Chapter Text
“Tardy,” he says like it’s your name. Daring to move across the classroom, your shoes squeak. It pains you as it echoes louder than the collective movement of everyone looking at you — the one behind the heavy plated door that squeaks open and slams shut mid-lecture.
He, Professor Hader, Mr. Hader, sighs your name.
More than anyone, his disappointment strikes you. He gestures the board behind him, class topics written with his messy hand. You click your tongue in understanding and watch him run his hand along his jaw before he taps his desk, waiting for you to take your seat.
You wave him off, “I know, I know,” ignoring your flushed cheeks and putting on ‘your voice.’ On a bad day, he would simply snap at you despite the albeit playful viscosity that just has too sharp of a sting to it. Thankfully, you haven’t made it to that day yet.
Hader leans over his desk, his fingers splayed on the sides of a pile of papers he collected at the beginning of class. You pull yours out of your bag (crisp, neatly formatted), and present it to him while he’s pinching his nose.
“I know I said I wouldn’t be late ‘next time’ the last time I was late–”
“You mean yesterday?” He gulps after mumbling with a distance grumble at the back of his throat. “When you were late?” He’s smiling, but he glares.
You flaunt your paper under his face and go, “Hey,” in a voice to soothe him. “At least I turn my work in?”
“At least…” He takes the paper and drops it in the pile.
You walk backward, chin up, and smirking. Hader rolls his eyes and the acknowledgment is enough to have you turning. “Anyways!” He announces, eyes digging into the back of you as you sit in the front row. “Let me continue…”
Your sass of the morning instills something deeper in you – an urge to put your legs up on your desk, an urge to interrupt and yell out the way you interpret film critique (more than the usual urge, at least), an urge to disregard his teaching and teach for yourself if not to prove yourself and have a fun go at it, then to irk him.
But by the end of class, it wears off and you remember the flush on your cheeks from being ogled by an entire lecture hall and that pit of disappointment you felt.
Hader gives his final notes, students packing up and his voice gets louder as the cacophony begins.
Most are headed out the door and down the steps in the center aisle. You slip away from your desk and shoulder your bag. You’re over by his desk right as he sits down, and you tap your knuckles where his eyes meet.
Hader rubs his temples and rises. He looks at you with a flat smile.
“Can I help you?” He tries to be polite.
As usual, not a lick of regret appears on your face – your eyes wide, cheeks high, something optimistic and dismissive of this morning’s debacle. If only he heard the screaming from your insides.
But it drops, a brush on your shoulder from a passerby freezing you, and Hader furrows his brows. He bends his knees ready to look up at you, worriedly question you, hold your shoulders and gently shake the explanation to your troubles out of you. But you roll your shoulder and with it the feeling of touch off. You smile at him and almost as normal, continue.
But your voice is slightly detached. “Yeah-yeah sorry,” you say, “I want to do something about my penalties?”
You close your eyes and shake your head out, rephrase it with a stronger sense of where you’re going. “I mean if it’s possible. Because we can’t deny that regardless, I’m doing pretty good in your class.” Ah, there you are, smug and confident.
He’s slow to sit back down. “Yeah, you are…”
“So?” You hold your arms out. “Is there anything I can do?”
Hader’s grabs the stack of papers and taps them into a neat square, not a page out of place. You raise your brows at it, eye him intently and when he catches you he sighs and looks at the last students slipping through the door.
“Listen…I’ll ahh…” He stands (again) and raps his fingers against the desk, breath hitched, jaw clenched. “I’ll take a few off if you help me grade some papers, okay?”
“O…kay…?” You chuckle, “No big deal.” He goes and props the door open, kicking a door-stopper into the corner. You turn in a circle as he does, and follow him as he rounds his desk. “Just this once?” You drop your bag in front of his desk.
He snaps his fingers into a point in your face. Warning, his chin dipped and brows raised, “Just this once. Cause you’re not going to be late after this, right?”
You hiss “Right…” and rock on your heels. You know damn well enough…
He tidies his desk and you look for a chair. Before you is a whole lecture hall with chairs studded into the ground, and not a single free one other than the one he’s going to sit on.
“Hm,” he grunts and taps his desk with one knuckle. “Stay here, I’ll go get you one.”
“No no that’s fine I can just…uh?” You pat his desk and the cleared-off corner. He waves his hand (’be my guest’) with a sigh and you hop up and settle.
He sniffles and mutters “O-kaayyyy…” Grabbing the papers again, he taps them against his desk to get them back into that neat square (again, not a paper out of place), then splits the pile in two. He hands you one, his turn to get settled.
Flipping through the corners, you see you don’t have yours. While wondering how that would’ve played out, you hear the jingle of his pens in their tin.
He flips a pen between his fingers and hands it to you – red – his head down and his own pen of choice in his free hand poised like he’s holding a cigarette. He rhythmically taps the pen on the desk, waiting for you to pluck it from him. When you do you wiggle it between your fingers and too hold it like a cig, then observe your papers again.
“Wh…” you huff and bite your lip.
Hader looks over your hunched shoulder. You turn to give him a better look. He stretches and pads the paper with his finger, explains in a low voice with that distant grumble, “Name and titles fine, just look for bad grammar, usual stuff.”
Seems easy enough. But – ?
“Do I…write notes or anything?” You wave the stack over your lap. He sucks his lips in and looks up, at first already lost in his grading. His jaw drops and he lets out long hum, before looking back at his work.
“Umm, no, you don’t need to.”
“Oh.” You deflate and set the stack back on your lap. Take that as it is – you tell yourself – but wouldn’t it be all that more exciting to tear students to pieces, put others on a higher pedestal? “Why not?” You ask and raise the papers as you observe the stack.
Hader clears his throat and drops his pen to lock his fingers together. “Uhm, well.” He shrugs and forces a smile. “You guys don’t read the notes anyway.”
You blink and with that take the cap off your pen. He hears you let out this small wisp of breath, irritated, offended even. You can’t deny that statement entirely. However, ‘I read them’, you want to say. He knows that. He watches you slouch as you lazily scan through the first page of your first paper, tapping the ink prematurely in the corner as you wait for the time to use it to come.
“I mean,” he blinks at the ceiling and runs his tongue over his lips, thinking. “You can if you want. But just…” He holds his palm out, ‘take it easy,’ it says. You flash back a slightly better smile. Not to terribly offended to begin with, but the air of the room is particularly sour – all circumstances in mind, his looming approval of you at stake.
After some silence and you scribbling simpler notes “Capitalize this!” “Capitalize that!” (though not exactly – specific grammatical phrases I don’t care to remember now), Hader sighs.
“Some-” he stretches, his lips pop when he’s done, “students read the notes.”
You look back, chin on your shoulder. You swear he flashes a quick smile. But his head is dipped after that. He clears his throat and runs his tongue over his lips. “Just saying, don’t put your heart and soul into it. Okay?” He says as though asking you to promise to him.
And you say, “Wasn’t planning on it.” You chuckle and rest your elbow on your thigh, and your chin on your hand. “Who, though?” He hums, you repeat, “Who reads them? The notes?”
He groans “I don’t know–” lists some names off you scarcely recognize and care to remember. “You.”
You gasp and look over your shoulder. Your voice perks, playful and teasing, offended if you look deeper into it. “Do I?”
Hader sputters and flips a page. “Psh, couldn’t say for sure.” He whispers and while thinking to say it out loud, he bobbles his head around. His voice bounces with the movement. “I mean, you seem like you read the notes.”
You hum intrigued.
“You’re not bad at your work,” he speaks your name but so soft and restrained. “You’re just late. Like–” He scoffs and looks at you. “All the time — a lot.
You hiss. It actually hurts, you could say. This is a budding argument about how “You have so much potential,” you can feel it. Not something to get from arguably your favorite teacher who you objective argue with the most. You chuckle to dull the pain of the sting. “Heh, yeah…” You sniffle and look down.
“Which is why,” he mutters, “I offered this.”
You hum. “'Preciate it.”
You look at the clock – 𝟮:𝟬𝟱.
It’s that type of situation where no matter how many times he may offer his condolences, rephrasing to ease the blow, disappointment still lingers.
Then there’s the creeping irritation of having to stay late. Of throwing so much time away. You could be with your friends (partying even, I dunno), getting other work done, letting it waste away while you contemplate on Adderall too hazy to think right anyway. You look at the clock again – 𝟮:𝟬𝟲.
Alright then, you think, and get grading.
𝟯:𝟯𝟬 and you’re pensively writing away – caught in the intricacies of your current essay. You plucked a blue pen off Hader’s desk, irking, so keen on getting your thoughts down before they fizzled into nothingness that you pulled the cap off with your teeth and kept it in the corner of your lips for a majority of the reading. Hader saw you and smiled softly. At least you’re interested in what you’re doing, no reason for him to berate you.
But knowing with every yelp and laugh out in the hall that most are off to electives, to study (or party, I dunno), and do what not, gets to you.
You stop and hold your pen tight, snap your neck to the door, and with another round of giggles you groan and get up. Hader sits straight to watch you. You kick the door-stop into the hallway and he hisses and presses his fist to his lips.
You squint at him and hold the door open. “This okay?”
“Actually wait can you…not?” He keeps his fist pressed.
You point over your shoulder. “But, isn’t bothered you too? I mean, I don’t mind, I just thought–”
“Well,” He sighs, “They are but….y’know what–” he waves his hand down, “nevermind. You can close it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He flashes a smile and shakes his hair out. You let the door close and look into the hallway till the moment it’s shut. You can still hear the shenanigans, but now they’re farther off.
Sitting back on his desk, you see him finish with an essay and set it to the side. His newest one was written by you, and already dealing with the embarrassment, you choke. You try to turn it into a laugh but it comes out strangled as you look away and try not to think about how he’ll begin silently judging you. You’ll probably catch him writing critique notes in the corner of your eye. Nothing’s more uncomfortable than someone reading your work in front of you.
“What?” He laughs.
You groan “Oh God…” and rub your temples. You try to steady your head straight forward to where you can’t see him. He hisses in understanding and waves the paper closer to you.
After another groan, he pulls it back and clicks his tongue. “What’s so scary? Y’know I’m not gonna berate you, you’re a top in the class…”
“Still gross knowing you’re doing it in front of me.”
“I guess.” He clears his throat and starts reading aloud– your name, his name, his class, date of turn in. You physically lurch and he laughs.
“You know I’m honestly just going to take the penalties if you vocally grade it in front of me.”
“Eh, no you’re not.” He starts with the first paragraph.
“Oh geez…” you palm your face and let out an obnoxious sigh. You roll your eyes and your neck to bear into his soul but he ignores it. You break your concentration for a moment and watch him squint and looks closer. You wonder with half a mind for the possible aesthetic not for how ‘good’ it would be for him — why isn’t he wearing glasses?
You manage to ignore him for the most part but can only focus on grading grammar – unable to get him out of your head long enough to form extensive thoughts on each paper’s content and collective prose.
“Oooh..” He chirps and your heart stops. “That’s interesting.”
“Hate you,” you mumble, and hide your face in your hands while he smirks and grabs a blue pen.
𝟱:𝟬𝟱 and you’re sitting on the floor your stretch your legs out in front of you and aching from letting them dangle the rest of your time here. The irritation of still being here is getting to you now. Hader can hear you – tapping your pen on the floor when there’s nothing to write about.
The commotion outside has stopped.
And after he finished up your paper and slapped it onto the ‘complete’ pile that discomfort in your stomach stopped and with nothing there to keep you at least mildly pumped. Boredom took over.
You look up and through the door’s small window, see how outside the sun’s dimmer and on its way to set. Ah yes, that’s what happens this time of year.
And though the light in here hasn’t changed (yet), you’re aware of how empty and cold it is, the stale air, how time (despite the clock above the door) seems to have stopped while it hasn’t.
If you weren’t here it would be seven or eight by now and you’d only be aware of half the time you’ve been here.
You huff and roll your eyes.
Hader hears you but doesn’t say anything. He’s getting done with the last few notes in his pile. He’ll come to fetch the rest of yours up soon. You look at the wall and press your cheek to the cold side of his desk.
“Do you do this every night?” you ask.
He hitches his breath, thinking up an answer “Not every night…This is screenwriting, not film studies, you guys barely have any essays…”
You look at the clock again: 𝟱:𝟬𝟳
“Been here for like, three hours.”
“Yeah, well –” He hisses, ‘this is what you got yourself into’ is how you interpret it. But just then he scoots his chair back and gets up. His steps shake the floor then he’s standing above you, holding his hand out and making a grabby motion. You furrow your brows but hold up your pile except for the one in your lap. He takes it then glares for you to give him another one.
“No no–” you insist, “I got it.”
Hader closes his eyes, the bags under them ever prominent and his posture slackens. “No I–I got it. Give it.” You pout and hand it to him. As he sits back down you hop up and slap your hands to your thighs. The light-headedness jolts you for a moment, and you lean forward over the desk by his side,
“So…what do I do now?”
He yawns. “You can go now. Got other work, right?”
“Uhm, no?” You look outside to the waning sunlight. “Not really.”
“Probably hungry?”
“I guess.” You look back at him and he’s resting his head in his hand, his fingers pushed into his locks. “But really, I don’t–”
He says your name. It’s strict but the way he lowers his chin and looks at you from behind one raised brow (and the assuring tug at his lips) doesn’t make it look so harrowing. “Just go. Seriously, you’ve been a great help.”
You hum and take a breath. “Well, alright then…” You bend slowly to get your bag, then stamp your foot once it’s over your shoulder just in case the sound and jolt could be a reminder that he does still need your help. At least a little bit more of it. He doesn’t budge and you watch him grade as his tongue pokes past his lips.
“Want me to get you anything?” You ask.
“No, I’m good.”
You bite your lip. There’s a Starbucks on campus. That’s something. “How do you like your coffee?” He tilts his head, still grading. “Or….do you like bagels or croissants? Those little English muffin sandwiches?”
“Don’t get me anything,” He begs (though not in angry desperation).
You sigh “Alright,” but still stand there. You can’t let this man go on with his night grading while hungry. “Hypothetical question–” he pinches the bridge of his nose and drops his pen. You point to the sky and start to pose said question while he runs his hands over his face and groans into them. “How would you like your coffee if you could have some right now, and which sounds better between a bagel, English muffin, and croissant?”
Mr. Hader drops his hands to the desk. “I don’t know,” he says, exasperated. “Probably a caramel latte…and a croissant.”
You press your lips tight, impressed. “Nice to know…well, Mr. Hader. Thank you for taking a few penalties off my grade and I will see you tomorrow.” You roll your wrist as you do a little bow, then head out.
He’s left biting his lip and staring into the space you once stood in. He hums, not used to your playfulness when it’s outside of insulting or challenging him.
But he likes it.
𝟱:𝟯𝟱 – “Caramel latte and a croissant?” And it was only a fifteen-minute walk to, then from. Hader is slow to look at you. He didn’t even hear the door open, but as he looks from the corner of his eye he makes a point to notice it’s closed again and you’re the only two on this side of it. He finally looks at you, so used to the painful silence by now and being aware of his loneliness. But there you are – caramel latte and a croissant in hand. And your own drink and bagged accessory in the other.
You hold the drink over his desk with the bagged croissant dangling between your closed fingers.
He reaches and mutters “Thank you.”
You see he’s almost done. Just one more paper left (but that pile on his left is still high and frightening, a reminder of your past) and he’ll be free. You smile as he looks down and scratches his scalp. Then you sit on the corner of the desk (for old times sake) and sip your drink.
“You’re still here?” He asks. He doesn’t sound mean about it or disgusted. Just wondering,
“Eh,” you shrug, “Why not?” And dig into the treat you got yourself.
He’s done by the time you’ve finished eating and he gives a content sigh. Groaning at the time lost, he stands up. You watch him as he does, watch him collect the now completed pile and put it in his bag with the rest of his stuff to be dealt with when morning comes.
You wait for him by the door, propping it open with your back. He presses it open with spread fingers and nudges you through before he turns the light up and locks the room up. You’re not sure why you’re walking with him out of the building. He’s not sure either, but neither of you protest. You just don’t say anything. No, not until you get outside where you stand awkwardly waiting for the other to depart on their path.
“Uhm…see you…next class?” You offer.
He runs his tongue over his lips and looks around. “Uh, yeah. You’re just in the dorms over there?” He points lazily as he comes to hold his coffee in both hands and fiddle with the cardboard sleeve. “Right?” At this time of night, it’s starting to get chilly.
You scoff and say “I wish. I uh,” you scratch behind your ear and mention your apartment complex. It’s a nice, cozy place. You don’t have a roommate, you have enough freedom, a room for an office and a room for a bed, but —
“Geez, no wonder you’re always late,” he scoffs. “That’s like a forty minute walk.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Do you want me to like…” you both squint off into the sunset. Not quite there yet, but you see the blur of orange approaching. He shrugs “Drive you home?” He looks at your profile as you still gaze that direction. He freezes when his words register and you visibly tense. But you also smile. A genuine sort of smile, not out of force or fear.
“Uhm, actually…I like the walk. I mean, long, maybe, but it’s an interesting route.” You’ve never been given the opportunity to not walk but you can’t bring yourself to take it. No, not now…
“Oh.” Hader squints and shoves one hand in his pocket. He holds his latte by the lid. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Anyways, uh–” You turn and hold your hand out. “Thanks, again.”
“Oh, of-of course.” He squeezes his eyes shut as though to spark or capture something in his memory, and when they open he’s smiling at you, a genuine sort of smile, not out of sarcasm and glee at your demise. He (still holding the latte by its lid much to your paranoia) shakes your hand, and then you’re off.
As you walk down the path, you look over your shoulder and offer a gentle wave. He gives one back, just as gentle, a little more hesitant. He hums to himself, watching for a while before he blinks hard and turns the other way, off to his car.
What a weird but simple night, he thinks, fiddling with his keys.