Chapter Text
“That's bullshit.”
“Professor Hawthorne—”
“Don't Professor Hawthorne me, you're not impervious to common sense and you know it.” You're standing now, arms crossed—you must look the perfect picture of pissed off. Your blood boils. You can feel it in your veins, this irateness that bleeds red into your vision. The nerve of this ignorant fucking asshole. “Nearly a quarter of the student body is made up of werewolves and you've decided the best time to plan a camping trip is a full moon?”
He stands opposite you, this asshole. You decide, in this very moment, that you do not like Nevermore's new headmaster, Barry Dort. You had quite the past with Weems but she, at the very least, had the best interest of her students in mind. This… idiot is already testing your patience and you've hardly been in the room with him any longer than an hour or so.
“We have precautions—”
“They're kids.”
He stares at you for a moment, then two. You've overstepped, that much you're certain of. But you can't be bothered to care. It rubs you the wrong way, his demeanor. It settles a pit in your throat that spills into your chest and almost makes it difficult to breathe. Your blood rages, this curse. You feel the gooseflesh rise on your skin. The hair on your neck that stands on end.
Symptoms, the lot of them.
You curse yourself for making a bad show of yourself.
You're better than this.
But are you… truly?
You frown.
“Professor Hawthorne, I'm open to further discussion on this matter on a later date.”
You concede.
Dort calls the staff meeting to a close—no doubt in part to your outburst. The room begins to empty and you fall back into your seat, as if by instinct. You breathe heavy, too much so. Your chest burns. Your bones ache. There is this pitiful urge. This tantalizing thought. How scandalous it is. You yearn for it, if only by a slight. You close your eyes and raise a hand to rub circles into your temple.
When did these bouts become commonplace?
It unsettles you.
You don't remember it being this bad.
Something brushes against your shoulder and you damn near jump out of your skin. When you open your eyes, a woman stands above you. A damningly familiar woman. She stares down at you, concern lacing her features. The air seems to loosen itself from your chest all at once, leaving you floundering as you rise to your feet with a start.
You're not graceful, not around her at least. You can tell she wants to reach a hand to stabilize you when you stumble. She doesn't; whether she thinks better of it or decides against it for entirely another reason, you do not know. Even so, it does not stop the soft utterance you know to be your surname.
“Hawthorne?”
She knows it is you. You know she does. There is this look in her eyes; this damning familiarity. This fleeting feeling. This loss. This grief. This emotion that you cannot place, yet you feel it all the same.
So you return the gesture in kind.
“Isadora?”
Beyond the concern and the layers of emotion, you see relief. It must be there upon your own face because her own relief is amplified tenfold. You see the gentle beginnings of a smile when the corners of her lips begin to pull upward. You suppose you mirror her—perhaps too much so.
“You… You look good,” you say, though you really wish you'd shut your mouth instead of belting out the first thought to come to mind. Isadora doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she almost seems to revel in your shortcomings. You sigh, this time out of your own incompetence rather than contempt. “It's been a while, hasn't it?”
Isadora, ever the unfazed, nods in agreement and, for that, you are grateful—until she opens her mouth: “You look good, Hawthorne.” The way she speaks is too reminiscent of a time long ago, this sophisticated tone she carries in her every aspect of life. She punctuates the statement by reaching a hand to brush against your forearm; this time you don't startle so easily.
“What's it been?” you muse. “Twenty years?”
“Twenty-three.”
You suddenly find yourself shrinking from her touch. A frown replaces your smile for a fleeting moment before you regain any semblance of self. You nod. “Been a while.”
If she thinks any worse of you, she thankfully doesn't show it. Rather, Isadora returns the gesture in kind. “You head the science department I've heard.”
The noise that escapes you of simultaneous distress and relief. It’s almost soundless, this wheeze. “I—Yes, I do. I hardly understand why they thought it was a good idea but who am I to question it?” You pause. “Don't let me ramble on about that, will you? You're teaching now, why don't you tell me about that?”
“I'm not sure what there is to tell,” she says, moving to sit in the chair beside yours. You follow her lead—as you so often used to do. “It was only a matter of time, you know that.”
You frown again, but this time for an entirely different reason. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Music,” she offers, “is a brutal trajectory.”
You push your lips to the side, thinking. Shaking your head, you scoff. “You're quite positively the most talented person I know… knew—whatever, you get the point, don't you?”
She says your name. It comes out breathy and makes you smile. Her knee brushes against yours and you suddenly find the floor to be the most interesting fixture in the room. “You're too kind.”
“I'm right though, at least admit that.”
“I fear agreeing with you will do terrible things for your ego.”
It's too easy, you realize, to fall back into old habits.
“But you considered it?”
“For you? Certainly.”
The two of you sit in silence for a beat. It feels natural. The thought of breaking it almost feels unnerving. You shake your head, slow; the action is hardly serious. “Miss Capri,” you say, “has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”
“Professor Hawthorne.” The way she says it warms your chest. You roll your eyes but that doesn't seem to deter her. “Yours has quite the ring to it. Slips off the tongue rather nicely.”
The events from before seem all but forgotten. Your beastly blood has been quelled. It feels almost… nice. Your bones no longer ache and your lungs do not burn. It feels as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders.
Maybe that's what spurs you on. Gives you the confidence.
“I have some lesson planning I need to get back to before Dort fires me but do you… Would you want to get a drink sometime? I'd love to catch up with you and there's this bar in town—the one we tried to sneak into when we were kids—” You're rambling. Oh, you need to remember how to shut your mouth. “—Anyway, all of that is to say, I think you'd enjoy it.”
“Does tonight work?”
That is somehow not the response you expect. It leaves you floundering for a handful of seconds before you finally nod. “Yes,” you respond far too quickly, forgetting yourself again. “I mean, yes but we can always do another night if tonight doesn't work.”
“Hawthorne,” she coos, pulling you away from digging your own grave. “I would love to catch up with you. How does seven sound?”
“Great.” She smiles at your one-word response and you cannot help yourself but mirror her in your own embarrassment. “I'll meet you ‘round the front.”
You stand.
So does she.
“I'll see you then.”
You nod.
She leaves.
You want to bury your head in the dirt.
_____
You show up fifteen minutes early, obviously.
It would've been earlier had you not run into one of your colleagues who is quite the chatterbox when she wants to be. She'd gone on about needing to buy new supplies for the lab before the term started—to which you had nodded—and agonized over teaching the first years proper lab safety before—to which you had nodded again—and then she'd spent a whole five minutes speaking in jargon you didn't entirely understand.
Chemists…
When you finally manage to excuse yourself from the conversation you have less time than you originally anticipated to get ready. It's nothing serious, just two old friends meeting up after twenty-three years. Why would there be any reason to overthink things? That would be… insane.
Which is why you stand, awkwardly, in front of your closet, agonizing over what is honestly a simple decision. It shouldn't be this difficult. Not with her, at least. Even so, you want to bash your head into the doorframe.
Eventually you settle for something simple enough, albeit give it second thoughts on your way out the door. There's no going back, you decide, else you're going to make a fool of yourself. That is how you end up waiting in your car, forehead against the steering wheel.
There is a knock against the window and you jolt, surprised, hitting the horn with your forehead. You flinch back again, tense, muttering an audible curse. Your gaze shifts to the source of the noise and you find none other than Isadora Capri. She's staring down at you with that same worrisome expression from earlier. You roll down the window. “That was… on purpose.”
The worry fades. “Certainly.”
“You look nice,” you say before you can stop yourself. She does. She really does. What is wrong with you? “I mean—” You cut yourself off abruptly. What do you mean?
“You don't look too bad yourself, Hawthorne.”
You watch as she strides around the front of the car and slips into the passenger seat beside you with such grace the course of events feels only natural. You put the car into gear and catch her gaze, familiar all the same. “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
Much of the drive was spent conversing over the intricacies of twenty-some-odd years apart. It's easy to fall back into this legato rhythm. You trade tales easy enough. Twenty years is a long time. She tells you of her highs and lows, periods of great performances, the droughts too. You offer up your own stories as well; the odd and the strange, of course, but she's latched onto the embarrassing.
“You took field samples while a cougar was watching you?” She raises a brow, concern plain as day. You want to reach a hand out to reassure her but you shrug instead, feigning bravado.
“I was an intern.”
“You were twenty.”
“I needed the job.”
Isadora sighs and you know you've mistepped. You see her in your peripheral, playing with the gold rings on her hands. She twists one, a simple gold band on her index finger, with a particular intensity that isn't lost on you. You clear your throat and draw her attention to you again. “All that dumb shit just to get listed as et al. in the paper.”
“What were you researching?”
The question catches you off guard.
It's not that you weren't expecting the question. Just not the genuine interest behind it. You don't often talk about your work, at least not with your colleagues outside of the science department.
“That winter it would've been bobcats—collaring and trapping mostly—down in Rhode Island for the university. Pretty sure I was trying to follow some tracks or found some scat when I looked up and saw these eyes in the woods and thought, well fuck me I guess.”
“What'd you do?”
“Pretended it didn't exist.”
“You didn't.” It's not quite a gasp but the show of emotion makes you wince. When it's clear you didn't mean it in jest, she says your name and you merely stare back at her. “What did it do?”
“Watched me. Sized me up, I think,” you say. You pull the car into the parking lot and put it in park before returning your attention to her. “Some twenty-nothing with a backpack full of bobcat shit. Werewolf or not, I don't think that's much of a threat.”
“Hawthorne,” she attempts to scold you but begins to bubble with laughter. You find yourself beginning to crack. Find yourself unable to stop the smile that threatens to spill. “You're incorrigible!”
“I am,” you agree.
“You aren't supposed to agree with me.”
“But you're correct.”
“Hawthorne.” She says your name again—and you decide in this moment that you like the way your name sounds when she says it. Instead of continuing, she merely unbuckles the seat belt and slips outside the car, leaving you to sit there alone. You, of course, follow after her.
“Would it make you feel any better to know that's not the only large mammal encounter I've had in the woods?”
“You really haven't changed.” When she speaks there is no hurt to the words. There is only this tangible relief the two of you seem to share. That, despite the time and the change and the challenges of life, she still recognizes you; and you her.
“Is that a good thing?”
“Very,” she says as the two of you enter the bar. “How else would I have recognized you?”
“My charming nature?” you offer and Isadora only laughs, leaving your head swimming in mirth.
She loops an arm with yours, one hand smoothing over your forearm as she pulls you over to the bar. You oblige her because of course you do. It's only second nature. When the two of you slide onto the bar stools, your knees brush and meet her gaze for but a moment before the bartender steals her attention away.
She glances sideways at you while she speaks and you quickly find a stain on the countertop to be the most interesting thing in the room… Until Isadora leans against you, shoulder to shoulder. The contact is only temporary; she's drawing your attention toward the bartender who looks at you expectantly.
You quickly tell him your order and he sets to work, leaving the two of you alone once more. When you meet her gaze again, Isadora is smiling and you feel yourself beginning to mirror her without even trying. You're forgetting yourself and you're enjoying it. You're remembering a part of yourself from twenty-some-odd years ago—and you're enjoying it.
“Better when you don't get us kicked out because of your shitty, fake ID?” The look she gives you is simultaneously downright sinful and one of total offense. Isadora gives your shoulder a light shove and you feign hurt, leaning back dramatically. Her eyes go wide and she grapples for your forearms to stabilize you.
The touch is gone in an instant and Isadora shies away from you just in time for the bartender to return with your drinks. She raises her glass to her lips and sips before saying, “It was not shitty.”
“It totally was!” Your objection draws a few odd looks from the patrons sitting around you and you offer them an apologetic look before continuing. “What was it that you chose? Missouri?”
“Minnesota,” she corrects before adding: “You were no better, New Jersey.”
You mean to say something else. In your brain you say some snarky two-bit response in line with her own. Then again, any given idea is often better in theory than it is in practice.
“You remember?” Your voice is no louder than a whisper.
Her hand bleeds warmth when she moves to rest it upon your own. The contact is fleeting but it is enough to return your attention to her. “Of course I remember.”
“That's… nice.”
“You're nice.”
“You're a sap.”
“I'm just… glad to see you again,” she says and somehow you know she means every word. It's striking, this feeling. You feel it settle around you like the sediment of a lake after a raging storm. This calmness.
“Careful now, we can't turn into emotional drunks.”
“We?” She arcs a brow.
“Yes, we. You're my accomplice.”
“Pray tell, what crime did we commit?”
The conversations shared between the two of you continue deep into the night until even you cannot justify staying out so late. You drive her back to campus and see that she makes it to the staff dormitory before continuing down the road some ways to the faculty cottages. Yours sits some distance away from the others where the foot traffic is minimal. A plant flocks the cottage like none other, cultivated by your own hand:
Aconitum lycoctonum, wolfsbane.