Author's Note: This little oneshot comes across as a bit sexist. It's not meant that way. In my Timverse, he's good at math, as some men are, and it works as a character trait for a sniper. But women are good at math, too (though it seems we're only just going public about it). Math is an art, a science and above all a language. I love math, so much so I took it all through university. I still love it. If you want to have some fun with math, read the book Zero: The Biography of a Dangerous Idea by Charles Seife. He shows you (with just the tiniest bit of flawed algebra) how you can prove that Winston Churchill was a carrot. Now how fun is that!
This is for a guest - a request for some Tim and Nick study hour. It's all fluff and peaches and a bit of math.
On the Cutting Room Floor – Shut Up and Color
Nick slumped back into his chair, dropped his head in defeat. "But why does it get bigger if you're dividing it by a fraction? Fractions mean smaller."
Tim roughed up his face with both hands, growled in frustration, said, "It's complicated. Well, no it's not complicated just funny to try and look at right." He stood up and did a circuit of the table, arrived back at his chair and sat down.
Nick followed him with his eyes the whole way, demanding without speaking.
"Okay," Tim started again. "If you take a pie and divide it into halves, how many pieces do you have?"
"Two."
"Right. So one divided into halves equals two. See?"
Nick's eyebrows furrowed into a deep valley. "No. One divided into two pieces gives you a half."
"No, it gives you two halves – two. Get it?" Tim nodded encouragement. "One divided into two pieces gives you a half. One divided into halves gives you two pieces."
"I have a pie," Mrs. Brooks said, eavesdropping from the kitchen. "You can use it to demonstrate if it would help."
Tim looked over. "What kind of pie?"
"And what does that matter?"
"Just asking."
"Peach."
"Oh," Tim's face brightened. "Okay. Can we eat it when we're done?"
"No, it's for dessert."
Tim and Nick shared a frown.
"What if it's opposite day?" Nick asked.
"Opposite day?" Mrs. Brooks walked in, hands on her hips, looked to Tim for an explanation. "Is this something to do with the math?"
"No, Ma'am," Tim said.
"No, Grandma, opposite day. Everything's backwards. We get to eat dessert before dinner."
"Yeah, opposite day," Tim seconded, catching on and liking the idea. "I'm all for it, especially if it means I get to eat pie now."
"Well, I suppose we could have an opposite day since you two are working so hard on your math," Mrs. Brooks agreed.
"Yay!" Nick punched the air. "I'll get the ice cream."
"Bring a knife," Tim called.
"I'll get the pie." Mrs. Brooks winked at Tim. "And I'll bake you one all for yourself if he passes his math test tomorrow." She patted his head affectionately.
"Shit, that's incentive," said Tim, rubbing his hands together.
"Language, young man." Mrs. Brooks admonished, a smile as she scolded.
"Yes, Ma'am."
Nick came back balancing plates, ice cream, forks, a knife and pie.
"Now we're talking," Tim said, a satisfied grin. "Okay, so if I divide this pie into halves, how many pieces do I have?" He cut the pie down the middle and pointed at each half.
"Two?" Nick replied.
"Oh my God, the kid can count."
"Shut up," Nick grumbled, crossed his arms on the table and dropped his chin on them.
"Now if I divide this pie into two – a piece for me and a piece for you," Tim dished it out as he spoke, "then how much do you get?"
"A half?"
"Wow, you're a math genius."
"Shut up," Nick grumbled a second time.
Tim grinned. "Do you get the difference?"
Nick sat back up – the light bulb clicking on. "Yeah, I get it." A slow smile grew. "It's just the opposite."
"That's right," said Tim. "Now let's eat." He passed Nick a fork and reached for the ice cream.
The voice of authority carried into the dining room from the kitchen. "You'd better not be eating half of that pie, Timothy Gutterson!"
Tim rolled his eyes. "Yes, Ma'am." He slopped his half back into the pie dish, signaled for Nick to do the same. "So, if we divide this pie into quarters, how many pieces do we have?" he asked and sliced it in half again crosswise.
"Four," Nick said with smug confidence.
"That's right," said Tim. "Which means if I divide this pie into four pieces, how much would you get?"
"A quarter!" Nick shouted.
"You are the Einstein of our generation," Tim applauded. "Here's your prize." He moved a piece onto Nick's plate.
"Tim Gutterson, you'd better not be eating a quarter of that pie, either!"
"Fine." Tim huffed and scooped the pieces back. "How about an eighth?" he asked Nick.
"Okay, I guess."
Tim looked into the kitchen where Mrs. Brooks was chopping vegetables. "We'll make up for it with extra ice cream," he whispered.
"Okay." Nick echoed the whisper, a willing accomplice.
"You'd better not have too much ice cream, boys. You'll ruin your supper."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tim moaned quietly.
"Language, young man!"
"Yes, Ma'am." He rolled his eyes again and Nick sniggered.
They ate their pie quickly, each feeling like they were getting away with something, and Mrs. Brooks whisked the battered remainder into the kitchen and out of reach.
"That's really good pie, Mrs. Brooks," Tim called after her, watching her wistfully, hoping. He wet his lips. "I think it's the best pie I've ever had."
"Flatter all you want. The answer is no. You can have another piece after dinner."
He sighed and turned back to his student. "Let's see how you do on the other questions," he said, pointed at Nick's textbook then opened his own to work on his math problems.
"What are you doing?" Nick was almost on top of the table trying to peer into Tim's notes.
"Calculus."
"What's calculus?"
"It's the math of physics, I guess," Tim answered. "I'm learning about how to figure out the rate of change for things, like velocity – plotting slope."
"Why?"
"Well, sometimes you need to know how quickly something gains or loses..." he waved his hands around, "...whatever...like speed or altitude. Or maybe how sharp a curve is at any given point so you know when inertia's gonna take over and throw you outta your turn if you're, say, a race car driver."
Nick sneered, "You're not a race car driver."
"No. It'd be fun though, wouldn't it?" Tim grinned like a kid.
Nick flat-stared back.
"Okay, so maybe you need to work out the volume of an irregularly shaped object with weird curves…like how much water is in a water balloon...stuff like that."
"Why would I need to know how much water is in a water balloon?"
"Well," Tim looked down at his empty pie plate, scraped away at his Sunday afternoon brain trying to come up with an interesting use for calculus, an example that might mean something to a school kid. "Imagine traveling in space and needing to understand how the gravitational well that you're stuck in is going to affect you when you finally break free – how much it's gonna impact your velocity, the tangent of your new route, or maybe you want to know how close you can get to a black hole. It's important to an astronaut."
"Why?"
"You don't want your astronaut to die, do you?"
"I don't know," Nick replied. "Is he a doofus?"
"Is he a doofus? Shit, I don't know. What's that got to do with anything?"
"About as much as calculus."
"Shut up, you doofus."
Rachel walked past at that moment and deposited an open beer on the table and a smack on Tim's head. "Don't say 'shut up.'"
"He said it first." Tim pointed an accusing finger at Nick. "Do you want to help him with his math?" he snarled at her. "I'll leave if you don't like my teaching methods."
"No way, kiddo. This is your area of expertise. I teach him manners, style and how to treat women."
"I know how to treat women," Tim spluttered. "Mostly."
"Tcha." Rachel stopped and turned to face Tim. "Miljana told me what you got her for her birthday." She accented the disdain with a classic pose, hip out, impossibly arched eyebrow, arms firmly crossed.
"Hey! She asked for jumper cables."
"Tcha." Rachel repeated, shaking her head in recognition of a lost cause. "You just don't get it."
Tim stared at her, wondering what he didn't get and why calculus did nothing to explain the attraction of curves on a woman or what made them so different from men.
Nick raised his eyebrows, wagged his head smugly. "So, who's the doofus?"
Tim picked up his beer and glared across the table. "Shut up and color."
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