Michael is grading essays when Adam appears. The sound of paper crinkling alerts him to the boy's presence and he looks up, blinking at the hunched figure that fills his doorway.
“Can I help you, Mr. Milligan?” he inquires, slipping his heavy, black-framed glasses off the bridge of his nose. The boy merely scowls at him, a familiar purse of his lips that Michael is very familiar with, that materializes whenever Adam is confused. He sees it more often than Adam's previous teachers predicted. The boy is unfocused in his class, rather than the excelling student that they promised. “Come in,” Michael finally says.
Adam sighs, but stalks forward and drops himself into the chair facing Michael's desk, slapping his paper down. A bright red 'D-' decorates the top. “This can't be right.” There's a note of desperation in his voice, false confidence in his declaration.
“I'm sorry,” Michael replies gently, clasping his hands together to peer at Adam over them. “If you want, I can stay after school to tutor you. With my help, perhaps you can grasp the concept enough to pass the next test.”
“I don't care about the next test!” Adam barks, slamming his fist down on the desktop. The motion startles one of Michael's papers from the top of his pile, riled air blowing it to the floor, and he frowns from it to Adam, who looks unrepentant. “The next report card is in a week. There's no way a fucking tutoring session will help me with that.”
“Language, Mr. Milligan,” Michael says, a dangerous edge to his own tone.
Adam falters at the sound of it and bites his lower lip, taking coy glimpses of his teacher through his eyelashes. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles, “but I just...how can I do this? My mom's gonna be so disappointed and the colleges – oh God, the colleges are gonna drop me like a hot plate when they see the nosedive my grades took. Please, Mr. Milton, please don't let that happen!”
He's flushed a delicate pink now, pale blue eyes practically welling in his boyish face, a contrast to the temperamental teenager Michael is acquainted with. It wrenches something in Michael's chest. As the oldest brother to four younger siblings, he's used to the affect of such an expression.
“I'm not sure what I can do,” he begins slowly, regretfully, and Adam surges forward on his elbows.
“I'll do anything,” the boy whispers, emphasis on the final word.
Michael searches his face for a moment, finding nothing but conviction there. He stands up, Adam's eyes latched on him, then locks the door, pulling down its curtain for good measure, before returning to his seat.
“Perhaps our after school sessions can help more than you think,” he tells Adam, his gruff murmur shooting a shiver down the boy's skinny frame. The next day, he informs his class of their lowest grades being dropped, his eyes dutifully taking no notice as Adam squirmed and smirked in his seat. One could never go wrong with a fresh start.
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regna
SPN, The Grading You Deserve, Michael/Adam, PG-13, (teacher/student, dubconish, implied underage)
Date: 2011-10-17 02:12 am (UTC)-
Michael is grading essays when Adam appears. The sound of paper crinkling alerts him to the boy's presence and he looks up, blinking at the hunched figure that fills his doorway.
“Can I help you, Mr. Milligan?” he inquires, slipping his heavy, black-framed glasses off the bridge of his nose. The boy merely scowls at him, a familiar purse of his lips that Michael is very familiar with, that materializes whenever Adam is confused. He sees it more often than Adam's previous teachers predicted. The boy is unfocused in his class, rather than the excelling student that they promised. “Come in,” Michael finally says.
Adam sighs, but stalks forward and drops himself into the chair facing Michael's desk, slapping his paper down. A bright red 'D-' decorates the top. “This can't be right.” There's a note of desperation in his voice, false confidence in his declaration.
“I'm sorry,” Michael replies gently, clasping his hands together to peer at Adam over them. “If you want, I can stay after school to tutor you. With my help, perhaps you can grasp the concept enough to pass the next test.”
“I don't care about the next test!” Adam barks, slamming his fist down on the desktop. The motion startles one of Michael's papers from the top of his pile, riled air blowing it to the floor, and he frowns from it to Adam, who looks unrepentant. “The next report card is in a week. There's no way a fucking tutoring session will help me with that.”
“Language, Mr. Milligan,” Michael says, a dangerous edge to his own tone.
Adam falters at the sound of it and bites his lower lip, taking coy glimpses of his teacher through his eyelashes. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles, “but I just...how can I do this? My mom's gonna be so disappointed and the colleges – oh God, the colleges are gonna drop me like a hot plate when they see the nosedive my grades took. Please, Mr. Milton, please don't let that happen!”
He's flushed a delicate pink now, pale blue eyes practically welling in his boyish face, a contrast to the temperamental teenager Michael is acquainted with. It wrenches something in Michael's chest. As the oldest brother to four younger siblings, he's used to the affect of such an expression.
“I'm not sure what I can do,” he begins slowly, regretfully, and Adam surges forward on his elbows.
“I'll do anything,” the boy whispers, emphasis on the final word.
Michael searches his face for a moment, finding nothing but conviction there. He stands up, Adam's eyes latched on him, then locks the door, pulling down its curtain for good measure, before returning to his seat.
“Perhaps our after school sessions can help more than you think,” he tells Adam, his gruff murmur shooting a shiver down the boy's skinny frame. The next day, he informs his class of their lowest grades being dropped, his eyes dutifully taking no notice as Adam squirmed and smirked in his seat. One could never go wrong with a fresh start.