bring me my lipstick, party girl.
characters: allison, boyd, erica, issac, lydia, scott, stiles.
notes: i can only pretend this is good enough for you. for sara.
…
i. the battle of the blush
two months
…
Parties haven't always been her thing, but Erica enjoys how it feels like battle.
The first time Lydia Martin invited her to a social gathering was by no free will of her own; there was simply no way to get around the fact that Erica was a plus one of Allison's plus one, because it was Allison and Lydia couldn't just say no. But it had been liberating, to stretch a slinky dress over the contours of her body like armor, to blot lipstick like blood-camouflage, to hear the click of her heels over the polished oak floors like a death song on the battlefield and know all eyes were on her.
And yet, Lydia wasted no time walking right up to her the moment she stepped in the door. (All the historical tales that recount major battles always involve impasse and standoffs and strategic delays, but Lydia's pursed lips and the wafting smell of perfume is so very real.) Her eyes drop down and Erica feels her dress turn to steel, feels her bones tense beneath her skin.
Lydia cocks her head, bright cherry-red curls bounding to the side. "Where'd you get those heels?"
Erica smiles, full of sharp teeth and free of lipstick smears, and Lydia crooks her arm against her elbow. There is no battle to be had here, but neither of them seems to disarm; Lydia's fingers sear against her skin, but Erica taps her nails against the other girl's knuckles thoughtfully.
"A girl never gives away those kinds of secrets," she says with a red-lipped smirk.
There is no opposition here, Erica learns.
…
ii. fast girl out of control
four months
…
She doesn't really like Allison.
She especially doesn't like that Isaac likes Allison, because she is the one with the murder claws sinking deep into their skin. Erica still feels pain and she knows what it's like to wilt in distress and drain of blood and willpower on stone cold floors.
Allison is human and she will only suffer one death, but she and Isaac and Boyd will die ten thousand times in ten thousand tiny slashes of ring daggers (and swell with new life, ready to be crushed again).
But Isaac likes Allison, so Erica must try to tolerate the dark huntress.
"Great," she slumps in the doorway of their empty loft, and if she was inclined to being a wild woman instead of a lady, she would have snarled.
Erica folds her arms across her chest instead and tips her head curiously at Allison. It takes her seven seconds to count the different methods she could tear her to bits and a few more seconds to picture how Isaac will take it.
Boyd's hand is coarse on the small of her back, and it doesn't quite quell her. His touch rarely does; it sends miniature fires running in jagged lines from his fingertips. But it keeps her from doing anything rash as she smiles at Allison. Erica is not friendly; she smiles in the way a predator does to frighten its prey with needlepoint teeth.
Isaac slips behind her in the doorway, that crooked, dopey smile slashed across his face, and there is weakness in her resolve. Isaac and Boyd are her boys, and Erica can list few things that make them smile this way. And Allison is one, because she smiles too, sun-bright and genuine.
Erica sighs and leans backwards into the wide palm spread along her back. She won't promise to be her new best friend, but she will strive for tolerance.
…
iii. before we start the day
one year
…
This loft is like home.
Isaac invites Scott and Stiles over early in the morning and the three of them with their idiotic happy smiles tote boxes of decorations into the vast, empty space. There is no tree, not yet, because Erica keeps promising to slash the roots of one lingering in the woods and carry it back (but she will never return to those woods again). This is her comfort zone, the loft she and Isaac and Boyd share, and it is where she wants to spend her Christmas, with her boys whom have inexplicably wound themselves too close to her heart.
It doesn't matter either way. Isaac tangles his fingers in knots of stringy lights and Scott laughs, that noise that grates on her nerves and makes her smile simultaneously, and Stiles just stands there with that lightly confused look that always seems to be trapped in his features. The three of them look harmless with blinking lights molding their fingers together and she wouldn't have it any other way.
Christmas has never been spectacular for her because of caustic flashing lights and surprise prone accidents and that haunting stare that comes from disrupting carols with twitches and frothing saliva at her lips.
This year, Erica has lipstick and mistletoe and her boys and a plastic Christmas tree, no assembly required.
"I'm going to help in the kitchen," Erica says, ducking underneath a string of lights that Isaac holds out to her, his face screaming help me with this.
She barely makes it to the doorway before she stops, folding her arms across her chest. She still has to get dressed if she wants to be semi-presentable when Lydia and Allison arrive, although she already knows the three of them will hole up in her room for at least a half an hour.
"Like hell you're helping in the kitchen," comes Boyd's defensive quip. He, unlike her, is already dressed neatly in anticipation for their guests. And he has an additional accessory to boot.
Erica finds her way over to stand at his side immediately, clawed fingernails pinching the material as she grins. "Oh, honey," she says, sugar-sweet sarcasm in her tone, "you're wearing the apron I got you."
Boyd's face is unamused; the frighteningly frilly apron that is tied around his waist clashes with the argyle red and grey pattern set over the black stitching of his sweater. It is an ugly green thing that he thought Erica had been joking about when she'd picked it up, fussing over the reindeer printed on the front of it. But he was wearing it, and that was all that really mattered to her.
"What's this?"
Erica doesn't so much as ask as she dips a finger into the batter, and Boyd is grabbing her by her wrists and pushing her towards the kitchen table with a protective look reserved for the few things he cherishes.
"Can't I at least have a cookie before you shove me away?"
The pout of her lips at him is exaggerated beyond belief, but Boyd always entertains her regardless. He lifts a chocolate chip cookie from the tray stacked meticulously on the countertop, and slides it into her mouth. His hands rest on her cheeks and he kisses her on the head for a single, tender moment, and then he finishes nudging her out of the kitchen, gaudy apron and all.
"Hmph," is all she can say around the cookie in her mouth, ignoring Isaac's quiet snickering in the center of the room.
…
The three of them laugh and smirk and flop down on her bed, surrounded by tubes of lipstick overturned from all three of their purses.
"These colors are so not for me," Lydia pools all of her cool red collection in Erica's lap, instead wrapping her fingers intently around a metallic copper tone and grinning.
Allison is already smoothing blackberry over her lips, content with the warm red splash against her skin, and watching the two of them bicker about lip colors and complementary skin tones and natural infusion pastels.
"It's not a modest Christmas Eve dinner," Erica finally announces over Lydia's clipped tones, and that much is visible from the tight fit of her little black dress, the sharp steep of her heels and the gold and silver studs embedded in her outfit.
It is a party, and Erica knows how to make a killing looking good.
Lydia only smirks and picks out the deepest, darkest red she can find to paint on her lips.
…
"You did not make this," Stiles only takes a breath to stuff another bite of cake into his mouth, "who made this? What is this?"
He's almost screaming over the music, a radio combination of holiday songs and the latest hits from this year, and Erica and Lydia have matching looks of distaste at his blatant disregard for manners.
But Erica smiles anyway, because Lydia narrows her eyes at him and arches her back to stand just a little bit straighter.
"It doesn't matter, you're still eating it," she says pointedly, and Stiles shrugs.
Pride swells in her chest as she says it. "Boyd made that cake," and she doesn't mention frosting it, because she made such a mess of it, "he made everything here."
There isn't an overwhelming crowd of people, but between Erica and Boyd and Isaac and Lydia, there are more than just people from their school mingling amongst the rooms. Erica is just glad she thought to put all of her things away simply because everyone wanders in and out of the halls clutching cups of punch or eggnog or some concoction that smells like rubbing alcohol.
Nearly everyone else, including Isaac and Allison, are strategically dragging one another through the maze of mistletoe hanging about the loft, kissing and giggling and dancing to the music.
Erica feels pretty and powerful and better on this Christmas Eve than any other.
"C'mon," she sighs impatiently when she manages to track Boyd down, twining her fingers with his and snatching him from a conversation that is no doubt boring him to death, "I owe you for being the best wife material a girl could ask for."
She gets a roll of her eyes for her troubles, but he doesn't stop her from pulling on his sleeves until he follows behind her. There is only one place they can go to be private, to be alone, and Erica has already locked the bathroom door behind them before she could ask any questions.
Boyd doesn't look impressed, but she just knows he looks that way for show. He did bake all of those cookies, after all; he is as soft and sweet as they are. Erica winds her arms around his neck and cranes her head up far enough so that her curls spiral down her back.
"Why is there mistletoe in here?" He asks, but Erica smiles and then purses her lips together.
"Shh, I did that," she confesses, and leans in for a lipstick kiss