I bet Jayce and Viktor read each other's course reviews so they can filter out any insults for the other. Imagine:
Jayce: This student wishes you used the calendar feature on Canvas.
Viktor: Why? All of the due dates are listed in the Syllabus. I trust they can mange on their own.
Jayce: Sure. I guess.
Viktor: This student wrote 'Your class was lovely. Professor Viktor's was a nightmare. Divorce him and take the house and kids' in the additional feedback section.
Jayce: You know they probably wouldn't have said that if you used the Canvas Calendar feature.
Viktor: For the love of christ they can WRITE the due dates down THEMSELVES!
inspired by this post:
https://www.tumblr.com/academicblorbo/795934093696188416/we-all-love-the-professor-overshare-jayce-who-is?source=share
(as well as the fic bah, humbug by spqr and the prompt where they get WILDLY different reviews on rate-my-teacher)
(@noideawherethatcamefrom I hope this scratches the itch, sorry it's not a longfic, it's gonna be more like a series of vignettes)
(@okmissgirl HERE YA GO, BABE!!)
Okay, so, the thing is: Professor Beranek wasn’t…he’s not…
He’s not what you think he is.
Let me explain:
You need to get this degree. You’re willing to put up with pretty much anything to get there (“hard-headed” mom would usually call you—in fact, she still calls you that to this day)—barring sexual harassment, cheating, and bribes, of course (you are 19 years old, and full of enough energy, determination, and will to take on the entire solar system).
So, when you checked out your prospective future teachers on ‘rate my professor’, and saw review after review calling Professor Beranek “cold” and “harsh” and “mean” (which…c’mon, we’re college students— “mean”? What are we, five? Surely by the ripe old age of 19 or 20 we should have enough words in our vocabulary to communicate more accurately and clearly than we did as preschoolers), you squared your shoulders and signed up for his class anyway. Apparently, the success rate of his class was 50%—abysmal, but far higher than the success rate of graduate students from the university in general: …3%. Besides, you’d done your homework: nearly all the successful graduate students had taken his class, and passed.
Mid-October, everything lined up in juuust the right way for everything to come tumbling down, and take you with it.
Professor Beranek had accidently bumped into you, mid panic-attack in a corridor. At first you’d nearly tripped over yourself apologizing (though he assured you that you had done nothing wrong, therefore there was no need to apologize)—and once your mouth had started, it was impossible to stop; it all came spilling out.
In short:
Your panic over receiving a ticket for not parking your car in the right parkinglot, your dog being rushed to the vet—alive and stable, and mom had reassured you over and over that he would be just fine, but it still scared the *hell* out of you because what if she was lying to try to lower your stress and stop you from worrying? But you couldn’t just hop into your car and drive home to see what was happening for yourself because you had a major Bio exam coming up, which you were already stressed about because it was your worst subject.
You’d stayed up late the previous night studying for said exam (translation: studied for two hours before getting bored and getting distracted for HOURS, all while being haunted with the dread and anxiety of doing poorly regardless of how many hours you spent on this, AND guilt for not being a better, more responsible student), and had barely slept it all since your brain wouldn’t stop screaming at you.
So you’d accidentally overslept, and had been forced to do the awkward, shameful thing of walking into a class late. VERY late. The stupid classroom door had squeaked as you snuck in, interrupting the lecturer and drawing EVERYONE’S attention to you (you didn’t even like getting everyone’s simultaneous immediate attention, period; if you could pass by unnoticed, then it was a good class in your book).
In your next class, you’d received your freshly-graded paper, with the words “see me” written in red at the top.
And then to top it all off, everyone was too busy to talk, so you didn’t even have a shoulder to lean on within your support network.
Oh and you hadn’t even started Professor Beranek’s homework yet, even though you prided yourself for being on top of your work for that class, so you could barely stand to look him in the eye out of guilt. (It didn’t help that out of all your professors, he was one of the most unapproachable. He didn’t terrify you, he just…okay yeah your anxiety made you terrified of him. Kinda.
He wasn’t “scary,” but apparently you were always only two steps away from breaking down over anything and everything, and the perpetual anxiety running in the background of your mind, with an unending string of commentary, had LOADS to say about him. You respected his class, you respected him, and, on your own time, you genuinely enjoyed the material. Even if it sometimes made you want to bang your head against the wall. The general running theme seemed to center around, basically: ‘oh no, I’m going to get a bad grade in Teacher Approval, something that is possible to achieve and reasonable to fear.’ He rarely smiled—and when he did it was so subtle and quick that half the time you wondered if you’d imagined it. Tardiness was met with a wit dry enough to rival Hawkeye’s infamous homemade martinis. (And as we’d established before, acknowledging your existence—especially when you were already on the backfoot—was, for you, a mini torture session in Hell. After the first time you saw someone walk in late, you made sure that you arrived at Professor Beranek’s classroom early. Without fail.)
So yeah, I am deeply sorry for existing and breathing air today, and now I’ve insulted you and your job by not respecting it and completing my work within the timeframe I normally would, please drop me off at the nearest mall outlet, clearly the only thing I’m qualified enough to do is work as a part-time mannequin—
You ran out of words by the time you reached the faculty offices.
(You were still visibly shaking from adrenaline and anxiety, and you wore a mile-long stare.)
“Oh, Viktor…not another one,” Professor Talis chuckled.
“Shush,” Professor Beranek lightly tapped the side of Talis’ shin with his cane. The corners of his lips were traitorously twitching.
Talis’ chuckles trailed into a sigh. “What was it this time?”
“Why don’t you ask them yourself, instead of pretending they’re not here?” Professor Beranek said, still facing the office microwave.
Professor Talis blushed. He met your eyes and winced. “Sorry,” he murmured, looking satisfyingly cowed.
The microwave beeped.
“I would prefer to use a stove, but the administration has made it explicitly clear that if we have one more fire violation, they’re withdrawing our funding.” Beranek said, turning to reveal a steaming mug. “However, those who criticize using a microwave are being unnecessarily purist about the whole process.” He stirred a spoon through the mug’s contents. “Which is silly; it vibrates the water molecules, just the same as any other heating device. Besides, microwaves have not yet been barred to us.”
“We haven’t tried microwaving grapes to make plasma—yet,” Talis adds, winking at you conspiratorially.
“Here,” Professor Beranek hands you a mug wrapped in a small towel. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to, but I’ve found that it helps to hold something warm.”
“Thank you,” you murmur. You blow on it, and take a careful sip. It’s definitely stronger than you thought it would be—the star anise should not have been a surprise, since you’d faintly smelled licorice—but not bad.
You take another careful sip; nothing but the gentle sound of the Professors grading papers and flipping through notes.
“Um,” they both look up, “what did he mean by ‘another’—what did you mean by ‘another one?’” You turn to face Professor Talis.
“Oh nothing, it’s just that Viktor has a habit of collecting undergrad students like stray kittens,” he smirks and side-eyes professor Beranek, who first glares at him with narrowed eyes, before widening them and pleading:
“Jayce, please, my reputation.”
“Oh nooo, your reputation of being intimidating and a hard-ass is in jeopardy, whatever will you doooo?” Professor Talis drawls.
Professor Beranek flicks a balled-up scrap of paper at him; Professor Talis swats it away, chuckling.
“Insufferable man,” you hear Professor Beranek mutter, though the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays him.
