There are some things that simply cannot be borne. Among them is bringing live Grimm into a classroom.

"Peter," I ask quietly, menace oozing from every syllable as I slowly stir my tea, "Why did you use a Borbatusk to supplement to your lesson plans? More specifically, why did I learn of this supplement from a student several months after the fact rather than from you?"

His mustache twitches near-imperceptibly. For all his posturing, Peter's an easy read, and he's quite aware of it. To draw attention away from the fact, he blusters and exaggerates, hiding a tree within a forest. After no small amount of effort I have become fluent enough to know his feelings in broad strokes, even if the subtly escapes me. For example, while I know the last rustle of grey lip hairs speaks of embarrassment, I don't know if it's the childish feeling of getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar or professional discomfort. Peter clears his throat once before sitting up in his chair and trying to justify himself

"With all due respect Glynda, while testing our students in the classroom is all well and good, such a task is a far cry from recalling such information in the midst of battle. In order to ensure that the material had been fully understood I sought out a practical exercise that would test their knowledge." He nods once, chins jiggling slightly.

"We have missions for that," I say evenly, narrowing my eyes and taking another sip of my tea. Oobleck recently found the blend and frankly I've taken a liking to it. That may be the only reason why I haven't thrown it at Peter. "No, I think you brought a Borbatusk into your lecture because you didn't want your students getting too bored and couldn't think of another way to engage them." Somehow Peter has yet to pick up even the most basic of presentation skills, converting his otherwise fascinating anecdotes into dull bragging. Diligent students pass his class, but he relies on shock and awe to cover his weak points. Which would be fine if he just filled out the paperwork.

Peter flinches at the insult and places a hand over his heart. "Glynda, you wound me! Would I, Peter Port, ever willingly deceive you?" He sounds genuinely hurt, which means that he's almost certainly joking.

"Yes, yes you would," I respond instantly, maintaining my own unamused visage to signal that this isn't a small thing. Peter falls silent in turn and adopts a sober expression. After a moment of staring at one another I turn away and pinch the bridge of my nose in exasperation.

"Peter, I'm bringing this up because it would be very, very easy for a Grimm of any type to damage the school, regardless of whether or not there is an experienced Huntsman overseeing it." A hoof at the wrong angle, a caught tusk, any number of seemingly tiny accidents could cause hundreds, if not thousands, of lien in property damage. More if Peter misses with that scattergun of his. "If you want to bring more Grimm into the school, go through the proper channels."

I remember being astounded that there even was a procedure for trafficking Grimm, and being even more astounded when I actually found it filled out on my desk. Peter clearly knows what to do, but for some reason he skipped that step this time.

The man himself nods once, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling in a way that means honest regret.

"In the future, I will. I promise." At that I relax, letting out a small breath and softening my own expression. Peter's many things, among them a man of his word. If he says that he'll fill out the appropriate forms, I can expect it done in triplicate from this moment forward.

"It turned out alright this time, but what if it hadn't? The Borbatsuk could've charged faster than you could shoot. Then where would it have ended up? Would it have hit a wall? A student? Someone could've been hurt," I explain. I hold up my hand to forestall Peter's protest. "I know you wouldn't have let it happen, but let us remember just how suicidal your average student is." It is frankly unbelievable what I discover some of my charges doing. Peter nods in sympathy before starting up again.

"In my defense, I was planning on sending you an incident report," he says. I raise a single eyebrow. Peter spread his hands in indignation. "I was! I just never found a time where you weren't..." he trails off and I roll my eyes.

"Up to my eyeballs in paperwork?" I ask rhetorically. Peter shrugs apologetically.

"I didn't want to put another form on your pile," he says, meeting my gaze. I snort. One more form would hardly matter. "When was the last time you had a day off, lass?" he asks. "When did you last take some time to simply sit back and relax somewhere warm and sunny?" I shake my head and drink more her tea.

"I don't remember," I answer honestly, casting back my memory and trying to think of a single incidence in the past five years. It wasn't like I've never had the opportunity to take a vacation. Beacon is a good employer, and Ozpin offers me enough paid leave to go galavanting for a week every semester if I want to.

I sigh. It's never a problem of my ability to step away from my job. It's always a matter of finding something else to do.

I like wine, but not in a way that lent itself to extended recreation. Through that path lies the life of a lush. I enjoy reading, but not enough to lose myself in a novel for hours on end. It's too passive. Most sports pale in comparison to a good spar, and finding a worthwhile partner that won't go off on a mission within three days is frankly impossible.

It's not that I can't take time off. It's just that whenever I try to, my thoughts drift back to ungraded assignments, potential lesson plans, ways to get ahead of the next rash of paperwork, accounting that needs another eye on it, and soon enough I'm back behind a desk, working unpaid overtime, at which point I go back to billing my hours and accepting that I have once again failed to take a break.

Thirty three and already married to my job. What would Mom say?

"Well, if you want to talk about anything, Barty and I are always ready to listen!" Port say, jolting me out of her daze. Presentation skills aside, the man does have a voice made for announcment. He stands up from his chair and inclines his head. "I'll have a report filled out by tomorrow morning, along with some requests for live demonstrations." I make a mental note to renew our insurance and nod back before draining the rest of my tea. I really do need to get Oobleck to make me a list of the blends he stocks. The man has a way with caffeinated beverages that borders on the magical.

"I should get going as well." I check the clock on the wall. "I have a class in twenty minutes." Combat with the first years. The least balanced group of students I have, complete with more than a few... problematic ones. Wonderful. I stand up and toss the empty cup into a wastebasket, nudging it with my Semblance when it tries to bounce off the rim and onto the carpet. "It's been a pleasure, Peter."

"Likewise," he replies, walking out the door of the lounge and holding it open. I follow a look down on him as I pass, a small smirk on my face.

"Ever the gentleman," I say, a fond sarcasm in my voice. It's the little things he does that let me put up with his antics. That, and lack of former Huntsmen willing to teach a horde of teenagers how to kill a King Taiju using nothing but a railway spike.

"But of course," he says with mock formality. "One always opens doors for beautiful women." The twinkle in his eye betrays the platonic nature of the compliment and he nods politely as he steps away from the door. "I wish you an excellent day, Professor Goodwitch," he finishes before turning down the hallway and walking off, whistling tunelessly. I watch him until he disappears around a corner. Once I'm sure he's gone, I turn the other direction and begin my own walk to class, adopting a much more familiar near-glare to convince students to stay out of my way.

That. That is the other problem with taking time off.

Peter is fifty six and happily married, and for all his talk he's quite monogamous. I've met his wife Sherry during a faculty dinner and she's a lovely woman, if a bit louder than I would normally put up with. Oobleck is in his sixties and shows no signs of settling down, nor of wanting to. More to the point, he's more manic than a squirrel on methamphetamine. Ozpin is Ozpin, which means I know more than nothing and less than I want to. The rest of the staff are women.

In the space I frequent most, there is not a single person who would make for a good romantic partner.

I scowl harder and a second year pales as I stomp by him. The vicious satisfaction doesn't drown out the frustration.

I'm not actively searching for a special someone. Empty beds haven't felt awkward for years, less now than ever. It's the lack of opportunity that twists the knife. What if I want to flirt? To tease? Beyond the more biological part of enjoying a partner, it would be nice to have someone closer to my own age to talk to. Peter and Oobleck are interesting enough, but they were raised by veterans of the Great War. I don't always see eye-to-eye on things with them, and our interests vary enough that every attempt at small talk eventually circles back around to work.

I stop just before the double doors that lead into arena one and take a moment to center myself. Emotions at the door, focus on the students. They may be fools, but it's my job to un-fool them.

I step into the classroom.

I've gotten better since the start of the year. I mean, all my friends can still kick me around like a football and I wouldn't like my odds against anyone who actually knows what they're doing, but "worst in Beacon" is still pretty good compared to your average person.

On the other hand, Beacon's not filled with average persons.

Cardin's mace flickers out, way faster than such a big mass of metal had any right to be, and I barely get my shield up in time. Instead of knocking me out of the ring, it slides up and out, exposing his side.

See, this is where Pyrrha would stab into his ribs, or Ren would close in and start cutting, or Nora would just straight-up smash him out of the ring. Cardin makes a lot of mistakes, and my teammates are good enough to capitalize on them.

Me? I'm too busy trying to stay standing.

Then the mace comes around again and I'm back to blocking. One from the right I have to duck under that I can hear, a backhand from the left I lean back to avoid, barely keeping my balance, and then he goes for an overhead.

Gotcha.

I "suddenly" regain my footing and dash forwards. Cardin's face shows surprise for one glorious second before I slam the edge of my shield into his nose. He goes staggering back and I try to capitalize. Jab, cut, duck a wild swing, jab again, keep cutting and don't sto-

When the stars stop dancing across my vision I see Cardin walking over, a murderous expression on his face. Nope. I slap the ground three times.

"I forfeit!" I shout, not bothering to try and hide the desperation in my voice. Better embarrassed than concussed. For a second, Cardin hesitates, as if he's seriously considering getting in one last blow. The a buzzer sounds and I hear the click-clack of heels string across stone.

"Do you require assistance standing, Mr. Arc?" Professor Goodwitch asks, glaring at Cardin. He backs off and I feel a rush of relief. Thank you Goodwitch, may your cereal boxes always contain rare items.

"Nah, just a little woozy," I say, getting my hands under me and pushing myself up to standing. I rest on my knees for a moment while the floaty feeling fades away. I'm not sure how I feel about getting used to picking myself up. On the plus side, it means I'm getting better at taking a beating. On the down side, I really shouldn't be losing every time. Once I feel more stable, I stand back up, retrieve Coreca Mors, and move next to Cardin for Professor Goodwitch's post-mortem.

"Mr. Winchester, your arrogance could have been your downfall. Again," she adds, and Cardin snorts but doesn't backchat her. "While you have the capability to deliver excellent strikes, you should not do so at the expense of your defense. Though Mr. Arc was unable to fully capitalize on it, a more competent individual would have you on the ground in moments." I wince at the backhanded insult. On the one hand, yeah, she's right. On the other hand, did she really need to spell it out like that?

"Feh," Cardin says dismissively and I feel a quick jab of anger. I did get him at the end there. He doesn't take it any further though, and Goodwitch turns to me. I steel myself and prepare for the criticism.

"While you've improved considerably, your form is still extremely weak. You miss chances to deliver damage and commit too hard to the opportunities you do take, especially considering your defensive fighting style." I keep my mask on as the words rain down and accept it. It's nothing I haven't heard before, but unlike the beating it doesn't feel like I'm getting better with time. Professor Goodwitch moves on, barely looking at the two of us as she resets the stadium for the next combatants. "Additionally, while I applaud your feint for its effectiveness, one should not have to take such measures against an opponent as sloppy as Mr. Winchester." I feel a tiny flare of pride at the praise and not a little more satisfaction as Cardin scowls. Yeah, you gearhead, you feel that? That's how it feels to get played by a guy with C's in all his classes.

"Mr. Winchester, I would advise you to spar against your teammates with a focus on not getting hit at all. After a few weeks, we'll see if any of it sinks in." Cardin doesn't seem happy, but he does nod and step away from the podium. Professor Goodwitch looks up for a moment at me. "Mr. Arc, see me after class." I feel dread grow in my stomach but nod. Welp, looks like the team-bonding session just got delayed.

"Thank you, Professor Goodwitch," I say, managing to to stammer as I walk back to the stands, wincing at the strain in my arms from blocking all of Cardin's hits. Gonna feel that in the morning.

I easy down onto the bench and grimace as my butt hits the cold metal. Shortly thereafter I feel Pyrrha's hand between my shoulder blades, rubbing small circles.

"Thanks Pyr," I say, looking to side and giving her a smile. She smiles back.

"That last string of attacks was quite impressive," Pyrrha says and I feel my smile grow wooden.

"Still didn't actually win," I mutter, looking back towards the ring. I'm improving, yeah, but improving isn't a "w." It's not being on the same level as all my teammates.

"Mistral was not built in a day," Pyrrha says, hand rubbing a little harder into my back. I tighten my smile and look to the ring. As Professor Goodwitch calls up Ruby and some guy with a pair of short, broad-bladed spears. I lean forward and focus on the fight.

I know that I'm getting better. These days I can actually hurt Cardin before he knocks me out. I know that Pyrrha's just trying to help. Why else would she spend her nights training me? Knowing stuff isn't the problem.

Well, it kinda is.

Ruby's spar is insane. She's running around like crazy, but the other guy is teleporting between his weapons. They're using the whole ring, moving fast enough that I can barely keep up, making contact for maybe half a second at a time before disengaging and trying to reengage on their own terms. Two speed-type fighters going all-out is a hell of a show.

I can't win a fight versus Ruby. She'll just run away and shoot me until I'm out of Aura. Pyrrha could just disarm her, but even without her Semblance she could probably corner Ruby and out-fight her. Her opponent though, him I could maybe beat. Grab one of his spears, threaten to throw it out, force a teleport, grab his other one and make him come to me. Tricky, but not impossible.

I sigh as I see Ruby land a solid hit. It's easy to think that. On the other hand, when I try to go out and do it, I'm just not fast enough. Or strong enough. Or good enough at all, really. Back before Forever Fall I could never figure out how I kept getting my butt handed to me by everybody else.

Now?

Now I know it's because I really am the worst.

Ruby's opponent wins after putting her in some weird sort of arm-bar with one of his spears and Professor Goodwitch dismisses the class. When Pyrrha and the other head towards the door I wave them off.

"Professor Goodwitch wanted to see me," I explain. "Don't worry, I'll catch up."

Pyrrha looks a little confused but Ren and Nora drag her along.

"Come on, Renny promised to make dinner tonight so we wouldn't get sick of cafeteria food!" Nora says loudly, grabbing Pyrrha's arm and stomping forward.

"I did no such thing," Ren says calmly, trailing her. Pyrrha sends back one last nervous smile as she disappears through the double doors. I look after them as the leave, then turn and walk over to Goodwitch, palming my sword hilt nervously. She looks me up and down for a moment, appraising, and I plant my feet a little more firmly.

"Uh, why'd you call me after class?" I ask. I think about adding ma'am, but it'd be a little weird. Fortunately Goodwitch doesn't seem to mind and starts talking.

"You're in danger of failing," she says bluntly. My heart sinks. "While there does have to a person who has the lowest skill in every group of students, they typically tend to win at least one of their bouts," she continues, harsh and honest. I bite down the defensive retort and let it out as a breath. Calm down, Jaune, if she was going to fail you she'd say it straight.

"You've shown remarkable improvement, but even if you keep it up I'm afraid that you will not meet the minimum standards I enforce. In order to give you the best chance at actually passing, I am extending an offer of tutoring sessions. Should you agree, we would convene here three times a week with your partner. I would supervise your spar and provide additional instruction."

I blink.

"Um. What?"

Goodwitch raises an eyebrow. "I find it hard to believe that you did not understand what I just said." I wave my hands in front of me, a flush rising to my face.

"No no, I understood what you said. I mean, uh," I scratch the back of my head with one hand and look off to the side, thinking about how to phrase it, "that seems like a lot of extra work, and I'm pretty sure I'm not your favorite student. I mean, Pyrrha probably is," I add, "But why help me?"

"I don't have a favorite student," Goodwitch says coldly and I wince. Ouch. Not a good start. "On the other hand, you are one of my students, period. Is it so strange that wish you not to fail?" She phrases it like a question, but it comes out more like a command and I make a nervous sound of agreement. I mean, who you put it like that of course she'd help. It's just that the glare of death kind of overrides most logical thinking. "More than that, you appear to be trying to improve yourself, which is more than I can say for some. Thus, if I make the offer you will likely stick with it, making my time well-spent. Now then, will you accept?" she asks, folding her arms. I open my mouth to answer, then hesitate.

Personal sessions with the combat instructor of Beacon. I'd be out of my mind not to leap at the opportunity. On the other hand, that would also mean more time with Pyrrha. More time being knocked around. More time being constantly reminded just how big the gap is. More time putting on a plastic smile so she doesn't feel bad and pull her punches out of pity.

I don't want to pass this up, but I also don't want to feel like I'm trying to win a race on a treadmill.

"I'd love to," I start, fumbling for words that don't make me sound like a jerk before thinking screw it, "But does it have to be Pyrrha and I?"

Goodwitch stops typing and looks up, a neutral expression on her face. "Why do you ask?"

I rub my arm self-consciously. Here we go. "Pyrrha's been training me outside of classes, and I, uh." I pause and grit my teeth. This is going to sound pathetic. "I always lose." Yup, sounds like something a loser would say.

Goodwitch rolls her eyes. "And? Do you expect to win against me?" I shake my head firmly.

"Nope, not in a million years. But you're a teacher. It's kinda your job to be able to kick our butts." She doesn't stop me, so I keep going, trying to explain the bitterness. "It's more like... Pyrrha and I spar. A lot. And I never win, even though she's going easy on me. And I know it's because she's good and I'm bad, she's been training for a long time and worked really hard and she deserves all of her badassery. But when your partner, who you know for a fact has nothing but love for you, and has been nothing but helpful, beats you into the ground over and over and over again..." I feel myself getting angry and force my hands to unclench and close my eyes. In. Out. Calm. I let out a breath. Then I open my eyes.

"I just don't think that losing to the same person for an extra hour every day is going to help." There. Simple. I grit my teeth and wait for a telling-off.

It doesn't come. Goodwitch stays silent and flicks her tablet a few more times. Then she looks at me.

"One on one it is. Ms. Nikos likely does not need the additional training." Relief, then guilt, run through me in turn and I nod silently. Yay. I won.

Goodwitch adjust her glass once more and turns away from me.

"I would recommend talking to your partner about your feelings at some point. If you need help, Beacon's therapist has drop-in hours between four and six," she calls back. "I will see you on Wednesday."

I watch her leave, a complicated feeling in my gut. Well, I got what I wanted. For better or for worse. My scroll buzzes and I check it. Pyrrha, wondering how much longer I'll be.

I send back a quick reassurance and head to the changing rooms, trying to think of a way to tell her that I'll be missing Wednesday's practice.