Black Water (IN EDITING)

by It Belongs In A Museum

High school. It's difficult enough to navigate on its own. When Charlie Oswin moved to Beacon Hills to live with her aunt after the death of her father, she thought the worst she'd have to deal with was gossip and term papers. But something weird was going on and those two strange guys were at the center of it all. And she was going to figure it out. Eventual Stiles/OC.

25. Requiem (Edited)

A MASSIVE thank you to becca1130, Atomicity, Exuberance of Youth, jewishpines, winchesterxgirl, Tora3, The MMMG, MessintheMirror, VeeWillRockYou, TameTheGhosts, Skittleslover3, Guest, FetusPosey3, rimms, anditcametopass, Guest, Alsynea, Harukasa, Micaela M, ArgentOir, ellsosaurus, chibi-Clar, OneWhoReadsTooMuch, monkeybaby, dreamerwithapen, zvc56, RedVelvetPanPan, Erraa, Wrennie10, ThePreviews, Guest, fighter61998, Guest, Guest, and willow441988 for reviewing! And of course to the marvelous BrittWitt16.

Also, just want give a shout to YourpalMoony! She just finished her masterpiece that is The Gloaming and the sequel, The Awakening, is now up! If you know what's good for you, you'll check both stories out.

I'm sorry this took so long. Work has been bonkers and I've been existing in a state of perpetual high level anxiety because of the news, the state of the world, etc. Fun time to be alive.

I'm 'falling over' level of sleepy, so there are probably grammar errors I didn't catch. Forgive me!

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Chapter 25 - Requiem

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The hallway was completely dark. Or it should have been. The fluorescents above her head didn't hum and the moon beyond the window shone too faintly, but Charlie found herself enveloped in a dim glow. It was cold and blue, no warmth to it. Like fireflies, spots of light flickered to life only to extinguish a moment later. They hovered around her in a swarm, reflecting against the glass of the windows and metal of the lockers, just bright enough to illuminate any shadow that happened to flit by. Charlie's hands itched to find a light switch, but could find no break in the dull, stippled beige of paint on cinder block.

Charlie spun on her heel. She wasn't supposed to be at school. Nobody was. Once they found the janitor's body tossed unceremoniously into a dumpster, the police had locked it up and wrapped it in bright yellow tape. A cruiser sat in front, a man inside it to wave off any curious passerby. So how had she gotten in? How did she find herself so clearly in the midst of another 'incident'? Good things never happened in rooms this quiet.

On one side the hallway was infinite, flashes of blue illuminating it until the walls converged to a single point. On the other stood the school entryway, the door handle a few feet beyond her grasp. Several long steps brought it within her reach. The metal was icy as she seized it. Her breath came quickly, ready to mix with the cool night air.

Bang!

The slam of a door echoed through the hallway and stilled Charlie's hand. She stopped in her tracks. Wind whistled in through a small crack to the outside world, crisp and fresh and promising a clear night. It replaced the stifling air in her lungs, just a taste of freedom. She willed her hand to widen the gap and step beyond the door, but something else gave her pause.

"Help!"

The voice, high and panicked, sent a chill down her spine. It belonged to a small girl. As a child Charlie had been afraid of the dark. This one must be terrified. She stepped from the door. The click of the latch behind her was quiet, subtle, but rang against the lockers like a shotgun blast. She moved down the hallway, flickers of blue swirling around her in eddies as she waded through.

"Hello?" she called out hesitantly. Her words didn't echo. They were cracked and diminished. "Hello? You don't need to be scared—I'm here to help! I'll take you home."

Broken sobs replaced the eerie, childlike voice. They were soft, but they were also everywhere. They surrounded her. Each corner sniffled and whimpered with quiet desperation. Charlie spun, searching for the source. The exit disappeared from behind her. The hallway stretched on either side, marked by a never-ending line of classroom doors. She began to walk, but the view never changed. Her steps didn't bring her closer to anything, and the watery tears still whimpered from every angle.

Blue lights winked mockingly as panic clawed at her. Each gulp of dry air seared her throat. Her breaths came in gasps, cracking her lungs like paper set too close to a fireplace. Her calm fractured and she picked up her pace. At first footsteps quickened. Then they rang less often. Long strides morphed into a jog and finally a sprint. The blood in her ears drowned out the little girl's tears. She edged out of Charlie's mind, forced to the side by her need for escape. The floor sank like sand beneath her feet. Each step was heavy, her knees ached. She panted. Her lungs filled with blood. She reached for the classroom doors. None had handles. On her eighteenth try she fell against the surface, back against the cold wood, and slid to the floor. Her limbs weighed like lead beneath her, too heavy to move. Her chest gurgled with each inhalation. Her eyelids drooped.

"I don't know where I am."

Unlike the muffled cries, the words had a distinct source.

Charlie's head snapped up. A few doors down stood a little girl, no more than six years old. A T-shirt several sizes too big hung from her shoulders, dirty and frayed at the hem, rips and iron-on patches marked her jeans, her hair was pulled back into uneven braided pigtails, and a stuffed animal sat under her arm. Her head sagged towards the ground, tears streaking down unseen cheeks. Fighting her own weight, Charlie hauled herself to her feet.

"Hey," Charlie whispered, her tone soft and comforting. "Hey, it'll be okay. Don't worry. I'll take care of you." Her steps towards the girl were careful and slow. The girl took a small step forward to match. "Where are your parents?" Charlie asked. "Where's your dad?"

"Gone," the girl replied simply. Her head still tipped forwards, hiding her face from view.

Charlie took another step forwards. So did the girl. "Well, we can find them."

"No, we can't," the girl murmured.

Charlie shook her head. "Of course we can."

They slowly approached each other, falling into step. Soon Charlie stood directly before her. The part of her hair was jagged and chunks stuck out of her braids at odd angles. A Rolling Stones print and old grease stain decorated the shirt. It looked familiar. As did the toy under her arm, a stuffed kangaroo named Leonard. Charlie reached out to place a hand on the girl's shoulder, but her fingers met cold, hard, and smooth. Her palm pressed further, flattening against the surface. Charlie jerked her hand back in surprise. As she stumbled backwards, so did the girl. The hallway in front her stood identical to the one behind her, but with the image reversed. Her fingers moved forward again, brushing the chilled glass. It was a mirror.

"What the hell?"

The girl before her shook with sobs. She wore a T-shirt that belonged in her dad's dresser and clutched Leonard like he belonged in her arms. The child lifted her head. Black tears leaked from those wide, hazel eyes—Charlie's own eyes ten years prior. Hot, wet beads tracked down Charlie's own cheeks. She flicked them away. Her fingers came back stained with ink.

"I've been here so long," the little girl—Charlie—whispered. "I've been alone this whole time."

"Shut up." Charlie spat the words out like a bitter taste on her tongue. "I don't want to hear it. Shut up."

The child looked up with huge, watery, coal-smeared eyes. "They left me alone. Why do they keep leaving me all alone?"

"I said shut up," Charlie snapped. "Shut up and stop crying."

The tears continued to flow. Charlie's hands balled into fists. Crying solved nothing. It didn't bring people back. It didn't make them find you. Her own tears still stung her face like steaks of acid. A brick appeared at her feet. She didn't hesitate to pick it up. It was heavy and rough in her hand. Her eyes fixed on the mirror, on the girl reflected in it, and she threw. Glass shattered, the small shards falling like raindrops.

And then, as the remains of the mirror skittered across the floor, she found a third set of eyes behind it. They shone red.

---

"That was cinematic as fuck."

Charlie rolled her eyes at Donald's reaction to her dream, unable to enact any other demonstrable and/or offensive gestures of disapproval. Three separate blankets cocooned her where she sat on the living room sofa. The chenille throw draped itself casually over her shoulders, while two fleece ones worked in tandem, pinning her arms to her sides and capturing her legs in a tangle more convoluted than a straight jacket. She had been sitting there since the early hours of the morning when Mel saw fit to swaddle her, because apparently the trauma of a near-death experience meant she must be cold. Only her hands remained free, working feverishly on her Xbox controller. She may have spent days locked in that apartment, but at least Master Chief could roam free.

"So was it, like, super-vivid and acid trip-y?" Donald's voice asked, crackling from the headset she wore. "Or was it one of those dreams where you know you're dreaming?"

"My heart was pounding like it wanted to break through my ribs and go for a light jog around the block and I woke up in a cold sweat," Charlie deadpanned. "I had to strip the bed. It was plenty vivid."

Donald gave a noise of distaste. "Ugh. Waking up and having to change the sheets is never fun. Even when it's the good type of dream."

Charlie retched at the suggestive lilt tacking itself on to his last few words. "Oh my God, dude. That is not the type of thing that you're supposed to tell me! I do not need to be subjected to your pubescent boy grossness."

"And here I was thinking this was a safe place," he countered with an unapologetic cackle.

"Safe for who?"

"For whom," Donald corrected.

"Leave my grammar alone," Charlie grumbled. "And I've already been traumatized enough for one week. So please, keep your Jessica Alba fantasies to yourself."

"Hey, hey," Donald chided. "Do not sully my love for Jessica Alba. My love for her is pure and true. We're talking more of a Natalie Dormer type love. Respectful, but with a touch of dirty."

Charlie gagged. "It's worse now. You're somehow making this worse. I'd take being stalked by a murderer over this conversation."

A loud crash from the kitchen spared her from Donald's no doubt semi-lecherous response. She paused the game and craned her neck, leaning forwards as far as the blankets would allow. From that distance she could make out a sliver of the kitchen. Those few inches provided a view of, at minimum, a dozen pots and pans, several counter stains, and a mountain of paper towels. A second crash sounded.

"Are you being robbed?" Donald inquired lightly.

Charlie shook her head. "Nah, it's way worse than that. Mel's trying to cook."

Mel slid into the kitchen door frame, a wrinkled, stained apron and crocs taking the place of her usual crisp dress and heels. The golden locks that sat piled atop of her head were as much a frazzled mess as the woman herself. "It's fine!" she exclaimed. "Everything's under control! It's all fine!" Charlie hid her grimace beneath a blinding grin and offered a thumbs up. Though her arms were restricted to proportions of a T. Rex, Mel spied the gesture. The responding smile was fleeting, but painfully bright. The messy bun fled as quickly as it had appeared, and the clanging of kitchenware recommenced.

Charlie sagged back against the sofa and resumed the game, navigating up a sloping hill towards a trio of tanks. Donald's character circled around the other side, flanking them to take out any enemy combatants lurking in shadow. "Wow," he drawled. "Even I could hear the exclamation points in her voice. That is next level cheerful—are you sure you're not being held hostage?"

Charlie fidgeted, struggling against the blankets' embrace. Any comfort in the position had long since abandoned her. Within them she was overwarm, little droplets of sweat collecting wherever skin touched skin. Any attempt at escape would likely prove impossible. "Not as sure as I'd like to be," she mumbled before redirecting her attention to the screen. In the game, a red-armored figure awaited her and Donald on the other side of the tanks. Between her shot to the knee and Donald's shot to the head, it crumpled. Charlie's player clambered behind the wheel while Donald's hitched a ride. Together, they headed for the enemy base. "Hey, could we talk about something else?" she asked. "I feel like I'm still stuck in that goddamn school. You're you—there must be something interesting going on."

Charlie could hear the shrug. "I mean, sure," he replied, "but when being hunted down by a serial killer slash werewolf is what you've got, everything I have to offer borders on the boring. You kinda broke the curve."

"Dude, fill me in on every last mundane detail," Charlie insisted. "I could use some boring in my life right now. I crave it. Hook me up to an IV and pump boring straight into my friggin' bloodstream. It'd do wonders for my blood pressure."

"Okay, it's not that boring," Donald scoffed. A purple hovercraft, the Kestrel, zoomed towards them, firing with abandon. Donald's player swapped out a pistol for a sniper rifle and took aim. "I'm thinking about asking this girl named Celeste out. I'm a little nervous about it."

Charlie's snort disappeared into the ratatat of his gunfire. "Why? She's gonna say yes."

"That's not a sure thing."

Charlie heaved a sigh and blew the head off a nearby grunt with her pistol. "Yes, it is a sure thing."

Donald's humility typically held a shelf life of five minutes. Today it expired in under one. "Okay," he said, the smirk eating its way into his voice. "Fine, yes it is, obviously. But with all your drama, I've gotta add some intrigue. Throw in a little 'will they, won't they'. A little 'Ross and Rachel' except, you know, minus the Ross for reasons that are self-evident."

"And the best you can do 'intrigue-wise' is pretend that you're nervous about a date?" Charlie drawled. "Dude, who do you think you're talking to? You've left a string of teary-eyed girls waving after your moving van in cities across half the country. I have witnessed the saga."

Donald sniped the red player driving the Kestrel. The craft spun out and crashed into a mountain cliff, releasing a plume of highly pixelated smoke. "Whoa, hey now," he scoffed. "Let's not exaggerate."

"I'm not exaggerating," Charlie shot back. But Donald grumbled his disagreement and she relented. "Okay, fine. But I'm only kind of exaggerating. You've had a steady girlfriend per city. Then you have to move on and they cry and there's snot and its gross, emotionally and otherwise. Maggie in Austin, Corrinne in New York, Nicole in Miami. There was Kirsten the police sketch girl in—oh, hey bogie on your three o'clock." Charlie relinquished the tank's steering long enough to take aim at the shimmering patch that signified an opposing player in stealth mode. One blast and a red-armored soldier sailed into a heap at the corner of the screen.

Donald's voice crackled in her ear, a hint of irritation intermingling with the airwaves. "Okay, yes, I'll admit that I've found my share of arms to hold me. But I resent the implication that I did something to intentionally cause this heartache of which you speak. It's not my fault that I've got to move every eight months and that each town happens to house intelligent and beautiful women who I'm lucky enough to be irresistible to."

"Donald, your ego is showing."

"Don't hate, Oz. If you're as charming and likeable and handsome as I am, accurate self-assessment can look like ego. It's okay if you can't see the nuanced distinctions."

Charlie jammed her finger down hard on the controller, firing tank rounds at the weapons installations of the enemy fortress. The move was about 50% tactical and 50% born of exasperation. "Stop talking like you're 'The Most Interesting Man In The World'. Your life is not a Dos Equis commercial. The fact that I've needed to tell you this more than once frustrates me."

"What would you know about it?" Donald quipped. "And anyways, you're one to talk. You've racked up your fair share of romantic casualties."

Charlie's nose wrinkled. "What the hell are you talking about? I haven't dated anybody."

"H—yeah," Donald laughed. The usual humor shared space with an air of presumption Charlie did not care for in the slightest. "Sure, Charlie. You haven't dated anybody. Not for a lack of them trying. Let's be honest here. We both know I have a beautiful face—"

"Obviously."

"But," Donald barrelled on, "just because my radiant beauty eclipses yours, it does not mean that you are without a few characteristics that could….entice. The Bratz are a good-looking pair."

"Gross. Stop talking."

Donald took a break from peppering with horizon with rifle fire to release a groan. "Look, dude, you're hot and funny and when you're not being a 90-year-old grandpa going on rants about how ice cream is too cold and hurts your teeth, you're fun to be around."

"Okay," Charlie replied defensively, raising her voice over the explosion of several grenades. "What's your point?"

"Just stop pretending that I'm the only who left behind some romantically inclined baggage because I happen to reciprocate on occasion. Remember that guy Justin? First semester freshman year. How many times did he ask you out?"

Charlie grimaced at the memory. Despite being wrapped up to the point of possible heat exhaustion, a shiver ran down her spine. "It was enough to be creepy. I barely even talked to the guy—how does someone like me if they don't even know me?"

"He doesn't have to actually know you," Donald sighed. "He just has to find you intriguing. And yeah—I know—his bullshit was messed up as hell, and on behalf of the non-sucky men I apologize for him. But don't act like you're above all the teen drama. Justin is not a singular dude. I can guarantee there is a minimum of one boy in your current school who is at least kind of intrigued."

The force of Charlie's thumb on the controller had her firing triple the rounds necessary. "Yeah? Well then he's an idiot."

"I don't disagree," Donald drawled. "But such is the overly hormonal world we live in. Just because I participate doesn't mean I'm trying to rack up a point total. And just because you're not paying attention doesn't mean it's not happening with you too."

"I think I prefer not paying attention," she grumbled.

"Ignorance might be bliss, but guess what? It's still ignorance. You're bound to get a reality check every once in a while, and it helps if they're friendly. And don't come from dudes named Justin."

Charlie gave off a loud harrumph and sagged back against the sofa, relinquishing herself to the blankets. A frown settled on her face, dragging her eyebrows together, and her gaze slid from the monitor. Faces flitted through her mind. A couple of nameless lacrosse players, Aaron Harrison (cue gag reflex), a curly-haired blonde guy from Algebra II who she'd caught looking away from her too quickly to be normal once or twice. Any of those looks could mean anything. How the hell was she supposed to tell the difference? Why should she be expected to? So she shoved each figure into a mental ball pit until those faces disappeared. A set of glowing red eyes might just be preferable to the other pairs of brown and blue. At least she knew what those eyes wanted.

An explosion boomed from the headset and the controller vibrated in her hands, jolting her back to attention. Her on-screen avatar hung over the side of the tank, limp and useless while a slowly growing splotch of red interrupted the sandy brown terrain below it. "Fuck." The countdown till respawning began, agonizing as always. Her hands tightened around the controller in anticipation of Donald's storm of cheerful guffaws, but it never arrived. The forecast remained clear. Strange as this eight to ten second window usually brimmed with all manner of heckling. Though, come to think of it, that paled in comparison to the full two minutes dedicated to arguing against his own romantic potency. Or the hint of annoyance that had woven its way between his words. Rewinding through the conversation, Charlie pinpointed where his tone soured. Her lips pinched as they formed an apology.

"Sorry, Donald," she muttered. "I didn't mean you were going on some trans-continental scavenger hunt for girlfriends. I just meant that, based on statistical data, you don't have to worry about Celeste turning you down. She's not going to."

The smirk returned to Donald's voice immediately. It always did, his emotional resilience equally baffling and impressive. Eager to be happy. Happy to forgive. And, as always, unbearably smug. "Because I'm handsome and charming and intelligent and altogether irresistible?" he prompted.

"Yes, Donald," Charlie sighed, "because you're handsome and charming and intelligent and altogether irresistible."

"That's what I like to hear!"

The game beeped ominously through the headset and her player flickered from a semi-translucent shadow to a solid blue. It stood alone on a sandy plane, far from the action. And there it remained, totally still as small explosions went off on the horizon. Her fingers stalled over the controller, thoughts still too caught up in their conversation to allow room for video game strategy. It was Donald's firm cough that summoned her back from the fog. "Um, Oz? Would you mind meeting me on the field of battle? We've got some shit to fuck up."

Her thumb hit a button, forcing a dead sprint. "Um, yeah—I'm en route," she said, clearing her throat. "So, uh, so tell me about Celeste."

The smirk in Donald's voice widened into a grin. "Yeah?"

"Of course," Charlie deadpanned. "I wouldn't be a Donald crush if I didn't have to hear about it in hauntingly specific detail."

Donald took aim at an enemy player and fired. Its head exploded like a cantaloupe. "Okay, but I'm about to get sappy as fuck and you can't make fun of me."

Charlie shook her head. "There's no way I'll be able to promise that."

"Fair enough."

Celeste, as described by Donald, was a maiden fair possessing of a tall, slender frame, golden skin, mahogany tresses, flinty onyx-colored eyes, and a tongue that dispensed of witticisms and swears frequently and with equal measure. This journey to romance had not been without its stumbling blocks. Their paths crossed twice daily in the hallowed halls of North Providence High, mathematics in the morn and U.S. History as the sun sank closer to the horizon—classes whose temporal borders Donald typically considered 'flexible'. His not infrequent disappearances from their shared academic suffering endeared him to neither Celeste nor her perfect attendance record. As such, initial overtures were heedlessly rebuffed. Greetings in the classroom went unreturned, smiles in the hallway unanswered. 'Twas a dark day for the house of Price.

But lo! Outside the school would form the landscape of their love. For within those doors Celeste stood as Student Council's sophomore representative, member of the dance ensemble, and active participant across those clubs both social and political in nature—aloof, unattainable, previously engaged. Beyond the walls, as it turned out, she occupied a key seat in the hierarchy of the local Dungeons and Dragons syndicate. It was through this endeavor of mutual interest that Donald and Celeste were afforded a formal, more intimate introduction. By the hand of Vincent, treasurer of the local AV Club and deep gnome of the Forgotten Realms. While romance may not have taken root in the hallways of North Providence High, it bloomed on the fields of Castamere. Or wherever the fuck orcs did battle.

"Vincent set you up," Charlie chuckled. Her player and Donald's had long since reunited. Together they hijacked an enemy aircraft and circled the fortress, her behind the controls and Donald picking off the opposing forces one by one with his sniper rifle. They landed, cleared the roof, and were in the final stages of overrunning the enemy base. Donald concluded his story just as they pried open the door to the roof and tossed a few grenades in to clear the space. The numerous explosions did little to dampen the laughter that erupted from her lungs like slow-rolling thunder. "You're kidding right? Vincent—'I'm scared of girls' Vincent—is the architect of Providence's next power couple. I'm sorry, but I have to take a minute to appreciate the irony."

"Hey, Vinny's got game," Donald declared. "It just….only seems to show up when he's pretending to be someone else. When he's playing Beelzebub he's thrown out some lines that would even make you giggle."

"Doubtful seeing as I don't giggle," Charlie countered. "You ready to raid?"

"Go for it."

Charlie's player kicked through the door and marched forwards, the butt of its rifle nestled at the shoulder. Residual smoke from the grenades clouded the entry. She angled the gun's sight left and right, scanning for combattants. "We're clear," she called out, and Donald's player shuffled past her. Rooms dotted the charcoal grey hall. They cleared them one by one.

"So what are you gonna do with Celeste?" Charlie asked. "You've got a plan, right?"

"There's a Renaissance Fair coming to town," Donald answered cheerfully. "I figure she's into all this D&D stuff, she'd like to get dressed up and eat a gigantic turkey leg. Maybe watch me slay some dragons."

"You're gonna be her knight in shining armor?" Charlie teased. "It sounds like you really like her."

The pause that followed was short, but heavy with contemplation. "Yeah, I think I do."

Charlie's lips pinched together and she nodded carefully. More for herself than for him. When it came to feelings, Donald didn't need to nod himself into certainty—he just knew himself. He knew what he wanted—who he wanted. He even knew why he wanted. Charlie had to mull, to work at it. She sat at the bottom of a mountain like freaking Sisyphus with a boulder of emotional incompetence to push to its peak. Donald reached the summit a long time ago. Hell, he planted a flag there. She'd hardly managed to get to base camp. But he still shouted wisdom from on high, if she asked for it. "Do you ever think it would be easier?" Charlie murmured haltingly. "To just...not look. And then not miss them later."

He considered the question carefully. The series of gunshots and explosions from the game only made his silence more pointed. "Nah," he finally answered. "I'd rather not miss out on them, you know? But we're different people. Missing them costs me less than it'd cost you."

Charlie bobbed her head. "Do you think I'm missing out? Like cost-benefit wise?"

The strained grunt was quiet, barely reaching her ears, but quickly buried itself under a sudden, abrasive screech. "Whoa, what is that?" Donald exclaimed. His player shifted on its feet, searching for intruding figures. "Where is that coming from?"

Mel's voice answered before Charlie could. "It's alright! Everything's fine! I have it completely, 100% under control."

Unless the newest game release included an olfactory component, things were very much not under control. The acrid scent of smoke soon filled Charlie's nostrils. Almost immediately, a succession of clangs joined the smoke alarm in their catastrophic symphony. Swearing, she paused the game. "Donald, I'm going to have to take a rain check. It's defcon one—Mel's definitely trying to burn the apartment down. I'll call you later. Good luck with Celeste."

Charlie switched off the game and dropped the controller without awaiting a reply. With her first move, the blankets refused to relinquish their hold. With the second, they constricted further. The third saw her toppling onto the floor with a thunk. "Hold on, Mel—just give me a sec!"

"No, no!" Mel chirped. "Just stay where you are! I've got it!"

Charlie rolled her eyes with her whole body. Which, conveniently, gave her an angle with enough leverage to displace one of the fleeces. A couple of seconds of struggle and she extracted a whole arm. A few moments more and she wriggled free like a butterfly from its chrysalis, swapping out the dramatic, colorful makeover for sweatpants and an excess of flannel. One foot had fallen asleep, now floppy and useless beneath her, but she staggered into the kitchen with minimal chaos. Chaos, however, had a way of finding her. Today's edition appeared to involve a foot-high column of flames shooting up from the stove. "Oh my God, Mel!"

Mel spun around in surprise, eyes wide and hair even more of a mess than before. Chunks of Garnier Fructisse commercial blonde hung loose from the bun, tumbling far too close to the open flame. One hand clutched a spatula while the other held a pitcher—neither seemed to know what they were doing. She was still smiling. Her face belonged in a commercial for sugar-free gum. Happy perfection magnified to the point that it couldn't be real, and was probably painful. "Charlie!" Mel trilled. "I said it's under control!"

"Yeah, I can see that!" Charlie exclaimed. "As far as fires go this one seems super chill!"

"It's a fire—fires can be put out."

Charlie stammered a contradiction, but before syllables arranged themselves into words Mel turned towards the fire with the pitcher. "No!" Charlie shouted. She knocked the pitcher from her aunt's hand. Mel's jaw dropped open, scandalized by the sudden violence. As a few rogue droplets hit the pan, though, it unhinged itself completely. Fire spat feet into the air, bright orange flames dancing like their gas cooktop had summoned demon. Charlie snatched up one of the dirtied saucepans littering the counter and lunged for the stove. The saucepan covered the flames and she held it in place, lining its rim along the that of the pan below it. Ten...nine... eight… Upon hitting zero, Charlie slowly lifted the pan. The fire had stopped. Panting with the effort and panic, she faced her aunt. "Water doesn't work on grease fires. Actually, it tends to make them go kaboom. Next time just put on a lid. Or, you know, fire extinguisher."

Mel gulped audibly. "Noted."

As the shock subsided, pinpricks began to assault Charlie's foot. She hobbled to an inviting stool and collapsed into it, rolling her ankle to help the blood flow re-established itself. Several deep breaths later, she allowed herself a scan of the perimeter. Her view from the living room had done no justice to the carnage. The sink overflowed with bowls half filled with various types of dough and previously unused cutting boards now stained to the point that they very well might count as impressionist artwork. The mayhem spilled onto the counters and beyond. Saran wrap and foil sat in balled up heaps. The trash can and recycling overflowed with enthusiasm. No surface went unscathed. Except, that is, for the far corner of the kitchen island. Two table settings were laid out, still waiting for food.

The past few days had seen a definite shift in the atmosphere of the Oswin household. Charlie's arrival on the doorstep of Mel's shop with a gash in her cheek and police escort at her shoulder triggered a small breakdown. It began with crying. Tears of worry, anger, and fear mixed while they tracked down Mel's cheeks. Her words lost themselves in the sobs. When tears were exhausted, anger took their place. Frantic, sharp yelling directed itself first to Charlie and then to the sheriff. Mel spat fire that burned hotter than the stove. Sheriff Stilinski might very well be afraid of her now. That night the kind, calm, collected serenity that inhabited the woman's every word and gesture stripped away to reveal something far more animalistic. Any hound guarding the gates of hell would consider her good company. But the following morning Charlie awoke to a shift just as abrupt, and possibly more disturbing. Mel greeted her with a psychotic beauty pageant smile that had yet to fade and a chipper tone only achievable with a couple million cubic feet of helium. Each time Charlie approached the front door the smile tightened and the voice jumped another octave, usually accompanied by a 'where are you going?' or 'what are you doing?' or 'when will you be back?'. Her hand had yet to touch the handle. Mel's skull might very well explode if she tried.

In the aftermath of that night at the school, everybody found their own coping mechanism. Charlie's had been largely restricted to the confines of her douchey subconscious. The waking hours belonged to her—then she was solid. Easy solution to that: just avoid sleep. Lydia's strategy appeared to involve engaging in all her usual activities, but at an oddly accelerated rate: high-intensity retail therapy sessions with long receipts, multiple viewings of The Notebook, a critique of Charlie's wardrobe detailed enough to necessitate footnotes and an MLA formatted bibliography. Charlie hadn't seen Allison at all. There had been a few phone calls, two short and one long—enough for a tearful recounting of hers and Scott's breakup—but little else. She didn't say much on the matter, just the one thing on repeat. She couldn't trust him, so she had to break up with him. He wasn't being honest with her, so she had to break up with him. He wouldn't tell her the truth, so she had to break up with him. The same argument, over and over, with lots of synonyms and more than a few tears. From what little insight Charlie had, Allison was trying to convince herself she did the right thing. Maybe she wanted Charlie to tell her that too, to have someone reaffirm her choices. But when Allison paused, waiting for a response, all she got was dead airwaves. Charlie didn't have anything to offer. All she could do was listen. Hopefully Allison called Lydia as soon as she hung up. Lydia would have something to say.

Then there was Stiles and Scott. Beyond one 'just checking in' call the following morning, Charlie had no word from them either. Which shouldn't bother her, but it did. Out of everyone in her life, they were only two who actually understood what they had been through. It weighed on their shoulders like it did on hers. Her fingers itched with the desire to call one of them, to talk about it or even around it, to see if their hands still shook sometimes if they let themselves think about it. She couldn't. Calling Scott felt like an overstep after his breakup with Allison. And between his dad and a no doubt emotionally devastated Scott, Stiles had enough on his plate. And so did she.

Charlie rubbed her eyes, but when her hands fell from her face, the mayhem of the kitchen remained. The mess itself wasn't the problem. It was a symptom. "Mel, what's going on here?" she asked, her voice tired.

Mel opened her mouth and closed it again. Her beauty pageant smile fractured ever-so-slightly. "I was just trying to make breakfast," she chirped. "I thought we could spend the day together! After everything that's happened a girls day might be nice. Breakfast, movies, facials, that sort of thing. We won't even have to get out of our pajamas! Unless it's to change into more comfortable pajamas."

"Mel, we did that yesterday," Charlie pointed out.

"And we can do it again today!" Mel replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Is it a crime for me to want to spend time with you?"

"You mean keep an eye on me."

Mel twitched, but gave no other outward indication that she had heard Charlie. Her protectiveness had kicked into overdrive—ironic seeing as it drove her to nearly burn down the apartment. Charlie sighed. Subtlety and suggestion couldn't bring this to a head. It needed to be forced. She leveled her aunt with a serious look. "Mel, we can't keep doing this," she said gently. "I know you're freaked out, but we can't up and become shut-ins. This is the third day in a row you didn't go to the shop. That's not sustainable."

Mel's brow furrowed, but she lifted her chin in quiet defiance. "You let me worry about what's sustainable," she replied tersely. "That's my problem, not yours."

"We're a team. It's both of our problem." Mel opened her mouth to speak, but Charlie grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed. "Mel, I'm okay."

Mel squeezed back hard. Her knuckles went white around the spatula in her other hand. "Is that why you keep waking up gasping like you just finished a marathon?"

Charlie opened her mouth to retort, but discovered she had no counterpoint. Mel's soulless smile compressed into a scowl. "You thought I didn't notice?"

Releasing Mel's hand, Charlie busied herself with her ponytail, twisting the ends around her fingers. "I'm not going to lie," she said, pointedly looking at her aunt. "It was pretty bad. I was scared. Part of me is still scared. For a second I thought I might die." Mel exhaled sharply and looked away, but Charlie pressed on. "I'm not going to start living in some ivory tower, Mel. I'm not going to keep letting myself be scared. I'm not going to live half a life because some Big Bad Wolf might be lurking around a corner. That's not me."

Mel stared into the depths of the sink. Her back stood so straight the vertebrae seemed to be fused into a single rod. "I wasn't home," she bit out. "I didn't realize you hadn't gotten home yet. If I had been here I'd have known to look for you. The sheriff dropped you off at the shop because you knew I'd be there, not at the apartment."

The pinpricks moved from Charlie's foot through the whole of her body as guilt gripped her. She had counted on Mel being out of the apartment. She had been grateful for it. "The Argents were home," she offered. "The Whittemores were home—they didn't check in. And Scott's mom was working at the hospital. She didn't know Scott was gone. Things just happen how they happen. It's nobody's fault. Don't make it yours."

Mel's shoulders sagged. "I know," she murmured, nodding in agreement. "I know that with my head. The rest of me is just taking some time to catch up. But Charlie...it's my job to take care of you. And protect you." Her eyes turned to Charlie. "I don't even know what I need to protect you from."

"Well...neither do the cops," Charlie offered through a cheerful grimace. "And it's their literal job."

The responding chuckle was bitter. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

Charlie shrugged. "Not particularly. But we can't just stop existing. Mel, I love you, but I can't keep hiding in the apartment or I'm going to start climbing up the walls."

Mel finally relinquished her hold on the spatula, tossing it into the sink. "Yeah, Charlie, I know." With a sigh she untied the apron strings behind her back and pulled it over her head. Like she was hanging up some hard-earned uniform. Dainty fingers folded it and placed it to the side before weaving themselves together into a set of neatly clasped hands. Mel cleared her throat before speaking. "I'm—I'll be going to work tomorrow," she announced. "And Sheriff Stilinski called. Your car is being released around noon today."

Charlie sat up straight. "Really?"

In the face of her eagerness, Mel's already disheartened expression crumpled further. "Um, yes," Mel nodded hesitantly. "The forensics guys are done with it. They didn't find anything. It can be picked up from the impound lot."

"Beacon Hills has an impound lot?" It was a stupid question. An irrelevant question. So naturally it would be the first thing to fly from Charlie's mouth.

"It's the parking lot behind the precinct and a couple of rolls of crime scene tape." Mel sucked in a sharp breath. Her hands clenched around each other, redoubling their physical grip as the rest of her tried to withdraw. "I'll, um, I'll drop you off there in a few hours. Then you can visit friends and, you know, be outside the apartment. But be home by ten. And check in every few hours. And answer your cell if I call you."

"Yeah, yes—absolutely," Charlie stammered, bobbing her head. "I can do that."

"Good."

They stood in silence, each fidgeting in their own way. Mel studiously examined and tidied her cuticles. Charlie picked her nails to shreds. After the three day loop of continuous cheerful monologuing Mel's lips looked odd while motionless, odder still when she bit them nervously. And they were turned downward. It wasn't an angle Charlie preferred. In fact, it made her stomach drop. It made her want to crack a joke. But even she wasn't dense enough to think that would work now. Charlie swallowed hard. "You know," she murmured, "you know, um, noon is a couple of hours off. And it's not like we can't be a bit late. Maybe we could take the morning. We can have half a 'girls day', can't we? We've got a VHS player now, and I know for a fact we've got a copy of The Princess Bride in the closet."

Mel's lips twitched. "I could be okay with that. Movie and brunch?"

It wasn't quite the radiant grin Charlie hoped for, but she found the new angle less objectionable. It emboldened her enough to allow a dramatic, sweeping, sarcastic survey of the kitchen. "If we're gonna do brunch, I suggest we find a diner."

For the first time in days, Mel's smile sat relaxed on her face. A gentle crinkle around the eyes, rounded cheeks, lines on either side of her mouth. This one was real.

"I think I can arrange that."

---

"Alright, so be sure to pick up if I call you," Mel declared. Her prius lingered in front of the police station, the engine humming gently. Charlie's hand rested near the door handle, but had yet to grasp it. Two romcoms and a mountain of french toast, while providing a calming effect, did not wholly cure Mel's anxiety. Letting Charlie out of her sight still proved difficult. Her facade of ease, for all the effort she put in, was a poorly constructed one.

"I'll be sure to pick up," Charlie said, bobbing her head solemnly.

Mel jerked a nod, her air suddenly direct and businesslike. "So I called Sheriff Stilinski and had some new tires delivered. He said a I could bring in a mechanic to replace them, so you should be good to g—"

"Mel!" Charlie whined loudly. "You know I could have done that myself. I practically built that car—I know Gertrude better than anybody!"

"Did I say otherwise?" Mel demanded. "I get it. You're tough. But I still had to get new tires and the mechanic had to drop them off. Anyways, all four of your tires were slashed so insurance covered the whole thing. Small favors. So just get your car and visit with your friends. And check in like I said before. I'm serious about that. And answer when I message you."

Charlie let out a long, low whistle. "You're hot when you're forceful."

Mel's eyes shone, but she forced back the laugh. "Get out of this car."

Charlie clambered out of the hybrid and dragged her heels into the police station. Much to her dismay, Deputy Sean sat behind the front desk. As it turned out, her behavior outside the video store had not been forgotten and he cared little for belligerent, pajama-clad teenagers more inclined to call him 'Officer Krupke' and 'Dudley Do-Right' than use his actual name. The opportunity for petty revenge did not go wasted. Her paperwork took two hours, owing primarily to a criminal lack of functional pens and Deputy Sean's 'misfiling' the first copy into the shredding machine whilst making direct eye contact. But any resentment found itself buried under the exhilaration of seeing her car again. Sean led Charlie through the police station and out the back towards the 'impound'. The door swung open. Her Impala sat at the center of the parking lot, gleaming in the midday sun. "There it is," Deputy Sean sighed bitterly. "Make sure you don't end up here again. Babysitting isn't in my job description."

His sarcasm fell on deaf ears. Charlie hurtled to her car, throwing herself on the hood and hugging it as thoroughly as her arm span would allow. "I missed you so much," she whispered to the cold metal. The engine beneath it had been silent too long. "I promise I will never, ever leave you again. It's you and me, Gertie."

A loud thump interrupted the reunion, immediately followed by an 'ow!'. Charlie's head shifted against the hood, angling towards the sound. Across the parking lot sat Stiles's Jeep with the hood up. Or at least what was left of its hood. A good third of it had been peeled back by the alpha's claws. Stiles stood in front of it rubbing the back of this head. Something like relief swept through Charlie. After days of forcing back words there were few better comforts than the only person who talked more than she did. Or a conversation her aunt couldn't overhear. Feeling lighter, Charlie rolled off her car and shuffled towards him, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie.

"Stiles?" she inquired. "You doing okay?"

Stiles released a spluttering scoff that ended in a squeak. One hand waved dismissively while the other continued to massage the back of his head. "I'm good!" he said, the pitch of his voice too high for honesty. "It's all good here. Everything's fine. Only thing that hurts is my pride."

Charlie laughed and came to a slow stop next to him. "How's it going?"

"Been better, been worse," he sighed, gently patting his car. Four syllables. Possibly the shortest sentence he'd ever spoken, definitely not the whole story. "And, uh, and you?" he asked, gesturing at her vaguely. "How's it going in your general space?"

Charlie ignored his reticence and shrugged. She had enough words for the both of them. "Been better, been worse," she mused. "Mel's freaking out, obviously. But she finally took me off twenty four hour surveillance. A few days ahead of schedule too—I was pretty sure I'd end up using smoke signals or morse code to beg for a break out. But once you set the kitchen on fire you lose the high ground, and so here I am."

Stiles blinked. "Wait, what?"

"That's neither here nor there," she quipped. She turned, leaning against the Jeep and fixing him with a narrow-eyed stare. "How is everything? Like, really. How did your dad take it?"

Stiles snorted bitterly. He retreated from the bare engine of his Jeep and settled so they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. "Well, they finally found the janitor's body," he murmured. "It ended up in one of the dumpsters out back of the school. And Derek's officially a fugitive from justice, so that's a thing. My dad...he's in over his head. He knows he's missing something, but he's got no clue where to look."

"Well that's a good thing, isn't it?" Charlie asked, studying his profile.

Stiles's head sagged on his shoulders, conflicted, regretful, but he managed to turn it into a nod. "Yeah, yes. I mean technically yes, but—"

"But the lying gets on top of you, doesn't it?" she finished for him. "One is fine, but they keep adding up and then you're not just lying—you're a liar—and it sucks." Stiles's pale countenance made her falter. "Sorry," Charlie murmured. "I'm going to stop talking now."

"No, you're right," Stiles replied, running his hands down his face. "It sucks."

Charlie squinted at him. It wasn't necessary—he wore his emotions like an oversized, semi-fluorescent sweater. They were obvious. It took getting used to. "It's occurring to me now that it probably sucks more for you," she admitted. "Which is weirdly comforting. Like, sure, my life is bullshit, but at least I'm not you."

Stiles laughed. "Wow. Thanks for that."

"I do what I can," Charlie smirked.

"And we as a society appreciate you for it," Stiles deadpanned. He nibbled on his lip a bit before he dared venture his next question. In observing his hesitation, reality set in and Charlie's smirk faded. "How's Lydia doing?" he asked.

Charlie made a face and shrugged. "She seems fine. Repressing like a champ. Her whole 'let the past die' attitude might not be the healthiest in the long run, but for the short term it seems to be working out great."

"That's good, I guess."

His wide-eyed puppy dog look made another appearance. Why did people insist on feeling emotions near her that she couldn't fully understand or address? Everybody's feelings were just so...present. Allison missing Scott. Stiles pining for Lydia. Charlie had no idea what either of those things felt like. She was not equipped for this shit. Time to abruptly change the subject. Or pivot at the very least. "So, uh, so how is Scott doing? With the breakup and everything?"

Stiles accepted the change of pace and shook his head. "If I said fine, would you believe me?"

"If I said there was a gnome living under my bathroom sink who quotes Walt Whitman and gives me the daily weather forecast would you believe me?"

"Okay, I'm just going to take that as a no and move on," Stiles murmured. "Scott's a certified mess. He's been super-moody and doesn't talk all that much. He slept through most of yesterday and...I'm probably not supposed to tell you that. Bro code."

"Please," Charlie scoffed. "I'm totally a bro. I am 100% covered under the bro code."

Stiles eyed her warily. "You don't exactly qualify."

"Hey, I'm an honorary bro at least," she protested. "I've gone through my baptism by fire moment. And anyways, it's not like I don't know everything else already. What difference will it make? Are we really drawing the line at the normal high school drama now?"

"Oh my God, you are so nosy."

Charlie rolled her eyes and smacked him in the chest. "I prefer the term 'inquisitive'."

"You just love those euphemisms, don't you?"

"You're one to talk. Or are we pretending that you don't use semantics like a blunt weapon."

Stiles's shoulders shook with the force of a silent laugh, but as he faced her his eyes didn't mirror that cheer. He scratched absently at his forehead. "So, uh, so how's Allison?"

Charlie sagged further against the Jeep, arms folding themselves instinctively across her chest. "I'm honestly not sure," she murmured. "I haven't gotten a ton of chances to talk to her. I'm pretty sure she's swimming in a sea of denial. She's definitely in the one of the earlier five stages of grief. I know I should be calling her and making her face it, but I don't have the emotional intelligence to handle my own shit. How the hell am I supposed to deal with somebody else's? It's my nightmare."

"A bigger nightmare than marauding werewolves?"

She raised her eyebrows at him pointedly. "You joke, but yeah that's probably the case."

Stiles bumped his shoulder against hers, a small move of solidarity. "You could always get her drunk. That's what I'm doing with Scott later tonight. I stole a bottle of my dad's bourbon and all bets are off."

A coughing laugh formed somewhere deep in Charlie's lungs. "Wow, man," she drawled sarcastically. "Thanks. That was super-helpful. Here I am worrying about emotional honesty and my ability to be there for a friend during her time of crisis and your solution is to get her completely drunk. That's a solid plan—I can't see how it wouldn't work. Also, I'm pretty sure we have a chem test tomorrow."

"It'll totally work!" Stiles exclaimed. "She'll start getting tipsy and then she'll start talking more...give it like twenty minutes and you'll be holding hands and crying."

"Is that what you and Scott do? Hold hands and cry?"

"And I mean ugly crying," Stiles barrelled on. "Face all blotchy, snot everywhere. It'll be a real cathartic feelings experience. With alcohol."

"Jesus," Charlie laughed. "You know even less about girls than I do."

"Have you forgotten the part where you are a girl?" Stiles deadpanned. "You're supposed to be the one with the expertise with all of the feelings and hugging and stuff."

"That's sexist."

"How is that sexist?!"

"I don't know, it just is," Charlie said, waving a dismissive hand.

"You're an idiot."

"You're an idiot."

Charlie snickered to herself. Regardless how serious her conversations with Stiles began, they found a way to devolve into immature bickering with the occasional Star Wars reference. Not that she minded. Some comic relief was kind of, well, a relief. Charlie pushed herself off the Jeep and circled around to the engine. The parts within were old, but clean and rust-free. Well maintained, well cared for. Stiles loved his car. The only thing out of place was the battery. It rattled around in the interior, wires sticking out every which-way, rubber coating peeled back and metal fraying. Finally, something that made sense. Cars could always be relied upon to make sense. You put the parts in the right place, connect them in the way they're supposed to be connected, and the engine would make that sweet, sweet music. Cars followed rules she understood. A relief more potent even than comedy. "So what's the prognosis?" she asked, gesturing to the engine.

Stiles heaved a sigh and followed her to the engine. "Well, the hood got ripped up pretty bad," he said, knocking a hand against the metal. "I had to order some replacement parts—they're over there." He gestured vaguely to a pile of metal at the opposite end of the lot. "The battery should be fine, but I've had some trouble getting it hooked up."

"You want some help?"

He exhaled loudly and glanced between her and the car. "Nah, I think I've got it."

Charlie quirked an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that? Because I can see from here that you've got the battery's positive and negative feeds switched and it's going to take at least two people to get all that crap on your car."

"Waaaaaayuhhhhh," he drawled, scratching again at the back of his neck. He peered into the engine, studied the wiring, and his shoulders slumped. "Great. Now I don't feel emasculated at all."

Charlie snorted and shook her head. She peeled off her hoodie and flannel overshirt, leaving her in her tank top. Two small spots of pink appeared on Stiles's flustered face as he quickly looked away. Charlie couldn't help but roll her eyes. She also couldn't help the slight warmth blooming at her own cheeks, which was odd. She turned her back to him, hiding any potential flush, and moved to her car to toss her things in the back seat. When she returned, her hair was pulled into tight, work-ready ponytail and the only pink in her face was brought about by the afternoon sun. "It's the 21st century, Stiles. Women have the right to vote. We're allowed to show our ankles outside now. We get all that fancy university learning. You might want to work on not feeling emasculated." She patted his shoulder as she passed him for the engine. "Don't worry, big guy. We've got this."

"I hate you so much right now."

She flashed him a smile. "No you don't! You love me."

"Not so much, no."

"Yeah, you do," she sang out again. "You're in love with me."

"Have you suffered a traumatic brain injury?"

"You want to bear my children."

Stiles groaned. "Well that's just fantastic. Again with the emasculating. I'm not a freaking seahorse"

"Again with the sensitivity!" Charlie smirked. "If your fragile male sensibilities have been offended so mightily, why don't you go be manly and pick up something heavy."

Stiles's attempts to keep the hostility in his tone failed miserably. The steeliness fractured easily under the weight of the laughs piling atop it. He was already walking towards the spare parts when he lobbed his next quip her way. "So what? Are you saying that I'm just a piece of meat to you?"

"No. You talk to much. A piece of meat would be so much less annoying."

These ranked among the more mature statements of the afternoon. Their conversation soon devolved still further until it consisted of little more than movie quotes, ridiculous 'what if' scenarios, and a heated debate about the relative merits of chocolate vs. rainbow sprinkles. The most immaterial topic became an argument. Each hill they chose to die on was more absurd than the last. But at least their prattling painted the backdrop to productivity. They spent two hours in that parking lot, engine grease up to their elbows and sweat collecting on their brows as the fading afternoon sun beat down on the backs of their necks.

Working on the car offered Charlie a sense of exhilaration she hadn't felt in some time. It was something concrete to be accomplished. In all other facets of her life she was treading water, the exhaustion continually creeping up with no promise of progress. This victory might be small, but she'd take it. Stiles wasn't a half-bad mechanic either, excepting his misconception that you could yell inanimate objects into place. It didn't help that she started laughing at him. Or that his taking offence at the previously mentioned laughing only made her laugh harder. As they worked, though, she felt the tension in her ease. The knot at the base of her neck loosened. Her only thought of that night at the school was the realization that she hadn't thought on it at all.

Final step. The two of them approached the car, a large slab of metal between them. They lifted the repaired hood over the engine and slowly lowered it. Stiles chanted under his breath until his words lost all meaning. "Careful, careful, careful." The piece fit snugly into place and Stiles sighed the sigh of someone who had just prevented the detonation of a nuclear bomb. Ignoring him, Charlie crouched over Stiles's toolbox. It was neatly organized in a way that made absolutely no sense.

"Okay," Stiles shouted as she selected the appropriate wrench. "So if a bear and a shark got into a fight, who would win?"

Charlie took a break from bolting down the new hood to frown. Sweat sealed a number of flyaway hairs to her forehead. She pushed them to the side. "Seriously, Stiles? That has got to be the stupidest thing you've said today. And that's not an easy bar to clear."

"You're the one who watches all the Discovery Channel stuff!" Stiles protested. "You're supposed to have these answers."

"And I would give you an answer if the question made any type of sense." After snapping the last bolt in place, she tossed the wrench to the side. Stiles was still watching her, eyes wide and enthusiastic. The brown in them seemed lighter with his face so open and eager. "Dude, do I have to spell it out for you? Sharks live in the water. Bears live on land. There's not going to be a cage match any time soon."

"Duh, I know that," Stiles drawled. "That's why it's a hypothetical question."

"I don't care if it's hypothetical—it's a dumb question. There are way too many variables to take into account. Like on land the bear would totally win. All the shark can do is flop around. In the water it's a totally different story. It's unanswerable. Now get in the car and see if it works."

He narrowed his eyes dangerously. Or at least the closest approximation of 'dangerously' his claymation face could manage. "You know what you are? You're a buzzkill."

"However will I sleep at night," Charlie deadpanned. "Now get in the damn car."

"I'm going, I'm going."

Grumbling to himself, he settled into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut. What should have been a fifteen second task drew out to a solid five minutes as he reacquainted himself with the car's interior. He stroked the steering wheel and whispered to the gearshift, either as a silent prayer or potentially an attempt at seduction. Charlie cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted over to him. "Buy her some dinner first, why don't you?"

Darkened eyes glowered through the windshield. In a burst of movement, he grappled with the window's manual crank, wrenching it around violently as the glass slowly squeaked down. Stiles practically stood up in his seat, sticking not only his head but his entire torso out the window. "Hey!" he growled, pointing at her. "This is between a man and his car! This is a sacred relationship, and it should be shown the respect it deserves!"

Charlie threw her hands in the air in submission. "Objectophilia. That's all I'm saying."

His already narrowed eyes squinted further under the weight of suspicion. "I don't know what that means, so I'm just going to go ahead and assume it's an insult."

"Stiles," Charlie replied, her tone carefully moderated. "Shut up and start the damn car."

Stiles slid back in his seat like a slinky settling on the final step of a staircase. His lips continued to move, mimicking bickering to himself. He pulled the keys from his pocket, shoved them in the ignition, and twisted. A few uneasy seconds passed before the engine roared to life. His face split into a wide smile. A triumphant whoop echoed through the parking lot, immediately followed by the thud of him falling out the car. The fist pumping that followed was inevitable. As was the series of bounding leaps as he danced around the car. "Hell yes! Roscoe's back!"

Charlie hid her smile behind her hand, turned her laugh into a cough. The boy really was an idiot. His jumping took him the long way around the parking lot before he came to a stop in front of her. She lifted a hand for a high-five. It was promptly received, and directly afterward Charlie found herself enveloped in a gigantic attack hug. Stiles threw his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides and lifting her off the ground. "I take it all back! You're the best!"

Most of the air had been squeezed from her chest, but enough still resided to force out a few choice words. "I do what I can. And while I appreciate the appreciation, can you stop suffocating me now?"

"Right." Stiles lowered her. Her toes touched the ground a few inches from his. They remained at that proximity a few moments, every bit of Charlie aware of it. He smelled of clean sweat and oil and looking from so close she found that his buzzed hair somehow managed to be disheveled. Clearing her throat, Charlie took a step backwards. Stiles did the same but paired his move with an awkward, broken chuckle. "Yeah, well, um...thanks for the help," he stammered, gesturing to his car. "It definitely would have taken like three times longer on my own."

"Man, I should be thanking you," Charlie sighed. "I was going completely insane in that apartment. Yesterday I took a nap, and I swear to God I woke up to Mel checking my pulse."

Stiles didn't appear altogether perturbed by this. "She cares about you," he shrugged. "I can't blame her for that."

Charlie nodded slowly, but didn't feel the full agreement the nod suggested. "I know she cares," she mumbled. "And I'm glad she does. I expect her to worry. But sometimes it seems like too much, you know? Like sometimes I feel like it's petsitting. You know how someone asks you to look after their cat or whatever and you're two thousand times more anxious about keeping it safe than you are about your own cat?" She pointed to herself. "Mel's cat-sitting me. There was a bit of a scare and I ended up at the vet, so now she's monitoring my food intake and bowel movements to make sure I'm not gonna die on her watch."

Stiles opened his mouth and closed it again. "You know, sometimes a metaphor can be too vivid."

"False. I reject that argument."

"Come on, you don't think you're exaggerating just a little?"

As if on cue, Charlie's phone dinged in the back pocket of her jeans. She didn't even have to look at the text to know its contents. Just Mel shoving a thermometer in the cat's ear so she could be extra sure it didn't have a fever. But check her messages she did. The tone was restrained and the grammar precise. The letters were neither over nor under-capitalized. It was a perfectly innocuous 'How are you doing?'. But the text's casual air found itself somewhat undercut by it's time stamp, which was separated from its predecessor's by a mere seventeen minutes. Charlie lifted the phone to show Stiles. "You were saying?"

Stiles's teeth clenched in a forced smile. "Okay, so she's a bit overprotective. But parents can get like that."

"Not in my experience. Before I moved here I never had a curfew, let alone bi-hourly scheduled check-in texts." She stared down at the phone. The keyboard was open, the cursor flashed expectantly, but her thumbs stalled over the letters. They just needed to tap out a quick 'all good!' or 'I have yet to be gruesomely murdered!'. But that wasn't what she wanted her aunt to read. Charlie could picture Mel on the other side of that text. She sat perched on a stool in the kitchen, entombed among food-encrusted dishware, eyes glued to the screen as she waited for the three dots. The image made the fresh air taste stale.

"I don't want to go back to the apartment."

Charlie hadn't meant to say it. The words burst out of her chest like the Kool-Aid man (flavor: emotional ineptitude). Oh yeah.

Stiles's response was gentle, tentative. "Okay. You don't have to."

"But I want Mel to be alone even less." She bit her lip and looked up at him questioningly. "I should go home, shouldn't I?"

Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. On anyone else it would look awkward. On his already awkward frame it just looked like sincerity. "It kinda sounds like you've already made up your mind."

He sounded so assured when he said it. Like he was so certain of what was going on in her brain. Charlie wasn't sure she liked that. She didn't hate it either. And he wasn't wrong. "I should go home. I'm going home."

Stiles's eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. "Okay then."

Charlie nodded sharply. "Okay then. I, uh, I hope everything goes well with Scott tonight. Don't do anything too stupid."

Stiles frowned. "Why do you feel the need to ruin nice moments?"

"I'll see you later, Stiles."

As she trudged back to her car, her thumbs resumed function and tapped out a quick message to Mel. I'm on my way back - see you in 20. Half a second later her screen filled itself with multicolor heart emojis. Charlie settled behind the steering wheel of her Impala and turned on the engine. A few spaces over, Stiles did the same. Their eyes met through their respective windshields. Stiles smiled and lifted his hand with a parting wave. Charlie did the same. It felt right. Stiles without his Jeep was as foreign a concept as her without Gertrude. At least something was back to normal. Now all they had left to sort was everything else.

---

"Donald's got a date!"

Mel looked from the TV, eyes alight. The mania in her smile had faded, leaving behind only its typical warmth. Three hours and six episodes of Golden Girls had done a lot to restore her calm. The two of them and the entire apartment's supply of throw blankets were on the living room couch, nestled rather than swaddled. Two pages of Wok This Way's menu spilled out of takeout counters on the coffee table before them. Several boxes were already empty, and judging by the grip Mel had on her chopsticks, they would not be alone. She slurped up a few noodles of lo mein before stammering eagerly.

"Donald's got a date?" she chirped. "That's so amazing—I had no idea he was even interested in anyone."

"Yeah, that's because he doesn't say anything until he's sure they like him too. Any talk of rejection would compromise the 'serial monogamist ladies man' image he's been cultivating over the years."

While digging around for some spicy noodles with her right hand, Charlie held out her phone to Mel with her left. On the screen was a photo of a slim-wristed, elegant hand adorned with a ring pop. The caption read 'SHE SAID YESS!'. Mel's eyes went all gooey at the sight of it. "Aw, I think that's cute."

"Of course it's cute. It's Donald—he does lots of cute shit. It's infuriating."

Mel eyed her curiously. "I don't understand any of your friendships."

Charlie shrugged and returned to the food. Her chopsticks circled slowly above several containers, honing in on their next target. They were about to dive in for some cashew chicken, but the descent was interrupted by the sound of "Hungry Like The Wolf" by Duran Duran blasting from phone. A puppy replaced the ringed hand of Donald's lady love on the screen. The caller ID read 'Scott'. Her brows pinched together in a sharp 'v'. "What The hell?"

This was officially weird. Scott never called her. His number had been in her phone for weeks, but this was the first time either of them had reached out. Curiosity overrode her stomach's desire to be stuffed beyond reason. She dropped her chopsticks and threw back the blankets before padding out of the living room. The back of her neck tingled under the force of Mel's curious gaze. With that in mind, Charlie put a hallway and closed bedroom door between herself and her aunt before hitting the 'send' key.

"Hey," Charlie said in a timbre that paired better with a question than a greeting. "What's going on? Why are you calling me?"

"Hey, Charlie." Scott's voice was gruff, dark even. Like his normal voice had been roughed up in the alley behind a bar and was plotting revenge. The breakup's toll on him was worse than anticipated. Or maybe it was because the next full moon was in a few days. Or was it tomorrow? She should probably commit that time table to memory.

The connection crackled beneath Scott's silence. The furrow between Charlie's eyebrows deepened to the point they very well might have formed an 'x' rather than a 'v'. "What's up, man?" she asked, her cheerful tone belonging to a different face. "Has Stiles gotten you super-sloshed yet?"

"You knew about that, huh? Well, that plan hit a snag."

His tone was where humor went to die.

"Yeah, no shit," Charlie replied. "You sound super-sober right now. Depressingly sober, actually."

"I am." The words stopped without any audible punctuation mark. They were replaced by distant noises of garbled nonsense. As the sound approached, it became almost comprehensible. And then, finally, Stiles's voice emerged, speaking slurred but recognizable English. "Hey, dude, what are you doing? No phone calls! We're getting drunk, remember! Off the grid—totally gridless! They can track us with those things!"

"Stiles, get off me!" If the sound of them grappling with each other reached this level of hilarity, the sight of it might have killed Charlie on the spot. Silent laughter racked her body until the functionality of her legs was questionable at best. She dropped onto her bed, chest aching for a full breath but lungs spasming too much to grant it. After a series of annoyed grunts from Scott and offended yelps from Stiles, the phone was reclaimed. "Sorry about that," Scott grumbled.

"Oh—ho—ho, man," Charlie cackled. "What the hell have you two gotten into?"

"Stiles's dad's bourbon," Scott groused. "Yeah, Stiles is pretty far gone. I was wondering if you could pick us up and give us a ride home."

"You sound more sober than me. Why can't you do it?"

The sigh that followed belonged to a soccer mom breaking into the chardonnay. "Yeah, I tried that. Check this out." Suddenly the ambient noise became much more crisp and distinct. He must have put the phone on speaker. "Hey, Stiles, give me your keys. It's time to go home."

Stiles's voice came out haughty and superior, like he was peering down his nose at Scott through a pair of opera glasses. Though given the sound of it he was too drunk to actually 'peer' at anything. "My dude, nobody drives the batmobile but Batman. And guess who's Batman? That's right! Suck it, world, I'm Batman. And you're not getting my keys."

Scott took the phone off speaker and returned it to his ear. "See what I mean? He won't give me his keys—I'm not sure he even knows where they are. He could have chucked them into the woods for all I know. Please. We really need to get home."

At this point fully swallowing her fist wouldn't be enough to stem the tide of laughter rushing from her. "Are you guys dropping acid too? Because I'm pretty sure Stiles is what Burning Man sounds like."

"Can you please pick us up? Seriously, Charlie, you're the only other person with a car who might be willing to drive us."

"Wait, are you talking to Charlie?" Stiles's voice was suddenly loud and present. He and Scott must have been at cheek-to-cheek selfie level of proximity. "DUDE! Dude, give me the phone. Seriously, give it!" Somehow Stiles wrenched the phone away and scampered off, leaving Scott's complaints in the distance. "Hey, Charlie!" he shouted. "Wazzup!"

Keeping in the laugh had Charlie's eyes bugging out like a Looney Tunes character. "Hey, Stiles," she choked. "I'm good. Glad to hear that 'wazzup' is still in rotation in your pop culture lexicon. I thought that gem had fallen by the wayside."

Stiles paused. "Okay, so I've got noooooooo idea what you just said," he slurred. "I'm sure it was fancy and deep and stuff."

"Fair assumption," Charlie intoned. "It absolutely was."

"Dude, you should totally come down here!" he exclaimed excitedly. "You could help us out! We're talking about fish."

Charlie wrinkled her nose. "Fish?"

"Girls," Stiles corrected. "And how they're in the sea? We're talking about that. And how they have strawberry blonde hair and—wait, girls don't live in the sea. Girls don't live in the sea, Charlie."

"Seeing as I am not aquatic, I was already aware of that."

"Right," Stiles mumbled. "What were we talking about? What wer—OH! Yeah. Girls! Like Lydia and Allison and you. That's what we were talking about."

"Sure," Charlie drawled. "That totally makes sense."

"Hey!" he chirped with something like realization. "You're a girl!"

"Yes, Stiles, I'm a girl," Charlie snorted. "Thank you so much for noticing. Also, you just made that observation yourself like ten seconds ago."

"You can give us some fem—femin—female—you can give us some lady-insights! You said you were an hon—honorary bro, right?"

"Alright, buddy," Charlie sighed out. "I'll drive over and give you some lady-insights. Now give the phone back to Scott."

She could almost hear the frown in Stiles's voice. "Why do you want to talk to Scott?" he whined.

"He owes me money."

"Ohhhhhhh. Yeah, don't expect to get any of that back."

"Stiles, I'll be there soon," she deadpanned. "Now give the phone back."

"Okay! Just make it fast!"

Charlie waited for a moment while the phone transferred hands again. Even before Scott spoke, the mood sobered up more than the boy himself. It was like following up Ferris Bueller's Day Off with a viewing of Road To Perdition. "Hey, I'll be there ASAP. Where are you?"

"Right off of Ridgecrest and Sycamore there's this campsite," he replied. "We're there."

"Alright, give me..." Charlie held up her wrist to look at her watch. "Fifteen minutes. I can get there in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," Scott grumbled into the receiver. "Seriously, thank you."

Right then, Stiles's voice rang out again. One last parting gift before Scott hung up.

"Hey, what do you think would happen if I tried to light my sneakers on fire?"

Boys were idiots.

Charlie left her bedroom with Converse on her feet and a messenger bag over her shoulder. In the living room, the TV had been paused. Blanche was clearly in the middle of saying something sassy. Mel remained on the couch with a carton of takeout in hand. She wasn't looking at Charlie, but her head was cocked at such an angle it was obvious she had been tracking footsteps. Charlie cleared her throat and Mel looked up with feigned surprise. "Oh, you're back!" she chirped. "Is everything alright?" The smile thinly veiling her concern faltered when she saw shoed feet and a purse-bearing shoulder. "What's going on?"

For once, Charlie opted to go with the truth. Mel was no stranger to breakups or the teenage impulse to rebel. The truth lent itself well to Mel's bleeding heart. And Charlie needed to be honest with her about one thing at least. "That was Scott on the phone. He's been having a rough go of it after the breakup, and Stiles thought it would be a fantastic idea to get him drunk. Which he obviously didn't think through all that much since they are now unable to drive. I was going to pick them up if that's okay?"

Mel's lips purse the shape of a 'no', but her eyes flicked back to the kitchen which, while much neater, had not fully recovered from the morning's catastrophic culinary attempts. Charlie's heart squeezed, but she said nothing. Mel fiddled with the fringe of the blanket while she mulled. "Scott's taking the breakup hard?"

"Pretty bad, yeah."

She nodded slowly. "Okay, go make sure they get home safe. And then make sure you get home safe."

Charlie crossed the rest of the room and stooped over Mel, pressing a kiss to the top of her golden head. "I'll get home the safest. And text updates."

"But no texting while driving."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Charlie made her exit before Mel could change her mind. The Impala was on the road under a minute later. It flew down the wooded roads without obstacle. Traffic in Beacon Hills was a rare thing to behold, but night brought an added layer of solitude. Before she started school Charlie had found it peaceful. Current events brought out an eeriness. Headlights hit the trees, casting dark shadows behind them like spectres haunting the forest. Which might not be so far from the truth. To stamp down the feeling of aloneness, Charlie rolled down the windows and cranked up the stereo. The cold air made her feel more awake.

As predicted, it took about fifteen minutes to find the intersection of Ridgecrest and Sycamore. She drove a little further and arrived upon a gravel road offshoot. The car slowed to a crawl and she took the turn. A few yards in, the trees blocked out the nearest streetlamp. She turned off the music and rolled up the windows. Just as goosebumps began to rise on her arms, the headlights hit the back of Stiles's Jeep. With a sigh of relief, she parked behind it and climbed out of the car.

"Guys?" she called out tentatively. "Your taxi service is here."

Some nearby bushes rustled with movement, and it was only then that Charlie realized just how dark it was. Holding a hand out before her looked no different than if she had submerged it in black ink. She should have left the headlights on. She widened her eyes, she squinted. Nothing. Her surroundings remained consistently somber. The bushes stopped rustling. The frantic swish of pawsteps darting past her replaced it. Her hand clutched her heart, which beat double time beneath it. She scoured the black frantically, looking for two pinpoints of red. Her muscles tensed, ready to sprint back to the car.

"Stiles?" she whispered to herself. "Scott?"

The ensuing crash made her jump with fear. The drunken drawl it was paired with had the opposite effect. "Charlie!" Stiles's still sloppy voice shouted. "Hey, Charlie!"

Her hand fell from her chest. Stiles and Scott stomped towards her at a volume that drowned out any terrifying chipmunks that chose to skitter past her toes. The smashed through the brush like they were trying to run into trees. Charlie blinked as they came into her view. Scott propped Stiles up as he walked on an angle, marching with purpose while Stiles's feet dragged in a constant attempt to catch up. A deep scowl was printed into Scott's face. Stiles eyed him with as much worry as his booze-clouded expression could allow. "Hey," Charlie called out. "You guys needed a ride?"

Scott brushed past her, leaving Stiles tottering at her side. "Stiles finally found the keys and gave them to me. You can go home. I'll take care of it."

Charlie's first move was to brace at hand on Stiles's wobbling form. The second was to direct a disbelieving scoff at Scott's retreating back. "Um, you're welcome," she snapped.

Scott glanced at her over his shoulder. He probably meant to look apologetic. He just looked sour. Without a word he reached for the Jeep's door handle and sat in the driver's seat. Stiles stumbled next to her, forcing Charlie to redouble her grip lest he faceplant in bear scat. "Sorry," he mumbled. Then he yawned. A pungent cloud of breath engulfed her. It held enough alcohol to get her drunk by virtue of proximity alone.

"Man," she mumbled. "You reek of bourbon."

"Do I?" Stiles asked. He exhaled with his mouth wide open, waved the breath back to his face, and inhaled deeply. "Oh, yeah," he cackled quietly. "I guess I do." Raising an arm, he pointed over to Scott. Or at least he tried to. In reality his aim was closer to the Jeep's front left wheel. "Sorry about Scott. There were these dudes and this thing and then he broke stuff and got all scary. He's not very happy at the moment."

"Yeah, I can see that."

Stiles blinked. The moodiness left his face like a curtain being drawn back. The confused frown morphed into a blinding grin. "But hey!" He swung towards her and enveloped her in the biggest, if not the first, drunken bear hug of her life. The jolt the collision made it all the way to the pit of her stomach. "You came! I didn't think you were going to."

Charlie patted his back in a staccato rhythm. He squeezed her so tight she could feel the warmth of his body through her thin flannel shirt. "Yeah, Stiles," she deadpanned. "I came. I wasn't about to strand your drunk ass or Scott's pissy one in the forest in the middle of the night."

Stiles released her, but left one arm draped over her shoulders to support himself. He pulled back and narrowed his eyes curiously. "You know, you always show up," he said, poking her in the shoulder. "You, Charlotte Annabelle Oswin—"

"That's not my middle name."

"You are one of those things. Like if a riddle and an enigma had a baby, that would be what you are. It's confusing. Not like in a bad way. But sometimes I look at you, and it's just like...'huh'?"

An amused smile tugged at the corner of Charlie's lips. "Okay, I have no idea what you're saying. It's time to get you home, because you are drunk off your ass and we have a chemistry test tomorrow."

"No, dude!" Stiles protested. He planted a hand on her shoulder and looked at her hard, his brown eyes boring into her hazel ones. The black of the pupils almost forced the brown out entirely. Holy shit, he was drunk. And so fucking earnest. "Seriously, Charlie," he barrelled on. "It's like...you know everything about me and Scott." He leaned to wave at Scott, shifting his weight and almost bringing them both to the ground in the process. "See, you know all of it—werewolves, Lydia, lying, Star Wars. And it's like—like you get it, you know? And you understand it. And you're cool with it. What's up with that?"

"I don't know, Stiles," Charlie replied.

"But I—we—we don't know anything about you and what's goin' on—" he poked her in the forehead"—what's goin' on up there in that giant noggin of yours. It's been bothering me a lot."

"I'm an open book."

"Pshah," he scoffed loudly. "Sure, if that book was in friggin' hieroglyphics. It's like, how come you never talk about you? Kinda like that guitar you've got up in your room. I know you can play it and you're probably awesome at it like you are at everything else—which should be annoying but it's not—but I've never heard you play it. I feel like there's all this stuff in the background and you lock it up or whatever. But I'll tell you what. That book? I'm going to translate it."

Charlie raised her eyebrows. "You're going to translate me?"

"H—yeah," Stiles laughed out, nodding enthusiastically. Then his face pinched into a confused frown. "Did that sound dirty? I didn't mean for that to sound dirty." Charlie suppressed an explosion of laughter while he shook his head to reorient. But apparently the shaking sent the thoughts flying out of his ears because his face went blank and his head sagged. Drunk Stiles had a brain like an Etch-a-Sketch. "What was I talking about?"

"I can honestly say that I have no idea."

Stiles gave a pout worthy of a child who'd just been sent to time-out. "Huh." All of the sudden his head snapped up, eyes alight and eager once more. "Hey, if a bear and a shark had a fight, who do you think would win?"

"Alright, man. It's time for you to go home."

Stiles hiccuped loudly and nodded. "Okay."

Charlie half walked, half dragged Stiles to the passenger door of the Jeep. His body had the form of an inflatable tube man whose air supply had just been shut off. Scott removed his surly ass from the driver's seat long enough to fold him into the seat. Charlie hovered halfway in the car, making sure Stiles was safely buckled in. When she withdrew Scott stood with his arms folded angrily across his chest. He moved to round the car and take his spot behind the wheel, but Charlie threw an arm out to block his path. His eyes flashed with irritation, but softened at the sincerity in her expression. "Scott, are you okay?" Charlie whispered.

"Allison broke up with me," he replied tersely. "What do you think?"

Given the evening's trajectory Charlie shouldn't have been taken aback by his harshness, but it still smarted. She could carry around punch cards for Scott's weirdass behavior and get through at least one a week, but he had always been sweet. The Scott standing before her now might as well be an evil twin from a shitty soap opera. It had to be the full moon. This sort of aggression didn't just manifest out of thin air.

"Look, man, I know it must hurt."

"No, you don't," he snapped. "Since when have you been in love with anybody?" Again regret took time, and his expression strained under its weight. But if he had any apology to offer, it stayed silent. "Anyways, it's not going to matter."

Charlie shook her head uncomprehendingly. "Why isn't it going to matter anymore?"

"Because I'm getting her back."

Strange how, when said in a certain way, statements of romantic intent could be ominous. Threatening, even. On any other day Charlie would offer reassurance. Tonight, on this gravel road, she just wanted to shout at him to stay the hell away from Allison. He pushed past her before she got the chance. No goodbyes were offered as he revved the engine. She waved lamely as the Jeep withdrew. Stiles stuck his head out an open window to do the same, but Scott yanked him back in before he could be decapitated by a low-hanging branch. As the Jeep grew smaller, the leaden pit at the base of her stomach swelled. Even having lived through that night at the school, Charlie had the creeping sensation that things were just getting started. Scott's personality transplant did not bode well for them.

Charlie sat in her Impala with the headlights on. She didn't drive. She thought. And while Scott soaked up all her concern, Stiles's drunken rambling laid claim to complete bewilderment. Most of it could be chalked up to the alcohol—Stiles rambled incoherently while sober, that he did so intoxicated stood as no great surprise. What stuck in her craw was the guitar. Because he was right, she never played in front of people. She had taught herself, played to herself, composed for herself. Her guitar stayed behind closed doors. Donald had never heard her play, Mel and her dad were only gifted whichever strains made it through the crack beneath her door. Her dad would say that guitar was a metaphor for her life—she'd keep a piece packed away so nobody could ever get to it. He said she was afraid to let people in—to let them understand her. He was right, but she brushed it off easily enough. That Stiles picked that guitar, that he called her out on it...maybe he understood her a little. She hadn't even asked him to.

Shit. She wasn't used to this. People belonged at an arm's length, but Stiles got drunk and pulled her into a hug. How do you keep someone at the end of your arm when they insist on attack-hugging you? But the weirdest thing? A part of her didn't even want that distance anymore.

Charlie pulled out her phone and texted Mel that she was on her way back. Then she turned on the car and drove.

---

BEAR VS SHARK! MISFISTS REFERENCE!

SOUNDTRACK

The dream sequence. I have two choices for this one…..I'd love to know which one you prefer.

-~-~-~-~-~"Far Gone (Don't Leave)" - Pictish Trail

-~-~-~-~-~"Tradition" - The Belle Game

Cut to Charlie and Donald playing Halo.

-~-~-~-~-~"If U C My Enemies" - Rubblebucket

Charlie approaches her car only to find that Stiles is also in the impound lot.

-~-~-~-~-~"Stargazer" - Nap Eyes

Charlie and Stiles work on the car.

-~-~-~-~-~"Blue Peter" - The Anomalies

After Stiles and Scott drive off in the Jeep Charlie sits in her car and thinks, texts Mel, and goes home. End chapter

-~-~-~-~-~"Anonymity Is The New Fame" - Frankel