Title: "Summer School" (College AU - Part Sixteen) Pairing: Harry Sinclair/Sean Bean Rating: PG Disclaimer: Never happened. Summary: Wherein Sean's not a stuffy professor, Harry's a persistent sort, and there's talk of gothic literature. Notes: I know I owed someone a Bean/Harry fic, but I can't remember who it was. So, um, this is for you, whoever you are! Twenty Years Ago Athens, Georgia Eire's Pub wasn't precisely like the pubs back in Sean's native Sheffield, England, but he thought it would suit him quite well, nevertheless. The place was a tad too on the clean side, a little too brightly lit, and the furniture, while wooden and sturdy, was in far too good repair, without the gouges and graffiti and stains that colored the bar and booths of his hometown pub. But the Harps Ale on tap was cold and crisp, the chips were suitably salty and greasy, and the bartender, who hailed from Dorchester, was a friendly enough sort without being the chatty type. Sean appreciated that he'd have a little slice of home during his summer in the wilds of Athens, Georgia, and counted himself lucky to have found the place so soon in his stay. He still wasn't precisely certain what had prompted him to say yes to teaching a summer course on Gothic Literature in America, but, as the saying went, adventure was good for the soul, and Sean was doing his level best to buck the trend of Stuffy English Lit Professor (emphasis on the caps, of course). It had been too long since he'd done something just for the hell of it. He was 30, not 80, no matter what his students seemed to think. He took another sip of his Harps, savored the brusque bite on his tongue, and flipped the page of his course syllabus, striking out words and scribbling in new ones with his trusty red felt pen. He had no idea why he was poring over every word – the students never read the damn thing all the way through – but he found the act of editing and revising comforting. Probably explained why he was a teacher. Other than editing, it was the only profession that paid one to scribble wildly in red ink on paper. "If you came to a bar to do work, clearly you're doing it wrong." The voice was amused, carried a hint of some indefinable accent (but Sean thought maybe Australian or New Zealand – he was forever confusing the two), and was very close by. Sean looked up from his papers and into a pair of gorgeous brown eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. "I'm sorry?" he asked, confused. The other man, casually dressed in well-worn jeans and an R.E.M. t-shirt, slid into the seat across from Sean like he and Sean were old friends. Sean's glance quickly moved across short, dark hair, an angular face, and wide shoulders before he concluded that he had no idea who the bloke was or why he'd decided to join Sean's table when there were plenty of empty ones around him. The only crowd (and that was being generous) was by the arcade machine by the bar. "You should be sorry," the man said. "Doing actual paperwork in a bar's a little like going into a titty bar blindfolded." "I...I didn't mean I was sorry about what I was doing. It's just an expression," Sean replied, still more than a little baffled. Who the hell was this man? And what did nudie clubs have to do with anything? "I thought I could hear a bit of the British in your accent." The other man tapped at his lips in thought. "Let me guess, Northern England? Doncaster?" "Sheffield," Sean replied. He still wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but he had to admit he was rather impressed that his accent had been pegged so aptly. He was still having trouble figuring out whether the bloke was Aussie or Kiwi or neither. Then again, he was shite with accents. He could barely tell a Scotsman from an Irishman most days. "One of the rough and tumble set, I see." Sean raised an eyebrow. "You always stereotype people you've just met?" "Of course, don't you? What's the fun of going to public places if not to speculate about total strangers?" "Um..." Sean closed his mouth. He had no idea how to respond to that. "Anyway, enough about me. What brings you across the pond to the Peach State?" Peach State? Ah, right, Georgia's nickname, even though it was a little disingenuous these days. Sean had, while doing the requisite research on the place that was to be his new home for the next four months, read that the state didn't export nearly the amount of peaches it used to. "I'm teaching a summer course at the university," he replied, more out of politeness than anything else. Mostly, he was still trying to figure out why he was having this conversation at all. "What a coincidence. I'm a professor at UGA." The other man stuck out a hand. "Harry Sinclair, Economics." Sean felt a fissure of heat when his palm met Sinclair's for a brief, firm shake. "Sean Bean, English." "Of course you are." "Beg pardon?" "Nothing. Very nice to meet you, English Sean Bean. Is that your syllabus you were scribbling on?" Sinclair snatched it up before Sean could say anything, and quickly started skimming the pages. "Solaris, I'm impressed. Not too many people reading Lem these days." An economics professor who knew about Solaris? America was definitely a strange place. "It raises some vital philosophical questions," he said, straightening his spine as he prepared himself to defend his choices, although he wasn't sure why. His materials had already been approved by the department. He hardly needed the validation of an odd economics professor. "Simmer down, no one's disputing your methods yet," Sinclair winked, and went back to the pages. "Turn of the Screw... Is that the one where the kids go nuts?" "The governess," Sean corrected. "Although I suppose the argument could be made that the children also had a few screws loose. No pun intended." "Of course not. And Frankenstein." Sinclair put the papers down and gave Sean a considering, amused sort of look, like he was having a laugh, but didn't want to let anyone else in on the joke. "You're quite the goth, aren't you?" Sean couldn't help the small smile. "Well, the course is called The Macabre and Sublime In Western Literature." "Bit of a British bent to the reading materials." "Teach what you know," Sean shrugged, toasting Sinclair with his glass. "So the mysterious they keep saying," Sinclair replied. He pushed his glasses up along his nose, studied Sean out of cool eyes. "You feel like grabbing dinner? I know a great place down the street that does a mean curry. Almost as good as anything you'd find in London." Sean, who'd just been about to take another sip of his beer, set the mug on the table with a small thump. "I'm sorry?" "You're doing it again," Sinclair said. "Sorry would be if I cooked. Trust me, eating out's a much better idea." Like that explained anything. Sean was beginning to wonder if there were any white rabbits with stopwatches running about the place. "Are you...?" Sean's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you asking me out?" Sinclair just gave him a look like he was slightly stupid. "That was the idea, yes. Don't tell me you don't eat." "Of course I do." "Alright, then, eat with me." Sinclair leaned in, snagged one of Sean's hands in his own. "We can negotiate dessert after." Between one heartbeat and the next, all of the blood in Sean's body made a beeline south. And all from a good-looking man holding his hand. This was completely insane. "Why are we negotiating dessert?" he asked. He was proud of himself for keeping his voice steady. "Well, I dunno what you're into, but I was thinking of peeling you out of that rumpled suit you're wearing and laying you on my bed. I think you'd make a delectable dessert myself." The sudden, vivid mental image of Sinclair, with his capable-looking hands, doing exactly that, stole all of Sean's breath. He couldn't remember the last time he'd reacted so strongly to someone (or how this Sinclair fellow had figured out so quickly that he that he fancied the lads as well as the ladies), but just because he was seeking out adventure didn't mean he'd suddenly lost all of his wits. It took an extreme act of will, but Sean slid his hand from Sinclair's, mourning the loss of touch even as his sanity slowly returned. Sinclair, to his considerable credit, moved his own hand back to his side of the table. Sean refused to dwell on the fact that a small part of him was disappointed. "I don't put out on first dates," Sean said, which wasn't precisely what he'd wanted to say, but he figured he was still working on thinking with the big brain and not the little one. And it was close enough to what he meant. "Seeing as how we're sharing a drink right now in a public place, this could be considered a first date," Sinclair replied, with a wide grin that showed off the laugh lines around his eyes. "Which means that dinner would be the second date." "You are persistent." "You think it's sexy." "Do I?" "You do," Sinclair stated, with a supreme confidence that Sean half admired, half hated. Alright, he only hated it because Sinclair was right – it was very sexy and flattering – but there was no reason to let him know that. "And I'm not leaving without a number or a way to get in touch with you, at least," Sinclair continued. "I refuse to stalk the English department, although I suppose if I have to, I will." Against his better judgment, Sean's mouth quirked in a small smile. Part of him was, and he could admit it privately, thoroughly charmed. "Stalking's a little too Shakespeare. I generally prefer flowers or wine when I'm being wooed." "I've got a dogwood tree in my backyard and some excellent single malt in the liquor cabinet," Sinclair repeated promptly. "But, like I said, I'm a horrible cook, so if you're expecting breakfast tomorrow, it's on you to whip something up." "I am not spending the night with you, but nice try," Sean replied. "Also, I'm shite in the kitchen." "Well, you are British." "My mum is an excellent cook, thank you. And it's still not working." "You know, I've noticed that you keep shooting me down, but you haven't moved away yet or told me to fuck off," Sinclair said, after taking a healthy sip of his beer. "I'm going to take that as encouragement and keep at it until you tell me yes. Just so you're warned in advance." "Yes." It was worth the impulsive response just for the dumbfounded look on Sinclair's face. "Come again?" "Yes, I'll have dinner with you," Sean repeated, delighted that he'd managed to catch Sinclair off-guard. It was quite the heady feeling. "But only dinner. No dessert, or negotiating for it. And not tonight." "Hmmm...you didn't leave me much wiggle room," Sinclair mused, tapping at his lips again. "Lit professor, remember. I know all the slippery slopes of the language." Sinclair leaned in, elbows on the table, and spoke in a loud, but conspiratorial whisper. Sean's gaze was drawn to the light hairs dusting Sinclair's muscled forearms. "I love the way you say slippery slopes. It's very sexy." Sean could, to his chagrin, immediately feel the blush suffuse his cheeks. He was far too old for this sort of behavior, for silly word games and shameless flirting with strange men, no matter how attractive. But still, he didn't move. "Go on, you." "I'm perfectly serious," Sinclair said, in a normal tone of voice, even though he was still leaning in far too close. "I think I could listen to you espouse about literature and language all night." Sean just shook his head, and fumbled with his battered attach้ case for a moment before pushing a business card across the table. He couldn't believe he was doing this. But he didn't move his hand. "The number where I'm staying is on the back. And if you call me tonight for phone sex or just to breathe dirty, dinner's off." Sinclair's eyes narrowed slightly. "What if I just want to call you to discuss the merits of Thomas Malory or Ben Jonson?" An economics professor who knew Lem and Malory and Jonson? Definitely, Sean had stumbled into an alternate universe. "Let's save something for the date, shall we?" "You just called it a date. No, no, can't take it back," Sinclair said, and snatched the card from Sean's fingers before he could change his mind or regain what precious little was left of his sanity. "I'll call you tomorrow with a time and place. But I will insist on picking you up and taking you home after. I'm old-fashioned like that." "Fine, but no trying to finagle your way in afterwards for a nightcap." "Nightcap, he says, all prim and proper. Besides, it's something to earn. I like that." Sinclair slid out of the booth. "Can I at least get a goodnight kiss?" Sean just gave him what he hoped was his best imperious look, although inwardly he more amused than anything else at Sinclair's persistence. "Good night, Sinclair." "It's Harry." Sinclair bent down, close enough so that Sean could breathe in the sharp scent of aftershave mixed with hops. His eyes, wide behind his glasses, had gold flecks, with lashes long enough to be the envy of any woman. Sean was mesmerized. "Say my name," Sinclair said, in an intimate tone that wrapped around Sean like a wool blanket. He licked suddenly parched lips, watched Sinclair's gaze follow the movement. Felt the heat tugging at him again, making thought all but impossible. "Good night, Harry," he managed, and held his breath, waiting to see what Sinclair would do next. When Sinclair straightened back up, Sean wasn't too proud to admit he was a little let down. "Yes," Sinclair replied, and pushed his glasses back up his nose, "I do believe it is a good night." And, before Sean could think of a suitable response, Sinclair turned and left, heading towards the bar. Sean watched him walk away, more or less staring at a superb ass, and found himself hoping that Sinclair – Harry – would make good on his promise of a date. His stay in America was definitely looking up. Onto Making Plans If you enjoyed this fic, please leave feedback here. Thanks!