Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.

A huge thank you to LifeIsARayOfSunshine, RedRoses5, jewishpines, bbymojo, masqueraderoses, TheOneWhoIsAll, Atomicity, becca1130, TheMMMG, Emmalee Adams, SheWolfSwift, winchesterxgirl, TameTheGhosts, Jaiime95, YelloSubmarine93, Alsynea, rimms, Exuberance of Youth, MessintheMirror, truefictionaddict, Vanessa, imogene, chibi-Clar, Alligator Rampage, aarinisreading, God Is Wearing Black, Fiercly Little, agent-jawa, Erraa, Gerdiena, RedVelvetPanPan, TheNeverEndingOne, ThePreviews, OneWhoReadsTooMuch, Lizverse, JosieoftheRose, monkeybaby, LonelyGiant, Muchas, Guest, and willow441988 for reviewing! And BrittWitt16 of course.

And of course a huge, HUGE thank you to YourpalMoony for your review and for being my sounding board through everything. Thank you so much for putting up with me. And for writing the most phenomenal fight scenes ever holy hell you should all be reading The Gloaming & The Awakening.

Okay! I actually wrote a chapter I'm almost satisfied with? And isn't causing me a ton of angst to publish? Is this real life?

Also, I have made a completely ridiculous, foolish decision. After freaking years of Willa Holland, I have found a face claim that I believe better suits the Charlie in my brain. Her name is Hannah Marks, and she played Amanda Brotzman on BBC America's Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency. Feel free to continue to think of Willa as Charlie if you're so inclined - I don't want to impose my image of Charlie on anybody - but in my head her face is that of Hannah Marks. I might attempt a few edits featuring her. They will invariable suck as I have literally never used photoshop before.

Chapter 26 - Rabbit, Run

The version of the Beacon Hills High School Charlie stood before was identical to the one at the last closing bell. Or at least it seemed to be at first glance. As she trudged through a nearly empty parking lot, towards the looming double doors, the faint yellow of the early morning sun illuminated some faults in the design. The police cruiser parked at the far corner of the lot. The torn remnants of yellow caution tape still sticking to bike racks and door handles. A small chunk of metal painted a suspiciously familiar shade of robin's egg blue. Bits of their debris decorated the school's exterior like crumpled beer cans missed during the cleanup after a particularly intense party.

Charlie's toes stopped inches away from the school's main doorway. Above the handle sat a patch of paint a brighter blue than the rest. Dirt and grime had yet to touch it, but upon close inspection it was marred by five pointed grooves. She had met the claws that caused them. With a breath she grasped the handle, fingers brushing the new paint. It was soft and tacky to the touch. When she shoved the door open, she knew the hallways behind it would be deserted. Not many people self-imposed a Monday 7:00 am call time. But before 'back to school' could be synonymous with 'back to normal', she had to know what lay behind them. Dark shadows, eerie howls, and a serial killer? Swirling blue fireflies and an M.C. Escher nightmare infinity loop? Probably not. But she had to be sure.

It was amazing what a little daylight could do for a place's aesthetic. Lockers stood tall. Checkered laminate tiles stretched forwards like the most dull of runways. Sunshine and fluorescents mixed in their glow. Basic. Average. But a quick tour introduced other lasting indicators of their night of wacky fun. Charlie stared at the pristine, bleached circle on the floor in front of boys' locker room for what felt like hours. Still, though, the fundamentals remained the same. This was high school. And high school came with one inevitability: gossip.

Charlie was no stranger to being an object of discussion. Given her status as perpetual 'new girl', other people's curiosity became a hazard of her existence. But soon they met her, the mystery would fade, and the student body would collectively move on. This time, though, their interest likely wouldn't be so quick to dissipate. She couldn't blame them for it. None of her previous escapades had involved murder. Six kids being chased around by a madman in the dark of night? That was some Halloween movie marathon bullshit. At the very least her name wasn't attached to the drama. Charlie had no interest in becoming a local D-list celebrity.

Slowly, students began to trickle through the doors. Charlie leaned against the lockers, pulling her green, zip-up hoodie in tighter around her and ignoring the cold of metal nipping at her uncovered legs. Her classmates marched to their lockers, eyes sliding past her without a second thought. As suspected, the halls were awash with whispers. Charlie did her level best to ignore them, but this proved difficult as Meredith Edwards—the school's resident walking, talking tabloid—had a locker two over from where she stood.

"I heard some of them saw the janitor get killed," the girl whispered conspiratorially. "He was totally shredded. I heard his intestines fell out of his body. One of them had a nervous breakdown. So just look out for empty chairs, and then we can probably find out who it was!"

Charlie closed her eyes so Meredith couldn't clock their dramatic roll. Never in her life had she expected to be grateful for one of Lydia's makeup tutorials, but the two and a half hours dedicated to erasing the cut from her cheek were suddenly considered time well spent. In the mirror that morning it had been rendered virtually invisible. Without such extremes she may very well be clamped in the massive, flapping jaws of Meredith Edwards and the Perez Hilton-loving sweater monkeys she called her friends.

As the clock ticked down to homeroom, the herds thinned. Finally, a figure appeared around the corner. It shuffled forwards with all the enthusiasm of a zombie movie extra, head drooped downwards and heels dragging. The backpack hanging from one shoulder seemed almost enough to topple him. Consciousness was questionable at best. Stiles didn't register Charlie's presence at his locker until he found himself directly before it. He saw her Converse first, then her folded arms, and finally her smirk. "Hey there, gorgeous," she beamed.

Stiles flailed an arm to reject the greeting. His collared overshirt was wrinkled with a few prominent creases that betrayed a botched attempt at ironing and a faint green lay beneath his pale cheeks. "No," he declared. "No, absolutely not. I am not prepared for all this—" he waved a hand in her face "—all this smugness so early in the morning. Reverse curfew—no smugness before lunch."

Charlie widened her eyes innocently. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to say anything. Your facial expressions are plenty vocal. And for the record, your 'I was right/Stiles is a dumbass' facial expression does not rank among my favorites."

"Yeah, but you should be used to it by now. It's in pretty heavy rotation."

"You are actually the worst." Stiles tottered forwards, his face slamming into his locker door. His next breath emerged either as a groan or a sigh of relief. "Don't judge me. The metal is cool and this feels nice."

"Why would I judge you?" Charlie inquired lightly. "You've reached peak dumbass. I'd say that's quite an accomplishment."

"I hate you so much right now."

"Come on, Stiles. Let's toast to this milestone. Bottoms up."

He scowled pointedly, but curiosity lifted his eyelids. It took a few moments, but eventually he focused on the bottle of golden yellow liquid in her outstretched hand. His frown deepened, but with confusion rather than frustration. "Why are you handing me a bottle of urine?"

Charlie made a face at him. "Okay, gross. First of all, if that's what your urine looks like, drink some more water. You are massively dehydrated. Second of all, read the label. Pedialyte. Number one pediatrician recommended. You're the idiot who's hungover on a Monday. Just drink it and get your damn electrolytes in order."

He glanced between the bottle and her face, gaze heavy with suspicion, but he took it from her and unscrewed the cap. "There's a teddy bear on the label."

"And you're a drunk toddler. What's your point?" She thrust her other hand out, this one clutching a bottle of Advil. "This is the part where you say 'thank you, Charlie'."

The reluctant, muttered 'thank you' was almost lost in the ambient chatter. His tone was annoyed, but genuine. Stiles rolled against the lockers so he faced outwards towards the hall. The light hitting his face had him shrinking back, eyes screwed shut. With a grunt, he blindly held his hand out. Charlie tipped a few Advil into his palm and he tossed them back with an enthusiastic gulp of Pedialyte. Half the bottle disappeared in one go and he pulled it back to reveal a grimace. "This tastes disgusting. Why would you give me something that tastes this disgusting?"

"I don't know," Charlie shrugged. "Why would somebody suck down a full bottle of Jack Daniels in a crappy, poorly lit, creepy-ass campground in the middle of the night? Life's full of mysteries."

The grimace contorted into an expression of bewilderment. Stiles even forced open his eyes, subjecting himself to the stabbing fluorescent rays, to fix her with an questioning stare. "How did you know me and Scott were at a campground?"

Charlie felt the track of her eyebrows up her forehead—she could feel her eyelids draw back till they bugged. Her cheeks hurt from the shit-eating grin splitting across her face. "Oh boy," she laughed. "Oh-ho-ho, man. I knew you were drunk but I honestly had no idea you were that far gone. Did you keep drinking on the way home?"

"Charlie, what are you talking about?"

She clapped a hand on his shoulder and returned his look. The eyes on the other side of it were bloodshot, rimmed in red, and puffy from lack of sleep. She could take pity on him. But she wasn't that generous. "Stiles," she said evenly. "I want you to think really hard about last night. I mean really hard. About the small details—you know, the phone calls and drunken rambling monologues…" Stiles's reddened eyes narrowed and then widened, shifting rapidly from befuddlement to realization and finally settling on abject horror. Charlie squeezed his shoulder and gave it a firm shake. "And there it is!" she sang.

Stiles gaped at her, words fighting a losing battle on his cotton-dry tongue. "I—you, uh…"

"That's right, Batman," she chuckled. "You got silly."

"Son of a bitch."

Stiles groaned, rolling back to his initial position, face fully smashed against the locker. Only this time he left enough space between himself and the metal to peek warily at her. His jaw twitched and teeth ground together behind pinched lips. He obviously wanted to say something, but it caught in his throat. The dueling impulses to continue teasing him and grant him a reprieve fought in Charlie's chest, but before either could claim victory a head of long brown hair appeared in the periphery of her vision. Charlie focused on the girl behind Stiles. Allison walked to her locker with more meekness than her first day of school, shoulders hunched forwards and hiding her face behind the cascading brunette locks. The concerned crease in her forehead threatened to become permanent. Charlie lifted a hand, waving at her in greeting. Upon seeing her, Allison's posture straightened and something like relief radiated from her. She took several long steps forwards, but stopped short upon seeing Charlie's current company. Her hesitation with Scott hadn't lessened over their time off, and apparently extended to Stiles by association. Or at least that's what Charlie assumed. The flicker of a smirk she noticed didn't entirely fit with this interpretation.

"Hey, I gotta go," Charlie murmured to Stiles. "Don't be a dumbass—finish that bottle. You'll feel better." She brushed past him, pausing for a moment to flick his ear—and laugh off his protest—before continuing towards Allison. The girl's faltering smile strengthened as Charlie hooked an arm through hers, effectively escorting her down the hall. "Hey," Allison said, the levity in her tone faker than banana-flavored Mike and Ike's.

"Hey, yourself," Charlie declared, matching Allison's tone. "Mind if I escort you to your locker all formal-like?"

"Not in the least."

The two of them remained silent as they walked the familiar trek to Allison's locker, tacitly agreeing not to discuss current affairs while in the heavy flow of pre-class traffic. But Allison gripped Charlie's arm tightly, as if trying to communicate her thoughts via touch. What exactly occupied the brunette's mind Charlie couldn't say, but she was certainly thinking it with high levels of intensity. Upon their arrival, Allison opened the door to her locker and ducked behind it, using it as a barrier between them and the student body. She released Charlie's arm. A pink imprint of long, elegant fingers hid beneath Charlie's hoodie sleeve. "Oh my God, I have been going insane this past week," she breathed. "My parents wouldn't let me leave the house the whole time. It's so good to see you. It's good to see anybody, actually, but you especially."

"Likewise," Charlie murmured. "So, your dad finally let you out of solitary confinement."

Allison laughed lightly and nervously tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, but not without a fight. He put the child locks on in the car. For a second I thought I was going to have to smash a window and make a break for it."

"Well, you know what they say. Parental paranoia is directly proportional to how much they love you."

Allison's nose wrinkled with skepticism. "I'm pretty sure that's not a thing."

"It's absolutely a thing."

"Yeah? How much does Mel love you?"

"A 'if you don't check in with me on an hourly basis I'm going to fit you with an ankle monitor' amount," Charlie replied breezily. "What did Papa and Mama Argent clock in at?"

"Don't ask. If Kate hadn't been there to talk to, I think I might have staged a prison riot." Allison turned to her locker and stared hard at its contents, like she was reassuring herself that everything remained in place. She was back at school. It was real. All just as she left it. "I know it's been days, but I still can't believe this is happening," she whispered.

"Happened," Charlie corrected. "Past tense. It's over now."

"Is it, though?" Allison asked, her tone earnest. Her eyes swept the hall for eavesdroppers and she lowered her voice till it was barely audible. "It doesn't feel like it. The police haven't caught Derek yet. He's still out there. And we still have no idea why Derek would do any of this in the first place. None of it makes sense. It doesn't seem...right." She lifted a hand to skim the spines of her textbooks, trace the edges of photos she kept taped to the inside. Lydia and Charlie wrapped up in coats for a lacrosse game. A group selfie from their trip to the mall. Her aunt Kate wearing a patented sardonic smile. Her fingertips stopped just shy of the photo of Scott secured in the upper right corner. Her hand hovered there for just a moment before abruptly redirecting itself and snatching up her copy of Candide. "I think I'm going to sit in the front row for English today."

Charlie blinked in surprise. "Whoa, you're gonna sit in the splash zone? Hobson spits so much those seats should come with a sneeze guard and windshield wipers."

Allison's head jerked a nervous nod. "Yeah. You know how in the movies people are always like 'I need space'? I think I need actual, physical space. It was hard enough trying to sort out my feelings locked in my room. It's like my heart and my head are in a cage match. I can't be right by him—it's too confusing."

The brave face Allison wore had cracks. Beneath it Charlie could glimpse some of that insecurity, that fear, that confusion. She could erase it all with one simple, though ridiculous, explanation. Your boyfriend's a werewolf! Your dad's trying to kill him! Crazy, huh? So what did you think of the last episode of Top Chef? Except if Charlie did that, the odds of Scott ending up dead would not trend in an ideal direction. Tragic Allison—a ball of bad luck wrapped in a kind package. It was a cruel kind of irony. What does Romeo and Juliet look like if Juliet doesn't even know she's a Capulet?

"Well," Charlie declared, clearing her throat a bit, "I'm gonna hold you responsible for any water damage to my books."

Allison's forehead crease reappeared. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Allison," Charlie drawled. "You didn't think I'd make you ride Splash Mountain without me, did you?"

Her lips pursed into an 'o' of understanding. "Charlie, you really don't have to—"

But Charlie had already spun on her heel and begun to march down the hall. "I'm off to English class!" she called back to her. "I'll save you a seat."

"Charlie—"

"Sorry! I can't hear you from all the way at the front of the class!"

Behind her Allison released a huff. Some of it was frustration, but mostly it was made up of gratitude. Quick footsteps rang and Allison's arm rediscovered its spot in the crook of Charlie's elbow. The quiet 'thank you' the brunette muttered in Charlie's ear had her stomach twisting in on itself. Allison might not know it, but this gesture of solidarity was literally the very, very least Charlie could do.

The English classroom glowed with a surreal haze. It escaped their nighttime adventures unscathed, its sole casualty being Mr. Hobson's lighter which Charlie had lost track of somewhere in their mad dash from the cafeteria to the chemistry room, but the air crackled with a tense energy. Like shuffling on carpet in sock feet on a crisp winter day, each of Charlie's movements came with the expectation of a sudden static shock. Her gaze snapped to the back of the room. The energy rolled in waves from one corner in particular. Next to the window Stiles lay collapsed forwards on his desk, head lolling and mouth open with silent snores. The only thing wafting from him would be the stale odor of day-old bourbon breath. It was Scott who occupied the epicenter. He sat in his seat, forehead resting against the desk surface. The posture should have been one of comfort—of relaxation—but his muscles tensed beneath his grey hoodie. The tendons in his neck twitched a syncopated rhythm. His fingers curled around the edge of the desk, squeezing it with such force that knucklebone threatened to burst through skin. The picture spoke to a rage that drew Charlie's mind back to one of the many search pages open on her phone's browser. This one happened to map out the current month's lunar cycle.

No sooner had Charlie and Allison breached the classroom's threshold than Scott's head jerked up from his desk. His face contrasted with his stance. Where his body was all sharp angles and severe lines, his face was soft. He blinked slowly—earnest, pleading, and, of course, with his gaze fixed on Allison. Allison ducked her head to avoid the warm brown of them, hiding behind a curtain of dark curls. She settled into the usually vacant first row seat. When she dropped her bag, Scott's expression shifted. The worried lines smoothed out into a hard marble. His eyes met Charlie's. They flashed cold and shark-like. His features were the same, but the boy behind them had been hollowed out and filled with anger.

Mr. Hobson strolled through the front door and called the class to order. For once, Charlie opted to be amenable. She lowered herself into her seat took out her books. She uncapped her pen. She faced the chalkboard before her. But while her eyes took in Mr. Hobson's messy scrawl about something written a really long time ago, Scott's bored into the back of her head. It was 8:15 am. The sun wasn't due to set for another eleven hours. This did not bode well.

Charlie had a cramp. This wasn't unusual. The sinews at her left shoulder blade would on occasion stitch themselves together like an amateur knitter's botched attempt at a sweater. She had named this knot Kevin, for no other reason than that most of the Kevins she'd encountered had been one brand of nuisance or another. Kevin served as a harbinger, much in the way that elderly people's old joints could predict a cold front or drop in barometric pressure. Kevin appeared during times of unease or stress, or perhaps extreme dissatisfaction. He varied in size, his visits could last any length of time. Today Kevin decided to make a dramatic entrance.

The shrill ring of the bell signified the end of the period. Charlie blinked down at her notebook. No ink marked the page but the small cluster of dots where her pen tapped mindlessly. The class had disassembled around her, students already filing out of the room like they were marching towards the gallows—not much of a stretch with the spectre of a chemistry text haunting their next period. Charlie shoved her belongings into her bag and joined them, rolling her left shoulder as she moved. One step out of the classroom and she found herself face to face with shimmering lip gloss and carefully coiffed strawberry blonde hair.

"Holy crap!" Charlie exclaimed, coming to an abrupt stop.

Lydia let out a light, musical harrumph and flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Well," she said, her tone all superiority and condescension, "it's about time somebody had the correct response to me this morning."

Charlie rolled her arm again, trying to work out the kinks that had formed, and continued to walk. With all Lydia's grandstanding, there was something satisfying to be found in the clatter of heels as she tried to keep up. "How is 'holy crap!' the right response to you?"

"It demonstrates the impact of my presence," she replied with a prim shrug. And then her glossed lips pursed, a clear sign of imminent passive aggression. "So I stopped by your apartment yesterday afternoon." Her voice had a casual air that Charlie's brain registered as dangerous. "I thought maybe we could go for a mani-pedi or a movie or something. Mel said you had gone out."

Charlie swallowed, unsure of what to expect. "Yeah. I had to go pick up my car from police impound. Stiles was doing some repairs on his Jeep so I helped him out."

Lydia's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Why would you do that?"

"Because he needed a hand," Charlie shrugged. "And because I happen to like working on cars. It relaxes me."

Lydia didn't respond immediately. The arch of her eyebrows alone was enough to convey disapproval. When she spoke again, the shift in topic took Charlie by surprise. "I thought you might have been hanging out with Allison."

"What? No. If we were hanging out we would have called you."

The twitch of her lips indicated that she was somewhat mollified, but Charlie felt Kevin tighten further. She grasped at her shoulder, kneading the ache away as she eyed Lydia carefully. These past few days Allison had become a sore subject for Lydia. No overt hostility or even a hint of dislike had manifested, but something in her looks had changed. More calculating, less amused. It began with the night at the school, with Jackson's small attentions towards Allison. The red-head pretended she didn't notice and would probably die before voicing her suspicions, but Charlie knew the suspicions were there. Lydia felt like she was being sidelined. Charlie and Allison hanging out without her wouldn't help.

"Hey!" a voice interjected. "Wait up!"

Charlie and Lydia twisted to see the girl in question jogging down the hallway to catch up. "Hey," Allison said breathlessly, slowing down to adopt their pace. "How are you guys?"

"I saw you like forty-five minutes ago," Charlie replied. "I haven't eaten since then. Therefore I am miserable."

"Well I, for one, am tired of hearing all these stupid rumors about what happened," Lydia complained, idly inspecting her fingernails. "I mean seriously, it's been days and like sixteen hundred news cycles since it happened."

"There was a murder at the school," Allison pointed out. "That's not something people forget about all that quickly."

"Um, yeah it is," Lydia replied matter-of-factly. "Does anybody remember the bus driver? The guy who was murdered in an incredibly gross way? Oh, right, they don't. Because everyone got over it in a week."

"Wow, Lydia," Charlie murmured. "You're practically oozing compassion."

"Oh, don't go getting all high and mighty on me, Charles," Lydia shot back. "I don't see you having an emotional breakdown over the guy. And I don't see why people can't just move on with their silly little lives."

"It's just weird, though, isn't it?" Allison said, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Everybody's talking about what happened the other night and nobody knows it was us."

Lydia scoffed. "Thank you for the protection of minors."

Charlie glanced down the hallway. What she saw made her stop while to other two girls continued to walk and chat. Stiles sat in front of the main office, leaning against the wall and hugging his backpack to his chest. His fingers tapped nervously. He was waiting for something. Through the wall of windows that opened into the office behind him stood not only beige uniforms, but a man in a crisp, dark suit. Not just cops. Fancy cops. Shit.

"Um, Charlie," Lydia chirped, interrupting her reverie. Charlie blinked in confusion, and Lydia rolled her eyes. "Chemistry test?" she prompted. "The class starts in like ten minutes. Not much time left over for the mandatory pre-class makeup check."

"Right," Charlie mumbled distractedly, giving the two of them a thumbs up for no apparent reason. "You guys go on without me. I've got to do something first."

Lydia opened her mouth to protest, but Allison glanced down the hall as well. When she saw Stiles her lips twitched and she linked her arm through Lydia's, dragging her away gently. "Okay, Charlie. We'll see you in class."

"Hold on!" Lydia wrenched her arm away from Allison and held out her hand expectantly to Charlie. "Give it."

"Uh….give what?"

"Oh, please," Lydia drawled. "Did you really think I wouldn't have anything to say about that fashion crime you're wearing. Hoodies are for the gym. Are you auditioning for a stage production of Rocky 4? No. So hand it over."

Charlie sighed. "Lydia, can we not?"

"Nope!" the redhead trilled. "And I'm not going anywhere till that abomination is out of sight. This can be quick and easy or long and painful. It's up to you."

Wide-eyed innocence was such a practiced look on Lydia's face it could be summoned at a moment's notice. She batted her cow-like lashes and cocked her head to the side as if to say 'I can do this all day'. Charlie shot a look over her shoulder. In the office behind her, the khakis and the suit spoke, their expressions severe. Sacrificing her hoodie would be a small price to pay for knowledge of what was happening behind that window. She unzipped it and shoved the washing machine-softened fabric into Lydia's waiting hand. "You're a pain in the ass."

Lydia beamed and shoved the hoodie deep into her oversized purse. "The feeling is mutual. Now come on, Allison. Your mascara is clumping—let's go see to that." Lydia seized Allison's hand and marched off with all the conviction her five foot three frame could accommodate. Allison allowed herself to be yanked down the hall, but not before providing one more suspicious quirk of the eyebrow. Charlie didn't allow herself to dwell on its meaning. Enough mysteries already filled her plate, she didn't need to add deciphering Allison's enigmatic facial expressions to the pile.

Stiles didn't notice her approach. He sat on the floor chewing on his fingernails and tapping his foot while staring blankly at the tiles opposite him. Charlie leaned against the wall and slid down until she was seated at his side. He jumped as a shadow appeared in his peripheral vision, but relaxed visibly once he identified its owner.

"Hey," Charlie murmured, jerking her head towards the glass window over their heads. At a closer vantage point, the khaki clad officers revealed themselves to be the sheriff and the illustrious Deputy Sean. They and the suit spoke seriously with some people Charlie recognized from the administration office. "What's with the fuzz? What are they doing here?"

"Following up on what happened at the school," Stiles replied nervously. The tapping of his foot had yet to pause, or even deviate from its rhythm. His anxiety unnerved Charlie. In general, Stiles functioned as a barometer by which the shittiness of a situation could be measured. Most of the werewolf crap he took in stride, but when he got worried it meant she should be worried. She placed a hand on his arm. The foot-tapping stopped. "Hey," she said, looking at him pointedly. "What gives, man?"

He exhaled sharply and faced her. His skin still bore that light green tinge of the morning, but Charlie suspected it had little to do with alcohol. His lower lip had indentations from where he bit it and the tiniest wrinkle formed at this brow. It wasn't much, but it betrayed a deeper insecurity. "My dad's on patrol tonight."

Charlie's mouth formed a silent 'o' and she nodded in understanding. "The full moon is tonight."

He got that hollow look again. Charlie decided she hated that look. Her stomach churned with unease. The only cure she knew for the sensation came in the form of a joke. She slapped a theatrical wince on her face and gave a low hiss. "Full moons, chemistry tests….really not the best time to be getting smashed, is it?"

Stiles's head hit the wall behind him with a thunk. A splotch of pink interrupted the green in his cheeks. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Only time will tell," Charlie shrugged. "Did you ever get around to lighting your sneakers on fire?"

"Can't say that I did."

"Well, that's a shame. I would have liked to know what happened. You know, in the name of scientific inquiry."

Stiles released his backpack and dropped it to the side. He seemed to think his hands were better served rubbing the headache out of his temples. "Remind me why I like hanging out with you again?"

Charlie pursed her lips in consideration. "Because my sage advice cuts down on your dumbassery by at least 60%."

"Oh my God!" Stiles grumbled, shooting a glare her way. "I swear, I'm going to kill you one of these days. And not in one of the nice ways."

"There are nice ways of killing people?" Charlie demanded. "What the hell does that even mean? Is it an etiquette thing? Like are you going to strangle me with your pinky out all fancy-like?"

"You know what I mean!" Stiles spluttered. "It's going to be creative and painful and stuff."

"Wow. I seems like you've got it all figured out."

"I hate you so much right now." His tone was sour, but the crinkle around his eyes betrayed the budding laugh.

The door next to them squeaked loudly as it opened. It sent Charlie and Stiles into motion like the starting pistol at a track meet. They scrambled to their feet, snatching up their bags. Sheriff Stilinski exited the room first, followed by Deputy Sean. The suit came next. Charlie studied him carefully. A suit Lydia would call 'middling', a crisply ironed and starched collar, comfortable shoes, a bulge in the jacket near his right hip—he was definitely a cop. Not from around Beacon Hills, though. The trio spoke in hushed whispers, their words indistinguishable but delivered with a brisk urgency. The sheriff must have sensed another presence. He turned to Stiles and Charlie directly. A few more quiet intonations and he dragged his heels towards them, arms folded over his chest in frustration. "Don't the two of you have a chemistry test to get to?"

"What's going on?" Stiles hissed, failing to answer his father's question, rhetorical though it may have been. "Did you find Derek yet?"

"I'm working on it," the sheriff deadpanned. "You go take your test."

"Alright, dad, listen to me—"

"Go!"

"This is really important!" Stiles insisted. "You have to be careful tonight, okay? Especially tonight."

The sheriff's eyes flickered to Charlie and back to Stiles. His pointed awareness of her presence sent an uncomfortable tingle down her spine. The wrinkles in his face illustrated that combination of exhaustion and exasperation she now expected from him, but standing so close to his son they seemed to soften. His look bore an intimacy she had yet to become accustomed to. Charlie drew backwards to remove herself from the conversation, but the new distance didn't bring her out of earshot. "Stiles, I'm always careful," the sheriff murmured in a low tone.

"Dad, you've never dealt with this kind of thing before! Okay?! At least not like this."

"I know," Sheriff Stilinski reassured. "That's why I brought in people who have." He jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating at the suit. "State detective. Go take your test." He shifted on his feet, and Charlie found herself to be the next object of his chastisement. She wasn't quite as invisible as she intended to be. "I suppose you're going to tell me to be careful tonight too."

Charlie shook her head. "No, sir. I was just going to take advantage of your presence and issue a noise complaint."

The sheriff's head sagged on back his neck as if to give a 'well, this should be good'. Stiles came by it honestly. The man could doll out sarcasm without uttering a word. "A noise complaint," he drawled. "Fantastic. And who exactly am I supposed to be writing up?"

"The teachers. They just don't shut up—it's impossible to get a decent nap in."

The sheriff leveled her with a blank stare. Wordlessly, he withdrew to a small huddle of law enforcement that had coalesced about halfway down the hall. Stiles watched him go. His foot resumed its tapping. Charlie grasped his elbow, giving it a gentle tug. "Let's go, Stiles," she whispered. "We've got a chemistry test—I don't think Harris is going to wait for us. And the moon isn't up yet."

The trip to the chemistry room was silent, in the technical sense at least. Stiles's thoughts were so loud they might as well have been tap dancing on her brain. Words bounced around his skull seeking escape, but he shoved them back in until his head swelled like an overfilled water balloon on the verge of popping. She could hear some of them echo. What if? What if, what if, what if? Each 'what if' was unique, and they could number in the millions, especially in a brain like his. And none of them would end well. As they reached the classroom door, Charlie snatched Stiles's sleeve and pulled him aside.

"Hey," she whispered. "It's all going to be okay."

Stiles let out a laugh. It sounded brittle and weak with no humor to prop it up. "Is it going to be okay, Charlie? People keep saying that it's going to be okay. But look at everything that's happened. All the crap we've been through. Has any of it really ended up okay?"

Even if Charlie had it in her to lie effectively, he'd see right through it. Because Stiles was right. Nothing had gone their way. In fact, things had climbed into a Ferrari and floored it while heading very much the opposite way. Another body. Derek on the run. No clues as to who the alpha was. Charlie couldn't even add their survival to the win column. That hadn't been their doing. They were alive because the alpha allowed it. Because whoever was behind all that fur had yet to finish messing with them.

"The alpha's got no reason to go after your dad," she murmured. It was all the comfort she could think to offer.

"It's the full moon, Charlie," Stiles countered. "That means howling and shifting and all of that really inconvenient stereotypical behavior werewolves are pretty freaking famous for. Reason doesn't have much to do with it."

Charlie bit down on her lip and nodded. Again, Stiles was right. Reason wasn't a contributing factor. None of what was happening could be classified as 'reasonable'. "So what's Scott going to do?" she asked. "Last time he went after Allison, right? How are we going to keep him from doing that again?"

Stiles shrugged. "His mom's got the night shift, so I'm just going to chain him up in his room."

"Kinky. What's his safe-word?"

Stiles grimaced and side-stepped her, dodging into the classroom. "Time to take a chemistry test," he muttered. "Oh, yeah. Today is going to be f-u-n fun."

Charlie let him go without another word. He didn't need any more of those. Following him in, she glanced around the room. Allison sat in the front row immersed in some last-minute revision. Lydia sat two rows back, the empty desk next to her clearly intended for Charlie. Charlie cleared her mind. Chemistry. She needed to focus on chemistry. Avogadro's number. Molar ratios. Ions. Isomers. Stoichiometry. Jesus, it was all so goddamn boring. And frankly, she had more pressing concerns than a subject she would never, ever pursue.

"Here!" Lydia chirped.

A tube of cherry red lip gloss clattered on the desk, rolling down its slightly slanted surface and into Charlie's hands. "Um, thanks Lydia," Charlie drawled in bemusement. "But I've got a pen and I think Harris'll deduct points if I fill out my test in 'Ruby Woo'. Instructions say blue or black ink only."

"Actually, they say use a pencil," Lydia quipped.

"Which makes the 'Ruby Woo' even more useless," Charlie shot back.

Lydia huffed and crossed her ankles primly. "Don't be an idiot, Charlie. Put some of that on. You have the lips of a corpse that's been steeping in formaldehyde. It never hurts to have some color."

"Lydia, we're taking a chemistry test, not attending a film premiere. I really don't give a shit."

"Well, I do give a shit," Lydia replied through gritted teeth. "Appearances matter. It's always good to put your totally normal, non-traumatized, 'I didn't get chased around by a serial killer last week' foot forwards. We don't want people to wonder why you look like you just washed up on a beach!"

Lydia's lips pulled into a wild grin—all teeth—and she tossed her compact next. Charlie caught it reflexively. It was a dangerous precedent, to allow Lydia to add makeup to the new status quo. But Charlie didn't have the energy to argue. She flipped open the compact with the enthusiasm of a 16th century victim of the Black Plague and began to spread the gloss over her lips. Naturally, this was the moment Mr. Harris chose to kick open the door. He strode through, carrying with him a stack of papers and his usual metric ton of disdain. "Miss Oswin, please stow your makeup. Smearing some cream on your face won't make the test any easier."

Charlie hoped her contempt showed as the snapped the compact shut and stowed it and the gloss. If Harris noticed, he didn't show it. The son of a bitch didn't even have the decency to be offended. He just waddled up to his desk, gleefully dropping the stack of tests with a loud thump. It was decided. If she ever manifested mutant powers, her first move would be to murder Harris.

The rest of the students trickled in, all suffering from varying levels of despair in the face of their imminent academic death. Charlie shared in their wallowing, but shoved the self-pity aside when Scott entered the room. His eyes immediately found Allison and he approached her, figure slumped in supplication. 'No, no, no, no'—the chant rattled in Charlie's head like maracas in the hands of a toddler on a sugar rush. 'Move on,' she thought in Scott's direction. 'Keep going,' she pleaded. But telepathy didn't rank among werewolf perks.

"Allison," Scott murmured plaintively. Allison's eyes flicked up, meeting his for just a moment before they returned to her desk. Scott lips fumbled with a few unwelcome words, but before they could be strung together into a coherent sentence, Mr. Harris stepped in. Literally. He dodged forwards, jamming his head between Scott's and Allison's as he dropped the tests on her desk for circulation.

"Mr. McCall, please take a seat."

Charlie's eyes bugged involuntarily. She ducked down and propped her head up with her hand, hiding her face lest Scott mistake her discomfort for mockery. The dude was having a bad enough day as it was.

Now behind his desk, Mr. Harris resumed his pontificating. "You have forty-five minutes to complete the test. Twenty-five percent of your grade can be earned right now simply by writing your name on the cover of the Blue Book. However, as happens every year, one of you will inexplicably fail to put your name on the cover and I'll be left yet again questioning my decision to ever become a teacher."

"I question that decision every day," Charlie mumbled to herself.

"Ms. Oswin, do you have any burning insights you'd like to share with the class?" Mr. Harris peered at her over the rim of his glasses. The lenses must be thick enough to provide a magnifying effect—his eyes were even beadier when observed directly. He lifted his eyebrows at her, a silent challenge. Charlie sank lower in her seat and shook her head. Harris sneered and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Alright," he taunted. "Let's get the disappointment over with. Begin."

Harris lifted a stopwatch into the air and dramatically punched the 'start' button. Charlie ripped into the Blue Book. Diagrams and equations jumped at her in a frenzy. They mixed in her head with other facts and figures and lunar charts and the expression on Stiles's face when he thought his dad was in danger. Too much. Way too much. Charlie closed the booklet and squeezed her eyes shut. She took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. When her eyes opened once more, her mind had cleared. Test-taking mode engaged. She scratched her name onto the booklet in neat, blocky letters and opened to the front page.

Charlie tore through the questions with ruthless efficiency, scribbling in calculations so speedily the paper might ignite from friction. She flipped to the third page and began to balance a chemical equation when a loud clatter stilled her pencil. It had to be loud to break her out of test-taking mode. Her gaze lifted just in time to see Scott staggering for the door. He collided with desks and students in his jagged path—she would say he was drunk if it had been possible. Stiles followed just as suddenly, but for once with more grace. Instinctively, Charlie threw herself to her feet to make her own exit, but as soon as Stiles cleared the doorway, Harris blocked it. "Ms. Oswin," he said in a low, dangerous tone, "if you take one more step, you will be receiving a zero on this exam."

"I wrote my name down," she said, forcing words through her clenched teeth. "Wouldn't I be getting a twenty-five?"

"Extenuating circumstances, Ms. Oswin. Now sit down."

Placing her finished test on Harris's desk felt like dropping off a hundred pound sack of flour, but walking out of the room Charlie's messenger bag hung from her shoulder with the weight of at least two more. On the list of today's problems the test had been the smallest by far. Chemistry had rules, and played by them. However much she hated the subject and its teacher, at least she knew how to prepare. She couldn't life hack lycanthropy with SparkNotes and strategic use of Yahoo Answers.

Stiles and Scott hadn't returned to the classroom. Charlie had scoured her booklet, determined not to let her mind stray, but every so often her eyes flicked to their desks. They were empty each time, and her stomach twisted just a bit more. Even if they had come back, she couldn't be certain what she'd find in those seats. Over the past twenty-four hours she had observed Scott from a distance, like a nature photographer grabbing snapshots of a predator through the brush. Hostile, calm, panicked, seething, melancholy—each time he crossed her path she encountered a different version. She had yet to figure out who he'd be tonight. Odds were full moon Scott wouldn't be winning any awards for congeniality. He had to be monitored. He had to be managed.

All these bone-chilling notions flitting through her head and Lydia had stolen her damn hoodie.

Charlie jogged to Stiles's locker first, lingering a few minutes to see if he'd show. He didn't. Next she stopped by Scott's, but he was long gone by then. A quick glance through a window told her they weren't on the lacrosse field. Dammit, she needed to LoJack those morons. After power-walking past their familiar haunts, she made her way to the cafeteria. Pushing through the double doors she stood on tiptoe, scanning the room for any evidence of the wonder twins. Instead she found something equally if not more disturbing than Scott's Jekyll/Hyde routine.

Allison and Jackson. Allison sat at one of the tables, munching on the contents of a brown-bag lunch. Jackson carried a tray from the lunch line and placed it next to her. Allison didn't give it a second thought. And why should she? Her obliviousness was almost enviable. For all her fear and frustration, it had yet to attack her from all angles. Jackson was her friend—why should she feel strange eating lunch alone with him? Why should his proximity inspire discomfort? Why should she be suspicious of his tiny, charming little smirks? What agenda could he possibly have? The cynic in Charlie's heart raised its hand to answer. So did Jackson. He reached out and drew his thumb across Allison's lower lip, presumably to wipe off some sauce, before lifting it to his own mouth.

He licked it. He licked the sauce off his finger. While maintaining pointed eye contact and a flirty smile. Next he'd find an eyelash on her cheek to make a wish on. "Seriously?" Charlie growled to herself. "What a goddamn cliché."

Charlie's feet moved unbidden beneath her, each step sharp and precise. Mechanical almost, and steered by anger—anger for Lydia, for Scott, at Jackson. The cafeteria crowd parted before her, instinctively knowing she'd run them down if they blocked her stride. For all the commotion of her approach, Jackson didn't take notice. "No," she overheard him say as she took her last few steps. "No, I think Scott got exactly what he deserved."

Standing behind the pair, Charlie cleared her throat. Allison and Jackson twisted in their seats to observe their new company. Allison's face bloomed with the smile of a warm welcome. Jackson's didn't. Whatever charm he effected for Allison's sake quickly curdled as soon as Charlie interrupted the performance.

"Hey, Charlie!" Allison said, her voice bright and cheerful. "How did you do on the chemistry test?"

Charlie gave a noncommittal shrug. "As well as can be expected."

Allison replied with a friendly roll of the eyes. "So, awesome then." She slid down the bench to make room, creating a gap between her and Jackson. Judging by the acid in his glare, this was not a move Jackson cared for. Again, Allison noticed nothing. "You wanna sit?" she asked. "My mom baked some chocolate chip cookies if you're interested."

"Nah," Charlie drawled, her eyes flicking to Jackson. "Chemistry kind of kills my appetite."

"Well, that doesn't mean you can't sit," Allison pressed.

"I was actually hoping to talk to Jackson."

If Charlie had said she was playing frisbee golf with Ruth Bader Ginsburg Allison's face would have registered a lower degree of surprise. She looked back and forth between Charlie and Jackson with poorly hidden astonishment. A high-pitched 'oh!' was the only response she could muster. Jackson didn't bother to veil his reaction at all. Disdain oozed from every pore. "What do you want, Chuck?" he sneered.

She leaned over him, the venom in her eyes matching his. "Come on, Jacky. We've got things to discuss."

Whether it was the firm set of her expression or the tight grip her fingers held on the collar of his jacket, Jackson deduced she was not likely to leave him to a peaceful lunch with Allison. With a displeased grunt, he wiped his hands on a napkin and tossed it aside. The murder in his look transitioned seamlessly to something soft and caramel-like as it moved from Charlie to Allison. "I'll be back in a bit."

Allison remained mystified by the exchange, but said nothing of it, instead opting to root a book out of her bag. "Okay. I'll see you guys in a bit. I've got a ton of reading to do for English anyway."

Once a few tables blocked them from Allison's view Charlie seized Jackson's elbow and yanked him after her, ignoring his protests until she found an empty hallway. After a quick scan revealed them to be alone she released her grip and and rounded on him. Perhaps the sheer extent of her rage didn't register on her face because Jackson didn't appear to be wetting his pants. His emotional range was largely limited to different shades of indignation. "What the hell, Chuck?!" he shouted, giving her a small shove towards the lockers. "What the hell was that? Have you finally lost the last tiny bit of a brain you had left?!"

Charlie's scoff was scornful. "Don't pretend you don't know, Jackson. As stupid as you look, I know you have basic reasoning skills."

"Oh, I worked out the fact that you're a nutjob a long freaking time ago, Oswin," he snarled. "Is that the basic reasoning you're talking about?"

Jackson baited his verbal traps so obviously that he expected her to walk into them was almost sad. Charlie ignored the barb and took a single, threatening step towards him. "Stop fucking with my friends."

He didn't bother to hide the shit-eating grin. His face was all cold eyes and perfect white teeth frozen into a manic mask. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Like hell," Charlie spat.

Jackson let out a derisive snort and shook his head with pity and condescension. "You know what, Chuck? I think you've been hanging out with McCall and Stilinski too much. What, you think—you think I'm after you? Like some sort of criminal mastermind?"

"My brain rejects any sentence that refers to you and contains the word 'mastermind'," Charlie drawled. "The phrase 'portrait of pettiness and male fragility' seems more fitting. But do I think you're out to get them? Yeah. I do. Because you are."

A bitter, mocking laugh rumbled in his chest. "Come on, Chuck. Do you even hear yourself? What's next? Bigfoot? Little green men?"

"Cut the crap, Jackson," she growled, leaning in close. A few students rounded the corner and she froze, waiting for them to vacate the hallway before continuing. "Do you honestly think I can't see through your bullshit? You think I don't know you didn't hand Lydia sulfuric acid that night? You think I don't see all your little flirty glances at Allison? It's so goddamn transparent. Do you really believe you can just use and discard people with no consequences?" With each accusation, his grin grew by a fraction. Her urge to spit in his face could barely be repressed. "Stop fucking with my friends, Jackson. Stop it, or I swear to God I'll—"

"You'll what?" he smirked. "You'll pull me into a hallway and yell at me some more? I've got to say, this whole 'tough' act you've got going—it's kind of cute. But don't you have better things to do with your time?"

Charlie's features twisted with disgust. "Jesus Christ, are you really so pathetically insecure that you need to steal your competition's life for you to feel better about your own?" she hissed. "You want Allison? You want Scott out of the picture? It's not going to make you any better at lacrosse. Or any less of a jackass. No matter how much shit you pull, it's not going to make you Scott."

He went rigid. The jackal-like glee hardened and fractured, allowing resentment to leak through. Jackson stalked towards her, each move slow and deliberate. Intimidation. Not wholly ineffective according to the twinge in her stomach. He stopped directly before her, the tip of his nose inches from hers. "I'm sorry," he snapped. "Am I supposed to give a shit about the opinions of some psychotic chick with dead daddy issues?"

The words hit her like waves washing up on the beach. They came one at a time, nothing much to think of on their own. Their combined meaning crashed into her with the force of a tsunami. The roar of fast-moving water filled her ears. No voice or thought could be heard above it. Neither reason nor logic remained to still her hand. Just impulse. Just the lizard at the base of her brain. It shrank back on its hind legs, muscles taught, and launched itself forwards jaws open. Charlie's hand formed a fist. Her arm swung. Her hand connected with Jackson's jaw.

The resounding crack of fist against face silenced what Charlie now registered as the rush of blood. The pain that bloomed from her knuckles signaled the return of sense. The point of impact throbbed in time with the rapid beating of her heart. The black spots of rage clouding her vision fell away. Jackson was no longer standing before her. The hit had sent him staggering. Opposite the hall from her he stood with one hand braced against the lockers, the other cradling his face. When he turned back to her, his feral grin had returned.

"Damn," he laughed, rubbing his jaw. "You've got a better right hook than Stilinski." He pushed himself from the lockers and closed the distance between them. Just as close as they had been before. Just as close as when she had hit him. "Well," he declared, his tone altogether unbothered, "if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to lunch with Allison."

As Jackson backed away from her, Charlie knew she hadn't won. He continued down the hall with a spring in his step and a glint in his eye. To him, that sore jaw counted as a victory. He rounded the corner, leaving Charlie with rapidly purpling knuckles and a sinking stomach. She retreated to the bathroom and ran her hand under a cold tap, hopefully reducing any swelling. In one spot the skin had split. The blood turned a light pink as it flowed with the water down the drain. Soap stung while she watched its descent.

Too soon the bell rang, announcing the end of lunch and summoning her back to class. Thirty minutes gone. No Stiles, no Scott and all she had to chew on were her own anxieties and that superior, triumphant look on Jackson's face.

The pit in Charlie's stomach was well on its way to becoming a boulder. Or maybe hunger caused the ache. Or both. Probably both. Hunger and fast-growing anxiety were not mutually exclusive sensations, and she was nothing if not a multitasker. At the ring of the final school bell, Charlie had yet to see Stiles or Scott. Classes began to seem less like education and more like an obstacle to overcome in order to get the answers she actually needed. They did, however, provide her with ample time to plan her course of action.

First stop was a vending machine. Those at the school were nowhere near as accommodating as Bob, but a Snickers still had caramel regardless of where it was purchased. Up next was a brief stop by her locker, and the trip concluded with a mad dash to the locker room to find Stiles and Scott before they headed out to lacrosse practice. Of course, even the most simplistic of plans couldn't escape interruption. She was waylaid for a good ten minutes by Meredith Edwards and her absurd theories of their nighttime antics. By the time Charlie arrived at the locker room, the team was already preparing for practice. Mercifully, Stiles and Scott had hung back from the rest of the group. Charlie whispered a silent 'thank you' and marched towards them, but before she could so much as greet them Scott broke away from Stiles and stomped her direction down the hallway. His eyes were cold again.

"Hey!" Charlie called as he approached. "How's it going? Are you feeling any bet—"

"Not now," he growled, brushing by her.

Charlie spun on her heel, watching his gruff, angry frame stalk away from her. "Seriously?!" she exclaimed. "You're seriously going to do this again?"

Scott didn't turn back to face her. Last night he had at least had the decency to look apologetic. Maybe the full moon had sapped him of that as well. Instead he made a beeline for Lydia who stood just a little further down the hall talking to stock pretty blonde girl character number three. Charlie turned back to Stiles, who didn't appear to share in her frustration. He beamed brightly, bouncing up and down on his toes with something like anticipation. Charlie threw her arms out wide, the universal gesture of 'what in the actual hell?', and she made her way towards him.

"Dude, what's going on?" she demanded, coming to a stop in front of him. Stiles didn't register her presence. His eyes fixated over her shoulder where Scott spoke with Lydia. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Earth to Stiles!"

He blinked blearily, a few moments passing before he managed to focus on her face. "Hm? Oh, hey Charlie!"

Charlie cocked her head to the side. "What's the stupid face about?"

"What? What's stupid about my face?"

"Everything. But specific to this circumstance I'm talking about all of—" she waved a hand at the dopey grin "—all of this bit. You look like a five-year-old who just found out he's going to Disneyland. This day has sucked. What exactly is there to be so excited about?"

The grin increased in both breadth and dopiness. "Oh, I'm just about to get some insider information I've been wanting since I was like eight years old."

"Yeah, I'm gonna need some more context on that."

Stiles leaned in conspiratorially. "Apparently full moon Scott can smell desire. I sent him on a recon mission—he's gathering intel."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "That is…."

"Brilliant?" Stiles suggested.

"Disgusting," she concluded. "You're telling me that Scott can smell lust? And he just came out of a teenage boys' locker room? Between all the testosterone and the misplaced emotional baggage he's gonna need therapy. Tell him to stay away from Aaron Harrison."

"Why?"

"Because he could get sexually aroused by an unripened grapefruit."

Stiles stuck out his tongue in disgust. "Ugh. Ew. Why would you say that to me right now? Or ever?"

"The truth rarely comes with pretty bow."

But Stiles had already forgotten his objections. His gaze redirected itself to the end of the hallway. Charlie followed its path. Scott and Lydia spoke briefly and then walked off together, dodging into the coach's office. Charlie's stomach twisted again. Either her Snickers had failed to do its job or her gut had issued another warning. But what was it? Maybe worry for what fallout would come of Scott's full moon-induced Hulk form. Maybe friendly concern for Stiles who would now receive confirmation that his crush barely knew his name. Maybe unease for Lydia, whose relationship with Jackson was becoming more toxic by the second. All valid concerns, to be sure, but they felt small. Her unease belonged to something worse. She didn't know what, though. For now it was invisible, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

"So," she declared, shaking off the chains of her anxiety, "basically you're telling Scott to ask a girl if she likes you. Isn't that kind of middle school?" Stiles waved a hand in her face, silently instructing her to shut the hell up. She smacked it aside. "Well, hasn't this been an eventful day."

With Lydia and Scott both fully out of sight, Stiles spun around to confront her with an incandescent smile. "Oh, you don't know the half of it!" The words tripped over each other in excitement in their rush to reach her ears. "Who has two thumbs and just made first line? Oh, yeah, that'd be me!"

Charlie's head snapped around to look at him. A smile stole across her face easily, her first genuine one of the day. Something going well for one of them? It sounded fake, but Stiles's elation wasn't. In one respect at least the odds decided to tip their way. She smacked him lightly with her unbruised hand. "Are you serious?! Congratulations, man! I'd say you deserve it, but I've never actually seen you play."

His face flushed pink at her enthusiasm. The bright tint betrayed his attempt at a wounded look. "Wow, seriously, Charlie?" he said, too much warmth in his tone for it to accommodate the usual sarcasm. "Where's the faith?"

"You should know by now that I don't really do 'faith'," Charlie replied simply. "I can do 'proud', though. First line? That's amazing."

The flush deepened to a red and his grin took on a sheepish air. "Well, technically the coach said Bilinski made first line," he shrugged.

"Then I say congratulations, Biles!"

Stiles's eyebrows furrowed quizzically, but the grin widened. He hadn't worn happiness this sincere in quite some time. At least not in front of her. A hug probably qualified as standard operating procedure. She reached out, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. As per her understanding, the conventional hug lasted between two to three seconds, if counting with full 'Mississippis'. On the count of two, his arms cinched around her middle, holding her to him. A few more Mississippis passed. He didn't let go. Unsure of what to do, Charlie dipped her head, resting her head on his shoulder. She wasn't sure why—it was oddly intimate move. And suddenly, she was left with one overwhelming sensation. Regret.

"Oh my God, dude," she exclaimed, removing her arms from him and taking a step back. "You smell rank. When is the last time you actually washed that jersey?!"

"Whoa, hey!" Stiles objected. "That is the smell of man. Show some respect! You are speaking to a bona fide first line athlete!"

"Do all first line athletes smell like the floor of a cab on New Year's Eve? Try investing in some Febreeze. Or basic hygiene."

"Who has time for hygiene when they're on the first line? Did I mention I made first line?"

Charlie couldn't manufacture a fake scowl in front of those gleefully waggling eyebrows. He bounced up and down on like he was attempting a tap dance without moving his feet. When he raised his hand for a high five, she didn't think anything of it. As soon as their palms collided, though, pain issued a quick reminder of her lunchtime conversation with Jackson. Stiles clocked the wince because of course he did. Curtains fell over his euphoria. Concern came with a frown and he grabbed at her hand. The purple and puffiness couldn't be disguised from anyone paying attention. He grabbed her forearm and held it up, looking between her and her hand. "Charlie, what the hell happened?" he demanded anxiously. "How do you keep ending up injured? What is this?"

Charlie flinched as he yanked her hand forwards to inspect it. "It's fine, really. I'm fine." She shook her hand out, feeling the gentle throb of blood moving towards an injury. Stiles glared with his edition of the 'what the hell?' look. It showed no sign of going away. "Uh, fine," she relented. "I may or may not have punched Jackson during lunch period." His eyes bugged. She shrugged defensively. "What? He was being rude."

Stiles dropped her hand and released a triumphant laugh. Normally his concern would probably have a longer shelf life, but the day's giddiness had swept him away. And Charlie refused to ruin it for him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close towards him. Charlie ignored the stench. "Holy crap. I made first line. Scott made co-captain. You got to punch Jackson. I did not think today was going to get this awesome." He pulled away, squinting down at her. "You're sure you're okay?"

Charlie rolled her eyes. "Yes," she insisted. "I am entirely fine."

He beamed. "So now that I'm going to play in actual games are you going to stick around for practice or what?"

Charlie smirked up at him. "And miss Bilinski's first day on first line? I'd be crazy to pass on something like that. I've just got to grab my hoodie from Lydia—it's freezing outside."

"Okay!" he exclaimed brightly. "I'll see you out there!"

"Knock 'em dead, Biles."

Stiles gave a salute and scampered for the locker room door. Without the enthusiasm radiating from him, the hallway seemed to darken. The sheer genuineness of his happiness had a way of diluting her cynicism. Even her realism fell victim to it. Maybe because she didn't want to ruin it for him. Maybe because a bit of her wanted to believe it herself. But without Stiles's smile around to contradict her, she was able to remind herself: good things don't just happen. Especially on days like today. Charlie didn't want to be right. Really, she didn't.

Turns out, the universe had planned a course correction right around the corner. If Scott hadn't been able to smell desire, he and Lydia wouldn't have been in a room together. If Lydia hadn't stolen her hoodie, Charlie wouldn't have had any reason to go looking for her. If she hadn't spent that time talking to Stiles, she wouldn't have walked up at just the right moment. But the small events of the day had arranged themselves perfectly so Charlie could wander up to the coach's office, look through the window, and see it. Lydia and Scott wrapped around each other, eyes closed, lips interlocked, fingers scraping against backs and running through hair, every inch of their bodies pressed together. They devoured each other. Not out of affection, not even out of desire. All Charlie saw in their embrace was spite.

Charlie froze, her breath hitching in her chest. It wasn't surprise that rooted her in place. The scene made a perverse sort of sense. Heartbroken, full moon Scott. Insecure, vengeful Lydia. Both of them selfish, both of them ruthless. To them it was a game. And in that moment, in their present states, neither gave a shit who they hurt in the process. Neither of them thought they'd be able to lose.

Consequences. Collateral damage. Broken trust. Betrayal. Friendships torn asunder. Charlie wasn't unfamiliar with these concepts. She'd read about them. She'd seen movies about them. They came into her life in dog-eared pages or with fistfulls of popcorn. They made for great stories, but they'd never been a part of her story. Those problems belonged to other people—the girl sniffling quietly in a bathroom stall or some guy stabbing moodily at his fruit cup in the corner of the cafeteria. But she knew those people now. Those people were her friends. Settling in Beacon Hills had opened the door to something better. And it could hurt so much worse.

Charlie scurried away before Scott and Lydia broke apart. She closed her fist around the distress and shoved it back down her throat. She took that sick feeling in her stomach and pushed it down, down, down. Her feet carried her not to the lacrosse field, but to the school parking lot and into her Impala. Her hands placed the key in the ignition and threw the car into gear. She'd have to apologize to Stiles for missing his first practice. He'd forgive her. Because by the time the full moon shone in its full glory, he would understand.

Whatever Stiles had planned to keep Scott in check tonight, it wouldn't be enough. She had to make it be enough.

AYYYY, another chapter finished. And about time. I'd really love to hear your thoughts, so please drop a review if you can! It's always massively appreciated.

Charlie wanders around the empty school, looking at all the signs of the events of Night School. Particularly the spot where the janitor died.

-~-~-~-~-~ "Rehearsed Lines" - Belle Mare

Lydia surprises Charlie outside her classroom.

-~-~-~-~-~ "Baby Doll" - The Del Morroccos

Mr. Harris tells Charlie to sit down after Scott and Stiles bail on the test. Transition to her looking for them during lunch time.

-~-~-~-~-~"Prayers" - Ramona Falls (it would be the bits without the violins/strings - that's a bit much for the scene. Like take the violins out and that would be the song. It starts around 0:29.)

Charlie sees Jackson flirting with Jackson….rage ensues.

-~-~-~-~-~ "All the Way Down" - French Style Furs

After Charlie confronts Jackson, she feels a bit defeated. She goes to the bathroom and runs her hand under the tap. It's a bit of a scene transition song.

-~-~-~-~-~"The Game" - Solomon Grey

After seeing Scott and Lydia kissing, Charlie walks through the hallway, gets in her car, and drives off. She

-~-~-~-~-~ "Animals" - The GOASTT (The Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger)