Work Text:
Grace really enjoys his job as a teacher.
Sure, he had his fall from grace—ha!—from academia. He thinks of it as a shameful exit, especially when he remembers being dragged out of the conference room, words tumbling out of his mouth, indignant and prideful. Staggering waste of carbon. He cringes at the memory.
It haunts him. Grace is unsure why he lost his composure so dramatically during the UNESCO conference. He's always been a bit of a theatre kid, perhaps that's one reason. Or perhaps his pride in his own work, combined with the scientific community's stubborn refusal to even entertain his idea, had annoyed him so much that he lost his cool.
Now, the scientific community wants nothing to do with him—and vice versa. It's fine. He doesn't even care. It's okay. Really.
The man formerly known as Dr. Grace now goes by Mr. Grace. It doesn't bother him as much as he initially thought it would.
While he initially thought of his job at Grover Cleveland Middle School as temporary, he quickly warmed up to his students. There's something about the youthful curiosity and innocence in their bright eyes, the knowledge that he can do something to shape their lives, that changed him. He wants to help them learn, to let them have fun learning, and perhaps foster a love for science—the same way it happened to him, all those years ago.
So if he's ever asked if he enjoys his job, Grace would give an enthusiastic yes. 99% yes.
The missing 1% stems from a mandatory educational meeting called 'Parent-Teacher Conference'. PTC for short.
It didn't bother him at first. Even in his first year at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was eager to meet his children's parents. Lavishing praises towards his students, commending them for their schoolwork. Informing the parents about how they can better support their children. Discussing their development. It was a way to better understand and help his children. He loved it.
Until he met Holly March.
Holly March, by all accounts, is an exceptional student, excelling in her academics and occasionally participating in class quite enthusiastically—though she would sometimes be absent from school. Grace likes Holly, and he think Holly likes him too. What can he say, he's a decent teacher.
More specifically: Grace loved Parent-Teacher Conferences, until he met Holly March's father. Holland March.
x
Grace is seated behind his desk, fiddling absent-mindedly with his red pen, as he stares into the eyes of Mr. Holland March.
March leans against the back of his chair casually, an arm propped against the chair. He's not facing Grace, instead opts to gaze at the planets hanging overhead.
Then, March whips out a cigarette, sliding it between his lips.
Grace blinks, his brows raising. “No smoking in school premises,” he says, almost disbelievingly.
March actually scowls at him. “Listen, Mr. Grave—” he starts.
“Grace.” He doesn’t know how many times he has corrected him. Mr. March just never seems to get his name right. He's certain that Holly talks about him to her father—March had off-handedly mentioned it, once. They've met multiple times, mostly during Parent-Teacher Conferences and occasionally after school. March hardly ever gets his name right.
Grace can feel his blood pressure rising. Deep breaths. He briefly contemplates becoming religious, because clearly, this is a test from God. His students taught him this word yesterday: 'ragebait', and he can’t help but wonder if God is using Holland March as a vessel to ragebait him? Or perhaps, Mr. March has an unparalleled talent for getting on people's nerves.
“Please don’t smoke in my classroom,” Grace repeats, barely hiding his exasperation. He smiles at March; it feels strained, even to him.
March stills for a moment. He makes a face, before reluctantly pocketing his cigarette. "Sorry," he mutters.
At least March apologised. At least.
Grace runs a hand through his hair, then says, "Holly's Science grades are great—she's one of the top students in my class." He takes note of how March's bored expression grows exceptionally fond. "She participates in class occasionally but enthusiastically. Holly asks good questions, ones that prompt deeper thinking for everyone else in class. It shows a willingness to learn, and it's wonderful."
March nods, a strand of his hair falling into his eyes. His eyes crinkle a little at the corners. He looks so proud of Holly. Grace feels something in him soften.
"I've consulted her other teachers, and most of them speak very positively about her," Grace continues. He doesn't mention that the one teacher who didn't 'speak very positively about her' was Mr. Sanders, her Math teacher. It seems as though Sanders hates every student he teaches, except for a handful of male students. Most students hate him back. He's never heard any student say a single complimentary remark towards Sanders, and Grace is rather involved in student gossip. Students tell him a lot of things, all sorts of strange things—Holly included.
(Even Grace doesn't like Sanders. The way he speaks about his students—apathetic and arrogant, as if he thinks himself mightily superior to his students—indicates that Sanders doesn't even like teaching. What is he doing here? Seems as though Sanders uses literal children to stroke his fragile ego, viewing them as 'inferior beings'.
He doesn't know Sanders very well; he takes great care in avoiding him as much as he can, but Grace is pretty sure that his male students get preferential treatment. So Sanders is a shmuck and a misogynist. He's tried to bring up the matter to the principal a couple of times, but no, Sanders remains disgustingly employed.)
"Most?" March asks anyway, his eyes narrowing.
"Um," Grace says, swallowing. How does he put this in a way that doesn't come across as too inflammatory, while also hinting at his exorbitant disdain for Sanders. "Sanders… Mr Sanders teaches her Math. He didn't give the most… glowing review… about Holly. He's unfortunately like that…"
March's expression warps, and he looks uncharacteristically angry. "Piece of shit," he mutters. He pauses, then says, "Holly hates him. This Sanders guy. She told me he marked her down for forgetting to put the date."
Grace blinks. What even? Sanders is a jerk. "Christmas Eve, that's horrible," he mutters quietly, but March catches the words.
March snorts. "Christmas Eve? Did you just say Christmas Eve?" March's expression of outrage dissolves, and he laughs at him. "Jeez, Grace, just say 'Jesus Christ'. Or are you one of those overly-religious people? Like—uh, what's her name?—Janet?"
Grace's annoyance quickly comes surging back. Is March seriously laughing at him? "I try not to swear because I'm a Middle School teacher," he says flatly, then tries desperately to veer the train back onto its tracks. "We're getting off-topic. Mr Sanders' review of her doesn't matter at all. Holly has great conduct and her teachers love her."
He pauses, then adds, hesitantly, "Um, I have a question for you, Mr. March."
March leans forward, his eyes teasing, sparkling in a way that really reminds him of Holly. Like father like daughter, Grace supposes. "Shoot," March says, casual.
"Sometimes, Holly has unexplained absences from school. I've asked her about this, and she attributes these absences to you." Grace pauses, silently observing March's expression, before continuing cautiously. "A high number of absences may affect her performance in school… Is there a problem, Mr. March?"
March goes silent, his expression shuttering and becoming strangely sombre. "Oh," he says, simply. He looks away for a moment, as if trying to regain his composure. He looks back. "Sorry 'bout that. I'll, uh, fix it."
Grace doesn't pry; he's just a teacher. And March looks pretty upset. Besides, even though he hardly knows the man, and is extremely aggravated every time he has to speak with March, a part of Grace knows that March loves his daughter deeply. He knows he will try to fix whatever problem he has. Because he loves Holly.
Speaking of which…
"I don't mean to pry, but I was in the area a few days ago," Grace says, swiftly changing the topic. "I saw Holly driving what seems to be your car. Mr. March, why is Holly driving your car?"
"She likes to drive me around," March protests immediately, sounding oddly genuine. He straightens in his seat.
Does she. "Really," he says flatly, not believing him at all. "She seems a bit young to harbour a love for driving."
"Yeah, yeah, she's my daughter, not yours," March says flippantly, waving a hand. "Holly likes driving me around. Father-daughter bonding activity, you know?"
Grace is so gosh-darned tired of this man. Whatever. He drops the topic. "Okay," he says.
x
Grace braces himself for the next Parent-Teacher Conference with Holland March. Honestly, he doesn't know enough to figure out if March is a good father, but at least he knows he's a father who loves Holly deeply. That's good enough. He hopes so.
He does know, though, that the act of talking to Holland March will always infuriate him. It's a 100% certainty. The previous Parent-Teacher Conference went well enough, much better than the previous ones, but even so, there were many instances where Grace had gotten fed up with March.
Grace hears the shuffle of footsteps. He inhales. Exhales. Steadies himself. He looks up.
He startles. It's Holland March, clad in a black suit and light blue tie. But standing a few footsteps behind him is a seemingly brawny man who looks a little older than March. The new man is wearing a light blue shirt. They're matching, Grace realises with some amusement.
Grace gets up from his seat. "Good afternoon, Mr. March," he says, before his eyes dart to the man who's making his way to the chair next to March—a chair that has been empty for a long while. "Good afternoon. Um, how do I address you?"
The man looks up, his eyes scrutinising him. "Healy," he says, voice gruff.
March slumps into his seat. "Ignore him," he says, casually waving a hand in Healy's direction. "Dunno why he wanted to come. Said something about wanting to meet you."
Okay, wow, that sounds really ominous. Grace sits back down, slowly.
Healy seems to think so too. "March," he mutters, almost reprimandingly. He looks at Grace again, holding eye contact. "Holly says your lessons are fun and you're her favourite teacher. I'm just here to see you."
Favourite teacher! Warmth blossoms in his chest. Grace smiles. "Aw, really? Tell her I said thank you."
Then Grace's brain starts to work. This Healy seems to know March well. Also knows Holly well, assuming that he and Holly have had more conversations apart from the one about his teaching skills. Grace roughly knows that March is a widower, because Holly confided in him once—albeit vaguely—but he managed to extract a brief summary of what happened. A tragic accident, a fire that burned down the March family's home, a mother who passed away, and a father who wallowed in guilt and grief. Grace has never known Mrs. March, because she’d passed away before Holly became his student. The seat next to Mr. March during Parent-Teacher Conferences was always empty.
Now it's occupied by a Mr. Healy.
Healy and March seem to be having a silent conversation. Healy glares at March. March cocks his head to the side, his lips tugging into a smile. His eyes practically flash with mischief. Healy looks away, rolling his eyes.
His brain clicks. Oh. Grace briefly entertains the idea of congratulating the new (?) couple, but he cringes at the thought and casts it aside.
Almost like clockwork, March takes out a cigarette and lighter. Grace restrains himself from swatting the cigarette out of his hands. He sighs.
But before Grace can say anything, Healy butts in. "Put that away, we're in a school," Healy says, sounding faintly unimpressed.
March frowns, but quickly pockets his cigarette and lighter without a word.
Oh my! Wow! Now Grace really wants their relationship to last, because he needs Mr. Healy here to handle Mr. March.
Grace clears his throat, before beginning to ramble about 'their' daughter. "Holly continues to do well academically. She's very consistent in her work. For Science, her understanding of major concepts seems to be pretty strong. In my opinion, she seems a bit confused about DNA, so I'd advise her to focus more on that topic. If she has any questions, she can ask me anytime."
Healy nods a little. March fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve.
"Holly has many friends in class." Grace watches as March practically beams at that statement. "But recently I've noticed some friction between her and one of her friends. Janet is her name. I was wondering if either of you knew what was going on—since both of them refuse to tell me. I want to act as a peacemaker, if possible."
"Oh…" March draws out the word, his lips twitching. "That Janet girl. Didn't Holly offer to pay you 30 bucks to beat her up that one time?" March says to Healy lightly, turning to him.
What on earth?
"I'm sorry, what?" is all Grace manages to say. Please don't beat up my student.
Healy grimaces and shakes his head, looking a little annoyed. Before he can say anything though, March cuts in, "It's his job."
What?
"What…" Grace is very much not comprehending any of this. He's growing more and more confused—and significantly more and more alarmed. "Mr. Healy, I… What does your job entail?"
Healy shoots March a dirty look. "I was a… messenger," he says, words stilted and voice pitched higher.
"People pay him to go beat other people up, ya know," March kindly elaborates. When Grace's eyebrows shoot upwards dramatically, he smirks and continues, "He retired from that, though. Now he just works with me."
Grace blinks, then blinks some more. He presses a hand against his forehead, and runs that hand through his hair. Jiminy Cricket. You know what, he's not even going to ask anymore. "You two work together," he says, his tone questioning, as he ignores the entire first half of what March just said.
"We're private investigators," March says, retrieving a folded piece of paper from the inner pocket of his blazer. He unfolds it and presents it, almost proudly, to Grace. "Call us if you need us, yeah?"
THE NICE GUYS AGENCY, the poster reads, followed by a graphic of what he assumes is supposed to be the two men in front of him. There is little resemblance between them and the drawing, Grace notes, but he doesn't say anything. Whoever they commissioned to draw this might have scammed them.
"We're business partners," Healy says, his voice softer. Almost fond.
That just sounds like a thinly veiled euphemism to hint at them being romantic partners. Business partners. That's kind of cute. Even if Grace has no idea how Healy can tolerate Holland March for an extended period of time. He looks up at them and smiles. At least Healy doesn't go around punching people anymore, and is instead working with someone he loves.
March plucks the poster out of Grace's hands, before gently folding it and carefully sliding it back into his pocket.
Clearly March really values their partnership. This is endearing. March is a lot less annoying like this.
Suddenly, the door swings open with a creak, and Holly March steps into the classroom. "Mr. Grace, are you busy—"
March startles violently, his head whipping around to look behind him. "Jesus H. Christ," he screeches—screams, actually—as his body jerks in his seat. Grace flinches at the sheer volume of his voice. Healy huffs out a laugh.
She freezes in her tracks. "Dad? Mr. Healy?"
Grace takes note of how Holly addresses Healy, trying to analyse the family's dynamic.
"Hey Hols," March says, suddenly calmer now, a noticeable fondness creeping into his voice. "Parent-teacher meeting."
Holly frowns. "Are you talking shit about me, Mr. Grace?" she asks, almost teasingly.
"Language!" Grace splutters. He adjusts his glasses, then says, "And of course not. You're a great student, Holly."
She smiles brightly at the comment, as she shuffles closer to her family.
"Of course," Healy says, his voice low and approving.
Her smile grows even wider, as she stops and stands right in between March and Healy's seats. Grace takes note of it, a gentle warmth spreading in his chest.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Healy?" she asks, her voice soft.
"I wanted to see how you're doing in school," Healy says, voice equally soft. "And I wanted to find your Math teacher."
Grace tilts his head to the side. "What for?" he interjects.
Healy smiles, a slow and creeping motion. "I was gonna beat him up, if necessary," he says. "The Sanders guy."
A laugh almost slips out of his mouth. He shouldn't endorse violence, he really shouldn't, but Grace knows Sanders kind of deserves it. "Well, don't say you heard this from me," he says lightly. "But there are rumours in the staffroom that Sanders might be getting fired soon. Don't get your hopes up though; it might just be a rumour."
Holly cheers—like legitimately cheers.
"Is he still here though?" Healy asks, still smiling.
Grace stills. He looks at the happy family of 3 in front of him. "Yeah," he says, tone aiming for mock-casual. He looks away, trying to restrain a smile. "He might be in room 202. Second floor."
March bursts out laughing. "Holy shit," he laughs. "No fuckin' wonder you're Holly's favourite teacher."
Grace cringes at the vulgarity. "Please mind your language," he says, voice strangled, before shooting a quick glance at Holly who remains unfazed. "And I don't know what you're talking about, I didn't tell you anything."
He looks at Healy, who's looking affectionately at Holly and March, lips curled into a small smile. His gaze darts back to Holly, who's grinning openly—and Grace thinks that Healy and Holly are pretty similar too. Like father, like daughter.
"I really don't have much to say," Grace continues. "Holly is a good student and I think she will continue to be. You can leave if you don't have any other questions."
March shrugs, a careless motion, and both March and Healy get to their feet. Grace follows suit. They start to walk away, but Holly lingers at his desk.
"Thank you, Mr Grace," she says, earnestly.
Grace is frankly not sure why she's thanking him, and he says exactly that. "I don't know what you're thanking me for," he says softly. Grace slides his glasses off his face, and continues, "Can I request that both of your dads come for future Parent-Teacher Conferences?"
Holly's mouth falls open, her eyes growing wide—her expression contorting into one of shock. Grace doesn't understand why. But the shock quickly melts away, replaced by a look of pure delight. Her lips tug at the corners and her wide eyes sparkle with an indescribable emotion. "You said both of my dads?" she repeats, practically bellowing.
Grace feels like he's missing something. "Uh, yes?" he says, confused, and he lifts his head up to look at Healy and March.
Both Healy and March freeze in their tracks, turning back to face them. March's mouth opens and closes around silent words, seemingly speechless—for once. Even Healy, who seems to be typically stoic, exhibits an expression of alarm.
There's an awkward silence that settles in the air, and Grace has no idea what he said wrong to warrant it.
March cracks first. "What— What are you… What? The fuck are you talking about?" he splutters, his eyes darting down to meet the floor, vehemently avoiding eye contact. His cheeks are very lightly tinted pink. "We're not…"
Healy clears his throat. "We're not together. Romantically," he says, but his voice wavers a little. He sounds almost uncertain.
Really?
Nah, Grace doesn't believe it.
But he supposes that they're trying to keep it a secret, and he had inadvertently found out. It's not like they were hiding it very well.
"Alright," Grace relents easily, sheepishly. "Sorry, I guess I was mistaken."
March looks up at him, their eyes meeting. What Grace sees in his shaky eyes is a wretched fear that stuns him by its sheer intensity. March extends a hand and grabs Healy by the arm, starting to push him towards the open door. "We should go!" March exclaims, words hurried and spilling out of his mouth in a rush. "Holly, c'mon, let's go sucker-punch your Math teacher."
"Only Mr. Healy will be doing the sucker-punching!" Holly chirps, looking extremely pleased with herself—and presumably, Grace. She hops over to March and Healy. "Goodbye, Mr. Grace!" She waves goodbye.
Grace waves back, smiling lightly. "Goodbye, Holly. Goodbye Mr. March, Mr. Healy."
He notices that the flush on March's cheeks doesn't disappear.