[ tim knows he will never forget the night at the pizzeria or the day that followed, hazy and warm under the protection and care of one professor hawkins fuller. the weight of it all carries him through the remainder of his weekend and well on into exam week which, after everything, he'd felt woefully unprepared. he fumbles an essay for one his history courses, struggles with fatigue and brain fog through one of his theory courses, and it's a miracle at all that he managed to finish professor fuller's paper within minutes of the deadline.
that's not to say he didn't end up in his professor's office, wheezing and tired and panicked in a way that no one else would understand. tim laughlin is not the sort of student to fall behind or under perform on any level, even on his worst days. putting himself together for exams and papers had felt impossible.
(but it was never all about the exams was it? it was about the money. the travel home. the packing. the waiting for everything to come crashing down all over some silly, simple mistake). as usual, however, professor fuller was there to calm him and send him on his way with the promise that all would work out. he could talk to a wide variety of those professors, could put a good word in, could give him more time.
it was the encouragement he needed to flourish.
it's in the last day of finals that the money comes through on an unnamed account and tim sits with the notification for a little too long. the amount curious, and no note attached. the timing odd. coincidence?
no. tim knows better than to believe in coincidences. though there are no fingers or signs pointing to professor fuller, something in tim's gut just pulls at the idea. nags long enough that he can't fathom how it could possibly be anyone else. no less on a week that he has otherwise been disconnected from the app. finals makes it impossible, even though he should have been hustling to save while he's unable to work at home.
but the money is there. $3,000. user962108
tim files it away for later, tries to reason with himself and send the money back, but his feet win out. he carries himself foolishly to the bursar, pays with his local bank card and hurriedly signs up for his classes again. he's had to miss out on the literature course, all filled up. but choosing a post-modern literature course instead really does seem better, anyway.
and so it goes.
tim has to move dorms - to a smaller building so the school can renovate, but it's not so bad. the room is more private, closer to campus, and the window overlooks the hill into the city. it's a better move than the one he'd thought he was going to have to make. he won't forget the cries of his mother or the disappointment of his father when he'd told them he didn't need to return after all.
he'll shake the guilt later. maybe. (he won't).
but it brings him to bantering classes, luncheon versions of office hours with professor fuller, and a summer full of reading and simple pleasures. it isn't often that tim laughlin feels freed in a way he does this summer - soaking up classes and knowledge simply because he can, without the duties or pressures of graduation hanging over his head.
it's that same easy freedom that has tim in the grassy areas of campus, tattered bag to one side, a couple of his textbooks out with notes bursting from the seams. he'd been reading for his post-modern course - a fiction piece by cormac mccarthy - all the pretty horses. his fingertips are smudged in ink from writing, a chewed pencil off to another side, and he'd fallen asleep reading about desolate, distant pastures and strife. his notepad, meant for making comments and remarks, has fallen to one side, and the book has long since flopped shut in his hand on his chest. even the soft, tired fabric of his t-shirt has rucked up enough that there's a sliver of toned stomach showing above the button of his shorts.
the summer arm is balmy and warm and it lulls him into an easy sort of sleep before he realizes what has even happened. he barely catches the sound of a clearing throat, or the low rumble of a voice. at first, his dreams morph into the strong outline of professor fuller standing on the very hills he'd read about, thrown into stark relief by the setting, western sun. but the call of his name has his eyes blinking open, his glasses askew and hair feathered out on the worn picnic blanket he'd laid out.
our father, who art in heaven... he thinks for a moment, trying to allow his brain a moment to detach the hazy dream from the washington dc reality standing over him. it hits him, suddenly, just what the man has said and he sits up in a flurry. the notepad falls to one side, the book practically flops at hawk's feet and he presses a hand to his forehead. ]
Professor Fuller. No, no - I don't - you know I don't -
[ ah. the grin. the playful lilt of his voice.
shit, he has to better about that. ]
I fell asleep reading. [ he almost pouts, lips twisted up to one side, nose scrunched. he'd be flushing were his face not already sunkissed and blooming with new freckles brought on by the summer light. ]
How late is it?
[ he tilts to one side, arching his hips enough to dig his phone out of the back pocket of his jean shorts. class time, definitely. shit. he practically rolls onto all fours in order to sit back on his feet and hurriedly pack his back. the strap has been tied into a delicate knot - the leather finally tattered and broken. it's not great, but it's the only one he has. ]
I am so sorry. But I did finish my reading for your class, as well as the assignment, so I hope you'll be kind to me and not enforce your late policy? It won't happen again - well, it shouldn't. No promises.
[ a little smile, an attempt at a little joke. ] But it was a good nap you interrupted.
no subject
that's not to say he didn't end up in his professor's office, wheezing and tired and panicked in a way that no one else would understand. tim laughlin is not the sort of student to fall behind or under perform on any level, even on his worst days. putting himself together for exams and papers had felt impossible.
(but it was never all about the exams was it? it was about the money. the travel home. the packing. the waiting for everything to come crashing down all over some silly, simple mistake). as usual, however, professor fuller was there to calm him and send him on his way with the promise that all would work out. he could talk to a wide variety of those professors, could put a good word in, could give him more time.
it was the encouragement he needed to flourish.
it's in the last day of finals that the money comes through on an unnamed account and tim sits with the notification for a little too long. the amount curious, and no note attached. the timing odd. coincidence?
no. tim knows better than to believe in coincidences. though there are no fingers or signs pointing to professor fuller, something in tim's gut just pulls at the idea. nags long enough that he can't fathom how it could possibly be anyone else. no less on a week that he has otherwise been disconnected from the app. finals makes it impossible, even though he should have been hustling to save while he's unable to work at home.
but the money is there. $3,000. user962108
tim files it away for later, tries to reason with himself and send the money back, but his feet win out. he carries himself foolishly to the bursar, pays with his local bank card and hurriedly signs up for his classes again. he's had to miss out on the literature course, all filled up. but choosing a post-modern literature course instead really does seem better, anyway.
and so it goes.
tim has to move dorms - to a smaller building so the school can renovate, but it's not so bad. the room is more private, closer to campus, and the window overlooks the hill into the city. it's a better move than the one he'd thought he was going to have to make. he won't forget the cries of his mother or the disappointment of his father when he'd told them he didn't need to return after all.
he'll shake the guilt later. maybe. (he won't).
but it brings him to bantering classes, luncheon versions of office hours with professor fuller, and a summer full of reading and simple pleasures. it isn't often that tim laughlin feels freed in a way he does this summer - soaking up classes and knowledge simply because he can, without the duties or pressures of graduation hanging over his head.
it's that same easy freedom that has tim in the grassy areas of campus, tattered bag to one side, a couple of his textbooks out with notes bursting from the seams. he'd been reading for his post-modern course - a fiction piece by cormac mccarthy - all the pretty horses. his fingertips are smudged in ink from writing, a chewed pencil off to another side, and he'd fallen asleep reading about desolate, distant pastures and strife. his notepad, meant for making comments and remarks, has fallen to one side, and the book has long since flopped shut in his hand on his chest. even the soft, tired fabric of his t-shirt has rucked up enough that there's a sliver of toned stomach showing above the button of his shorts.
the summer arm is balmy and warm and it lulls him into an easy sort of sleep before he realizes what has even happened. he barely catches the sound of a clearing throat, or the low rumble of a voice. at first, his dreams morph into the strong outline of professor fuller standing on the very hills he'd read about, thrown into stark relief by the setting, western sun. but the call of his name has his eyes blinking open, his glasses askew and hair feathered out on the worn picnic blanket he'd laid out.
our father, who art in heaven... he thinks for a moment, trying to allow his brain a moment to detach the hazy dream from the washington dc reality standing over him. it hits him, suddenly, just what the man has said and he sits up in a flurry. the notepad falls to one side, the book practically flops at hawk's feet and he presses a hand to his forehead. ]
Professor Fuller. No, no - I don't - you know I don't -
[ ah. the grin. the playful lilt of his voice.
shit, he has to better about that. ]
I fell asleep reading. [ he almost pouts, lips twisted up to one side, nose scrunched. he'd be flushing were his face not already sunkissed and blooming with new freckles brought on by the summer light. ]
How late is it?
[ he tilts to one side, arching his hips enough to dig his phone out of the back pocket of his jean shorts. class time, definitely. shit. he practically rolls onto all fours in order to sit back on his feet and hurriedly pack his back. the strap has been tied into a delicate knot - the leather finally tattered and broken. it's not great, but it's the only one he has. ]
I am so sorry. But I did finish my reading for your class, as well as the assignment, so I hope you'll be kind to me and not enforce your late policy? It won't happen again - well, it shouldn't. No promises.
[ a little smile, an attempt at a little joke. ] But it was a good nap you interrupted.