Fanfiction - The Teacher
Request for a fic. Everyone is joking about professor Sam in Barbour. Could you write a professor Jamie story. Claire is a student but Older and more intriguing than all the young giggling co-eds
…In the meantime, I had this anon ask sitting on my inbox for some months now – and I’d hate to let this fantasy go unattended!
Those girls were ridiculous, Claire thought. Madly fluttering their eyelashes as if a constant influx of dust was getting into their eyes and always bending over, using the pretence of catching a fallen pen or pencil, only to expose their cleavage. Claire felt she was inside a documentary on the mating rituals of college girls and, even if slightly amusing, it also disturbed her in an irrational way.
Health Management was an extra class for her – a way to get a couple more credits that would speed up her academic course. She was already almost ten years the senior when compared to the other students attending Medical School – her years as a nurse had given her a lot of useful resources, but also made her feel she was constantly battling time. It was an interesting class, that mixed concepts of health and economics, to ensure the future doctors based their decisions in cost-effectiveness. In spite of being well taught and useful, whispering was a constant background noise – clearly the result of female hormones going rampant. The problem was not the subject, Claire knew – was the man leading the class.
Professor Fraser was young and remarkably handsome – his Scottish accent and deep voice, combined with astonishing blue eyes, which he hid behind black rimmed glasses, inspired great admiration amongst the women in the classroom. The fact that the class functioned at all was a testament to Fraser’s capacity of using leadership skills and imposing respect.
A couple of girls next to her giggled and Claire distinctively heard one of them, a blonde bombshell that undoubtedly belonged in a house named after a Greek alphabet letter, saying “I would slide my hand bellow his kilt anytime…”
Pursing her lips and rolling her eyes, Claire continued to sketch with her sharp pencil in the back of her notebook, struggling to focus again on the contents of the class. The shade in the external corner wasn’t quite right, she noticed, furrowing her brows in annoyance.
“Am I boring ye, Miss Beauchamp?” She heard a voice demanding her attention. Claire looked up and noticed all faces turned to her, clearly awaiting her reaction to being caught distracted. James Fraser stood next to the board with his arms crossed, his lips forming a half smile, expecting her answer.
Yes. “No, Professor Fraser.” She replied in a casual tone. “I was just taking notes and got distracted. May you repeat the question, please?”
“I see.” He said in a serious – disappointed? – tone. “Anyone knows the answer? Miss MacKenzie?”
“Replacing the blood gas machine would be the best measure.” Laoghaire MacKenzie glowed like a lit candle - marvelled that for once she had managed to upstage Claire and gain Professor Fraser’s attentions - offering a victorious look through the corner of her eye, which Claire blatantly ignored.
“That is correct.” He nodded, raising a brow in Claire’s direction. “I’d recommend that ye pay more attention to the class, Miss Beauchamp.”
“I bloody would if it wasn’t for your fan club.” Claire complained in a low voice, after he had resumed the class.
As the class ended – students rushing to the door to get to the refectory in time for lunch, talking about a hot party later that week -, Claire assembled her notebooks and pencil, storing them inside her green rucksack – made of what looked like army green fabric with a painted red cross, akin to something a doctor would wear during the Second World War.
“May I talk to you, Miss Beauchamp?” Professor Fraser asked politely, as she walked down the stairs in direction of the door. The room was almost deserted, only a couple of latecomers remained inside, struggling with coats and piles of books.
“Of course, Professor.” Claire stared at him, expectantly.
“Ye were distracted today.” He pointed, closing the book he had used to prepare the current subject. “Is something bothering ye, Claire?”
“No.” She firmly replied, her eyes downcast. “I’m sure I can’t be the first student you caught daydreaming. Why are you making such a big deal about it?”
Jamie gave her a concerned look, his blue eyes wrinkling in the corners. He was sporting a small stubble, that combined with his impeccable plaid shirt, gave him a look of casual handsomeness.
“Ye are one of the best students in the class.” He said slowly, neatly placing his books inside his own bag. “I wouldna like ye to squander yer potential. If something is disturbing ye, I’d like to help ye if I can, that’s all.”
“It’s fine.” She insisted in a harsher voice, her hands slightly trembling. “I don’t really need another man to tell me I’m not good enough and can’t handle things. Because I am quite capable!”
“I’m not saying ye aren’t, Miss Beauchamp.” He pointed patiently, glaring at her increasingly red face. “In fact, I think I just said quite the opposite.”
“I can’t focus because all the girls around me are acting like crazy hens, cackling over you!” She accused in a mordant voice, going completely berserk despite her best rational alarms going off in the outskirts of her brain. “I’m here to study – I have so much to learn still and my age will hurt me in spite of how good I keep proving myself again and again – and all they can think is to shag the teacher!”
“Ye’re crossing the line, Claire.” Jamie warned, his voice now low and dangerous. “I might be younger than ye – just a few years, really - but ye’re not exactly old enough to convince me ye’re getting senile by acting out and being disrespectful. I am the teacher here.”
“Then you should bloody act like it!” Claire growled, the hammer of anger – and jealousy? – pounding against her ribs. “Stop being so nice and attentive, because you’re clearly giving the wrong message!”
“What?!” His mouth was ajar, the pulse on his temple throbbing in anger. He practically tore his glasses away from his face, discarding them on the table with a dry sound. “I never made any advances on one of my students. The mere suggestion my behaviour is borderline unethical is a verra serious one, Miss Beauchamp. It can get me suspended if anyone in the faculty board hears it.”
“I’m sorry.” She hissed, fidgeting with the closing mechanism of her rucksack. “But you have to recognize that you are young and…handsome.” Claire swallowed her, her voice strangled. “You can pass the wrong impression just from breathing.”
“Maybe ye should drop this class.” Jamie suggested, slightly turning away from her in order to shield his face from her sight. “I can ask Professor Raymond’s permission for you to assist his Alternative Medicine class. It will give ye the same credits as mine.”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Maybe I should.” They stood there, facing each other, their eyes battling when words had failed them.
“Claire.” He asked, his voice ragged but softer, warmer. “Who told you ye werena enough?”
“My husband.” She avoided his eyes, twisting her lips in a grimace. “Ex-husband. He was a teacher too. Thought I couldn’t handle becoming a doctor – I should settle to what I already was. He was very vocal about it. That’s why we divorced.”
“He was wrong.” Jamie said softly, but firmly. His eyes were all shades of blue – stormless skies, bottomless oceans, rare wild flowers, starry nights, infinite horizons. “I hope ye ken that. Because I certainly do.”
“Oh.” Claire babbled, feeling utterly ridiculous after her outburst. He had his long-fingered hands placed on the desk between them – in her eyes they seemed made to lovingly caress a female body, to demand responses with brutal kindness, to hold a smaller hand that could fit perfectly. “Thank you.”
“It has been a pleasure teaching you, Claire.” He said quietly. “You have a lively mind and a sharp wit. They’ll serve ye well. Yer age won’t hinder ye, lass – it only makes ye that more intriguing and capable.”
“I’m sorry.” She gave him a weak blushing smile, reinforced by the way he responded with a small grin. “I can be quite…rebellious, when my heels are being stepped on.”
“I have witnessed it first-hand.” He laughed, brushing his copper hair in a display of nervousness. “Ye seem to have forgotten one of yer wee notebooks.” And, without waiting for her answer, strode to the place where she had been sitting, collecting her pad.
She knew he would see it – she had been working on it for most of the class and had left it open as she hurried to leave. It was a rough drawing of a blue eye, with a familiar catlike shape – framing it was a verse from her favourite poem in her stylized hand, “Da mi basia mille”.
”Deinde centum.” He completed, caressing the sheet with his fingertips. “If ye’re not my student anymore,” He said in a hoarse voice, turning to look at her with a burst of hope in his eyes. “I’m finally free to ask ye out on a date, as I’ve wanted since the day I first saw ye sitting on my class.”