The theater was as large as the one back in Goodwater, if not larger. Red curtains hung on the walls instead of paper or paint. This muffled the audience and kept the rooms from devolving into an indiscernible cacophony of gibberish. Stiles ran his hand over one of the curtain drapings and almost smiled. He used to love the theater… or theatrics in general. After all, his father hadn't had to apologize constantly about him for no reason. Stiles had been quite a dramatic child.
The McCalls had been in the building for less than five minutes when a man approached Scott and eagerly held out his hand in greeting. Scott took it without hesitation, and they shook.
"Baron Posey! It is such a pleasure to have you in attendance this evening. It's been too long," the man said. Stiles thought he put too much energy into his delivery. The greeting would have been warmer and come across as more genuine if the man had delivered it a bit softer and slower.
"Not that long, Mr. Whittemore. I was here last month." Scott pulled his hand away as respectfully as he could considering the man didn't seem to want to let him go.
"Too long. I thought you'd given up on my theater."
"Not at all. I just had a friend in the hospital, and their wellbeing took most of my attention," Scott explained. It was kind of endearing to hear Scott call him a friend in public, especially when referring to a time before they'd even been properly introduced.
"Ah. Of course." Mr. Whittemore finally took notice of Stiles. His well-practiced smile faltered slightly, but he picked it back up as he returned his attention to Scott. "And this young man with you is…?"
"The friend," Scott said, motioning to Stiles. For the first time since his near-death experience, Stiles was standing without supports. He'd rested his leg as much as possible so that he would be able to walk without the crutches for the evening's event. Nothing would have been more humiliating than hobbling about through the crowd, trying to keep up with Scott and his throngs of admirers. He probably didn't look like someone who'd recently been in the hospital.
Mr. Whittmore extended his over-eager hand to Stiles, though with less intensity than he'd thrust it at Scott. "A pleasure, I'm sure. Mr….?"
The knee-jerk reaction to say his pseudonym caught in Stiles' throat. Something about being out and about with the McCalls made him doubt his own introduction. Would going by a nickname be disrespectful to his hosts? Would not giving a surname embarrass them by association? He didn't want to bring shame of any kind to the McCalls, not after all they'd done for him in the last several weeks.
"Stilinski," he said, and hoped his voice didn't falter on the name as much as it felt like it had. His heart hammered in his chest. It had been so long since… He hoped this man had never heard the rumors and didn't know Stiles' history. He hoped-
"Ah, yes. Good to meet you," Mr. Whittemore said, dropping his hand. It was only then that Stiles realized he'd never accepted the handshake, too caught up in how to introduce himself to notice.
Scott, ever the social savior, cleared his throat to distract the situation. "The show will begin soon," he said. "You should return to your family, Mr. Whittemore, or your son will dislike me even more than normal."
"I'm sure he doesn't," Mr. Whittemore assured, but he said it in such a way that showed very clearly that he knew exactly how his son felt about the Baron. "We all appreciate your patronage." And, using that as an exit statement, Mr. Whittemore bowed to Scott and then hurried off into the dissipating crowd.
Once he was gone, other people took the chance to come and speak with Scott. Most people just bowed and gave a quick thank you to him, while some stopped to make specific requests or give specific compliments. All the talking meant that they arrived at their private box much later than planned, and the show was only a minute away from starting when they took their seats.
"Why does Mr. Whittemore's son not like you?" Stiles asked as they got settled. Everyone in Posey seemed to love Scott, so why did this one man not?
Smiling awkwardly, Scott said, "Ah. I, um. I bested him in the yearly fitness course."
Lady McCall beamed. "Every year, the county fair has an obstacle course for young men and women to show off their fitness levels. Most gain muscle by working labor jobs. Scott gains his working with animals. Young Mr. Jackson Whittemore works out specifically for such events. But despite his efforts, Scott beat him at every turn. They even raced the course, and Scott finished first… three years in a row. Jackson has never forgiven him, and I'm a huge supporter of the rivalry."
Scott groaned. "Mom, it's not a rivalry. I'm not trying to spur him on. I'm just competing for fun."
"I know that. But I still enjoy seeing that boy get so worked up." Lady McCall laughed lightly, but then the lights were snuffed and a hush fell over the theater.
The play began with a flourish and a bang, and it never really slowed down. Stiles hadn't seen such a humorous, action filled performance before, and he found himself glued to the edge of his seat. He and Scott nudged each other several times, but neither looked away from the stage for more than a second to smile at the other.
When the intermission hit, a flood of people rushed for the restrooms, desperate to return to their seats afterward so the play could continue. Stiles and Scott didn't need to pee, so they sat and finally discussed the theatrical in detail. The stellar acting, the great pacing, the realism of the fight sequences – all aspects were up for praise.
Stiles had almost forgotten just how much he loved going to the theater.
A knock sounded on the door to Scott's private box. He beckoned the intruder in and found an usher before him.
"Can I help you?" Scott asked, curious.
"The patron in the top box has requested the presence of your guest, your lordship." The usher bowed low.
Stiles and Scott exchanged a look of confusion. Top box? The only box considered above Scott's was reserved for- They both quickly leaned over the rail of the box and looked across the theater to the best seat in the house. The so named Top Box was reserved for royalty, even if you never expected royalty to appear. Yet there was someone sitting there.
"Should I decline the request, Sirs?" the usher asked after an awkward amount of time had passed.
"What? No. Of course not. Please." Scott motioned for Stiles to follow the man. "Hurry back. I want to know everything."
Stiles would have been the same in Scott's shoes, so he agreed to hurry and then followed the usher out. What member of royalty had descended to a Baron's lands just for a theatrical? Surely the same play could be performed elsewhere, in a busier city with a more diverse populous. Why come to Posey?
Through the crowds of people and around the theater they walked until they came to the door for the top box. The usher knocked, and a voice inside said 'Enter.' The usher cracked the door open but merely held it for Stiles alone to walk through.
Inside were three people – and Stiles gaped when he realized that he knew all of them. Officer Parrish stood on the side and smiled when he saw Stiles.
"It's a pleasure to see you again, Sir," Parrish said, extending his hand.
"Oh!" Stiles stumbled forward to accept the shake. "You as well, Officer Parrish. But uh- not a Sir."
Parrish looked confused but agreed all the same. Across from him, also standing, was the sharp eyed woman from the forest who'd smirked at him. He didn't know her name, but she looked angrier than last time. Sitting between them, in the chair facing the stage, was none other than the Duchess of Roden herself. She too smiled when she saw him. She beckoned for him to take the seat beside her, which of course he did without question.
"Mr. Stiles," the duchess greeted.
"My lady. You remembered my name." And Stiles had thought her so rude on their first meeting.
"Well it is an interesting name," she said, and he got the feeling he was being teased. The duchess motioned to the woman. "Actually, my huntress remembered you better than me. She's the one who noticed you in Baron Posey's box. You remember my huntress, don't you? Lady Cora Hale."
Stiles stood again to bow his head at Lady H-… Lady Hale?
"Lady… Hale?" he asked out loud, raising his eyes to the short woman.
Her dark eyes were green, and her nose was small but distinct. Looking at her now, Stiles realized she looked intensely familiar. His stomach felt hollow in the wake of it. She grimaced.
"That's right. I'd heard about the Argent scribe from my brother back when we met in the forest. At the time I thought you were interesting. Now I'm not sure if I want to slap you or throw you over the railing." Lady Cora certainly looked murderous, and Stiles took a step back from her in shock.
The duchess laughed sourly. "Come now, Cora. I can't exactly be seen condoning murder." She lowered her voice. "If you must kill him, do it outside."
"Excuse me?" Stiles asked, incredulous. "What have I done to deserve being murdered, exactly?"
Lady Cora actually growled, and it was scary how much she sounded like her brother when she made such an animal sound. "Well for starters, everyone already thinks you're dead – including my brother." She stepped up and shoved him, but not hard enough to send him over the rails. "Explain yourself."
He was pretty sure the only reason she wasn't shouting was the crowded auditorium below.
"I- I didn't die," Stiles pointed out obviously. He frowned hard. "I almost died."
"Wow! What an explanation!" Cora laughed mirthlessly. "My brother got news of your lifeless body being removed from the Argent Estate – and some ruthless servant sent him a gruesome status update about the amount of blood you left all over the floor. If you knew the amount of time he spent burying himself in reports and beating himself up over – I swear I should just kill you for real."
Officer Parrish stepped in then, pushing her back a step to create some space between them.
Stiles frowned. "Like I'd ever believe that," he said with a grunt.
"Excuse me?" Cora growled again.
"I said I don't believe you." Stiles fixed the suit jacket she'd sent off kilter with her shove. "I've mailed your brother eight letters since I regained my faculties. If he says he didn't know I was alive and well, then he's lying to you as well as he did to me."
"My brother doesn't lie."
"Well he lied to me," Stiles snapped, and the ferocity of it seemed to finally surprise Lady Cora. She pressed her lips together and leaned away from him. "He promised he'd come back to see me. I asked him every other day to come visit the McCall Manor, and he ignored me. He said-" Stiles took a deep, slow breath to calm himself. "You tell your brother that I don't want him to come see me anymore. He has injured my pride and feelings with his willful ignorance. If he didn't want to see me before, then I don't want to see him now."
Cora didn't appear to have any good response to that. She opened her mouth a few times, but no words made it out. The Duchess of Roden was frowning now as well and she crossed her arms.
"Well this doesn't make any sense at all," she said.
Stiles bowed to her. "My apologies for the rudeness," he said. Around them, the light began to dim again. "Please excuse me. The intermission is over." And he left before she could order him to stay.
The hall was deserted save for two ushers still hurrying around, but they were far enough away. Stiles stopped halfway back to Scott's box and took several deep breaths. His hands were shaking and his heart was racing. He wasn't used to confrontations he could walk away from.
Just as he felt calmed down enough from the argument to continue walking, an usher came rushing out of a hall in front of him and almost ran into him.
"Oh! I apologize, Sir," the man said, bowing slightly and then hurrying on his way.
Stiles frowned. Everyone kept calling him 'sir' tonight. He wasn't a 'sir'. He was-
He ran his hands down the front of his suit. It was the clothing. It was the hair. He looked like he had money again, like he was noteworthy. But he wasn't a noble. He had no title. He couldn't even be called a gentleman, as he had no money of his own.
No wonder Lord Derek Hale ignored him.
Suddenly, Stiles felt like a fraud. He made his way slowly back toward Scott's box, the sounds of the play echoing out into the hall. He wanted to go back to before the intermission, back to when he felt like he belonged at Scott's side, back to being lost in the invigorating storytelling of the theater crew.
What if- What if Derek really had thought he'd died? What if that was why he hadn't come to visit? Except Stiles had sent him letters – eight of them! How could he claim to be in the dark?
His chest felt too tight. His vision narrowed, and he wasn't sure what he was looking at anymore.
"Der-," he wheezed and fell against the wall.
The door in front of him swung open and hit him in the side. The wood collided with his leg and Stiles hit the floor with a shout of pain. His injured leg screamed back, though no one could hear it. Well that was one way out of a panic attack, but Stiles wasn't sure which situation was better. Now he was stuck on the floor, cradling his throbbing leg and hissing.
Scott, the one who'd hit him with the door, did what any good friend would do in his position. He panicked and called for an usher. His mother joined them in the hall, calming her son, and then helped lift Stiles into Scott's arms. Together they carried Stiles out to their waiting carriage and rushed him through the night toward the hospital. They had to make sure his leg fracture hadn't flared up or broken again.
"Sorry," Stiles mumbled, his head on Scott's chest.
"For what? I'm the one who hit you."
"You missed the end of the play." It had been a really good play too.
Scott shook his head. "It'll be performed a few more times. We can catch the rest tomorrow night."
But they didn't go back the next night, nor the night after that. The play ran its course, and the McCall family did not return to watch the ending. It was Stiles' fault, because Dr. Deaton had put him on strict bed rest for two days to let the new swelling go down. But Scott didn't bat an eye. He didn't blame Stiles at all.
Really, what had Stiles done to deserve such a friend?