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“It’s probably a good thing we’re on video-calling now. Only way I get any work done,” Annie says to her roommate, an open copy of Shakespeare’s Henry V open on her lap. She’s trying to get through it but fuck, it’s wordy.
“You’re a disgrace.” Maeve is drinking. It’s ten am. They have a lecture imminently but these are trying times.
Annie figures this is better than letting her do it while sitting in her room alone. “Oh, like you haven’t looked.”
“I’ve looked. Why do you think my webcam’s intermittent.”
Annie chokes on nothing.
Maeve snorts. “He’s good-looking. But underneath, he’s just like all other men.”
“I don’t wanna marry the guy. Just- discuss some fine literature, maybe have him read a few paragraphs right in my ear while he bends me over his desk.”
“Your social distancing needs work.”
Annie hums. It’s all moot anyway, because they’re English Lit students talking about their professor, who is tall, dark, handsome, British and borderline inappropriate in all ways except the one that matters.
He doesn’t even glance at the girls wearing short skirts and low-cut tops, or the boys in shorts, or anybody in between. He mentions, occasionally, that he used to be in the military. Royal Marines. But he always talks about those days like they’re firmly in the past. Any mention of his personal life and he brushes it off, changes the subject.
Annie spoke to him during his office hours once. She was having trouble with Chaucer and he explained with a brusque professionalism, recommended a few websites, some guides to the material, helped her figure out what the heck she was going to write for her paper. He was a true gentleman, and there was no indication that he had any sort of life outside of work on his desk. No family photos, no finger paintings. Even his keychain was the cheap plastic one advertising the lot where he bought his car.
If Annie hadn’t seen flashes of humanity shine through at strange moments, when he was passionate about his work or their discussion, she might have thought he only existed for his job. But that can’t possibly be it.
“Hey.” Their other roommate joins them, with her laptop, throws herself onto the couch next to Maeve. She doesn’t have a lecture, will have just finished hers, on their new quarantine schedule.
“How was your date?” Maeve teases with a deadpan voice and blank expression, but they’re used to it now. Annie snorts and Robin gives them both the finger. She’s studying Cyber Security, and her professor -“just call me Hughie”- is barely older than them, surprisingly built and pretty cute, in a nerdy sort of way.
“Great, I love hearing the love of my life talk about his wonderful husband.” It’s a joke, of course; Robin is not actually seeking to score with her professor at the expense of his marriage and job, but there’s something a little wistful there, too. Maybe she does really like him.
Annie’s suddenly glad her professor is more obviously unattainable. College guys are jerks, but Professor Butcher is hardly a realistic alternative, implausibly gorgeous or not.
God, somehow he looks even better at home, hasn’t bothered to wear a proper shirt, all short sleeves and increasingly unkempt beard and hair that should not look as good as it does.
Robin’s out of view of Maeve’s camera but is peering over her shoulder, turns to mouth at Annie, “Are those pineapples?”
They are. Their English Lit professor is going to lecture them while wearing an aloha shirt with pineapples on it. It’s very distracting how there seems to be a button missing at the top.
Annie stares at it while Professor Butcher talks, and doodles instead of making notes, glad to find she actually is starting to understand it all. There are maybe sixty of them in the class, and occasionally someone pipes up to ask an inane question, to snap her out of the fugue state she’s tempted to sink into, just listening to that voice. Someone’s forgotten to mute their mic and the intermittent clacking of their keyboard is driving into Annie’s skull.
“Well, back then, a basket of balls was about as offensive as anyone could- oh-” Professor Butcher trails off, then, usually has impressive concentration but twists his body rather than pushing his chair back to peer under his desk.
Now, Annie is not one for poetry or even particularly flowery description, but watching the soft, genuine smile bloom on her unapproachable professor’s face is like watching a sunrise in time-lapse.
When he ducks under the desk entirely, Annie exchanges an alarmed look with the others, can see a selection of her classmates’ faces on the screen, equally stunned.
“Well, now, don’t you know it’s rude to come in without knocking?” Professor Butcher speaks as gently as Annie’s ever heard, and when he emerges again it’s with -holy fuck, Annie was expecting a dog or something- an adorable toddler in his arms, one he settles on his lap with practiced ease as she babbles and clutches at his shirt.
With her mic muted, Annie’s “Oh my God,” isn’t transmitted, but someone’s “Holy fuck!” is entirely audible.
“Language please,” Professor Butcher mutters, although he’s distracted trying to disengage grabbing hands from his beard. He’s so gentle with her. She has the cutest pigtails, chubby cheeks, bright eyes and -Annie has to squeal a little, claps a hand over her mouth as she realises- she’s also wearing a tiny buttoned shirt with pineapples on it.
It would be so easy to cry. Annie’s traitorous ovaries are aching as she stares at this gorgeous, intelligent, caring man and his beautiful daughter.
And then there’s a panicked voice from the background, calling for- “Terra!”
“In here, love.” Professor Butcher calls back, much more calmly, borderline affectionate, and his smile to whoever’s off-camera is just as radiant as the one he gave his daughter, if subtly different. He attempts to hand the child over, and she screams her objections, but Annie doesn’t dare turn the volume down for fear of missing-
It’s Robin who says, “Oh my fuck.”
Maeve lets out a bark of laughter.
Annie’s mouth falls open.
Because that, in worn sweatpants and a vest top, saying he’s sorry and that he only put her down for a second, with some very nice arms, strong hands, his wedding ring glinting in the light as he attempts to collect a reluctant, squirming, tiny human, is Hughie.
“Well, that explains why he didn’t want you to use his surname.” Maeve sips her drink, although Annie sees it in her peripheral vision as she stares. This is a well-practiced handover, Terra crying and attempting to cling, Hughie handling the physical disengagement while Professor Butcher hushes and reassures her.
He doesn’t do baby-speak. That would be ridiculous. Instead it’s, “I know, darling. I love you too, but I’ve gotta work, alright. Just for a bit. Stay with papa and I’ll come have lunch with you soon, I promise. And then we can go play on the swings, how about that?”
“Not right after lunch,” Hughie interjects, and it earns him a look of such affectionate exasperation there’s no doubting how they feel about each other. It makes Annie’s heart hurt to look at it, an accursed envious twist in her chest even as warmth spreads at the sight of them.
“Lunch and then Peppa?” Professor Butcher suggests instead, then, tickling his little girl’s belly until she squeals, distress forgotten, and he’s smiling like he can’t help himself.
“Alright. Sorry for the interruption, everyone.” Hughie waves at the screen, and Terra does too, with a pudgy hand, Professor Butcher’s adoring gaze on them all the while, as they leave the view of the camera. “Come on, daddy’s gotta teach the youth of today about books written four hundred years ago.”
“Says the one teaching them how to use google.”
“I’ll close the door, this time.”
“No, leave it open. I- like hearing you.”
There’s a hushed, collective, “Oh,” around the room, even Maeve unable to remain entirely unaffected by that admission.
Professor Butcher sighs, scanning his screen like he’s absorbing the many as-yet unvoiced questions that are about to come his way. He mutes them all before they get a chance to find words.
“Well. Clearly none of you are going to fucking listen to me for the rest of this lecture. We’re adorable, I don’t blame you. Whoever was recording that -yes, I see you. Hughie teaches cyber security- send me some screenshots or I’ll find a reason to fail you. We don’t have a lot of pictures of the three of us.
“And just to save us all some time. We’ve been married a year, together longer. She’s two. Yes, she’s ours. Her name means ‘earth’ or ‘diabolical creature’. I love them both very much. If you’d like to know how that feels- well, read a fucking book.
“And read Henry the Fifth. I’ll see you all same time tomorrow. Stay safe.”
He ends the call.
Annie can do nothing but stare blankly at the screen, as the inevitable conversation begins between her classmates.
Robin mutters, “Well, shit. They’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
And Maeve sighs. “Guess I’d better send him those screenshots.”