AN: This is a prompt fill for Snowells Week 2017, and thank you very much to crazygirlne for alerting me to it, and encouraging (harassing?!) me to participate.
This is for the teacher/student prompt, but it could well be viewed as an "alternate Earth" story, if you so choose.
XXXXXX
It starts with a lecture.
Or maybe it starts with the end of a lecture, to be more precise.
Caitlin has pretty mixed feelings at the beginning of each university semester – on one hand, she delights in a new term, new classes, and new students (most of whom are eager to learn). On the other hand, there's a certain monotony during the first classes, and while that can be comforting (at times) it can also come across as dull, if she's not careful. She tries to teach a variety of courses each year, so that boredom can never fully sink in; one of her greatest fears is becoming the sort of weary, uninspired professor that students instinctively avoid. The 'dragging it out until retirement' type that she's come across far too often in her academic career – both as a student and as a teacher.
As such, she tries especially hard to ramp up her energy levels the first week. Sometimes, though, when she's going over a syllabus for a class she's already taught a half-dozen times before, she worries she's coming across as the exact opposite kind of professor than the one she strives to be.
First days are always the hardest, in any case, and she uses that as an excuse to brush aside her worry; it's the end of her first Medical Ethics class of the semester, and the smiles and goodbyes sent her way from new students cheer her immensely. They wouldn't be that friendly if she'd almost put them to sleep with her first class, right? It had been an introduction to what the semester would entail: an overview of the course topics and requirements, along with what they could expect to learn over the next 15 weeks.
She's zipping up the carrying case for her tablet and course materials when someone slaps down a white piece of paper on the desk in front of her with slightly more force than necessary. She glances up to see an older man standing there, watching her. Not that he's old, per se, but definitely older than 90% of the students in her classes, by a good 20-25 years or so. Which means he has perhaps 10-15 years on her. It doesn't throw her too much, though, because it's become increasingly common for people to go back to school in an attempt at changing careers (especially in the economy's weak job market).
He's about a head taller than her with dark, somewhat crazy hair, and square-rimmed glasses. In fact, 'dark' could describe almost everything about him – his clothes, his demeanor – everything except his eyes, which are surprisingly blue. From her first impression, he has the look about him of a stereotypical college professor, and the thought has her suppressing laughter.
"I want to join your class," he says, without preamble, and it makes sense – she'd already recognized the white paper as an add/drop form that would let him properly register for her class, since it's past the deadline for online registration.
Normally in these situations, she smiles and welcomes the person, signs the form, and lets them be on their way. For some reason, though…today she doesn't.
"Why?" she asks, before she can stop herself. She realizes she sounds slightly too challenging in response to such a simple request and isn't sure of her own motivations. Maybe she's irked at the way he simply announced he wanted to join, instead of asking her politely (or even introducing himself). Maybe it's the way he seems completely confident she'll agree. Or maybe it's something else about him, entirely.
"What do you mean 'why'?" His tone is sharp – he'd already been reaching for the form, assuming she'd sign it instantly, and since she hasn't, he lets his hand hover over it for a few seconds before dropping it back to his side.
"I'm merely curious," Caitlin says, because she has no other reason. She taps a finger to one of the boxes on the form, right under where he'd written his name ('Harrison Wells'). "This indicates you want to audit. You realize that means you'd get no credit, despite paying the same amount for the class as everyone else."
"I'm aware of what 'audit' means," he replies crisply, and she wonders if he's taken her words as an insult. When a few more moments pass in tense silence, he picks up the form again. "I take it that you're not going to allow me to join." He's already walking away when Caitlin rounds the desk to step into his path, causing him to abruptly stop.
"Did I say I wouldn't let you in?" she asks harshly, pulling the form from his hand.
He stares down at his now-empty hand, like he can't believe she just did that. "You weren't exactly overly welcoming."
"It's not like you kindly asked me."
He pauses, seeming to consider that, then shrugs. "Fair enough."
She feels like she's won some kind of battle, even though she's not sure what it's over, or how it started, or why. She quickly searches the desk and when she can't find a pen or pencil anywhere (they're stunningly scarce nowadays when so much is done with computers and tablets and smart boards), she uses an orange dry erase marker to scrawl her initials on the required line and then holds it back out for him.
"Very professional," he murmurs, and she bristles slightly – she's doing him a favor, after all. She's not required to let anyone into her class after the initial registration period is over.
She has every intention of taking the high road, but what she says instead is "Feel free to throw it out if it's not professional enough for you."
His expression doesn't change when he tips his head a little, looking from her to the paper. He can obviously tell she hasn't appreciated his attitude, or his comments, thus far. "It'll do," he says, and apparently he's as great at letting things go as she is, since he pauses for a significant moment before finishing with, "I suppose."
Caitlin exhales slowly, deciding they've definitely started out on the wrong foot and she should at least try to be the adult here. "Since you only want to audit, you won't be required to do any of the work or take any exams, but –"
"I already told you I know what 'audit' means," he interjects.
Her unimpressed glare has him looking somewhat chagrined. "But," she begins, almost daring him to interrupt her again, "I want to tell you that I'm not like some professors you might have come across. Auditing students are not second-class students. You don't get last priority or anything like that – which sadly, I've seen too often over the years. I was treated that way myself for a few courses I've audited and I despise it."
She waits to let him respond, but he merely waves his hand in motion for her to continue.
"What I'm saying is that you'll be just as important as every other student paying to take this class. It doesn't matter to me if someone is getting credit for it or not. And even though you won't be required to do any work, since you won't be graded, I highly recommend following along as best you can so that you don't get lost. Also, if you choose to write papers or take the tests, or anything else, I'll happily grade them if you want. I'll also work with you on anything you might need for this class."
She stops again, realizing she's said that in a rush, maybe worried he might be judging her the whole time she says it. She's expecting the worst, which means she's floored when he simply nods and says, "Thank you."
"Great," she says, letting a smile spread across her face, much more at ease than she's been for their conversation so far. "For the rest of the semester, think of it like…you have full access to me."
That has him pausing in the middle of neatly folding the form, and he sends her an assessing glance. "Full access, hmm?"
The words are innocuous enough, without any inflection, but something about the way he looks at her as he says it causes her to start blushing. She immediately turns away, hoping that covers it. She needlessly unzips her bag and pretends to rummage around inside. "Full access to my…expertise. Of course."
"Of course," he repeats and when she risks looking up at him again, he's not even facing her. In fact, he's nearly at the door and typing something on his phone, as well. It irritates her to an irrational degree that he'd simply walk away without even saying goodbye. (And yeah, okay, maybe it stings a little, too. Were common manners such a crazy thing to expect?)
"When you leave here," she calls after him, "the psychology building is a quarter mile straight ahead, across the park."
He stops in the doorway and turns to face her. "What?"
"I'm sure you'll be looking for a course where you can brush up on your interpersonal skills."
She isn't quite certain, but she'd bet money right then that he's trying his damnedest not to smile at her. "That's definitely one of the most creative ways I've ever been called a jerk."
Caitlin instantly feels guilty, because she'd only been teasing. Mostly. And he had been somewhat of a jerk to her. But still, she shouldn't be insulting one of her students to his face on the very first day of class (and definitely not when the relatively mundane introduction to said class had interested him enough to want to join it).
"Sorry," she sighs. "That was uncalled for and…I don't know why I said it."
"Maybe I brought it out in you," he allows, like the admission is pulled from him entirely against his will. "I apologize. It's not you. There's this thing and…" He shakes his head slightly, and the rest of the sentence is left unfinished. "I've been told that at times I can be a little…much."
"That's one way to put it," she says, slowly. "And apology accepted."
As if the apology isn't enough, he surprises her again by coming back across the room, standing a few feet from her. "Let me try again: I was impressed by your first lecture today and I would very much like to join your class." He mustn't be able to help himself, since he adds, with feigned desperation, "Please, I'm begging you, Dr. Caitlin Snow."
She has the strangest urge to lightly hit him (he's a stranger!) and an even more peculiar feeling that if she did so, it would be out of affection (he's a stranger).
Instead, she holds out her hand (trying not to think of how she'll get to touch him this way, too). "You're more than welcome to join my class, Harrison Wells."
His eyes widen a little that she knows his name, though he must instantly realize she'd seen it on the form, since the expression quickly vanishes. He reaches out to shake her hand and for some reason, his grip sends a shock through her; she swears she feels electricity from it travel up her entire arm. Before it can spread any further, he releases her and she nearly trips backwards in her haste to put some space between them.
"Are you okay?" His concern has her blinking, since it's so much at odds with the kind of person she'd pegged him as a few minutes earlier. (She's thinking she might have been incredibly wrong.)
"Fine," she insists, forcing a smile. (Truth be told, she has no idea what had spurred her odd reaction to their handshake.) She searches vainly for some remotely believable excuse. "I'm…tired. Been a long day."
He raises an eyebrow, almost in challenge. "It's 2 in the afternoon."
"Maybe I got up at 4 am," she tries to claim.
"Did you? Get up at 4 am?"
No, she most certainly had not. "I could have," she mumbles.
"I'll stop bothering you, then," he says, and before she can (irrationally) assure him that he's not bothering her, he holds up the folded form. "Let's hope they accept orange marker, or else you might not get the pleasure of my company for the next three months."
"Whatever would I do," she deadpans, grabbing her bag, and when she turns back to him, he's smiling at her in such an unexpected way that she feels her breath catch; his smile is genuine, without a hint of the condescension or arrogance that she'd have expected in it. (She's known this man for all of ten minutes and she's already realizing there's a lot more to him than he lets people see on the surface.)
"Your life would never be the same," he promises, heading for the door and tapping a hand against the doorframe in a final goodbye. "See you in two days, Dr. Snow."
"See you, Harrison," she replies and then he's gone.
Your life would never be the same. She can't help but laugh at the conceit of it – though if she'd had any idea how true his statement would be, the last thing she ever would have done was laugh.
XXXXXX
As it turns out, the registrar's office does, indeed, accept dry erase marker on official forms.
At least, that's what Caitlin assumes since Harrison Wells is present for her next class. And each one after that.
He always sits in the same place: the exact center of the lecture hall – the precise middle. She knows because one day she'd counted the rows and then the chairs on either side of him. It can't be an accident that it's the seat he's chosen. She also has no idea why, but the more time goes on, the more she feels she's sometimes giving lectures only to him.
She attributes it to how he's deliberately placed himself in the center, making himself the focus of the room. So how can she help it if her gaze strays to his, more often than not? If she finds herself calling on him more than the others? If she usually asks him for help when she needs a partner for various tasks and demonstrations?
The iciness of their first meeting never manifests itself again. By the third class, she even considers them…dare she say it – friends. She isn't sure he feels the same way, but from how warmly he seems to regard her, in general, she suspects the feeling is mutual.
It grows from there, to the point that she starts making a concerted effort to call on other students so that it doesn't seem like she's favoring him. (She can't help wondering if it's a futile effort on her part, sure that anyone who's truly looking can easily see how much she likes him.)
Despite how he's acted with her, from early on, it had taken him longer to warm up to other people in the class. In the beginning, it had been like he was setting out invisible signs that said 'don't bother me' at every turn. By now, though, about a month into the semester, he's friendlier and more open with others. That's not to say that he's not still blunt or sarcastic or acerbic (and often all three at once), but it's never (okay, almost never) meant in a mean way. It's more that he's hard to please, and on top of that, he loves arguing. There are certain people in the class that he routinely clashes with, such as…
"Do you have to contradict everything?" Cisco Ramon bites out, crossing his arms and glaring at Harry in a way that lets Caitlin know she might soon have to intervene. Cisco isn't actually an undergraduate student, but another professor at the college (and that might be why he's never been intimidated by Harry's nature, the way most of the younger students in class were, at first).
Cisco and another friend of hers, Barry Allen, are both engineering professors and they're taking part in a pilot program that claims its goal is to create more 'well-rounded' teachers in an 'interconnected environment'. Apparently, administration has decided that the university's faculty is much too segregated from each other, always sticking to their own fields, and the higher-ups want to see more cross-over. (There are also rumors the university is hoping to expand their co-teaching classes that meld two related subjects together into one course which is taught side-by-side by two professors.)
As such, what it boils down to is that participants can elect to take any course, at any level, so long as it's outside their field, and they receive credit for it that contributes toward their yearly training and publishing requirements.
"It's a medical ethics class," Harry's reminding Cisco, coolly, with a scathing look. "That means, by nature, we have to debate these issues."
"But we're in the same group," Cisco stresses, in dismay, "which means we're supposed to be on the same side!"
"You'd think," Harry says, feigning agreement. "If only you didn't keep choosing the wrong side."
"Professor Snow," Cisco pleads, just short of whining, and she rubs her hands over her face in despair. A lot of classes have ended up like this, most often when Harry's working with Cisco or Barry. (Yet the three of them keep choosing to work together when they have the choice! She'll never understand it.)
"Maybe we should skip the group discussions for now," she says, infusing her voice with as much exuberance as possible. "Let's have a class debate!"
"Isn't that what we do every day?" Harry asks, almost mocking her, but she knows by now that he means no insult by it – the only person he might enjoy arguing with more than Cisco or Barry is her.
"It's what you do every day," Caitlin corrects sharply. Before he can respond, she adds, "And no, debating is almost never the assignment."
"Maybe you should articulate your lesson plans more clearly," he tells her.
"Maybe you should work on your reading comprehension skills," she retorts, knowing their fight is childish even as it occurs. Some part of her can never help it, though – she enjoys their back and forth as much as he does.
She holds up a paper copy of the syllabus that she keeps in her bag at all times – in the past, it was always for reference purposes, but now it's always for times like these. (Namely, it's for refuting things Harry tries to claim.)
"You probably changed that since the beginning of the semester," he says, dismissively, and she valiantly resists the urge to crumple up the paper and throw it at his head. (He must know it, too, if his smirk is any indication.)
"Split into two groups," she says, deciding to move up the plans she'd had for the last half of the class (and blatantly ignores Harry in the process). "Today's question concerns the use of gene modification, specifically in embryos. Those of you who think it's a mostly positive thing that will benefit future generations, eradicating terrible genetic diseases, take that side of the room." She points to her left. "Those of you who are more cautious and worry about the slippery slope of gene modification leading to so-called 'designer babies', take the other side."
She leans back against the desk as the students choose sides, noting (not for the first time) how much she hates the room's design. It's set up so that she's at the front of the room, lower than the twenty rows of seats that ascend above her in steps. The rows themselves have thirty seats across, and despite the sheer size of the room, only 1/5th of the seats are full for this particular class.
She's always despised these types of classrooms and specifically requests, every year, not to teach in them. This type of lecture hall limits how much the students can interact with each other, while also maintaining an artificial distance between her and her class. It also has the uncanny side effect of making her feel like the strange focal point of a zoo exhibit. A hundred pairs of eyes (or more, depending on the class) staring down at her? It's beyond uncomfortable. Unfortunately, though, sometimes there are no other options and she gets stuck, having to make the best of it.
"Something wrong?" Harry inquires, particularly astute today. He also hasn't moved from his spot in the exact center of the room.
"I was thinking how much I hate this type of lecture hall," she says, then proceeds to list off her reasons why, summing up with the fact that she just has to deal with it.
"Hmm," he says, which isn't really an answer (not that she needs one) and he writes something in his notebook. (She's seen him with a laptop, tablet, and smart phone on separate occasions, but he sometimes insists on being old-fashioned.)
She manages not to roll her eyes, knowing he has no way to understand her frustration. "Are you going to choose a side?" When he doesn't glance up from his notebook, she says his name sternly. "Harrison!"
"What?" he asks, belatedly looking around to see he's the only one left in the midst of several dozen empty seats. Everyone else has split to either side of the room.
He seems unperturbed as he carefully closes the notebook and then folds his hands on top of it. "I've already chosen."
"Then move," she orders, trying not to sigh.
"Perhaps I wasn't clear," he says. "I choose both sides."
Of course he does. "You have to pick one or the other," she tries to tell him.
"No, I don't," he says calmly. "I don't feel more strongly about one side over the other. As such, I feel it would be disingenuous to move to either side of the room."
"How does anyone stand you?" Cisco mutters, purposely loud, and half the students near him snicker in response.
Caitlin pointedly ignores both Cisco's jab and Harry's infuriating 'explanation' for why he refuses to pick a stance. In reality, she knows he could effectively argue either side of the issue – most people could – but for whatever reason, he's chosen this as his line in the sand today. Maybe he's expecting a debate with her, personally (which isn't uncommon, actually), but she's too tired to oblige.
She walks up the ten steps to his seat and sets down a stack of note cards on his desk – she can be old-fashioned at times, too. "In that case, Harrison, you can be today's moderator."
"What?" He warily picks up the cards, skimming them, then meets her gaze.
"Since you refuse to participate the other way, you can ask these questions to spur a friendly debate, while also ensuring that no one gets too carried away in their arguments."
"I don't recall getting a paycheck to teach this class," he says smartly, even as he stands up and starts shuffling the note cards.
Caitlin descends the steps back to the front of the room. "I'm going to be watching. And judging. And grading."
Harry pauses mid-shuffle. "I thought those who audited the class didn't get graded."
"You thought," she mimics him. "You might be the first person in history to fail a class in which you aren't being graded."
Most of the class starts laughing at her 'threat', and after seeing the look on Harry's face, Caitlin has to turn away so she doesn't laugh, too.
After the laughter fades, Harry opens his mouth, about to read the first question from the note card, and that's when Caitlin intervenes. She claps a couple times, loudly, to ensure she has everyone's attention. "You've all switched sides."
"Huh?" Barry asks, voicing everyone's confusion. (He's chosen the side to be cautious of genetic alteration and Cisco has chosen the side to embrace it.)
Caitlin speaks slowly and concisely: "You've. Switched. Sides. Those of you who want severe restrictions on genetic engineering and worry about its future consequences, you're now on the side of wholeheartedly embracing it. And those of you who want it implemented ASAP and think it will mostly benefit humans immensely, you now have to argue for restrictions and the potential problems that such engineering will cause." Her explanation is met with low grumbling at first, and then outright complaints by the students who are beyond unhappy at having to argue the opposite of what they'd wanted.
She merely watches them without saying anything, waiting until they realize she won't speak until they're quiet. "This is what academia – what life – is about," she informs them. "Recognizing the other side of issues that you're passionate about. Learning how to defend your ideas to other people – and there's no better way to do that than to argue the opposite side of your preferred stance."
Harry's tapping the note cards on his desk, watching her with such gravity that she's almost uncomfortable. At times, she feels like his scrutiny goes above and beyond what she should expect from a student who's merely auditing one of her classes. She brushes off the feeling and gestures for him to start asking the questions.
Thus begins the class's debate on the ramifications of genetic engineering on embryos. Caitlin expects that she'll have to repeatedly intervene to keep things on track, but Harry's…shockingly more adept than she'd thought he'd be. He has no problem keeping the debate going – when an interesting tangent develops, he lets it play out, and then returns to the matter at hand. His behavior is drastically the opposite of how he is as a group participant. Instead of arguing with everyone, just for the hell of it (which is what she often suspects his motive is), he lets them discuss whatever they want, and when they stray too far off course, he steers them back in such a solicitous way that she almost can't believe what she's witnessing.
The last hour of their class flies by and before she knows it, the clock's at 1:50 and they're packing up. As they leave, numerous students are actually congratulating Harry on a job well done as moderator, and Caitlin feels like she's fallen into some kind of alternate reality.
"Hold on," she says loudly, causing everyone to freeze. "I'm looking for a teaching assistant starting next semester. Anyone who's interested, please come see me during my office hours."
"Too bad my schedule is so busy this year, I would love to be your T.A.," Cisco tells her, jokingly, as he comes up to her desk. "I'd keep everyone in line. You know," he hitches a thumb toward Harry, who's right behind him, "like your problem students."
"I almost wish I'd taken a class with you," Harry says mildly. "Think of how much fun we would have had. Me pointing out every aspect in which you're wrong…"
Cisco lets the insult slide, asking curiously, "Why are you taking this class, anyways?" (Caitlin's interest is piqued because it's a question she's asked several times before, and Harry always talks around the answer.) "No offense, Harry, but you're not exactly the type of person who usually takes an undergraduate class."
"Are you calling me old, Ramon?" Harry's voice is as dry as sandpaper.
"Is that the term you'd use?" Cisco says, feigning confusion.
"You're never too old to learn," Harry tells him briskly, and Caitlin nods in agreement, even as she stifles her disappointment that it's another non-answer about his reason for taking her class.
Barry walks up to the three of them, having overheard that last line. "I certainly understand what it's like to get older," he says cheerfully. He steps between Harry and Cisco, clasping each of them on the shoulder. "None of us are in our teens anymore, right? I remember what it was like entering my twenties. Boy, was that a major change!"
Cisco merely frowns at him, but Harry's expression causes Caitlin to burst out laughing, made all the worse when he sends her a sharp look of reproval.
Once she gets herself under control, she meets Harry's eyes and the fondness she's sure she sees there leaves her warm all over.
"I have to get going," Cisco is saying, as he walks backwards out of the room, with Barry in tow, "but I'll try to encourage some students that I think would make a good fit as your T.A."
"I appreciate it," she says, and then everyone's gone. Except for Harrison Wells.
"Do you want to apply to be my T.A.?" she teases, as she perches on the edge of her desk.
"Hardly," he scoffs, lingering a few feet from her (and part of her wonders if he's waiting for her so they can leave together; he's done it a couple times before, and she'd like if it became a habit). "Luckily for you, Ramon's a professor and can't fulfill the role. You dodged a bullet, there."
"I'm sure he'd have done fine," she says pleasantly, turning to put her tablet back in its case. "What's your argument for why I 'dodged a bullet', as you say?"
"Because he's Cisco," Harry laments, as if it's an answer.
"That's not a reason," Caitlin points out, heading for the door (and when he follows, she hurriedly suppresses any hope or excitement she might feel from his company).
"It's reason enough for me," Harry quips. Off her look, he grudgingly allows, "He might have been…adequate."
"You're extremely generous with your compliments," she says wryly, trying not to focus on how closely they're walking together.
"I only give them out when they're earned."
"If even then," she chides, and it strikes her how well she seems to know him after the relatively short amount of time they've spent in each other's company. Maybe he thinks the same, since he sends her a measuring glance.
The conversation falls quiet and Caitlin finds herself thinking back to the question he never seems to want to answer. She figures it can't hurt to ask again. "Why did you take my class?"
"I…have a project I'm working on," he tells her, as they reach the building's exit. He opens the door, holding it for her, and they step into the brisk autumn air. It's colder than normal for this time of year, but not terribly so, and streams of students filter around them making their way to various classes.
"What's your project about?"
"Oh, a variety of things," he says. "Medical ethics is only part of it."
Caitlin is well-aware that doesn't really answer anything, but before she can challenge him on it, he's motioning to his right, toward the complex of buildings that houses mathematics. "I'm heading this way."
"I'm going left," she says, ignoring the twinge of unhappiness she feels at the mere fact of them heading in separate directions.
"Then this is where we part ways, Dr. Snow."
"How many times do I have to tell you to call me 'Caitlin'? I don't call you 'Dr. Wells' do I?" She knows, by now, that he has two advanced degrees in physics and engineering (and that's not only because she looked him up – he'd never made any effort to hide his educational background). It does make her wonder, though, about why he has a newfound interest in medicine and biology after all these years – to the point that he's auditing an undergraduate class on medical ethics, at that. (She knows he could research everything they discuss in class on his own and learn it much faster.)
He distracts her from that line of thought when he says, "Fair enough, Caitlin." The careful way he speaks her name, almost like he's savoring it, causes a shiver to run down her spine. And then he adds, in that same tone, "Snow."
"What?"
"Caitlin Snow," he repeats, like she's obtuse. "Your name."
"You don't have to say the whole thing, Harrison." (Then she can't help mocking him.) "Wells."
"I was trying to see which one I liked better," he tells her, by way of an actual explanation. "Caitlin or Snow."
"And?"
"I'm undecided. I think I'll go back and forth."
She has no idea how she can be so exasperated with him while also being so damn amused. "I'm glad this has turned into such an issue for you," she says, observing that the number of students outside has dropped off significantly and she needs to get to her next class a few buildings away, instead of standing around with him. (Though if she could have her way right then…she'd keep standing around with him.)
She takes a few steps back, silently indicating she has to go, and then she realizes how easily she became distracted from the original question he's only ever answered in the vaguest of terms. "I'll see you next week. And whatever you have going on, I hope my class has been helping you."
"You have been helping me more than you'll ever know," he assures her. "See you, Snow."
(She doesn't miss that he'd referred specifically to her and not her class.)
XXXXXX