should wash my hands of you, then?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
His index finger, long and well-manicured and probably capable of channeling more magic than her entire body, taps steadily on the desk. “What if you did not quit? What if you remained enrolled in my course?”
Athi narrows her eyes at him. “Are you promising to pass me?” He doesn't seem at all the sort, but people can be surprising.
Apparently not this one, though, because he looks thoroughly offended she'd even suggest it.
“Absolutely not,” he says. “Whether you pass or fail will be entirely up to you and your efforts. However, I am willing to take the time to assist you in your studies outside of class if you are willing to apply yourself. I would hate for you to walk away from my course because I failed to assign an appropriate prerequisite. Might I plead with you to finish out the semester with some personal assistance?”
“Outside of class?”
“Can you not make the time?”
“I can, but—”
“Then what holds you back?”
Fair question. He is a master of his craft. It's a generous offer, and one he has no reason to extend. Plus, she could think of worse ways to spend a few hours per week than personal lessons with Professor Tall-Dark-and-Dreamy—even if he does have a smoking hot wife at home. But there is still no guarantee that she won't fail, wasting both her time and money and denting her GPA in the process. And this way, she'll be disappointing more than just herself.
Athi sits back in the chair and sighs. “Will there be snacks?”
Her professor’s eyes soften, deep brown crinkling at the edges as he smiles. “You should take the evening to consider your options. If you are not present in class tomorrow, I shall take that as my answer.”
She’s been dismissed. He holds his hand out and Athi nods and returns the picture. Gathers her bag from the floor and makes to leave.
“If you decide in my favor,” he says, “then I shall see you tomorrow, Miss Lavellan. And if not—”
“See you never?”
He straightens the picture on his desk and meets her eye. Jaw tight, a sharp nod, and he lets her go.
-
Too early the next morning, Athi paces the hall, avoiding the gazes of her potential classmates as they file into the lecture hall ahead of her. She envies their confidence, their probable magical skills, their sense of belonging. Wants to be one of them. Wants to show them.
Wants to show him.
A careful sip of coffee; she leans against the wall to weigh her options. She could leave. Drop the class, and lose the option to label herself a healer-surgeon and all the benefits that would incur. Maybe take another course that’s more to her strengths, like Patient Relations, or Experimental Medicine.
Or she could stay.
Take the professor’s offer and walk in that room like she deserves to be there. Like her magic is every bit as good as it should be. Make her dad proud. Or, if she fails, make him regret subsidizing her education—and still lose the lucrative subspecialty of “healer,” making it that many more years until she could pay back his investment.
Professor Makon wouldn’t fail her, though. Would he? He cares. He’d try. He’d teach her.
Another minute until class starts. Everyone planning to show is already inside, seated, books open, ready to learn. And she’s out here, cradling her coffee like a coward.
The door creaks open. Professor Makon’s head pokes out, black hair pulled back in a neat bun and eyes scanning the hall. Too soon, he spots her loitering like an idiot.
Smiles.
“Well?” he says, “Will you be joining us, Miss Lavellan?”
She gives herself another five seconds to consider, then holds her coffee up—a lavender anti-spill travel mug she purchased especially for this class—and says, “This is my price.”
The professor examines her offering, then opens the door wider to let her in.
“I accept.”