Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.
Okay, so this chapter is emotionally all over the place because all the characters are currently in the midst of some shit but i hope it all works out okay......here we go......
Chapter 18 - Occam's Razor
The word hung in the air, echoing against the faded wallpaper of the Stilinski kitchen, bouncing around inside Charlie's skull. Blood rushed in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to process the admission. Beyond the dull thudding of her heavy thoughts, Stiles's sharp breaths were all that reached her ears, reminding her she wasn't alone. When she built the resolve to open them, Stiles regarded her with eye-twitching insecurity.
Charlie had anticipated some form of satisfaction at finally forcing out the truth. Some form of catharsis or relief. She had perhaps even expected a sense of finality—the story coming to a close. She has thought...oh, hell she had no idea what she thought. That was her problem. She always focused on the short-term goal and put off thinking about what would come after. That was all well and good with tests and papers and normal, everyday responsibilities. This though....there was no short term goal. There was no conclusion. This was not the end. It was very much a beginning. A scratch on the surface. And below that surface lay teeth and fangs and blood.
Fun times.
"Werewolves," she repeated, her voice midway between a question and a statement of confirmation. Stiles's jaw tensed, and he nodded jerkily in response. "Mmph. Werewolves."
Charlie rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, driving her fingers into the loose hair and pulling slightly as they raked through to the ends. She glanced back at Stiles, squinting carefully to gage the honesty of his answer. "Werewolves?"
"Yup," Stiles replied, popping the 'p'. "Werewolves."
"Mmhmm," Charlie murmured. Her head bobbed absently and she bit down on her lower lip. "I think I need to sit down."
Stiles's eyebrows contracted into a 'v'. "You are sitting down."
"Then I need to stand up."
She remained seated, tracing the swirling grains of the wooden kitchen table with her fingertips. Her silence only seemed to agitate Stiles more—quite the feat. Each moment that dragged by, the jumpier he became. "You're, uh....you're not standing up," he pointed out.
"No, I don't seem to be." Charlie shook her head, not in disbelief but in...something. She opened and closed her mouth, lips searching for words of substance to deliver. They eluded her. Only one remained in reach. "Werewolves," she repeated in a baffled whisper.
"No, hippogriffs!" Stiles snapped in frustration. He pushed himself up from his seat and began to pace back and forth, hands gesticulating wildly. "Yes, Charlie! Werewolves! There are a bunch of freaking werewolves running around Beacon Hills and killing people! And he's probably gonna kill a lot more people, unless somebody stops him—unless we stop him!"
Stiles suddenly ceased his pacing, landing directly to her left. His lungs heaved from his outburst and he planted his hands on his hips, staring directly at the ground, actively not looking at her. There was something odd in his expression. It was torn between relief and worry—relief at having finally been given the freedom to talk about a long-bottled secret and worry at her reaction. He lifted a hand to his mouth and gnawed at his fingernails before casting a hesitant glance her way. "So...isn't this the part where you tell me I'm crazy and storm out of the house?" he asked. He settled on his index finger, biting the nail down to the quick. "I—I mean, aren't you going to say something?"
Charlie blew out a long breath and scoured the kitchen around her. Each detail was the same as a few moments before, but reality had shifted around them. Everything had suddenly tilted on an odd angle, unstable and threatening to topple. Her skin prickled where Stiles's eyes were trained. She planted her hands on the table's surface and slowly pushed herself to her feet. Her gaze met Stiles's. "Where do you keep your colander?"
Stiles's face twisted with bewilderment. "What?"
"It's like a bowl but with holes in the base," Charlie elaborated, moving towards the cabinets. "You use it for straining pasta."
"Uh, okay," Stiles muttered. "It's in the bottom cabinet next to the fridge. Why?"
Charlie didn't respond. Instead she made a beeline for the cabinet indicated and yanked the door open. WIthin sat a plastic white colander along with an assortment of pots and pans. Jackpot. She pulled out a number of stainless steel materials, placing them on the counter above her head. "How about a cheese grater? You got one of those?"
"Wha—of course we have a cheese grater. I gotta say I'm a bit confused as to why you need a freaking cheese grater."
Charlie moved to the fridge. "To grate cheese, obviously. I'm assuming you have cheese." Lo and behold, behind the fridge door sat cheeses of several varieties, spanning from whizz to Monterey Jack. "Perfect."
The fridge door closed and Charlie spun in the direction of her burgeoning work station, only to find a rigid and concerned Stiles blocking her path. "Okay," he declared, giving his hands a flourishing wave. "What the hell are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
"I don't know—looting? I'm kind of waiting on an important response here!"
Charlie's eyes fell shut and she exhaled sharply. "Cooking, Stiles," she snapped. "I am cooking. I cook when I get stressed out. And do you know what I am right now?!"
Stiles's nose wrinkled. "Stressed out?" he posited.
"Yes, Stiles!" Charlie exclaimed. "I'm stressed! So just let me make my mac n' cheese!"
Taken aback by the ferocity of her response, Stiles stepped to the side and gestured for her to pass. With a single, distinct nod, Charlie marched past him to the growing collection of kitchen implements. "The, uh, the cheese grater is in that drawer over there," he murmured with a weak swing of his arm.
He stood back as she marched around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets and drawers with undue force. Perhaps he was afraid of getting sucked into and potentially injured by the tornado of motion. Perhaps he was giving her time to process. But his eyes tracked each of her motions beneath studiously contracted eyebrows. By the time the pasta was boiling on the stove, though, the vigourougness of her movements had diminished and he began to venture forwards from the sidelines.
"So, uh, is this all the reaction you have?" he demanded. "Just trying to make everything clear here...this is it? I tell you that Beacon Hills has been invaded by marauding, murder-y werewolves, and your response is to what? Start 'angry cooking'?"
Charlie paused, finally releasing her tight grip on the Stilinski's stirring spoon. She found herself leaning against the counter, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. "For some reason I thought I'd be less freaked out when you told me," she murmured. "I was sure I was prepared for it. I don't know why I thought that—now that I think about past me thinking that knowing that werewolves were a thing would be..less stressful...wow, past me is stupid."
A warm body settled itself against the counter next to her. When he spoke this time, his voice had shifted from anxious to comforting with an anxious edge. "You're not stupid, Charlie."
Charlie's hand dropped from her face and she cleared her throat. Her eyes met Stiles's for a moment, but the knowing expression behind them made her break that connection. Immediately, she turned away, busying herself with grating a pile of Monterey Jack. "Agree to disagree," she mumbled. "But for now, I am going to just...channel all this anxiety into a productive coping mechanism."
Stiles stayed in his place, giving her a wide berth. "And that's cooking," he submitted.
"Yes, Stiles," she confirmed, "that's cooking."
"Hey, I get it. Embracing a new version of reality can be....a lot."
Charlie stirred the bowtie noodles, sparing him a glance over her shoulder. "We are going to talk more about this," she said. "This conversation only just started. I just—I need a minute, okay?"
Stiles's head flopped on his neck in a loose, but accepting nod. Charlie dug out the saucepan, milk, butter, bread crumbs, and cheese, mixing them together frantically in a pan. The liquid sloshed over the side, spilling onto the stove. Slowly, it melted into a giant, gloopy, fragrant mess. Every so often she felt Stiles watching her. He waited patiently at the table. Or not patiently per se. He drummed his fingers, peeked at the clock, but stayed seated and stayed silent. He was just as unsure about how to proceed as she was. They were unmoored, floating through uncharted territory.
Charlie poured the cheesy concoction over the pasta in a dish and shoved it in the oven. Taking a place at the table opposite Stiles, tension still filled the air between them. Any hopes that the culinary time out could somehow improve upon the situation were unceremoniously dashed. "Feel better?" Stiles asked, the corners of his lips twitching with the optimistic delivery of a joke.
Charlie sighed, drawing a knee up to her chest. "Maybe," she muttered with a weak shrug. "Not really. Werewolves are real. It's just a whole jumbled mess in my head. I mean, what does this mean for ghosts? Vampires? The Loch Ness monster? Bigfoot? Are they all real now? There's no way to count them out. Stiles, is the Easter bunny real?"
"Whoa, slow your roll," Stiles said, holding out a steadying hand. He regarded her hesitantly. "So....you're saying that you believe me—the whole werewolves thing? You're totally on board? Just like that? Because it's like of a big leap—I mean, like, huge. Like there's a Grand Canyon-sized hole you have to jump over to get to believing this stuff and you've pole vaulted all the way to Bigfoot?"
Charlie ran a hand through her hair, tugging on the tips as her fingers came to the end. "Stiles, have you ever heard of Occam's Razor?"
Stiles blinked in surprise and nodded. "Uh, yeah. My dad talks about it sometimes when he's trying to solve cases. Once you've eliminated the impossible, the simplest answer left, no matter how unlikely, is pretty much always the one that's true. Something like that. Is there a reason for this philosophical segue?"
"My point is that since I got here, the bar for what's possible and what's impossible has kind of been blown to all hell. And if I stack the weird bits and pieces on top of each other, the 'werewolf' explanation ties them all together with a neat little bow. So yeah, Stiles, I believe you. Just like that."
Stiles's mouth dropped open and he gaped at her a moment, shaking his head in disbelief. Which to Charlie seemed strange as, given the conversation's subject matter, if anybody had a right to be disbelieving, it was her. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair so that she might be able to peer down her nose at him. "What?" she demanded, her voice not devoid of a hostile edge.
"Nothing," he said quickly. His chair rocked back on its back legs, tipping slightly, and he laced his fingers together behind his head. For the first time that evening his body relaxed. "It's just..." he continued "...I thought that if I had this conversation with someone...I saw it ending differently."
Charlie frowned. "Differently how?"
"Differently like the other person slowly backing away, then sprinting away, and then signing me up for electro-shock therapy."
"Yeah?" Charlie snorted. "Well, Mel tells me that if someone invites you into their home, it's rude to have them committed."
Stiles scoffed heavily and quirked a sardonic eyebrow. "If I recall correctly, I didn't invite you into my home. You threatened me and marched me in here on the other end of a pitchfork."
"So I guess you're still fair game then," Charlie blinked innocently.
Stiles narrowed his eyes. Charlie widened hers. This could only last so long, though. Not one minute went by before those eyes crinkled at the corners. With a few more moments came the twitching of lips. Small fissures formed in their composure before the laughter broke through, full and hearty. It was a release, really, the guffaws filling the room after such an extended silence. But it didn't last long. It couldn't. Too much remained to be discussed. Soon the chuckles faded into the walls, and the dilemma remained. What the hell were they going to do? Charlie couldn't proceed until she had all the facts in. Lucky for her she had a reservoir of information sitting across the table, and he was finally prepared to share.
"So Scott and Derek are werewolves, then," she drawled casually.
Stiles twitched, suddenly back on the defensive. Protest had become a reflex. Deny, deny, deny. "Who says that Scott—?!" He cut himself off immediately, acknowledging the futility. "Right," he muttered, gesturing at Derek's chiseled face on her phone before waving at his own eyes. "You know because of the 'tapping leeches'."
"Tapetum lucidum," Charlie corrected.
"Whatever." He muttered under breath, rubbing at his forehead. "I can't believe you know all this random crap. Your trivia skills are really becoming a pain in my ass."
"Yeah, I apologize for being well-read," Charlie deadpanned. "Now does all this mean that Derek actually is a creepy murderer person and they just ruled Laura Hale's death an animal attack because he was all...wolfed out...when he attacked her? Did he actually kill his sister? I mean, it might explain the whole 'burying the body in his backyard' thing...but...why would he kill her?"
Stiles shook his head. "It wasn't him. Scott and I—we thought it was him at first. I mean, obviously since we got him arrested for it. Now we think it's someone else."
"Someone else?" Charlie asked quietly. Stiles nodded. She swore under her breath. "So there's a third one."
"Yup. And he didn't just kill Laura Hale. It was her, the bus driver, and now—"
"The clerk at the video rental place," Charlie finished for him. She snatched up her phone, summoning the Lydia's video footage and allowing it to play through until the beast—the werewolf—made its debut. Placing it on the table, she spun it around on the table to face Stiles. "So this—"
"Is the killer," Stiles concluded.
Charlie wrinkled her nose at the figure on the screen, its blood red eyes and menacing snarl. "So this is what Scott and Derek turn into? I wanna sign it up for a mani pedi and facial." She ran her hands down her face. "Ugh, maybe I've been spending too much time with Lydia."
"Nah, that's not what Scott looks like," Stiles murmured. "He grows this—this hair on his cheekbones and gets these fangs and claws. It's freaky, but not that freaky. Plus his eyes are more of a yellow."
"Shit," Charlie mumbled. "No wonder those lacrosse players thought he was on PCP."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Anyways," Stiles continued, pointing at the screen. "That's what Derek calls—"
"So you guys and Derek are all good now?" Charlie snorted out. "After you got him arrested for murdering his own sister?"
"Hey, we had a perfectly good reason for thinking that!" Stiles shot back heatedly. "And can we focus here?! Seriously, I'm being all open and forthcoming and stuff. That window only stays open for so long before the shock fades and my better judgment kicks in and why am I telling you that right now?"
Charlie waved a frantic hand, wiping away her previous qualms. "Derek who? Who cares about Derek? Derek is boring and uninteresting and uses way too much hair product and smells like an 18-wheeler of Axe body spray." She pointed to her phone screen. "Who is this asshole?"
Stiles shot her another odd look out of the corner of his eye before redirecting them to the photo. "Derek says this thing is an alpha," he explained. "It's bigger, stronger, more powerful. Meaner. That's why it's got the red eyes."
A shiver ran down Charlie's spine. "So," she murmured, clearing her throat, "so this is an alpha. But that's what it is and not who it is.... So who is it?"
Stiles's hand clapped to his mouth, seemingly trying to smother himself to death. When it fell from his face, it released a shout. "We don't know!" he exclaimed. Charlie startled at the force of his voice, prompting an apologetic frown. "That's....that's what we're working on now. Trying to find that out. The alpha's the one who bit Scott and... Anyways, we don't know who it is, or where they are, or what their motive is, or why they killed Laura Hale—she's another werewolf....or was...and we don't know when they're going to attack again, or...anything. We don't know anything. And until we find out something it's just going to keep killing people and there's nothing we can do to stop it."
Stiles's voice cracked under the strain of the last few syllables. His hand darted out, flipping her phone over to hide the alpha's face. And that's when it hit Charlie. The last few weeks for her had been an adventure. A scavenger hunt. A highly stressful, but largely non-fatal hobby. For Stiles it had meant literal life and death. A supernatural creature had been terrorizing the town and he had the most information. In possessing that information he had been deputized in a manner of speaking. Responsibility had been foisted upon him. But when it came down to it, there was still nothing he could do. Hell, his dad was a cop and he couldn't even share it with him. Watching this crapstorm unfold must have been been torture.
And Charlie had just signed herself up.
Reaching across the table, Charlie clapped a hand on his shoulder. Stiles looked up at her, surprised by the gesture, but didn't shrug her hand off. She offered what she hoped was an encouraging smile before pushing forward in her line of inquiry.
"So where do the Argents fit in to all of this?"
"Oh, come on!" Stiles shouted, throwing his hands in the air in frustration and forcing her hand from his shoulder in the process. "How could you possibly know about them? Are you psychic? Is that it? Because there is no way I can tolerate more weirdness in the freaking hurricane of weird that is my life right now!"
Charlie shot him an admonishing look. "Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
"You got it." He gave her a wearied salute of agreement, but only allowed for about ten seconds of silence before exploding again. "Okay, how could you possibly know about the Argents?"
"I didn't. You just confirmed it for me." Before she subjected herself to another frustrated tirade, she barrelled on in elaboration. "The other day when I saw Derek at the gas station—when I took that photo—some dudes broke in the window to his Camaro. One was blond, tall-ish, drove a red SUV....sort of like Allison's dad...who just blew the head off a mountain lion....and who kinds of scares me. Like, a lot."
"Damn you and your logic," Stiles mumbled to himself. Charlie raised her eyebrows expectantly, and he gave a defeated sigh. "Okay, fine. Whatever. As far as we can tell, the Argents are werewolf hunters. I mean, we know Mr. Argent is seeing as he shot Scott and stuff—long story, don't ask. We don't think Allison knows."
"I bet Kate wants her to, though," Charlie muttered. "All that crap about liking a girl who could kick a little ass. She was definitely eyeing Allison kind of weird. Like...pointedly.... She's at least four types of crazy. Probably five."
"Wait, who can kick a little ass?" Stiles inquired. "Allison? Because if Allison is kicking people's asses—"
"Relax, I'm the ass-kicker," Charlie replied. "At least according to Kate. Allison is more of a prospective ass-kicker." She rolled her eyes at the dumbfounded expression on Stiles's face. "I have like six years training in Krav Maga. Don't worry about it."
Stiles scooted his chair a few inches further from hers. "Trying not to."
"Whatever. I'm not important here. But Allison's got like eight years gymnastics and knows a hell of a lot about archery. She might not be in on the family business yet, but she's being primed for it."
Stiles groaned loudly and slammed his head against the table again. "Could this get anymore complicated? First Scott's a werewolf and now he's sleeping with the enemy." He paled slightly and glanced at Charlie self-consciously. "Well not sleeping with per se....I mean, they're not—I mean as far as I know they haven't—"
"I don't think Scott and Allison's sex life is something we need to address right now."
"Agreed," he replied quickly. "I think never is a good time for that. I'll pencil it into my schedule right between hell freezing over and the Cubs winning the world series."
Charlie's lips twitched faintly. That Stiles managed to retain some of his sense of humor in the face of the death, destruction, the occasional mauling, et cetera was something to be grateful for. But her appreciation was supplanted by a feeling of dread as her gaze fell on her phone, sitting ominously between them. The murderous face and blindingly red eyes were hidden, but the knowledge of their existence was enough. Her mind went to the drugged-up red-head lying comatose in her bed.
At this point, Charlie was confronted with an uncomfortable truth. With this newly obtained knowledge, she was going to be forced to make decisions. Decisions not just for herself, but on behalf of other people. Decisions of which those people would remain ignorant. She'd be playing God, the arbiter of information affecting them. Information about them. That was way, way too much responsibility, especially for someone as emotionally ill-equipped as her. She reached for her phone, flicking it so it spun across the table.
"So what are we gonna do about the video?" she asked. "You can't keep Lydia's phone. Believe me, she will notice it's missing."
Any calm that had returned to Stiles's face fled. Slowly, he rose from his seat and trudged up the stairs, only to return with Lydia's own phone. He dropped it on the table next to her own. Charlie's reached out, taking it in her hand. It weighed heavily on her palm, like a brick of lead. "You saw what Lydia's like now," she said, sparing him a glance. "She doesn't know what she saw. I'm not sure she wants to know. She's kind of falling apart right now."
A look of intense regret crossed Stiles's face. He rubbed at his jaw and fixated on the phone, the war waging within shining through his eyes. "Nobody can know about Scott," he said, refusing to look up at her. "Nobody can know about any of it. The more people who know about it, the bigger the risk of it getting out. And I can't be responsible for that. I shouldn't have told you, but you were—"
"An aggressive bitch?" Charlie supplied.
Stiles released a humorless laugh and shook his head, still staring at the phone. "I was going to say 'persistent'."
"That's very generous of you."
He pressed his fingers to his lips, his leg resuming the frantic bouncing beneath the table. His awareness seemed to be limited to that phone, everything else in the world falling away. Suddenly years piled on his shoulders and the lines of his face wrote the story of someone much older than sixteen. Not older in the sense that his cropped hair had a dusting of grey and the laugh lines around his mouth had deepened into wrinkles, but he looked....experienced. Haunted. Like someone who had seen more than any teenager should be allowed. He had been here before—weighing the welfare of his best friend against that of someone else he cared about—and it clearly was not a position he cared for.
An impulse seized control of Charlie's muscles. She flipped over Lydia's phone in her hands, fumbling with the keys until she found her way to the video, and then, before her resolve faded, the delete button.
'Are you sure you want to delete?'
'OK.'
She quickly slammed the phone to the table and raised her hand to her mouth, biting down on her finger.
"Wha—what was that?" Stiles demanded, looking between her and the phone. "Why did you just do that?"
"Because it needed to be done." She had hoped her voice would emerge strong and confident, if only to convince herself of the words, but it left her lips as a broken whisper. "It did—it needed to be done," she said, nodding along so her bodily movements might lend her confidence. "Somebody had to do it. And you didn't want to."
Stiles's eyes finally chose between her and the phone, staring at her with a strange intensity. Self-consciousness only allowed her to hold his gaze for a few moments before breaking under the scrutiny. She looked away and began twisting loose strands of hair around her fingers. She wrapped them so tightly, her fingertips purpled. "Look," she bit out, "my guess is that you've had to make a lot of calls like that lately. Am I right?" She took his silence as an answer in the affirmative. "That situation sucks. A lot. Especially when it's Lydia.... Well, this time you didn't have to make the call. Because I did."
Stiles's blinked rapidly, shaking his head like he was shaking off a dream. "I....can't believe you just did that."
"What can I say?" she mumbled. "I'm a wild card. But...this is the best thing for Lydia. It is. The idea of werewolves put her in a day-long coma. The reality of it? She doesn't want to live with that. And she shouldn't have to."
Stiles shot her a skeptical look. "Are you sure that's not just a rationalization?"
"No," she answered honestly. "But I can't take it back now."
Charlie was spared a response by the beeping of the oven, informing her that the macaroni and cheese was ready. She hauled herself to her feet and wandered to the oven, pulling out the gloopy mass of pasta. A gust of savory-scented air hit her in the face, and her stomach churned in hunger. Stiles craned his neck, peering over the counter to get a look at the steaming platter. If anything could curb his existential crises, it was food. He was practically standing in his chair when she called over to him.
"I'm assuming you want some?"
His head bobbed so excitedly on his neck, it threatened to pop off. "Um, yeah. Yes please."
"Plates and utensils?"
The chair legs screeched against the floor as Stiles hurled himself up. By the time Charlie had turned around, mac and cheese in hand, he had already managed to set a full, albeit basic, table. The platter had yet to hit the table before he threw in a giant serving spoon and dragged a massive serving onto his own plate. By the time Charlie had a hold on the serving spoon, he was shoveling impossibly huge bites into his mouth. His hunger seemed to correlate with stress, and the snickers was long gone. "'Dis is really good," he mumbled in thanks.
"It involves a shitload of cheese. Of course it's good."
More questions lined up on Charlie's tongue, but she kept them at bay. Stiles needed time to breathe. Though little breathing seemed possible as he continued to shove forkfuls of macaroni into an already full mouth. Charlie picked at her own food, pushing it around the plate and lifting it to her lips at infrequent intervals. Stiles seemed to take note of this, eyeing her beneath a furrowed brow. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"You're not eating. You never don't eat."
Charlie sighed and jerked her read to the side noncommittally. "Just...I don't know...waiting for the rest of the story."
Stiles paused, another huge fork of food poised halfway to its destination. He carefully placed it back on the table. "What is there left to tell? You've already deduced everything with you deduce...i...ness." He waved his fingers in her face and she slapped them away, levelling him with an unamused look.
"I don't mean the facts, Stiles," she said, raising her eyebrows pointedlly. "I already know the facts. I mean the narrative—the story. I want to hear the story. I already know about all the dots, so why not connect them? In for a penny, in for a pound, right?"
Stiles, who had just picked up his fork, put it down once more. He regarded Charlie with hesitant, appraising eyes. And for a moment she thought he would say no. But then..... "Okay, so the night before school started, we went out looking for half a dead body—"
And thus began the tale. How they were looking for Laura Hale's body when Scott was bitten. Scott's full moon freakout the night of Lydia's party, Stiles's baffling call the day of their first lacrosse game. He told her of their worries that Scott had attacked the bus driver (he didn't) and why she had seen them breaking into the bus yard that night (psychic werewolf dreams: cool but creepy). And then there was Derek Hale—the initial suspicions, the tentative truce, the bizarre Mr. Miyagi mentorship beginning to unfold—something neither Stiles nor Charlie appeared to wholly comfortable with. Then, after a long and complicated story about how Kate shot Derek and some odd new insights into the most uncomfortable dinner party of all time (and how Charlie's tampon ruse may have saved multiple lives), they came full circle, settling on the previous night at the video rental store.
As Stiles's twenty minute monologue came to its conclusion, Charlie finally began to eat. It helped with the whole stunned silence thing. Chewing saved her from talking. Knowing everything about everything was turning out to be a bit of a double-edged sword. On one hand werewolves existed, which was terrifying and awesome and fascinating and the weight of uncertainty had lifted from her shoulders. On the other hand, another heavier weight had taken its place—that of responsibility. She was one of maybe five people in Beacon Hills who knew what was going on. Meaning she was one of maybe five people who could actually do something about it. That was....a lot.
Charlie looked over at Stiles, her lips pinched in a thin line. "I.....should probably head home."
Stiles's face had set the stage for an entire cast of emotions that night, but disappointment finally made its debut.
Charlie sucked in a breath, her chest tightening. "It's just—" she glanced at the clock "—it's getting a bit late. Mel is still in her overprotective phase. I don't want her to get too concerned or whatever."
"No, yeah, right," Stiles stammered, nodding his head. "Don't want anybody getting suspicious. I'll, uh, I'll give you a ride. I mean obviously you don't have a car so I have to give you a ride so I'll....do that...now. I'm just gonna—" he waved his hands at the mac and cheese "—I'll just put this away. Meet you in the car?"
Charlie gave a sober nod and extracted herself from the kitchen, but not before taking hold of Lydia's phone. Stiles's hands clenched as it was enveloped in hers. Was it worry? Guilt? Anxiety? Whatever he felt, she'd have to familiarize herself, because no doubt she'd be sharing in it before long. Her footsteps as she retreated were heavy and hesitant, and a glance over her shoulder found Stiles defeatedly stowing the food in the fridge.
The empty car was a relief to Charlie as she closed the door behind her. For a moment at least, she could exist in a bubble. Just herself and the anxious, intrusive thoughts. Her hand, still clutching Lydia's phone with white-knuckled force, opened, allowing it to rest on her palm. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the cool glass of the window. "Well....." she whispered to herself "...here's hoping I did the right thing."
A few minutes later Stiles yanked open the driver's side door, making her jump in her seat. He pressed his lips together in a wan smile. "So...." he asked hesitantly "....are we actually gonna be going to your place this time?"
Charlie exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. "I tell you that, all sense of adventure is lost."
"Fair enough."
Stiles twisted the keys in the engine and pulled out of the driveway, taking to the roads. Charlie mumbled a few directions here and there. They pulled up to an abandoned intersection, the red light holding them in place despite there being no other drivers in sight. Charlie, who had been carefully studying her fingernails for the majority of the venture, finally found it in her to look at Stiles directly. The red of the traffic light made his skin glow with a pinkish hue. For the first time since he burst through those emergency room doors, he wasn't pale.
"So what do we do now?"
Stiles's head snapped on his neck as if it was spring-loaded. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what do we do about the alpha?" Charlie elaborated, solemnly inclining her head towards him. "What's our next move? What's the game plan? What can I do to help?"
The light turned green but went completely disregarded, even shifting to yellow before Stiles's gaping mouth managed to speak. "I..what?" he stammered. "Charlie, you don't have to do anything. This isn't your fight. This isn't a problem you have to solve."
Charlie blinked. "You're....kidding, right? How could I not do anything? Did you really think I'd harass a confession out of you and then bounce? I meant what I said before—I am in this now. No takebacks."
Stiles raised his eyebrows at her. "No takebacks? We're going with playground arguments?"
Charlie scoffed, her hackles raised. "Sue me for phrasing it in a way I thought you'd understand."
"Wow, that was unnecessarily hostile," Stiles shot back, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "Charlie, I meant what I said before. This is dangerous stuff."
"I know that."
"Then why the hell do you want in?!" he said, throwing his hands in the air. "Over the past month I've seen a ton of dead bodies, was almost killed by my best friend—several times—I freaking almost had to chop a guys arm off! I'm here because of Scott, but you..."
The jarring honk of a car behind them jolted them back to reality. The light had gone through several cycles, settling back on green. Stiles waved an ornery hand and shifted gears to move forward. Not quickly enough, apparently, as the offended driver zipped around, a prominently displayed middle finger sticking out the window as they passed. "Okay, well that was an overreaction," Stiles mumbled to himself.
Charlie shifted uncomfortably in her seat as they moved forwards. "Look," she sighed, head tilted towards the window so her face was partially hidden, "I...never really had all that much growing up. Not like I was poor...though honestly this town is still bonkers to me...but...all that moving around my dad and I did...I never really had a ton of friends. I had one, but I haven't seen him in person in like five years. Anyway...I never really bothered making friends because what was the point, you know? I'd be moving like four months later. And then there's all the 'goodbye' stuff and crying and promising that you'll keep in touch when you already know you won't. So I just....didn't do it. It sucked, but I was okay with it. It's how things were. I had my dad, and that was good enough. I was happy. Not skipping in the meadows happy, but content, you know?"
She paused for a moment and bit down hard on her lip as she assembled her thoughts. It was then she realized that Stiles had come to another stop, not in front of a light but at the side of the road. And he was looking at her. Like....a lot. That degree of focused attention was not something to which Charlie was accustomed, and frankly was part of why she hated confiding in people. They would just...look at you...like they knew you. Because they did. Because you were telling them about yourself. Voluntarily. Charlie squirmed under Stiles's stare. It was off-putting. But she knew all of Stiles's secrets now. It was only fair he got a baby secret out of her. One good turn deserves another and all that bullshit.
"Look, when my dad died, I pretty much lost everything," she blurted out before she had a chance to stop herself. "I just sort of assumed he would always be there. And then he wasn't. And a chunk of me was like...that's it, my life is over at fifteen. But then I came here, and I found something else. Mel, Lydia, Allison, Danny, even you and Scott—you guys...having something to fall back on is the only thing that makes him not being here kind of okay." She looked at Stiles, her expression earnest and firm. "If what I found here is being threatened, I'm going to do something about it. I don't care if its dangerous. I can't fight an aneurysm, but this...this I can fight. And I'm damn well going to do it, with or without you and Scott."
Stiles exhaled sharply through his nose, squinting at her. His features arranged themselves into an unreadable configuration. "That's a pretty good reason, I guess. I mean if you've got to give a reason, that one's...you know...compelling enough."
Sincerity had hit an all-time high. The feeling was foreign. Her skin itched. Like hives—sincerity was giving her hives. The urge to lighten the mood seized her, so Charlie reached across the car and punched him in the shoulder. "I have come here to kick ass and chew bubblegum. And I'm all out of bubblegum."
"Mmph," Stiles mumbled, his lips clamped shut so as not to laugh. "You really think now is the moment for an obscure 80s movie reference?"
"Stiles," she replied stoically, "it's never not the time for an obscure 80s movie reference."
He made a face and jerked his head to the side in consideration. "You're not wrong." He let out a sigh and rubbed at the back of his head, a nervous gesture that had made a number of appearances over the evening. Any more additional drama and he'd run the risk of early onset baldness. "So," he murmured, "so where to we go from here?"
"Um, my place isn't that much further," Charlie replied. "You just take a left on Washington and—"
"No," Stiles interrupted. "I didn't mean like that. I just meant...you know now. I'm not sure what the next step is."
Charlie's lips formed a quiet 'o' and she nodded her head. "Right. Next steps. Well...I'm guessing Scott should know that I know. Next step, you tell him I'm on the team."
Stiles's nostrils flared in sudden indignation. Sincerity successfully neutralized, though not in the manner Charlie had hoped. "Um, pardon me?" he spluttered. "So not only do I get the Law & Order treatment from you, I also have to tell Scott that you cornered me in my own kitchen and yelled at me till I folded like a damp paper towel?"
"Yes," Charlie said with a bob of the head. "Because you're his friend and he'll be less freaked out if it comes from you. Also, I don't want to."
"Yeah?" Stiles scoffed, his face hardening beneath the dim light of the nearby street lamp. "Well maybe I don't want to talk to him either. Scott spent the day ignoring my calls and then let my dad get hit by a car."
"W—wait," Charlie said, shaking her head. "What do you mean he let your dad get hit by a car? What was he supposed to do?"
"I don't know, something?!" Stiles growled. "Or maybe call me? At some point? Let me know he's alive, let me know my dad is alive. Or that he got hit in the first place. Scott left me high and dry today, so...just...table it. We can figure out next steps later."
"O—okay. Sorry."
Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose and sucked in a deep breath. "No," he murmured. "It's not—never mind. Don't be...I just...." He dropped his hand from his face to reveal a wearied expression. The night had taken a toll. "You said left on Washington, right?"
"Um, yeah," Charlie nodded. "We're just a couple of blocks away."
Stiles shifted the car into drive and pressed on the accelerator, taking the car back onto the road. It rumbled beneath her. The shocks must have worn down—something that needed to be fixed, but at present the vibrations had a calming effect. Like one of those beds that soothe babies to sleep. But despite the tranquility of the gentle hum, Stiles remained tense, knuckles tight and jaw twitching. Not that Charlie could blame him. At least 40% of that tension was of her making. For some reason she thought that, when they were on the other side of this confrontation, she and Stiles would be all good. And they had been. Or at least she thought they had been. And now they weren't? Stiles being angry with her didn't fit her preconceived narrative. Her skin felt itchy again.
As he pulled up in front of Charlie's apartment building, she expected him to let the car idle, waiting for her to climb out and then continuing on his way. Instead he turned the engine fully off. The move was deliberate, almost a statement in itself. When he spoke, his voice was softer than she had last heard it. "Look, I'm sorry for getting all aggressive and stuff. It's not about you. Well, I mean, I guess it is. Or it is a bit. It's just been a long night, and my dad is in the hospital and I'm pissed at Scott who still hasn't called me back."
Charlie shook her head. "I forced a giant secret out of you, Stiles," she muttered. "You don't have to be happy with me. You should probably be pissed at me. And you definitely don't have to apologize—I'm the designated asshole of this evening."
Stiles rolled his eyes at the word 'asshole', and the tightness in Charlie's chest released slightly. "Honestly," he shrugged, "I'm relieved you know. I really am, because you were stressing me out before. I could see you filing away all these little things—you've got this 'it's a clue!' face—and it was just a matter of time. It's one less thing for me to worry about because, you know, it already happened. Plus having someone else to talk to might not suck."
"I can be a moderately successful conversationalist."
"And sooooo modest," he drawled.
"I am definitely excellent at being modest."
Stiles huffed and dropped his head. When he lifted again, some of the clouds behind his eyes had rolled back, allowing the familiar mischievous glint to shine through. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he turned so he could face her fully. "Look...I know this is a lot, but Charlie...you can't tell anybody else about this. I'm serious—nobody else can know."
As if by divine providence, her phone chose that moment to chime, that moment for the screen to light up, that moment to receive a text message from contact 'Prettiest Dude in this Contacts List, Don't Lie'. Charlie's teeth clenched in a guilty grimace.
"Yeah...about that....."
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So...that's chapter 18. Stiles and Donald may or may not be meeting in the next one...
Please review. It sustains the muse who lives in my basement. If she gets hungry, she eats my socks. I have a lot of unmatched socks.
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SOUNDTRACK (I ACTUALLY DID IT THIS TIME)
Charlie sits in the car with her head resting against the window. Stiles joins her. They drive in silence.
-~-~-~-~-~Rabid Bits of Time - Chad VanGaalen
After Charlie and Stiles squabble in the car (and sincerity is neutralized) he drives her the rest of the way to her apartment. When he stops, he turns off the engine and they talk.
-~-~-~-~-~Pues - Brazos
Charlie receives a text from Donald and remembers that there someone else who knows Scott's secret. Whoops.
-~-~-~-~-~Bad Ritual - Timbre Timbre