Chapter Text
“I couldn’t ask earlier, but how did you find me at the gym?”
“Taxi cab.” Mila looked up, letting Jaune’s sling bag hang from her neck like a pendulum. “Had enough pocket money for the fare.”
The girl wore a dress and skirt, both the same color as her hair but with a ruby-red trim on the hem, collar and cuffs. Their thin fabrics fluttered with the nightly breeze as she and Jaune strolled the mile-long way home.
“No, like, how did you know I was at the gym?” the professor said, scratching his chin. “Can’t remember mentioning it at all.”
Maybe around her mother, but her understanding then was that the gym was within the campus, not across it. It had barely been two weeks since renovation work at the old gym began; his and Qrow’s flight to The Iron Shack was a relatively recent decision. Wherever Mila learned the news from, it had up-to-date knowledge of his whereabouts at Blackacre Castle... and if the girl’s sudden arrival said anything, his whereabouts outside it.
Which begged the question: Where did Mila learn about The Iron Shack?
“...Somewhere,” she answered, looking away with a pout. “Not important.”
Jaune sighed. Disappointing, but maybe expected. Eighth graders asserting their privacy and boundaries and all that good stuff was healthy, expected behavior. Encouraged behavior even. He can handle Mila showing up in unexpected places every now and then, if it kept her from slipping back to being listless and pliant.
So he tousled her hair instead. “Alright then, miss topnotcher,” he said. “Keep your secrets.”
Mila squirmed and whined, but no amount of both could keep her two hands from pinning his one atop her head. “That’s supposed to be a secret,” she said.
“Turns out people like to talk.”
A dish came to mind, one Jaune had neither seen nor heard before. It sounded like something people ate if there were something to celebrate. “Wait, that why you made your mother cook, uh, oyaki-”
“Oyakodon,” Mila grumbled. “O-ya-ko-don.”
The professor laughed sheepishly as the girl wrapped her arms around his hanging arm, leaning against it mid-stride. What she lacked in verbal expression, she compensated with physical gestures that showed her love as eagerly as they strangled oxygen from his arms and legs. One could call it progress, if getting power back up after an earthquake could also be called the same.
Then again, maybe Mila had always been quiet and reserved. There was no telling with a history as obscure as the Müllers’—not that it mattered much to Jaune. Why delve into waters his hosts in all but name have kept away from light?
“...Maybe,” the girl muttered. “Enough for the three of us. You’ll like it, I think.”
“So much for the instant noodles in my cupboard,” Jaune whined halfheartedly.
“Don’t eat instant noodles. They’re bad for you.”
“Bad but filling. Breakfast, lunch and dinner of champions that one.”
Let it be said that chicken is, was, and always will be Jaune’s favorite flavor of cup noodles. Pair with toast for breakfast, pair with eggs for lunch, and pair with slices of ham for dinner. That versatility had kept the professor alive whenever the scholarship committee forgot his monthly stipend. Sometimes even when they didn’t—he still had to pay rent somehow, after all.
...Those were horrible times, in hindsight. Won’t keep the professor from seeing his beloved noodles through a sepia filter anyhow. There were worse things to be nostalgic for. He shook his head.
“Maybe I am irredeemably fond for instant noodles,” he continued. “But at least you’re not. Brothers willing, not ever.”
“I won’t, ‘cause Maman is teaching me how to cook. She said I’ll need it when I go to Beacon.” Mila shifted her grip towards the crook of his elbow. “Save money and all.”
“Your kidneys will thank you for it,” Jaune chuckled out.
They were maybe three quarters of the way now, with the wide avenues and high rises gradating into narrower streets and squatter blocks. Street lamps lit their foot path in orderly intervals. casting the way home with a light orange glow. Conversations have a way of making twenty minutes of walking feel like two. So it goes with good college programs, least of all Beacon’s.
Speaking of...
“Still,” Jaune continued, “halfway through eighth grade and already locking in with the old Veebee. When I was your age, I was wasting my brain power on comic books instead of textbooks. Time sure does fly.” He looked to his side. “Got a program in mind yet?”
Warmth nestled against his upper arm. “...That’s a secret too.”
“Well, whatever it is, a smart cookie like you will do just fine in it. Even better if you don’t make the same mistakes I did.”
Caveat: A smart cookie like Mila will do just fine with good friends, good allies. Academia has a way of baking smart cookies like her into charcoal, but if and only if they have no one else to turn to but themselves.
Jaune thought of Ms. Goodwitch’s knee injury. So it went with her. If he can help it, never with Mila.
“Beacon’s rough around the edges,” he admitted, “but it’s a nice place if you have the right people beside you.”
“Like you.”
“L-Like some guy friends!” Jaune hummed. That sounded off... Oh, right. “Or, uh, girl friends. Whichever fits your fancy either way.”
“...You have girl friends too, don’t you.”
He gulped. Not a question. An observation. Less generously, an accusation.
“I wouldn’t necessarily call them frie- Hey, wait up-!”
Mila stormed off with his bag maybe ten yards or so ahead before stopping to catch her breath. When Jaune caught up at a leisurely one-and-a-half seconds a step, the panting girl glared wordlessly at him while raising her arms—a piggyback ride, in the enigmatic language of silent, clingy eighth graders.
And so the professor carried his second piggyback passenger of the night. That there even was a first spoke volumes enough about how his day had gone.
“Maman, we’re home.”
Mila sidled off of his back after Room 1601 yawned its door open, greeting them both with a burst of warm air that smelled of chicken, herb, and spice. Jaune bit back the urge to drool while the girl, having laid her sneakers on a nearby shoe rack and shut the door behind her, set off towards the aproned woman on the cabriole couch in a running start.
“Wunderbar!” Mrs. Müller received her daughter’s dash with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Pulling away, she said, “How was your little fetch quest, liebchen?”
Huffing, Mila laid her narrow eyes at the doorway. “He took too long lifting weights.”
“Is that so?” Her mother’s smile tightened. “Well, he is a man after all. They sure do love benching barbells more than anything else... like a warm, home-cooked meal made just for them.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m right here you two.”
The younger Müller spared the professor no further glances as she trotted for the simmering cauldron on the open kitchen stove. “I’ll check the meal,” she said.
“And do set the table and utensils as well!”
“Yes Maman...”
That left Jaune alone with a mother of one, landlady of several (including him), and sender of, upon inspection, eight missed calls in the span of thirty minutes. Dull in some ways Qrow might say he were, but the professor couldn’t imagine anything else making her smile give way to a pout, or her back turn towards him.
With the thermostat at a toasty 60 degrees, sweat dewed on Jaune’s forehead as he approached the living room. His legs yearned for the couch cushions after enduring a piggyback ride across thirty-one flights, but the customs of Atlas were clear: Guests can’t take a seat, take a bath, or take a dump unless their hosts said so. The tenant settled for running a hand along the cashmere while his legs quivered sore.
Just as Jaune’s knees began to buckle, the expat raised her Atlas-cold shoulder with a huff. “You could’ve checked your Scroll every once in a while, Mr. Arc,” she said, stealing a peek.
The tenant smiled sheepishly. “Forgot to switch it from silent, is all. Still, my bad.”
“...Long day at work?”
“Long day off it too.” He sighed. “You know how it goes by now, Mrs. Müller.”
“Nothing a good meal can’t fix in a good man.” Mrs. Müller let her cold shoulder thaw as her pearlescent smile faced Jaune in full. “Or a bath. The offer’s always open, dear.”
“Think I’ll have just the meal instead.”
“This was a lot more fun when you stuttered and flailed, you know,” the landlady sighed out, clicking her tongue. “Oh well, can’t win everything. You’re forgiven now... I suppose.”
“Is that permission to finally sit my sore butt on the couch?” Jaune mused.
“Until Mila calls for dinner.” Twirling from her seat, Mrs. Müller made for the kitchen as well. “Then you may sit your sore bum on a dining chair.”
Jaune took the moment he crash-landed on the couch to revel in its pillowy softness, at odds with the enervated slurry his calves and thighs had become. Air streaming from his weary lungs, the professor fought the urge to close his eyes as he sank into the cushions. He had always thought a restful sleep was worth any price tag; that the Müllers had bought a couch worth resting on so soon after he shared that opinion over dinner told highly of their taste in living room comfort. With his meager salary, it will remain a luxury he can only borrow for a good while yet.
Then again, when was the last time he entered his unit before the Müllers’ after work? Four months ago? Six? If the couch were something to borrow, then Jaune had been borrowing it an hour or two a day for months now. At some point the practical line between leasing and owning begins to blur.
The couch, the Müllers, him... maybe there was causation there. Maybe there wasn’t. With his thoughts now turned to mush, Jaune let those threads go to make room for the cushions he had burrowed deeper towards.
Then he gave in to the weights in his eyes. Sleep didn’t claim him then so much as it borrowed half an hour of his pre-dinner time.
Dinner blurred by in a breathy haze of fluffy eggs, savory chicken, and creamy helpings of short grain rice. The words they exchanged were fungible and their contents light, going in one ear and leaving out the other, not that Jaune minded at all. After a day where each waking hour contained layers of subtext within layers of subtext, being able to switch his brain off with no consequence whatsoever was a necessity, not a want.
When the plates were cleared and the utensils washed, Mila suggested that the three of them watch a movie. Jaune agreed as he does. The time then was 8:02; at 8:33, after thirty-one minutes of Grade B romcom, the girl fell asleep against him. Her light snores set off a yawn that added weight to the faint bags beneath the professor’s eyes.
So it happened that Mrs. Müller returned to the living room with three glasses of iced tea and a tray. Smiling at the sight, she set the tray down next to a half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee desk.
“It’s a good thing that little Mila’s so exhausted from school,” she said, seating herself on a sofa chair, a glass on hand, “or else you’d be staying here watching movies for the rest of the night.” She sighed. “Sorry again for the trouble, dear. I’ve tried telling her time and again that you have other things to do in your room, but you know how she is. Always thinking up ways to make you stay a little while longer.”
“She’s driven and smart, Mrs. Müller,” Jaune said. “Can’t imagine her not breaking some walls at some point.”
The tenant looked down, where Mila had begun finding purchase on his arms. He snuck a cushion into her grip before edging off to the other side of the couch. “Even if some of mine are on her way.”
“Indeed! I thought she had grown leaps and bounds, but to think she’d come back home with an A in every subject...”
“So you’ve seen her report card already?”
“Oh, did she show it to you first?” the landlady hummed after sipping.
Jaune shook his head. “No. But she did tell me about it at the bus stop. Trusted her word when she told me she had straight A’s.”
“I see.” Another sip. “Well, it’s better than the alternative.”
“What, that she won’t tell you her grades at all?”
“That she’ll be too scared of failing classes to go to school.”
The professor blinked. Too scared to go to school...?
Sighing, Mrs. Müller switched the flat-screen off. She gestured at the iced tea while silence rushed in like water from a stream. The blend was ice-cold and saccharine, garnished with generous sprigs of mint—a light drink for the heavy conversation ahead, it seemed like.
“It’s happened before, Jaune,” Mrs. Müller continued, candid and frowning. “Many times before. You were there at the tail end of it. You had seen her then.”
Jaune nodded without a word. It took two months after settling in before he saw hide or hair of Mrs. Müller’s daughter. He tried not to think too hard about the shut-in that probably hadn’t seen sunlight in just as long, until, at some point in his stay, he no longer could.
“If I had the power I would’ve kept it all from happening. Since I don’t, I’ll gladly settle with seeing my liebschen heal.” Wide-open, sky-blue eyes—Jaune had forgotten what they looked like, Mrs. Müller seldom kept them open—affixed her attention onto her swirling highball. “‘Heal’s’ not quite the right word, I think. Prosper. Thrive.”
Then she leaned against the backrest, legs crossed. Her smile returned sip by sip. “She’s well aware of who to thank for that. So do I.”
The weight of the widow’s gaze caused Jaune’s to flee for the frames on the walls. Certificates, drawings, photos—signs of happy times, then and now. Portraits of mother and daughter made up a sizable chunk.
But mother, daughter, and father? Conspicuously absent. Curiosity needled at him until he gave in.
“Her dad,” Jaune said. “Did something happen?”
Mrs. Müller’s smile backtracked into a thin-lipped frown. Having emptied half her glass, the widow stared somewhere distant with just as half-empty a gaze. The clock above the TV seemed to still at 8:56, unblinking, unmoving, until the woman sighed a weary reply:
“...It’s a long story. But we did not get along. Sometimes violently. Then one day, things got too violent. One call later, the government intervened...”
She paused. “Tragically.”
Jaune rubbed circles on his temple. He looked down. Empty glass of iced tea. Since when...? “Brothers’ mercy,” he muttered. “I... didn’t know.”
“When the dust settled, Mila and I...” Clarity and sharpness returned to Mrs. Müller’s eyes as she told their tale. “We sold off everything we owned in Atlas, before coming to Vale. Everything. There’s nothing there for us now. We like it that way.”
Her eyelids fell once more. “Now it doesn’t need to be said, but please don’t bring this up around Mila if you can. She deserves more than reminders of what she had left behind. Before she met...”
Nodding, the professor shakily let loose a breath of his own. No need to finish it, Mrs. Müller. “Right. Got it.”
His clammy hand found purchase on his empty highball, swirling it around with nothing to swirl. Reflexive habits keep him grounded when bombshells take turns bongo drumming his head from the neck up. Whose wouldn’t be after having to process all... that?
And what should he say back? “I’m sorry?” Too trite. “I know how that feels?” Outright lie. “Things will get better?” Empty and hollow. All canned words with all the quality of canned goods. With no earthly idea of what to do—
“So... what do I do?”
—Jaune Arc, associate professor from Vale Beacon, masters and all that, asked his gracious host what the hell he should do.
Then he caught his mouth. Words shriveled up in his throat. Way to lend a fucking ear, Jaune.
Tittering cut his beratements short, staving off the apologies Jaune could almost taste. When the professor looked up, he faced whole-smiled, wholehearted laughter from the landlady, widow, and mother in one.
“‘What do I do,’ he says,” Mrs. Müller echoed, her eyes hidden once more. Downing the rest of her iced tea, she set the emptied glass next to his. “She—I—need you to just be yourself, Jaune. It’s why we always find ways to make you stay a little while longer, after all.”
Then her smile formed a smirk. “I suppose it’s also why you have to juggle so much... attention, at work. The fairer kind.”
“And here I thought I could escape Qrow’s BS, just this once,” Jaune groaned.
“Come now, dear, at least we’re finishing our drinks on a lighter note...”
More fungible conversation ensued after that. Jaune took his leave at 9:30 PM with the residues of a warm hug clinging stubbornly to his arms and chest.
When Jaune found himself bathed, clothed in his onesie, and tucked in bed—his own bed, in his own unit on the 15th floor, 1509—the time was 10:00 PM in the evening.
The workday that began at 6:00 AM left him with exactly eight hours for both play and rest before starting anew. Take away seven for sleep, and he had until 11:00 PM exclusively for himself. One hour of personal time in twenty-four.
He was spending it, of course, by thinking about others while staring at the ceiling. Much had happened in sixteen hours, some more consequential than others, but all piling up to a rockslide which a mix of cardio, bench pressing, and dinner had only just staved off. Meanwhile Qrow’s words hung overhead, a dreamcatcher snaring thoughts in the air, as Jaune processed the sevent- sixteen distinct names he could list off from this day alone.
To say nothing of what will come in the days ahead. The meet with ‘Hei’, the consultations, Summer and Winter, the dean’s offer, the surveillance network apparently hawking his moves—so much promised to culminate in so little time. What else will tomorrow bring, then? Another accident? Another bombshell? Another near-miss? Never mind, don’t answer that.
Shifting against his pillow, Jaune sighed. He may have not-so-promised Qrow to get his act together, but until then, and when the alternative was anxious, existential dread, he will have to shove the day’s events once more into the lockbox behind his head.
So he did. Why fix what wasn’t too far broken enough?
Jaune grappled with the question and its many, many counterarguments as he drifted to his seven allotted hours of sleep.
And in his final waking thoughts, the professor found some small respite in knowing, rationally or not, that today’s zaniness might be the zaniest a day in his life as a college professor could get.
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PROFILE - Jaune Arc, MAEd
Deparment/Institute: Department of Tongues
College: College of the Socio-Philosophical Arts
University: University of Vale, Main Campus (Vale Beacon)
Courses Taught: Valean Literature 100, Valean Literature 200, Advanced Literary Theory 142
Overall Quality: 4.8/5
Overall Quality Based on 162 ratings
Would Take Again: 99%
Level of Difficulty: 3.5
Rating Distribution:
Awesome (5) |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 130
Great (4) |||||||| 30
Good (3) | 2
Ok (2) 0
Awful (1) 0
Tags for this Professor
See how other students describe this professor.
Caring (139) | Respected (121) | Engaging (105) | Gives good feedback (95) | Accessible outside class (82) | Inspirational (75) | Clear grading criteria (74) | Get ready to read (66) | Participation matters (60) | Beware of the Schnee (57) | Hilarious (53) | Fully booked (48) | Bring snacks (41) | May spontaneously combust from stress (38) | Unclear if actually a professor or just really good at adulting (36) | Is a chick magnet, there is no may or may not (31)
Summary:
Associate Professor Jaune Arc, MAEd is a relatively new but well-regarded professor in the College of Socio-Philosophical Arts’s (SocPhi’s) Department of Tongues, known for his unconventional aversion of homework and preference towards active discussion, alternative modes of learning, comparatively few but weighty course requirements, and interactive group activities designed to foster a dynamic classroom environment. Students praise his ability to explain complex concepts clearly, his passion for literature, his approachable demeanor, his habit of providing accessible course materials at personal risk, and his apparent care for their academic success. While his methods have been criticized by faculty over potentially enabling grade inflation, his students’ consistently high performance in both his own and other courses suggests a positive impact on their learning outcomes instead. However, his open and empathetic nature can sometimes lead to disruptive class behavior, in addition to raising frequent concerns about being unduly influenced by the students in his class. Overall, Professor Arc is an innovative and effective, if unorthodox educator who prioritizes student growth and care through a supportive learning environment, making him a welcome addition to the Department of Tongues. (contributed by Snowflake01)
Comments (page 1 of 542):
camerally, 1 hour ago || ↑ 41 ↓ 0:
manifesting all the pain from my period cramps to professor jaune arc maed from socphi (lovingly)
Dh3qKEiNEA, 55 minutes ago || ↑ 25 ↓ 0:
I’ll wrap him in bubble wrap and packing peanuts before you do evil witchHs6DEOQMFs, 51 minutes ago || ↑ 21 ↓ 0:
Won’t he just develop allergy to bubble wrap and packing peanutsDh3qKEiNEA, 45 minutes ago || ↑ 19 ↓ 0:
Oh shit mb sis, uhhhhhhh welp what do we doHs6DEOQMFs, 39 minutes ago || ↑ 35 ↓ 0:
¯\_(ツ)_/¯aUAZ2zYWxc, 31 minutes ago || ↑ 12 ↓ 0:
Crying sobbing shitting my pantscamerally, 26 minutes ago || ↑ 15 ↓ 0:
lfmaoooooooFNvgFCcLbz, 9 minutes ago || ↑ 15 ↓ 0:
Forbidden burrito.iA1fRUhqbl, 4 minutes ago || ↑ 10 ↓ 0:
Sending all my PMS to Winter Schnee (disdainfully)
8kriolJkIk, 1 hour ago || ↑ 0 ↓ 103: [hidden]
Daily reminder that you should all get some fucking help <3
j3Ql2fPbKS, 1 hour ago || ↑ 77 ↓ 1:
no uWarReparations, 1 hour ago || ↑ 42 ↓ 1:
🔗 shitpost_faunus_218.pngjEvSBabbZh, 58 minutes ago || ↑ 51 ↓ 46:
Inb4 Snowflake01 (onb oomfie hiiiiii) wipes this chain off the face of PH
ph writefriend, 2 hours ago || ↑ 79 ↓ 0:
>ywn wake up in his office after dozing off in the middle of consultation, not a piece of schnee in sight
>ywn see him in his chair napping peacefully after a long day at work
>ywn notice the bags in his eyes and the faint laugh lines on his face
>ywn get to reach out and brush your hand against his scraggly blonde hair, first just the tips, then more and more until your palm is running along his scalp
>ywn murmur to his ear that he did a good job today
>ywn see him smile in his sleep, because of you and just you
>ywn decide to drape your jacket over him as he shivers from the ac, seeing him sigh content the moment the cloth met his broad, firm shoulders
>ywn leave a cheeky note asking him if you could have your jacket back after class
>ywn leave his office giggling like a loon
phsisters, why live?
Dza5JHVcAy, 2 hours ago || ↑ 52 ↓ 0:
🔥🔥🔥✍✍✍🗣️🗣️🗣️IMainBrawler, 2 hours ago || ↑ 69 ↓ 0:
keep cooking please im getting closezGwMJWhL7C, 1 hour ago || ↑ 31 ↓ 0:
@IMainBrawler ijbol girl hello????iA1fRUhqbl, 1 hour ago || ↑ 12 ↓ 0:
@ph writefriend thank you once again for the GOOD FUCKING meal chefOthismos, 1 hour ago || ↑ 57 ↓ 0:
It’s not that hard to book an appointment with him, actually! I did once, super accommodating with my schedule and pace, like he hates to tell me no. Aced exams the day after that. I wanna schedule again for the fun of it, but... Okay, so maybe I lied a little. If it’s hard to schedule a session, and this is just what I heard from people who know his “““assistant””” (Brothers, my blood boils just thinking about her), it’s because he’s fully booked the rest of the year. Maybe even overbooked. Give half a crap about your students and they will come in droves, who knew?Q2rjDnAVeA, 1 hour ago || ↑ 44 ↓ 0:
@Othismos phsis you can’t say all that and not tell us more 😭 never change jaune page, never changePoint45ACP, 58 minutes ago || ↑ 21 ↓ 0:
>come in droves
paging @IMainBrawler, currently coming droves as we speakhjAlG2rKiC, 55 minutes ago || ↑ 11 ↓ 0:
@Othismos know that one line about prof hates to tell me no is gonna keep me fed for the rest of the week, thank you anon mwah
f_5.6_aperture, 2 hours ago || ↑ 32 ↓ 47:
I’m seeing talk in my socials saying someone spotted the professor with a department dean at the Far Pavilions after class. Not sure what to think or how to feel. Jaune page, thoughts?
edit: Admins went ballistic downthread, can anyone tell what happened???
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kne3_s0cks, 3 hours ago || ↑ 36 ↓ 31: [🔒]
to whichever kind stranger suggested students outside his class try consulting, i’m naming my firstborn child with blonde hair and blue eyes after you. whole new dimension just opened before my eyes
yPeLKYIged, 3 hours ago || ↑ 44 ↓ 21:
phsisters really out here bitching about his workload while making it ten times worseaCDIydWVgm, 3 hours ago || ↑ 19 ↓ 10:
Fr, at this rate I’m gonna graduate without visiting his office once. And I’m from MHQ! His own damn class!chocolateMint, 3 hours ago || ↑ 31 ↓ 14:
@aCDIydWVgm must be nice having an excuse to see him ALL THE FUCKING TIME, like cmon bruh can’t we have our tuition’s worth too??
MantleExile, 4 hours ago || ↑ 8 ↓ 2: [🔒]
New here. What gym does he go to usually?
Snowflake01, 4 hours ago || ↑ 8 ↓ 52:
According to Professor Branwen, SocPhi faculty usually exercise at a gym within the Castle. Currently it is undergoing renovations, however, preventing faculty from using its facilities until further notice.MantleExile, 4 hours ago || ↑ 4 ↓ 6:
So where does he gym now?Snowflake01, 4 hours ago || ↑ 7 ↓ 57:
We will have to verify certain information before we can continue with your request.MantleExile, 4 hours ago || ↑ 2 ↓ 2:
Okay.Snowflake01, 4 hours ago || ↑ 5 ↓ 66:
Instructions sent. Please check your in-app inbox.Snowflake01, 3 hours ago || ↑ 1 ↓ 73:
@MantleExile Verification complete, thank you for cooperating. The details have been sent to your inbox.