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Dec. 14th, 2004 04:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anotherusedpageWarnings: Well, it's technically speaking RPF although most of you would never know that if I didn't point it out. Slash free.
The sound of music and singing still seemed to reverberate around the performing art’s centre, but it was six thirty, and the students had finally all left. The choir had made the corridors echo until five-thirty. There had been students in the computer room, mixing and sampling and filling the air with an incongruous mixture of Bach chorales and jazz standards, all played out in tinny computerised beeping. At six o’clock, he’d kicked them all out, done the maintenance, deleted the cheat-sheet someone had posted for this week’s chorale, and shut down the computers. At twenty past six, he’d heard her dismiss the group of girls who stayed late after rehearsals to sing close-harmony and bicker.
Silence fell.
The computers had stopped beeping and humming. No one was singing, or playing, or running the length of the corridor asking panicked questions about the current location of the school’s bongo drums or the final deadline of the GCSE coursework. For maybe half an hour, at the end of the day, silence reigned.
He checked the cello locker, just in case. It was a running joke, the cello locker. No windows in the door. Every amorous couple in the school, even those with no business in the music department in the first place, seemed to end up in there. No one had been left locked in over night – yet. There’d been some close calls.
The door swung shut behind him, and he heard the lock snick.
‘Hey!’ he called out.
She left him sweating for a couple of moments, and then opened the door and grinned at him, shame-faced.
‘Too good to resist,’ she said. He laughed, and continued on his round of the corridor, shutting piano lids, turning keyboards off and locking doors.
She was waiting for him in the office, sitting in the big swivel chair. Typing, or pretending to type, some official looking letter, she looked up when he came in and grinned.
On impulse, he grabbed the back of the chair and swung her out into the corridor. She screamed a half-hearted outraged protest and clung on, as he sent her rocketing the length of the department on uneven wheels. She crashed into the double doors at the end, laughing up at him, breathless.
He helped her to her feet with a guilty smile.
‘You bastard,’ she said gleefully, and kissed his cheek.
He sat down on the wheely-chair, pulled her onto his lap, and paddled them back down the corridor with his feet. She leaned back against his chest.
‘You going to finish typing that before I lock up?’ he said. She nodded, refused to let him stand up, and finished typing the letter whilst sliding a foot up and down the back of his leg.
He shut down the computer, locked the hatch and the window. She came and stood behind him, put her arms around him.
‘I’ve got the car. Do you want a lift home?’ she said.
At the end of the day, how could he refuse?
*
AN: This is the mystery fic I've been promissingcottonwoolfairy. She requested it many years ago. At the time I refused not because they were our teachers but because it was het. :P
Disclaimer: Yeah, meet my A level music teachers. As far as I know they weren't actually pulling. And I don't own them.
The sound of music and singing still seemed to reverberate around the performing art’s centre, but it was six thirty, and the students had finally all left. The choir had made the corridors echo until five-thirty. There had been students in the computer room, mixing and sampling and filling the air with an incongruous mixture of Bach chorales and jazz standards, all played out in tinny computerised beeping. At six o’clock, he’d kicked them all out, done the maintenance, deleted the cheat-sheet someone had posted for this week’s chorale, and shut down the computers. At twenty past six, he’d heard her dismiss the group of girls who stayed late after rehearsals to sing close-harmony and bicker.
Silence fell.
The computers had stopped beeping and humming. No one was singing, or playing, or running the length of the corridor asking panicked questions about the current location of the school’s bongo drums or the final deadline of the GCSE coursework. For maybe half an hour, at the end of the day, silence reigned.
He checked the cello locker, just in case. It was a running joke, the cello locker. No windows in the door. Every amorous couple in the school, even those with no business in the music department in the first place, seemed to end up in there. No one had been left locked in over night – yet. There’d been some close calls.
The door swung shut behind him, and he heard the lock snick.
‘Hey!’ he called out.
She left him sweating for a couple of moments, and then opened the door and grinned at him, shame-faced.
‘Too good to resist,’ she said. He laughed, and continued on his round of the corridor, shutting piano lids, turning keyboards off and locking doors.
She was waiting for him in the office, sitting in the big swivel chair. Typing, or pretending to type, some official looking letter, she looked up when he came in and grinned.
On impulse, he grabbed the back of the chair and swung her out into the corridor. She screamed a half-hearted outraged protest and clung on, as he sent her rocketing the length of the department on uneven wheels. She crashed into the double doors at the end, laughing up at him, breathless.
He helped her to her feet with a guilty smile.
‘You bastard,’ she said gleefully, and kissed his cheek.
He sat down on the wheely-chair, pulled her onto his lap, and paddled them back down the corridor with his feet. She leaned back against his chest.
‘You going to finish typing that before I lock up?’ he said. She nodded, refused to let him stand up, and finished typing the letter whilst sliding a foot up and down the back of his leg.
He shut down the computer, locked the hatch and the window. She came and stood behind him, put her arms around him.
‘I’ve got the car. Do you want a lift home?’ she said.
At the end of the day, how could he refuse?
*
AN: This is the mystery fic I've been promissing
cottonwoolfairy. She requested it many years ago. At the time I refused not because they were our teachers but because it was het. :PDisclaimer: Yeah, meet my A level music teachers. As far as I know they weren't actually pulling. And I don't own them.
