[ maybe there's just some wild coincidence in the ringing phones, the message timing, the way professor fuller doesn't turn even though he knows he's calling loud enough to hear. maybe he's making all of this up again, twisting his stupid fucking online fantasy into something real, trying to give shape to something that doesn't exist.
the notification for the money isn't lost on him - three thousand dollars that not only feels unearned, but also stirs something like guilt deep in his gut. regardless of who the faceless man is, he doesn't deserve his money, even if he desperately wants to keep it.
but professor fuller fumbles his phone, and tim knows then. he knows with a sudden, sharp stab of shock that the man he'd planned to meet must have been him. the man on the other side of the screen all this time, praising him, guiding him, encouraging him? had been professor fuller. the professor who, in classes, put up with his long-winded responses and his socratic jabs, willing to play devil's advocate as tim worked through a difficult policy or piece of legislature out loud at the class's expense.
a kind man. who knows he lives in staten island, who knows more about him now than tim is comfortable with, considering.
and yet, he knows he's safe here, too, even though things seem tipped and tilted in away they shouldn't be. the man on the other side of the screen, who coveted and desired him, is professor hawkins fuller.
he comes to a stop just in front of him as the man pauses to regard him and he breathes a little heavily, winded, breaths coming out in puffs. it's so cold - his cheeks are flushed pink, his lips bitten a berry color from the whip of the cool winter air, the mousy brown of his hair flopping over the rim of his dark glasses. ]
It was you.
[ he tries to keep his voice down but there's no hiding the excitability in him, even in situations that are meant to be uncomfortable. ]
Your phone - I heard it. I called him - it's - I'm -
[ a few days from now, tim will look back on this moment with such embarrassment and shame that he didn't realize hawkins fuller had been running from him, in a sense. escaping the reality that the little slip of a thing he'd planned to meet was never meant to be a student.
but he straightens a little, shivering, but seemingly otherwise unaffected by the cold with how determined he is. his voice lowers, and there's no doubt hawk will hear the similar notes from their one on one - the pitch shifter from his setup doing its job enough if you don't know what to look for: ]
I'm Skippy. Your boy.
[ a hand goes to his chest, as if the words aren't enough, as if the way he blinks up at the man with wide, eager eyes and a surprised little grin isn't it enough. ]
You - you have the right place. I just - I had no idea it would be you. Honest, I didn't, but I guess it's -
[ he goes quiet when someone passes by them, starkly and sheepishly aware of the city street around them. ]
no subject
the notification for the money isn't lost on him - three thousand dollars that not only feels unearned, but also stirs something like guilt deep in his gut. regardless of who the faceless man is, he doesn't deserve his money, even if he desperately wants to keep it.
but professor fuller fumbles his phone, and tim knows then. he knows with a sudden, sharp stab of shock that the man he'd planned to meet must have been him. the man on the other side of the screen all this time, praising him, guiding him, encouraging him? had been professor fuller. the professor who, in classes, put up with his long-winded responses and his socratic jabs, willing to play devil's advocate as tim worked through a difficult policy or piece of legislature out loud at the class's expense.
a kind man. who knows he lives in staten island, who knows more about him now than tim is comfortable with, considering.
and yet, he knows he's safe here, too, even though things seem tipped and tilted in away they shouldn't be. the man on the other side of the screen, who coveted and desired him, is professor hawkins fuller.
he comes to a stop just in front of him as the man pauses to regard him and he breathes a little heavily, winded, breaths coming out in puffs. it's so cold - his cheeks are flushed pink, his lips bitten a berry color from the whip of the cool winter air, the mousy brown of his hair flopping over the rim of his dark glasses. ]
It was you.
[ he tries to keep his voice down but there's no hiding the excitability in him, even in situations that are meant to be uncomfortable. ]
Your phone - I heard it. I called him - it's - I'm -
[ a few days from now, tim will look back on this moment with such embarrassment and shame that he didn't realize hawkins fuller had been running from him, in a sense. escaping the reality that the little slip of a thing he'd planned to meet was never meant to be a student.
but he straightens a little, shivering, but seemingly otherwise unaffected by the cold with how determined he is. his voice lowers, and there's no doubt hawk will hear the similar notes from their one on one - the pitch shifter from his setup doing its job enough if you don't know what to look for: ]
I'm Skippy. Your boy.
[ a hand goes to his chest, as if the words aren't enough, as if the way he blinks up at the man with wide, eager eyes and a surprised little grin isn't it enough. ]
You - you have the right place. I just - I had no idea it would be you. Honest, I didn't, but I guess it's -
[ he goes quiet when someone passes by them, starkly and sheepishly aware of the city street around them. ]
I'm so relieved.