Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Within the first two weeks of woodshop, you're bored to tears.

Building things like this isn't really your strong suit. But you complied, you made bridges and learned how to use the saws and got bruises on your hands from hammering that made it hard to press the space bar for days afterwards. Putting small electrical components together you could do; small-scale construction, not so much.

And you hated almost everyone in the class. It was a mixed-species school, so you constantly had to deal with trolls deciding they were better than humans and being snarky about it, and you had told them all just to <i>shut the fuck up for once</i> on more than one occasion. (Somehow you had been thanked for this the one time the teacher heard you, because he apparently mistook your impatience with the noise for a noble attempt to stop bullying.)

When this wasn't going on there would be people getting on your case about not being masculine enough to use a drill properly, or people going on about whatever kind of gossip, or really just people talking, god you just wished they would shut those gaping wordpuke holes in their faces.

Nothing is interesting, everyone is obnoxious, you are so ready for this class to be over so you can take advanced web design next semester and just be bored instead of bored and annoyed.  

Three weeks before the end of the class, the teacher tells you he has a surprise project for you.

Oh the joy! How will you ever contain your excitement.

He tells you you're building a robot, but the "robot" turns out to be a wooden thing powered on hydraulics that has to pick up a marshmallow from one cup and put it in the other.

Truly you will be paving the way for brilliant innovations in the field of robotics. How the scientific community will praise you! Wow. You can't wait to get your medal for developing prime marshmallow-grabbing technology.

You miss some of what he says because you're busy mentally narrating his speech with biting remarks, and then it moves on to thinking about how genius your insults are and how great you're going to be in an argument when you've got all this material.

You didn't need to know the details, though, really: you can figure it out yourself.

The last bit of the teacher's spiel catches your attention, though.

It's right before he throws his palm down on the table as if it were a gavel, signaling the end of his participation and telling you all wordlessly that you need to start doing something.

The order had been clear but you run it through your head again just in case you misheard.

Find… a partner?

What?

No, he can't be serious.

You look around and the heavy weight of realization sets in.

Those two girls are already running at each other, hurriedly sitting in one seat and giggling the whole way.

 
Other pairs walk towards each other more casually, some exuding the assurance that they won't be denied their partner of choice, some offering a more shy, hopeful wave and question.

Oh god.

You look around the room, thinly-veiled horror on your face as you look for a sympathetic face.

There are no sympathetic faces here, dipshit, you hate them all, remember?

You could try to find someone less awful than the rest and try to make friends, but that would mean that you would risk, A, looking like you care, B, coming on too strong, and C, getting rejected.

You can probably work on this on your own. You've resorted to counting your classmates in the distant hope that there will be an odd number and you won't just be added into another group, but your counting is cut short by the teacher clapping a hand over your shoulder.

"Why don't you go work with Equius? You two would get along famously."

"Who?" He has the nerve to laugh at the terror on your face.

"Equius! You know Equius, the big guy over there."

He points. You turn.

Oh.

No.

Hell no.

Hell fucking no.

It's the racist prick who apparently makes it a rule not to use words under four syllables. He also makes it a rule to look down on absolutely everyone. He makes it a rule to tell everyone how they need to improve. He makes it a rule to say words like "improve" as "improove," but you're beginning to think that might actually be an involuntary issue.

He has a lot of rules.

Rooles.

You look back up at the teacher. "I don't think he likes me very much." Which is true. He has brought attention to your blood in a disaprooving disapproving manner on three separate occasions, as well as your psionics, your lisp, your lack of ability with power tools, your build, your inability to pick up anything over ten pounds, and your lack of interest in large beasts of burden a number of other times. You never bothered to remember his name because you don't like him and the two of you would not go together well.

The teacher just… laughs. "Oh sure he likes you! Where did you ever get that impression?" You open your mouth to tell him but he just sort of chuckles and pushes at you so you'll get up. You don't. "Just go talk to him, it won't hurt you."

Yes it will.

You are further encouraged, and you see no other options so you give in.

You walk over to him as slowly as you possibly can, just praying someone else comes along to partner up with him so you won't have to.

It's not happening.

It continues not to happen as you get closer, and eventually he notices that you're walking over to him, and pretending to look elsewhere isn't going to help your case, so you just pick up your pace.

You stop a little ways from his desk.

"… Hi."