Work Text:
Faculty meetings are–in Mickey’s opinion–the bane of his entire existence. Completely unnecessary, redundant, a total bore. Just send it in an email for god’s sake. Especially when the meetings are scheduled at the ungodly hour of eight on Monday mornings, an entire half an hour before he usually arrives at school. Well, twenty-nine minutes, to be exact - if the first class starts at eight-thirty and it takes him a minute to rush from the parking lot to the shop classroom, then he’ll show up right as the bell rings, not a minute more.
Except the new bright-eyed and bushy-tailed principal went to some new-age educational conference over the summer and came back brimming with ideas of bonding and connecting amongst faculty members. How important it was to foster a community and create an open forum and a safe space for communication–her words, not Mickey’s.
As if any of the underpaid teachers give a flying fuck about any of that. None of them would've gone to the first meeting and continued to attend week after week without the bribe of free bagels and the not-so-subtle suggestion of possibly taking away the one good vending machine from the teacher’s lounge. The threat of losing easily accessible corn nuts and milk duds really was the reason why every person working at this underfunded Southside high school had to suffer through thirty minutes of mandatory torture every week.
Mickey worked there for two years and never laid eyes on half the staff at the school or knew anyone’s name until these meetings. He stays in the shop classroom all day, makes sure none of the students drill a hole through their hand or cut themselves on a hacksaw, then goes home. But now, everyone from the basketball coach to the art teacher to even the goddamn janitor had to attend and endure the principal babbling about upcoming school events and ways to improve the school–like time and resources aren’t already limited as it is.
What a colossal waste of time, Mickey grumbles to himself, as he strolls through the main doors of the school after smashing snooze multiple times on his alarm clock and begrudgingly getting his ass out of bed.
At least his on-the-fritz coffee machine decided to work today, or else he may be prone to commit murder without caffeine this early in his system.
But to Mickey’s luck, he doesn’t get two steps into the foyer before slipping on an invisible wet patch on the linoleum floor, crashing forward into what his mind registers for a split-second as a moving wall, which he practically bounces off of, if it's even possible to bounce off a solid surface. The impact causes him to stumble backwards and nearly collide against the glass trophy display case.
“Fu– watch where you’re going!”
“Oh shit, are you okay??”
Mickey rolls his shoulders with a groan. Just as he’s about to unleash hell, he looks up to a pair of worried green eyes staring right at him. Turns out the walls aren’t out to get him - not this time at least - it’s a person. Not just any person, a man who is built like a fucking brick barricade with a firm taut body and fierce red hair that nearly causes Mickey’s jaw to drop in surprise.
“Uh…” Words. What are words? He didn’t hit his head, did he? Why can’t his mind form coherent thoughts?
Unaware of Mickey’s temporary brain daze, the redhead continues to ramble in an apologetic voice, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been blocking the entrance, it’s my first day and I’m a bit lost–”
“It’s fine,” Mickey mumbles, cutting the guy off. Not that he cares if he’s late to the faculty meeting, but he needs to not be here right now. But before he can make a quick exit–
“Do you know where the teacher’s lounge is?”
Huh. A new teacher. With a body like that? Probably another meathead coach, Mickey thinks. To save his ego from continuing to make a fool of himself, Mickey wordlessly nods towards the east hallway, silently signalling the man to follow him. The man does, a bit too enthusiastically, much to Mickey’s chagrin.
Mickey hopes Clifford the Big Red Dog isn’t a talker. The teacher’s lounge is at the end of the hall around the corner and there’s only so much conversation Mickey can handle early in the morning. Especially after sustaining a possible phantom head injury. Especially after almost falling flat on his face in front of someone who looks like that.
But you know what they say about hope - it breeds eternal misery.
“Never thought I’d be back at high school,” the man chuckles. “But I saw the job posting online and thought, what the hell? Might be fun.”
Fun is definitely not the word Mickey would use to describe working at a high school. The very high school he dropped out from, actually. Life has a twisted sense of humour sometimes, but he’s made his peace with his current reality a long time ago.
“Are you a teacher here?” the man presses on.
Mickey grunts as a response. Quickens his pace, but the man doesn’t take the hint.
“What do you teach?”
Only a few steps left...
“Shop class.”
“Oh cool! I’m the new–”
“There you are, Mr. Milkovich.” Ms. Tinsley, the principal, peeks her head out of the door to the teacher’s lounge. Looks behind Mickey and beams. “And Mr. Gallagher! I’m glad you’re here, I was starting to worry you might’ve gotten lost.”
Gallagher? Mickey furrows his brows. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but then again - half the Irish population in Chicago probably has the same last name.
“I was, but then I bumped into Mr. Milkovich here and he led the way.” Gallagher flashes Mickey a grin, and Mickey tries to ignore the somersault flip inside his chest. “Hope I’m not too late.”
Ms. Tinsley shakes her head. “You’re just in time, I was just about to start the meeting.” She turns to Mickey. “Mr. Gallagher here is replacing Mrs. Farris since she’s gone into early retirement. Fell down the stairs and broke her hip, the poor thing. ”
Retirement? Mickey doesn’t remember seeing any of the sports coaches being geriatric enough to retire. Or maybe he’s not paying enough attention to the stupid faculty meetings.
Seeing the confusion on his face, Ms. Tinsley adds, “Mrs. Farris, the school nurse.”
A lightbulb clicks in Mickey’s head. Must’ve been the grouchy old woman with the Q-tip head and a permanent scowl on her face he used to see roaming the halls. He just assumed it was someone’s grandma who had gotten loose from the senior home and got her rocks off yelling at anyone in her way. Did the old bat fall down the stairs or was she pushed? The latter seems more plausible.
“Anyway,” Ms. Tinsley continues, “Mr. Gallagher here will be taking over as the new school nurse. I might get him to teach a couple health classes too, god knows these crazy kids need proper sex health education!” Both she and Gallagher laugh while Mickey cringes.
“I’d be glad to,” Gallagher replies with a smile. Glances at Mickey out of the corner of his eye. “Sex education is very important.”
No. Not today. Nope. Mickey slips past the principal through the door and quickly plops down on his usual seat in the back corner, silently praying the heat he feels under his skin isn’t reflective of how red his cheeks are. What the hell has gotten into him?
And because the universe is fucking with him, the only empty seat left is directly beside him. Mickey stares straight ahead and pointedly avoids Gallagher’s gaze as the principal starts the meeting.
“First thing on the agenda: the school bake sale! Who wants to volunteer?”
“Hey,” Gallagher whispers in a low voice, so only Mickey can hear him above the surrounding chatter, “my first name’s Ian by the way.” Leans in close, hot breath fanning Mickey’s ear, sending a shiver down Mickey’s spine. “Maybe you can show me around sometime?”
Mickey should ignore him. Ian. Pretend to be fascinated by fundraisers or pep rallies or whatever the fuck Ms. Tinsley is droning on about. Definitely not focus on the hopeful tone in his voice. Tell Ian to fuck off and leave him alone, like everyone else in the school has learned to do.
But maybe Mickey woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. Or the right one? Or he’s in an alternate reality? Or maybe someone drugged his coffee this morning?
Or maybe it’s his lucky day?
Because against his better judgment, Mickey angles his head to the side. Pretends to be nonchalant and shrugs in agreement. Tries to bite down his own smile from seeing the way Ian’s face entirely lights up, all eager and warm and full of light.
Maybe eternal misery isn’t the only outcome to spring from hope.