Here, have a high school/sophomore year/3rd year/10th year AU.

Yes, I really did this. No, I'm not crying, you are.


Stephanie had completely forgotten she had signed up for this class. She looked around the room; while most new teachers plastered their walls with diagrams and pictures and charts, this one had stripped the paint down to the concrete. The whole place felt like a dungeon.

There were only a few other kids. Stephanie watched the clock, and already some boys in the back were muttering about study halls after ten minutes.

She had sat nearer the back, but now she wished she had sat closer, to observe the front desk. There was a glorious leather chair, the comfy kind Stephanie imagined CEOs sat in. Something expensive, and Stephanie's chair felt harder than usual.

A man strode it, tall and thin. He didn't address the class. He wrote his name on the chalkboard in one long, eloquent string—

Mr. Pleasant.

He faced them. Stephanie blinked. Blinked again.

The suit was ridiculous—it matched the chair. A hat, cocked low over the black sunglasses. Gloves that were dark, leather, no white chalk dust on them. And a scarf, wrapped around the man's face, covering almost all of his features.

"One of you is now dead."

Silence.

Mr. Pleasant nodded. "An expected response from a group of people who have just witnessed a murder. Not to worry: We should be able to find the perpetrator at some point. That all depends on how smart this particular class is."

Mr. Pleasant stood observing the class, arms crossed. No one said anything. He was probably waiting for a question.

Stephanie raised her hand, slowly.

"Uh—"

"Thank you for volunteering," Mr. Pleasant said, voice cheerful. "Early this morning, you were violently murdered. Do you know why you were murdered?"

Stephanie frowned. "Well—"

"Don't answer that, you're dead," he cut in. He turned to the rest of the class. "Do any of you have any idea why our friend here was shot?"

Nothing.

"I'm afraid we're not off to the best start. You," he pointed at George, "why did you kill—what's your name?"

"Stephanie Edgley."

"Why did you kill Stephanie?"

George seemed to struggle with an acceptable response. Mr. Pleasant waited a few seconds.

"Sorry, you're under arrest for the murder of Miss Edgley, here."

George frowned. "I didn't kill her!"

"That's not very convincing, is it, Stephanie? In fact, that's a pretty rubbish excuse, all together." Mr. Pleasant observed the class, but it was almost impossible to tell who he was looking at with those sunglasses. "However, what I just assumed there was wrong. Any idea why it was wrong?"

Another stunned silence, but Stephanie fought through it. "I didn't do anything to him."

Mr. Pleasant's head seemed to turn towards Stephanie. "Go on."

Stephanie felt the whole class' attention on her. "Well, why would he kill me if I didn't do anything to him? There's no reason."

"No motive." Mr. Pleasant turned, wrote motive on the board. "The thing which sparks all murder. I can't just assume he killed Stephanie because there's no reason behind it." He underlined the word. "We have to figure out why Stephanie was murdered." He turned around. "Any questions?"

A sea of hands.

"Perfect."

"Wait, you're taking his class?" Hannah asked, leaning forward. "What's he like? I heard he worked for the government, that he solved that God-killer guy case. Is he smart? What's he like?"

Stephanie shrugged. "He's sort of weird. I'm dead."

Hannah frowned. "What?"

"I'm the first murder victim. We have to figure out why I was killed." Stephanie took a bite of her pizza. "We're having a test tomorrow."

"It's the second day!" Hannah gaped. "A test about what?!"

"He just said we were solving crimes on paper. Everyone's going to fail. He said so himself." Stephanie shrugged again. "He's really weird."

"This is a crime scene," Mr. Pleasant announced as the projector flicked on.

Stephanie winced and looked away. The rest of the class let out a noise of disgust. Stephanie dragged her eyes back to the image, stomach turning.

Mr. Pleasant sat back in his chair, feet on the table, looking out at the class. "What can you tell me about this murder based on this photo?"

Stephanie's throat was dry. "It's really bloody."

"Well, yes." Mr. Pleasant craned his neck, looking at the square of red against the wall. "I figured that was a given."

Had it been another teacher, Stephanie wouldn't have rolled her eyes. "I mean that it isn't perfunctory. A gunshot wound, or a poisoning. It's just…"

"Very bloody, yes. What we can assume from this fascinating little photo is that this is a crime of passion. Unlike yesterday, where we learned modern-day poisoning techniques, not everyone is as neat. Sometimes, they grab the nearest statue and pound someone's head in. Or," he flicked to the next picture, "perhaps a kitchen knife."

A girl in the back of the room stood up and hurried out, one hand over her mouth and the other around her stomach. A boy quickly followed, and Stephanie heard retching as the door shut behind them. Mr. Pleasant waited until they had left before continuing.

"It's also a perfect way to frame someone."

The lunch bell rang. Most of the students practically tripped over one another to leave the class. Stephanie watched them go, putting her notebook away leisurely. Mr. Pleasant flicked off the projector, and they sat in silence for a few seconds.

"The lunch bell went off."

"Yeah, it did." Stephanie settled back in her chair. "So, what exactly were you before you became a teacher?"

Mr. Pleasant's head tilted. "A detective."

"Because it sort of sounds like you were a serial killer."

He laughed. "Does it?"

"Uh, yeah." Stephanie gestured at the projector. "First off, you have an obscene amount of crime scene photos just sort of lying around. And your—" She faulted, pointed at his head, at the sunglasses and scarf, "Sure doesn't help anyone think you aren't on the run."

"The crime scenes are courtesy of a friend."

Stephanie raised an eyebrow.

"A friend on the force," Mr. Pleasant amended. "And I can assure you, the school does a very thorough job of background checks."

Stephanie shook her head. "Nope. See, I have this—Mr. Dupne, who also works for the main office. He said he needed special clearance by the Garda to see your files, clearance he wasn't granted. So really, you could be a serial killer."

Mr. Pleasant nodded. "I suppose it wasn't a good sign that I picked you to be the murder subject on the first day."

Stephanie grinned. "Are you planning to kill me?"

"That's your car?"

Mr. Pleasant looked over his shoulder. "You seemed surprised."

"Well, I mean, you're on a teacher's salary. Or you are now. The insurance on that thing must be insane." Stephanie walked around the car. "This thing seems like it's from the 1920s."

Mr. Pleasant walked around to the back of the car, unlocked the trunk. "Close; 1954."

Stephanie frowned. "I wasn't close at all."

"You really weren't, but I was trying to spare your feelings. So, let me rephrase: Good God, Stephanie, you couldn't be more wrong. This car—this glorious car-is from 1954. Give me a hand with these, that's why I agreed to get you out of English."

Stephanie sighed, came to his side, and took one of the milk crates filled with manila folders. He stacked another one on top, and she had to press her face against the plastic to keep it from falling over. When the trunk shut, she followed behind him, listening to his footsteps.

"So, what, your friend just agreed to let you make like, a thousand copies of your old case files?"

"Why did you want to get out of English?"

"You're not answering the question."

Stephanie stumbled, but Mr. Pleasant's hand was there in an instant, steadying the crates.

"Neither are you."

Stephanie frowned, not that he could see it. "I asked you first."

"My friend is very understanding. That, and I blackmailed him."

She laughed. "Oh my God, what? What did you blackmail him with?" Mr. Pleasant held the door open, and she stepped in, saw he wasn't carrying anything. "Take one of these!"

"I have a delicate constitution."

"If I trip and fall, the paper's going everywhere, and you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

Mr. Pleasant grunted and took the top crate. "And you'll feel bad when my arm snaps off."

"What did you blackmail him with, though, seriously?" Stephanie looked into the classrooms as they passed. When he didn't answer she looked over, grinning. "Do you have dirt about his mistress or something?"

"Why do you hate English?"

Stephanie sighed. "I don't hate English."

"You said you did. You walked into my classroom, said you hated English, and for me to find an excuse so you didn't have to go."

"Hate is such a strong word…"

"You said you would throw yourself out of my window if I made you go."

"No, I said I might."

"Miss Edgley—"

"Mrs. Molloy doesn't like me."

Mr. Pleasant laughed. He stopped when he realized she wasn't laughing along with him. "Oh."

"Yeah, it's funny when teachers hate you and you're not in their class. She's just so annoying. If anyone disagrees with what she has to say, she gives you a detention."

"We just walked by her classroom."

"What?"

"Stephanie."

The two of them turned, watched as Mrs. Molloy stormed down the hall after them. Stephanie glared at her, hugged the crate closer to herself. Mr. Pleasant, for his part, nodded, shoulders relaxed.

"Karen."

Mrs. Molloy looked between the two of them. "Stephanie, I was told you went home sick."

Stephanie coughed.

Mrs. Molloy's eye twitched. "You were already given a detention for this Friday for disrespectful behavior—what will your parents think when they hear you've been skipping class?"

"I'm sure they'll understand, considering I'm not skipping. I'm helping Mr. Pleasant." Stephanie tilted her head towards him. "He asked me to help get these murder files out of his car."

"Case files."

"You've been getting files for twenty minutes? I thought you were sick." Her face was getting progressively blotchier, and a little part of Stephanie hated her. "You're becoming quite the hoodlum, Stephanie."

"Well, Karen—"

Mr. Pleasant stepped in front of Stephanie. "Karen, it's my fault entirely. I sent Miss Edgley to my car, and she got lost on the way there, came to find me, then we both got lost—me being new here, while Miss Edgley is just a little dull—until we finally found my car. I can assure you, it won't happen again."

Stephanie forced herself not to listen to the response, and when Mr. Pleasant moved away, she followed him to his classroom. She dropped the milk crate on his desk, paced to the window, walked to the back wall, hands on her hips.

"God, I hate her. I hate her so much, Pleasant, you have no idea."

"I have an idea."

Stephanie turned to him, shaking her head. "She talks to me like I'm five. Like I don't know what I'm doing. I hate it here. I hate school and the teachers. How these things are just expected of me."

Mr. Pleasant leaned against his desk, hands in his pockets. "I understand."

And Stephanie looked at him, and he tilted his head at her, and she really thought he did.

Stephanie thought she knew why she was sitting across from her guidance counselor.

Her room was close and hot and stuffy, but Mrs. Clery had a nice face and she tried to smile reassuringly. Mrs. Molloy's face was red and smug and stupid, and Stephanie wanted to punch her right in the jaw.

"Stephanie, do you know why you're in here today?" Mrs. Clery asked again, breaking the stubborn silence.

"No, I don't."

Mrs. Molloy's mouth stretched and warped in a smile. "Really?"

Stephanie gritted her teeth and looked at the pen jar on Mrs. Clery's desk. "I just said so."

Mrs. Clery cleared her throat. "Mrs. Molloy told me about your friendship with Mr. Pleasant."

Stephanie looked up, frowned. "What?"

"It…" Mrs. Clery looked uncomfortable, shifting in her seat. "Mrs. Molloy has brought it to my attention that you and Mr. Pleasant have an extremely close relationship."

Stephanie's attention flicked to Mrs. Molloy. "Did she?"

"Yes, and she says the two of you spend a, a concerning amount of time with one another." Mrs. Clery's smile was dying fast. "You spend a good hour with him after school, as well as numerous times throughout the day."

"I help him grade papers," Stephanie explained, anger curling her fingertips behind her back. She refused to look at Mrs. Molloy. "The tests are extensive and unique, opinion based, so he can't just read through them quickly."

"Still," Mrs. Clery said, gently. "Mr. Pleasant is still new to the school, and we're… We were not given access to his teaching record."

"He had to go undercover."

"Stephanie," Mrs. Molloy said, but Stephanie still didn't look at her. "I'm just concerned he may be—"

"Would we be having this conversation if I was a boy?" Stephanie asked, voice rising. "If Mr. Pleasant was a woman?

"The fact remains that your relationship with him," Mrs. Molloy's lip curled, "is strange at best."

Stephanie seethed.

"Oh my God, George is the dumbest person ever."

"Not all my students can be bright."

Stephanie smiled at him. "Like me?"

"No."

"Grade your own papers."