She falls asleep again, like clockwork.
On the third week of class, Roy pauses his lecture, spotting the cute blonde on the third row - no, she is just the student on the third row - Miss Hawkeye. The wing-like bang catches his eye and he finds it peculiar in how it matches her name sake. But that's besides the point: it is the twenty minute mark of his sixty minute class and she's already dozing on the palm of her hand. He can't even pretend she's studying the textbook, because even that is closed.
Students that notice his pause look up from their notes and Roy continues with his normal circuit around the classroom. College students are notorious for sneaking in a nap, even his own lectures aren't spared despite his best efforts to make a dry topic lively. Roy knows this; he, at least, was more subtle about it in his college years.
He's irked for an entirely different reason. A sleeping student would've - should have flown under his radar were it not for their brief exchange on the first day. That bright morning after winter break, her eyes follows on him as he handed out the syllabus. In his experience, it's not the first time and he suspects she isn't the only one that day. He can't say he's used to it, because he's not teaching intermediate Chemistry classes to be ogled by students.
However, Miss Hawkeye doesn't shoot him suggestive glances or flirty looks. She doesn't try to catch his attentions with coy waves with just her fingers. She observes him with focused eyes. Fixated, like she's analyzing him. Roy regrettably realizes that she's attractive; pretty with her flaxen hair. Roy focuses on his footsteps, but the scrutinizing, brown eyes trails him around the room until he reaches her row.
He purposely meets her eyes and gives her a friendly, polite smile.
He doesn't anticipate her reaction: her brown eyes widen, caught by surprise like a deer in headlights, and immediately averts her gaze elsewhere. It makes him smirk at such a childish gesture especially after the look she had been giving him is anything but. They exchange glances one more time as he passes her desk and Roy tries his damnedest to deny that his curiosity isn't flared.
And then, she falls asleep.
She possesses enough decorum to apologize to him directly unlike students who would duck out shamefully with tails in between their legs. For what it's worth, Roy takes it genuinely; impressed by her sincerity and her initiative,
Only that it happens again the following week. Then, again during the Friday lecture. He notices that if she's isn't actually sleeping, she's close to it. Each time she apologizes to him with the same song, because she's smart enough to know that her grade is in peril, regardless of her above average marks. He forbids himself from wondering what's stealing her away from sleep. In fact, he forbids himself from wondering or thinking about her more than he has to.
Now, for the second time this week, third time in a row, the hardcover textbook rises in his hand and immediately falls in the center of her desk with a thud. Her body jolts awake. Roy watches her with disapproval and her round eyes look at him apologetically. Every time she naps, he's forced, so to speak, to look at her, to remember that she exists.
Walking away, he doesn't know if he's irritated by the fact that he goes out of his way to end her siestas or if he's irritated because some part of him finds the dazed look on pretty, little Miss Hawkeye's face endearing. That thought is pushed down as far as he can manage.
Roy ends his class, and rounding the corner to his office with his usual cup of coffee, he can almost see the girl standing diligently outside of his door in his mind's eye. He's excited, an intrusive thought suggests. He silences the thought by drinking the coffee that's a bit too hot, and lets the bitterness clear out any thoughts about him and her and -
"Professor Mustang."
Roy looks up. Like clockwork. She doesn't disappoint. "Miss Hawkeye." Amused, he fiddles with the keys to his office door and says, "I'm starting to think you're doing this on purpose now."
He hears her sigh when he swings open the door, "It's not that."
"How presumptuous of me," he deadpans and takes note of the footsteps following him. Jacket hung, Roy settles in his desk chair. "It's because of your nightly activities that's leaving you so tired for my class."
She nods.
"Your job."
Miss Hawkeye nods again and he rolls his eyes unsympathetically. "You know the problem, Miss Hawkeye. So why not fix it?"
"I can't quit my job."
"Of course." He tries to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Then I don't see how your sleep schedules has anything to do with me."
"And I can't fail this class," she informs him with an indomitable expression on her face. She's determined, he'll give her that. "Because of a participation grade."
"Sounds to me like you're stuck in between a rock and hard place." Do not think about the hard place.
Miss Hawkeye makes a noise of dissatisfaction. He looks up to find round, brown eyes bearing down on him and he's almost short of breath. She says, "I ask that you reconsider the extra credit."
Roy looks at her and it's a staring match between them both. There's a pregnant pause in the room and her face doesn't twitch, it doesn't falter; no twitch on her lip, no spasm in her cheek, she doesn't even glance away or give clue that she's going to. She's the very definition of determination - with stubborness mixed in for flavor. Roy breathes in finally and raises his brows only a little impressed. His answer is the same: "No."
She deflates, faltering a little. It's only for a moment though, because she recovers and stands a little straighter, head held up high. "Please," she says. "Please reconsider, sir."
That word. That blasted, evil word. Sir. It goes straight into his ear and plunges down to his groin without warning - without so much as a say on his part. He hears it and tenses up, because he likes it and he likes hearing it from her. He needs to get her out of the office as fast as humanly possible and to figure what he needs to do. Ignore her naps. Just fail her if need be, because this can't go on.
"Look," Roy leans forward and the back of his hand hits something. He doesn't realize he's knocked over his cup until he feels a different kind of heat on his pants. It's not scalding, but it provokes him to launch off his chair. The emptied coffee cup falls on the floor and the dark-brown liquid is running down his slacks. He exclaims in expletives and she materializes out of nowhere with a towel.
The cloth could have been hers or his, he didn't know. This oblivious girl has such frantic look on her face that it pushes him back to his desk, and she starts patting down the front of his pants. It absolutely stuns him - because what the fuck, what is she doing.
What's worse is that he watches out of disbelief or enjoyment or something darker that horrifies him. No, scratch that, it gets worse. She drops the fucking towel, getting low to the ground, on her knees, and continues drying his pants close to his groin.
Roy grabs her wrists before she can unwittingly torture him further. She looks at him, surprised. "You need to leave," he says through grit teeth and his hands release her. "Now."
Her eyes go big again, like the first time when he catches her staring, and backs away from him. She says meekly, "I've dealt with burns and -" She stops, flabbergasted and unsettled. "I'm sorry, sir," is all she says before she skitters out of his office.
He closes the door, almost slamming it. Roy leans against it. His breath leaves him slowly to regulate the throbbing in his chest. Fuck.
That night, he can't sleep.
The humiliation stays with her for the rest of the morning and into the next day, lingering in the back of her mind, and surfaces on her cheeks whenever it would bubble to the forefront. Every so often, she rubs the small of her wrists. She loses herself in thought throughout the rest of her classes, toying with her bottom lip as her mind replays the encounter. Riza couldn't go back after that and it's too late to drop the class without fail. But at this rate, she is going to fail, all because she can't stay awake.
Underneath her embarrassment, a frothing layer of indignation simmers. She agrees that there isn't much to Chemical Literature to give extra credit for, but in the same vein, why does he have to be so adamant about something like participation when her assignments are up to standard? Not even a late assignment - so far. Riza sighs. Yes, she is to blame too, but… not all students party, sleep, fuck, and-or get high through college, like he so mistakenly assumes about her.
She refocuses over her Physical Chemistry notes, but they're bare, and the context of the textbook underneath is far too dry for her interests at that hour. Her eyelids are heavy again. She was staring at the ceiling all afternoon when she was supposed to be resting, and the night feels longe before her. The bright numbers on her phone tells her thirty minutes into midnight, but the fatigue makes her feel like she's been there for hours.
The library is quiet and warm, compared to the biting chill outside. Only half of the fluorescent lights are on overhead and she can feel her eyelids fluttering.
"Perhaps I shouldn't take it personally."
Riza glances up slowly. Her brow creases and she thinks she's hallucinating or still dreaming when Professor Mustang is leaning on the Service Desk. "I'm sorry - what?"
His face is smug with amusement. "Your siestas in my class." He clears his throat and she envies the coffee she smells in his cup. Riza does not think about yesterday afternoon, "I didn't know you worked here."
"Yes, well, you've discovered my dark secret," she intones, folding her hands over her textbook. "Can I help you?"
He ignores her question and asks instead, "Why didn't you say anything?"
Riza opens her mouth and closes it again; thrown off by a softness in his voice. "I told you as much, sir -" he snorts, but she answers truthfully "- and I didn't want to use pity as a means to an end."
"You must think I'm some kind of sadist."
Riza eyes him as she swivels around, her lip twitching just barely. "I never said that." Riza hops off the stool, and begins pushing the return cart throughout aisles of bookshelves. The first book to reshelve belongs in the 000 - Generalities.
"Surely, you thought it."
Unaware of the quiet footsteps trailing her, the book in her hand nearly slips. She quickly turns suspicious. His fingers are drumming the metal handle at the opposite end of her cart and his face is light and friendly. It's weird. He's not dressed in his scholarly getup or in those distracting button-ups; the simple sweatshirt and jeans makes him almost look like another, albeit tall, student, especially without his glasses. Riza asks again, "Can I help you?"
"I need help finding some books."
Riza points him in the direction of computer kiosks, "My hands are tied at the moment, sir. Those computers there will help you find whatever you're looking for." She snuggles a book in between two others on the shelf. "If not, Sheska on the second floor is more capable of helping you." She hauls the cart behind her behind her when he doesn't say anything.
Five books later and into the Religions section, she can no longer ignore him. Riza breathes in; maybe he is a sadist. Does he want to see her squirm? Was the spilled coffee on purpose? "How are your slacks?"
"I took them to the dry cleaners," he says smoothly, as always. "I'll send you the bill."
She snorts while searching for a place for 303.52 and she blames it on the late-night delirium. Grinning, she asks again, "Can I help you?"
He blinks, almost dumbfounded, before his composure returns and replies, "Like I said, books."
Her shoulders drop. Riza is unsure of what kind of game he's playing, if there even is a game or if it's all on her. Her index finger gestures again to the computers.
"Oh, and a group study room."
She quips without a second thought, "Are you expecting more people in the middle of the night?" It isn't until the last word leaves her lips that it sinks in. Thankfully, he responds well to her dry humor, rewarding her with a laugh and a smile. She suddenly wishes she hadn't seen it, because this feels too much like flirting.
The group study rooms are equipped with a smartboard and computers that are only available through daylight hours and only by reservation. There was an incident a few years back where students were taking computer parts and other hardware from the rooms.
He requires it for research apparently. The messenger bag is emptied on the large conference desk with notebooks and other texts. Papers are strewn everywhere; it's almost familiar.
He chooses the room she could see from the help desk on happenstance. Riza watches him in glimpses through the large glass that strange night; his movements are always catching her eye, as he moves around the table, writing on the board, or grabbing his chin deep in thought. The glasses are back on his face and the sweatshirt is off, revealing a casual t-shirt from his own alma mater.
Riza decides to restock every two hours instead of the required four. She still sneaks glances.
Her weariness reaches critical mass with an ache in her bones and the slowing pace of her breathing. Whenever that happens, she lingers in the 800 section, her personal favorite, to jump start her mind with things she actually enjoys. She considers herself lucky she's snagged the library work-study as this is one of its perks. But the overnights might just be her doom. She's in the middle of the eloquences of Pablo Neruda when his voice cuts through the imagery.
"I'm finished with the room," Professor Mustang says to her. He raises an eyebrow when she looks up, barely able to keep her eyes open from the lights overhead. "And you look like you could use ten days of sleep."
Riza smiles sleepily, if not out of courtesy. "Probably, but some of my professors are very passionate about the presence and participation of students in his class and I have one in three hours. Sleep is a luxury."
He snorts and for a second time, she's surprised he's in such an amicable mood in light of her remarks. Hands snug in his sweatshirt pouch, Professor Mustang nods slowly with an expression she's too tired to decipher. "I'll see you in class, Miss Hawkeye."
Riza sees him go and she stands to stretch, yawning heavily as she does.
Five minutes shy of eight, Riza tries to not drag her feet into the lecture hall the following with only two odd hours of sleep. On her desk, she recognizes the same type of cup from the other night just sitting on her desk. Her fingers touches it, and finds it warm.
Riza notices the black marker writing from a barista on the side. It reads: Stay awake, RH!
a/n - the reception for this was so great! We are so excited by all the comments and positive feedback. Thank you!