The air conditioning in Professor Bell's classroom was broken. Fortunately for him, he didn't care, because he was dead. Sweating wasn't really a thing that happened to dead people. It was less fortunate for his students, because his classroom was in the basement and they couldn't crack a window. It made Subcultures of the Late Eastern Roman Empire an even less appealing class than it was on the face of it, particularly in conjunction with Bell's reputation as a hard-ass.

    It all worked out in his favor, because barely anyone signed up for his classes anymore. He liked research more than teaching. His ideal class would actually just be a book club. Finding someone to talk about The Holy War for Constantinople and the Clash of Islam and the West with him was hard.

    It was eight in the morning on a Monday, and he already knew that no students were going to show up to class. Everyone ditched Monday morning classes. Everyone. Even most of the other professors ditched Monday morning classes. But he showed up early anyway and pretended he was getting ready to teach class, because... well. Professionalism. And all.

    Mostly, he just didn't have anything better to do with his undeath. This was a late class for him, anyway.

    He didn't bother turning on the lights as long as it was just him, because he could see just fine in the pitch black. He had his headphones on, enormous and almost as big as his head and absolutely dwarfing the phone they were plugged into. Enhanced vampire hearing was a pain in the dick, but noise reduction and noisy music helped. He shrugged out of his coat to clear the old blackboard, because he didn't want chalk dust on it and he knew he was the only one tall enough to clean the entire thing. One of many reasons he was the only professor willing to put up with a classroom that hadn't been renovated yet.

    Next year he would need to get a taller TA. Who ditched class more often. And who didn't look at him all...

    ... weird.

    "Please, please, please tell me he calls you Miss Whitmore all day long in that really annoying, condescending tone of his."

    Veronica looked up from the compact mirror in her hand to the couch that her roommate was currently sprawled over, knitted afghan pulled up to her nose. The other woman still wore sweats and a messy bun, clearly content on skipping classes like most everyone else. "I don't think he sounds condescending," she replied, not answering the question and turning her attention back to the winged eyeliner she was trying to perfect.

    "Of course you don’t," Melanie was content to continue on whether or not Veronica chose to listen. "You're practically in love with him. You wouldn't notice it."

    Veronica snapped the compact shut and started scooping make-up back into her bag, glaring a warning in her company's direction. "I am not in love with him," she defends, and Melanie only cackled from beneath her blankets. "Then you certainly went out of your way to look like the opposite of a TA for nothing." Veronica could practically sense Melanie eyeing her high-waisted shorts. As if they were the most not-TA-like thing about her appearance. 

    She focused on tying the laces to her heavy combat boots. "This is how I always look. Besides, Professor Bell's classroom is hot, and I am not wearing layers. He doesn't mind."

    Another snorting cackle, and Veronica flinched at the sound of it, because it was not at all pleasant. "Why would he mind? You look like a rockabilly wet dream. He probably loved that shit." She adjusted her positioning on the couch. "Cause he's a cute, wittle, baby vampire," she added in a cooing tone, because she was on the team that thought Professor Bell was young (with no real evidence to back them). The only other sides were those who thought he was ancient (but only because he taught weird history) and those who didn't want to get involved (this was Veronica's group).

    Standing quickly she tapped the toe of her boot on the floor to adjust the fit. "I'm leaving," she announced, not bothering to indulge the outrageous comments of her friend; half-way to the door. 

    "Don't forget your papers."

    "I have them."

    "Don't forget your coffee."

    "I have… oh, wait. Thanks."

    Veronica could still hear Melanie's sassy mmm-hmm of a response as she closed the door. 

    Checking her watch as she descended the stairs into the basement, a disgruntled noise sounded off in her throat. For the benefit of no one, but herself. She wasn't late, but she wasn't exactly early either. She preferred to be early and the strap of her bag was digging into her shoulder and she couldn't adjust it because her hands were full of coffee and test papers. It was all very annoying.

    She was pleased that there was anyone around to witness the awkward way she attempted to open the door with her lack of hands. Pushing it open with her hip, she fumbled for the light switch with her elbow. Dull fluorescent light filled the room, and she yelped in surprise at the sight of someone else in the classroom. 

    Not someone. Obviously, it was Professor Bell, and you really think she'd be used to this by now. Certainly not the first time she'd found him working in the dark. 

    Leaning against the door she composed herself quickly, because she could only hope he'd not heard her ridiculous, childish shrieking through his headphones. When the pace of her heart stopped over-reacting she crossed the room to unload her papers on his desk.

    He could, in fact, hear her through his headphones. Not her steps or her heartbeat, but her squeal of terror would have been hard to miss under any circumstance. He had no idea how he'd managed to frighten her. It wasn't like he'd been lurking in the darkness, waiting to leap out at her and hiss. He slid his headphones down off his ears to rest around his neck, stopping the music. Then he could hear her heart racing. He didn't know why that irritated him, but it did. He frowned.

    "You're late, Miss Whitmore," he said. That was incorrect. She was right on time. But he was pretty sure she was supposed to be early, same as him. He could have overlooked it, but he didn't. He didn't overlook anything. Give an inch, and they'd take... something. He didn't know what, and he wasn't going to find out.

    Most professors were nicer to their TAs than to their students. Michael was not, thanks to a vague concern that this might be seen as playing favorites. And then someone might wonder why he was playing favorites. And then someone might notice that his TA dressed up for her early morning classes. Or... undressed up.

    She needed to wear more clothes and Dr. Said needed to not drive a stake through his heart.

    He never criticized the way she looked, because only creepy assholes did that. But he did always look faintly disapproving.

    He used to have a pair of boots like that.

    He brushed chalk off his hands and pulled his headphones off, dropping them back into his bag. Putting his coat back on, he picked up the papers she'd set down to flip through the corners. Mostly C's, a few higher, a few lower. That one kid who was taking the class for the second time and failing everything again because he kept turning in old work that he'd failed with the first time. A decent bell curve, even if it looked worse than it was due to the small size of the class.

    Not having to grade tests himself was really convenient. Not that he'd ever say so.

    "Take attendance," he ordered, as if the room wasn't obviously empty. He pulled the gradebook out of his bag and dropped it onto the desk. They didn't actually need to have a paper gradebook -- everything was online now -- but he liked the paper one. The website was impossible to navigate.

    It had nothing to do with his age. He could internet just fine. It was bad web design.

    "Anyone absent is getting docked ten points from participation." Participation was only ten percent of the grade, so he thought he was being nice, all told. It wasn't like it was impossible to get a perfect grade in his class. At least one person had done it.

    Even though he was not going to be giving a lecture, he wrote BALTIC PAGANISM AND ICONAGRAPHY on the board in large block letters. Then underlined it. Twice.

    Then he sat down on the edge of the desk, and looked out at the empty classroom in silence.

    Yes. Yes, he did indeed call her Miss Whitmore. And she tried to ignore the fact that she liked it, and was thankful Melanie would never be around to inform her if it was condescending.

    Veronica would have cleaned the blackboard, but she was… not tall. She wondered if that had bothered him.

    "O-oh?" she looked at her watch again, even though she wasn't going to suggest that he was wrong. "Sorry, Professor Bell," she replied, but didn’t make an excuse for it. She had an impressive work ethic, which was surprising for an undergraduate teaching assistant. Veronica had taken his class the semester before, and had felt she'd done well enough (a disturbing understatement) to offer to be his assistant. Which, already propelled them into a strange series of events because she had been the one to ask, instead of the other way around.

    She had hoped the end goal would be to invite him to assist her with her thesis, but that was looking pretty bleak.

    It was not obvious that she had chosen to major in history, what with the tattoos and the piercings. She was often mistaken for some obscure art enthusiast, or a career student skating by on her parents money. She did not bother explaining that history was fascinating or that there was no money to be heard of coming from her parent's direction.

    She glanced up from her watch, mostly through her lashes since she didn't lift her head to give away that she was observing him. Veronica noticed the disapproving expression and her gaze drifted down to her knees. Okay, maybe he did mind.

    With her hands finally free she was able to push forest green strands back over her shoulder with one and sip too-sweet coffee with the other. She was not watching him. No certainly not. The way his hands smoothed over his coat, or the way his brow furrowed as he looked over the exams was not at all worth observing.

    She pulled the cardboard cup away from her lips to breath a soft 'oh.' She cleared her throat and uttered a more audible, "of course," setting the cup down to pick up the gradebook before striding back to the podium. She picked up the pen and tapped it against the roster. "Well, there's no one here," she announced, looking to him and it echoed as if to prove her point, even though she'd not been very loud.

    "Soooo, everyone," she mumbles. Leaning her forearms on the podium she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, studded labret piercing catching the light, as she marked the deductions on the sheet. When she was finished she watched him underscore the header over her shoulder. And it wasn't because he had nice arms or a nice anything for that matter.

    She blamed Melanie for putting these thoughts in her head.

    Veronica shifted her sights between him and the unoccupied room for a few silent moments. She repeatedly shuffled her weight from one foot to the other. "Is… there… anything you need me to do?"

    Wait. What the fuck was that? Who said the word 'anything' that way. She pressed her lips together to smother a frown and hoped he didn't notice.

    He never should have agreed to have a teaching assistant. He'd panicked, was what it was. He didn't know how to say no to a... face. A perfectly acceptable face. She looked like she should have been more aggressive than she was. When had green hair and combat boots become the realm of people who respected authority? God, he felt old.

    His eyes drifted over the faint smudge of lipstick on her cup. He raised an eyebrow as he met her gaze, her voice seeming louder than it was in the relative silence. "I am aware," he said icily, only as loud as he needed to be to be heard. He really didn't appreciate having attention drawn to how stupid this was. Even if it was only his own attention. "Just take care of it."

    Did she really have to lean over like that? Really?

    Was this some kind of Twilight thing?

    He frowned again at the empty chairs. His eyes narrowed when she spoke. Her pulse had gone irregular for a moment, her voice all breathy. And now he had to pretend it hadn't affected him, because he was old, not... well, he was dead. But he wasn't deaf. Or blind.

    Fucking Twilight.

    He rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Was a half hour the cutoff for when he could leave if no one showed up? Veronica was a good student. A really, really good student. This was complicated. "Was there something you had in mind, Miss Whitmore?" he asked in return. Again that note of disapproval, more for his own train of thought than herself.

    Veronica had been very fitting of her alternative/punk appearance choices in high school. Her bad attitude and worse behavior left her family amazed that she'd been accepted into a decent college. By some miracle she'd realized that she was pretty intelligent and gotten her act together enough during senior year to graduate. 

    But she also looked really, really good in leather jackets and fishnets, so she'd stuck with them. The smoking was just a bad habit. Everybody had one, right?

    Brows arched to mimic his, surprised by his cold response. Professor Bell was generally brooding, but not so specifically in her direction. Had she done something? Not done something? Was this about the blackboard!? After all, it was only a typical Monday. Veronica only kept showing up because she wasn't going to lose points over something so trivial. 

    "Consider it appropriately taken care of."

    Oh, no. Oh, God. He'd noticed. He was glaring at her. She silently willed him to stop glaring at her with baby blue eyes that were absolutely to die for, because she was not equipped to handle it. 

    This was unfair. History professors where not allowed to be hot. They were not supposed to have hair that you wanted to drag your hands through or perfect jaw lines that begged to be kissed…

    She froze when he spoke up again. Still leaning on the podium, like she'd been caught doing something wrong. His tone left her with a slight sense of guilt at her own thoughts. She was quiet. Too quiet. Suspiciously wordless for a suspiciously long amount of time. Staring at him was helping matters not at all. She swallowed. "Nope!" The word was clipped and not convincing, but she was very sure suggesting he bend her over that desk was not an option. 

    "Oh. Wait. Actually." She removed herself from the podium, and went to dig around in her bag. "Would you mind looking this over?" She rounded the desk until she stood on the same side that he occupied. She offered him a neatly stapled stack of papers. The cover page revealing an essay on 'Icons and Iconoclasm in Byzantium.' 

    "Or skim, maybe? Or even just give it back tomorrow. It's…long." She bit her lip, again, looking apologetic as she rested her butt on the edge of his desk. 

    Her pulse had not calmed down. She wasn't saying anything, either. Oh, this was bad. They were going to have to have The Talk. The I am not going to bite you please put your neck away talk. It was going to be even worse than usual, because he could hear her heart pounding and her blood rushing under her skin, and it was possible that he was tempted.

    He should have brought a snack.

    His surprise was evident when she presented him with the essay. "Oh." He accepted it, looking at the cover page as he switched mental gears.

    So she wasn't hitting on him. She was just shy about her work. Good. That was a good thing. Good.

    He flipped reflexively to her works cited to check that there wasn't anything he found objectionable. Like Kaegi. Fuck that guy. "Yeah," he said, flipping back to the front to start skimming. Or reading. He looked up at the empty classroom, though his face remained turned toward the page. "I'll see what I can do." His eyes flicked toward where she was resting against his desk, and he considered scolding her for it before deciding against it.

    This was fine. Good, even. She wasn't leaning over anything. Or bent over, generally. That was good.

    He realized too late that his gaze was lingering on her teeth against her lip, and he dragged it back to her essay. "You're going to ruin your lipstick," he murmured.

    Veronica smiled. He was still being a bit distant, and she didn't know why he looked so shocked. She wrote essays she didn't need write all the time. "Thank you." Cheerful lilts read pleased, despite the fact that he had not committed to anything. She shifted, slowly moving further up on the desk, trying to be subtle about the fact that she wanted to just sit on it. She was the horrible type of person that wanted to watch him read her paper. 

    Trying to play it cool, she crossed her legs at the ankles and pressed her palms against the polished wood, when she should have just sat in a chair. This was wildly comfortable, and a maybe even a tad suggestive. If she was trying to be suggestive on purpose, she was doing a decent job of pretending otherwise.  "After… well, if you read it. Maybe, we could talk about my thesis? I was hoping you would help me with with it." 

    She was still a few years off from needing a thesis, but it was history, and it didn't do a whole lot of changing. She could probably get away with starting early. Probably.

    Brown eyes dropped down to blue before he looked away, and she released her lip slowly from the confines of her teeth. Matte, red lipstick intact. 

    "Would you like to ruin it for me?" 

    Oh shit. Oh fuck. What the fuck happened to playing it cool? That is not something a person said to their history professor. She couldn't tell if she was blushing, because this room was always so damn hot and she spent most of the time looking awkwardly flushed. Her comment had been a terrible knee-jerk reaction, because men did not just casually comment on a woman's lipstick. She'd just blurted something out, like she was hanging out in a bar. 

    "Oh my god," her voice was muffled by her hand which had risen to her face at some point to mask her horror. Trying to laugh it off only produced a staccato string of giggles.

    Who got that happy about having an optional essay graded? Unnatural, was what that was. He swallowed to clear whatever was in his throat, eyes drifting off the page to where she was clearly trying to get on his desk.

    Give an inch...

    Was he imagining that she was posing? She looked like she was posing. Like a pinup in a vintage girly mag. Which, no one called those that anymore, gross. Did they even make those, still? He could always... no. He would not go looking for porn with girls who looked like his TA. Absolutely not. "You can email me," he said, because otherwise they would have to meet in his office or over coffee. Or just, anywhere. In person, outside of class. Which was seeming like a terrible idea. "I'd be happy to help."

    Wasn't it a little early for her to be worrying about her thesis?

    Her essay crumpled in his hands as his fingers tightened, hands balling into reflexive fists of surprise.

    ... he had just torn her entire essay in two. That was what had just happened. Good work, Michael. Great job. You want to facefuck your TA and you just destroyed her work. This is great, what's happening here.

    "What," he said at the same time as she expressed her horror. Blood was rushing to her face, which was also not helping. Very carefully, he turned around to set the papers down on the desk. Attempts to disguise the tattered mess as a neat stack failed almost instantly. Then he moved away from the desk so that he could stand with her between him and it. He had to lean down a bit to meet her level, and take her by the chin to be sure she was looking him in the eye.

    "Be honest," he compelled. "For an hour," he added hastily, because he'd had that turn into a clusterfuck before. "Are you trying to get me fired?" he asked evenly. If anyone had walked in on him trapping an undergrad against the furniture he probably would have been. Or worse.

    Oh, right. Email. That was a thing that people did. She tried to mask her disappointment. Nodding, quickly, to obscure the down-turned corners of her mouth. This was, after all, a professional sort of relationship. No need to make it all personal over discussions of Roman religious figures. 

    He probably wouldn't be interested in her anyway. Not that she was concerned with his interest, she reminded herself. He was her teacher and she was his student and those weren't the kinds of things she should be thinking about. And he was a vampire, for fuck's sake. A huge detail that she forgot too easily. 

    The sound of seven pages being torn in half caused her to startle - flinching as she clutched the desk. She looked down to his hands, still holding her tattered essay. Lips parted to apologize, but he stood and they pressed shut. She watched him set the remnants of her report on his desk and couldn't care less about them. Another copy would be easy enough to print out, not that it would do her any good. 

    She was definitely blushing. This was beyond embarrassing. 

    Oh, God, she'd fucked up. He was going to scold her and then kick her out. She was going to get removed as his assistant and he wouldn't help her with her research, anymore. Fuck. This was so bad. 

    A sharp inhalation was sucked between her teeth as he took her chin. As she was caught between his body and the desk. She stared back at him, as was intended, as he spoke. His demand for honesty drew her wandering thoughts away from all the inappropriate possibilities of that desk. Terrible, filthy thoughts that had someone worked their way back into the front of her mind, with no concern for the situation.  

    "No, of course not." She tried to emphasize with a shake of her head, but he had a pretty decent handle on her jaw. "I didn't even mean to say that. Oh my god." 

    Michael had heard horror stories about what happened to professors who slept with their students. Literal horror stories. But he was kind of a horror story, himself. It was the blushing that was doing it, making his eyes go dark. This was bad. He didn't want to scare her. He wasn't actually sure what he wanted to do.

    Aside from the obvious things that he shouldn't.

    He could make her forget, couldn't he? It wasn't something he liked to do, because it made him feel like a creep. But getting rid of an awkward social situation didn't seem that bad in the grand scheme of things. So he might as well just... ask. It couldn't hurt to ask. Particularly if she wouldn't even remember if she said no.

    She was really going to need to stop blushing at him, though. He probably looked like he was about to rip out her throat.

    The best solution was definitely not to put his hands on her hips and turn her around. A bad solution was better than no solution, right? There was only an inch of space between them, but it was a very important inch. It was the inch that kept him from pressing his hips to hers, even though that was what he wanted to do.

    "Didn't mean to say it," he asked carefully, "or didn't mean it at all?"

    He was beginning to look distinctly vampiric, and Veronica translated that to him being very, very angry. She didn't read it so much as dangerous, because she could hold her own and had a really warped sense of self-preservation. She had read that vampires could usually control themselves when they weren't hungry, and she kind of imagined that one that worked in a school would do decent job of not being hungry. And since she wasn't bleeding she could only attribute this change to her big, stupid mouth. 

    Now, he'd transitioned into looking like he was going to eat her. That probably should have caused some notion of panic, but Veronica was mostly concerned with how rude that would have been. 

    If he had any intentions of biting her, he was certainly going to have to take her on a few dates first. 

    Hands on her hips reorganized her priorities, and there was no ignoring the thrill that coursed through her hen he turned her around. Polished wood was surprising cool against her thighs, pressed against the desk because despite his grip he was still holding her away from him. 

    She had been having a difficult time keeping her mind out of the gutter before, and it was practically impossible now. All she would have to do is lean forward enough to put her palms against the desk to put an attractive curve to her spine and press herself against him. 

    He'd asked for honesty, and apparently she wasn't even safe in her own head. At least she wasn't exclaiming all these thoughts like she'd done with the last one. 

    Veronica cocked her head at his next question, as if in thought. Green strands slid over bare shoulder blades as she turned her to the side to look at him over her shoulder. 

    "I didn't mean to say it," she confirms. "I typically have better control over my mouth." 

    His face had gone back to normal, at least. Not that she could easily see that, but she didn't seem to be afraid of him, regardless. He'd been worried that she might try to run, and then he'd have to catch her, and it would be a whole thing. Particularly when the sun was out.

    This did introduce new problems. Like the temptation to bend her over the desk. He could handle it. Probably. He was totally in control of this situation. Definitely.

    Except for the part where she said things like that.

    "I'm too old for you," he said, because looking like he was twenty-four didn't change the fact that he was almost sixty. This whole thing felt like a bad idea and a misunderstanding and a regret waiting to happen. "You need to be more careful," he said, as if he was in any position to be lecturing her about her life. "Someone might get the wrong idea."

    Like he had. Like the idea he was still having. Like the erection he was very carefully holding her away from, fueled by the nagging mental image of her lipstick on his cock. Her mouth a perfect red circle and green hair brushing over his thighs.

    Goddammit.

    His grip on her hips tightened as he frowned. "You're a good student," he managed finally, struggling for the appropriate phrasing. "You shouldn't..." He trailed off in frustration, because what was he supposed to say? Flirt with her professors? Flirt with him?

    "You're a vampire, I don't really know if age properly applies." It was a weak argument, usually employed by teenage girls with dangerous fetishes. Veronica felt like she could use it, because she was genuinely attracted to him, not just vampires. She shifted on her feet, a restless habit that she usually thought nothing of, but it only intensified the reality of his hands still resting on her hips. 

    Someone?" She repeats, resounding tones of offense. Did he think that she made a habit of this? That she flirted her way into authorities good graces. "I don't just hit on my professors all the time," since she was being honest, she felt the need to defend herself, and the intentions she'd suddenly, and accidentally, brought to light. 

    "I'm an adult. I'm pretty sure we're both capable of just pretending I didn't say anything at all. You don't even have to go through the trouble of explaining that you're not attracted to me."

    She was prepared for the reality that he wasn't, even if her words had been an invitation to fuck her right there in the basement. 

    Fingers were almost digging into her flesh through denim, pressing against the perfect spot on her hipbones that made her squirm. 

    She leaned forward slightly, because she couldn't help it. That inch of distance was lost and her ass was pushed against his cock. "I shouldn't what?" She bit her lip after murmuring what managed to sound like a challenge. Her palms hovered over the top of his desk, as she looked forward again.