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Dec. 21st, 2021 01:32 pmDec 23, 2021
For the second time in a year, Tom is getting ready to leave the classroom he's come to think of as 'his,' never to see it again. The difference — he hopes, anyway — is that he won't be stepping into yet another strange city when he leaves the classroom. But as he packs up the few things he'd begun storing here, his heart still feels heavy. It's been nearly four months, and he's grown very fond of the students, engaged with them in the same ways he had in Hawkins.
He'd even, to his own surprise, finally shown up to a few of the 'Queer Club' meetings that Stevie had invited him to. After weeks of hemming and hawing, and more than a few false starts towards the art room, he'd finally made his way through the doors and stood off to the side, leaning against one of the empty tables and listening to their stories with no small amount of relief and joy.
They'd given him a little rainbow flag lapel pin on his first visit, and he's wearing it on his lapel, now, though it had taken a couple of weeks to work up the courage for that, too.
This school, in the short time he'd been here, has really helped him come into his own, and that makes it all the more difficult to sling his messenger bag over his shoulder and grab the partially-full box of things.
The phone on the wall by the door rings, and he hesitates. For a moment, he flashes back to Hawkins High, answering "Room 107!" and hearing that modulated voice on the other end, plaguing him with threats. He glances at the clock above it. Twelve forty-five. None of the students should even be in the building at this point, so he steps up to the phone and lifts it of the receiver.
"Mrs. Hildebrand's room; this is Mr. Hauser speaking."
"Tom! Glad I caught you." The voice on the other end is the superintendent, Carla Del Río, and Tom frowns.
"Just barely," he says. "I was on my way out the door. How can I help you, Carla?"
Five minutes later, he hangs the phone back up and stares at it, feeling a little stunned.
He's been invited back. One of the three junior year English teachers, an older man named Brassington whom Tom has only met a few times in the few months he's been here (but whom he'd heard students refer to as 'The Brass,' like a warning), is retiring at the end of the school year, and Tom's been invited to fill the position. Not as a substitute: permanently.
Of course he'd accepted. He hadn't even had to think about it, though Carla had been kind enough to let him if he needed to. Further, she'd spoken to some peers at Barton. Apparently, they're hiring adjuncts for the spring term, which starts in just a few weeks, and she'd sent his name along so he wouldn't be out of work for as long.
He laughs a little, still staring at the phone.
The walk to Dimera seems quicker than usual, but it's still nearly one-thirty when he steps through the door to drop off his things. The apartment feels too still. He wants to celebrate, dammit! He navigates to the music app on his phone that Robin had shown him how to use, and plays something catchy, upbeat, and familiar as he changes. Then he pulls his coat on and sends out a text, the simple message belying his excitement.
Drinks? My treat.
Then he heads back out, sliding his phone into his coat pocket beside his wallet and key.
[ Hauser got a new job! Sorta! He's excited and wants to celebrate; if he knows your pup doesn't drink, or if your name is Robin Buckley, his text will read 'Coffee? My treat.' instead. Meet him at the bar, pub, or cafe of your choice! He looks happier and more relaxed, and his jacket has a small pride flag on the left lapel. Timed to Dec 23rd, any time after 2pm. ]
For the second time in a year, Tom is getting ready to leave the classroom he's come to think of as 'his,' never to see it again. The difference — he hopes, anyway — is that he won't be stepping into yet another strange city when he leaves the classroom. But as he packs up the few things he'd begun storing here, his heart still feels heavy. It's been nearly four months, and he's grown very fond of the students, engaged with them in the same ways he had in Hawkins.
He'd even, to his own surprise, finally shown up to a few of the 'Queer Club' meetings that Stevie had invited him to. After weeks of hemming and hawing, and more than a few false starts towards the art room, he'd finally made his way through the doors and stood off to the side, leaning against one of the empty tables and listening to their stories with no small amount of relief and joy.
They'd given him a little rainbow flag lapel pin on his first visit, and he's wearing it on his lapel, now, though it had taken a couple of weeks to work up the courage for that, too.
This school, in the short time he'd been here, has really helped him come into his own, and that makes it all the more difficult to sling his messenger bag over his shoulder and grab the partially-full box of things.
The phone on the wall by the door rings, and he hesitates. For a moment, he flashes back to Hawkins High, answering "Room 107!" and hearing that modulated voice on the other end, plaguing him with threats. He glances at the clock above it. Twelve forty-five. None of the students should even be in the building at this point, so he steps up to the phone and lifts it of the receiver.
"Mrs. Hildebrand's room; this is Mr. Hauser speaking."
"Tom! Glad I caught you." The voice on the other end is the superintendent, Carla Del Río, and Tom frowns.
"Just barely," he says. "I was on my way out the door. How can I help you, Carla?"
Five minutes later, he hangs the phone back up and stares at it, feeling a little stunned.
He's been invited back. One of the three junior year English teachers, an older man named Brassington whom Tom has only met a few times in the few months he's been here (but whom he'd heard students refer to as 'The Brass,' like a warning), is retiring at the end of the school year, and Tom's been invited to fill the position. Not as a substitute: permanently.
Of course he'd accepted. He hadn't even had to think about it, though Carla had been kind enough to let him if he needed to. Further, she'd spoken to some peers at Barton. Apparently, they're hiring adjuncts for the spring term, which starts in just a few weeks, and she'd sent his name along so he wouldn't be out of work for as long.
He laughs a little, still staring at the phone.
The walk to Dimera seems quicker than usual, but it's still nearly one-thirty when he steps through the door to drop off his things. The apartment feels too still. He wants to celebrate, dammit! He navigates to the music app on his phone that Robin had shown him how to use, and plays something catchy, upbeat, and familiar as he changes. Then he pulls his coat on and sends out a text, the simple message belying his excitement.
Drinks? My treat.
Then he heads back out, sliding his phone into his coat pocket beside his wallet and key.
[ Hauser got a new job! Sorta! He's excited and wants to celebrate; if he knows your pup doesn't drink, or if your name is Robin Buckley, his text will read 'Coffee? My treat.' instead. Meet him at the bar, pub, or cafe of your choice! He looks happier and more relaxed, and his jacket has a small pride flag on the left lapel. Timed to Dec 23rd, any time after 2pm. ]
