Disclaimer: I do not own or profit off of Teen Wolf and so on.
Happy First of April!
I called my father on the way home- Scott was driving- and he told me he was still at the McCalls' place and hung up. Yay, dual intervention time. It seemed lately that all my interactions with my father were about Scott. Honestly, though. We had bigger things to deal with, and so did he. You'd think they could just let us make our own mistakes. Not that we were a mistake, or anything, but the point was… We could handle this whatever-it-was between us. Sure, our parents were just being parents. They thought they knew better than we did how we felt and blah, blah, blah. They wanted to protect us from ourselves and all that. My issues in the past were not okay ammunition for that battle, though. It was hard to be confident in my own choices if my own father kept second guessing my motivations.
"You're ranting in your head again," Scott informed me, tapping the steering wheel as he drove, "It's getting sort of silently tense in here."
"You're ranting in your head, too," I accused, and Scott shrugged off the claim.
"Not as loudly," he paused, changing lanes and evidently subjects as he continued, "I'm so grounded forever." Catching a glimpse of my expression, he elaborated, "I told the Sheriff to shut up in front of my mother. Loudly, and angrily."
"Well, as long as their jobs remain the needy mistresses that they are, we should still be able to keep your next moon under control without notice." After all, they hadn't noticed our nighttime excursions or Scott's multiple serious injuries (though those did tend to heal rather quickly) in the past two months, so I somehow doubted they'd be able to enforce a grounding.
"We need some sort of code for that," Scott replied, not even registering the disconnect between my statement and his response. "Talking about moons and my furry issues seems like a real give away with the Argents on alert."
True enough, but, "Teddy time isn't enough of a code name for you?"
Scott groaned.
"We can say they're panic attacks," I mused further, ignoring Scott's horrified expression, "Every time you need me, you can just text that you're panicking, and I'll be all, 'Oh, the boyfriend's crying into a pillow about the meaning of life, again' and pop off." Warming to the idea, I bounced a little in my seat, "Yeah, and different types of panic attacks can mean different things. Like the Argents' last name means silver, so you can have a panic attack about money if it's Hunter related, and oh- you can freak about your daddy issues if it's about Hale, and if it's some unknown threat-"
"Stiles, I don't want people to think I'm having chronic panic attacks," Scott cut in with a distinct nasal whine, "Why can't it just be like, a practice session for lacrosse or something?"
"'Cause it doesn't make sense for me to drop everything at any time of day for lacrosse practice?" I suggested, and Scott looked a little put out that I had a good answer prepared. "It doesn't have to be panic attacks, though, if that hurts your fragile ego."
"I can't think of anything better," Scott admitted, sounding pained, "I just don't like it."
To preserve what was left of his dignity, I refrained from mentioning that the beauty of the excuse was that it was so believable. The thought echoed back to me in a different light and my excitability over the fun of making up a code drained away. When had I started calculating the plausibility of something before I said it? It felt like a long time since I'd last said anything without having to think about what I could be giving away. "We're lying to a lot of people."
For his part, Scott quieted at the shift and gave one short nod, "Yes, we are."
"Now I feel bad for spies," I complained and Scott took a hand from the steering wheel to grip mine with only an internal roll of his eyes. Maybe if our parents knew everything, they'd have accepted us a little more easily. I mean, out Scott as a werewolf with Hunters on his tail and a creepy mind-bond to some homicidal Alpha and suddenly us dating seems like a minor detail. Dad might have understood why we were holding so tightly to each other if he had all the pieces. They probably didn't understand why this would pop up now when we had all the pressures and craziness hidden away where they couldn't touch our families. It was, after all, difficult to go make new friends when you couldn't trust that anyone was what they seemed, anymore.
"Well, we aren't lying to each other," Scott comforted when I remained silent.
"Um, actually," his head whipped towards me for a second before he remembered he was driving.
"Wha- Stiles?"
"I broke your lunch box in fourth grade," I admitted, "So… There we go. No more lies. I'm sorry."
"You- What lunchbox?" Scott shook his head, "Geez, don't do that to me. I thought it was something serious."
"I'm glad you don't remember, then. You loved that thing." It had been a metal container with the Force Rangers on the side, and I'd stepped on it in a fit of pique, fearing for my life directly, even before the anger wore off.
"In fourth grade…" Scott mused, and his eyebrows rose, "Wait, was this the Force Rangers lunch box that got dented?" I turned and looked out the window innocently. "Stiles! That was my favorite! You said you didn't know anything about it!"
"Well, if you hadn't kept taking Andy's side at recess, it would still be your favorite today."
"But he was right!"
"Lies and slander!"
We worked out a peace treaty before pulling into Scott's driveway in the interests of presenting a united front.
"My favorite lunch box…"
Well, mostly, but he was still clutching my hand even as he complained, so I figured it didn't count as shots fired.
They were waiting almost where we'd left them, sitting in an eerie silence at the kitchen table. A turn in just-as-creepy unison to look at us when we walked in the room, and Dad began, "Now, we've come to a decision that we think is fair, and I want you to take it seriously. There is no compromise on this; you're doing it no matter what excuses you come up with."
"We want to give you two a sort of probation," Ms. McCall continued firmly. "For the next two months, we've scheduled biweekly sessions with your school counselor, one apart, and one together. If she thinks your relationship is healthy, and that you aren't neglecting other aspects of your life, we won't fight you on this development, anymore, but boys…" She gave each of us a weighing look, "If she says you two are codependent or worse, we will take corrective action."
Well, then. I wasn't entirely sure how fantastic Scott's psyche would seem around the full moons, but maybe we could pass it off as some sort of circadian rhythm thing? Hopefully, it wouldn't be that particular secret that screwed us. I would have to do some research on what the counselor might expect to find in an unhealthy relationship to make sure we covered anything that might seem odd just due to Scott's monthlies. …And maybe we should try, at least, expanding our social circle of acquaintances. Though, where we'd find the time for that…
My mind was racing with cover stories and explanations, and some part of me worried that maybe we would need them even without Scott's secret in our lives.
"Alright, we can do that," Scott said, actually losing some of his accumulated tension, "It's probably a good idea, anyway, since I keep having these weird sort of adrenaline spikes lately. Maybe she can help with that."
Ah, right. Looks like Scott had decided to not-so-subtly drop the newest lie in our parents' laps. Ms. McCall looked a little concerned and gently grilled him on his imaginary symptoms, humming thoughtfully, "Sounds like you're dealing with some anxiety, sweetie. Ms. Morrell can take some time to talk to you about that in your individual sessions. I'll give her a call." Thankfully, Scott had experienced a panic attack before, since I hadn't had time to prep him for that sort of questioning. Ms. McCall didn't seem suspicious of the symptoms he listed at all.