"Hey, kid—what are you doing here?"
Stiles looks up from his phone and does a double take. Standing over his hunched position on the sidewalk is a beautiful woman—the likes of which rivals Lydia Martin in terms of both silkiness of hair and quality of resting bitchface.
It's magnificent.
But, if experience has taught him anything, that look is not only directed at him, but also caused by him.
"Sorry, is this your stoop or something?" he asks the Amazon in the leather jacket.
Still so hot.
Still so unattainable.
She wrinkles her nose at him. "Huh?"
Stiles snorts. "I asked: is this your personal piece of garbage-strewn earth—your private property? Is this," he gestures wildly at the rough asphalt under his ass and the cold concrete steps at his back, "why you're bothering me? Because I'm somehow trespassing—on a public sidewalk?"
After a few moments, the light bulb goes off. He can see the exact moment when his sarcastic assholery finally registers.
Her face transforms from its resting scowl into nothing.
And then to the most wicked of grins.
"Nah, you weren't bothering me with your sad vagrant schtick." She glances at the broken bottles a few feet to his left and the single shoe—why is it always just one?—to his right. "I was just wondering why a teenager is sitting by the steps of an abandoned building on the bad side of town? You know—all alone, at night…" she pauses for emphasis, "…on Valentine's Day." She looks him up and down. "I'm not even going to comment on the stupid tuxedo t-shirt," she gasps, high-pitched and breathy, and snaps her fingers. "Damn, guess I brought it up anyway." She looks over at his jeep, whose hood is still smoking, cringes, and then looks back at him. "Oh."
Awkward silence ensues.
"I take it that's yours?"
Stiles shoves his phone in his jacket pocket and runs a frustrated hand through his hair. He looks pointedly down each empty end of the street, catching the lady's gaze and letting their silent surroundings speak for him.
"Right," she bobs her head. Scuffing a boot against the ground, the woman continues to stare at him. Stiles huffs uncomfortably and stands up, walking robotically to his jeep because his fucking leg fell asleep.
Ugh.
"Right," she repeats. "Hey, do you know where Beacon Hills Hospital is?" Wonder Woman looks away from him and stares strangely into the distance. "I haven't been here in a while, and, well—I've never actually been there before."
She looks guilty as she says it. And sad. So fucking sad.
Stiles gives her a strange look and then answers: "Yeah. It's on the southern edge of town off Riverwood Road. It's about five miles down this street, a left, and then a right."
"Thanks." And then she turns on her heel and walks away.
Stiles stares after her for a beat and then leans against the passenger door of his jeep. He starts to softly bang his head against the window.
He's just so glad that that weird stranger loves walking miles in the dark—so glad—but Stiles is still stranded.
Ugh.
"Hey!"
Stiles flails, knocking his head not-so-softly into the passenger door's window, before spinning around to face his new nemesis.
"What now?" he whines while rubbing at the bump forming on his forehead.
"You like milkshakes?"
He looks Weird Wonder Woman up and down. Squinting, he says, "Y'know, that has a decidedly 'Hey youth! Would you like some of my van-candy?' vibe."
She gestures to the empty street beside her and pouts. "Sadly, I don't have a van." She wags a finger at him. "But, just so you know, if I did have one—it'd be the best van. It would have black out curtains and a million rolls of duct tape." She sighs dreamily.
Stiles' lips twitch.
His assholery has met its match.
"Milkshakes, you say?"
Beaming, the lady nods. "I know there's a diner up the road a little. I'll even refrain from saying anything else about your shirt." She snaps obnoxiously. "Man, did it again!"
Stiles drums his fingers against his thigh and takes his phone out.
No calls or texts from Scott or his dad.
"Can I take a picture of you and send it to my father—my father, you see, who happens to be the sheriff of this county?" he asks.
"Smart," she smiles strangely. "You never know with some people." The Amazon strikes a dramatic pose, hip thrust out and lips puckered. "Go ahead."
He snaps a few photos and then follows the girl as she begins to walk down the street. Stiles rounds the corner as he's attaching a picture to a lengthy text describing the Twilight Zone situation he's found himself in. He looks up as he stumbles into Weird Wonder Woman's back. She looks over her shoulder at him and smirks. Walking around the length of a shiny black Camaro, she says, "I don't have a van, but will this make do?"
He grins and opens the passenger door. Stiles reaches a long arm across the top of the car. "I'm Stiles, by the way. Stiles Stilinski."
"Laura," she shakes his hand, her grip firm. "Laura Hale. Be sure to include it in that distress signal you're compiling."
Stiles chuckles softly and then presses Send.
"So, seriously, what were you doing out there tonight?" Laura dips a fry—not curly, the heathen—in her banana shake. "Isn't there some sort of school dance you should be trying to spike the punch at?"
Stiles' smile dims as he flags down their waitress Amanda for some mustard. "There is," he shoves a handful of crispy goodness—curly, because he's worth it—and chews, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. "The person I wanted to ask is popular and has a douche for a boyfriend—and incidentally, she also has a best friend who's dating my best friend." He thanks Amanda when she passes him the mustard bottle. Stiles aggressively squirts some on his burger. "They all went together in a group." He glances back up at his dinner companion. Stiles takes a bite of his burger. "It's a tradition steeped in tribalism and hair gel."
Laura looks at him thoughtfully and then reaches across the booth, rubbing a hand over his fuzzy scalp. "And you don't really do hair gel, huh?"
Stiles shakes his head. "Not really."
She takes a bite of her own sandwich. Speaking through a mouthful of turkey and bacon, Laura continues, "And then you were driving around, sad and alone while wearing an ironic t-shirt, when your car decides to catch fire?"
"That is some of the finest nut-shelling I've ever heard." Stiles takes a drink of his chocolate shake. Laura throws a fry at his face.
"Couldn't get ahold of anyone?"
"Nah," Stiles shakes his head. "Dad's busy working and Scott's busy trying to get into Allison's pants—not that I really blame him for that." He laughs softly. "My next call was to AAA, and then you showed up in all of your," he gestures at her face, "intimidating glory. And the rest, as you know, is history."
Laura gives him a hearty round of applause, clapping theatrically. "Stiles, that's some depressing shit right there. Truly, your life is a hellscape."
He throws a pickle spear at her.
She laughs. "Don't worry about not getting a date. High school is all about failing at stuff."
Stiles shrugs. "You're right. But it's hard to think about it as a learning experience while you're still in the whole learning phase."
Laura stares at him for a moment, and then lifts her frosty glass. "To learning, then."
Stiles clinks his own glass against hers. "To milkshakes. Even the banana ones."
She gasps in outrage. "What do you mean even the banana ones?"
"They're disgusting."
"Take that back!"
Stiles sticks his tongue out. "No."
"Yes!"
"No."
"Yes!"
"No times infinity." He sits back in his seat confidently.
Laura looks startled for a moment and then starts laughing. She laughs until tears form in the corners of her eyes. "That…was—so, so stupid! Me, you—" she gasps out. "Thank you, Stiles, for a wonderful Valentine's Day." She wipes her eyes, sobering a little. "I didn't think anything in this town still had the ability to make me laugh." Laura's laughter dies down. "Guess I was wrong."
Stiles squirms in his seat, recognizing that strange look on her face from when she had asked for directions. "Why are you here? You said you came back—are you from here? I mean, not that it's any of my business, but you seem like you need help, or maybe just someone to talk to," he waves his hand at himself, "that someone could be me, y'know, if you wanted."
Laura's open expression shutters, but quickly turns pensive.
"You said your dad was the Sheriff?"
He nods. "Yep."
"Hmmmm, Deputy Stilinski. I think I remember him."
Stiles leans forward. "You knew my dad when he was a deputy?"
Laura rests her elbows on the table, too. "He was nice."
And then it hits Stiles like a truck.
"Hale," he whispers.
"Hale," she confirms, voice low.
"And you're back in town for…?" Stiles trails off, knowing exactly what she's about to say. His heart starts to pound.
"For family," Laura nods decisively, a determined light gleaming in her eyes. "I'm here to figure out who burned my family alive."