only_good_teacher | (no subject)

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The world is warm and quiet as he drifts back to consciousness. His arm is slung over Henri's waist, and Henri's arm is curled under his neck in a sleepy hug, and for the first time in a long time, Tommy feels like he's somewhere he could belong.

He murmurs something in French, turning his head to kiss Henri's shoulder, but realizes as he rouses that the smell of the room is different.

Tommy distinctly remembers Henri's cologne, mingling with the oil he uses in his beard to make something heady and musky that had driven Tommy wild the night before. That's completely gone now, not even faded into the pillows or clinging to Tommy's skin. He blinks awake. Even without his glasses, he can see the room is wrong, too. Instead of tall, narrow windows with gauzy curtains, there's a broad wall with art hanging on it, and a huge walk-in closet. There's a dog on the bed. Henri doesn't have a dog.

Tommy's eyes settle on the man laying beside him.

That. That is not Henri.

With a yelp that very nearly borders on a shriek, Tommy flails backward, away from the strange, notably older man in the bed beside him. He scrambles back so quickly that he fails to keep track of the mattress — a second later, the surface gives way and Tommy topples to the floor with a thud and an oof.

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Daniel had a soldier’s ability to wake up immediately if he needed to, and he even remembered most of the time not to try to get up. When Tom yelped, he was immediately awake and so was Bopp, who was very concerned. Maybe Tom had had a nightmare? Daniel was usually the one who had those, but everyone had an off day. Then there was a thud and Daniel was the only one in the bed. Daniel sat up and leaned over Tom’s side of the bed to see what had happened, then just stared.

That was not Tom. Or maybe it was? Something looked a little familiar in the facial structure, but he was so young. Bopp had jumped down to sniff at whoever it was and Daniel let her do that. She’d give her opinion shortly.

“You alright there?” he said.

"You're American?" he blurts first. He startles away from the dog, and suddenly seems to realize he's in ill-fitting sleep shorts and a tee that's just a little too big. He'd gone to bed naked last night, he's certain. He and Henri both had. Tommy plucks at the shirt before scrambling into standing.

"Where the fuck are we?" he asks the inexplicable American. "Where's Henri? Did, did you kidnap me?"

Bopp tilted her little head to the side as if to ask why one of her people was behaving so strangely, but she wasn’t barking or growling or even seeming upset. She was clearly confused, but that made three of them

“I did not kidnap you,” Daniel said, since that seemed like the most important detail to be clear about. “But I also don’t know anyone named Henry. My name is Daniel. What’s yours?”

He was pretty sure he knew what had happened here, but he was not completely sure. Hopefully this fella would be willing to tell Daniel his name instead of storming out or something.

Tommy doesn't know a Daniel. He laughs, though, a surprisingly defensive sound as he pushes to his feet. "You're kidding," he says in a familiar, skeptical cadence. "You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with my suddenly appearing in your bed, when I was in He— s-someone else's last night?"

It suddenly occurs to him, mid-sentence, mid-thought, that this man may not be safe in more than one way. He doesn't need to go announcing himself in that way — not anymore than he already has.

"Fuck," he breathes, reaching up as if to adjust his glasses before remembering they aren't there. The dog moves closer, gently reaching a paw to his bare knee like it expects him to understand what it wants from him.

Tom didn’t tell Daniel his name, but he’d heard his steady say “You’re kidding” with pretty much the exact same tone and cadence about a thousand times. Bopp also was indicating that this was Tom.

“I didn’t, but I don’t expect you to believe that. I probably wouldn’t either. But your name’s Tom Hauser, you were born on January 20, 1953, and you’re my steady. And that’s my service dog, Bopp.”

He also didn’t expect Tom to believe any of that, but it was the truth and Daniel was going to tell the truth.

It's probable that 'Daniel' has Tommy's passport somewhere, and made a best guess at which form of 'Thomas' he'd be most likely to use. It still spooks him to hear him know so much when Tommy himself understands so little. It doesn't help that the room is still a fuzzy blur of broadly shapeless color. He can't see where any of his things are, he has no idea where he is, where Henri is, if he's even okay...

But then another fragment of the explanation trickles through. You're my steady. It reminds him a little of school, the will you go steady with mes that circulated the halls, and Tommy swallows hard.

"So, what is this, you're saying... Do I have amnesia? Because I don't remember you, I, I don't remember meeting you, I don't remember fucking anything, okay? Last night, I went to sleep in Paris, this— this is— this is not Paris, so you need to start talking, fast." He reaches up, again, like he's going to adjust his glasses, and then in a panicked, frustrated half-sob adds, "And where the fuck are my glasses?"

“They’re on the bedside table there, next to your water and the book you’re reading right now,” Daniel answered immediately. It hurt to see Tom so angry and defensive, but Tom was young, maybe only in his early twenties, and Daniel knew that had been a hard time for him. He’d been exploring who he was outside the bounds of what his parents wanted him to be. Apparently he’d been brash and kind of profane. Daniel was going to tease him so much about this once he got back to being himself.

“You’re right that this isn’t Paris. It’s a place called Darrow and I’ll explain as much as I can, but do you mind if I put on a robe and make some coffee? Sorry, no croissants.”

Tommy swallows, but he nods, chin jerking down quickly. "Uh," he says, like the question catches him off guard. "Y-yeah, of course. Ah, should I, where should I...?" He looks around and grabs the glasses off the bedside table, but hesitates to put them on yet. He has no idea where he should go so Daniel can have some privacy, and that feels more pressing at the moment.

“Living room’s that way,” Daniel said. He appreciated that Tom wanted to give him privacy and decided he’d be putting on more than his robe. He wanted freedom of movement and that meant putting his leg on. “Bopp, go choose a stuffie.”

Bopp gave him a slightly confused head tilt, but trotted out to the living room where her basket of toys was kept.

“She’ll show you. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

"Uh, right," Tommy says. He follows the dog, curling his fingers around the glasses in his hand as he does.

The apartment is... nice, he realizes. Really nice. The floors are wide and smooth, and when they get to the living room — not a far walk at all — Tommy sees a veritable wall of books. He drifts towards them as if by gravity, tugging the glasses on over his ears.

And immediately, he pulls them back off, a sound of discomfort as the strength of the prescription makes him feel like his fucking eyeballs are being squeezed.

"Of course," he groans softly. With a sigh, he sets them on the shelf in front of him. At least his vision isn't so bad, close up like this. He circles the living room slowly, combing his fingers over the spines of the books. It certainly doesn't look like the den of a kidnapper, at least.

Daniel decided quickly to not only put his robe on, but also go ahead and don. This Tom was probably not going to react well to Daniel’s leg. It was just easier to avoid the problem.

When he came out into the living room a few minutes later, he had on the same plaid flannel pajama pants he’d been wearing but with the leg down. He also had his robe and the ridiculous slippers Tom had bought him for Christmas this year, but he hadn’t bothered to comb his hair.

“You drink coffee?” he asked Tom, who had of course headed for the bookshelves.

"Are there people who don't?" Tommy shoots back, still a little freshly defensive. He continues to browse the books; a bright yellow spine stands out to him and he frowns, glances back at Daniel, and then drifts closer to it, trying not to give himself away. He knows that cover, he's certain. Before he can get to it, though, he turns and looks towards the blurry form moving in the kitchen. From here, he can just make out Daniel's hair and the color of his shirt, but not much else. Either way, he seems occupied with making the coffee, so Tommy moves closer to the book and draws it from the shelf.

"Holy shit," he whispers. He thumbs the pages to the story he knows practically by heart; they part easily, like he isn't the first person to turn to this story specifically. He wonders how many other people have read this before it came to this bookshelf, how many of them felt seen by it the way he did the first time he read it. He flips the page and sees a thin slip of paper inside. It's written all over with pen, notations with page numbers, line numbers, thoughts and opinions.

"This is my..." He trails off and looks towards the kitchen, then frowns and brings the book to the kitchen island. "This is my handwriting," he says, holding the book like an accusation. "How do you have my handwriting?"

“Plenty of them,” Daniel said easily. He noticed Tom was still not wearing his glasses and was squinting at the bookshelf. Daniel had never needed glasses, but he thought he remembered people saying their vision changed over time. Maybe the glasses that Tom had as an older fella didn’t work for this young fella. He didn’t think Tom had any really old pairs laying around, either. He usually donated his older pairs to charity as far as Daniel knew.

“Because you - or at least an older version of you — is my steady and you live here too. And you like making notes in your books. Well, not in the books. You’d say that was a crime against books.”

He was focusing on the coffee, but he was also keeping an eye on Tom. Daniel remembered his own experience with waking up too young, and that he’d known he shouldn’t be eighteen. Peggy hadn’t known she shouldn’t be young, though, and he’d had to deal with the same kinds of questions and suspicions.

"It is a crime against books! Especially first editions of Shirley fucking Jackson? Are you kidding me?" He places the book down on the counter top with the same reverence a priest might have for a holy manuscript. He frowns, looking at Daniel. "Hang on. What does that mean? 'An older version' of me?"

“Look at the shelf next to you,” Daniel suggested. There was a framed picture of Daniel and Tom that had been taken at one of the festivals and events. Daniel thought one of Tom’s former students might have taken it, but he didn’t really remember. It was a good picture, though. Tom and Daniel were laughing at something and standing very close.

“What do you take in your coffee?” He knew how his Tom took it, bit not how this Tom did.

He doesn't answer, because he doesn't hear the question. He's holding the photo in both hands, looking confused and a little scared. That's his ear, his chin, his nose. That's his hair, his smile. Everything about the man in the photo screams Tommy Hauser, even down to the glasses, except he's...

"Thi— um. This is my face," he says, like Daniel doesn't know that, couldn't know that. Like that wasn't the whole reason he'd told Tommy to look at the photo.

Tom didn’t answer, so Daniel made his coffee the way he’d want it now. If he didn’t want it, Daniel could remake it and he’d drink the extra cup. He felt like today was going to have a lot of coffee in it in general.

“It is,” he agreed, and brought the mugs of coffee over to the table in the living room. He put his own down and then held out Tom’s, although he didn’t really expect him to take it.

“It’s a good face.”

"I," he starts, and he does take the mug, but he does so absently, like he isn't aware he's doing it. He huffs a breath that might, at one point, have been a laugh. He looks back down at the photo, and instead of the scared, defensive young man he's been up to now, Tommy seems more confused. "I look happy." Then he blinks hard and looks up at Daniel. "Why don't I remember?"

“Because that happens here,” Daniel replied. “Usually it only lasts a couple of days. When you’re back to yourself, we’ll laugh about how cute you were when you were younger.”

He didn’t know of anyone who hadn’t remembered being the wrong age after it was done. Then he thought of something else.

“I need to text your principal. You definitely can’t go to your staff development day like this.”

"You need to what my what?" Tommy asks. He's still holding the photo, but he sips the coffee at last — and hums in pleased surprise before taking another, deeper sip. It's good coffee, made exactly how he likes it. Daniel couldn't possibly have just... guessed that, right?

Daniel didn’t smile at Tom’s confusion, but he wanted to. He had felt the same way when someone had mentioned texting to him for the first time.

“The, uh, older version of you has a job. I gotta let your boss know you won’t be there today. On account of all of this, right?”

"Older version," he echoes, looking down at the photo in his hand again. Yeah, that's what it is, he realizes. He looks older in the photo. Tommy sits on the couch, eyes still on it. He can't get over how fucking happy he looks in it.

"Wait, you know how that sounds, don't you? That I just... what, fucking magically... de-aged?"

“Yeah, I do know it sounds like I’m ready for the funny farm,” Daniel agreed. He sat down in one of the chairs near the couch to keep giving Tom some space. “But it’s definitely what happened here. It happened to me a few years ago, actually, and to one of my good friends, too, at the same time. That was a real weird weekend, lemme tell ya. Well, I don’t have to. You’re having your own weird weekend.”

"'Weird' isn't entirely right, though," he argues. He sets the photo on his lap, fingers curled around the frame like he's protective of it. "I-I mean, I don't remember you! That's fucked up, isn't it? Shouldn't I remember the person I'm— the, the... man I'm... I'm... with?" Tommy sets his mug down on the coffee table so he can scrub his hand into his hair without letting go of the photo. "Doesn't that make you angry?"

Daniel supposed it could make him angry, but honestly it made him sad that Tom was so angry and defensive. He knew Tom hadn’t had an easy time of it, especially right after he’d moved out. He was glad Tom had gotten to Paris and sown some wild oats, as it were.

“It could,” he agreed. “Right now I’m more concerned about you, though.”