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

I'll Tell You No Lies

And then there was Stiles. Stiles who knew everything. Stiles whose best friend was the current obsession of a giant wolf monster. Stiles whose dad was driving right towards that wolf monster, whose dad she had made him call. Stiles who was in love with Lydia, who was clinging to Jackson, who was holding Allison's hands. His stare rested on the redhead, the concern in them deep but distant. He seemed further removed than the rest of them, as if he stood behind a veil. And no wonder. Father, best friend, object of romantic interest. The emotional weight of an entire soap opera sat on his heart. She was responsible for it, in part at least.

Suddenly, the weariness in Charlie deepened, eating its way through the bone and into her marrow. She tucked her head further back, resting her forehead on her knees. She just had to wait. It was all any of them could do, really. Wait for Scott to come back, wait for Stiles's dad to check his messages, wait for the alpha to bust into the room and turn their innards into indoor decor like a Halloween edition of the Pottery Barn catalog. The pilot light of humor still alive in her chest urged her to propose a game of charades to pass the time. She stifled the impulse. It wouldn't be appreciated.

Minutes passed before the sound of chair legs against laminate brought her to raise her head. She blinked in surprise at Stiles, who had pulled a chair to the opposite side of her desk. The smile he offered was faint, not reaching his eyes. Not even a smile, really. "So, I didn't think you were physically capable of being this quiet," he joked feebly.

"I could say the same about you," she replied. Her gaze left him, shifting to a small white plastic box that had materialized before her. She squinted at it in the dark. The label read 'First Aid'. "What the hell is that?" she asked, jutting her chin towards the box.

"It's a Lego set—we're going to build a scale model of the Magic Castle," he shot back sarcastically. "It's a First Aid kit, Oswin. What the hell does it look like?"

Amid all the tension, the opportunity to roll her eyes was almost a relief. "I see what it is, Stilinski. I'm wondering why it's here on the desk instead of in the back cabinet."

"Um, did you forget the part of the evening when you got your face sliced open," he drawled, wagging a finger close enough to Charlie's nose for her to smack it away.

The downward turn of Charlie's lips deepened into a full frown. She raised a hand to her forehead, gently brushing the skin. Her fingertips met a scabbed, puckered vertical line that began just above her right eyebrow and continued to the cheek below. That was right. A piece of the window shattered by Stiles's car battery had struck her. Terror and adrenaline had dampened her memory and dulled the pain. That moment felt small and far away, distanced by all the other petrifying moments in between.

Stiles raised his eyebrows and released an almost frustrated sigh. "Apparently you did forget," he said. He undid the clasps to the kit and flipped the lid open, extracting a miniature bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a few cotton balls, antibiotic cream, and some Band-Aids. He quickly uncapped the hydrogen peroxide and grabbed a cotton ball, holding it to the bottle and shaking it. Charlie only fully registered his intentions when a fluffy ball of white suddenly occupied the entirety of her visual plane. She held up a hand to stop him.

"You really don't have to do that," she muttered, glancing between Stiles and the assailing cotton ball. "I can take care of it myself."

Stiles sagged back in his seat, shooting her a withering look. "You see a mirror in here?" he asked, waving an arm around the room. "The wound is on your face—you can't see it. Just—"

He made a move to blot at the cut, but Charlie dodged it. "I'm not a two year old. I don't need someone else to patch up my booboo."

"Oh my God," he groaned. "Seriously? You just electrified a door and made a flamethrower. You've officially filled your badass quota for the next three years. I know you're big on the whole independent-ish-ness thing, but how about you let someone else help you out for a change? Even Han Solo had Chewbacca."