"I could kill you, you know." Rachel says casually. They're lounging on the hood of her car, watching the sun rise.
"I figured as much." Stiles replies, unperturbed.
"You don't seem bothered by that. How many times has someone threatened to kill you?"
"More than I care to recall. It's usually coming from friends. I got my fair share from people who actually meant it, though."
Rachel nods, eyes shining. Stiles wonders if it's from the sun or if the talk of death threats just excites her. He comes to the conclusion that it's mostly the second option. He should probably feel a little worried by that fact, but really, he'd accepted that most of the women in his life had mildly psychotic tendencies a long time ago. Rachel, at least, is open about those tendencies. He smiles at her, and she returns the expression. He knows she doesn't feel happy, but she's good at pretending. Probably better than Stiles himself.
"How often did you have to lie to your parents when you were a kid?" he wonders aloud. She shifts to lay on her side, focusing on him instead of the medley of colors the sky had become. She stares at him like he's something shiny and new for her to play with.
"What makes you think I lied to my parents?"
"Because I lied enough to recognize the people who had to, also."
She hums thoughtfully, head tilting. A strand of hair falls across her cheek and he wonders idly if she would break his fingers if he brushed it back behind her ears. He thinks about how he always reveals more of himself to her without any guarantee that he would get an answer in return and about how he should maybe be more careful with how readily he answers his own questions.
"My life was a complete lie for about three years." she finally says, smiling idly. "A lie at home, and at school, and on the streets, and in the mall. Sometimes, I think even my body was a lie for a while. A lie in every aspect that had been the truth before."
Stiles nods, not quite understanding exactly what she means, but knowing enough.
"Do you know what it's like to fight a war?" she asks the sky, eyes trained on a bird high above them. "Not a full out, guns blazing kind. The type of war that you have to keep a secret from the world. The kind that you lose limbs and watch people die and it leaves you wanting to curl into a ball and sob and never face the world again. But instead you pull yourself back together and go home and finish your homework and kiss your mom on the cheek and assure her that everything's fine."
Again, he nods. "Yeah, but it's like, how are you supposed to give a damn about the value of x when you just faced down people who wanted you and your friends dead? And what are you supposed to tell your dad when you wake him up with your screams when the nightmares come?"
Rachel closes her eyes, squeezing them tight enough that lines form around her eyes and brow, aging her. She still looks beautiful. He keeps his thoughts to himself.
"How many of there were you?"
"It depends on the battle. People changed, switched sides, died, came back to life. The usual. It really just started with two- my best friend and me- and our numbers sort of grew from there. Of course, some of the people were murderous backstabbers, so they don't really count in the end." She chuckles darkly, and then answers his question before he can ask it.
"There were six of us. There were more late in the war, but they died quickly. In the end, only the ones who survived really count, right?"
"Maybe. I'll let you know if I figure out the answer to that one."
She nods like that's a wise response.