For: Logan not here
Prompt: Krupinski/Rossman, modern-day AU
Drifting off to sleep in the five minutes before her Historic Karlslandian Literature class was part of Krupinski's daily routine. The class was large – by far the largest she had been in – but it was easy and the teacher wasn't anything bad to look at on the few days she managed to keep her eyes open.
Grunting drowsily six minutes into her nap, Krupinski peeked an eye open and whispered to the person beside her. "Rall's late."
Chuckling under her breath, her classmate shook her head in disapproval. "It really figures that you'd only notice the teacher's late because your nap wasn't interrupted at the right time."
"Shut it, Galland," Krupinski shot back in good humor, fully sitting up to assess the current situation. "What's the rule again? Fifteen minutes and we can leave early?"
Gallang nodded. "But Rall's too responsible to leave the class unattended. She actually cares about whether we pass her course."
As if on cue, the door in the front of the room opened, revealing a woman with a large presence for her surprisingly short stature. She was juggling a stack of books that Krupinski could only guess were for.
"Professor Rall," she began, "has been having some health problems lately, so she's asked me to cover this class…"
Even though she continued to speak, Krupinski was too lost in looking at her to listen.
Krupinski instantly recognized her from the classroom, an easy feat considering her bright, silver hair. Sauntering from the coffee shop counter to her table, Krupinski fixed her best lady-killer smirk in place and tapped her on the shoulder.
"I never would have pegged you for a teacher," she said amiably.
"I'm not," the girl responded, unfazed. "I was just filling in for Professor Rall because I was in her class last semester."
"A student then. Me too," Krupinki said, leaning against the tall table.
The other nodded. "What's your major? Karlslandian?"
"Britannian literature," Krupinski answered, enjoying the look of surprise that passed on the girl's face. "I'm a bit of a writer."
"Of what sorts?" she asked, puzzled but appearing wholly unimpressed.
Krupinski shrugged. "Of every sort, I suppose. Short stories, novels… I prefer poetry, though. Girls love it."
The stranger's face instantly changed from one of apathy to one of suspicion. "You would use your education for something as low-brow as picking up women," she accused.
"I would argue that it's not low-brow; it's an art. Especially when you use poetry," Krupinski explained, smile growing as the other woman stared at her in pure skepticism.
"An art," the girl deadpanned.
Shrugging again, Krupinski took a sip of her coffee. "I'd say it's better than calling it a sport. Flirting's more than just a game. It takes finesse and planning."
"I'm not convinced," the other muttered, shaking her head.
With another long drag of her drink, Krupinski leaned in further. "Then I'll prove it to you. What's your name, stranger?"
It was strange to actually go to a party, not just leave, with someone. Rossman (as Krupinski just learned was her name) looked uncomfortable as soon as they entered the action, and Krupinski decided having a date at the beginning of the night wasn't nearly as strange as having a date that was there to watch her flirt.
She knew a good majority of the party-goers already, and, as they also knew her, no one expected that the woman who had coincidentally come in with her was with her.
Rossman took a seat on one of the open couches, signaling to Krupinski that she could start their "experiment" at any time. Krupinski gave her a subtle nod before grabbing drinks for both of them.
Swallowing hard, she scanned the room for someone attractive and seemingly alone. She was nervous, a feeling she hadn't experienced since she was still in Gymnasium and struggling with her fascination with pretty girls and the inability to talk to them. As if to make matters worse, she could see Rossman's distinctive silver hair, no matter where in the room she moved to.
It didn't take long to find someone. She had been chatting with a few friends from the study abroad program (one stuck on an old friend from her home country but with an obvious soft spot for one of her Orussian classmates; the other poorly-tempered and stubborn, with less love-life drama and more worry that her roommate would bring her girlfriend home again) when she noticed a girl she'd seen around campus. Breaking away from the conversation, Krupinski approached her.
"Excuse me, but would you happen to be in Miss Wilcke's Economics class?" she asked, tapping the girl on the shoulder. The girl turned, and Krupinski couldn't help but smile confidently at the sight of girl's expression morphing from annoyed to excited.
"I've seen you in class, and I couldn't help but notice your eyes. They're rather striking," she continued. "I couldn't find an excuse to talk to you before, but since we're both here…"
Five more minutes of sweet talking and Krupinski held an ink-stained napkin, the words "Call me" boldly written above a phone-number. When she excused herself to get a refill of her drink, she met another pretty girl she'd seen at her favorite café, and, in what she considered a new record, another number was in her hands in just three minutes. An hour later, she was almost positive she'd chatted up every woman in the room that she didn't know beforehand.
Smiling, Krupinski glanced around the room victoriously, the night of flirting energizing her. She instantly noticed a silver head nodding off on the same couch she had sat all night and stalked up to her as an idea hatched in her head.
"You like poetry?" she asked, feigning ignorance. "Just looking at you gave me plenty of inspiration."
Rossman turned to her in subtle surprise, raising an eyebrow but playing along. "I suppose that depends. What have you got?"
"I can already tell you'll like this one," she bragged. "'Nothing in the world is single, All thing's by a law divine, in one another's being mingle. Why not I with thine?"
"Is that what you've been doing all night?" she questioned.
"Sort of," Krupinski answered. "Except I'd never use ol' Percy on just anyone."
"Percy?"
Krupinski replaced her confident grin with a knowing on. "Percy Bysshe Shelley. A pick-up genius, if you ask me, but he made his money writing. I guess you could say I look up to him."
Though lowering her eyebrow, Rossman didn't lose her look of skepticism. "Does that mean I'm special?"
"Well, you did come to this party with me."
It was after their third, unofficial "date" that Krupinski began to wonder why she was drawn to Rossman. She literally had a drawer full of the phone numbers of more-than-wiling women, but she insisted on spending time with someone whose height and build were far from her preferred type.
"There might be something wrong with me," Krupinski muttered, arms crossed and resting on her desk, no longer finding amusement in staring at Rall during class.
Galland, who was busy alternating between taking notes and doodling in the margins of her notebook, didn't bother to look up. "I would say there are lots of things wrong with you, but go on."
"Remember that substitute from a couple of weeks ago?" Krupinski asked.
"The short one?"
"Yeah. It turns out we've been kind of seeing each other."
Head jerking up in shock, Galland looked incredulous. "You haven't 'seen someone' since you made it your personal goal to corrupt one of the Hartmann twins. And even that only lasted two and a half months."
"That's the problem. I haven't felt the need to actually date someone for a good two years now. What's changed?" Krupinski lamented, dropping her head on her crossed arms.
"A lady killer in love," Galland chuckled, shaking her head in pity. "Don't tell me you've lost your bravado."
Krupinski's body instantly straightened out. "I haven't!" she protested, "I'm just not used to worrying about feelings."
"You don't have to say it like it's a bad thing. A little love's probably a good thing for you anyway." Galland reasoned, causing Krupinski look indignant. "What? I'm tired of people telling me they've slept with my best friend."
They were on their way to the local coffee shop when Rossman spoke up.
"It's been three weeks, and I still can't understand you. Why do you do it?"
Krupinski glanced at Rossman in confusion, limiting her movements so that the cold wouldn't penetrate her barely-too-thin clothing. "Do what? Forget my jacket in my room? I wish I could tell you."
"No," Rossman responded, shaking her head. "Hit on girls like you do. There's got to be a reason why."
"Well, of course, and it's simple: I like girls."
"That's not what I mean!" Rossman protested. "You can like girls and not flirt with everyone you meet. So why do you?"
Sneakily while pretending to think, Krupinski scooted closer to the warm body beside her, in an attempt to be both even closer to Rossman and get a little warmer. Much to her dismay, Rossman instinctively moved away.
"Flirting's fun, and it's not like I do it for the sex. It's more like playing a game of cat and mouse: try to catch her as fast as possible," Krupinski explained.
"So it's all a big game to you?"
Krupinski sighed, tightening the hold she had around herself. "It can be, I guess. Sometimes I like a girl enough to call her, but most of the time I leave the numbers in my desk drawer; I don't have the time to have a tryst with every girl on campus."
"And when you lose interest in someone?" Rossman asked. Her eyes stayed fixed on the sidewalk ahead of them.
"Then I don't call her after the first date," Krupinski said, gaze stuck on the back of Rossman's head. "Better to end it early."
"Do you… do you lose interest in everyone?" Rossman muttered, the tone of her voice implying she didn't want an answer.
Krupinski responded anyway. "I have up till now, but I've actually been thinking a lot about that." She paused, the sudden silence heavy in the dry, winter air. "I know most people wouldn't call what we've been doing dating, but I'd like to try it –"
"Don't!" Rossman cut her off, turning unexpectedly and making Krupinski stop with her. "Don't treat me like another one of you conquests," she spat out, her voice equal parts angry and tearful. "I've seen what you do to women, and I refuse to end up like one of them."
Meeting the blazing eyes glaring at her straight on, Krupinski smiled gently, completely unlike her typical, confident smirk. "Didn't I tell you I don't use Percy on just anyone?"
Rossman stood her ground, her face unconvinced as Krupinski dug through her pockets for a scrap of paper and a pen. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, she was handed a crumpled sheet, the words "call me" boldly sitting above a phone number.
"That's a first for me," Krupinski joked, "so don't you dare go ignoring that."
Sparing one last smile, she continued walking, leaving Rossman stunned behind her.
"You never did call," Krupinski whispered, startling the poor woman sitting on a bench in front of her.
"I wasn't sure what to say," Rossman explained, her eyes trained on the book in her lap.
Moving to sit beside her, Krupinski scanned the campus quad. "That's no reason to leave me hanging," she laughed, watching a game of hackey-sack. "I feel played with."
"You're one to talk," Rossman grumbled, eyes never moving from her book.
"I like to think people who get involved with me aren't expecting much in the terms of a relationship. And besides, I'm not used to being the one getting strung along."
Rossman faced her in skepticism. "Can you blame me? I'm still not sure if I trust you."
Krupinski frowned in response, the expression unfamiliar and uncomfortable on her face. "Have I lied to you yet? I don't even lie to the people I'm picking up!"
"That's true," Rossman sighed. "You just use one of those poems, and people jump in your bed. It's troublesome."
Raising an eyebrow, Krupinski urged her to continue.
"You're annoyingly charming! How I supposed to resist you when you use a poem like you did!" Rossman accused. "I value my self-control, but it's hard when you recite a poem that ends in, 'The sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea; what are all these kissings worth, if thou not kiss –"
Leaning in, Krupinski didn't let her finish.
A/N: Slow author is slow.
Krupinski is quite fun to write, though I'm terrible with flirting and had to conveniently cut away every time it came up. Rossman is, meanwhile, wonderfully tsundere. (Also, Krupinski/Galland might be my new BroTP. I blame OZ7UP)
Internet slang aside, this is going mostly un-grammar/spell-checked because I feel like I've waited too long to post this. Please point out any errors you might see, so I can correct them.
Also, the request pool is always open, so lay them on me. I swear I'll get to them eventually.
Historical References:
- This chapter is named after the poem occurring throughout the story, entitled "Love's Philosophy." It was, as said in the story, written by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822), one of Britain's most acclaimed writers and husband to Mary Shelley of Frankenstein fame. He died shortly before his thirtieth birthday when he drowned due to a storm on his way from Livorno to Lerici.