FULL SUMMARY: [Post S02] Stiles is still determined to win Lydia's affections from Jackson. He's positive he can accomplish this, but not everyone is as confident he will succeed—namely his new friend, Zoe. The two conspire a plan to help increase the odds in his favor: Zoe will pretend to be Stiles's girlfriend in an effort to make Lydia jealous. It's a simple plan, fool-proof… That is, until Zoe complicates the plan by falling in love with him.
WARNINGS: This story is rated T - mostly for language (as of now). Warnings will be posted accordingly as new elements are introduced.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story follows the original series as closely as possible. Scott is still a werewolf and the rest of the gang all fulfill their rightful roles. However, the supernatural component is more hinted at than fully realized, due to it being a low focal point of the story itself. I've tried to follow my interpretation of their characterizations as closely as possible, however there is still a good chance for OOC-ness. Just a heads-up.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Teen Wolf. I do, however, own Zoe and whatever other original characters you may encounter along the way.
CHAPTER o1
"Zoe. Suze."
I look up from rinsing out a brew pitcher in the sink. Brian, the manager on tonight's shift at Cuppa, is crowding the barista station. Cuppa is a small, well-known café in Beacon Hills; it's more or less a hippie joint, quaint and kitschy, and very popular among the student and (struggling) artist crowds.
Standing next to Brian is a teenage boy about my height, dressed in a pair of beige khakis, our company t-shirt—deep maroon with Cuppa's logo silk-screened in bright yellow across the front—and a long forest green apron tied about the waist. The boy has short, buzzed brown hair, warm brown eyes and pale skin flecked with moles.
"Can you c'mere a sec?" Brian says to my co-worker, Suze (her real name is Susan, but no one ever calls her that). Suze abandons her post at the cash register and bounces over in typical overly energetic Suze fashion to join our group.
"Can you take a break from doing that, Zoe?" Brian says to me, and I jump, snapping to attention. I'd gotten caught up in staring at the boy. I don't feel awkward about it, though, because he's staring right back at me.
"Sorry." I set the pitcher down in the sink and turn the faucet off. Wiping my hands dry on my apron, I give them my full attention.
"All right, ladies—I'd like to introduce you to the newest member of the Cuppa family…" Brian begins his announcement, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder. In the boy's hands is the customary black visor we're supposed to wear when we're on the clock; he rotates it in full, continuous circles—a restless, fidgety motion.
"Stiles," I supply before Brian can have the chance to tell us his name. Brian's bushy eyebrows jump up in mild surprise.
"You two know each other?" he asks. I open my mouth to respond, but Stiles beats me to it.
"Not intimately," he says, winking at me. "We go to school together."
"Oh, great." Brian claps his hands together, game face back in place. "I'm sure you two will have fun working together, then."
I just barely manage to repress the urge to roll my eyes. Yeah, because going to the same high school instantly makes us best friends.
Stiles couldn't have put it better himself: We're in the same grade at Beacon Hills High and we've shared a couple of classes, but that's it. Apart from our mutual classes, we've had no contact with each other. Actually, even in those classes we still pretty much had no contact (unless you count occasionally making eye contact from across the room or asking to borrow a pencil from one another, which I don't).
We just travel in different circles, I guess. We don't have any of the same friends; we aren't involved in any of the same activities.
Stiles gets straight A's, plays lacrosse (see: mostly warms the bench), and is probably the founding member of that mystical card game club that meets every Tuesday after school. (The only reason I know this is because their meeting place was in my sixth period English classroom; everyone else had to clear out by 3:15 so that they could use it.) I seriously wouldn't put it past him; I've overheard numerous discussions about werewolves and whatever other random, paranormal creatures between Stiles and his best friend, Scott McCall.
I, on the other hand, get average grades, fill all of my electives with art classes, and volunteer to read with little kids at a nearby daycare every Thursday as my sole after-school activity.
Plus, part of me wonders if Stiles still holds a bit of a grudge against me for that one incident that happened during our freshman year…
"Okay—well, as I was saying," Brian continues, "Stiles is going to be working with us from now on. I'm going to have you guys start training him on the register and barista." To me, he says, "Actually, maybe focus more on barista. Good time to do that, since it's so slow tonight."
"Okay," I acquiesce. My eyes flicker over to Stiles, but his expression is unreadable.
"Great." Brian claps Stiles on the shoulder one more time. "Now, don't worry, Stiles. You're in good hands. Zoe and Suze are two of my best girls. But if you do have any trouble, don't hesitate to come get me. I'll be in the office."
With that, Brian wanders off, leaving Stiles alone with Suze and me. Once Brian is concealed behind the closed door of his office, Suze bounces up and down on the balls of her heels.
"It's nice to meet you, Stiles, and welcome to Cuppa," she chirps, eagerly thrusting her hand out to him. "I know you already know Zoe here, so I'll just introduce myself. I'm Suze."
Stiles looks at her hand, seemingly overwhelmed by her enthusiasm, which isn't unusual; a lot of people are. I consider Suze to be the ultimate Cuppa mascot: Bright, cheery, and constantly full of energy. She can be kind of exhausting to be around, actually. But she's really sweet, and she seems to attract a lot of male customers. She looks a bit like a human-sized version of Tinker Bell—petite, with a blond bob that's usually pulled back into an attractively messy ponytail, light blue eyes, and a brilliant smile that's nearly blinding.
"Yeah, I got that," Stiles says, almost cautiously receiving her hand in his own and giving it two short, firm pumps before releasing it. "You go to Beacon Hills, too?" he asks, unsure.
"Oh, no," she replies, giggling. If I didn't know any better I'd think Suze is flirting with him, but after four months of working together I've come to learn that sort of trait just comes naturally to her. "Well, not anymore. I graduated from there last year. Now I'm a freshman at BHCC."
"Congrats on graduating, then. We've still got two more years to go. Right, Zo?"
Ugh. 'Zo'? Really? My name's short enough as it is; no one's ever felt the need to give me a nickname before. I don't like it.
"Um, yeah, Sty," I reply sarcastically. Stiles grins.
"I take it that's a no to 'Zo', then?"
"Unless you're cool with 'Sty'."
"I've been called worse." Suze giggles.
"You two are funny," she observes. "Are you sure you're not friends already?"
"Oh, yeah, real good friends," Stiles replies wryly. "Ever since Zo barfed all over my sneakers in Biology."
There it is. I knew he hadn't forgotten. Although, to be fair, I don't think I'd ever be able to forget if I'd been on the receiving end of that, either.
"What?!" Suze exclaims, her pretty face contorted into a look of disgust.
"Yeah, we were partners for the fetal pig dissection lab we had to do in class," Stiles goes on to explain. "And, apparently, Zo here's got a weak constitution."
"Oh, God," I groan, heat rushing to my cheeks at the memory. "You're not gonna let me live that down, are you? It's not like I did it on purpose. I apologized, and my parents even gave you money to replace them."
"And I greatly appreciated it. However, that still doesn't change the fact that the school offered to call my dad to see if he could bring me another pair of shoes, it was that bad," he says, looking to Suze appealingly, as if daring her to not sympathize with his plight. "But I didn't want to bother him at work over something like that, so I just went around in only my socks for the rest of the day."
"Did you not smell the formaldehyde it was soaked in? That stench alone was enough to make anyone nauseous." Stubbornly, I add, "Besides, I still maintain it was partially your fault. If you hadn't decided to crack open its skull and mash up its brains, I probably would've been able to stomach through it."
Suze is looking a little green by this point.
"It was a biology project," Stiles defends himself, but he doesn't really sound that defensive. There's a suspicious gleam in his eyes, a subtle quirk at the corner of his mouth, like he's trying to hold it back, and I suddenly get the sense that he's not actually trying to make me feel like shit. He's just being a smartass who genuinely finds this all very amusing. "We were supposed to take it apart and study its biological make-up."
"Yeah, from the mouth down," I point out, refusing to back down. "The skull definitely wasn't part of the assignment."
"You could never be a doctor."
"Good thing I have no desire to be one, then."
Just then, the bell over the front door jingles, signaling that a customer has entered.
"I'm gonna go take care of this," Suze stage whispers, and she couldn't sound more eager to remove herself from the conversation. She quickly whirls on her heel and goes to take her place at the register, greeting our customer with an overly cheerful, if somewhat rushed, "Hey there, welcome to Cuppa! How can I help you?"
"At least we still got an A on the lab, eh?" Stiles says after a long moment of silence, bumping me lightly in the arm with a loosely curled fist, and, despite my irritation, I can't help cracking a smile. But I quickly regain my composure and steel my countenance into a stern expression.
"Shut it, Stilinski," I retort. "Now put your visor on and watch as I fill this order. We'll review afterward."
A week and a half later…
"LCD Soundsystem," says Stiles as he pops a cleansing tablet into the coffee brewer.
"You didn't forget to dump out the coffee grounds first, did you?" I ask him, watching Stiles out of the corner of my eye while I lay out freshly washed bakery platters in the display case for tomorrow morning.
It's only Stiles's fifth day of work, but he seems to be picking things up pretty quickly. Still, I can't help keeping an eye on him. As long as he's under my watch—well, Suze's and mine—I want to make sure he continues to do well. So that it reflects well upon my work performance, of course. Once Brian or one of the other managers deem him worthy to be promoted from trainee to associate he's on his own.
"I didn't," he insists, snapping the lid to the brewer shut and pressing a button to start the electronic cleaning process. "Now answer the question."
"Who're they?" Suze interjects, oblivious to the incredulous glare Stiles shoots at the back of her head as she's sweeping the floor in front of the counter.
"Suze, just…don't bother. There's really no hope for you. You're so pathetically musically uneducated."
"I am not," Suze protests. She stops sweeping and turns to match Stiles's glare with a hand on her cocked hip. They scowl at each other, and I start sorting silverware into their compartments, nonplussed.
"Don't they do that super depressing music video?" I ask. "The one where Kermit the Frog sings throughout New York City?"
"New York, I Love You," Stiles confirms. He's moved on to restocking plastic straws and cups. "Does that mean you like them?"
"I don't know any of their other stuff."
"And the disappointment continues. Next."
"Friendly Fires."
"Awesome. Favorite song?"
"Skeleton Boy," Suze chimes in. Stiles and I both look at her in mild surprise. "Does that meet your music curriculum, Stiles?" she adds, sticking her tongue out at the younger boy. Stiles quirks a brow and I laugh, shaking my head at their antics.
Stiles and I started this game on his first night. We normally have a set playlist that plays on repeat throughout the day, but when the café is closed to the public management lets us play whatever we want. We do it on a turn-based system (so there's less bitching about it, because, let's face it, you can't please everyone), and that night it was my turn. Naturally, the minute I'd plugged in my iPod and set it on shuffle, Stiles had something to say about it.
"Savage Garden, really?" he'd demanded, appalled.
"What's wrong with Savage Garden?" I'd wanted to know. "They were one of the best groups of the 90's."
"You aren't even old enough to remember the 90's."
"Neither are you, but you still know who they are."
"Not by choice."
"I love this song!" Suze had declared, and then proceeded to sing (off key) and bop along to the lyrics of I Want You while bagging day-old pastries to go in the garbage.
The next song to come on had been Heartbeats by The Knife.
"The Knife?" Stiles had asked after taking a look at my iPod's screen. "What the hell is that?"
"A brother-sister electronic band from Sweden," I'd explained.
"You have some weird taste in music, Zo."
"Don't call me that. And, please. I can only imagine what's on your iPod."
"Only good stuff, of course."
"That's debatable."
And so it literally became just that—a debate. We go back and forth, firing off the names of bands and singers we like, constantly trying to outdo the other. It's kept us entertained for the past three night shifts that we've worked together, especially when Suze is there to join in on the fun. Or try to, at least. She knows hardly any of the people we talk about, but that doesn't stop her from trying. However, by our third round, I'm starting to feel like I'm in the same boat. Stiles knows some really weird, obscure bands I've never heard of before. (I mean, Deerhoof? Come on.)
Once we've finished cleaning and restocking our stations—namely behind the counter and out in the dining room—Shelly, the manager in charge that night, lets us go. We bid farewell to the remaining staff and head outside.
"See you guys!" Suze calls out to us with a wave, her blond ponytail bouncing in the warm night air as she skips off to her car. "Have a good night!"
Stiles and I echo our goodbyes.
"So I'll have that mix CD ready for you the next time we work together," Stiles promises, following me as I walk over to the saddleback bicycle rack mounted to the sidewalk just outside of Cuppa to retrieve my bike.
"I can hardly wait," I say, feigning indifference when, really, I kind of am looking forward to it.
I'm reluctant to admit it, but Stiles is growing on me. At school, I always thought he was a weird smartass with a severe case of word vomit that prevents him from having any proper social skills. Well, I still think he's a weird smartass, but I've come to realize that the case of word vomit may actually just be an innately inquisitive nature (likely inherited from his dad, who's the town sheriff). He's also really funny, once you learn not to take anything he says too seriously. And his fidgety, often clumsy mannerisms (a result of being diagnosed with ADHD, he says, which totally doesn't surprise me) are surprisingly endearing once you get used to them.
I still can't see that we have anything in common, other than our mutual enjoyment of criticizing each other's taste in music. But after three consecutive music debates, I have to admit I'm curious to see what he has to "school" me on.
"As you shouldn't," Stiles agrees, playing along. He lingers on the sidewalk and watches as I dig around in my purse for my keys so I can unlock my bike, drumming his fingers restlessly against his thigh. I can hear the contents of his pockets jingling around with each successive tap of his fingers. "Music education is very important, and yours is sorely lacking."
"Whatever." My fingers brush against the cool metal of my key chain, and I wrap my fingers around it, whipping it out of my purse with a flourish. "My education's just fine. It's yours that's too selective."
"Then, by all means, help me broaden the curriculum."
"You want me to make you a mix, too?" I've separated my bike from the saddleback rack now, and I'm refastening the U-lock to the bike frame.
"Sure." He shrugs, like he doesn't really care one way or the other if I do or not. "I mean, if you want."
"You're on." I walk my bike out into the street, preparing to leave. "Until next time, Stilinski."
"Bike safe, Zo." He turns and starts for his Jeep.
"Don't call me that!"