Work Text:
Your assignments have been ass lately. Every morning you wake up without an email saying you've flunked out and they've set up a sniper for you is a nice surprise. Not that you would notice if they had as you rush between jobs and other obligations, most of the time even mandatory lectures are spent on your laptop with only half an ear to the lecture and half a mind on another time sensitive task.
Empty drinkable meal bottles and protein bar wrappers litter the tiny space that is your single dorm room. Not having to share means you can stay up as late as you want without disturbing anyone and no one to disturb your piles of clean and dirty clothes that take up half of the space. Very useful for the strings of all nighters you've been pulling, the clean laundry pile a makeshift beanbag chair and pillow.
Not the most productive space for studying and it can be hard to just get the rough drafts on paper, let alone make sure they have perfect spelling and grammar. Still, you can't let anything go now, there's too much riding on you. For now at least, there's a break, some obligations edging off just enough to give you a breather. So you take a well earned break to treat yourself and rest, right?
Of course not. Instead, you sent out a few dozen emails asking for extra credit work. You don't have a few dozen professors but dear God, for people who preach the importance of checking your uni email, you're not sure they ever do the same.
Which is what brings you here. A house, out on the edge of the city surrounded by woods and topped off with a far too long drive way. The bus only got you so far leaving you to walk the rest of the way. Dragging yourself down to your professors house to help grade exams for extra credit isn't your idea of a fun Saturday night, but sacrifices must be made in the hell that is academia.
Making it to the porch, you take a moment to roll your ankles as a breeze rustles through the leaves like blinking eyes and sends a chill up your spine. Suddenly eager to be out of their imaginary view, you knock.
The embellished wooden door opens to the bright blue fluff ball that is Professor Jack. The friendliest professor on campus who refuses to let his students call him by his last name. You're not even sure what it is, was it an S or an H name? Something dae or however else he spells it. Either way, he was the only one you knew would find a way for you to pull your grade up. Not only is he the most friendly, but the most nosy professor you've ever had. Maybe now that you've let him help you a bit, he'll get off your case about overworking yourself. It's not easy trying to sneak out of his lectures so he doesn't keep you after class for another check in.
"There you are," his grin is wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes, "I can't tell you how happy it makes me that you wanted to come over and help this evening." His sincerity is almost overbearing in the way he leans forward slightly as if this entire evening depends on your presence.
"No problem sir. Thanks for giving me something to do for my grade," he must be pretty desperate for help to be this happy you came over.
He chuckles, "I promise it's not just busy work, I wouldn't make you do work I didn't believe would help you."
The leaves across the clearing rustle again, but you don't glance to see the wind crawling towards you. Memory rolls through you as the breeze does, of being a child, running from dark rooms, not looking back, because if you did, something from the shadows would get you. But the feeling that prickles along your skin and stops you from looking back is a similar but different. Another ingrained memory, just on the tip of your tongue.
"Br, better get in here before it gets chilly," he steps aside, letting the warmth of his home breath out. With a nod, you follow him in.
It smells like cookies.
"Are you baking?"
"Hard work may be it's own reward but sometimes a treat is a better one. They should be done by the time we are."
He guides you to the living room, a soft couch and a table piled with papers awaiting for both. His home has a cozy, older feeling to it. Vintage wood and wicker furniture, touched up with primary color accents. It's small pops of colors lining edges of the furniture and carvings to emphasize them.
"Do you like it? I inherited a lot of the furniture and tried to add some of my own personality to it. It's not too tacky, is it?"
"No," you sit on opposite ends of the couch, "it's nice, vintage and cozy but a little, maybe whimsical?" It matches him well the same way his bright blue hair isn't startling or gaudy like it would be on someone else, somehow enhancing his mature warmth that lacks any intimidation.
You're handed a stack of papers and a key sheet for grading.
"Thank you. I know it's already late in the day and you had a lecture earlier, would you like some coffee or maybe tea?"
"Yeah, actually," your lashes flutter as you're reminded of how tired you are. You've been trying not to think about it. "How'd you know I had a lecture today?"
"Must have seen you around campus," with an unwavering smile he stands, excusing himself, "let me get those drinks brewing and I'll check on the cookies to."
You get to work on some papers, seeing they're from the same class of his you take just a different time block. Maybe the repetition will burn itself into your mind and with any luck, he'll give your class the same test.
He returns shortly, two mugs in hand.
"Alright, now let's dive into this. Feel free to ask about anything you don't understand. This is supposed to help you to, not just me."
And you do, picking up on a few things you missed in class from dozing or speed reading your textbook.
At one point, the corner of his mouth curls up as he tries to keep a straight face, a glint in his eyes.
"Hope this isn't testing your patience."
"No, I'm doing alright," tick, tick, another paper done.
"I hope you're examining those papers carefully."
You raise an eyebrow, glancing at him.
"I am."
"Good, I know this isn't exactly a page turning experience, a lot of pulp to work through."
Setting the papers down, you sit back, staring at him with betrayal.
"Professor."
"Do you think more students would sign up for my class if I advertised it as mindcrafting?"
Your groan only makes him stronger as he snickers, having to cover his mouth with his hand so he doesn't snort.
"That was even worse than your usual puns in class."
"Hmm, strong words for someone I've caught trying not to smile. And failing."
"That doesn't count, I'm usually sleep deprived! I came here to help grade papers, not be held hostage and tortured," you still need to bite the inside of your lip not to smile too much and encourage his punny behavior.
He nods in understanding, pulling himself together.
"That's fair, still, you can't give your friendly professor a pass?"
"I will decease here and now, and you will be investigated for murder."
He laughs, leaning over to squeeze your shoulder.
"Once they taste my baking, they'll let me go," he winks, "speaking of, I'll be right back."
while he's in the kitchen, you realize you really have memorized this info now, grading a few more papers with ease and barely needing the answer key at all.
By the time he comes back with cookies on a plate, warm and soft, your work load is significantly smaller than when you both started. In the rush of always having something to do, it's easy to feel behind and incompetent.However, for the first time in months, you actually feel that bright sensation in your chest, the feeling of confidence that comes with being able to appreciate your own progress.
"Just in time Professor, think I might be going home soon," grinning with a little waggle, you're proud of how much you've gotten done.
His grin tightens ever so slightly. Perhaps he's excited to have his home to himself again and not need to be in teacher mode during his off time.
"Perfect! how about—"
Jack's shin hits the table, sending his full mug of coffee over the ledge to splash you in a chill from stomach to toe. Trying to catch the mug as it falls, you accidentally power bomb it into the floor. Instead of clattering harmlessly on the wood, it shatters far and wide, sharp grains settling into floor board seams that may never be recovered through non-violent methods.
"Oh god, I'm sorry!"
"Don't be, it was my fault. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just wet."
He sets the cookies down, grabbing a tea towel and handing it to you before getting the mop. You try and pat some of the coffee off yourself as he cleans up the mess on the floor.
Eyes raking over the wet fabric clinging to your skin, he sighs and shakes his head.
"It doesn't look like it's coming out. You rode the bus here, right?"
"Yup," you groan, giving up on saving your clothes.
"I can't let you go home like this. How about you change into something clean and I'll put your clothes in the washer right away so they don't stain?"
"Change into what?" You didn't exactly bring an extra pair of clothes. You watch with confusion as he straightens up, smiling fondly.
"My clothes, if you're alright with it. They're all I have, you can borrow some old sweats."
"Right," obviously, no wonder he looked at you like that. He was amused, not… anticipatory. Before you can weigh the pros and cons of wearing your professors clothes, he's already gently ushered you off the couch and towards the bathroom, only having a moment before he's pushing an old sweatshirt and soft pants into your hands from the towel closet.
"These should be fresh and clean for you," and he pops out, closing the door behind himself.
They don't fit well, but you make the adjustments you need to make it work. You're surprised to find that the 'old' and 'fresh' sweats don't smell musty or like detergent, but blueberries.
"At least I won't be the first person to go on the bus in barely fitting pyjamas," you say as you step out, finding your professor holding a new plate of cookies with his back turned as he sets them on the table with fresh mugs to boot.
"I'm sure they suit you."
Walking past him to sit on the couch, your phone says the next bus won't be for another hour. Crumpling over the couch arm, a pained groan escapes as you consider how much longer it will take to get back to your dorm and start in on the next task.
"Oh sunshine," his voice is so soft you almost believe you imagined it. Peeking up, he's staring at you, at your form in his clothes on his couch in his home. That prickling feeling from the doorway scratches the base of your head. He jumps slightly when you meet his eyes, snapping out of some thought he must have been in. His formalities disappear entirely for a moment, a hand carding through his hair to ground himself, "are they comfortable for you?"
"Yeah, they're super soft. Not even a little bit of pilling,"
"Good, I'm glad." Sitting beside you, he offers a cookie, "sounds like you could you could use something sweet while you wait. Laughter might be the best medicine but I think my baking is strong second."
Thanking him, you take the cookie and take a gloomy bite. The moment it touches your tongue you're groaning at the perfect soft and warm sweet. It's your favorite kind to. He keeps handing them to you until you're on the third before it slips from your fingers to your lap.
Your lashes flutter. A bubbling sensation in your head that almost tickles, like too much dish soap in the sink, rising and popping. The feeling brings a growing dizziness. These sweats really are cozy, worn in yet soft and warm. You hold yourself, hands rubbing your arms to nuzzle into the sweatshirt like snuggling into a quilt. So many hands. When did you have that many hands?
"How are you feelings?" His voice is so close suddenly, breath warm against your ear.
"D-dizzy. Like my heads soup?" You'd sway if he wasn't already holding you, taking your hands away in his while an arm wraps around you, kneading your arm or back for you. That's nice, now you don't have to focus on doing it yourself anymore.
"Like you're melting?" His voice is a warm purr.
"Maybe?" Your ability to focus is slipping, details and thoughts starting to drop away as sand in your fist.
"Just lean back," he gently pushes you back, dusting the crumbs off your pants. Petting your head, he clicks his tongue, "it should have taken a bit longer to kick in. You must not be eating. That's alright, one day soon you'll have everything you need. I'll be right back."
You lay back, alone for now with a warmth fuzzing the edges of your being. A spot in your vision dances, small and colorful. A spider? With every ounce of focus you can manage, you stare at it. Not even daring to blink despite how heavy your eyelids feel. You know, if you let it out of your sight, it'll strike. Or has it already struck? Is that why it's dancing? Mocking you? Your grumblings are interrupted by trees wrapping around you and a firm pillow moving beneath you. Hair is brushed from your face by the barest touch.
"Come on sunshine, don't fight it and just relax. Let Jack take care of everything," a fabric measuring tape is pulled around your body as you lay against him. "Even your clothes. You'll have the softest little outfits," a warmth presses against your cheek. When was the last time you were hugged? It feels now as if you are several, the fabric tape trailing after. Hugged around your shoulders, chest, waist, stomach, hips where you're lightly startled by soft skin lingering on yours where the shirt has ridden up. Looking down you see his face there, lips to your hip. He smiles up at you, a smile that looks as dreamy as you feel. A dream, that makes sense.
You float between wakefulness and sleep as sure hands run across your body and honeyed promises cloud your mind.
"All done, you were so good and patient for me," jostling, you're being rearranged. Sitting up, he's behind you, sat between his legs and an arm around your waist to keep you upright. A thumb strokes your chin. "One last thing before bedtime, sundrop. You need something more in the tank than just caffeine and sugar," food is pressed to your lips, the scent hitting your nose, and your mouth waters. You're starving, you have been starving. Food, real food that you need as much of as possible before your body dissolves. Small mouthfuls of vegetables, meat, and starches, fed to you slowly with patience, the next mouthful never pressing to your lips before your done with the last. "Good job. Doesn't that feel better? Such a good sunbeam, see how good it is to just let me help you?"
Another touch of warm metal to your lips, but you can't manage it. Limp against the warmth behind you, there is no world where you can open your lips again. You aren't even sure if you have lips anymore, what even are lips?
You're just so, so tired.
You have been for a long time.
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Bird song, the smell of coffee, and a warm weight holding you. It's good here, in this barely awake state with no worries, just comfort. The coffee rouses your mind, pulling you back to the real world. You didn't make coffee so why is there coffee? Prying your eyes open, the unfamiliar surroundings send your head spinning, disoriented as you take in the bedroom that would make up the entirety of your dorm. This room is impersonal, fairly empty as cozy as it is. A guest room.
Steam curls from the mug, cream and sugar prepared beside it for you to make it however you wish. Which you do. You feel good, better rested than you have in ages, possibly even more than before the term started. Refreshed, relaxed. And stronger without a gnawing in your gut. Who knew fresh baked cookies could be so filling?
With more power to your brain, you can remember how you fell asleep. You must have passed out on the couch after the baked goods. You've been running on empty for weeks, possibly months, hadn't even eaten your quick meals in a day or two. Finally getting something solid in your stomach while being so relaxed must have triggered your body into thinking it was safe to rest.
You'll have things to do when you get back to your dorm, but you feel oddly at peace. The smell of pancakes drifting under the door beckon you. There are things to do, due dates to make, a million reasons to rush out the door run back into the city and campus if you have to. You won't. The panic and embarrassment of falling asleep on your professors couch feels like a distant urgency, something you're aware you should be alarmed about but can't be. You're not sure why, all you know is you are walking down the stairs in your professors sweats to see if he'll spare a pancake or two for you.