Kirkwall Academy
Meetings
Fine arts. Hawke stared at her desk with a slightly put off scowl. All she wanted was to exploit all the avenues of the science curriculum Kirkwall Academy had to offer, be carted off to medical school, and eventually (hopefully) become a doctor.
But apparently, apparently, fine arts credits were a mandatory requirement on her transcript. She must have argued with Meredith the better part of an hour, but the vice principal wouldn't budge; under no circumstances could she be exempt from a fine arts course.
And the course with an open seat happened to be Introductory Latin. No ceramics, no watercolors, and only a few other students in the class, none of whom she was familiar with. Latin was one of the few classes to be dual certified, both a language and an art. And, as luck would have it, the only fine art class with room left.
Latin. Unbelievable. So much for dead languages.
No, Hawke was not pleased that day as she stood in the empty classroom, and the absence of her instructor was really just making things worse. This 'Fenris', as the student called Mr. Argent, was new, and he was very late.
Fenris was difficult to deal with on the best of days, and this had most certainly not been a good day.
His decades old Volvo had died halfway to the academy, and frankly, he did not have the means to afford repairs. After getting the car towed, he took the bus and people had stared, gawking and whispering while he tried in vain to ignore them. They always did, but it never stopped the wave of shame and anger that came with the blatant gazes of strangers.
As he strode into his classroom, opening the door with one hand and shuffling through the mail an office aid had thrown at him with a squeak, he looked up to see a woman standing next to his dark wooden desk.
Lovely. Now he was hallucinating.
But... no, not a woman. A girl, a senior judging by her height and the more womanly qualities he could see. Fenris quirked an eyebrow, and set his messenger bag onto his desk.
He waited a beat for her to speak but she stayed silent, head bent down over a book. Fenris huffed, too frustrated to be polite and too exasperated to even realize the consequences of how he spoke.
"If you wish to tell me something, now would be an appropriate time. Or continue to stand there, if it so pleases you."
Hawke's head snapped up. A man with silver hair was speaking to her (rather rudely, actually), and it took her a full second to realize that he was her teacher.
The first thing she noticed about him were the thick arching curves of his white tattoos. They matched his hair and contrasted with his caramel skin, and... Hawke wished she wasn't alone with him in this suddenly too secluded classroom, because she couldn't control the blush that sprung to her face almost immediately.
He was certainly too young to be a teacher. Had to be. Attractiveness aside, he had no business being so rude. "My name is Hawke. I need credits in fine arts, and your class is the, er, the only one with vacancy," she finished lamely.
He sighed inwardly. He needed this job, and being discourteous to students was a surefire way to be released from his position.
Fenris straightened, taking in the grey-eyed girl.
She was nervous. He couldn't blame her; Fenris knew he was intimidating, and his sour mood and scowl did not help his case.
"Is there a first name to accompany that?" he asked, only a bit dryly.
Hawke's brows furrowed and she crossed her arms. "I might be mistaken, but you're a teacher. With access to files and things. You can look it up; I go by Hawke." He stared at her, blankly as far as she knew. He was impressively difficult to read, his expression harder than stone.
Fenris ground his teeth but said nothing. If she did not wish to go by her first name, it was not his place to question it. He, of all people, knew the importance of a name.
"What does the class entail, anyway? I thought Latin was a bit... archaic."
Hawke shifted and Fenris realized he had been staring at her for an unusually long time.
The class, right.
"Many consider it archaic," He began to unpack his things for the coming day, a familiar task that put him at ease. "Introductory Latin is credited as a fine art," he started slowly, "but we are already half-way through the first quarter. Latin is difficult, and you will be behind."
Hawke frowned and leaned her hip against his desk. "I have an excellent GPA, and even better work ethic, Mr. Argent. I'll prove myself in this class, I'll-"
Fenris was fiddling with a fountain pen, frown firmly in place and attention obviously averted from her. His eyes were squinted and focused, his hair falling haphazardly over his forehead.
He looks much younger like that, she thought, biting her lip slightly. He deliberated another few seconds and Hawke rolled her eyes. She plucked the pen from his grasp. "The inkwell's jammed. Here," she handed it back to him after a moment of adjusting.
Fenris quirked his lips, displeasure fading as his encounter with Hawke continued. She was... unlike the other students at Kirkwall Academy that he had encountered thus far. "Thank you," he murmured.
She smiled and Fenris found he did not know what to say.
"The class you would want to join takes place sixth hour. I assume you have cleared your schedule already. As there are only a few other students in Latin, I would suggest befriending them. You will need help."
Hawke fought the urge to cringe. Hawke had never felt the need to be social in school, there was too much to do, too much to focus on; academics required her absolute attention, always.
Even Carver was more popular among his peers.
"Friends, got it."
He walked to the bookshelf and pulled out a worn blue textbook.
"Here. Take this."
She accepted the book and nodded. Hawke fingered the corner of the cover, chancing another look up at her new teacher. He was really, well, something else. "Is there anything else Mr. Argent?"
Fenris had watched Hawke's face fall slightly at the mention of friends. It was strange that such a pretty girl would be alone at Kirkwall. He wondered absently why, but said nothing.
"Fenris," he said suddenly. "Call me Fenris. If you can go by your last name, it seems only fair I may go by my first."
Hawke was taken back slightly at his command. "Fenris," she repeated back. He looked at her as she said it, stony eyes flicking down her length and up again. She was ashamed to admit her breath caught in her throat, just a little.
The moment stretched on in silence, weighing heavily but not unpleasantly. "That's an interesting name," she said at last, trying in vain to be conversational.
He only grunted in response. Hawke was studying him now, tracing the whirls of his tattoos with dark eyes and roving over his disheveled white hair.
The last thing he wanted to do was discuss his past with this strange new girl.
"Yours is a strange name as well," he commented, back turned as he wrote the day's agenda on the board.
"Ah, well," she stammered, "I don't like my first name. But I'm the only one in my family who goes by it."
Fenris had some really nice shoulders. And waist. And the tattoos on his skin became less odd and more appealing the longer she looked at them.
Hawke realized then: she was in trouble.
She made her way to the door, but paused before leaving.
"Latin. How hard can it be?"
She heard what might have been a huff of amusement as the door clicked behind her.