SquidgeWorld Archive

Talking Out of School
by Miriam Heddy

Gossip, even when it avoids the sexual, bears around it a faint flavor of the erotic.
—Patricia Meyer Spacks

***

Marshall: You were always testy when challenged… Ya know, I was talking about that with Amita….

Charlie: You were, were you? Marshall, do whatever you like… just you remember… Amita's a sharp mathematician, so no matter how you try, you're never gonna to get her to believe that this (holds up two fingers an inch apart) is six inches.

Marshall: I bet with you that subject's never come up.

Colby (to David): Ooooo... math fight!

—Numb3rs: "Convergence."

***

Open your ears, for which of you will stop
The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?
I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth.
—King Henry the Fourth, Part II (Rumor at I, i)

***

Larry was pouring a cup of bad coffee in the faculty lounge when Geoffrey strode up, as always standing entirely too close, which gave Larry an all-too-thorough look at Geoffrey's sinuses. It was strange that it had yet to occur to Geoffrey that, having long ago accepted that the promised "growth spurt" of adolescence was, in his own case, over with more of a whimper than a bang, Larry was largely immune to the shock of discovering that other men were frequently taller and further, believed that mattered.

He'd learned to respond by simply not looking up, and he'd discovered that, for some reason, his failure to make eye contact with anyone above five ten was surprisingly effective in getting them to back the hell up.

Geoffrey was a notable exception to that rule, naturally, and Larry found the best response to him was just to sit down on the closest desk or chair and wait for Geoffrey to get to the point.

Geoffrey looked notably deflated once Larry sat down, though he seemed to recover and smiled a bit as if enjoying a private joke. Larry was just pleased that Geoffrey didn't bother to share it, as he had no doubt that he would fail to find it funny, and Geoffrey liked to think he had an excellent sense of humor—a lie perpetuated by masses of undergraduates who laughed, on cue, as if their very lives depended on it.

Larry opened up his book and pretended to read it, waiting, and at last, Geoffrey cleared his throat.

"We need someone to take the 'Evolving Universe' course this term."

"I take it you're asking me for a recommendation?"

Geoffrey laughed. "No, I was hoping to interest you in a section."

Larry smiled, because that actually was somewhat funny. The course, designed for non-majors to satisfy the core curriculum requirement, was sometimes referred to by its longer, unofficial title, "The Evolving Universe for the Uninvolved Mind." His own personal criticism of the course was that it was traditionally light on physics, which led to students leaving with only the vaguest notions of the workings of the Cosmos, but with good memories of their field trip to the Palomar Observatory.

"Ms. Ramanujan seemed like the obvious choice," Geoffrey added.

Larry frowned. "Obvious in what sense?"

"You don't think she could handle the responsibility?"

Larry considered a tactful response to what was a none-too-veiled insult of her competence. "I have no doubt she could handle it. I am suggesting that there's no need for her to do so when she has other research commitments."

"Oh, surely now that he's relived his glory days, Professor Eppes can afford to share her with the rest of us."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." Larry found himself suddenly, and unexpectedly, at the edge of his temper, and for an instant it looked as if Geoffrey would back down. But then he decided to press on.

"My, but you are a gentleman, Lawrence, protecting the lady's honor."

Larry winced, realizing that Geoffrey was all but daring him to argue that Amita was not, in fact, a lady, thus making Geoffrey's point for him. "Doctor Ramanujan's work stands on its own merit, and she can, and has, successfully defended it herself."

Geoffrey looked as if he were considering whether to argue the point. "I’m sure," he said, though his meaning was clear enough. "At any rate, from what I’ve been led to understand, her work with Kepler will be quite a bit less involved than her work with Professor Eppes, though I have noticed that she spends a fair amount of time in the math department, still… pursuing unfinished research obligations?"

Larry had a strong, irrational urge to throw his coffee in the man's face, but instead set the mug down on the table carefully and spoke slowly and clearly. "Professor Eppes, as you know, occasionally consults with the FBI, and Doctor Ramanujan has, at times, continued to assist him in his work which has, as you know, included recovering equipment stolen from our own department here at CalSci."

"His obligation is not the issue. In hers, however, one might read a conflict of interest, especially as we do rather urgently need someone to teach this course."

"Or we could read her involvement as interdepartmental cooperation of the kind a department Chair might arguably want to encourage in our students and among faculty. I don't suppose I need to point out that I've spent quite a bit of time collaborating with Professor Eppes myself."

Larry saw that Geoffrey was about to argue that the cases were different and so held up a hand. "You need someone, but not Doctor Ramanujan, and I'm sure Kepler would agree with me on this point, though of course you're welcome to ask him."

Geoffrey looked annoyed for just a brief moment but then nodded. "You have another suggestion, I hope?"

Larry did, in fact. "John Soo could, I think, use an extra course, and he's expressed to me an interest in doing outreach programs, so some hands-on experience with the non-majors would probably be useful to him at this point."

Geoffrey pursed his lips but didn't argue, and as he left, Larry expelled a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding.

Amita had won the Milton prize, on the basis of her own research, and to see her treated with less respect than was her rightful due was maddening. And yet Larry had no idea at all how to rectify the situation, nor whether it was even possible at this point.

He did have a strong desire to skip his next class, find Charles, and throttle him, and though he knew that it would not be a productive use of his time, and would do nothing to help Amita in the short or long term, the fantasy was oddly satisfying.

"So what you're saying, in essence, is that he got the prize twice."

"No, I'm saying he got it three times, at least."

"Uh uh uh. Show your work."

"Milton, Amita, Milton. I count three."

"Ah—a Miltonian sandwich. 'Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit

Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste brought Death into the World, and all our woe, With loss of Eden.'"

"And for desert, I'll have the banana split with the cherry on top."

Laughter, and then a third voice joined in. "I heard he was gay."

"Is he? Seriously?"

"He still lives with his father."

"I heard he bought the house out from under his father."

"Which is a sign that he's gay?"

"No, it's a sign that I have invested very poorly in the real estate market. So really, does anyone actually know whether he's gay or not?"

"Hell, does anyone even know if he's Jewish?"

"No, but it's the classic problem, isn't it? You really don't know until you take off his pants, and by then, the rabbit is dead."

The door swung shut and Larry leaned back against the wall in the stairwell and started breathing again. He sometimes came into the stairwell to think—a habit he'd acquired decades ago, back when thinking went along with smoking, which he didn't like to do in his office because, back in those days, he thought it set a bad example for the impressionable young minds who, sadly, often proved themselves to be far more jaded smokers of a far greater diversity of plant life than he himself indulged in. Well, at least not with any regularity.

He'd had every reason to quit smoking tobacco for years before he finally managed to free himself of it. In his experience, which he often tried to pass on to Charles in the hopes of saving him the trouble of experiencing the more humbling of moments for himself, smart people very often did stupid things even knowing they were stupid, perhaps even because they were stupid. He sometimes considered it came down to superstition—the very same thing that caused the great architects to build into the great cathedrals intentional skewing of the angles as a nod to human error.

Now if only Charles' errors were intentional rather than actually owing to simple hubris.

In any case, he had to have heard at least some of this by now.

Larry briefly considered the possibility that Charles had, perhaps owing to the time he spent working at home, or at the FBI, remained oblivious to the gossip. It was possible, but unlikely. He'd recognized several of the voices—and Professors Kim and Leighton should really be ashamed of themselves, but very likely were entirely too busy congratulating each other on their wit to bother with something so obvious as guilt.

And for all that Larry wished he could summon up the necessary outrage on Charles' behalf, and for all that he wanted to protect him, he was far too aware of the extent to which Charles had brought this upon himself, and further that he, in many respects, had encouraged Charles with Amita, and so owned at least some of the blame.

"So what percentage of the diss is actually hers?"

"That's unfair. I'm sure that it was a collaboration."

"I would so like to collaborate with him."

"Well did you see the way she looked at him after class? I think it's over."

"You always think it's over."

"No—I think it really is."

"You always think it really is."

"Shut up. Besides, someone said he's gay."

"Someone says everybody's gay. It's the new black, okay?"

"I thought brown was the new black."

"Are you serious?"

"God, he really is cute."

Larry got up and shut his office door, wondering whether there was something to the talk of academic standards falling due to grade inflation. Staring at the pile of midterms on his desk, he decided this was probably not the best time to consider their fates.

He got up and went to find Charles, checking the hall carefully before leaving and frowning as he passed a small collective of attractive females who looked, to his eyes, under the age of consent, feeling suddenly old because he didn't have any idea how anything could be the new black. Though he did like brown. Charles had very brown eyes.

The Beautiful Woman:

An engineer, a mathematician, and a physicist are all placed 8 feet from a beautiful woman.

The mathematician concludes that after N iterations there will be 8 divided by 2N feet remaining which will never equal zero so he gives up on the spot.

The physicist opines that if each iteration requires a finite amount of energy then the energy expended in the approach will be inversely proportional to the distance remaining and gives up on the spot.

The engineer says "8 feet, 4 feet, 2 feet, 1 foot, 6 inches, good enough for practical purposes."

The joke was making the round of emails, and Larry reluctantly clicked it open and read it all the way through, although he had seen it—and its variants—enough times now to have come to the conclusion that the least funny thing about it was that it presumed that all three, by virtue of their profession, were necessarily heterosexual men.

The idea occurred to him somewhere after his second donut, and he considered for a moment that a two-donut-idea was one he should probably be wary of implementing. Often, after the sugar crash and with the sobering effects of some caffeine, the effects of powdered sugar were a little too much like that undigested blob of beef and undercooked potato. On the other hand, after due consideration and several nights of restive sleep, he had yet to come to any better solution to the problem.

Protect the student. If there was a Hippocratic Oath for teachers, surely that was it. Protect them from others who would keep them from learning. Protect them from themselves and their immaturity, so that they can grow and learn. Protect them from your own baser instincts, which of course meant admitting that you had such things. He took this task very seriously—as seriously as he took anything, and more seriously than he took himself. It was, perhaps, the single most important thing he believed in aside from Charles.

And yet, twice now, he'd found himself failing—first with Ron, who he had not adequately protected from Charles and the FBI, though of course, in the end, some other teacher had failed Ron first, leaving a broken man and a liar who still deserved better than he got. He sincerely hoped that Charles, now made aware of such potential conflicts of interest, would consider them carefully before sharing information about students with Federal agents who had no compunction about hassling them on the basis of very little evidence.

But Amita… now there was someone he should, by all rights, have been able to shield, though for reasons that he could admit were personal and not at all professional, he had chosen Charles's happiness above hers. It was an error he could readily admit to now, and one he was now obliged to correct. The guilt was overwhelming, and he worried he had waited entirely too long to set things to right.

He found Charles sitting at his desk, and Larry leaned against the open doorway, trying to still his hands, then giving up, shoving them in his pockets. It was between periods and the hall was filled with students, which might be the wrong time, or the ideal time. He wasn't at all sure.

"Charles, could I speak to you a moment?"

Charlie glanced up from his book and nodded, looking back down at his book again, which was not quite what Larry needed.

Larry frowned as he measured the distance between them. This really wouldn't do.

And Charles had apparently forgotten he was there. "Charles?"

"Hmm?" This time, Charles didn't bother to even look up. This was bad—very bad. Eye contact was going to be key, as was a certain amount of uncomfortable proximity.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"So talk."

"It's—well, alright."

"You can shut the door," Charles said, and Larry looked at it and shut it behind him, causing Charles to look up at him. "So what's this thing that couldn't wait until lunch?"

"Lunch?"

"Lunch—that meal we eat between breakfast and dinner, Larry."

"Oh. Yes, well, I—why should it wait until lunch?"

"Because we were going to eat lunch together, in an hour, which was supposed to give me an hour to finish reading this before my next class."

"Oh. Sorry. No—you're right. I'm sure this can wait an hour."

Charles sighed. "No—no—I can't remember what I was reading this for anyway." And Charles closed the book, not bothering to put a bookmark in because he never needed one. Charles always knew where he was. Larry envied that, really, in both the literal and figurative senses.

"I think I recommended you read it."

"Yes, you probably did. And I'm not saying it isn't good."

"No—I understand if it isn't to your tastes."

"It's… interesting. So what's up in the wide and wonderful world of Fleinhardt?" Charles smiled softly at him and Larry wondered how in the world he was going to do this.

Larry cleared his throat and leaned against the edge of the desk, as he usually did, then got up again, wondering if perhaps that might make Charles a bit nervous, considering what he was about to say.

"Something's wrong," Charles said, his voice going soft and concerned, and Larry shook his head.

"No—not wrong, so much as I've been giving some thought of late to something J.B.S. Haldane once said."

"Haldane? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with him."

"He was an evolutionary geneticist."

"Hmm."

Larry could see that Charles was only feigning interest, so he got right to the point, or tried to. "Aside from postulating that there was a correlation between an animal's size and its requirements for life, he also coined 'Haldane's Law:' arguing that 'The universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose.'"

"I've heard that one before."

"Yes, well, of course Eddington said much the same thing substituting 'strange' for 'queer.'"

"Interesting."

Again, Larry wondered if Charles was aware that it was actually fairly obvious to everyone when Charles was merely humoring them, though it was possible that Larry was the only one to merit such transparent indulgence.

"So Haldane's Law is relevant because…."

Charles' prompt made him realize that this was, in many ways, a monumental moment in his life, and one that, for many reasons, he knew he would always remember, though he'd never really anticipated that, among those reasons it might stand out would be the knowledge that he would finally have Charles' full and undivided attention. He cleared his throat. "Charles, I'm gay."

"I'm sorry?"

"There's nothing to apologize for. I really don't mind, and even if I did, I don't suppose that there's much to be done about it at this point in my life."

"No—I—you're gay?"

Larry nodded.

"You're gay."

"Yes."

"I—" Charles laid his hand flat on that book and stood up. "Larry, I don't know what to say. Is this—is this the first time you've told—no, obviously it wouldn't be."

Larry frowned. "I wanted to tell you before I made a more general announcement."

"Announcement? What kind of an—"

"Well, I suppose announcement isn't the word I'm looking for, though the easiest thing would really be to include a notice in the departmental newsletter. Though does anybody actually read those anymore?"

"I do." Charles frowned.

Larry sighed and sat down on the edge of the desk. "I suppose the easiest thing would be to tell Professor Leighton."

Charles leaned over the desk and put a hand on Larry's upper arm, looking very concerned. "I think it's very… admirable of you."

"To dislike Professor Leighton?" Larry asked, just a bit uncomfortable.

"Coming out," Charles said, giving his arm a little unnecessary squeeze before letting go and sitting back behind his desk again.

"Oh. Well, I appreciate your… well, I suppose your lack of obvious homophobia."

Charles blinked and sat back in his chair. "I'm not homophobic."

And here's where things became tricky, Larry realized, because he was, at this point, purposefully manipulating Charles in ways that tread the line of ethics and perhaps crossed over them. Though some would argue that the ends never justified the means, Larry really hoped that wasn't the case, considering the precise nature of his plan depended on a certain level of obfuscation.

"No—I'm sure you're not—no more than anyone your age and with your level of education would be, and perhaps a good deal less."

"I'm not homophobic, Larry. Really. In fact, I'm the last person who would be—"

"And I do appreciate that, because I have to admit now that among my concerns was that this revelation might change our relationship."

"Why would it?"

"Well, for example, the time we spend in your office with your door shut might appear, to someone who knew about me, suggestive of a relationship that goes beyond the merely professional."

"We're friends, Larry. Everyone knows that."

Larry frowned. "Yes, everyone does know that, but knowledge is a funny thing. People—even scientists—often forget that they are speculating on incomplete evidence."

"So you're worried that people will… speculate about us?" Charles asked.

"Oh, no. Not at all. I did think that you might be worried though, and if you were at all concerned about gossip…."

"I'm not worried, Larry. I don’t give a damn what people say about me."

Larry nodded, knowing this was the case and also knowing that Charles was more than a bit short-sighted—one might even say a bit selfish—in thinking only about what people were saying about him and, for example (not that he would ever say this to Charles) not thinking very deeply about the implications for Amita in his comments to Marshall Penfield, made in the presence of two FBI agents who had, of course, recounted the "math fight" in all its sordid adolescent detail to several other agents, who then told others, who then told others until the point at which the story reached someone with not enough direct interest in Charles Eppes to carry it on. The mathematics of gossip was, in this respect, like the mathematics of flu transmission, though the natural immunity to gossip was, apparently, less common. Unfortunately, the Eppes name had considerable weight and interest, given Don's position at the agency and the fact that Charles was already the cause of much interest simply for his unorthodox methods of inquiry.

The precise measurement of Marshall Penfield's penis was, Larry had learned, in some dispute, as was speculation on whether Amita had, in fact, slept with one or both men. But the exponential effect on Amita's character from that and other indiscrete conversations was devastating.

This knowledge made it quite a bit easier to get past what remained of his reservations.

"Charles, I do recognize that and thank you for it. But I would understand if you, for example, wanted to spend less time in my company. At the moment, perhaps owing to the age difference and, well, other reasons as well, no one has cast even a slightly jaundiced eye in our direction, but once my orientation becomes known, people will, very likely, talk."

"Larry, I really don't care. Let them." And Charles looked thoughtful and then smiled, perhaps a little too brightly. "So why don't we go to lunch and you can tell me why you picked now to tell me this."

Larry noticed but didn't comment when Charles picked a table that was somewhat more centrally located than their usual, and he didn't comment upon the fact that Charles seemed unusually attentive to him, actually listening closely to an entire story about Hroswitha, the Saxon nun born in 932 AD who managed to identify four "perfect" numbers. He hadn't anticipated that Charles would pay quite so much attention, so it was a challenge to come up with a useful lesson to be learned that had any relevance to Charles' own life just at that moment.

Thankfully, before he'd reached the point of the moral of that particular story, Charles again asked him to account for the timing of his own personal revelation.

Larry shrugged. He had several reasons, and chose the one that was closest to the truth. "Your recent birthday got me thinking, Charles, about Hroswitha and her cloistered life. While most biographers emphasize the intellectual feats she accomplished from within what must have been a very small cell—a very circumscribed life even by the standards of her day—we can only imagine what she might have accomplished if she had lived today."

"So you're leaving the cloisters." Charles said, simplifying the point a bit, but in essence, getting it.

"Yes. I suppose so."

Charles smiled. "I think that actually makes sense. Hroswitha would be proud."

Larry laughed. "Hroswitha would very likely consider me an unrepentant sodomite and try very hard to save my soul, though I don't think she'd get very far with it."

It was a risk to say that word aloud, and an unanticipated pleasure. Charles blinked then attempted to cover for his surprise by laughing.

And a few moments later, Charles actually put his hand on Larry's forearm while they moved on to commiserate about the horrors of reading the "personal" essays that the university required their applicants to provide along with their GPAs. Few applicants had the verbal aptitude or life experience to do more than reveal the limits of their own thinking. They all lived in cloisters, essentially, only very few of them bothered to notice that fact, and fewer still were ashamed of it.

Larry reminded Charles that, in his own essay, he'd demonstrated a complete inability to talk about anything beyond mathematics, and Charles blushed and muttered that apparently, he hadn't changed all that much in fifteen years. Larry reassured him that of course he had. For one thing, he had a much more fully developed beard.

And if Larry had commented on Charles' behavior towards him, he would have pointed out that, as Larry hadn't yet come out publicly, his attentions were appreciated but unnecessary.

In lieu of putting out the banns, Larry settled for applying a large pink triangle sticker to his office door and then, because the door looked a little under-decorated, found a large fold-out photograph of Jupiter and Ganymede that was buried under a foot of Popular Astronomy issues he kept for illustrative purposes.

It was not terribly coherent, and there was always the possibility that someone would assume it was the act of strangely obscure vandals, so he made a point of knocking on Leighton's door on the pretence of asking if he had any tape, and applying the poster to the door while Leighton watched.

Leighton's eyes widened just a bit, but he offered no comment, not that Larry expected he would.

And then Larry waited for word to get back to Charles.

Charles did not have to come out and say that he'd heard. It was obvious from his awkwardly lengthened stride as he approached Larry's table in the cafeteria, and the lingering of his hand on Larry's shoulder as he sat down.

That Charles' smile was a little tight around the edges was, Larry decided, not a problem, as the level of scrutiny they were drawing was enough to make him a bit uncomfortable as well. Public displays of affection toward Charles had always been made easier because no one had so much as entertained the possibility that he himself was gay, though why that was, Larry had never been able to fathom. He'd never been out, of course, but he'd never actively tried to hide, either, except the one time when he'd told Charles about Laurel. The fact that his fib at the time had served the purpose of protecting her while she struggled with a rather nasty custody case had seemed to him to justify what he'd said, though he wondered if the time if he'd gone too far. He'd never been all that accomplished at recounting sexual exploits, even long ago when he'd actually had some to recount. Any assumptions people made about himself and Megan after that were, he thought, fairly harmless, and he exerted only a little energy trying to dissuade them.

Honesty was a curious thing. How did one decide who merited the truth, when the truth was, to his mind, so very private? He had made a point of telling Margaret, of course. He'd felt it safest to tell her given that she had charged him with her son's intellectual well-being and reputation. And she had been generous enough—and open-minded enough—to consider it irrelevant, which of course it was. He had been very discrete in his relationships then. Charles was always his primary concern.

He had actually never inquired as to whether she planned on telling Alan and, to this day, he had no real idea if Alan knew. Margaret knew how to keep secrets and had more than a few of her own, and in that, they shared a certain bond that went beyond a love for her son.

Now, he kept his eyes on Charles through their meal, though that meant peripherally seeing that Professor Kim was sitting beside Leighton. He sometimes wondered about the two of them, not that he indulged in that kind of gossip himself.

Charles, meanwhile, filled their conversation with mathematical minutiae of the kind few others could produce, and Larry let it wash over him, knowing that, at this point in Charles' thinking, he wasn't ready to be interrupted or corrected.

It was a strange byproduct of the duration of their relationship that they should spend so much time talking at each other rather than to each other, and spending so much of the rest of their time in mutual, companionable silence.

In some respects, it felt very much like he imagined marriage would, though of course without the carnal side of things, which he'd heard tended to fade in any long-term relationship regardless of initial interest. It was, perhaps, overly romantic of him to assume that he would never tire of Charles' body simply because his own fantasies were still as potent as they were years ago.

Larry stood just outside the front door and paused a moment, gathering courage.

The real test would be Amita, of course. He'd even considered sharing his plan with her, but he wasn't sure she wouldn't object out of a misplaced desire to protect Charles.

But before he faced Amita, he would have to deal with the Family Eppes.

"Larry?" Charles opened the door and, before he could take a step into the Eppes abode, Charles had grabbed hold of his sleeve and was pulling him into the house. Instinct for self-preservation made him try to shake loose, but Charles hung on, adjusting his grip, finally taking Larry's wrist in his hand as if he were an errant child.

"Charles, I really don't—"

But his protest died as Alan entered the room, with Don a pace behind him. Ah, yes, and Alan's expression—if he read him correctly—was resigned, but not surprised. Don's eyebrows, while not quite as expressive as Charles', indicated something that might be polite disbelief, or perhaps simple amusement, depending on whether Don had ever before seriously considered Larry a sexual being. He thought not, considering how amusing Don had found the idea of him and Megan. Though he'd wondered, at the time, if the mention of Bruce Banner was an intentional allusion to his sexuality, though it seemed unlikely that Don would have given it quite that much thought.

"Nice to see you again, Larry." Don's welcome was not quite a welcome, but he ignored that, for the moment.

"Charlie here tells us you had an eventful week."

Larry nodded. "Well, our laboratory work featured more breakthroughs than break-ins, thanks to our much-improved security measures," he offered, and Don grinned at that, as Larry thought he would.

"Good. Good. But I think Dad was talking about the personal stuff."

"Ah yes. That." It might seem churlish, but while he was more than willing to dissertate on the history of the known and unknown Universe, discussing his sexual orientation with the family Eppes was not something he had any real desire to do, though he realized something of that was expected of him now.

"So—sit. Dinner's almost done." Alan handed him a beer, which he accepted gratefully.

And Don perched on the edge of the armchair, his own beer in hand. "So, you and Megan—that's not happening, I take it?"

Larry cleared his throat and frowned. "I do believe I gave you no encouragement in your idle speculation on the relationship."

Charlie laughed. "Yeah, I seem to remember the words, 'None of your damned business' coming up."

"Well, Charles, regardless of tone, you might consider next time whether it's entirely polite to speculate about a lady when she's not present to defend her honor."

The words came out with more bitterness than he intended, and he knew he should apologize, but instead took another drink, the beer a welcome diversion from speaking. Alan and Don exchanged troubled glances.

"No—you're right, Larry. You're absolutely right." Charles sat down beside him on the sofa a bit close considering there was plenty of room for a third there without squeezing.

And the doorbell rang. "That would be Amita," Charles said, getting up again, and Larry frowned, not really having planned on facing them all at once.

But he was, at this point, fully committed, and so he took a breath and got up from the sofa to stand beside Charles, moving in a bit close, making a claim, of sorts, well aware that it was risky to do so with Alan and Don watching. Amita entered the room, handing Charles a bottle of wine, and Charles should, of course, have greeted her and casually reestablished some space, though Charles, being Charles, did precisely the opposite, moving just that much closer to him, and away from Amita, who, in turn, stepped back away from Charles, a small frown crossing her face, though Charles himself didn't seem to notice anything was amiss in their awkward little dance.

And as they stood there, making small talk, Amita looked increasingly nervous, glancing back and forth between them. And then Charles stepped back and bumped into him, which should have been an indication that they were standing a bit too close together in what was, after all, a spacious room, but Charles didn't move away, and Larry held his ground as well, enjoying the brush of Charles's body against his own, though of course it didn't mean anything other than that Charles was already engaged in a campaign of poorly feigned indifference to his family's and Amita's scrutiny.

The irony of it all, he supposed, was that Charles was anything but unaware. Even his sartorial choices reflected an almost obsessive concern with what other people thought, and Larry knew for a fact that Charles studied men's fashion and dressed accordingly, sometimes to horrible effect, but usually rendering him indistinguishable from the masses of other young men trying overly hard to appear different but not too different. Not that he disliked Charles' choices, per se. They really did suit him, though Larry wasn't entirely convinced that men should wear their hair at lengths which required a shelf full of styling products, especially if they wanted to be taken seriously by Federal Agents and the local police force. Though Charles had never consulted with him on his hair, and if he ever did, Larry didn't think he'd say anything one way or another. A man's hair and his choice of sexual partners were his own business, opinions which he recognized might make him a bit old-fashioned nowadays.

The nearly constant five o'clock shadow, on the other hand, really did seem like something of a misstep.

Amita tried to offer some departmental small-talk, though Charles failed to engage her with his usual encouragements, and she eventually wandered off to talk to Alan. Don said something about checking on dinner, and when he was gone, Charles did a half turn to face him. Larry would have stepped back at that point, but found he couldn't without falling over a chair.

"Amita said it's all over campus." Charles voice barely rose above a whisper and he was clutching the wine bottle's neck as if he hoped to choke it open.

"That didn't take long."

"No. It didn't. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Charles. I anticipated some interest. It's been a slow week, after all."

"Sorry—I mentioned it to Dad and he told Don, and—"

"That's fine. I would have told them myself, but this is probably easier, coming from you."

"They don't—I think Dad knew."

"I suspect you're right about that."

"Don didn't. And…."

"Hmm?"

"He asked me—"

Amita came back into the room and Charles stopped talking, which left Larry wondering what Don might have asked, though he suspected he could guess.

Dinner was no less fraught than he imagined it would be, as Charles' attention to him continued to be a bit emphatic. Larry noted that Charles was on his second glass of wine before he'd finished half his food, and Larry gently touched his hand to Charles as he reached for his wine glass, but, while Charles didn't seem to notice, Alan did, and frowned, though his intention was simply to slow Charles down a bit.

Larry was used to his time at the Eppes household being somewhat unremarkable, so it was a bit strange to feel like the guest of honor at a surprise party, and, though no one had yet to actually break out into song, Charles looked like he was at least thinking about it, and finished his second glass only to pour out a third. Larry sighed and held his own glass out, though it was still half-full, and Charles topped it off quite generously.

Larry had planned to spend a good deal of his time absorbed in the food, which was, as usual, quite good. It usually seemed safest to let Charles take the lead in conversation, though he hadn't anticipated Charles getting drunk. Still, he was a grown man and could do what he pleased.

Unfortunately, Charles' opening parry was anything but subtle. "The university is considering withdrawing its support for military recruitment on the grounds that it's in violation of University policies against discrimination."

Don looked tense but didn't say anything. Alan, however did. "Isn't that a little hypocritical considering how many of its students go on to work for the Federal government in some capacity, yourself included?"

"I didn't say I necessarily agree," Charles backpedaled, but Don jumped in.

"But you do. You actually think the military shouldn't recruit on campus."

"I think… that it's a complicated issue."

Larry poured himself some water from the pitcher on the table and suddenly felt all eyes look to him for comment. He sighed. "Do you honestly expect me to provide the Gay Perspective on this? Because I think I left my pamphlets at home, and they have yet to provide me with my allotment of toasters."

Amita had the temerity to blush, but Don just frowned.

"Why don't you give us the senior faculty perspective on this and leave it at that. What are they saying about this?"

Larry took a drink of water and considered the least inflammatory way to put it. "Don, while I often think that the Federal Government provides a valuable service to our nation, and I've done my share of contributing to it through my own research, I have to point out to you that I lived through Vietnam, albeit at a safe distance, and thus realize that the government has no problem whatsoever sending to the slaughter whatever warm bodies it finds, no matter how those warm bodies keep warm in their free time. Only in times of peace does the government routinely dismiss gay officers, and that's indefensible, as I'm sure you'd agree."

Amita smiled at him from across the table, though hers was the only happy face. Beside him, Charles looked grim and a little flushed.

"Larry's right, Don. It shouldn't be an issue."

"Hey—I don't control the policy, Charlie."

"But you aren't actively protesting it."

"Oh, and you are?"

"I'm thinking about it. I mean, USC Santa Cruz—"

"There's more to that story than you know, Charlie."

"I'm sure there is," Charles agreed, "But why in the world should a student protest be considered a credible threat?"

"The government watches lots of groups, most of them harmless, not all of them gay."

"Big Brother sees all," Larry said, and Don looked sharply at him.

"He meant Orwell," Charles added, though Larry rather hoped that was obvious.

"Of course he did," Alan said, though Don did not relax.

Trying to ease the tension just a bit, Larry turned to Charles, "Did you know that Orwell once defined freedom as the ability to say that two plus two equals four?"

Amita laughed. "I read Animal Farm when I was nine and went around for a month saying, 'Four legs good, two legs bad.'"

Larry smiled. "Orwell further argued that if that much is granted, all else follows. A reasonable person might thus conclude the reverse—that a government that responds to campus political protests as an inherent threat against national security might be well on its way to interfering with the intellectual progress made by those same students and faculty."

"So is that the faculty argument or the gay argument?" Don pressed.

"That is the rational argument, Don, and who I fuck has absolutely nothing to do with it one way or another." Larry took a deep breath and frowned. "Apologies for the coarse language, Amita. That was out of line, and I'm sorry."

"No problem," Amita said. "I've heard worse."

Larry sighed and beside him, Charles looked annoyed, but when Charles noticed him looking, he turned and smiled weakly.

"Well, I don't suppose we're going to settle the problem now," Alan said finally.

Don nodded at his father, but then glared at Charles. "Are you really going to join the protest?"

Charles glanced over at Larry again and nodded. "I think so, yes."

"Charles, please don't put yourself out on my account. Each of us has to be led by our own conscience."

"No—Larry, it's the right thing to do."

"You turning into a long-haired hippie there, Charlie?" Don asked, and though his tone was now light, his eyes were still serious.

"Yeah, Don. You wanna make something of it?"

"Nope," Don said, shaking his head. "You do what you gotta do. I'm just saying this is something you want to think seriously about if you want to consult with the FBI and the NSA and whatever else you plan to do math-wise."

"Math-wise, give me some credit, okay?"

Alan cleared his throat. "I'm sure that Charlie knows what he's doing."

"Yeah, well, I hope so, because this 'personal is political' thing can be taken too far," Don said, and Larry had to admire him for trying to protect Charles, though in this case, he supposed that Charles had an idea of what he was getting into.

It was unusual that Alan had let this go on as long as he had, and Larry turned to Amita, who was nervously watching the brothers argue, having somewhat less experience sitting between them at these often contentious family debates. Trying to offer some reassurance, he added, "Orwell also said, 'the main motive for 'nonattachment' is a desire to escape from the pain of living, and above all from love, which, sexual or non-sexual, is hard work.'"

And Charles reached over and patted Larry's hand, on the table, in plain sight of his family and Amita, which gave Larry no chance at all to clarify that he'd been referring—or trying to refer— to the strength of the familial bond as able to withstand debates such as these.

They took their coffee in the living room and Charles once again took a seat beside him on the sofa, close enough that their shoulders brushed and his coffee sloshed onto the saucer.

Don was helping Alan in the kitchen, and Amita had gone to make a phone call.

"Don asked me before if you and I were…." Charles trailed off, his eyes on the kitchen door.

"If we were what?"

Charles looked at him. "Involved."

He took a sip of coffee to give himself some time to think of what to say. Finally, he shrugged, setting the coffee down on the table and sitting back, trying to relax. "And?"

"I said no, but I don't think he believed me," Charles said.

"I take it that bothers you?" Larry asked, knowing the answer.

"Yes. I mean no. I mean, yes, because I'm not going to lie about it, and Don should know that."

"Hmm."

"I think Amita—Do you think Amita thinks that we're…."

"Charles, I honestly have no idea. Feel free to ask her if you're curious."

"Do you think I should?"

"I have no idea, Charles. I suppose that depends on whether you're still interested in pursuing a relationship with her." He knew he sounded impatient, even angry, but he was simply exhausted. Dinner had been more of an effort than he'd expected, and he fully anticipated Alan would corner him for interrogation at some point in the evening, likely as soon as he calmed Don down.

Charles leaned back against the sofa with a sigh, slouching down beside him so that their shoulders were touching again. Larry didn't bother to move, as he was both too tired to protest, and, more importantly, was enjoying the closeness, recognizing that the wine Charles had drunk had more than a little to do with the fact that Charles was perilously close to resting his head on Larry's shoulder.

"Larry, people are actually implying that she and I—that her work isn't her own."

"People can be both petty and cruel, Charles. But gossips have a notoriously short attention span."

Charles frowned and then his eyes widened. "You gave them something else to talk about!"

Larry shrugged.

"That's—Larry, you realize that now, not only is everyone talking about you, but they're also talking about us."

"Charles, you might take note of the fact that no one has yet dared to imply that our work is not our own, and I do believe I warned you that a certain amount of guilt by association might occur once I disclosed my orientation. And your words were, as I remember, something to the effect that you didn't give a damn what people said."

"Well, I didn't really expect that anybody would believe that you and I were actually—"

"Charles, I do suggest you end that sentence before one of us is irreparably insulted."

"Larry, I didn't mean that I—"

"Who feels like a banana split?"

Alan's interruption could not have come at a more fortuitous time, as Larry really had no interest whatsoever in hearing what Charles had to say about just why a relationship between them was so unbelievable.

And thankfully, Charles had the good sense to sit up and drop the conversation, leaving Larry to end the evening with an ice-cream headache and a desire to spend some quality time, alone, sans Eppes, consorting with the greater mysteries of a Universe in which his own interior life was entirely irrelevant.

Yet all that week, he worried over the fact that his own feelings for Charles made it rather more painful than he had anticipated to continue with the plan of drawing Charles into what appeared to be a very public flirtation.

Thankfully, he found that he'd seeded the gossips with just enough that attention was already turning away from Amita and onto other things, and so he let it go, spending a bit more time in the library and the laboratory. When Charles picked up one of Don's cases, he didn't inquire as to whether he might help. Charles knew where to find him, after all, should he need advice.

And when they did meet, as they weren't precisely avoiding each other, Charles looked at him oddly— as if he had done something wrong—all the while continuing to stand a bit too close for comfort, as if he was still intent on proving something that, Larry might have told him, was unnecessary.

The word on the stairwell the following week was focused on exploring the question of whether the break-up between them was temporary (this, according to Professor Hornsby) or, as Professors Leighton and Kim speculated, permanent. There was also some discussion of "whether Fleinhardt had the good sense to have waited until Eppes was at least old enough to consent," which had led to some interesting theoretical discussions of the Ethics of Pederasty in the Modern Age. No one bothered to ask him directly, of course, though he did have some thoughts on the matter.

Amita's contemporaries were now of the opinion, shared by many (though of course not all) of the faculty, that Amita's work was largely her own, and that Charles had wrongly led her on, using her as a beard to cover for his long-time relationship with his mentor. Opinion was split as to whether Amita herself was an insider in the deception.

The undergraduates, meanwhile, were torn between wondering what Charles would see in "someone like Fleinhardt," and thinking that it was "sort of sad that an old man like him should be pining away for someone like Professor Eppes." Sympathy was, oddly enough, with "poor old Fleinhardt," based on the belief that "Professor Eppes had clearly mistreated him in some way, and was now avoiding him rather than doing the right thing and apologizing."

Larry found the latter story was a bit too close to the truth for comfort, though he would never have used the word "pining" to describe his own feelings. Still, it was somewhat encouraging to discover that, if he had cornered the market on pity, Charles Eppes was both a rake and a cad.

From Megan, with whom he'd been carrying on a covert relationship centered around a joint interest in reading crime novels (they'd begun with In Cold Blood and had gone to see Capote together, which had led to a delightful conversation afterwards about childhood trauma and adult criminal behavior), he discovered that most of the agents were arguing that they'd always known Charles Eppes was a fag (with the hair coming up as the most compelling evidence), but that, with a mind like Charles', it probably didn't matter as long as he was on their side. Most seemed to agree that Don was the "normal one" anyway. There was little comment on his own sexuality, oddly enough, though the words "odd duck" came up, which he did not find altogether flattering.

Megan assured him that, if Charles ever needed backup, the agents would be professionals, for Don's sake if not out of their own conscience.

Still, saving Amita's career might well have put Charles' life in danger. There were no easy answers, too many sacrifices, and he would never again have the comfort of being under the radar of speculation about his own romantic life, not that it mattered, as, in point of fact, he hardly had a romantic life worthy of anyone's interest, even his own.

Charles was in Larry's office when he got back from lunch, and Larry stopped just inside the door.

"Hi, Larry."

"Charles," he nodded, coming inside, because it was his office, after all. Charles was wandering around picking things up and setting them back down again the wrong place, and Larry followed him, putting things back where they belonged, until finally Charles stopped moving and frowned, his hand resting on a small, antique sundial that Larry had actually bought for Charles the year before but which had somehow found its way back into Larry's office, as so many things did, including Charles himself.

"So I heard we broke up."

"Hmm. Yes. Apparently." Larry took off his jacket and laid it over the back of his chair, suddenly feeling too warm.

"And it was my fault? That we didn't work out?"

"They say it takes two to tango," he offered, wondering if there was something about romance and sporting events that encouraged—perhaps even necessitated—cliches.

Charles' index finger was tracing along the edge of the gnomon to its nodus, then down to the dial face, then back again. "So what you're saying, if I understand you correctly, is that there was at least some interest, but a failure to reciprocate doomed the relationship."

Larry frowned. "If you heard that, then I mis-spoke. There was no relationship, as you well know. And that's yours, by the way."

"So this is—what—the part where I box up my belongings and move out of your office? Shouldn't we at least fight first?"

Larry looked at Charles carefully but really couldn't tell if he was serious or joking.

"I didn't mean we have no relationship, Charles. I merely meant—"

"I know what you meant," Charles said, and Larry sighed.

"You misunderstood."

"Yes. I think I must have." Charles nodded, as if Larry had said something to encourage him to continue speaking. "The grapevine has it that you're heartbroken and I'm insensitive, emotionally immature, and self-involved."

Larry walked over to the bookshelf, brushing past Charles to find his copy of Einstein's World of Ideas. What in the world did Charles expect him to say? He was sorely tempted to point out that the grapevine sometimes was an accurate judge of character.

He didn't find what he was looking for but he did find four of Charles' books and pulled them all off the shelf, not entirely sure what he planned to do with them, as Charles hadn’t actually brought a box, and he was sure that there were at least twenty others interfiled with his own library.

"So you're not going to confirm or deny any of this." Charles was standing directly behind him, and Larry hesitated before turning around, finally, and handing Charles the pile of books.

Charles took them and looked at him rather oddly before setting the pile down on the floor beside the bookshelf, right beside the very book Larry was looking for. He picked it up and dusted it off and attempted to shove it in his jacket pocket, but of course he'd taken that off already. He still felt just a bit too warm.

"It's gossip, Charles. And rather stale gossip, at that. As you said, we've broken up and people don't like to see things end. The relationship ran its course and served its purpose, in any case."

"Well, that's the thing, Lawrence. It's a little hard to break up with someone when you've never actually gone out with them."

Charles grabbed his arm, and Larry pulled it away. "There's no longer any need for over-compensatory displays here, especially as no one is around to see them. In a few weeks, at most, you might consider asking some attractive woman out, ideally someone with no ties to this campus—explaining things as you see fit, and let the hens make of it what they will."

"Larry, I'm not—whatever it is you just said. And I'm not concerned about my public image. In fact, I'm—I'm trying to say something, here."

"There's nothing that needs saying."

"I'm trying to apologize."

"I think Amita's the one deserving of an apology."

"Yes, I do realize that, but I think I owe you one as well."

They were at an impasse of sorts, and Larry turned back to the bookshelves again, seeing two other books that clearly didn't belong. He set them down on Charles' pile and moved on to the next shelf, spotting one of Amita's textbooks in there as well. He really had no need for another copy of Supersymmetry and Supergravity, though it might be interesting to look at Amita's marginalia.

He added it to the pile. It really did explain why his own books were always spilling out onto the floor. Perhaps he could just set aside a "Visitor's Shelf."

"I'm trying to tell you that the feeling is mutual."

Larry turned around, slowly. "What?"

"I like you."

"Charles, I've never doubted that."

"No—I mean I like you like you."

"Charles, I refuse to believe that you're gay, and did you just say like like?"

"Yes, well these are extraordinary circumstances, given that you may just be the only person I know who doesn't believe I'm gay, which, you'll have to admit, is somewhat ironic considering you single-handedly outed me to the entire campus, my father, my brother, not to mention the United States government." And Charles smiled, and Larry found himself smiling back, though really, when Charles put it that way, it sounded like he should be the one apologizing to Charles.

"What about Amita. And that—Val?" Larry asked, still not entirely convinced.

"I'll see you Amita and Val and raise you Laurel and Megan."

Larry stared at Charles a moment before shaking his head. "And I'll have to call," Larry agreed. "You're very… convincing."

"Yes," Charles nodded. "I'm also insensitive, emotionally immature, somewhat self-involved, and if you hadn't forced the issue, I would not have remotely considered doing this."

And Charles leaned in toward him and kissed him, quickly, on the cheek.

"That was very… chaste," Larry pointed out. Not that it was unpleasant, by any means.

And Charles put his hands on Larry's face and whispered, "I was aiming for your mouth, but you moved. Hold still and I'll try again."

The second time was a good deal better, though, as kisses went, it was still relatively short—romantic, certainly, but not particularly passionate. And Charles really did need a shave.

Even so, he dropped Einstein and put his arms around Charles, finding it strange and somewhat awkward to touch him, though things did get a bit more heated after that, as they managed to coordinate along several points of contact, with Charles' erection lining up nicely against his own. He didn't protest when Charles backed him up against the bookshelf, though it did involve knocking over several carefully balanced piles of paperwork that he probably didn't need anyway and which might, at one point, have been marked for recycling.

"That's—better," he said, drawing a breath when he was able. "Much—much—you're really…?"

"Hmm mmm," Charles agreed, licking his lips and once again, kissing him.

"Fleinhardt, I—Christ!"

Charles pulled away from him with admirable speed, though Leighton had apparently already seen enough to keep the gossip mills—and his own tired imagination— occupied for weeks.

Larry covered his face but unfortunately could still make out Leighton's nervous and all-too insincere smile.

"Beg your pardon, Larry, but the door was open."

Larry elbowed Charles, who really should have thought to close and lock the door, considering he had apparently planned this.

Charles elbowed him back.

"Can I help you with something?" Larry asked Leighton, as Charles was being unhelpful and Leighton was still standing there, apparently struck dumb, though Larry was sure that was a temporary condition, and that as soon as he found his legs again, he would be at Kim's door with due speed.

"I—"

"Yes George?"

"The Core Curriculum meeting was rescheduled for next Thursday."

"And you couldn't have emailed this information?"

"You have my tape."

Larry looked around at his office and Leighton followed his gaze, looking somewhat distraught. "Well, you're certainly welcome to it if you can find it."

Charles narrowed his eyes and walked over to the filing cabinet and then over to Leighton. "Here."

"How did you—"

"Simple, Larry. You put it there so you wouldn’t lose it. You put everything there so you don't lose it. And then you run out of space and move things around to the perimeter of the room and lose them."

"So the last thing I didn't want to lose would be on top of the filing cabinet. That's a very good system. I'm surprised I didn't think of that."

Charles laughed. "That's not a system. It's a pattern, like your counter-clockwise pacing around the room. A system suggests a level of intentional organization, whereas you are just a very messy creature of habit."

"Just because you don't see something does not mean it's not there. Take dark matter, for instance—"

"Larry, you can't see any matter in this office. Not that I can say mine's much better. But this is really—"

"It's difficult to keep things organized when I'm housing half your library and assorted odds and ends."

Leighton slowly backed away, and Larry only noticed he was gone when the door clicked shut in his wake. Larry went to lock it and Charles followed him to the door, pressing him up against it and holding him there with his hips.

"I think we traumatized him, Charles. He forgot his tape."

Charles frowned, seeing that Larry was right. Leighton had set it down on the small table beside the door.

"I should put that back on the filing cabinet." But he didn't move, as Charles had begun to rub up against him rather intently. "I'll probably remember where it is," he reconsidered.

"I'll buy George some more tape. Duct tape. He can use some for his mouth."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate that. I used most of the roll on the doorway."

At some point last week, he'd decided that the door was off-balance, with too much at the top and not enough at the bottom, and so he'd put up some of the various cartoons students had left for him over the years, and the effect was, he decided, quite cheerful. Several of his first year students had complimented him on it, though most of them had misidentified Ganymede as Io, which was troubling.

"I noticed. And that reminds me, Larry, that I've been meaning to talk to you about Ganymede."

"Too much?"

"Larry, you are too much. No—I like your door. It's a microcosm of your office and mind."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Yes. That's what I meant, of course. Now, okay. Just… I want you to close your eyes now and no sudden moves."

Larry held still, expecting another kiss, but when he opened his eyes again, curious, Charles was kneeling on the floor in front of him.

"Charles, as much as I appreciate the gesture, you do realize that, though this might already be construed as a very long engagement, we can't actually—Oh. Now that we can do, though I'm not sure we should."

"Shhh," Charles argued, unzipping him and pressing his mouth against Larry's boxers and exhaling very warm, very damp air.

They squeezed together in Larry's usual spot on the stairwell, and Charles turned to say something to him but Larry hushed him with a quick kiss on the mouth as he heard the familiar tread of Professors Leighton alongside Harold Anselm, a half-wit junior-faculty member who had gotten tenure against Larry's recommendation to the contrary. Larry knew for a fact that Leighton had already shared his story with Professor Kim, who, he was starting to think, must be joined mouth to ear with Leighton, if not actually hip to hip.

"I can't picture it, George."

"You're the lucky one. I haven't been able to stop picturing it. And believe me, I've tried."

"So they just kept at it even after you left?"

"Absolutely."

"And you know this how?"

"I came back for the tape."

"You didn't!"

"Well, I left it there and I did need it."

"I'm sure you did, that being the only roll of tape on campus."

"Look, have you ever tried to repair a planetary mobile with Elmer's? Science Fairs in second grade, and guess who ends up painting the Styrofoam balls?"

"Nevermind the balls. Did you get the tape?"

"No. But I walked back over to his office and someone was knocking on the door from the inside."

"They locked themselves in?"

"Nooo. Christ. He was banging him against the door, for god's sake."

"Who was banging whom?"

"Eppes and Fleinhardt were—"

"No—I mean, could you tell what positions?"

At this, Charles made a sound that threatened to give them away, and Larry leaned over and put his hand over Charles' mouth.

"Well, from the high-pitched moans, I'm guessing that it was our boy genius doing all the work."

A long silence greeted that announcement, and Charles licked Larry's palm. He took his hand from Charles' face and Charles leaned over to whisper in his ear, "You're not really all that high-pitched," to which he whispered back, "Of course I am." He had no particular illusions about the quality of his voice at this point in his life, and if that was indeed a dealbreaker for Charles, it would have broken them years ago.

"So did he say anything?"

"What—"

"Harder, faster, longer—"

"Taller!"

And at that, Leighton and Anselm's conversation devolved into an extended bout of adolescent giggling. Larry was pleased to note that Leighton sounded exactly like a girl when he laughed.

Larry turned to glance at Charles, who was frowning, apparently not enjoying the show nearly as much as was Larry. Larry waited until he heard the door shut on Leighton's ass and whispered, "That's likely to be the worst of it."

"And I'm supposed to be reassured by that?"

"Charles, that was strictly for their mutual entertainment, and I'm quite sure the version of the story meant for the public at large will be considerably tamer and more polished."

"But—"

"Charles, you might well consider that if this is the worst to come of our joint indiscretions, we will have come out ahead."

"You weren't the one giving head."

"And in the larger scheme of things, you've decided that matters?"

Charles sighed and shut his eyes. "Yes?"

Larry leaned over and kissed him, long past caring about anyone seeing that, though he did wish he'd had the sense to insist that they not engage in oral sex until office hours were over for the day and Leighton had taken his little balls home with him.

Charles opened his eyes again, still looking somewhat morose, and Larry sighed, realizing that he was about to have another two-donut idea, and given that he hadn't eaten any donuts yet, that was mildly troubling.

"Charles, if I asked you what you learned from this debacle, what do you think you might say?"

Charles frowned. "Do I have to choose just one thing?"

Larry rolled his eyes. "Boy genius? "

"Stupid question. Fine." Charles frowned. "Don't date students, ever, even if they want you, or seem to want you, even if certain other people in your life insist that dating them will make you happy, especially if you know that you're doing it to make them happy."

"I'd ask you to untangle those claims, but I'm afraid you might take me seriously."

"Don't engage in locker-room discussions with colleagues about your students as long as they are your students—"

Larry cleared his throat.

"As long as they're anybody's students."

Larry frowned.

"As long you are in any position in which you have authority or power over their academic careers, period."

"Amen," Larry added. "And hallelujah."

Charles nodded. "And lastly, assume that your best friend, who by the way seemed at one time to have thought that dating a student was acceptable under certain conditions—"

"Thus demonstrating that he is sometimes wrong," Larry inserted.

"Yes, sometimes wrong," Charles echoed, "And gay."

"Always gay. Though I'm not sure that last part is safely generalizable to the larger population."

Charles smiled. "Revised Claim: All humans are fallible. Some humans are gay."

"And one last thing."

"Just one?"

"The only way to counter gossip is to change the subject."

He let that one sink in a moment, and Charles glanced up to the top of the stairs, where Leighton had been standing.

"That would be lying, Larry."

Larry scratched at his head and considered that, returning with, "We know he's human, and we know he's fallible…."

"So he could be gay," Charles said. "Yes."

"And he and Kim have been spending a lot of time together recently, and I suppose there's nothing wrong with pointing that fact out to a select number of vectors."

"Who could be trusted to pass it on." Charles looked shocked, but underneath that, Larry saw something else, and cut him off before he could protest.

"I didn't say that you should do it. I merely suggest that it's possible, Charles. Many things are possible."

"Possible. And so very wrong," Charles added, not that Larry expected him to say otherwise. "And you don't actually think I should do it."

"Nooo. But just thinking about it has a certain undeniable appeal."

Charles grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Yes. Yes, it does. Because can you imagine his pasty face if—oh, you know who I'd love to get?"

"Marshall Penfield?"

Charles grinned more broadly, running his hand through his already tousled curls, and the resemblance to Pan really was rather remarkable. "Marshall and Anselm."

"Anselm?" Larry laughed. "That's horrible."

Charles nodded, looking pleased. "You know when Marshall was here, Anselm actually followed him around waiting for Marshall to notice him."

"And did he?"

"I think that depends on who's telling the story. Now as I remember it…."

And Charles laughed, standing up and offering him a hand up as well. And Charles put his arm around Larry's shoulders and kept it there as they left the stairwell and walked down the hall together, past several clusters of students who, Larry noted, watched them curiously for a few seconds, at most, before returning to their conversations, apparently having better things to talk about than two mathematicians plotting revenge.

The End.

Thanks to Lucia, for gifting me with a bunny that allowed me to write something I'd been desperately wanting to write since first season, but hadn't the frame for until one night she helpfully suggested "gossip." And then, as bunnies tend to, this one grew long, pointy teeth and gnawed mercilessly on my leg until I finished it.

Thanks to Kate, for writing in the spaces and catching the extra spaces.

Thanks to my husband, for betaing this, liking it, and even helping me write the first scene three times over. He understood even better than I that what was obviously wrong to those people in the Academy wouldn't necessarily read that way to anyone else, and he insisted I stop being so damned subtle, though I don't know that I succeeded.