Jungian Archetypes
Chapter 1: The Proud Man's Contumely
A/N Wow, another chapter started on the same night. This is a new adventure for me. Maybe I'll actually even update regularly. I know I'm breaking with comic book canon on some of this stuff, I'm off in my own little AU (just like in real life…). By the bye, this is not a slash fic as such (nor again is it an OFC pairing, despite the entrance of an OFC), sorry for any confusion the summary may be causing and I hope no one's too disappointed. I love reading slash, I just don't generally write it particularly well. Actually the characters, as is generally the case, seem to have their own ideas. Oh, and I borrowed the name Hoyt from a relatively obscure mystery novel called The Serpent Under It. The title of this chapter is, of course, from Hamlet the quote in the last one was Lear. (I loves me some Edmund!)It'sworth checking out. Anyway, hope you enjoy…
The intercom in Jonathan Crane's office buzzed. "Dr. Crane." The voice of Marie, his secretary, came scratchily through the intercom. "There's a Bernard Weibrecht on the phone for you."
He picked up his phone. The name rang a vague sort of bell, and besides, it would make a nice change from trying to draft his resignation letter.
"This is Jonathan Crane."
"Crane!" The voice on the other end was hearty. "This is Bernie. Bernie, from Hoyt, Bernie."
"Ah, yes." The memories came back at last. His roommate senior year. The jock. "So, what can I do for you Mr. Weibrecht?"
"I wish you'd call me Bernie." The man said, clearly halfheartedly. "Anyway, you remember my wife, Rita?"
Crane pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes."
"Well, she's doing administrative work in the lit department at Gotham U. Didn't you head up there after Hoyt?"
"Yes."
Finally, Weibrecht came to the point. "Well, she's been trying to arrange this course for a team teaching kind of thing. She's got someone to do the lit part, but the psych professor pulled, and she's getting really desperate."
"So you want me to recommend someone?"
"Actually, I was wondering…" Here, Weibrecht trailed off.
"I'm afraid I'm very busy." Crane did not sound particularly regretful.
"Y'see, it's just that they aren't sure that there's anyone else qualified…So I thought that you might…"
Despite the fact that Weibrecht had always seemed to be singularly unobservant, he had hit on Crane's one weak spot. The doctor couldn't stand the idea of someone misrepresenting his science, his art to the general public. Besides, he was in Rita's debt; it was she who had read and criticized his Honors Thesis. "Have her send me a reading list for the course, and I'll consider it."
"Hey, thanks!" Clearly expecting an outright refusal; Weibrecht would take what he could get.
"Goodbye." Jonathan brought the conversation to its conclusion.
"Bye."
Across town, Aemilia Stuart curled up in the huge armchair that dominated one corner of her office in Wayne Hall, home to Gotham U.'s literature department. Not only was being curled up in such a fashion comfortable, it was also the only possible way to sit. She had precious little room to maneuver in the cramped space. What she did have was three walls of shelves, a squashy chair for reading and student conferences, a hot plate and a kettle and a spare desk, which she had originally designated as a student workspace, though it was now piled with papers and books. Since Gotham University (thanks to an immense endowment from the Wayne family) was a research institution, she wrote as much as she taught; an occupation which took its toll on what was left of her available space. It also took its toll on her time, she reflected. This semester, she'd agreed to team teach the Jungian literary analysis course as well as her own Mystery Cycle Plays and the two intro lit classes the college generally managed to foist off on her. Currently, she was celebrating her last moments of freedom before term began by reading through an interminable MLA bulletin. Until Rita came in. The two women, about the same age, had become friends as the only people who were neither over seventy or graduate students in Gotham U.'s crusty-professor-filled English department, though Aemilia would never understand what had motivated a woman like Rita to marry her husband…Abruptly she realized that Rita had been speaking.
"…So what do you think?"
"Um…" Aemilia scanned Rita's face for clues. "Definitely?"
Her guess was rewarded by a beaming look from Rita. "Oh good. If he calls, I'll have him call you, and you two can plan things out."
"Who?"
"Crane, of course."
"And who's Crane?"
"Your co-instructor on the literary archetypes class. Ye Gods, girl! Did the MLA eat your brain again?"
Aemilia snickered. "They're the MLA aren't they? But I'm not sure about this whole team-teaching idea. I thought I was supposed to do the literary archetypes course on my own. After all, it is a subject I know just a little bit about."
"Now, now dear. We aren't trying to impugn your expertise. It's just that interdisciplinary seminar courses are very hot right now. Of course," here Rita's voice took on a tone of warning. "It is hard to get the psych department to send someone up here if they think someone is going to hit them."
"That wasn't my problem! I have nothing against psychology or psychiatry as disciplines, but that man was rude, smarmy, and patronizing!"
Rita just shook her head. "Well, you're the reason we have to farm out for our psych expert, so promise me you'll be nice to him."
Aemilia rolled her eyes. "As long as he's neither asinine nor stupid nor boring, we'll get on like a house on fire. Ashes ashes, we all fall down."
Rita, however, had left the room.
Jonathan looked at the neatly printed sheet before him. It was a broad syllabus, covering most of the spectrum of early and early modern English literature, then moving on to Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorne and even the Opie nursery rhymes. Then he glanced at the course description and smirked.
He picked up the phone and dialed the Gotham U. English department. After a couple of transfers from line to line, he finally got a graduate student who claimed she could help him.
"We'll see. You are in some way responsible for this course?"
"I work for Dr. Stuart, so I typed up the list, yeah."
"Well, it seems to be a well-selected and well-balanced syllabus. If it weren't for the fact that a graduate student has no idea how to spell so elementary a word as 'mimesis,' I would have no compunction about assuming that the standards at Gotham University are a high as ever. As it is…well, please connect me to your employer."
He heard a gasp and glanced at his watch, smiling to himself. Not even three in the afternoon yet. Then he tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk until a voice on the other end of the line said, flatly, "You made my graduate student cry."
"Mimesis has never been spelled with three 'i's."
There was a pause. "Reduce your own underlings to gasps and sobs. Mine has work to do."
"We should discuss the course."
"You've seen the reading list, presumably you are familiar with the tenets of Jungian analysis. Well, prepare some, and be prepared to take questions. It tends to be a talkative seminar group."
"You misunderstand Doctor. I'm perfectly confident about my role. I simply need to assure myself of certain particulars. It would be wise to agree, I'd hate to have to call the dean and tell him that you're antagonizing yet another psychoanalyst."
"Fine. Here. Tonight. Nine." The phone slammed back into the cradle. Taking petty revenge on the dean's office, Aemilia ripped a department meeting reminder into shreds and wished she could get out of the meeting as easily. Then she took a very old book from its place of obscurity on the shelves and stared at it. After a moment, she set it on her desk. Just in case.
AN: Again, sorry if this seems like its going in too many directions. Nathaniel Hawthorne appears to be rubbing off on me. My thanks to my wonderful reviewers, who are encouraging me to let this fic take me where it wants, and to my marvelous beta, Evil Demandred, whose own diabolically amusing work I highly recommend. Best,
MM.