The Butterfly Effect (Emison)

Chapter Two

Alison has a half a mind to charge into the Registrar's office and demand a schedule change.

But then again, it's not an easy task to accomplish when dropping classes is the common 'go-to' during the first week of the semester, and she can't remember a time when the school's computer system hadn't shut down as a result. That, and she's a little too lazy to figure it all out when her mind's muddled with thoughts of her debate class.

And consequently, Professor Fields.

Alison wishes she could say any preconceived notions she's had of her evil professor are just that: preconceived. She had let Spencer's words and the idea of a slight attraction mold into something bigger and outrageous, and just plain out stupid. And even now as it invades her mind, it feels more like a parasite than anything else, clawing at her brain with frequent thoughts of tight jeans and eyebrow scars and –

Jesus. Can she get any more pathetic?

Alison's answering scowl encroaches over her face as she unlocks the door to her apartment. It's just past seven on a Friday night, and she can barely walk when her limbs are so sore and she's practically wobbling on dead feet. In her defense, she'd been running back and forth across campus the entire day.

Also in her defense... it's been a shit first week.

She can already feel the anticipation for a nice, stiff drink prickling at her nerves. Once inside, she places her bag by the doorway and shuffles into the kitchen, where she could hear the faint shrill of her roommate's voice blare in from her room.

"Ali, is that you?" Hanna calls, and Alison simply grunts in return before scouring the cabinets.

Hanna appears at the entrance seconds later, regarding the blonde with a puzzled crease over her brow as Alison continues to search the kitchen and completely ignores anything that doesn't resemble a Jack Daniel's-shaped glass bottle. Comprehension then dawns on Alison when she turns around and finds her roommate holding said bottle in her hand, grim look in place.

"Looking for this?" she prompts in all seriousness, and doesn't bat a lash when Alison pins her with a death glare.

"Han," Alison begins with a sigh, sweeping a hand for the bottle before it's concealed from her view. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything," Hanna responds sternly. "We both promised we'd cut back on the drinking. Really, Alison?"

"This is me cutting back. I haven't had a drink since you and Spence forced me out of the house to 'meet people.' Remember that?" Alison grits out, her patience running low and deep as she holds her palm out in expectance and says, "Now, can I have that back, please?"

Hanna's mimicking glare is weak and looks more like an upset puppy's, but it's the angriest Alison had seen her in a while, and she can't help the guilty pang in her gut when the bottle is shoved into her hands.

"Thank you," Alison murmurs, even though she doesn't feel very grateful at all. Wary eyes are still drilling holes into her face as she clumsily balances the bottle underneath her arm and tries to brush past her roommate without a second glance.

The attempt is futile, of course. Hanna's nothing if not persistent.

"Ali," she repeats in that tone she only ever uses when they're about to have a serious conversation. Alison dreads it for many reasons, mostly because she can never hold one without feeling the confliction bearing down on her chest. She isn't the type to speak on serious terms, and definitely not one to have a heart to heart.

Maybe that's why she and Hanna had always gotten along. While her roommate's a firm believer in happy endings, she's also conscious of Alison's need for space when the time calls for it.