Was anyone else panicking that fanfiction was down earlier today? D: Because I definitely panicked.
I want to speed these days along, but there are some things that need to be established first. I hope it's okay with you guys!
More to follow shortly...
The lanky boy rapped his knuckles against the door, peeking back down the hallway at someone nervously. He whispered something, shook his head, and almost stepped away when the door was jerked open.
Mr. Harris stared down at the boy from his nose, his eyebrow raised. "Yes?"
The boy glanced away and pushed his glasses up, swallowing. "Hello, sir, sorry to disturb your class, sir."
"Out with it, Glenn." Harris demanded, and Glenn nodded eagerly.
"Yes sir, the office needs to talk to Scott McCall, sir."
"McCall?" Harris narrowed his eyes skeptically and suddenly leaned his head out of the doorway, knocking Glenn to the side to look around. Glenn grunted and stumbled to catch himself from falling, and Harris continued to watch the halls for someone to come out. When no one came, he slowly stood back and focused on Glenn with a suspicious glare. "I didn't get a call from the office. What do they want?"
"They didn't say much, sir. Something about an emergency with his mom." Glenn shifted anxiously and glanced over his shoulder.
Harris studied him unhappily. Scott suddenly popped beside Harris and pushed him to the side, a beaker in his hand.
"Something happened to my mom?" He said, and Harris frowned over at him.
"You're supposed to be in your seat, Mr. McCall."
Scott absently held his beaker out, a dark, reddish brown liquid staining the inside. "I was going to ask you what to do about this and I heard Glenn say the office needs me," He turned his attention onto Glenn. "Did they say anything about her at all? Is she alright?"
Glenn shrugged helplessly. "I'm just following orders," He said, as if he was a messenger in war or something. "Look, guys—sir—I really need to get back to study for my history final—"
"Okay…" Harris said, pointing at the two boys slowly. "Okay. I'm going to call the office, and if I call them and they have no idea what I'm talking about, you two will have hell to pay. Is that clear?"
Glenn sputtered nervously, but Scott only burst from the room and called something noncommittal over his shoulder as he hurried down the hall.
He rounded the corner and I thrust my arm out to clothesline him and knock him on the ground.
Scott blinked dazedly from the floor, his eyes unfocused and staring up. "Mom—" He muttered, blinking rapidly and suddenly frowning at me. "Savannah? I don't have time! I have to go—"
I took him by the hand and helped him up as Glenn anxiously approached us from behind. "Your mom is fine, Scott," I said, ignoring his confused and shocked expression to hold out the money to Glenn. "Really, Glenn? A history final? Those aren't until next month."
Glenn snatched the money from my hand and fixed me with a scathing glare. "I panicked, okay? Harris is gonna murder us, did you hear that? What am I gonna do? If I fail that class because of—"
"Relax, Glenn," I snapped, giving him a threatening scowl. "You got your money, right? Go buy some porn or something, platinum pass—"
"I can't get a platinum pass with this," Glenn said bitterly, waving the twenty in our face. "I can't even get a membership."
I raised my eyebrows with Scott and there was an uncomfortable pause, but Glenn seemed unashamed of what he'd just said. Finally, I replied, "That's not my problem, Glenn."
He narrowed his gaze and seemed to have something else to say, but I widened my eyes at him. "Get out of here!" I said loudly. He scowled and continued to ramble about getting in trouble as he started down the hall from us.
He pointed at me when he was a safe distance away. "So what if I study for my finals a month early?"
I lunged towards him and he suddenly took off down the hall with a screeching squeal of fright, but Scott restrained me and dragged me back in front of him. "Savannah, what is going on? What's wrong with my mom?"
I struggled to pull my attention off of Glenn as he disappeared through the set of doors at the end of the hall, shaking my head at Scott. "God, when did the geeks get so freakin' ballsy?" I bitterly scoffed and shook my head to myself. "I am losing my touch, Scott. That's all there is to it—"
"Savannah." Scott took me by the shoulders and imploringly searched my face. "What is going on?"
"Shit, sorry." I shook my head and took a breath. "Your mom is fine. Probably. I actually have no idea, I just made that up to get you out of class."
He dropped his hands and stepped away, pushing his hands into his hair in panicked relief. "God, Savannah! What the hell is wrong with you!? I thought something was happened to her!"
Guiltily, I tried to make light of the situation with a forced smile. "Okay, okay, you're totally right! I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I mean, I was, but that's just how I used to get people out of class when we wanted to get high. I used to do it all the time!"
Scott shook his head incredulously at me. "Seriously?"
I shrugged weakly. "I'm sorry! Every other time I did it, people hated their parents anyways. Or they knew it was a lie. I don't know," I shook my head.
He sighed and pinched his nose. "Why didn't you just stand outside the room and tell me to meet you? I would've heard you! I could've said I needed to use the restroom!"
I paused dumbly and blinked.
Oh. I hadn't thought of that.
When I didn't reply immediately, Scott sighed sharply and shook his head. "Just forget it. What's this about?"
I took a breath and collected my thoughts. "Derek knows that you're working with Gerard."
Scott's face went blank with surprise.
"He also knows Gerard is controlling Jackson."
"What—" Scott was a mix between shock, distress, and fear. "How did he—how do you—wait… what?"
I jerked my chin at him, hands on my hips. "You said we needed to talk. Let's talk."
Scott slowly processed this, eyes on the ground. A few moments passed and he looked up at me. "Not here. Come on." He took me by the arm and led us through the halls.
The school buzzed with talk of the championship game. It's like there was nothing else in the world that mattered—not even the disgusting lunch that they served today. In fact, I hadn't eaten a bite, and at this moment, I was regretting it. Stiles had said that the Salisbury steak (which looked and smelled more like the bottom of a cooked foot) tasted pretty good when you asked for extra gravy.
Even the memory made my stomach roll. I shuddered in disgust and started the trek to Geometry, when something near the end of the hall caught my attention.
Danny was at his locker, gathering his things for his next class. I paused and backed up thoughtfully, my lip between my teeth as I briefly considered him. Taking a deep breath, I started towards him with my shoulders back.
He reached into his locker and pulled out a folder, and I stopped on the other side of the door. He closed it and jumped at my sudden appearance, a small gasp escaping his lips and his hand flying to his chest.
"God, Savannah!" He huffed, his brown eyes rolling. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
My eyes narrowed and I asked him point blank. "Where is Maggie Melwood?"
Danny froze in place, the scowl twitching on his handsome face and his hand still clutching his burgundy shirt. He blinked and scrunched his face in confusion. "What?"
"Maggie Melwood," I reiterated. "Where is she? Where can I find her?"
"Um," Danny rolled his eyes like I was stupid. "ABC Family, with the rest of the trashy teen dramas."
My eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me? Is that some kind of passive aggressive reference I don't understand?"
Danny shifted the books to carry them at his side, glancing at some students as they passed around us in the hallway. "Maggie Melwood is a character in a show."
I frowned and looked down, my mind racing. She's a character? But… "No, she's in charge of the pep rally."
Danny snorted and grinned pityingly at me, pursing his lips into a mock pout. "Oh, Savannah… you're so weird, honey."
I shook my head. "I don't understand…"
"If you're talking about the pep rally this Thursday night, Brooke St. James is in charge of that. Along with everything else in this god forsaken school…" He explained as he backed away. "I have to get to class."
Absently, I thanked him and turned to step back into the flow of the hallway.
"For the record," Danny called, his head and arm poking over the crowd to point at me. "I still hate you!"
"Yeah, good talking to you, Danimal," I waved, and he flipped me off as I laughed and turned away, snapping my fingers and biting back a smile. That was the most civilized conversation Danny and I had shared in weeks.
It actually felt really great to have gotten through a conversation with him without either of us insulting each other. Although he did call me weird… but that was almost in an affectionate manner. Right?
In order to get to my Geometry class, I had to pass the auditorium. It was opened up and there seemed to be something happening. I ran a hand over my hair to smooth it and slowed to peek in. At this rate, I was bound to be late for class. But then again, I was late to school this morning—and I skipped the majority of my art history class to talk things over with Scott. What's one more class?
"Hey dude!" A guy with unfamiliar, shaggy blonde hair passed me to talk to his friend. He held a cup up high and cheered raucously. "They're serving root beer in there, man! Actual root beer, with real sugar! Not that diet, off brand crap—you better go grab some before they're out."
I changed course to approach the auditorium, hanging to the sides of the crowd that rushed in enthusiastically.
Up on the stage, a huge banner was displayed. A team of girls dressed in red and black were doing a choreographed dance to some pop song that I didn't recognize. In front of the stage there was a huge table with multiple cups of root beer that were being swarmed by students.
"Tell your family!" Brooke stood on the stage, pacing under the banner with an actual megaphone in her hands. Today, she wore an ensemble of blue and yellow, complete with a skirt and tights. Her glasses glinted under the lights as she thrust her fist in the air with every word. "Tell your coworkers! Tell your friends, and your gardeners! Tell the pizza guy and your bus drivers! Thursday night! A root beer drinking challenge!"
The girls behind her let out a loud cheer and she nodded and waved her arms with them to get the crowd cheering before continuing.
"Tell anyone you think can handle chugging two liters, of root beer... without throwing up! And then, come to the rally and kick their ass!"
Loud cheers erupted from the students as they stopped to watch the dancers and listen to Brooke, cups in hand.
"Or, be like me, and take pictures when they throw up to share all over social media with the hashtag cyclones don't quit and tag BHHS in the post! Do whatever the heck you want, dress up! Dress down! Come naked, be escorted off the premises by police officers and get your picture in the paper! We're young! Our records will be sealed," She paused to drop the megaphone from her mouth and pretended to regret what she said as the crowd humored her and let out an Oooooooh. Bringing the megaphone back to her mouth, she shook her head and said, "You didn't hear me say that." A few people in the crowd laughed. "Being arrested is bad. Having a record isn't funny, people—okay, that's all the time we have. Get to class, you crazy kids! Go forth my children!" She waved her hands at the crowd to mime pushing them along. "Go, become learned, and when you're finished, come to the pep rally Thursday night!"
The dancers behind her started to break up and make their way off stage. She turned around to wave at them briefly before she suddenly pointed up at someone in the control room over top me. "Jerry!" She said over the megaphone. "The light of my life, the apple of my eye… could you—" The lights went out on the stage and she threw a thumbs up to him. "Beautiful."
I shook my head and started to turn away, when suddenly Brooke pointed straight at me. My eyes widened and I turned around to rush through the doors, but then I heard, "Savannah Carmichael! Stop!"
I turned on my heels and scowled at some passing students as they gawked at me. Probably, they were surprised to hear Brooke St. James call my name over the megaphone.
"Please," She dramatically said, gesturing to the stage. "I would have words with you. Step into my office." The megaphone squealed out some feedback as she clicked it off and began to cross the stage. I lingered in the doorway and she cheerily waved her hand at me, beckoning me forward.
Lowly, I grumbled under my breath as I started down the aisle and made my way up to the stage. As I got closer I noticed more details of this brief little show she'd put on. For example, not only was there a table of root beer, there were also lanyards and tickets to the game on sale. Little cyclones had been drawn across most of the cups that were filled with the root beer.
When I was close enough, I called up to her. "Brooke St. James—if that's even your real name."
She barked out a delicate laugh, practically skipping down the steps of the stage to make her way over to me. "What? Of course it's my name! Why would you say that?"
"Did Maggie approve this little show?" I pointedly asked, looking directly at all the decorations displayed. Brooke immediately winced and slowed in her steps, eventually coming to a stop about six feet away from me. "Seems like a lot for someone who couldn't even step up and defend some signs for the pep rally."
"Okay," She guiltily relented, putting her hands up. "I felt so terrible about that! I really did! Lying makes me feel so icky. I'm usually reeeeaaaally bad at it," She admitted, her voice dropping an octave for emphasis.
"So why did you lie? It's not like I gave you a reason. I barely even know you!"
Brooke drew in a breath and tapped her colorfully painted nails against her equally brightly painted lips. "Yeah… that's true." She stopped tapping to point at me, rocking on her feet. "That's true."
Abruptly, Brooke started walking again. I felt like I was caught in a whirlwind as I struggled to keep up with her. She went to grab something from under the table, dropping to her hands and knees suddenly.
"Hey, you want some root beer? There's a lot left over, take some!"
Completely ignoring her offer, I pressed on. "Why did you lie about Maggie? The first thing you should know about me is that I detest liars. You can't trust a liar."
Brooke dragged a huge ladder out from under the table, the metal screeching against the concrete. "Fine," She sighed, sitting back on her legs when the ladder was far enough from the table. "The truth is, Maggie Melwood is a character. I used her to lie to you because my mom is the one who funds the lacrosse team. She's the one who pours all the money into the school when she feels like she needs a leg up, or—geez, I don't know. Maybe it's to annoy me because I won't go to the boarding school three towns over." Brooke brushed her hair out of her eyes, the green streak popping under the lights of the auditorium, and shook her head. "The point is, I didn't want you to think I was trying so hard to impress my mom. Who would want to help that person? You have no idea who I am. Do you know what that feels like?"
I scrunched my face down at her and she scoffed quietly, looking away as she grabbed the ladder.
"What am I saying? Of course you don't, I'm crazy to complain about having a rich mother."
I frowned and mulled her words over as she struggled to carry the huge ladder over to the stage, stumbling slightly under its weight. It kept catching the ground and she almost tripped more than a couple times, muttering nonsensical curse phrases under her breath.
Wordlessly, I stepped forward and took the ladder out of her hands. Without looking at her, I flipped the ladder over, unfolded it, and plopped it on the ground below the banner. I squinted my eyes up at it. "Why's it say We're Rootin' For You?"
Brooke brightened at me, and the bell rang as she went around to grab the ladder so she could start climbing up. "Because I'm organizing a root beer drinking competition at the pep rally. What do students love to get?"
I suddenly understood, nodding up at her. "Ahhh, I get it. The free root beer you served."
"Yeah," She breathed, stretching her hand out to reach the top of the banner and remove the tack. "Heads up!" She called, and I held my hand out to catch it without needing to think about it. "Hey, good catch! Jinkies, you're quick."
"Great reflexes," I nonchalantly dismissed, choosing not to comment on the fact that she'd just said jinkies as I pointed up at a corner. "I drink a lot of milk."
Brooke huffed flatly at me and I pointed at a corner of the banner.
"Missed a tack."
She reached up to grab it and let it, and half of the banner, drop with a loud flutter. She watched to see if I caught the tack. When I did, she chirped happily in amusement. "You should be on the team!"
I snorted and shifted uneasily. "Yeah," I laughed. "That's what I keep saying!"
"Next year you should try out." She pointed at the opposite side of the banner, where it now dangled lowly from the wall. "Wanna grab that for me?"
I walked over and listened as she continued to explain the show she put on. Brooke figured that if enough kids stopped by to see this little show, they'd have a better turn out for the pep rally. It was also an opportunity to use our very under utilized dance team; give them some much needed practice. In return, they'd do the half time at the championship game. Also, the little show today was free publicity for the game in general. Even if kids didn't come to see the drinking contest, they'd still had an opportunity to buy tickets to the game Friday night.
"People think that I try as hard as I do to put these things on so I'll impress my mom. But that's not it, I want to get kids excited about school—the way things are meant to be. You know? It's like, kids have it bad enough. Why should school be making it worse for them?"
My eyebrows had probably disappeared into my hairline at this point. Using the banner as an excuse to turn away from her glaring good intentions, I yanked the banner down with a harsh rip. I handed it back over to her and crossed my arms as she bounced restlessly on her heels. "Did you say you needed more posters?"
Brooke smiled widely at me.
Nights at the Stilinski house had been thrown way off track. I did everything I could to avoid seeing the sheriff because he couldn't find out that my leg was healed. Usually, we had started to all sort of have dinner together. Sheriff would get the food—whether that meant ordering in or making something really quick—and while Stiles and I worked on our homework, we would grab some dinner to eat.
The sheriff had done a pretty good job of keeping things clean around the house in his time off, too. Since he got his badge back, Stiles had taken it upon himself to pick up the slack. Sheriff was working double-time at the station—staying over late, going in early—in order to make up for lost time. Apparently things had deteriorated in his absence. Paper work built up, officers slacked on their duties… not to mention the mess he had to clean from the incident with Matt.
He wouldn't talk to us about it, but it was obvious that the job was wearing on him. After all, the officers who were shot needed to be replaced. In the mean time, sheriff was doing the work of nine other people. He had funerals to attend, hospitals to visit, condolences to accept, interviews to give to the press, plus all the usual responsibilities that the sheriff of Beacon Hills had, and now, he had two teenagers living in his home. He's so busy that it's easy for me to avoid him. I justified it to myself by considering that, A: He's got bigger things to worry about than how I'm doing. B: There's no need for him to be blindsided with the supernatural at this point in his life, if he were to somehow discover my healed knee. C: If there's anyone he needs to maintain a relationship with, it's his son. Not me. So in a way, I'm doing both of us a favor. I'm doing everyone a favor. He shouldn't have to worry about me, too.
That being said, I missed him. Ever since that first morning, I made a conscious effort to wake myself before he left so I could listen to him move around in the mornings. It's the only time of the day I could check in on him. The only time of the day that I could feel protected… that I could feel cared for, as he leaned over the couch before he left in the mornings to check that I still breathed. Or, I guess that's what he was checking. I think he checks on me for the same reason that I wake up to listen to him.
Tonight, sheriff called to say he would be missing dinner, and in fact, he wouldn't be making it back home until early morning. It was a golden opportunity for me to not have to be conscientious of my every move. Finally—I can relax and just be.
At the moment, I had posters spread around me on the floor of the living room. I'd found the box of sharpies I used to label the Asshole Jar (which had collected quite a healthy little cache) and outlined neat block letters.
"Hey," Stiles said as he passed through the living room.
I hummed at him and leaned back from the poster to tilt my head thoughtfully, examining the proportions. The marker made a squeaking noise as I thickened one of the curves in a letter.
Stiles emerged from the kitchen with two bottles of apple juice, resting over the back of the couch to bump my shoulder with one of the bottles. I finished my line before I took the proffered drink with a small groan of appreciation. "A gentleman after my own heart," I teased, throwing him a smile over my shoulder. His eyes flicked over my face with a smile and he jerked his chin down at the posters.
"What're those for?"
I turned back to look at the posters and drew my bottom lip between my teeth. Sighing, I ran my hand over my hair as I responded. "It's for the pep rally."
I feel his snort even before it happened, and I reached back to smack him without turning around. "The pep rally?"
"Don't even start with me," I said, throwing him a dirty look, though there was no venom in it. "It's a long story."
He rolled over the back of the couch and tried to smoothly land next to me, but ended up smacking the carpet with his back, his legs sprawled across the posters and arm flying into the back of my head.
"Oh my god," I whined, pushing him off me. "You're like a seven year old, I swear!"
He laughed and purposefully leaned into me, making me lose balance. I shoved him off and growled at his snicker.
Stiles lifted his head and swung his limbs around until he was sat beside me with his legs stretched out, his heels still pressed into a poster. I was about to tell him to move his feet when he asked me who Maggie Melwood was.
The first poster I made was outlined in silver marker, and it was more extravagant than the others, reading Fuck Maggie Melwood!
I pressed my lips together to hide my smile, shaking my head at the poster. "It's a long story." I glanced back over at Stiles and laughed at his expression.
"Well if she's worthy of that I wanna know who she is."
"She's a character in an ABC Family show."
Stiles took a breath that sounded eerily like his dad when he was tired of our shit and realized he didn't want to know after all. "Can I help?"
"Ummm…" I thought back to all the times I'd seen him try to draw pictures. They didn't get very far past stick figures and the handwriting of an illiterate ninety-year-old. The posters were already really neat, the edges tidy and precise. Honestly, they were pretty much finished.
I handed him a sharpie and he tried to grab it, but I yanked it back slightly at the last second. He glared at me and I smirked. "Try to stay in the lines."
He rolled his eyes and I passed him the marker. Stiles opened the marker and looked the posters over. "Hey, Savannah."
I looked at him and flinched at the last second—but it was too late. The marker smeared across my nose and I sputtered as I ducked away. Stiles grinned proudly at me and I pushed his face away. "Very nice, asshole." He snickered and I huffed and scrubbed at my nose. "This better wash off..."
Stiles hummed as he dragged a poster closer, knocking his knee against mine. "Nah. It looks cute."
My breath caught in my throat and I made a point of turning away as my heart jumped violently, reaching blindly for a poster to busy myself. I grumbled moodily to myself and Stiles laughed.
"Did you know that you sound like an old man when you do that?"
I grunted and forced myself not to look at him, my face still heated.
"Exactly." His marker squeaked, and even though I was dying to see what he was doing to my hard work, I definitely didn't turn around.
I rubbed at my nose again and chewed my lip. Maybe he didn't mean it how it sounded… I mean, it's a huge black mark—it has to be. It's definitely not cute. He was just being a smart ass. I sighed and shook my head.
"So how did you get roped into this?"
For want of something to do, I decided to shade the letter in. "I volunteered."
He snorted. "Why?"
"Because I'm a nice person."
A beat passed before I couldn't keep it together, my resolve cracking as I barked out a laugh. Stiles echoed me and I elbowed him without turning around. He gasped and I turned around.
"What?" I looked him over, but it didn't seem like I'd hurt him or anything. I tried to take a look at his poster but he blocked my vision.
"Uh—so—what really made you do this?"
"Well, I met this girl name Brooke St. James and she seemed like she could use some help, so I thought I'd make some posters for her."
He made a sound of understanding and then paused. "H-How important was the O?"
I whipped around and pushed him to the side. One of the sides had a huge, jagged line jutting out from it. "Stiles!"
"It wasn't my fault!" He quickly defended, nudging me. "You elbowed my arm!"
I sighed through my nose and pouted at the letter. "Well… We can just turn it over."
Moving around the letters, I plopped down across from him and flipped the white poster over. Stiles opened his marker and I pointed up at him. "Don't. Touch anything."
He put his hands up and sat back, watching as I started to sketch out a large oval. "Hey—have you…" He broke off, sounding conflicted. I glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow, not pressing him, but letting the silence encourage him to ask his question. "I mean, you seem okay."
I frowned down at the letter without looking up. "Do I?"
He nodded. "It's just… doesn't it bother you? Everything that happened at the station?"
I sighed and paused from my work to give him my undivided attention. "Yes."
He blinked at me. "You hide it unbelievably well, if that's true."
The corner of my mouth pulled into half a frown. "That's my specialty." I narrowed my eyes and looked his face over, really paying attention. His mouth was twisted downward at the corner, his shoulders and neck permanently tensed. I sat back and cleared my face. "You're upset."
He blinked and shook his head. "No, not—exactly. I'm not upset, I'm…." He sighed. "I'm fine."
I frowned at him. "You don't have to do that." Stiles watched me, deliberately still. "Not with me. I'm the queen of angst," I said with a bitter smirk, and his lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "And I don't blame you if that whole experience threw you off."
Stiles huffed and put the marker down on the carpet, bringing his fingers up to absently chew at his nails. My eyebrows rose, almost imperceptibly. That's new. "He shot you."
I snorted in surprise, studying his anxious face before I reached down to tug the hem of his basketball shorts up. "See? I'm fine." I tilted my head at him. "What about you?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm fine."
I rolled my eyes. "Shut up."
He snorted in surprise and the clock chimed behind us, snapping the flow of the conversation. It seemed to snip some imaginary thread that formed between us, and Stiles sat back and shook his head. "Let's talk about something else."
I sighed, and even though I wanted to push it, I brought my feet towards me and crossed my legs over each other. "If you want to."
Stiles stretched back and spread his arms over the couch. "Tell me something I don't know about you."
I narrowed an eye at him and tilted my head. "You know me."
Stiles scoffed, unimpressed, his head leaning back on the couch as he said, "Everyone who knows you, knows that they don't really know you."
I blinked at that. Is that what he thinks? That he doesn't know me? But how could I blame him? He really doesn't know anything about my past. But my past… it's not something I can just tell. It's not something that I can explain in a simple sentence, or paragraph.
But he's asking. And that's more than anyone has ever done before. I took a breath and swallowed tightly, running my fingers over the carpet. "What do you want to know?"
Stiles hummed thoughtfully before raising his head back up to look at me. He looked over my face and I could tell he was fighting back a smirk when he looked at my nose where the black mark was. "Who's your favorite actor?"
I blinked again. "Uh… Robin Williams."
"Movie?" He asked, shifting so that his arm was propping his head up against the couch.
I sighed. So this is gonna be one of those conversations. "Dead Poet's Society."
"Favorite quote from that movie."
"Seize the day. Because, believe it or not, each and every one of us in this room is one day going to stop breathing, turn cold and die."
I don't think he expected me to have an exact quote memorized, because his face wore a shocked and slightly amused expression. Eventually, he said, "How nice."
I laughed and mirrored his position against the couch, drawing my knee up to grab it. "Your turn."
He nodded at me. "Go."
"Favorite time of year."
"Summer."
"Favorite month."
"July."
"Favorite time of day."
"Night. Your turn." He crossed his arms. "Favorite article of clothing."
I scrunched my face in amusement, but answered anyways. "Jean jackets."
"Not leather?" He asked, his eyebrows rose.
I pursed my lips into a frown and shook my head.
He nodded thoughtfully and looked away. "Favorite smell."
I paused. "Crayons and laundry detergent."
Stiles scrunched his face. "The combination?"
Smiling secretively, I shook my head. "Separately."
"Body part."
"Hands. Your turn," I stretched my legs out and drew in a contemplative breath. "Favorite childhood toy."
"Walkie-talkie."
"Could've guessed," I smirked, and he gestured for me to ask another. "Favorite pet peeve."
"That's an oxymoron," He noted, as if that should change my question. I stared at him and he sighed. "When people click their pens and won't stop. It drives me crazy."
I suddenly wished I had a pen nearby, but there were only markers. His eyes flew down to the marker in my hand knowingly and I smirked and breathed out a laugh as he slowly grinned, shaking his head.
"You know you hold your markers like a cigarette?"
I looked down at the way the marker was stuck between my pointer and middle finger, my thumb balancing the end. I flicked it with my thumb and shrugged. "Habit."
And we spent the rest of the night like that, for as long as we dared. Trading stories. Trying to outdo each other with quotes, pointing out each other's strange little quirks and sharing our favorite things in life. I think Stiles was just trying to distract himself from whatever had been weighing on him the past few days, but I found that it was something I was sorry to see end.
For some reason, I was sad after he went to bed. It felt like… for the first time in my life, I knew what it was to care for someone more than they cared for you. And it hurts. So I wrote in my journal until I heard the sheriff's car pull into the drive, not even needing to turn out a light because my enhanced vision had allowed me to write in the dark. Checking to make sure the blankets covered my leg, I lie on the couch and stared at the walls until morning.
