Swordbearer

By Vega

Standard Disclaimers Apply

Chapter Seventeen: "Slip-up"

October 28th, 2006

"Oh, yeah, that's her," Miranda told the man in the grey suit. "She always goes to that party with her boyfriend, Garret. Do you know her boyfriend, Garret? Turns out he's her Watcher, and I mean, just how romantic is that?"

"So her watcher is her boyfriend?" the man in the grey suit clarified.

"Well, yeah, I think so," Miranda said. "Um, I mean, he totally digs her and they always go to the Howl together, so, yeah, maybe. I mean, like, she's been hanging out with this other guy, but, you know, her Watcher is totally into her so I bet they'll go together."

"But he will be with her?"

"Doi," she said.

And the man smiled.

October 31st, 2006

A week came and went with relative quiet.

Phoey didn't bug me. Adam bought me a whole box of chocolate donuts of my very own. Dart published the article and it was actually half decent. I only had to autograph it three times, which made me very pleased.

The only three times part, not the autographing.

WTF, you know? Who the hell cares who I am? What, I'm famous, you want my autograph, just because I, hey, exist? Doi.

Now, the dating policy between students and teachers at the school was Nil. That is to say, if a prof and a student were caught dating, that's the grade the student would get, and the monetary compensation the professor would receive upon getting his or her ass fired.

However. The university had yet to touch Adam and I. It had become more or less apparent, after our little bout in the courtyard over the donut, that we were together. The President of Brock just didn't quite know what to do with us. Policy stated that I should be booted and Adam should be fired.

But we were both Immortal, and technically speaking, I was older, so it wasn't as if my professor was taking advantage of me. In fact, thinking back to the nights I'd spent in Adam's more-comfortable-than-mine bed, the mornings in his hotter-water-for-longer-than-mine shower and sitting in his office drinking his better-and-cheaper-than-Tim-Hortons-in-that-my-boyfriend-doesn't-make-me-pay-$1.40-per-cup coffee, I'd definitely say that it was me taking advantage of him.

The most we got was a stern letter reminding us that Swordplay was, in fact a Bad Thing to be doing in a crowded courtyard filled with Mortal students, and if we Ever Did It Again we'd get fined. At the bottom was a little PS that said, "Um. Please do not make your relationship too public. You are still a prof and a student."

For Adam's part, he thought the letter was a hoot. He framed it and put it up on the wall in his office. I thought it was kinda funny, too, but only after he had started to laugh at it.

The professor he was taking over would be leaving for her maternity soon, so Adam began to spend more and more time at the school. Oddly enough, his schedule seemed to be the same as mine.

We would take the bus up together about an hour before whatever class I had, then he would head to his office to meet with students, check his correspondence, or do some brush-up or prep-work before he took over the lectures.

I would go to class, and meet him in his office after. We would have coffee, talk, and then I would take off to my next class. I became an awful slacker in that week, choosing to skip classes and avoid doing readings in favour of going out to a bar with him, or cuddling on his couch and watching bad B-movies with names like "Attack of the Son of the Fifty-Foot Ant-Woman!"

Always with two exclamation points, of course.

Adam was now comfortable enough with putting his feet in my lap, and would often wiggle both his toes and his eyebrows in a hopeful manner.

"I'm not massaging your feet," I would tell him.

"But I have sexy feet," he would protest. "I was told they were the sexiest feet to ever be feet."

"Which is a good thing, considering that's what they are?"

"Well, they'd be very ugly hands," he'd agree.

"Okay," I'd say, "I'll massage your feet when you can make a whole meal and not burn it."

And he would grimace, and I would laugh, and we'd go back to watching the movie.

On the Thursday, I gave my guest lecture on the difference between History as seen first person and History as what's recorded in the text books. I didn't have many anecdotes, but Adam helped me round out the two hour talk with witticisms he'd read in various Immortal's Chronicles during his time as a Watcher.

I should have felt guilty for using stories of other people's life, but hey, they were funny, and I didn't have any better.

The only thing that really bothered me, and it bugged me all to heck that I was bothered, was the fact that Garret and I had not spoken for nearly a month.

Which was exactly how I wanted it, mind you, don't get me wrong. I liked that the Peeping Tom Sicko wasn't nagging me, or making moon eyes, or... you know, even existing within my view-space.

But there were times, little things, where I'd think, "Hey, I should remind Garret that.." or "I bet Gar would find that really funny..." or "Bored now. I should call Gar."

Then I would remember that he was Evil and I Was Not Talking To Him.

Hallowe'en was here. I hated to admit it, but the day just made me miss Garret more. Every year, we had gone to the campus bar's Hallowe'en Howl as something together. Our first year, we were Bangers and Mash (he was a Mosh Pit Reject, and I pasted Monster Mash cards all over me). Our second year, we had been Pizza and Beer (he borrowed a Domino's Pizza Delivery boy uniform, and I bought one of those tiny Budweiser bikinis). Last year we had been Cheese and a Mouse (He wore the stockings, body suit and the bitty tail and cute ears, and I had worn the Cheese Head foam hat from the football team.)

This year we had planned to be a Hot Air Balloon (he was going to go as a politician, and I was going in a straightjacket.)

Obviously, not happening this year.

Instead, Adam let me dress him up in too much tinfoil and seeing as I had to bring my sword, I made a huge fork out of more tinfoil and a pitchfork and we went as Thanksgiving leftovers and the person about to eat it.

Adam thought it was the darned funniest thing he had ever done. I thought it was a pretty decent idea, but not my best. Garret was usually the one who came up with the funny costumes.

We arrived at the bar fashionably late – about an hour after it opened. For ten bucks, we got our booze bracelets and ballots to enter the costume contest. If we won, we'd win two tickets to see some local band that had made it big in Toronto. They were called "Oliver Black", and I vaguely recalled rocking out to them at a house party that Garret had dragged me to back in...

And damn if there he was in my thoughts again.

In an effort to drive my Watcher out of my head, I dragged Adam to the dance floor. He flopped around a bit, crinkling in his tinfoil, shaking his hips in a way that I was sure had never been fashionable, even when he had been a mortal. I took pity on him and pulled him over to the bar.

"You danced the swing so well!" I had to shout over the music.

"This stuff has no beat!" Adam protested.

I pointed at the band on the stage. "Sure it does! There's a drummer right there!"

"He looks as confused as I am!"

I laughed and he pointed towards the 'Toilet' sign. "Gotta go shift the tinfoil," he said. "The dancing put it places it shouldn't be!"

"I'll get you a beer?" I asked. It was a question, but we both knew it was a rhetorical one.

Adam nodded and made his way through the crowd. I laughed at the sight of him, a big ball of silver with an Ivanhoe like a foil toothpick sticking out the back. I set my huge fork against the bar and sheathed my sword at my side.

"Clever costume," came a cultured voice beside me and I turned to who it was.

A man I didn't recognize stood beside me. He was dressed all in grey. His face seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't recall where I had seen it before. "Thanks," I said. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Serial Killer," he said, smiling thinly.

"Because they look just like everyone else," I finished for him. I caught the eye of the bartender and help up two fingers. "What you drinking?" I asked the man.

"Beer."

I held up a third finger. The bartender nodded and turned to the fridge in the wall behind him.

"You sure don't look like a student here," I said as we waited for our drinks. "You a prof? What you teach?"

His thin grin got toothier and I was struck with a sudden feeling of... not-rightness. There was something inherently creepy about this guy. Immediately my mind said, sleaze-bag. He's here to pick up some poor college chick. Probably convince her to make a 'movie' in a hotel room.

"I don't teach," he said. "Not any more. I retired from the teaching aspect of my field some time ago, I'm afraid."

"Kids drive you nuts?" I asked, fishing for more information. If this guy really was some sleaze, I could get the bouncers to take care of him. For now, I didn't mind distracting him. Not like he could do anything to me permanently, right?

"Something like that," he said. "More that the subject matter became distasteful. Although there is one problem student that I wouldn't mind meeting again."

"Uh-huh," I said. "So what's a suit like you doing at a university drunk-a-thon?"

"I could ask the same of you," he said, his piercing eyes going immediately to my sword.

"I'm a student," I said.

"And the man in the tinfoil with the sword sticking out like a toothpick? Is he a student too?"

"He's my boyfriend, not that it's really any of your business." I was beginning to dislike this man intensely. Time to wrap this up, grab my beers, and go tip off the security. They couldn't throw him out, because he hadn't said anything throw-out-able, but he just oozed a feeling of predatory-ness that I'm sure the bouncers had noticed by now.

They would appreciate being told if there was someone they ought to keep an eye on, just in case he tried anything funny or to leave with a very drunk girl.

The man in the grey suit gave me a look that communicated very clearly his opinion of student/teacher dating. It wasn't a favourable one.

"Right," I said as the bartender set down our glasses. "Have a Happy Hallowe'en." I reached for two of them, and Mr. Grey Suit intercepted my hands just above the glasses. "Ex-squeeze-me?" I said, looking pointedly at where he was holding my fingers in his.

"I'm afraid we may have got off on the wrong foot," he said, and this time his smile seemed prepubescent and forced. It was as fake as my old driver's licence and I didn't buy it for a second.

"And we're gonna stay on the wrong foot," I said, prying my hands out of his. "Good night."

"Could I make it up to you?" he asked. "Take you out to a nice place for dinner, maybe? Get you out of here?"

"Try you wiles on someone else, bud," I said. "Or I won't need my boyfriend – you remember him? I mentioned that I have about, oh, five seconds ago? Yeah. I won't need him come and kick your ass. I'll damn well do it myself. And as you've so aptly noted, I do indeed have the training to do so."

"Right," he said, and let go.

I wiped my hands on my pants and shoved them in my pockets. He picked up his own beer, and with a little apologetic nod, vanished into the crowd. I moved my giant fork into a corner where it wouldn't be in the bar's way, grabbed my two beers, and moved to stand beside the bouncer outside of the male washroom.

"See that dork in the grey suit?" I asked.

"The one you were just talking to?" the large man replied.

"Yeah. Keep an eye on him, eh?" I said.

He nodded, a big silent mountain nod, and crossed his hands over his chest.

At length Adam came out of the washroom, and I handed him his beer.

About ten minutes later, I was leaning against a wall outside the bar with my finger down my throat, trying to puke into the bushes. It wasn't working.

Adam was crouched on the pavement with his palms and forehead pressed against the cool brick wall, swallowing heavily and sweating profusely.

"That goddamned... kkkrghkk... fucking... grey suit-kkkeuah-ed son of a bitch," I sputtered, spitting at the hedge in my frustration at being able to make myself sick. "He bugging slipped a ... ggeeuuahkk... ruffie into my beer."

"Not just yours," he whispered.

I felt my own face breaking out in a damp, pricking sweat. "What the hell?" I asked. "I mean seriously. What the fuck, eh?"

Adam shook his head. "That wasn't a ruffie, Abby."

I felt my joints staring to wobble. I felt like everything inside me was turning to water. I slammed down onto my knees, unable to hold myself upright. I heard a cracking sound and wondered if I'd broken them.

"Then what the hell was it?"

"Get up," Adam said. I don't know if he was saying it to me or to himself, but neither of us were budging, despite our best, swirly-headed efforts.

My guts began to burn, burn with a pain so intense that I had little to compare it to, even after three hundred some-odd years on this planet.

"Adam?" I said, groping along the wall until I could reach him. I wrapped a hand around his arm and with shaking, panicked effort, we managed to get our hands twined together.

"Get up!" he hissed and managed to wobble himself up to a precarious position leaning against the wall. I heard the scraping, shrieking protest of his sword being drawn against the brink and the tinfoil.

"Adam?" I asked again, and swallowed heavily. It was suddenly getting hard to breathe. "What the hell is," I had to stop to pant, "... is going... on?"

"Poison," Adam hissed.

"Tsk," said a familiar cultured voice behind me. "You're not the Watcher Boyfriend, Mr. Pierson. Does Garret know you're sleeping around on him, Ms. Deidre? Not that your kind has any sort of those kinds of morals."

I heard the hiss of a sword being drawn from a sheath. My head was too heavy to turn.

"Doesn't matter," the man told himself. "I'll take care of the two of you, then I'll go back for that son-of-a-bitch Small. Kindly die now, please."

"You're one of Horton's," Adam panted.

I wished I knew what the hell he meant.