Bailey decided to talk about street culture and grafitti, which had nothing to do with the assignment anyway. I think - not that I want to assume anything bad of any faculty, of course, but I think Professor Level did this on purpose.
[ he huffs again, almost in the very disbelief that anyone might do something as unfair or unjust, no less in an academic setting. but he's not completely foolish or naive - he knows better than to assume the good in everyone, even here.
when he glances back up, he catches the movement of professor fuller's eye - down, briefly, and he's reminded suddenly of the soreness in his kneecaps. he'd done this on purpose - wore clothing revealing enough so that the man across the desk from him would notice - but he's since forgotten in the heat of the sheer audacity of a sociology professor.
he files away the reaction for later - his blood still too heated in a different way to even address the obvious. ]
And I didn't rock the boat! [ pardon him, hawk, for being passionate, but it shows in the way he too leans forward, a little red faced, and the way his voice pitches up uncontrolled. ]
I am someone participating in a class that I have paid for. And while I try very hard not to look at the educational institution as a means of goods and services, but isn't that exactly what it is? I would complain for poor service or a poor product anywhere went should I have paid for it, and -
[ he'd been gesturing with one hand and finally it comes up to his own mouth, fingers pulling at his own chin to stop himself, before they press over his lips, almost sheepish.
cool it, laughlin.
he silently considers hawk from where he sits, breathing a little too fast for someone merely just arguing about a paper, but that's timothy laughlin to a tee - passionate, unbridled, honest. ]
Off the record. [ why does the low tone of the man's voice both soothe and rile him? there's something about it, and the way the man leans forward, that makes his own mouth go dry. it may well be the casual summerwear, too. (has professor fuller been wearing his button downs more opened at the collar on purpose?).
he shifts in the seat finally, moving instead to cross his legs at the knee, which puts a newly formed bruise on display, right at the crown of his kneecap before the dusting of hair on his thigh begins. ]
Should I shut the door so your colleagues don't hear you conspiring against another, or...?
[ there's a bit of a joke, but even his voice has gone low, quiet so that anyone coming round the corner wouldn't be able to make out what they said anyway. ]
Advice would be nice. I... already have a few ideas of my own as well. Please, sir.
no subject
[ he huffs again, almost in the very disbelief that anyone might do something as unfair or unjust, no less in an academic setting. but he's not completely foolish or naive - he knows better than to assume the good in everyone, even here.
when he glances back up, he catches the movement of professor fuller's eye - down, briefly, and he's reminded suddenly of the soreness in his kneecaps. he'd done this on purpose - wore clothing revealing enough so that the man across the desk from him would notice - but he's since forgotten in the heat of the sheer audacity of a sociology professor.
he files away the reaction for later - his blood still too heated in a different way to even address the obvious. ]
And I didn't rock the boat! [ pardon him, hawk, for being passionate, but it shows in the way he too leans forward, a little red faced, and the way his voice pitches up uncontrolled. ]
I am someone participating in a class that I have paid for. And while I try very hard not to look at the educational institution as a means of goods and services, but isn't that exactly what it is? I would complain for poor service or a poor product anywhere went should I have paid for it, and -
[ he'd been gesturing with one hand and finally it comes up to his own mouth, fingers pulling at his own chin to stop himself, before they press over his lips, almost sheepish.
cool it, laughlin.
he silently considers hawk from where he sits, breathing a little too fast for someone merely just arguing about a paper, but that's timothy laughlin to a tee - passionate, unbridled, honest. ]
Off the record. [ why does the low tone of the man's voice both soothe and rile him? there's something about it, and the way the man leans forward, that makes his own mouth go dry. it may well be the casual summerwear, too. (has professor fuller been wearing his button downs more opened at the collar on purpose?).
he shifts in the seat finally, moving instead to cross his legs at the knee, which puts a newly formed bruise on display, right at the crown of his kneecap before the dusting of hair on his thigh begins. ]
Should I shut the door so your colleagues don't hear you conspiring against another, or...?
[ there's a bit of a joke, but even his voice has gone low, quiet so that anyone coming round the corner wouldn't be able to make out what they said anyway. ]
Advice would be nice. I... already have a few ideas of my own as well. Please, sir.