"Allison is ignoring me," Scott whines in the most pathetic of manners. There's obviously only one response to that; Stiles turns and knocks her head against the pillar. Hard. She decides that if Scott says it one more time, she is going to put her head through it.
"I am aware. So, so aware, Scott," Stiles answers wearily while rubbing a hand over the mark on her forehead, then takes a fortifying sip of her delicious drink. It wasn't quite the response that Scott was looking for, because he whimpers. He actually, literally, whimpers a high-pitched keening noise that only dogs being teased with bacon should be allowed to make. This is her best friend, ladies and gentlemen.
"But she never ignores me, even when we're pretending to not date. The only person who ignores me like this is you - when you're having a fit," Scott continues, trying his hand with logic and reason. Stiles gives Scott points for the attempt, but gives him a final score of -69 just because she can.
"Being mad at you does not mean I am having a hissy fit," Stiles counters.
"Yes, it does. You only get mad at me during that 'time'," Scott air quotes. Stiles takes a moment to imagine taking Scott's fingers, twisting them, and then shoving them up his nose in retaliation. Because best-friend or no, air-quoting is so not on when it comes to the subject of monthly flows.
"Maybe you did something wrong, ever think of that?" Stiles offers in as mean a voice as possible. Because, honestly, he can just step off. He doesn't have a uterus that attempts to escape via her vagina at on a monthly basis. She feels a sympathy cramp squeeze her innards, and she curses silently; she needs more drinkies, even though there will never be enough bourbon in Kentucky to get her through this night.
Scott thinks for a second, before announcing in the most self righteous voice outside of televangelist shows, "No, I didn't do anything." Stiles could almost admire how completely and utterly convinced he is of his own innocence. Almost.
"That just proves that you did something," Stiles informs him, her jaws aching from all the clenching and teeth gritting she's been doing. For the love of god, where is Lydia? Lydia has the booze, and Stiles needs to drink every drop.
"How?" Scott asks, his lumpy potato face looking oh, so quizzical. Stiles stops looking around for Lydia, and re-attempts achieving brain damage by smacking her head against the pillar again.
"What have you been doing all these years we've been friends? Really? How is that not a dead give away? You say that, and it should translate into 'I totally did something' as it exits your mouth," Stiles groans, wishing for death.
"Well, um..." Scott stutters, completely thrown and confused and so Scott-ish that she can't decide if she wants to hit him, or...hit him some more. Maybe with a bat.
"You know what? I am going to blow this like I'm Seamus," Stiles announces and tries to walk far away from the perfect specimen of dumb currently masquerading as her friend.
"Wait, was that a Harry Potter reference? You're quoting Harry Potter with your fancy exit?" Scott yells after her. Stiles does not dignify him with an answer. Instead, Stiles finds Champagne and Cherry, and all the other girls, and spends some quality time with fabulous drag queens while getting completely trashed.
"Sweetie-pie, we have got to get you into something better," Cherry insists, sipping on drink number three. To be fair, the drinks are mostly booze and very little mixer.
"What?" Stiles slurs, looking down at herself, then looks at the slinky, sequin-y dresses that her new favorite ladies are wearing.
Okay, so maybe skinny jeans, a t-shirt and a plaid button-down are not the most fashionable of choices, but there's nothing else in her closet except for more of the same, as well as a fantastic selections of hoodies. Stiles feels that she should get some credit that her clothes fit, have no holes or stains, and most importantly, are clean...ish. Clean-ish. Anyway, everyone knows you shouldn't wash jeans too often, and ok, so maybe she's worn the shirt a time or two before, and she hasn't washed it yet. Stiles is pretty sure she doesn't smell. She Febreezed herself before coming over.
"You dress like a lesbian," Champagne says with pure disdain. Stiles does not appreciate the judgemental tone.
"Not all lesbians wear plaid!" Stiles attempts to point out. She also attempts to point a finger at Champagne but ends up sloshing her drink all over herself instead. Stiles sulks mightily, licking booze off her hands.
"Yes, they do," says another one of the drag queens - Stiles is pretty sure her name is Chocolate Kisses, but honestly, after three drinks on an empty stomach, it could be Ho Hos, for all she knows.
"Says the man with his dick tucked in," Stiles snarks back. She feels pretty proud of the comeback, except the lady named Double Stuffed doesn't take that well and starts crying. And like a true diva, Double Stuffed cries perfect tears with no makeup running. Champagne and Cherry give Stiles the meanest look. She just can't win at anything.
"She doesn't mean it. And your tuck is flawless, baby. She's just jelly of your rocking cheekbones," Champagne coos, rubbing Double Stuffed's shoulders and pouring her another drink.
"Well, that's true," Stiles admits, because those are some epic cheekbones, trufax. Like, Isaac-grade cheekbones, and lord knows she's got a weakness for that sort of thing. And speaking of Isaac, where is her cuddle puppy?
"Has anyone seen my phone?" Stiles asks when she finds that, um, its gone.
The girls shake their heads, and Stiles gets up to stagger around, wandering the party looking for Scott. Or Allison. Or Lydia for that matter. Who knew so many people could fit in a single house? It's a miracle that Stiles actually locates Scott's jacket, and there is a phone in it that she can use, and it's truly pathetic that this is enough to make her happy. Honestly, she'll take anything she can get these days. And by anything, she actually means penis. Because she's just that classy.
Oh hey, Derek's calling Scott's phone. This is a clear sign that the universe is in her corner, and that sex is on the menu.
"Scott!" Derek shouts. Stiles winces as Derek's voice drills into her ear and rips her eardrums.
"Try again," Stiles sings into the phone; she might be deaf in one ear now, but at least she's got a glassful of delicious booze to numb the pain.
"Stiles? Why do you have Scott's phone?" Derek asks. How typical; no 'Hey Stiles, how have you been doing?' Or 'I, too, am feeling the effects of this week long sex drought, let's fuck.' Nope. He just wants to know where Scott is, because it's all about Scott.
"Why are you calling Scott?" Stiles is not proud of this moment, but she is drunk, so fuck it, she can be a five year old if she wants to be.
"It's the full moon," Derek tells her, like that should somehow clarify everything. Except, no, it really doesn't.
"I'm guessing that the Mouseketeers are not behaving very well," Stiles remarks sagely, remembering Scott's first full moon. That had been bad. So was the second, actually. Hmmm, a trend is forming.
"Just have Scott call me back, I'm going to need some help," Derek yells over a roaring noise in the background, and he hangs up abruptly. Rude.
Things get very fuzzy after the call. Well, to be completely accurate, almost everything is fuzzy except for that thing with her father. Stiles remembers her dad, and remembers those awful, terrible words. She remembers that he vanished in front of her eyes, and boy, this is how fucked up her life has gotten that she doesn't even question it. With werewolves, kanima, magic, oh my, what's a little bit of a disappearing act? After that, Stiles can't remember much else, and that's fine by her. She just wishes she could forget what her father had said. Because the truth is, she's afraid that her dad truly does believe that everything - her mom's death, his drinking, everything - is really her fault. Worst is, sometimes (all the time), Stiles believes it too.
So Stiles can't decide if she should be thankful, or pissed as all hell when Danielle dunks her in the pool to sober her up. It hurts, it really does, to go from near blackout drunk, to hideously sober and alert that quickly. Scott doesn't help her agony, as he is right in her face, trying not to be awful - and failing miserably.
"Something is going on with the drinks," he tells her, eyebrows scrunched and potato face looking particularly lumpy with worry.
"Yeah, they really have a kick to them," Stiles mutters, hands clutching her head as though to prevent her cranium from exploding and making a bloody, brain-y mess.
"No, Stiles. Like, everyone is freaking out and keeps seeing things. Hell, I just saw some pretty messed up stuff," Scott shakes his head, as though trying to physically throw off the ugly memories.
"That would explain why my dad suddenly is a member of the Ministry of Magic," Stiles mumbles, squeezing her eyes shut to keep the headache - and her father's words echoing in her mind - at bay.
"It's a Harry Potter kind of day isn't it?" Scott grins maniacally, because super-werewolf powers aside, Scott is still a gigantic nerd. She laughs - a short bark of amusement - in response.
Scott has just helped her up when someone throws Matt into the pool. It's strange how big of a commotion it makes, seeing as no one was paying attention to anything before. But a drowning person probably trumps hallucinogenic mind trips, maybe. In any case, Matt shrieks that he can't swim, and suddenly, Jackson is there to save the day. And Stiles? She freezes in place, staring at the scene.
Here's the thing. Stiles is good with reading people. Very good, in fact. Just because she's a spaz and has a severe case of ADHD, doesn't mean that she's unaware of how life moves around her and how people act, and most importantly, why people act the way they do. And she's perfectly aware exactly how she's cultivated this talent, how she learned how to interpret expressions and tics and twitches.
She first honed her skills by understanding the different expressions on her Mom's face during those months before her death: where one smile meant "Sweetheart, don't worry, I'm fine," and the other was "Darling, I'm hurting so much, but let's pretend everything is ok," and the worst one said "Oh god, baby, I can't do this anymore."
So Stiles, being Stiles, applies this hard-earned knowledge; she can read the movements of friends and people and see the thoughts behind the actions. Thus, she understands that Jackson and Danny are friends because they are outliers and ambiguous, and that the second trait is a response to the first. They both feel compelled to make up for what they perceive as an inadequacy. Stiles knows that Greenberg most likely suffers from some kind of social disability that was never registered at the school, because his parents believed it would only make things harder for him. It's how she knows Lydia is so much more than the popular, queen bitch at school; that behind the conniving, high school prom queen facade is a woman with a razor sharp, profound intellect to rival the best minds at MIT.
And it's this immediate understanding of people and their emotions and their motivations that might be explain why she is so drawn to Derek. She can't always read him, and that is a mystery that pulls at her scattered attention. Derek is a massive vortex of mixed signals and confusion. He is the polar opposite of Scott, who has no ulterior motives whatsoever, and who might be the most open and honest person alive. Stiles doesn't have to read Scott because Scott doesn't need to be read. And alternatively, Stiles loves trying to read Derek, because she can't get a good handle on him.
So. Back to the scene at hand. Jackson saves Matt from drowning. And this? This is different. This is a massive slip up. Because this is not how Jackson works.
It's like one of those moments in video games, when bullet time slows the action down and you can see everything. And it's all in Stiles' head. All the pieces are laid out in front of her and she can see the web, the pattern she had missed because she had been too wrapped up in other things. At one important junction of this web is that stupid yearbook, and the threads spin out with each line touching the different victims. And at the center of all of these - the thoughts, and actions, and connections - sits fucking creeper cameraman Matt.
In hindsight, everything is so clear; and she would have seen it sooner if only she had paid more attention to Matt. Because looking back, she realizes that he had always bothered her, a subconscious alarm trilling faintly every time she was in his presence. But she'd always put it off that Scott's own jealousy was affecting her judgement. Now she sees it; his facial expressions were a little too exaggerated, his emotional responses were just a hair too late. He is only playing at feelings and he uses the camera to hide the fact. And it's the perfect cover, because when does the subject ever look at the person behind the camera?
Scott recognizes the look on her face because he asks, "Max Paine to Matrix?" It's their scale for how much she just put together, and she could hug him for being the bestest friend in the planet that he can tell with one look that something big just happened in her brain.
"God of War triple combos," Stiles breathes, still a little shocked at how much she'd missed. Scott looks horrified. Bringing Playstation games into this means things are bad.
"Let's go," Scott says, tugging on her arm and jolts her out of paralysis. They stumble out of the party, and catch a glimpse of Matt and a fully shifted Kanima out on the street, posing like a Bond villain and his evil henchman. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"
"On a scale of one to Batman's dead parents...we are at about two dead parole officers kind of trouble," Stiles mumbles as Scott grabs her keys and they get in the car to peel out. The mixture of boozy drunkenness, adrenaline and shock is making her dumb; even her references are terrible and obscure. Scott hasn't even seen Misfits. She needs a brain reboot, stat.
"I'm assuming that it's a very, very, bad thing - because I have no idea what you are talking about," Scott brakes at a red light and looks at her nervously. "So, it's Matt?"
"Yeah. It's been Matt all along. I missed it, Scott," it was all Stiles could do not to whack her head against the dashboard.
"It's not your fault, Stiles," Scott pats her shoulder consolingly, before shifting into third, a bit hard.
If she wasn't so preoccupied about the deep shit they're in, she'd be howling at Scott to take it easy on her baby. Instead, Stiles just makes a protesting noise as the gears grind against each other before her sweet, darling Jeep rumbles on down the road.
"Yeah, yeah it is," Stiles mumbles, rubbing her hands over her face. She makes the immediate decision to not tell Scott about Matt's obsession with Allison. She focuses instead on Matt; his camera, the photos, the yearbook. Stiles spares a moment to think that here was another reason for her dad to be disappointed: she's a terrible cop.
"It's three in the morning," her dad reminds them as they drive to the station.
"Oh we are aware," Stiles grumps, tired beyond belief. She wants sleep, she wants to come clean to her dad, she wants to not go looking for a crazy psychopathic murderer with a were-lizard minion. She wants a lot of things, but Matt doesn't really seem to be the 'lie in wait' kind of killer, so here they are, driving to the sheriff's office.
"You're grounded by the way," her dad puts in as they pull up to his old parking space.
"Punishment accepted. Can we just stop the freak from murdering more twenty four year olds? I know a couple of people that age, and they're not all bad," Stiles sighs, rubbing a hand over her face in order to avoid looking at her dad.
"You know twenty four year olds?" Her dad perks up, looking like he's found a new avenue of interrogation. Thankfully, Scott jumps in.
"I think, like, half the town is twenty four. There's a recession going on, lots of people live with their parents." Aaaaand Stiles switches from being grateful for the interruption to wanting to just curl up and die and wish for a best friend with an IQ higher than double digits.
There is a solid two minutes of silence as Stiles and her dad stare at Scott.
"What?" Scott asks, confused. "It was on 60 minutes?" Stiles and her dad shake their head, in perfect sync.
"I'm fine by the way," Stiles coughs after Jackson drags her into the next room and lays her down next to Derek. "You know, just paralyzed and almost suffocated, but completely fine."
"Great. Now shut up," Derek grits out between his teeth.
"Why? Because this seems like the perfect time to completely freak the fuck out," Stiles can hear what is going on in the rest of the station, and none of it is good. The deputies are dead, her dad is handcuffed outside the cells, and Scott just got shot, in front of his mom. Stiles is one breath away from a nervous breakdown, and would be curled up in fetal position if she wasn't, you know, completely paralyzed. How the fuck things got so out of hand so quickly, she has no idea.
"Shut up and don't draw attention from the kid with the gun and the Kanima," Derek growls at a near subvocal level. Stiles instantly shuts up. She lasts ten minutes; a record for her.
"So...What about us getting out of this alive?" Stiles whispers, and she almost grins when she hears Derek groan with exasperation. "When we get out of this, preferably with all limbs intact, I would like to pencil in a good three hours of sex. Put it on your calendar, would you please?"
"That's what you're concerned about?" Derek sounds truly astonished.
"No. I'm more concerned about the fact that there's another serial killer on the loose, and he has everyone I care about trapped in this building," she replies flatly. "But when we get out of this, I have a choice between having a complete mental breakdown, or getting fucked until I can't remember my own name. I vote for the latter. I don't look good in white jackets, and I have issues with padded cells. As an added incentive, I will suck your balls dry and let you shove your dick down my throat so I can swallow around you. Think of it as an appetizer for our amazingly deviant buffet of sexy times," Stiles offers magnanimously.
There is an extended pause where Stiles can almost hear the blood rushing from Derek's head to his...well, other head.
"Is this your attempt at motivating me to get the venom out of my system?" Derek's voice drops down about two octaves, and honestly, she'd be shivering in response, except...still paralyzed. Fucking Jackson and his venom.
"You stabbed your leg to try to bleed it out. Therefore, blood rushing in that direction is a good thing. AmIrite?" Stiles explains reasonably, trying to wiggle her toes. That's a big, fat, nope.
Derek sighs, and hallelujah, this time his shoulders moves in unison. Stiles beams, triumphant and oh, so smug.
"You're never going to let me forget that you got it right," Derek mutters sullenly.
"Not for as long as I can remember my name," Stiles sings, so very pleased with herself.
"Whatever, Gem." Derek mutters.
"Rude," Stiles pouts, then grins at Derek. And it will occur to her much later - how odd it was that in the middle of this mess, with so many people dead and their lives at risk, that being here in this room next to Derek was enough to make her feel...happy.
Because afterwards? It's awful.
It ends with Matt dead. Drowned, and this time with no Jackson to save him.
It ends with Mrs. McCall freaking out. It takes Stiles and Scott nearly three hours to calm her down and get her home. And it hurt to see how scared Mrs. McCall is of her own son.
It ends with her dad unconscious for hours and then getting appointed as Sheriff as soon as he's up and able. And it's because there is, quite literally, no one left to take charge. His first assignment after being reinstated is to investigate the murders of his friends. Stiles aches to tell her dad everything, to tell him there wasn't anything he could have done, to ease the burden that aged him a decade, pushing him closer to breaking. But she doesn't say a thing.
It ends with Stiles in the hospital. She has that panic attack, and ends up in the hospital, alone, cold, and scared out of her mind. The nurses have to hold her down when they put the IV in because she's so deeply panicked that her usual fear of needles ramps up to a hysterical degree. Worst is, the first dosage doesn't work; Stiles is too keyed up, too scared, too close to the memories of what happens in the hospital, too close to the memories of her mom. She calls for her dad, calls for Scott, calls for Derek as she sinks into drugged sleep.
It ends with complete radio silence. Static noise between Scott and Stiles. For the first time since they were five, they don't talk. They greet each other in the hallway, and share notes but it stops there. Stiles doesn't ask and Scott doesn't supply answers; they're like, perfect strangers, friendly but not friends. And she can't find the energy to care; too busy trying to keep herself together, to keep her relationship with her dad from breaking down further, to keep breathing normally and to keep getting up each day to do it all over again. So, she's almost grateful that Scott's dealing with his problems - whatever they are - without having to lean on her too.
It ends with Isaac, Erica and Boyd - they don't return to school. Or their homes. Derek vanishes. His cell phone is disconnected. Stiles thinks about going to the warehouse after the first three days, but she doesn't. There is a Derek-shaped hole in her life, and sometimes, Stiles has trouble breathing - like that hole opens up to the vacuum of space, sucking out all the air in the room, squeezing the cavity beneath her ribs.
It starts with Stiles watching dust motes in the air, sitting in the guidance counselor's office.
"I don't know if this situation calls for Churchill," Stiles mutters, pulling at the lacrosse stick.
"This isn't a war," Ms. Morrell replies, looking unimpressed and unmoved by Stiles' lack of responsiveness.
"Isn't it?"
AN from Esyla: Real conversation we had while editing. H: Who is Seamus. E: The irish kid in harry potter. H: What? E: He blows up the feather in the first movie, then the culdroun and in the last movie he helps blow up the bridge. H: That's an obscure reference. E: It really isn't. These are just things I know.
That's right people. All these reference, they just exist in my head. I don't look a single one up. But you should. Because I only reference awesome.
AN from HBoy:
FUCK THIS NOISE YA'LLS. Tell E to stop making me edit and cowrite and rewrite angst. ANd that I'm only willing to do more sex if she gives me an extensive list of synonyms for peen and vagina. Plus proper names for all the toys she keeps putting in the stories.
And I honestly need to finish Season 2 so I can stop getting into trouble about what's canon and what's not. Maybe right after the elections :)