Chapter Text
The wood shop is very different than his own classroom. Whereas the science lab is plastered in posters, cluttered with shelves teeming with models, the woodshop is clean and tidy. A fine layer of sawdust dusts the top of the machinery, but all the tables and floor are swept clean. Pegboard lines the walls, tools and supplies hanging in their neatly marked outlines, and there are only two posters in the whole room: a laminated sheet of printer paper that proclaims SAFETY FIRST!, in all caps, and another sheet of paper taped to the chalkboard (he didn’t realize Grover Cleveland even still had those) that reads, all lowercase and no punctuation, measure twice cut once. The classroom of a madman, perhaps. Ryland Grace’s polar opposite.
Grace shifts on the squeaky plastic chair tucked into the back corner of the room and consults his clipboard. New Teacher Peer Review, it says. He grabs a pen from his pocket and dutifully fills out his name— Mr. Grace — the date — September eighteenth? Nineteenth? Who can say, really, — and the class he’s supposed to be observing: Woodshop, 8th period, Mr. Ironson.
The man in question is muttering to himself as he consults a binder on his desk, extracting a paper and turning to the board to transcribe from his notes. Grace watches as he draws the rough designs for a three legged stool on the blackboard, his broad shoulders pulling that material of his short taut as he moves. He doesn’t look like any teacher Grace has ever seen.
He’d had the same thought at the beginning of the year teacher orientation, when the man had gotten up to introduce himself. He was massive, the dense, solid sort of muscular you get from real hard labor, not vanity exercises at the gym. He wore green utility pants that he looked like he had been poured into, and a fresh button down, still starched and with crease lines from the store that pulled tight across his chest when he moved. His dark hair was pulled back, a carpenter's pencil tucked behind one ear, and most notably, the sickest prosthetic arm Grace has ever seen. He looked nearly fresh out of college, nearly, dark eyes still bright and tan skin criss- crossed by scars, but no wrinkles yet.
“I’m Simon— uh, Mr. Ironson, ” he had said, quiet. “This is my first year teaching, and I’m… happy to be working with you all,” he had finished awkwardly, sliding back into his chair. The principal had leaned over, whispered something, and Simon had shot back up.
“Woodshop! I’m the new shop teacher,” he had said, cheeks pink. “So if you need any wood shopped, you know where to find me. In the wood shop” He looked back at Principal Stratt, who nodded, and he turned back to the assembled staff. “Yep,” he said in conclusion, and flung himself back into his chair. Simon had spent the rest of the orientation day quietly, scribbling into a notepad, and had bolted immediately at the end of the day, before the staff drinks. Grace had gone home and scoured the school website for the man. This is, by the way, a super normal thing to do, Grace thinks.No teacher profile yet, and no social media profiles, either.
He looks more at home in his classroom, brow furrowed as he squints at the drawing in his hands and copies it, noting down measurements in neat blocky writing. He finishes, surveys his work and finds it satisfactory, clapping the chalk off of his hands. He turns to face Grace.
“I’m Grace,” Grace tells him, desperate to fill the silence before it starts, and Simon smiles wide at him.
“I remember. I thought I heard it was Doctor Grace?”
“Just Grace is good. Or, I guess Mr. Grace, at school.”
“I’ve never heard of a guy with a doctorate who didn’t want everyone to know about it, ” He says, and glances Grace over. “You have to do a lot of these?” He asks, nodding at the clipboard.
“No, you’re my first, actually,” Grace tells him, looking around the room. “I’m excited to see what you get up to in here, I was never very good at working with my hands.”
Simon grins and hooks his thumbs into the tool belt slug low on his hips. “Well, if you wanna learn how to handle some wood, you’re in the right place, Doctor.”
Grace chokes on his own spit, and tries to turn it into a sneeze. Certainly he can’t mean to imply— “Allergies,” Grace spits out, “from all the sawdust, probably.”
Simon’s grin goes impossibly wide. “I”—
Then the bell rings, and Grace is saved from trying to work out whatever’s happening by a steady stream of students a moment later. The 8th graders tumble into the room, chatting about their last class, what they did this summer, the latest gossip. They quiet quickly as they enter the room; a few of his best students give him a wave, but it’s a testament to how much they like Simon that they’re all seated quietly within a few minutes, pulling out their pencils and notebooks.
Teacher is clearly liked and respected by students, he jots down on his form.
“Okay!” Simon claps his hands, “happy Friday, everyone! Who’s ready to get started on the next assignment?”
A murmur of excitement from the students.
“Any guesses as to what it is?”
A girl in the back with thick glasses raises her hand. “A three legged stool?” She asks, pointing at the drawing behind Simon, and he snaps his fingers at her.
“Brilliant, how’d you guess,” he says, and the girl grins as the whole class giggles.
Good rapport with students, Grace writes.
“Yes, a three legged stool,” he says. “Why? We’re practicing joinery this unit. This stool has three legs, and each one is going to practice a different joint. In order, we have,” he says, pointing at the diagram, “a half lap joint, biscuit joint, and,” he pauses for emphasis, “a basic butt joint.”
Sixteen eight graders stare at him in barely composed silence, until his face cracks into a smile. “It’s funny, you can laugh,” he tells them, and they all snicker.
“So, we’re building this baby out of what wood,” he holds up a plank, “just shout it out of you know it!”
“Pine!”
“Very good, Andy, and what else?” He holds up another board.
“Plywood!”
“Incredible. Which was first invented by… anyone remember?”
Silence for a moment, and then Simon bends one arm up in a right angle and the other down—
“The Egyptians!”
Funny, Grace jots down.
“Excellent, Amalia, yes! Okay, everyone grab graph paper from the cabinet, and start drafting your project. What shape will you make your top, are you going to stain the wood? Paint it? Make a plan and then grab your buddy, and then start to measure out and mark your cuts. Once you have a plan and you’re ready to cut, come get me and we can use the bandsaw in groups.” He wriggles his prosthetic arm at them. “Safety first.”
The students get to work pairing up and pulling out drafting materials, and Simon wanders over to Grace. He leans against at the wall and cranes his head, smirking when Grace flips over the clipboard. “I can’t know?”
“It’s confidential,” Grace tells him. “Are you really telling kids that you sawed your arm off with a bandsaw?”
Simon chuckles. “Yeah, the smart ones don’t buy it, but it’s more interesting than an OSHA violation. Besides, it really motivates them to use the push sticks. I haven't lost a student all year.”
“It’s September.”
“A win is a win, Dr. Grace,” he grins. “Write down that none of my students have chopped off any fingers yet.”
“There’s no box on the form for that.”
“Should be. What kind of a stool are you going to make?”
“Me? I’m filling out the form!”
“How are you going to evaluate my teaching if I don’t teach you anything,” Simon asks him. “I thought you wanted to do some woodshop.”
“I don’t have a buddy.”
“I’ll be your buddy,” Simon tells him. “There’s graph paper in the cabinet, straight edges there,” he points at the wall, and”—
“Mr. Ironson! I need help, please!”
“Hold that thought,” he tells Grace, pulling the pencil from behind his ear and handing it to him,” and don’t lose my pencil. I’ll be back.”
He is not back. Simon spends the rest of the period bouncing between the scrap wood shelves and the bandsaw, helping students with their measurements and cuts. The bell rings shortly after he helps the last student, and they all scramble to pack their backs and get a start on the weekend.
“Pieces in lockers, we’re going to pick up where we left off on Tuesday!” He calls out over the chaos. “Excellent job today, guys, have a good weekend!”
The students all tell him goodbye and jostle out of the room with their cuts, and suddenly Grace and Simon are left alone in the quiet workshop.
“They’re always extra keyed up on Fridays, you notice that?” Simon asks, grabbing a dust broom and sweeping off the machine.
“Yeah, Stratt said I’m not allowed to do anything flammable on Fridays after The Incident last spring.”
Simon laughs. “Scary. Lemme see your draft, you get too far on it?”
“I can’t really draw,” Grace says, sheepish. “It was a fun exercise, though,” he says, but Simon has already picked up his drawing to examine it.
“This looks fine, this is a serviceable draft. You’re at least as good at drawing as an eighth grader, Dr. Grace.”
“I— thanks.”
“You still want to learn about carpentry? You didn’t even get to use the saw.”
“I”—
“What about after school? You free?”
Ryland Grace does not have a packed social calendar. “Robotics club on Wednesday, but maybe the beginning of the week, or next Thursday if that”—
“What about today?”
Sure, Grace doesn’t have big plans on a Friday night, but certainly this guy seems like he should.
“I was just gonna grade— yeah. I’m free.”
“Great,” Simon’s eyes crinkle when he smiles at him. “I’m on bus line duty,” he checks his watch, “shit, five minutes ago. But I’m done at four thirty. See you back here?”
Grace tries to grade papers, but the rock cycle just isn’t holding his attention. He kicks back in his chair, feet on his desk, and swings lazily from side to side as he studies the ceiling tiles. That woodshop teacher is something else. He’s warm, and funny, and— maybe he shouldn’t write all this down on the form, actually. He likes the way he joked with his students, likes the way he had traced his fingers over Grace’s sloppy drawing, likes the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. And he’s new in town, maybe he could use a friend, Ryland Grace is always up for making new friends. He stops by the teachers lounge on his way back to the shop, straightens his tie and fixes his hair. Tries to fix his hair. His hair rarely wants to be fixed. Grace walks slowly, his pulse picking up as he nears the shop. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, he’s playing it cool. A cool guy.
Simon is already in the shop when he arrives, toweling off his hair with a rag. His rain splattered shirt is hung over the back of his chair, and he’s clad in a threadbare white tank top that is definitely not up to dress code. Geez Louise.
“Hey,” he turns, eyes crinkling as he smiles, “ready to make a stool?”
Grace wants desperately to play this one cool. Instead, he gives Simon a double thumbs up. “Absolutely.”
“Great, first take that off,” he points at Grace’s chest, and he feels his cheeks flush.
“Do what now?”
“No long hair, necklaces, flowy clothing, or ties in the wood shop,” he ticks off on his fingers, and nods his head at the safety first notice. “The first three are so they don’t get caught in a machine, but the no ties rule is just because I like to keep it casual in my class.”
Grace laughs, and loses the tie. “Got it. So, what’s first?”
Simon walks him through all of the types of wood he’s set out on the table.
“We’re using plywood because this is a public school,” he explains, “if I had my way, we’d be using hardwood for the tops. But here we have plywood with veneer, and I have it with pine, poplar, and birch,” he points at each wood in turn, “and I’ve got some OSB too, if you’re interested in learning how to veneer too.”
Grace blinks at him. “I… I don’t know anything about carpentry,” he says, “which one is… best?”
“Well, I don’t have much veneer here,” Simon tells him, “so if you want to go for the OSB, I’d have to help you finish it in my own workshop.”
Grace blinks some more. “I think I’d like that one, please.”
“Excellent choice,” he smiles.
Simon shows him how to use a marking gauge, and together they measure out and mark all the parts of his stool.
“Have you ever used a bandsaw?”
Grace gestures at himself and gives Simon a pointed look. Does he look like a guy who’s ever used a bandsaw?
“Okay okay, fair point,” Simon says. “So it’s pretty simple, you turn it on here,” he flicks a switch, and just feed the wood in, not too fast, hands flat, like this,” he says, picking up a piece of scrap wood and slicing it in half. “Easy.”
Simon makes it look easy. “I”—
“It’s scarier than in looks,” Simon assures him. “I’m gonna watch you close, give it a try.”
Grace sets his wood on the table of the saw, flips the switch, and stalls out. “I just,” he gives a halfhearted gesture, “push it through?”
Simon nods. “Oh, wait,” he grabs a pair of ear protectors and passes them over. As if Grace was going to cut his ears off. “Now you’re good.”
Grace does not feel good. He hesitates in front of the machine again, and Simon switches it off. “It’s more scared of you than you are of it,” Simon tells him, which does not seem true, but it makes Grace huff a laugh all the same.
“Right hand like this,” Simon tells him, placing a hand over his and pressing his palm flat to the board. “Thumb here,” he adjusts his hand, guiding Grace’s fingers into place, “and use your left hand like this,” he stands behind Grace now, and covers his hand with his prosthesis. “Push it forward like this, just follow the mark you made.”
Grace wonders if this is real life. Simon isn’t quite pressed against him, but he can feel the warmth of another body behind him. His metal fingers are cold on Grace’s wrist. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Okay. You’re a good teacher,” he manages.
“You got it,” Simon tells him, and gives his wrist a squeeze. “This— this isn’t how I teach the students, by the way,” he says. “Please don’t write this down on the form.” Then he steps back, and flicks the switch on the saw.
Grace takes a deep breath and pushes the wood through, the blade wobbling around the line he had marked. He can feel Simon’s eyes trained on him; when he finishes his cut, Simon slaps the emergency stop button and the machine powers down.
Simon picks up the wobbly circle he’s cut, and examines it.
“Excellent work, Dr. Grace,” he smiles, “this is a good start,” he says.
The rain hasn’t let up when they make their way out of the building. Simon’s truck is the lone car in an otherwise empty parking lot.
“Where’s your”— he starts to ask, and Grace holds up the keys to his bike lock.
Simon frowns. “Let me drive you.”
“No, I can’t put you out.”
“I’m offering.”
“It’s fine! It’s barely raining, and I don’t live too far.”
“Perfect,” Simon tells him, “it’ll be an even shorter drive.”
Simon follows Grace to the bike rack and hoists his bike into the bed of his truck. When he gets into the cab, he has to lean across the bench to click the lock on the passenger's seat. “Lock’s busted,” he shrugs.
The inside of the cab is worn, but clean. It smells like petrol and leather conditioner and soap. There’s a hole in the dash where the stereo should be.
“She’s a work in progress,” Simon says, patting the dashboard. “Where to?”
“Uh, the diner over off Maple is great, actually.”
“Grace, I really don’t mind driving you, it’s fine.”
“No, no,” Grace explains, “it’s date night at my house. For my roomates, I mean. I always tend to make myself scarce, to give them some privacy, I usually go to a movie or grade papers somewhere.”
Simon nods. “The diner it is, then.”
He drives carefully through the rain slicked streets. “So,” he asks after a moment, “roommates?”
“Housing crisis,” Grace says. “Well, not really, actually. Rocky and Adrian— my roommates,” he explains, “could probably afford to get a place of their own if they wanted.”
“And they kick you out for date nights?”
“No, I actually don’t think they care, it’s for my own sanity.” He checks his watch. “They’re almost certainly being gross in the kitchen right now.”
“Sure, I get it. Are they teachers too?”
“No, definitely not,” he chuckles. “Rocky and I were assigned roommates my freshman year, but he’s an engineer now. Adrian is in a noise band. It’s allegedly very good.”
Simon laughs. “Unbelievably Bay Area of you. Is the warehouse one of the nice ones?”
“How’d you know I— oh, I see,” he laughs too. “It is, actually. It’s Rocky and Adrian’s place, I just live there.”
Simon raises an eyebrow and looks like he might be about to say something, but then the light changes and he hits the gas, turning wide into the diner parking lot.
“Oh! I guess this is my stop,” Grace says, clicking his seatbelt.
Simon nods. “I’ll see you on Monday?”
Monday seems far away .Grace lingers in the cab, hand on the latch. “They have good coffee here. Well, not good coffee, but it is coffee and they do free refills and”— he cuts himself short. “Do you want a coffee? Can I buy you a coffee? Dinner? As a thank you?”
Simon smiles and turns his key in the ignition. “I could eat. Sure.”
They slide into a shiny vinyl booth in the corner, the table sticky and a tiny jukebox set between the salt and pepper shakers. Grace lifts his hips and digs deep into his pockets, spilling a handful of change onto the table between them. He sorts out a quarter and slots it into the machine, flipping through the panels until he settles on a song. I’ve Got You Babe pipes softly through the speakers a moment later.
An older woman comes over. “Hey handsome,” she says, grabbing Grace’s shoulder affectionately. “What y’all want? You want the breakfast plate? She asks Grace.
“Hey Dani,” he tells her, pink, “ yes please. Coffee too. And…” he gestures at Simon, who holds up two fingers.
“The same, please,” he says, and Dani nods decisively, and drops off two steaming cups of coffee a moment later.
“Oh, oh wow,” Simon pulls a face after taking a sip. “That’s… that’s coffee.”
Grace drains half his cup and nods. “It’s an acquired taste, I guess,” he says, “I started coming here during my masters, when I was too broke and tired to tell good coffee from bad coffee,” he says.
Simon takes another careful sip. “That checks out. You from The Bay, then?”
“From Ukiah,” he says. “Near Mendocino Forrest. You been up to see the redwoods yet? Or are you only a tree fan once they’ve been milled?”
Simon smiles and shakes his head. “The national parks are actually one of the reasons I moved out here, but I haven’t made it up yet.”
“We should go!”
“Yeah?” Simon grins.
“Yeah! I’ll bet there’s a group field trip in there somewhere, right, something about ecology and lumber milling and sustainability? I’ll bet we could draft a proposal, get Stratt to sign off on it.”
Simon gives him a look for a moment, one he’s seen on Rocky before when he’s being especially dense, but then he smiles, takes another sip of coffee, and winces. “Wow, it really doesn’t get better. But yeah, sure, a field trip sounds good.”
Dani swoops in with two plates of food, then.
“Breakfast for dinner?”
“It’s the most important meal of the day, Simon,” Grace says, drowning his plate in an obscene amount of ketchup. Simon pokes at his hashbrowns with a fork and takes a cautious bite.
“Oh Jesus fuck,” he says, closing his eyes, “that’s so good?”
“I know,” Grace agrees excitedly. “It makes up for the coffee, right?”
“Mm,” Simon agrees through a full mouth, and they both fall silent for a moment as they eat.
“So,” Simon says, “you’ve been coming here since grad school?”
“Yeah, I moved down to the bay for undergrad, and liked it so much I stuck around. I started coming here when Rocky started seeing Adrian. You know, give ‘em a little privacy. You?”
“Me? I’m not seeing”—
“How’d you end up in the city,” Grace huffs a laugh. “You’re new in town, right?”
“Oh! Yeah.” Simon pauses for a moment and studies his coffee. “I’m from Vermont,” he says, finally. “School up there, offshore rig in the gulf, big lawsuit, medium payout,” he points at his prosthesis, “and after I recovered, I wanted to do something different. I used to work with kids on the… farm, so I went back to school and,” he spreads his arms, “here I am.”
Grace nods. “You go back home often? To see your family?”
“No, I,” Simon feels his shoulders up at his ears. “No,” he says, simply.
“Enough said,” Grace nods, and changes the topic. “So, you haven’t been up to the redwoods yet, but what have you done in the bay?”
Simon tells him about his apartment, working on his truck, fishing on the weekends. Grace tells him about his favorite museums in the city, the best restaurants. They take turns slotting quarters into the jukebox. They gossip about their students, and complain about the school board. They’ve long finished their food and worked through multiple cups of terrible coffee when Grace yawns wide, his jaw snapping, and Simon finally checks his watch.
“Oh wow, it’s late, what time does this place close?”
“Never, I think,” Grace tells him through the yawn.
“You think it’s safe for you to go back to your place?”
“Hmm?” Grace checks the time on Simon’s watch. “Oh, sure, they’re probably just watching a movie by now,” he says, flagging Dani down and pulling out his wallet to pay for their meal.
It’s a short drive to Grace’s place, a large apartment block on a quiet street. Simon pulls close to the curb and lets the truck idle. “Thanks for dinner, Doc.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Grace says. “And, Ryland is good, actually.
“Ryland?”
”California parents,” he says.
Okay,” Simon smiles at him, “thanks for dinner then, Ryland.”
Grace feels his face heat up in the dark of the cab. “Anytime,” he says, and fumbles his way out of his seatbelt. “I’m going to,” he hooks a thumb at the building door, “I gotta, it’s inside time for me,” he says, feeling at the door handle until he finds the latch and manages to open the car door and tumble out into the pavement. “I’ll see you Monday?” He’s walking backwards, gesturing, “or we could”—
“Ryland?” Simon leans across the seat.
Grace stops. “Yeah?”
“Your bike?”
“Oh! Shoot!” Grace chuckles, and runs a hand through his hair. “Geez, I do need that actually, kind of a lot”—
Simon gets out of the car and reaches into the bed of his truck, hauling out the bike. He doesn’t put it down. “Can I walk you,” he says, “to the elevator?”
“Okay.”
Grace swipes them into the building, and Simon carries the bike to the elevator, which currently sports an Out of Order sign.
“Shoot,” Grace says, and then blinks. “Sorry. It’s just that I live on the sixth floor.”
Simon shrugs. “You grab the handles, I’ll get the wheel?”
They haul the bike up the narrow staircase, pausing at each corner to maneuver the bike around the sharp turns.
“My last bike got stolen when I left it outside,” Grace pants when they finally reach his floor, leaning against the wall as he pats himself down, looking for his keys. “And I don’t really have the cash to buy another right now.”
They stand there for a long moment, Grace slumped against the wall and Simon leaning against the banister, the bike between them.
“This is your house, right?” Simon asks after a moment.
“Yes! Right!” He says, and spins around, turning his key in the lock and swinging open the door.
“Hi Grace!” Rocky shouts from the couch where he lays, not a stitch of clothing on him. Adrian straddles him, can of whipped cream in one hand and cannister of fish food in the other.
Grace squeaks and slams the door shut as quickly as he opened it. “Sorry!” He tells Simon, “I guess I didn’t stay out late enough”— he starts to say, but Simon just chuckles.
“They seem like fun,” he says
They hear scrabbling from inside, the sound of furniture being moved, and a moment later the door cracks open and Rocky pokes his head out.
“Sorry friend, we lost track of time.”
“I— that’s my robe!” Grace tells him, but Rocky waves him off, and turns to Simon with an obscene grin. “You must be Simon,” he says, “Simon-with-the-cool-arm?”
Grace goes impossibly pinker. “I”—
“That’s my name,” he says, “unless you know a lot of one- armed guys named Simon?” He asks Grace.
“I don’t,” Grace manages, and Rocky leans out of the apartment, one hand clasping the robe closed and the other offered to Simon to shake. “Your reputation precedes you,” he says, and Grace makes a noise in the back of his throat when he shakes Simon’s hand.
“Rocky! C’mon!”
Rocky looks between the two of them, and blinks. “Oh! You want me to go back inside,” he tells Grace, “so that you can say goodnight.”
“Obviously!”
Rocky gives him a thumbs up and shuts the door, and Grace sags, tipping his head back against the wall with a thump. “Sorry, he’s— I don’t even know, actually. I”— he stops, and looks at Simon, clearly at a loss on how to proceed.
“Give me your phone,” Simon says, and Grace blinks at him.
“My”—
“For the stool,” he says.
“Give him your phone,” Rocky shouts, clearly pressed up against the other side of the door.
“I am!” Grace fishes his phone out of his pocket and passes it over with one hand, and slaps his palm against the door with the other. Rocky yelps from inside. Simon taps at the phone, and a moment later, his own phone pings.
“Got it,” he says, and hands Grace's phone back with a warm smile. “Goodnight, Ryland,” he says, and hands him the bike. “I’ll see you Monday. And with that, he turns and walks back down the stairs, giving a little wave as he disappears from view.
Grace takes a few deep breaths in his hallway, trying to figure out what exactly just happened, when his phone pings.
Simon (cool arm): Sounds good, pick you up Saturday at 10am?
Grace unlocks his phone, and swipes to his messages. Six minutes prior, from when Simon had his phone:
Grace: This is Ryland, do you want to go up to Muir Woods with me next weekend?
Grace: Just to be clear, this would be a date.
Simon (cool arm): Sounds good, pick you up Saturday at 10?
He smiles, and taps a response.
Grace: Itsa date
Grace: It’s a date
Grace: :^)