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On Monday, instead of heading out to lunch with Jensen and everybody else from the office, Misha bikes over to Singer University. He cuts through the middle of campus, riding on the diagonal path that takes him to the far north corner and Dessertine-McCarthy Hall. Trying not to bowl over the new freshmen proves a hassle. They're unmistakable as such, because they all look so tiny and lost and confused, and never mind that, they're all carrying orientation packets. But at least it's not a long trip to where he's going.
He hasn't trampled through the corridors as a student for a while now—longer than just a while, if Misha's being honest, and he's not too fond of that idea—but getting where he wants comes to him easily. He's learned the way from dropping in to see Vicki so often. If they go a week without seeing each other, Misha gets fussy and antsy, and Vicki gets crabby, because they unload their lives better on each other than on anybody else. He's come down this way so many times that he even times things correctly, down to the last stray second.
As Misha rounds the last corner, Vicki's just wandering out of the lecture hall, reminding one of her kids of her and Dr. Johnston Ulrich's respective office hours and telling him that, if he wants to talk about these ideas more, he can swing by then, or take them up on the offer of writing an extra credit essay.
Misha waits for the kid to scuttle off down the hall, then swoops in for himself, saying that excuse him, Professor, but he had some other questions about the lecture.
Vicki's look of exasperation fades away into a grin as soon as she turns around and sees who's actually demanding her attention this time. "You cheeky little shit," she says. "How many times have I told you… No, never mind. You're you. You'd probably count them all."
Pushing her wire-rimmed glasses back up her nose, letting slip one of her breathy, quiet laughs, she sighs, lets her grin fade into a more even-keel smile. "Anyway, Honeybunches. To what do I owe the pleasure—by which I mean: what can this still-not-actually-a-professor-thank-you-very-much help you with today? And do we want to head to Zimmerman's, or head to my office and order in?"
Misha shrugs, but mostly because he just wants something to do with his arms. The answer's obvious, at least to him. He needs to have a few moments of Serious Talks with Vicki. He needs to clue her into what he's just going to call The Jensen Situation, and then he needs to ask her for her help with it. Because all he's managed to gather since his and Jensen's conversation a couple of days ago? Is that Misha has absolutely no handle on the social nuances and navigation of this situation whatsoever—and he absolutely does need help before this all blows up in his face.
And, in all due fairness to himself, Misha also can't deny that Jensen's behavior following the, so, my roommate is an asexual omega who legitimately isn't all that interested in ever taking a knot revelation has been, for lack of a better word? Spectacularly ignorant.
Which Misha expected, since most people have the same reaction—some of Misha's exes outright didn't believe him; his brother and sister pulled out the, wait, but wouldn't that mean you reproduce by budding, biology textbook confusion; his parents still don't know he isn't just bisexual with a boyfriend, because they've said plenty of things about how sex (meaning penetration) with at least one other person is a universally necessary experience, and Misha can't fathom how to explain for them that actually, it's not necessary for him and he's not entirely certain that he's missing as much as other people like to think he is—
But the morning after they had their initial coming out talk, Jensen sat down to breakfast and, after a few moments of awkward silence, said, "So… is there like, a curriculum or a reading list for this or something? I mean… Asexuality 101, right?" as though Misha was obligated to teach him everything about anything asexual if he expected Jensen not to be an asshole about it.
That's not even Misha exaggerating, either. When Misha asked Jensen if he really thought that Misha's nametag said, Professor of All Things Even Tangentially Related To Asexuality instead of Assistant Editor, Fiction Submissions? Jensen shrugged and said, "Well, I just thought you've probably done this a lot before, so… one more time wouldn't really be that bad, right? Y'know, going over everything for me, since… you know it all and I don't? Isn't that kind of how knowledge-flavored stuff works?"
Misha can't even deny that the logic makes sense, in its own way, but… why does it have to be his job to teach Jensen about this? Aside from the huge part where Misha can't speak for every asexual or every Omega ever, Jensen is an adult. He knows how to use Google. He could get on his laptop, crack open a web browser, and go read some stuff on his own—and, okay, a lot of the stuff that's out there wouldn't be all that great. Some of it would be pretty awful. But he could still make an effort that's not giving Misha these Looks like he's the shiny new resident sideshow attraction, or like Jensen's still waiting for Misha to pull out some Hermione Granger Rant of Exposition.
Jensen couldn't even tell Misha what, exactly, he wanted to know about asexuality. Just that he didn't get it and he wanted to know stuff. As though Misha's first attempts at explaining it didn't penetrate his skull, much less stick around to make any difference.
So, you know… Jensen could maybe try harder, if he's going to make like he's any kind of interested in this top—and if he's not legitimately interested? Or if his interest is predominantly in the form of, this thing is weird and I don't get it, let's go and poke it with a stick? Then he could do the respectful thing and just back off, right? Like, is Misha huffing glue or would that not be the respectful thing to do?
"Y'know, Vicki?" he says, rolling his eyes more than a little bit. He feels like some ridiculous, petulant teenager for it, but after his weekend? He's pretty sure that he's entitled to at least one moment of being a brat. "As much as I don't mind envying how the college can afford to give you a pretty spiffy office and a fancy chair while I'm lucky my office is just a tiny bit bigger than a cubicle? …I'd kind of like some advice on how to handle the nonsense I'm currently stuck in? Y'know, maybe? Just a bit? Anything you've got to offer is good enough for me…"
"I'm mulling it over, Prince Myshkin," she replies, probably using that nickname because she knows she's the only person who can get away with it. Anybody else would get a lecture on how Misha is actually short for Dimitri, and moreover, if Misha has to be anybody out of Dostoyevsky, then he's Ivan Karamazov, thank you very much. Vicki huffs again, still saying nothing particularly helpful, still idly spinning her chair around. Doesn't seem to be helping her think all that much, but he can't really judge her for her little tics. Not considering Misha's own tics in similar situations usually involve tapping his fingers and toes, or else humming Beatles songs.
And finally, Vicki comes back into reality with: "Well, have you tried talking to Jensen without using food metaphors, for one thing?" Before Misha can get a chance to ask what the Hell kind of help Vicki expects this to be, though, she goes on: "All I mean, Honeybunches? Is that you might need to talk to him more directly—"
Attempting to scoff, Misha makes a half-coughing, half-whining noise out of the back of his throat. And he tells her, "How more directly can I possibly get than, I don't feel sexual attraction or the desire to have sex with people, I just occasionally want to have orgasms and I don't mind giving them to other people, sometimes, if I'm particularly fond of them—"
"Well, did you tell him any of that?" Vicki points out, jabbing her pickle spear in Misha's general direction. He blinks at her, and has to ponder that question, replay the conversation in his head, over and over again—"Judging by how you're giving me the overly pensive fish face? I'm gonna guess that you didn't really tell him that? Did you?"
Misha shrugs and sighs. Why can't all of this nonsense just be as easily resolved in fact as it is in theory. "It kind of came up? But we were doing an awful lot of talking about all sorts of other stuff… and I was sort of frazzled, just because, well. I mean. I think it kind of goes without saying that I was frazzled? Getting my pills just tossed down on the kitchen table in front of me?"
"Well, I'd recommend starting there, Pumpkin," Vicki tells him. "Simple but effective starting place. Keep your head about you, don't let any of Jensen's disagreeable anything—statements, actions, anything he does? Don't let it get under your skin—"
"I hate having to be the bigger person about this shit." Misha's not aggravated enough to beat his forehead on the desk—but as he knocks it into his arms, he lets his mind wander to how appealing the desk's sharp edge seems. For his own head or maybe Jensen's. "Why can't I just headbutt him and have him immediately understand everything I'm talking about when I say that I'm ace?"
"Because for all you're charming, intelligent, and endearingly neurotic, you are not a nine-hundred-seven-year-old Time Lord from Gallifrey." At least Vicki still says things like this. At least she says things like this while fussing with her straw, then blowing the wrapper at the wall. At least the budding professor of the two of them doesn't really have a handle on being an adult, either. That's a comfort, and it gets Misha to smile a bit. As does the fact that at the very least? He doesn't have to bother with doing any of this shit tonight.
"So, okay, then," he huffs. "I'll sit Jensen down with a nice cup of tea, and start with clarifying things in a more direct fashion. I'll use small words—"
"Oh, and don't be obnoxious. I know it's your favorite self-defense mechanism, but you're not going to get him to understand if you're going to be a prick about anything—"
"No, see, that's all a part of my… not really existent plan that I'm mostly making up as I go." Smirking, Misha lifts his head up off of his arms. "See, I've got the rest of today and most of tomorrow to cool off, right? It's not Richard's birthday or anything, but… Matt's out of town for work, so I'll be sleeping over without there being any potentially awkward, 'great, my ex-boyfriend is my current boyfriend's roommate' shit going on."
Vicki rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but she's still smiling at him with all of the fondness she tends to reserve for him. "Why do you even need my help if you've got everything figured out then, Honey?" she says with a snicker—and when Misha says that he can't help it if she's brilliant, and infinitely better than he is at piecing together the parts of life that involve people. "Yeah, well… so says you. I say that I'm making it up as I go, same as you. I just make more of an effort at giving out advice for my favorite. Y'know, as long as he zips his pretty lips and doesn't go bragging to Lauren that he's my favorite."
"Well, whatever other lip I give you? I appreciate it—and I'll reciprocate it as much as you want me to, any time you've got something going on that I can help with." Which is true now, and has been true for ages now, and would be true even if Vicki got it into her head to go into freelancing as a criminal mastermind. Misha smiles up at her—a small, earnest quirk of his lips—and not just because they both know that Vicki's girlfriend has a more than adequate sense of humor about all of this.
"Because Richard's my boyfriend," he says, "but you want to know a secret, Professor Brilliance? …You're my favorite, too."
And true to their form, they seal it with a pinky swear.