A Scripta

Womby paused to watch the students pack up their notebooks from the class. He put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the desk, making himself available for anyone with questions.

He had stepped into this class when it started because the prior professor wanted a lighter load on his schedule. Womby now paused in his doctorate pursuits so that he could teach this undergraduate class on invertebrate zoology. It wasn’t one of his favorite subjects – his thesis was under the unwieldy title of “Ecological studies of economic red algae. v. growth and reproduction of natural and harvested populations of Chondrus crispus Stackhouse in New Hampshire.” Basically, he liked sea plants.

A woman came up to him and smiled. He adjusted his glasses, glasses that he didn’t need but wore to make him look older and more serious. Once he put on his glasses - just like when he put on his costume for heroing - he was a different person, a professor and student of marine biology. He was confident in his position, knowledgeable, professional. As soon as he crossed the quad and headed out to the real world, he would suddenly feel insignificant. Who in the real world cared about brown algae?

This was why he didn't say anything about his studies to anyone, even Brandon. Kalius discoursed on history, and history was far more interesting than the process of photosynthesis. Brandon talked about his work with the Army. Grim had magic. Womby had seaweed.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, his accent still apparent, but his diction clearer.

“Professor, I’m not understanding what Hanstrom means by the endocrine disruption among brine shrimp.”

Womby explained slowly, paraphrasing the paper the students had to read for the class. It was tough for an undergraduate course, but he wanted to expose them to the terms and ideas that marine biologists undertook. He wasn’t sure if he was challenging them or scaring them away.

After she left, Womby started gathering up his things. “Professor Ricketts,” came the voice of the dean at the back of the hall.

“Doctor Moore.” He finished shoving some books into his backpack. Moore was a jerk, at times condescending, and other times wanting to be your best friend. He had invited Womby out for a drink more than once, and Womby had always declined, not wanting to be near the bipolar gentleman after a few pints. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to wish you a good holiday,” he said.

Womby raised an eyebrow.

“What are your plans?”

“To be honest,” Womby said, “I was hoping to correct some papers over the weekend and work a little on the dissertation.”

Moore came down the hall. “You shouldn’t work so hard, Matt, you’ll burn yourself out.”

“I play, too,” he said with a smile. He didn’t blush – he was very professional here.

“What do you do for hobbies?”

I run around Paragon City possessed by spirits, slicing up gang members. Oh, and I sleep with a soldier at night, and we have wild, passionate sex constantly. “Watch Law and Order,” he said with a straight face.

“Hm. I paint.”

“Do you?” Womby put his hands in his pockets again, this time behind the desk, hoping his body language would tell Moore to go away. “What do you paint?”

“Mostly still life. I can’t seem to get the lighting right for landscapes.”

“Do you use oils?”

“Yes.” The two men regarded each other, Womby hoping the man would leave, and Moore trying to be friendly and hold up a conversation. “You doing anything tonight?”

Womby gave him a small smile. “I told you that I have panic attacks in bars.”

“We don’t have to go to a bar. I know this nice quiet restaurant…”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Womby’s eyes crinkled with a smile.

Moore was taken aback. “Uh, well, no…”

Womby knew the faculty knew he was gay, not that it made a difference in his teaching or his methods. He didn’t care what his students thought. Womby turned and picked up his backpack. “Besides, I have someone waiting for me.”

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, then.”

“You have a good holiday, too, sir,” he said, and left the man there.

He walked across the quad, waving to students or faculty as they headed back to their cars or dorms. The Thanksgiving holiday was coming up, and many people were heading home to their families. They didn’t have this holiday at this time in Australia – it was the height of summer right now, the corallines in receding bloom due to the heat. He would probably spend the day with Brandon, depending on what he was planning to do. Of course, if Brandon was going to go home to his family, he could take the time to do some work.

In his office, which he shared with three other professors, he picked up the students’ papers. He glanced around the tight confines of the office, and smiled as a fantasy came to mind. He shook his head, still smiling – why would Brandon come to university? Especially in that hulking walking tank suit of armor. He had never realized how turned on he was, seeing Brandon in that machine. The machine on its own did nothing to him, it was knowing Brandon was inside it, driving the thing, controlling it...

He coughed quietly, the action that signaled a clearing of his mind as when he opened his mind to spirits. There were blessedly no spirits here, so it was quiet. He finished packing his things, and headed to the bus stop.

By the time the bus dropped him off at his hotel in Founders’ Falls, he had heard the life stories of five spirits. At least they didn’t tell him how many people he needed to murder, or try to get him to go to their families with messages.

Also, by the time he got to his room, he had returned to being the quiet, gentle, slightly distracted young man, bombarded by disembodied voices. Most of his attention was on the here-and-now, and when he was in Brandon’s arms, the voices were mere whispers. Only once did an angry voice break through, but Brandon was asleep and Womby lay in the dark in tears at the tirade of the homophobe ghost.

He looked over the things he had packed. He would be moving in with Brandon this holiday, and he really didn’t have much. He came to Paragon to start on his doctorate in August, and by September he had a job. He wasn’t going to start looking for an apartment until after Christmas. This arrangement, however, was better. He smiled and picked up his bags. Yes, much better.