A Linguist's Studies (Request to join; T for caution... oh and Teen)

"You can try," she stated, a laugh echoing and enchanting her words, "The passenger's seat is the only space left, if we're perfectly honest."

"We'll make it work," he said simply, eyes and smile radiant as he watched her. Tipping the books into one arm, he wove through the aisles with relative ease, leaning into the front door to hold it open for her.

Evelyn passed through it wordlessly, appreciative but silent nonetheless. Carefully, she maneuvered the books to one are and the key to the otherwise empty hand. The quick unlocked beep went over on a nearby convertible, and he eyes beamed pride as she looked at him.

Harrison had not yet left the threshold to the bookstore, his eyes fixated on the covertible coupe parked neatly beside the bushes bordering the lot. "Intellectual and she drives a convertible. Will you always be so full or surprises?"

Her eyes trailed back to him, head turning, "You should see the house." The tone was teasing and a wink followed, a gesture that somehow effectively drew the focus down the smooth lines of her face and over her attire, the way it emphasized every curve without absolutely demanding attention. It did, however, draw the strange attention to the way she seemed to almost walk on tiptoe when being carefully, left foot still slightly raised on the ground, the bend at the knee helping to show the clear definition in her legs.

The meister's movements were graceful and deliberate, each step an allusion to the time and practice necessary to achieve such fluidity without conscious thought. How a woman could carry herself, body and mind, with such regality, Harrison would never know. Cuss! I picked a hell of a day to quit drinking.

Hurriedly carrying the books in tow, the meister leaned over one side of the convertible, lowering the books into a small niche in the passenger side. "I can only hope to," he began, catching himself with a flushed face upon realising what he had said.

Like the cat that ate the canary, she grinned up at him from the driver's side, eyes dancing in a teasing manner, speaking the words that she didn't need to say. "I'll be waiting for that call, Technician."

"As will I," Harrison admitted, stepping back with a final grin as the convertible reversed and slipped away from the parking lot. He lingered in the door frame, eyes following the car until it rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

"Are you gonna call her?" Mr. Grayson, the bookstore's kindly owner ducked out from behind a pile of historical texts to stand beside the meister. He moved with a noticeably spry hobble, as though his spirit belied the age of the body housing it. Peering up at his assistant through thick glasses, he nudged at the younger man's shoulder. "Are you going to call her?"

"I think I'm going to wait a bit," Harrison said with a nervous grin. He shrugged, slipping his glasses off to tuck them in his shirt pocket. "I believe that's the rule, yeah? You wait 48 hours?"

"Hogwash," the old man grumbled, waving a gnarled hand dismissively. "If you like her, call her. Opportunity rarely knocks twice and you want someone like her around." He turned his back to the meister, leaning into his cane as he walked. "I'll only say this one, but in this particular instance...be like your brother."

Harrison leaned against the doorframe, laughing with a faint huff. Be like my brother, he mouthed. I do hope you were listening to that. It isn't often that you'll catch a compliment from Mr. Grayson, especially after the incident with your car. He leaned his head back against the wood paneling, eyes closing. As he wishes. We'll call tonight. Until then, we have work to do. Pulling a pile of books into his arms, he pulled the door open one last time as he stepped out to face the day.

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Nightfall came like the curse of curfew, though she'd done away with such trivialities long ago. By now, she'd managed to completely re-orient her library (as many of the shelves were left with quite a bit of excess space), start on laundry, and host an entire video call with her cousin. Still, no call had arrived, and while she wasn't feeling particularly smited, there was a sort of disappointment rising within her. Evelyn didn't get out much, flirted even less, and with the way her past socializations, and more specific intimacies, had gone, it seemed as though putting oneself out there was not nearly as profitable as theory would hold. Even with theory and logic taking on the helms of reason, her heart still felt the pang, and so, she left her phone sitting on the coffee table, volume at it's max, while she set about making dinner with her mini-tv set up in the kitchen, news at a dull hum that was only just understandable.

Harrison slid wearily into the cushion-backed chair seated in the corner of his study, left hand already pulling at the fresh dressing of bandages covering his right shoulder. Every doctor and nurse in attendance had insisted, quite adamantly, that he abstain from attending classes to allow his wound to heal properly. He had grudgingly agreed, irritably snatching the packet of medication and bandages from the pharmacy as he left.

Within an hour, he had taken the medication as prescribed. Within two, he was fast asleep. Nearly six hours had past before the meister roused from his slumber, groggy and hungry. One improvised dinner and a comfortable pair of pajama pants later, he had settled into his study, phone in hand. Peering at the script on his arm that had, unbelievably, not been smudged in the commotion, he hastily punched in the numbers and set the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

And now we wait...

The television was still at a dull roar, the pasta in her pot only just beginning to show the signs of boiling when The Pretty Reckless began blasting through the speakers of her phone. Initially, a jump ensued, followed by a surprisingly enthusiastic frenzy of removing the apron, tugging pins from her hair, and darting to the couch (by which point the phone was nearly to voicemail) before she rapidly swiped 'answer' and pulled it to her ear, laying across the couch.

"Evelyn Borne," she said, all professionalism, no signs of her slightly sped breathing in her tone.

"Evelyn," Harrison murmured with a slight sigh of relief, sliding back in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, allowing a soft exhale to accompany it. "It's Harrison. I'm sorry for the lateness of the hour. It's been, ah...it's been a day worth remembering, to be sure."

"I can imagine," she said, grabbing the universal remote off her coffee table and clicking up the volume of the kitchen television, "Did you see what happened to the clock tower...?"

"Oh, I saw it," Harrison admitted ruefully, rubbing his temple with his free hand. His shoulder throbbed with dull pain, accentuated by the heat of the medicated salve slathered over the wound. "I had an unfortunately close view of the incident..."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, a hesitation as she contemplated, wondering but doubting. "Harrison, did you...?"

"I may have...tackled a witch out of the air and sent us both through the clock face..." The words were quiet and shaky, as though the meister expected to be in trouble with a parent and not a peer. Still, he felt his shoulders tensing in an uneasy anticipation for her reaction.

Another moments of silence followed, longer this time, before a peel of laughter echoed through the speaker. "Well..." her voice finally said, the laughter fading quickly into dying giggles, "I suppose that was one way to do it." She sat up, a slight bit of shuffling heard on his end while she shimmied her way out of skinny jeans, "What was her familiar?"

"I didn't see," Harrison admitted, craning his neck to scan his desk before tipping a book into his free hand. "It was a pretty simple search-and-destroy, not to mention the fact that my 'partner' didn't allow for much in the way of conversion into a familiar." He felt the tension in his throat at the word partner, used in the loosest sense. Ezra would no doubt still be upset about his negligence and he couldn't shake the pang of guilt that accompanied it. "I spent the remainder of my day in a hospital or out of consciousness, if that is a valid reason for the lateness of my call..."

"Need me to stop by with anything?" The response was automatic, instinctual, words that fell passed her mouth without their usual thought or care. "I mean, it's late, but I have dinner going... and more than a little medical knowledge..." Nervous laughter escaped her as the backpedaling, defensive explanation seemed to cause her voice to crack, giving away her minute anxiety as her face burned just the slightest degree.

The meister's grip tightened on his book, a grin creeping to his face so blatantly that he worried it could be heard through the phone. Without thought, he straightened up in his chair, coughing to dispel the anxiety clouding his mind and tightening his throat. "That, ahem, is up to you," Harrison insisted, thumbing aimlessly through the gold-leaf pages of the tome in his lap. "The doctors offered stitching, but I assured them that I wouldn't move enough to make it necessary. I forget that keeping my brother in check is a full-time ordeal and the first move I made after him upon arriving home opened it again..."

Panic rose in small doses, but Eve fought it back, biting tenderly against her tongue to prevent it from wriggling out against her. A few beats later, she spoke again, making her way to her room to find a pair of leggings or tights to replace the discarded skinnies. "I'm willing to if you want. I know how. It won't necessarily be pretty, mind you-"

"A pretty face can balance out some unflattering stitches," Harrison assured her, his breathing slowing to a faint, drawn-out sigh. He would kick himself if he could for not having given himself over to flirting in the past and not having the skill readily available now. "3362 Anderson Avenue is the address. I'll leave the door unlocked." A moment's pause passed before the meister hastily added, "I'm only in pajama pants, just as a forewarning. I'm not supposed to wear anything over the dressing right now, lest it pull away."

A nod followed as she shimmied into the tights, ignoring the corset entirely as it was far from uncomfortable and she had no desire to replace it with a bra. "I'll be there once I finish- oh shit." The word escaped in a frenzy as she ran back into the kitchen, shutting off the burner as water spilled onto the stovetop. "I'll... I'll be there in about five, maybe ten minutes," she said, clearly flustered over the scenario, not even recalling that she had cursed. "Sorry," she muttered, draining the water carefully, phone balanced between shoulder and ear. "...I forgot the pasta was boiling."

"It's okay," he reassured, though he could do little to veil the laughter escaping him. He set the book on a corner, spinning it carefully on his thigh. "Take care of you first and foremost. I have no intention of bleeding out before you get here...though if it makes you get here sooner, I can feign swooning and lightheadedness."

"No swooning without me around," she clipped, face reddening at the attempt of flirting back. Heavens, she was bad at this, and she knew it. It was of no small wonder, to her, that she ever managed relationships in the first place, as flirting was a rudimentary part of initializing them, and that was probably the one area that she failed in. "I... I mean..."