Black Water ↠ Stiles Stilinski [Teen Wolf, Vol. One]

Video Killed The Radio Star

"Hey, have you watched my game yet?"

Charlie blinked at the image that appeared on her screen. Instead of the usual post at his desk, Donald had opted for a more covert location, wedged in the tight space between his bed and the wall, haunted by his massive poster of The Fifth Element. The room was dark around him, his face illuminated exclusively by the dim glow of his laptop screen. The Blair Witch Project had better lighting. "Why are the lights out?" she demanded. "You know this isn't what they mean when they say 'dark web', right?"

"I won't dignify that pun by rolling my eyes at it," he muttered evasively, sparing a glance over his shoulder. "Have you had the chance to watch it or not? It may or may not have some bearing on my current circumstances."

The email notification appeared in her inbox earlier that morning, but had yet to be clicked, along with the rest of the weekend's messages that didn't come from her aunt. "Sorry, no," Charlie winced guiltily. "I haven't gotten a chance yet. Things with Mel are weird. We've been playing a lot of Jenga."

Donald opened his mouth to comment, but seemed to think better of it. "Okay, normally I'd ask you to elaborate on that, but I only have so much time to talk."

"Have you contracted a terminal illness?" Charlie asked.

"You could kinda put it that way," he muttered. "My social life is on its death bed. I got grounded."

Charlie rolled her eyes, head lolling on her shoulders. The new, secretive post now made all kinds of sense. After such a display of grade A idiocy, she'd hide from his mother too. "I take it Kevin the lobster of nightmares made his debut last night," she drawled. "What did I say—I said your mom would definitely find out and she would definitely kill you."

"Hey!" Donald protested. "Do not besmirch the plan. The plan was solid. I was only caught due to some unforeseeable, musical circumstances."

"You played 'Jump Around' by House of Pain, didn't you?"

Donald opened his mouth, only to close it once more. "Am I really that predictable?"

"Yes." His scoff of protest went unacknowledged. "When does your grounding start?"

Donald glanced up over his shoulder again, as if expecting some specter to swoop down and accuse him of wrongdoing. "Technically it started like as soon as the game ended. This call is an act of rebellion. I am making a stand—a brave one—against the institution of parenthood. Because it's about time these adults know that we're not to be fuc—"

"Donald?"

"SHIT!"

The door to Donald's room squeaked on its hinges and a sliver of yellow light hit the wall above his head. A switch flipped and brightness flooded the room. With a hiss, he burrowed further into the crevice between bed and wall to escape detection by any invading forces. Frustration echoed in the dull thud of plodding footsteps that approached, stopping at the edge of his bed.

"Donald!"

The two syllables that formed his name, when spoken by his mother, supported the weight of an immeasurable amount of exasperation. Donald let out a squawk as the laptop lifted into the air, his scandalized expression growing more distant as the computer withdrew. "Donald, what did I say? Computer for schoolwork only for the next week."

A swirl of bright colors that added up to Donald's room filled Charlie's eyes as the computer swung around. Finally, it settled on Donald's mother. Even at 10:37 p.m. on a Sunday her dark hair was pulled back into a neat, efficient bun, highlighting her stern, but kind eyes, smooth brown skin, and lips that, on occasion, pulled into a smile every bit as brilliant as Donald's. The T-shirt she wore—one from Jade's old elementary school—appeared to have been ironed, crisp and wrinkle-free. The woman was all precise corners, everything in its place. She had never shown anything but warmth, but Charlie still found herself mildly intimidated.