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.
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Chapter 19 - The A-Team
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Charlie didn't pretend to be a neat person. Piles of laundry were known to accrue. Dishes took up residence in the sink for questionable amounts of time. The odd tupperware abandoned in the back of the fridge may or may not have spawned their own civilizations once or twice. Chaos had taken easy advantage of a two-person household that put in a lot of overtime. But where her external surroundings might bear a passing resemblance to a Black Friday Walmart, her brain had the order of The Container Store in the early spring.
Compartmentalization was great. Charlie had an accountant's office worth of filing cabinets in her brain. Each drawer belonged to a city, each file in that drawer to a person who lived their. Most were locked. The only one left open was Donald's—he made a habit of being her exception. The system was flawed but effective. It made it easy to move on and move forward. Yup, compartmentalization was great. Until two drawers opened simultaneously, the papers got all out of order, and nothing made any freaking sense.
Stiles was meeting Donald, someone was walking around The Container Store mixing the red pens with the blue pens, sticking wrapping paper in the stationary section, and she did not care for it.
Bright yellow rubber gloves covered Charlie's arms from fingertip to elbow. She had originally intended to scrub the kitchen sink, but somehow ended up vacuuming the living room carpet. Priorities were muddled. The apartment wasn't even messy. Sure, Mel wouldn't be renting out the space to Better Homes & Gardens, but it possessed a refined simplicity that even Charlie couldn't utterly lay waste to. Elegance was her aunt's close personal friend. The very worst Mel managed to accomplish was a vaguely dusty windowsill. On top of that, Charlie didn't need to clean up for Stiles—she had seen his house. Twice. Nothing remotely intimidating or particularly neat about it. But she grabbed that swiffer pad anyway.
Why did she agree to this? As fun as confronting people could be, avoiding confrontation counted among Charlie's most treasured skills. Dragging this out till next Thursday could have been easy. One day is what she managed to buy herself. A measly fourteen hours to be exact. And all that added up to her 'Donald universe' crashing into her 'Beacon Hills universe' in....fifteen minutes.
Shit.
The doorbell came as a surprise. Stiles had more of a 'roll up fifteen minutes late in the midst of a panic' than an 'appear for appointments early and expect people to keep to the schedule' type vibe. Swearing loudly, she stripped off the rubber gloves and shoved them and the swiffer pad beneath a couch cushion. The vacuum cleaner was stowed hastily, hopefully most of her anxiety with it. The doorbell rang once more before she could reach it, judgemental tones occupying its obnoxious clang. Her lips wanted to frown, but were too strongly set in an expression of casual unconcern.
Exhaling sharply through her nose, Charlie pressed the button opening the building's front door. Her lungs stilled as she waited. Welp, here went nothing. Or everything.
Stiles's footsteps dragged on the way to her second floor apartment. His knock at the door was hesitant. "Uh, Charlie?" he asked, his voice faltering. "This is your place, right? Charlie?"
Charlie yanked the door open, revealing a Stiles whose eyes sat as fidgety in their sockets as hers did. She breathed again, filling her lungs solely for the purpose that she might reply. "Yeah, it's my place," she answered. "Your GPS did not steer you wrong."
He nodded uncomfortably. "R—right. I just, um, thought that the entrance was downstairs. It threw me off. Walking...up...the stairs...Plus the stairway was kinda dark. I was afraid I got turned around."
"There's only one upstairs apartment on this side of the duplex."
"Yeah....."
Silver lining: Stiles appeared as off-put by this scenario as she was. Clearing her throat, Charlie stepped aside, waving an arm to welcome him through the doorway. Stiles stepped past the threshold practically on tiptoe. His eyes darted around the room, almost as if looking for clues. He took small steps and kept his arms close to his side, hands shoved in the pockets, afraid to let his limbs stray too far lest they break anything. The overstuffed couch, the vaguely artistic black-and-white prints, the sleekest light fixtures IKEA had to offer, it all came under a baffled brand of scrutiny. "Nice place," he mumbled.
"It does its job," she replied. "There's, um, muffins and stuff in the kitchen if you're hungry."
Stiles scrunched up his face, his unease placed aside just long enough for a little light teasing. "You made snacks?"
Charlie let out a huff and scratched absently at her forehead. "I don't know the protocol for this shit, okay? Snacks were made—there's no need to question it."
"Not questioning it," Stiles said, holding his hands in the air. "Just clarifying."
"Right."
Charlie's nerves had no reason to be so rattled. It was just Stiles. And it was just Donald. Introducing the two of them should have no significant impact on their respective relationships with her. Hell, they would probably like each other. Possibly. Maybe. But she would prefer they met under different circumstances. Social ones. This arrangement possessed a performative aspect that Charlie didn't like. It felt like an audition. But she hadn't prepared for the production and Donald....he had definitely prepared. And made props. Which was objectively terrifying. Charlie clapped her hands together and glanced around the room. "Well anyways," she declared, "make yourself at home, I guess. I told Donald we'd be calling in about fifteen minutes. Or we could just call him now. He's probably already online. He's pretty hyped to meet you."
Stiles blinked, eyes narrowing. "Wait, he knows about me? Like you talk to him about me?"
"Of course I talk to him about you Stiles," Charlie deadpanned. "If I didn't talk to him about you we wouldn't be in this painfully awkward situation to begin with."
He made a move to lean against the wall but seemed to think better of it, instead shoving his hands back in his pockets. "But, like...what did you say?"
Charlie shrugged. "I don't know, the basics? I mean he knows everything I know. I talk to him a couple of times a week."
"You talk to him about me a couple of times a week?!"
"What?" Charlie frowned. "No. But you and Scott are magnificently unsubtle, so he knows about most of the weird shit you've pulled. He might think you're a moron, so let's put some effort into that first impression."
An offended scoff shook the whole of Stiles's body. "Why would he think I'm a moron?"
Charlie wrinkled her nose at him. "We only have fifteen minutes before the call—let's not commit to that topic. And don't worry. Your best friend is a werewolf. No matter how much of a moron you are, to Donald you're cool by default. You get to be a cool moron. That's a step up, right?"
Stiles responded with a mildly deranged chuckle that slowly disintegrated into quiet muttering. "Donald," he grumbled, rolling the name around in his mouth like he was trying to work out the shape of it. "My fate is in the hands of a dude named Donald who lives in Rhodes Island. That's just fantastic. This is exactly the situation I want to be in. You know the other day I was just thinking to myself, 'wouldn't life be better if some shadowy figure named Donald knew all the darkest secrets of my life,' and look at that! I wished it into being! Scratch that one off the bucket list. I should totally make one of those vision board things."
As nervous as Charlie was, she had left behind some room for frustration. Reaching over, she flicked Stiles's ear, making him jump. His mouth fell open in a silent and exaggerated screech of pain. "What was that for?!" he shouted, clapping a hand over his ear.
"Donald isn't a sith lord, okay?" she grumbled. "He is the same level of moron as you are. And the entire reason you're here is to meet him so you can chill the hell out. He can be trusted. He's my Scott."
The mention of Scott did nothing to improve Stiles's soured expression. Apparently trouble still reigned in paradise. He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Not really a big confidence booster."
Charlie let out a groan, her head sagging on her shoulders. "Fine. He's not my Scott, he's my you. Whatever. Are we going to do this or not?"
Stiles threw his hands in the air in submission as if he was personally offended by every element of the conversation. "Alright, fine. Lead the way."
With a definitive nod, Charlie spun on her heel and moved towards her room, Stiles trailing behind her. "I can't believe you flicked my ear," he muttered bitterly. "I mean what are you—twelve? That freaking hurt."
Charlie hid the Cheshire-like smirk stealing across her face.
As they reached the door to her room, Stiles stopped short. He seemed to have a bizarre phobia of immediately crossing thresholds. He had to stop, stick his head through, and assess the new venue for possible booby traps and the like before putting a toe over the line. He entered Charlie's room squinting with a scientific degree of intensity. Charlie didn't fear his judgement, but little about the past few days left her feeling easy. She crossed her arms defensively across her chest as he walked one full revolution of her room, scouring each element, before stopping at the center. "This makes more sense," he declared.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
In reply Stiles just waved a hand around the room and flailed it in the direction of the hallway, too distracted to formulate an actual sentence. "Is that an original Tron movie poster?" he demanded, pointing at the wall.
"Yup," Charlie nodded. "You know me. Always down for the cheesy 80s sci-fi."
"Nice...." He continued to study her room, hands still in his pockets and head bobbing to the tune of an inaudible song. Her guitar was the next thing to catch his attention. "You play?" he asked, picking it up from the stand.
"I've been known to, yeah," Charlie replied.
Stiles inspected the guitar carefully, taking in the nicks and aging stickers decorating it. "It looks pretty old. Was it your dad's?"
"Mom's," Charlie corrected.
Stiles slung the guitar over his shoulder and began to idly strum. None of the notes rang correct. It needed tuning. Damn, it had been a long time since she played. Charlie's arms tightened around her waist and she regarded Stiles from beneath pointedly raised eyebrows. "You about done?"
Stiles suddenly bit his lip theatrically and rocked back on his heels, miming some fairly elaborate air guitar. A smile threatened to break the casual disinterest written into her features. Maintaining her passive indifference was the product of a hard fought battle. "Nice moves, Jimi Hendrix," she drawled. "But if you want groupies, you're actually going to have to learn how to play."
"Hey!" Stiles said, snapping and pointing at her. "Don't discount the swag. Style is like 95% of the equation."
"Is that so?"
He nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. How else do you explain boy bands?"
"Please. Boy band members rarely play their own instruments."
Stiles pointed at her again, the force of the gesture almost enough to dislocate a shoulder. "A-ha!" he declared. "I rest my case. The guitar is not necessary. Point proven."
Charlie paused. "Dammit."
An absurdly pleased chuckle burbled from Stiles's throat as he removed the guitar from his shoulder and replaced it on the stand with adequate reverence. "So your mom used to play?"
Charlie shrugged. "Wrong tense. She still does as far as I know."
Stiles's answering expression mixed surprise and horror. If the desperate twang of a snapping guitar string could be visually translated, he had successfully achieved it. He scratched uncomfortably at the back of his neck, a pink flush creeping up from under his shirt collar. "Oh.....Sorry. I just sort of thought that your mom was—"
"Dead," Charlie supplied, sparing him the awkwardest word of the sentence. "Most people assume that. It's usually easier to go with that and not correct them. She left when I was a baby. I never really knew her. And it's weird watching strangers be more bummed out about her absenteeism than I am, so..."
Stiles immediately schooled his look of sympathy into a hastily cobbled together mask of calm. "Sure, yeah. People. Who needs them?"
Charlie moved to the guitar and picked a single string, allowing it to hum till it stilled. "Not sure why I keep it, though," she mused. "I should probably get a new one. The neck is splintering a bit. I should have replaced it a while back."
"Well there's nothing wrong with wanting a connection to something you've moved on from," Stiles answered. Charlie's eyebrows shot up her forehead and Stiles offered an apologetic wince. "Sorry, I just mean...you don't have to like something to want to remember it. You know, like when people pass kidney stones and then keep them as a souvenir." He opened his mouth only to close it again, lips stretching into a pained grimace. "That's...that's not the same thing."
"And yet it still puts things in perspective," Charlie nodded somberly. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. I mean that literally—never mention it. I was trying to be insightful and that was weird so I just...overcorrected. And I'm still talking about it. And I'm going to stop that...right now."
Charlie trapped her lower lip in her teeth, biting back a laugh. An ineffective maneuver as her chest heaved with a restrained guffaw. Stiles rolled his eyes heavily. "Yeah, fine, laugh it up at my expense," he grumbled. "Aren't we supposed to be doing something right now? You know, something that's actually a valuable use of our time?"
"You don't think my mockery is valuable to you?" Charlie deadpanned. "But Stiles, how else will you learn?"
His eyes went wide and he shook his head with an almost manic energy, like his skeleton was about to vibrate its way out of his skin. "Oh my God, I hate you so much right now."
Charlie sniggered under her breath, but relented. Turning to her desk, she grabbed her laptop and opened up Facetime. Lo and behold, Donald had already logged in. The moment she became available, her laptop began to ding frantically as he inundated her messenger with meaningless caps lock keyboard smashes. Not a single actual word appeared. Just Donald shrieking noiselessly into the abyss. She glanced over her shoulder at Stiles. Yeah, there was a 98% chance this was not going to end well.
"Well here goes nothing."
She and Stiles dragged up a set of chairs, settling themselves in front of the webcam. A feeling of imminent doom sat on Charlie's chest as she hit the 'call' button. She hoped to get a few rings in to prepare herself, but not one shrill beep was allowed to reach its conclusion. An image appeared on the screen, the pixels slowly filling in like puzzle pieces. The end result? Donald's face, bearing a manic grin. And wearing glasses? Which were not under normal circumstances a harbinger of chaos, but in Charlie's mind served as a clear indication that things were already out of hand.
Stiles, who broadcasted his anxiety like it was the title of his memoir, managed to hold it together long enough to offer a lame wave of greeting. Charlie, on the other hand, was already on the verge of losing her shit. "Donald, I told you not to be weird. You're being weird."
Donald's grin morphed into a smirk. "I don't know what you mean."
"You're wearing glasses. Why are you wearing glasses?" She turned to Stiles. "He doesn't need glasses."
Stiles's eyebrows drew together. "Uh, okay?"
Stiles's bemusement was etched into every line of his face. Of course he was confused. Because unless you were a scholar in all things Donald, none of his small choices added up to anything nefarious. But they did. Oh, how they did. "It's a power move," she elaborated. "He's misrepresenting himself in a small and stupid way."
"That makes no sense."
Charlie rounded on the screen. "No. No, It doesn't. So why are you doing it?"
"You told me not to intimidate him with my handsome, symmetrical features," Donald drawled casually. "And my features are super-symmetrical. I took it to heart."
Stiles's eyebrows underwent a series of acrobatics, taking them all the way into his not entirely un-receded hairline. "Wait, hold on, you thought I'd be intimidated by him?" he demanded.
Donald's smirk widened. "Hey, greater men than you have gotten lost in my eyes." He gestured at his face. "You should be grateful for these."
"Grateful that you're wearing your dad's bifocals?" Charlie scoffed.
"Charlie," Donald chided. "You're ruining my mystique."
"We're discussing werewolves! There's already enough mystique!"
Charlie collapsed forwards, head in hands. She should have drawn up an itinerary. And talking points. And an escape route. Holy shit, why did she agree to this? Maybe if she sat there, eyes covered, they would disappear. Except they wouldn't, because fucking object permanence was a thing. And the longer she left them unsupervised, the more catastrophic the potential consequences. She yanked her head from her hands and plastered on her most smile-like grimace.
At least Donald had taken off the glasses.
"Okay," she declared, clapping her hands together like a camp counselor on the first day of summer. "How about we start over. Stiles, this is Donald, a raging egotist who happens to be one of my best friends."
"Bestest friend," Donald corrected. "I made bracelets."
"And Donald," Charlie barreled on, "this is Stiles. He runs with the wolves and shit. Behave."
No sooner had the word 'behave' left her mouth, Donald opened his. And what followed was, by definition, the opposite of 'behaving'. Donald peered at Stiles through narrowed eyes, weighing and measuring from three thousand miles away. "How tall are you?"
Stiles exchanged a confused glance with Charlie. "Um...I'm five foot nine?"
Donald fell back in his chair, conspicuously and theatrically disappointed by the response. "Huh. I was hoping you'd be taller."
"Wha—I'm sitting down," Stiles spluttered. "I look taller when I'm standing. Also five foot nine isn't short. How tall are you?"
Donald shrugged. "That's immaterial."
"He's five foot eight."
"Charlie, don't be a narc. You're better than that."
Stiles's eyes darted back and forth between Charlie and Donald at an alarming rate. "Yeah, I'm unclear as to what's happening right now."
"Nothing's happening," Donald replied. "I just thought...lacrosse, werewolf bestie...I was kinda hoping for someone bigger for when Charlie gets herself into trouble."
This was a wrinkle. Charlie expected some mild antagonism of Stiles, but the conversational shift to her was a particularly displeasing turn. She blinked at the reply and glowered at her computer screen with an intensity that might set it aflame. "Whoa, excuse me?" she balked. "Since when am I a freaking damsel in distress?"
Donald's continued casualness only infuriated her more. "You're not. I'm just saying if you're gonna get yourself into a stupid situation—which you will—I want you to have backup, not one of those inflatable dancing tube men they put up outside used car lots."
"Whoa, hey man," Stiles stammered. "Uncalled for on so many levels."
Donald barrelled on, ignoring Stiles's flailing protests. "Ideally I'd be your backup," he continued, gesturing to himself, "but that's not happening. So if I had a choice I'd rather the person who bails you out of your stupidity be able to bench 220 and do parkour."
"You know that I know self-defense," Charlie snapped.
Donald rolled his eyes. "Yes, Charlie, I'm fully aware you can kick my ass. But you're not gonna be able to karate chop a werewolf to death."
"Oh my God. Where the hell is all the paternalistic bullshit coming from?"
"It's not paternalistic!" Donald shot back. "If I could hire Ripley from Aliens to be be my own personal bodyguard, believe me, I would. 'Get away from her you bitch!' Classic. Awesome. Badass."
Charlie could feel the beginnings of a cluster headache forming at the center of her forehead. "This isn't a movie, Donald," she replied, massaging her temples.
Donald shimmied in his seat, bringing it closer to the desk. "Look," he declared in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm over here and you're over there. I just want to know that, in my absence, somebody's looking out for you. That when the chips are down and your back is to the wall, that someone's gonna—"
Stiles rolled his chair up to the desk, edging Charlie to the corner of the frame. "Look, I've got her back, man," he said, shooting a glance at her over his shoulder. "She's saved my ass a couple of times now. I'm gonna return the favor. I'm no Ripley, but I'm scrappy. You'd be surprised. Plus I've got some insults tucked away that could seriously damage any assailant's self esteem. Long enough for her to surprise them with a karate chop to the face."
Donald studied Stiles carefully. The jovial, almost teasing tone that had painted his face moments ago fell away, allowing something more serious to take its place. He leaned further forwards, placing an elbow on the table and balancing his chin in his hand. His capacity for gravitas, though rarely used, was not unformidable. "You best not say that unless you mean it," he declared, inclining his head towards Stiles.
Stiles's eyes went wide and twitchy under the force of Donald's stare. "I, uh, I do."
Donald held Stiles's gaze. With each moment that ticked by, the tension thickened, filling the room. Until the stern set of Donald's lips split into a blinding grin. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, his body regaining its usual looseness as he collapsed back from the computer. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I'm working on a screenplay, and I have many questions."
The conversational whiplash had Charlie's head spinning like a Coney Island Tilt-A-Whirl. Stiles too, given the light green tinge coloring his cheeks. Donald did always have a way to turn a conversation on its head. Bait the opponent into a pointless argument, stir up enough chaos that down looks like up, a little bit of light intimidation, and cap it all off with a cheery new subject. And she fell for it. Every time. She should have shut it down when he fished out a notebook and pen. Should've, should've, should've. Her life was full of those.
"Alright," Donald said brightly. "Let's get started." He clicked his pen with emphasis. "So do werewolves mark their territory? Like with pee?"
Stiles slowly turned to face Charlie. Surprise, frustration, jittery panic, sarcastic smugness—all the typical players in his facial repertoire had been wiped away only to be replaced by resignation. "I think I almost understand you now."
Charlie opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by Donald loudly clicking a pen near his mic to get their attention. He beamed, his smile shining brighter than the sun. "You guys," he sighed as they turned back to him, "this is gonna be so much fun."
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Monday morning rolled around like a rerun of The Twilight Zone. Nothing amiss at first glance, but careful inspection threw into relief the school's altered state. The sun shone behind an overcast sky, enveloping the town in a bright grey. A deputy's car sat quietly in the corner of the lot. Bits of yellow crime scene tape stuck to the parking lot's chain link fence. A dark stain colored the asphalt before the front doors. Ominous eighties synth score played in the background.... Reality had shifted. But then again, maybe nothing had changed. Maybe the picture was just behind a different lens.
Charlie's overladen messenger bag hung heavily on her shoulder, slowly destroying her posture and employing the next generation of chiropractors. Lydia's cell phone sat at the bottom, weightier than the combined mass of her textbooks. All she had to do was hand it over—pretend she found it in her car that morning. Simple. Easy. Almost true. The best type of lie. One she didn't want to tell. One she had to tell. Irony could be a fickle bitch. For as long as Charlie lived in Beacon Hills, her primary goal had been to uncover the extraordinary. Now that she had, her most daunting task was to emulate the ordinary. Now that she found the truth, lying was the only option.
Stalking through the parking lot, Charlie came to a stop in front of Lydia's black Beetle. She was back in school. That was good. You had to be conscious to be at school. But as Charlie's chest loosened with relief, the knot in her stomach tightened. Her brain buzzed with friendship math. Lying equals bad, protecting equals good, but the ideas were too subjective to assign a point value. It all added up to an impossible equation—no way to solve for 'x'. Her emotional IQ was not high enough to accommodate this. People took up so much room, she didn't know where to fit them all. Before Beacon Hills Charlie had carved out space for three of them. Now they kept appearing out of nowhere and she had to make them all fit, like a game of emotional tetris she was destined to lose.
There should be a set limit to the number of existential crises a person could experience within a single week. Charlie would estimate her average at around three, maybe four if chemistry class decided to rear its ugly, traumatizing head. She could probably take five in stride. This week...it had thrown more at her than she could count, all tangled and messy and impossible to pull apart and address separately. Nothing fit in a box anymore. The Container Store's entire catalogue couldn't sort it.
"Charlie!"
The sound of her name, pronounced with such excited desperation, jolted Charlie out of her self-pity spiral. She looked up to find Allison jogging her way, eyes alight and cheeks dotted with pink from the fall chill. So this was what blissful ignorance looked like. She skidded to a halt in front of Charlie, flashing a dimpled smile. "Oh my God," she sighed. "I'm so glad to see you. I feel like I just got out of prison. My parents took my phone after I ditched school with Scott. I was seriously considering raising carrier pigeons for a while there."
It took a careful brand of apprehension to force a calm exterior, a rigid mind and fluid body. One, two, three moments to collect herself and Charlie swung herself away from the car, lips pulled to the side in a smirk. "Hey now, no need to go to those extremes," she replied. "I'll be your man on the outside. From cigarettes to trashy magazines to mushy love notes out for delivery, I've got you. Pigeons are not necessary. And probably unhygienic."
Allison quirked a mischievous eyebrow. "Oh, no need to go over the top with the contraband. Unless something in your stash can save me from awkward family dinners where my parents sit in silent judgement. How is it that my dad guns down an animal in front of all my teachers, but I'm the one getting the stink eye over a plate of potato salad?"
"You could always fake your own death," Charlie shrugged. "It's the perfect avoidance technique. I've gotten out of like three gym memberships that way."
"I can always count on you for a well-reasoned suggestion." Allison took a deep breath and stared upward, revelling in her newfound freedom. "I missed the sky.....Is it weird if I hug you, 'cause I feel like I wanna hug you."
Charlie's false ease hit a stumbling block. "Yeah, I'm not really a hugger."
"Don't care." Allison lurched forward, trapping Charlie in a tight embrace. Arms pinned to her sides as they were, she had no mechanism of escape. Charlie went boneless, sagging and forcing Allison to support her weight, but the girl didn't flinch. Holy hell, she was strong. "Do your worst, Charlie," Allison tutted. "I can do this all day."
"If you miss class your parents will ground you again."
She made a noise of complaint, but let go. Instead she hooked an arm through Charlie's dragging her towards the school entry. "You're lucky I'm spending time with Scott tonight. Otherwise I'd risk it."
Just this once, Charlie allowed herself to be dragged without a hint of protest. Because Allison was soft. She was kindness and hugs and teasing smiles. Her edges were curved where Charlie's were sharp. She radiated the warmth Lydia needed to soak up. Charlie had only ever been able to provide a weak flicker. She could learn to be warmer. She could learn anything with enough dedication. But Allison had been raised by murderous psychopaths, and her softness came second nature. Between the two of them, Lydia had definitely chosen the wrong support system.
"So Lydia's car is here," Allison murmured, her voice all sincerity and earnestness because of course it was. "Do you know how she's been doing? I've been so disconnected from everything."
"I called her house a few times this weekend, tried to stop by..." Charlie replied. "Her mom kept saying she was 'indisposed' and that 'it wasn't a good time'."
Allison sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "That's awful. Maybe we should surprise her with a card or something. Or flowers?"
Charlie shook her head definitively. "Ohhh, no. Flowers are for grovelling or expressions of romantic intent. Getting her 'feel better soon' anything would remind her that she at one point she wasn't well. And that is a sign of weakness. Lydia hates those."
"Um, that's insane."
Charlie shrugged. "That's Lydia."
Allison made a face, but inclined her head in silent agreement. "So we just...what? Ignore it? Pretend nothing happened?"
"Yup," Charlie replied, popping the 'p'. "That is exactly what we do."
The two of them pushed through the double doors just as the first warning bell rang. Students slammed their lockers shut and dragged their feet to class, chatting, laughing, complaining just like it was any other day. A few days ago, Charlie had looked just like them. Allison still did. But did she look different to them now? Could they tell?
Allison's voice sounded right next to her, making Charlie give a twitch of surprise. "Oh my God. I can't believe I'm actually relieved to be back in school. I can't wait for things to be normal again."
The irony was enough to blow out a fuse in Charlie's brain. "Same here, Allison. Same here."
As Charlie stepped into homeroom, though, it became immediately clear that normal had no intention of making a reappearance. Even the seating arrangements refused to conform. Stiles had abandoned his usual position on Allison's other side, diagonal from Scott. Instead he dropped into the seat on Charlie's other side, distancing himself from his friend. He held his body as loosely as ever, but it was sagging and sullen. Charlie approached Stiles with caution, Allison's idle chatting barely registering while she approached her desk. She took her seat slowly, almost afraid any sudden movements might spook him. They had reached an understanding, sure, but everything felt so....unsettled. And at the moment his face wasn't helping.
Charlie took her seat, extracting her textbooks with movements of undue precision. A full minute passed before she found her voice. Another one ticked by as she formulated her truly inspired greeting. "Hey."
Stiles's reply came clipped and grumpy. "Hey."
Charlie blinked at his terseness. Nothing about this presentation rang true—from his face to his voice, nothing was familiar. Even the shittiest of Monday mornings were not exempt from his manic enthusiasm, but now a dark cloud hovered over his head, casting him in shadow. The image was disagreeable—she did not care for it. Stiles was not built to brood. After a few moments, she noticed his glower was not of the general sort, but instead had a very concrete point of focus: Scott's still-empty seat.
Charlie nodded to herself, penciling in a mental note never to piss him off. "Right." His silence continued. She felt itchy. 'Watching a documentary on beetles' level itchy. "So...," she drawled, desperately needing at least one of them to be using words, "...um...how was your weekend?"
Stiles's lips twitched downward, the angry direction. "Oh, the usual," he drawled. "Homework, TV, video games, a trip to the hospital. Stared at a bunch of x-rays, budgeted for some hospital bills. Yeah, it was a real blast." Charlie inhaled sharply at the harshness of his tone. Stiles must have heard her, because he redirected her gaze from Scott's desk. As his eyes met hers, some of the darkness lifted and he cleared his throat. "Hey....sorry."
Charlie shook her head. "Don't be."
"This weekend...I'm—I've just been....stressed. Stress has been happening to me. Like...actively. Things have been stressful in my general vicinity."
"It's fine. Don't worry about it."
Stiles sucked in his cheeks and narrowed his eyes, worrying about it. His head bobbed and he looked down at his open textbook, but his eyes didn't move at all. He wasn't reading. Charlie studied his profile carefully. One of her awkward back-pats seemed in order, but would likely be unwelcome. She leaned in towards him, her voice tentative. "You and Scott still having problems?"
Stiles snorted bitterly. "Yup."
Charlie bit her lip and nodded in understanding. "It's, um, it's not because of me, is it?" she asked quietly. "I mean, it's not because you told me about the—the situation, right? Because if it is, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to become another problem for you—I could talk to Scott if—"
Stiles held up a hand, cutting her off. "It's not about that. Trust me."
Charlie gave a sigh of relief. "Good," she breathed, turning to face the chalkboard. She stole a couple of sidelong glances at him, unsure of how to proceed. "So....do you wanna talk about it?"
Stiles wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Not really."
"Okay, then."
That should have been that. Avoiding heavy conversations was a staple of the Charlie Oswin behavioral manual. But Stiles was still sad and her skin still itched. "Um, if you decide that you do wanna talk about it, I'm, you know, here and stuff. Like if you want to do some unnecessary yelling, you can do it in my direction and I promise not to get mad."
Stiles's lips twitched again, but this time they went upwards. The happy direction. "That's a generous offer. You sure you're up for it?"
"Absolutely," she declared. "I might punch you in the face, but I won't be mad."
"Um, you really need to work on your sales pitch," Stiles laughed, gesturing in the general direction of her face. "And FYI, face-punching negates pretty much all of the generosity in the offer."
"Hey, I'm not Mother Theresa," Charlie shot back, folding her arms across her chest. "And that's just how it works. Punches follow yelling. It's instinctive. There's no ill will or whatever. Just playground rules."
Stiles wheezed. "Playground rules?"
"Yeah, playground rules. If someone gets in your face, you gotta punch them. Otherwise all the other kids think you're weak and turn on you. Punching maintains the status quo."
Stiles gaped at her, shaking his head in disbelief. "Playground rul—those are prison rules! Did you grow up in the Thunderdome?" Charlie smiled enigmatically, and Stiles gave of a derisive scoff. "Sometimes you terrify me."
"Good call, young padawan," Charlie smirked. "Your instincts do not steer you wrong. You would do well in the Thunderdome."
The roll of his eyes was at odds with the flicker of mirth behind them. Good. Laughing Stiles was the best of the Stileses. His thumb still tapped nervously against the edge of his desk, but his resemblance to the cast of the Addams family had lessened somewhat. "How's your dad doing?" she asked, eyeing him carefully.
The tapping of Stiles's thumb abruptly stopped. "The scans said he didn't bruise his spine. He should be fine, but the doctors said to take it easy—rest a lot."
Charlie raised her eyebrows skeptically. "And how's that working out?"
"Not too well. He keeps going over his files. Every time I try to get him to lay down, he keeps yelling about how our house isn't a nursing home. He's being a gigantic pain in the ass, to be honest."
"Yeah, well he's a cop," Charlie replied. "Asking a cop to take it easy is like asking a fish to tap dance. And your dad is a good cop. Honestly, I'd be a bit disappointed if he just laid down with zero protest."
Stiles groaned, his head falling forward and slamming into his desk. "Can you stop being all wise and understanding and stuff and just let me complain? Is that too much to ask?"
"Oh, were you having difficulty complaining? I couldn't tell. You know, because of the complaining you were and are still currently engaged in."
Stiles wrenched his head up from the desk. "You know what—"
His indignation was cut short as a familiar silhouette darkened the doorway. The mildness with which Scott carried himself was always endearing, but now it had the added bonus of being hilariously paradoxical. The meekest person she knew, an apex predator. As he approached, he fixed Stiles in the crosshairs of those apologetic puppy dog eyes of his. Stiles's eyes, on the other hand, were a pair of windows with the curtains drawn shut. Complete refusal to engage. Defeated, Scott took his regular seat and slumped forwards, chin resting on his desk. Even Allison's brilliant smile of greeting was not sufficient to improve his posture.
Suspicious. Scott didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, he wore it on his face. And his face had no reaction whatsoever to hers. No nervousness, no skittishness, no nothing. She held his fate in her hands like a fragile little robin's egg, and he apparently had no solid opinion on this. For someone with his propensity towards awkwardness, the complete absence of it could only mean one thing. He didn't know that she knew. That little shit hadn't told him. Her face hardened as she looked at Stiles. He must have felt her eyes on him—he visibly twitched—but for some reason he decided not to return the look. Suspicious-ier.
English class dragged more than anticipated. And they were reading Dante's Inferno, so Charlie could pinpoint the exact circle of hell she was currently enduring. Complicated and boring, anxious and angry, predictable but completely nonsensical. And that was just Mr. Hobson's lecture. Throughout the class, Charlie's eye jumped back and forth between Stiles and Scott, trying to piece together the source of the rift. Stiles must have been paying attention. He stiffened under her scrutiny every time.
When the second period bell did ring, Stiles scrambled out of his seat as quickly as possible and sprinted for the door. Scott stared solemnly at his wake, not bothering to follow. Charlie, on the other hand, jumped up, using her elbows to paddle through the tide of students until she caught up. She called out after him. "Hey, Stiles."
Stiles stopped in his tracks and turned around. His face, unsure whether to appear guilty or oblivious, painted a Picasso-esque combination of the two. "Hey, Charlie!" he exclaimed brightly. "What are you—"
"We need to talk."
Charlie wrenched open the nearby door to the music room, grabbed hold of his arm, and shoved him inside. "Wha—what are you doing?" he protested. "We're going to be late for class! This is not normal behavior!"
Charlie locked the door and pulled down the blinds on the window that looked into the hallway. "Do you really want to start qualifying normal behavior? Do you think that would be useful for someone in your situation?"
"Uh...probably not, but—"
"What's going on with you and Scott?"
Stiles sighed and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie. "I'm not really talking to Scott right now."
Charlie scoffed. "Yeah, no shit. And speaking of things not happening right now, why isn't Scott spiralling out about the fact that I know about his....condition?"
"Because he doesn't know that you know."
"Yeah—I gathered that. And why doesn't he know?"
"I don't know, Charlie," Stiles shrugged. "Maybe because telling him would kind of defeat the purpose of the whole 'not talking to him' thing."
"Don't you think he deserves to know I'm in on the whole 'werewolf business' now?" she asked incredulously. "I mean, it's his secret. Shouldn't be aware who else has it?"
"Right now I really don't care what Scott deserves," was Stiles's grumbling reply. "And if you're so bent out of shape about it, why don't you go and tell him yourself?"
Charlie poked him in the shoulder, hard enough to break the mask of bitterness with a little old fashioned annoyance. "And how would that work out, hm?" she demanded. "What? I just walk up to him all like..." She shoved her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders, adopting a non-threatening posture. "Hi-de-ho, Scotty boy!" she chirped, venom mingling with the artificial sweetness of her voice. "How are you doing on this fine morn? I'm some random girl you barely know, but—"
"You're not some random girl."
"BUT," Charlie insisted, "I know all of your deepest, darkest, and most personal secrets! How did I find out, you ask? Well your bestest bud in the whole wide world told me! Okay, then! Bye!" She dropped the act and glowered at Stiles. "In what world would that end well for anybody involved—especially you? In that reality, you get to be the asshole. Anyways, we're going to need him to find out who the alpha is."
"Hey, I don't see why we can't research that on our own," Stiles grumbled. "It's not like Scott was getting anywhere to begin with."
Hearing Stiles use the word 'we' made Charlie want to laugh or cringe. "Oh, no," she declared, shaking her head. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to turn me into the other woman."
Stiles's face shifted from dour to bewildered. "Um....what?"
"You're friend-cheating on Scott with me," she said gesturing between the two of them.
"Did you suffer from some acute head trauma over the weekend? Because I think you might be suffering from a concussion."
"You're coming to me with all your werewolf stuff because you're refusing to talk about it with Scott! I'm your temporary replacement Scott. I don't know how I feel about that—I am not the B-team."
Stiles blew out a long breath and shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous, Charlie, there is no B-team. And you're not a replacement Scott."
Charlie planted her hands on her hips, squaring her shoulders in his direction. "Really. So you're saying that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn't have sent that rambling email of Derek Hale conspiracy theories to Scott instead of me?"
"It wasn't rambling!"
"I'm totally your replacement Scott," Charlie barreled on. "And he doesn't know I'm in on the secret?! I feel like a dirty homewrecker. You're making me be the voice of reason here! This has gotten out of hand!""
"Hey, the only person who wrecked anything was Scott!"
Charlie hadn't even realized they started yelling until her chest heaved from the effort. Stiles stood as standoffish as she had ever seen him, arms crossed across his chest, expression closed, steeled eyes, a 'Do Not Enter' sign stamped on his forehead. She took a small step forwards, fixing him under her gaze. "This can't just be about Scott missing some calls. What's going on?"
Stiles frowned, a sharp breath pushing through his nose. "He's...he's not taking any of this seriously enough. While he's off making out with his girlfriend, people are getting hurt. He's got all these new abilities and stuff—he can help people. Instead he's just ignoring them."
"People like your dad," Charlie filled in. Stiles didn't reply, but his nonverbal cues numbered in the dozens. Rocking back on his heels, lips pinched in a thin line, eyes willing to look anywhere but at her, she could go on. Damnit, she was the voice of reason. "Stiles, Scott is a high school sophomore. He's not Superman. You can't expect him to save everybody, even if everybody includes your dad."
"I can expect him to try, though!" Stiles shot back. "I can expect him to care enough not to go and disappear for an afternoon while the shit is hitting the fan! I can expect him not to abandon me with his problems that I can't do anything about, and to bother showing up when I'm in the middle of mine! I'm always there for his! Do you remember who helped me this weekend? 'Cause it wasn't Scott. It was the self-proclaimed 'random girl who barely knows us'. You got my dad to the hospital. You deleted Lydia's video. You're the one who realized I couldn't do it by myself. Scott couldn't be freaking bothered."
Stiles groaned loudly and stomped across the room, collapsing in one of the chairs somewhere in the tuba section. Elbows on his knees, head in his hands, the tension in him snapped. He went slack, but strain clicked with his jaw and clenched and unclenched with his fists—movements of unfulfilled action. Charlie worried her lip. She had yet to fully realize the sense of futility imposed upon Stiles through all of this. He was logistics and backup. Both important roles to play, to be sure, but they were never at the forefront of a fight. They didn't decide the winner. Whenever Scott wasn't around, Stiles probably felt a tiny bit useless. An impossible-to-confront enemy. She could relate.
Moving over to the chairs, Charlie took the seat next to Stiles. She reached over and clapped a hand on his shoulder, making his head snap up, his eyes finding hers. Smiling gently, she gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You're right," she said, nodding to him. "Scott probably needs to take this stuff more seriously. But you can't blame him for your dad. He's a cop. It's literally his job to put himself in harm's way. And you can't keep doing this radio silence thing—it's not sustainable and it helps nobody."
Stiles wrinkled his nose at her. "Would you stop doing that?"
"Doing what?"
You know...." He waggled his fingers in her face. "Stop ruining all my anger with your....reasonableness and logic. I don't care for it. You're supposed to be on my side."
Charlie elbowed him in the ribs. "I am on your side. Sometimes being on someone's side means telling them when they're being a moron."
She regarded Stiles evenly, hoping for some form of response. Maybe a shift in his expression to something warmer, more familiar. The second bell rang, reminding them of where they were—where they were supposed to be. School felt so distant right now. Stiles stood up and grabbed his bag from the floor, marching towards the door. He wrenched it open, poised to step through, but paused for a moment. "I'll talk to you later, Charlie."
He ducked through, leaving her alone.
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At a certain point, too many things could happen in a single day. If that point has been reached, a person should be allowed the eject from their life, go home, wrap themself in a blanket, and eat a crapload of ice cream. It was only fair. But the world wasn't fair. The world was a freaking dystopian Disney World ride that could shift beneath your feet and send you toppling into a parallel dimension where nothing made sense and a chorus of puppets soundtracked your crisis. Stiles and Scott were fighting. Lydia's phone still sat at the bottom of her messenger bag. Mr. Harris insisted on continuing to exist. Too freaking much for one day. She was taking an out. Charlie had 99 problems, and she was going to hide from all of them. Today, lunch would be taken in the library.
The lunch bell rang and Charlie jumped to her feet, darting door. Stiles called her name behind her, but she pushed forwards into the hallway regardless. She was about to turn to the library, but a small, manicured, and surprisingly strong hand wrapped around her arm. Charlie turned to find Lydia staring at her, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"
Charlie's resolve to find solitude crumbled beneath her like a bridge in an Indiana Jones movie. Lydia upright, Lydia talking, Lydia sassing her. Damnit. More itchy feelings. These people had gotten under her skin. As Charlie's lips fought off a smile, Lydia took a step back, eyeing her suspiciously. "What is this?" she said, waving a finger in Charlie's face. "What's happening here—what is this look?"
Charlie swallowed. It was a new rhythm she'd have to become accustomed to, heart beating like a drum and cymbals crashing in her head. Her body reacting to innocuous sentences, screaming 'this situation is not normal!', while her face stays smooth and serene. Relief could be as loud as anxiety, joy as loud as panic, and all of them screamed in her ears at once. "Nothing. I'm just really glad to see you."
Two-thirds of an emotion flitted across Lydia's face. She shook her head, brushing the almost-feeling aside along with a clump of curls over her shoulder. Enough sincerity for one day. "Well, clearly our time apart has done you no favors." She withdrew one step further and looked Charlie up and down, taking in her floral skull print shirt, overall skater skirt, and tattered blue Converse before pursing her lips and frowning. "Your shoes are practically falling off your feet. It took what? Three days for you to forget everything I taught you?"
"That implies I was ever paying attention to begin with."
Lydia rolled her eyes and linked her arm through Charlie's, dragging her towards the cafeteria. How her short legs in such high heels were capable of that pace, Charlie would never understand. "Anyways, it's been a few days since we've all seen each other," Lydia said, each syllable heavy with determination. "We are going to have a girls' lunch. No boys or distractions. Just you, me, and Allison. Talking about boys and distractions."
"Sounds unmissable."
With all her purpose of movement, Lydia was distracted. Her head kept swivelling—either she was looking for someone or trying make sure everyone got her 'good angle'. Probably both. Charlie took the opportunity to reach into her messenger bag and pull out the cell phone. "Hey, by the way," she said, rooting around amongst the textbooks, "I found this in my car this morning. I think it got wedged under the passenger seat."
"Ugh, thank God."
Lydia snatched the phone from Charlie's hand at a speed that could break the sound barrier. The moment it was in the redhead's grasp, Charlie became a vestigial appendage, clunky and unnecessary. Lydia released Charlie's arm, waving her off as she scrolled through her missed notifications. "Allison's in the lunch line. Go get us some food and I'll find us a spot. Meet you in five."
"What was that you said about 'no distractions'?"
Lydia looked up from her phone long enough for one disdainful glare. "I said we were having a 'girls' lunch'. Are we eating lunch in this moment? No? Okay, then."
Lydia spun on her heel, marching in the opposite direction as Charlie's eyes followed. "Hey!" she shouted at Lydia's retreating figure. "Hey, why am I buying you food?"
Lydia's wave morphed to a prominent display of her middle finger. It was a move Charlie could respect, so she relented, instead trudging to meet Allison in the lunch line. The brunette didn't see her approach, as her head was tipped down towards an aged book. She was being jostled down the line, too engrossed to pay any mind to her surroundings. Charlie peeked over her shoulder to find a series of elaborate, menacing prints. "What are you reading?"
Allison jumped and turned, the wide eyes of surprise crinkling at the corners when she saw Charlie. "Oh, hey, Charlie," she said, shaking off her alarm. "You startled me."
Charlie slapped her tray down next to Allison's, ignoring the stink eye of the few people behind them in line. "What has you reading on a lunch break? I'm pretty sure this is our designated dilettante hour."
"Half hour," Allison corrected. The lunch line moved and the pair of them slid their trays closer to the various colors of gloop. "And it's just research. You know, for the family origins report for history? My aunt Kate filled me in a bit about our genealogy—ancestors and stuff. Apparently there's this French legend—I've been reading up on it a lot."
The shiver down Charlie's spine was battled into stillness and her mouth formed a silent 'o'. As much as she loved being proved right, her foresight in this case offered no comfort, not even a cold one. Kate did want Allison in on their secret. She'd begun to drop breadcrumbs, and at the end of the trail she might well gobble the girl up. Drums, cymbals, crash, bang. Her head hurt. "That's really cool," Charlie forced out with a hasty nod. "I'm pretty sure my ancestors were boring cattle farmers. Old French legends? That's a way better hook than dear old Bessie. I'm just gonna repurpose a paper I wrote on the Coast Guard last year."
Allison blinked. "Wait, you reuse papers?"
"Well, yeah. There's gotta be at least one perk to school-hopping."
"Look at you, using your powers for evil."
"I think it's more of a moral grey area than being straight-up evil."
Allison let out a light snort, but her expression quickly shifted. A line formed between her eyebrows and they knitted together in a frown. Charlie followed her eye line only to be confronted by the cafeteria door swinging shut. They stumbled a few more paces down the line before Allison spoke. "Hey, can I ask you a kind of weird question?"
"That's how I prefer my questions," Charlie said, plopping two plates of salad on her tray. "What's up?"
Allison bit her lip and bounced nervously on the balls of her feet. "Does Scott seem like he's acting kind of weird to you?"
"You're gonna have to be a bit more specific, Allison. Scott always seems like he's acting kind of weird. I'd go so far as to say he is weird."
Allison glanced down the lunch line and leaned forwards, tipping her head towards Charlie. "No, I mean especially weird. I was walking down the hallway this morning and I could swear I saw him running away from me. And then this morning in English class he just sort of...ignored me? Everything has been going really well. He snuck in this weekend—"
"Allison, you little minx!" Charlie whispered, smacking her arm.
Allison flushed pink from the collar of her shirt to the roots of her hair. Sheepish fingers tucked a curl of hair behind her ear before continuing. "It—it was nice. And everything was going fine until Kate walked in on us. He hid in the closet for a while and then left. I mean, everything was fine until he left. What changed?"
"Can't really help you there," Charlie shrugged. "My emotional IQ is in the negatives. Maybe he just really had to pee and was booking it for the bathroom. You know, it's never too soon to concern yourself with prostate health."
Allison furrowed her eyebrows, considering the thought. "And in English?"
"Maybe he was just worried about getting into trouble in class. I ran into his mom the night of parent-teacher conferences and...well, she wasn't exactly thrilled with him. Maybe she put him under some sort of parental academic probation."
The explanations, probable or not, did nothing thing bolster Allison's confidence. "I can't believe he got into so much trouble for me. I feel so guilty."
Today was proving to be a day of awkward back pats. "Oh, I'm sure it's fine," Charlie mumbled, offering Allison her one brand of comfort, "I'm sure he thinks it's totally worth it. Now, come on. Lydia's saving us a seat. We're having something called a 'girls' lunch'."
What precisely constituted a 'girls' lunch', Charlie wasn't certain. But given the expression of distaste on Lydia's face after the three of them settled in their seats, what was currently happening did not qualify. The enthusiasm on her face faded almost immediately as Allison opened her French history book on the table. Charlie made idle conversation—primarily defending exactly why she still owned this particular pair of shoes—but Lydia's eyes continually strayed to Allison. Eventually she dropped her fork to her tray with a passive aggressive clang.
Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Lydia placed her elbows on the table and folded her hands together, primly resting her chin on them. "Um, Allison," she said sweetly, "what are you doing?"
Allison's eyes flicked up from her book. "Reading."
Lydia's nose wrinkled with dissatisfaction. "Yeah....I can see that you're reading. What I don't understand is why you're reading here and now. I expect this kind of stuff from Charlie, but not you. No offense, Charlie."
"Um, offense taken. How dare you imply that I'm well-read. Don't embarrass me in public like this, Lydia."
"Being well-read isn't embarrassing," Lydia replied snappishly. "Being a crazy shut-in nerd with no social life, on the other hand, is." She squinted over at Allison's book. "What are you reading, anyway?"
Allison's smiling eyes appeared over the edge of the book cover. "A book of old French legends."
Lydia pursed her lips and nodded. "Okay, follow up question. Why are you reading that?"
"The family origins history paper. It's really interesting." She hunched over the book and drew her leg up to her chest, resting her heel on the edge of the chair. Literally on the edge of her seat. Allison had a talent for being adorable. "Okay, listen to this," she continued. "They've got this entire story about La Bête du Gévaudan."
"The what of who?" Lydia demanded, waving her fork around like an orchestra conductor.
"The Beast of Gevaudin," Allison elaborated. "Listen. A quadruped wolf-like monster prowling the Auvergne in south Dordogne in France during the years 1764 to 1767...La bête killed over a hundred people, becoming so infamous that the king Louis XV sent one of his best hunters to try and kill it."
As she spoke, Allison's voice adopted a sinister tone, all low whispers and creepy smirks, one campfire and ominous flashlight away from being a ghost story. Charlie's stomach folded in on itself, twisting with a twinge of fear. Not because Allison's performance was exceptionally harrowing, but because the scene being painted bore an eerie resemblance to present day Beacon Hills. Kate was ushering the next generation forwards. That could go very badly for Stiles and Scott.
"Boring," Lydia interjected, destroying all sense of gravitas.
"To you maybe." Charlie waved a beckoning hand, urging Allison to continue. "Keep going."
Allison leaned forwards, fixing them both with a serious stare. "Even the church eventually declared the monster a messenger of Satan."
Lydia pressed her lips together poutily. "Mmph. Still boring."
"Cryptozoologists believe that it may have been a subspecies of hoofed predator, possibly a masonicate—"
"Slipping into a coma bored."
"—while others believe that it was a powerful sorcerer that could shape-shift," Allison whispered dramatically, "into a man-eating monster."
"Any of this have anything to do with your family?" Lydia asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"This," Allison continued. "It is believed that la bête was finally trapped and killed by a renowned hunter who claimed his wife and four children were the first to fall prey to the creature. His name was Argent."
Charlie, whose insides were rapidly turning into one of the varieties of mush they served for lunch, let out a low whistle. "Damn. You hail from a long line of badasses, Allison. Remind me not to pick a fight with you."
Lydia, meanwhile, maintained her air of intense disinterest with little to no effort whatsoever. Though 'intense disinterest' did rank among her basic personality traits. "Your ancestors killed a big wolf," she deadpanned. "So what?"
Allison eagerly flipped to another page. "Not just a big wolf. Take a look at this picture." She turned the book around and held it up for both her and Lydia to observe. "What does that look like to you?"
Charlie's mushy insides straight-up liquefied. The charcoal image depicted a huge, wolf-like beast, shrouded in both mist and mystery. But that was to be expected based on all previous narration. The panic-inducing tour de force manifested in the piercing red eyes that stared through that mist and out from the page. Charlie glanced over at Lydia. Her eyes seemed to widen, fixated on the photo. But the moment passed as soon as it came. She quirked her head to the side, glossed lips pulling into a superior smile.
"It looks like a big wolf," the redhead said snarkily, enunciating each syllable. "And now that we're done with show and tell, how about we go over our double date plans for tonight."
Wide-eyed wonder turned to narrow-eyed suspicion. "What double date?" Allison demanded.
"Exactly, Allison," Lydia simpered. "Exactly."
Allison opened her mouth, looked to Charlie, and then closed it again. Too good-natured to protest given the weekend's events, she put her book to the side and listened intently to Lydia's really rather highly involved plans. Lydia scooted her chair closer to Allison, discussing what sounded to be a series of costume changes, and left Charlie to her salad and her thoughts. Until, naturally, she felt something collide with her shoulder.
Charlie brushed at the point of collision, not thinking much of it. Until it happened again. And again. Until a grape landed in the middle of her salad. Frowning to herself, she glanced down to see a few other grapes rolling around on the floor. Another one hit her ear, joining its comrades beneath the table. Following its trajectory, her eyes found Stiles a few tables over, hand waving frantically and a full tray of grapes at his disposal. Charlie waved back, then turning back to Allison and Lydia, still deep in conversation.
"I'm, uh, I'm going to go," she said, jerking her thumb in Stiles's direction. Allison gave a quick smile of acknowledgement while Lydia mustered up a tired wave. "Uh, okay then."
Abandoning her meal, she grabbed her bag and made a beeline for Stiles, who seemed to be establishing a bunker behind a French textbook. "What's all this about?" she demanded, gesturing in his direction.
"I'm going incognito," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Scott's avoiding Allison because Derek told him to, so we're both staying under the radar."
"Um....what?"
"Ugh, I know, right?" Stiles groaned. "Turns out you were right about the whole 'not talking to Scott' thing being a bad idea, because the dude can be a bona fide moron. Three days—" he held up three fingers "—three days without me and the idiot's going to Derek for help. I mean, seriously? Derek? Ugh, he's hopeless."
"So you guys are talking again?"
"Yes."
"But you haven't kissed and made up yet."
"No," Stiles mumbled bitterly. "But we've still got to help him before he goes and makes a deal with the freaking devil."
Charlie squinted carefully. "We?"
"Yes, we. I haven't told him about you yet, but I'm gonna. Because you know—" he lifted his fingers up in air quotes "—it's 'the right thing to do' and blah, blah, blah. But in the meantime we've gotta think of a way to keep him from shifting involuntarily. If we don't the dumbass is going to go back to Derek and, like, start a freaking book club or something."
Charlie fished out her own textbook, setting it up as a barrier between her and the rest of the cafeteria. "Okay. So is involuntarily shifting a big issue for him?"
"In that he has a tendency to go bat crap crazy and start trying to kill people—me, specifically—yeah, it's a bit of an issue. Less murderiness would be a net positive. Man, it would be really freaking awesome if he stopped trying to kill me."
Charlie jerked her head to the side noncommittally. "Eh, speak for yourself."
Stiles bristled, his spine straightening. "Okay, one, I am. And two, you're like the second meanest person I know."
"Okay," Charlie barrelled on, ignoring his grumbling annoyance. "So how do we stop Scott from shifting? What makes him shift in the first place?"
Stiles glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, still hesitant, still not used to sharing. His head may have made up its mind about her, but his instincts needed a little more time to adjust. "Scott keeps saying it has to do with his heart rate," Stiles sighed. "Like it's worse if he's playing lacrosse, or he's getting anxious, or if he's making out with Allison..."
"Whoa, now. Are we sure this whole 'premature shifting' thing isn't a highly involved euphemism?"
Stiles made a face at her from behind a set of verb conjugation problems. "Gross. Also, I wish. It's a way bigger issue than sexy times with his girlfriend. He's chased me around the locker room like four times. I had to blast him with a fire extinguisher."
Charlie let out a low, sympathetic hiss. "Right," she nodded. "So shifting is connected to his heart rate....Have you tested the parameters of that at all. Like at what point does heart rate become an issue?"
Stiles's eyes lit up, a small smirk twisting the corners of his lips. "Not sure.....but I think I've got an idea." He snapped his French textbook shut and shoved it in his backpack, jumping up from the table.
"That's great," Charlie deadpanned. "You gonna share that idea with the class?"
"Gotta make sure it works first," he grinned. Stiles scrambled to get all of his things assembled and made a move for the door. Before taking off, afforded Charlie one last grin.
"Welcome to the A-Team, Oswin."
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Please review! It is appreciated. Like.....a lot.....
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SOUNDTRACK
Charlie is cleaning up for Stiles's arrival, all nervous and stuff. I just kind of like this calm, waltz-like song set against her frantically trying to clean the kitchen.
-~-~-~-~Casanova - Adam Green & Binki Shapiro
Charlie arrives at school. The song would sort of start playing over Donald's super-smug face in the last frame of his scene and then cut to Charlie arriving, looking at Lydia's car and all that.
-~-~-~-~Youth - Cultfever
Charlie tracks Stiles down in the hall and shoves him into the music room. This would be an instrumental song, don't really pay attention to the lyrics. It was used in an episode of Suits, but whatever.
-~-~-~-~Addicted To You - Scorpio Loon
Meeting Allison in the lunch line.
-~-~-~-~Chop - Vundabar
End chapter...Welcome to the A-Team.
-~-~-~-~Addicted To You - Scorpio Loon (reprise, I just like the idea of both Charlie and Stiles getting a moment with the same song, that cheeky whistle at the beginning, etc. Again, no lyrics would come into play...)