Bookmarked - A Rodrick x Reader Fan Fiction

Chapter 6 - Not Technically A Break-In If You Have The Keys

You and Rodrick walked on the sidewalk, at your request, underneath the night sky. While the idea of walking down the street with the trees hanging overhead seemed cool; you really did not want to get hit by a car. That would be such a downer way to start your summer vacation. A broken leg and a broken family. What a combo!

As you walked towards wherever Rodrick worked, side by side, you couldn't help but think of what this meant for the two of you. Could you actually be friends with Rodrick? The streetlights helped to pave your way, but something about the dark was nice. You felt safe walking through the neighborhood. You weren't sure if you felt more safe by being with Rodrick. He was tall so he could scare off people and you knew his body was somewhat defined. You wonder how he would do in a fight? Not that you really wanted to see him fighting, but the mind does wander.

But friends? Like, hanging out and laughing and getting along? What about when it was time to go back to college? Would you text each other? Try to plan visits? What exact kind of friendship did Rodrick have in mind? What do you have in mind with him?

You eventually ended up in front of a large building. Even with the streetlights, it was hard to tell what this place was, but you were starting to figure it out. Large parking lot, a giant field, tennis courts.

"There's no way you can work at a school, Rodrick." You say, crossing your arms in disbelief. If he was a teacher, you felt bad for his students. There's no way he could be. You had to be the same age, he couldn't have completed a teaching program before you had even earned your bachelors degree.

"Why? Don't think I could pass a background check?" He smugly asks, but knows better when you shoot him a look. Yeah, no fucking duh you think that. "Actually, don't answer that question." He then pulls something from his pockets. "Don't you want to find out what these keys go to?"

"You have keys to the school? What the hell? Why so many?" You ask in disbelief. You watch as the large key ring holds maybe fifty keys. The rattling of the keys was evident that it had to be heavy. He walks towards a set of doors, the keys being louder than anything else in the area. You almost felt as if this was wrong. You kept looking around to make sure you weren't caught, which probably made you look more suspicious. He crouches down to the keyhole, trying to use the streetlight to see in the dark.

"Janitor keys, they unlock every door in this place. I could never be a teacher, I was an awful student." He says while he looks through each key, trying to find the right one. One key after another goes around the loop. You can hear the disappointment in his voice. You really try to not judge a book by its cover, or hey, by a person you've barely met; but there was a small part of you that could believe he wasn't a great student.

"Sometimes the worst students make the best teachers." You offer, trying to make him feel better. Hunched over, he moves his head to the side, trying to look at you. He gives a smile and slight laugh, probably able to tell you might be lying through your teeth. It was hard to believe that someone who was a bad student would want to be a teacher, teaching kids who were just like them. Maybe that was the appeal though. Being able to be there for someone who reminded you of yourself when you were that age and had no one to look up to.

"Yeah, no. All of my teachers hated me. I sometimes run into them still and they look down at me. High school was hell, but adult life isn't much better" He mutters the last bit to himself. He finally stops on a key and looks pleased with himself. He must've finally found the right one.

"Then why work here if it was that bad?" You laugh, trying to see whatever irony he was putting himself through. Maybe he just wanted to see the looks on his teachers' faces and remind them that he would still haunt them, even after graduation. Which they thought he never would.