Writer's Note: Hey, guys. So, I've been struggling with writing since the end of Ripple Effect. This is far from my best work, but I hope it's still an okay read. It's inspired by one of the stills from S6—I'll be interested to see if you can guess which one. Kind comments/constructive feedback are appreciated. : )
The Marks They Leave Behind
They met in August.
It was the last Tuesday in August, the first Tuesday of the semester, and five o'clock was rapidly approaching. Henry stood at the front of the empty classroom, a fresh stick of smooth white chalk pinched between the fingers and thumb of one hand. The tap and squeak of the yet-to-be-blunted edge of the chalk against the blackboard competed with the tick…tick…tick that echoed out from the clock above the door and the muffled chatter of students strolling past the rows of windows. He was halfway through writing up the title of the seminar sessions he would be hosting as his first official duty as Professor Peterson's TA—'Medieval Philosophy and its Influences on Modern Thought'—when, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of denim and blonde barrelled through the doorway.
"Hi. So I have a few questions about the preparatory texts."
Henry froze.
With his hand still raised, the stick of chalk poised to strike the 'I' of 'Influences' onto the board, he twisted around to find a young blonde woman stooped over the opposite side of the desk, rifling through the dog-eared pages of a notepad so quickly that the scrape of paper curling against paper filled the silence her sudden entrance had carved out of his thoughts. She wore a denim pinafore dress with what looked like a washed-out 'Frankie Say Relax' t-shirt underneath, and her honey blonde hair cascaded forward over her shoulders to hang in drapes on either side of her face.
Henry lowered the stick of chalk, turned around fully, and placed the chalk down on the desk so that it rested in one of the grooves that scored the wood. He folded his arms across his chest and studied the blonde as she continued to thumb through the reams of notes.
A wary frown crept to his brow.
"There weren't any preparatory texts," he said. "These sessions are more designed to supplement your lectures and give you the opportunity to discuss the ideas raised in them."
The blonde paused and shot him a sharp smile. "I'm aware."
She straightened up, braced her hands against the edge of the desk and rocked her weight forward into her arms, causing the round gold pendant that rested in the hollow of her throat to sway away from her and catch a glimmer of the bright afternoon sunlight. "And now you're aware that at least one of us has read ahead, so you can't bullshit your way through any questions you don't know the answer to."
She smiled at him, as sweet as pecan pie, though the look in her eyes was nothing but goading.
Henry's frown deepened and his lips pursed. When he spoke, his words came sharper than he intended them to. "What makes you think I would BS my way through questions?"
Her smile only grew. It seemed to acknowledge that she knew his instinctual retort had been, 'What makes you think there are any questions I don't know the answer to?', and it held a subtler tone of amusement as well, perhaps in response to the way he had softened her cuss—just like his mother would expect him to, just like his father had cuffed into him on more than one occasion.
She lowered her gaze to the desk between them and turned her head from side to side, setting her hair swaying over the straps of her pinafore. "Scholarship kid. Straight As. Disappointed with anything less than top three in class." She stilled and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are you seriously telling me you'd rather admit there's something you don't know instead of fobbing us off with any old answer just to protect your ego?"
His mouth hung open for an endless second, while his brow furrowed further still.
Then— "You researched me?"
"Let's just call it extra preparation." She jerked her shoulders in a kind of shrug, as though she thought spying on people were a perfectly natural (and socially acceptable) thing to do. "I like to know what I'm getting myself into." Then she extended her hand across the desk and something about her expression warmed. "Elizabeth Adams."
He stared at her, not quite sure what he was getting himself into or if it was something that he wanted. Then he took her hand and shook it—tentatively—while something prodded at the back of his mind. Elizabeth Adams? Elizabeth Adams? Elizabeth Adams?
Then it hit him.
The freshman. The one he'd argued to Professor Peterson couldn't possibly keep up with the workload. The one he'd insisted wouldn't have the depth of knowledge or sophistication of thought to make a meaningful contribution to a course usually reserved for upperclassmen. The one about whom Professor Peterson had said, 'Give her a chance. I think you're going to like her. And if not…? Well, at least she'll keep you on your toes.'
Elizabeth's smile twisted into a grin. "I see you have a few preconceptions of your own."
At the rumble of approaching voices and the kick, scuff and screech of rubber soles against the parquet floor of the corridor, she grabbed her notepad from the desk. "I guess my questions will have to wait. I'll hang back at the end, if that's okay with you."
Henry fumbled for a reply before he landed on a somewhat bemused: "Sure."
"Great." She held his gaze for a moment, just long enough to brush up against the edge of awkward and leave him feeling like maybe he was supposed to say something more. Then she pivoted on the heel of her Chucks and strode away towards the head of the table that stretched lengthways across the room. "Oh, and by the way—" She dropped her notebook onto the oak surface with a loud slap, and then leant back against the table, curled her fingers over the edge, and nodded to the board. "—you spelled 'Medieval' wrong."
His mind stalled for a second or two. "What?"
He frowned and spun around to face the blackboard. "No, I hav—"
But then he spotted the missing 'i', and he stopped. A slight irritation goaded beneath his skin, just enough to keep the warm prickle of embarrassment at bay. He snatched up the stick of chalk and raised it to the board, ready to squeeze in the extra letter, when—
"And 'its' should be capitalised. Or at least according to all the style guides I know."
The back of his neck tensed and he froze. He took a deep breath and waited for the simmer of irritation to settle. Then he twisted around and raised his eyebrows at her. "Anything else?"
"No." She smiled back at him from her perch. The look on her face would have been all innocence if only it weren't for the quirk at the corner of her lips—the perfect counterpoint to the halo that radiated from her hair as the honeyed strands glowed with the sunlight that shone through the arched window behind her.
He waited a moment longer. The 'no' seemed far too simple. But then, when she pushed herself away from the edge of the table and settled into the seat at the end—the seat that would become forever hers as far as she was concerned—he returned to the blackboard.
He raised the stick of chalk again and was about to capitalise the 'i', only for—
"You're welcome."