A huge thank you to Atomicity, RedRoses5, Exuberance of Youth, MessintheMirror, TameTheGhosts, deletedaccount12345567, Aoibhinn, Guest, GorditaBossinova, TheMMMG, becca1130, winchesterxgirl, rimms, LifeIsARayOfSunshine, jewishpines, Ash B Bramble, TWsos12345, Shes-The-Proto-Type, X23 Maximoff, ziggystardust1994, whorunstheworldnerds, pennamethathasn'tbeentaken, chibi-Clar, TheNeverEndingOne, Erraa, agent-jawa, RedVelvetPanPan, monkeybaby, RoniMikaelson, OneWhoReadsTooMuch, zvc56, bbymojo, ThePreviews, Lizverse, Wonderful world, Guest, Bethypie1998, Guest, and AFANFAN for reviewing!

And as always a huge thank you to the magnificent BrittWitt16!

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.

Hey guys, sorry this one has taken so long. It's been….a time. Couldn't really write during holidays. I had to scramble to find a new apartment. Had a close friend land in the hospital for 2+ weeks. Twice. Friend had major surgery, then recovery-I spent a ton of time there. Then my car was broken into and the window smashed in. Plus work has me going to shows till like midnight sometimes. Excuses, excuses, I know. Blah. Sorry.

I hate to come back from such a long hiatus with a filler-ish chapter, but upon reviewal I discovered that Teen Wolf had absolutely ZERO screen time dedicated to the emotional fallout of Lunatic! They just hard cut to the next episode and literally none of it was acknowledged! So….*dude putting duct tape over massive fracture in wall gif* It's a lot of talking and a lot of hashing out of feelings...or avoiding feelings. I hope it's still enjoyable!

In other news given the glorious chaos of Robert Sheehan in The Umbrella Academy...I'm probably gonna end up editing my Misfits fic (including editing the existing edits) because my writing back then makes me cringe but I love Izzy and have codependency issues with fictional characters and also no self-control, so….. Anywho, here we go!

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Chapter 29 - Resonance

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In Charlie's opinion, there existed few things better in the world than a good bed. Come morning it could mean the difference between a casual hatred of the sun or the desire to set the world ablaze so the resultant ash cloud might block out said sun for a few more moments of sweet, sweet darkness. Now, Charlie did not own this mattress. Most mornings the beeping of her alarm clock came with sudden onset pyromania. The bed in question belonged to one Katie Harding, the single bright spot during a disastrous third grade sleepover. Tempurpedic. Not too soft, not too firm. Sheer perfection. But with the previous night's exhaustion, Charlie sank into her weathered and squeaky bedsprings like they were memory foam.

Unfortunately for her, even the cozy bliss of Katie Harding's warm, plush bed couldn't inoculate her sleep against outside interference.

The first time Charlie's phone rang, she didn't look at the time. The only interruptions to the swath of black across the sky were pinprick stars and the dim halo surrounding a street lamp at the nearest intersection. Far too early to even bother checking. She silenced it before three notes escaped the speaker and dove back beneath the covers. She repeated the process as it rang a second time. At its insistent third ring, she chucked her phone across the room. This ultimately proved counterproductive as it chimed a fourth time over. Now out of her immediate grasp, it managed to play through all the opening notes to "Don't You Want Me Baby".

Teeth gritted in frustration, Charlie threw the covers back. Despite having blindly hurled it into the abyss, her phone was easy to locate. Its flashing screen provided the only light in the room. She stumbled around text book stacks, laundry piles, and rogue shoes in her poor navigation to the illuminated photo of Donald's grin. Naturally it had slid under her desk. She shimmied beneath it in pursuit, and what did she find upon arrival? The time in the top right corner reading 5:16 a.m. "What the f—"

Indignation straightened her spine. Which, of course, was immediately followed by a resounding crack as her skull met the top of her desk. Frankly, at this point she didn't have it in her to care. Her head already throbbed from lack of sleep, why not add blunt force trauma to the mix? Grumbling internally, she crawled from below her desk and flopped backwards. Her head landed on an errant laundry pile. Not quite a pillow, but welcome nonetheless given current circumstances. "Bitch, it is five in the fucking morning!" she cursed into the receiver. "Do you want to die? Are you actively seeking death? Because I can arrange that."

"Good morning, beautiful!" Donald announced. His voice rang with all the wakefulness of the fabled 'morning person'. Which only increased her desire to asphyxiate him. "How are you feeling?"

"Murderous is how I'm feeling. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

The words pushed between her teeth in a feral hiss. When sleep deprived and/or uncaffeinated, Charlie's natural sarcasm tiptoed closer to the line of outright hostility. She was currently pirouetting along that line, but Donald remained either ignorant or impervious to the acid bubbling in her tone. His voice bubbled with something much more cheerful. Champagne or jacuzzi jets or...well...bubbles. "Yeah, I'm fully aware of what time it is," he chirped. "I ignored it."

Between exhaustion, frustration, and the bump rapidly forming at the base of her parietal lobe, Charlie couldn't pinpoint the origin of her head's persistent ache. Regardless of its cause, possible balms included silence and a mug of herbal tea. A pre-dawn tete-a-tete with Donald, on the other hand, could prod it in the direction of a full-blown cluster migraine. "I'm hanging up on you."

"I'll just call back," he shrugged.

"I'll turn my cell off."

"Then you'll miss class. You're not functional enough to have an actual alarm clock."

"No," Charlie crowed in exhausted triumph. "But Mel is. Bed, Bath, & Beyond, bitch."

"That's a lot of alliteration from someone who claims to be sleep deprived," he retorted. "Anyways, Mel's also functional enough to have a home phone. I'll call that. Over. And over. And over."

Charlie's eyes narrowed, squinting unseeingly into the dark. She considered calling his bluff, but Donald didn't bluff absurdities. He'd do it. Without question, he'd do it. "Damn you to hell."

She could hear his smirk in every subsequent syllable. "I saw you audition for Cats in sixth grade. I've already been there."

"Those auditions were mandatory!" Charlie protested, a little wounded in spite of herself.

"Was you sucking mandatory too?"

Following a cornucopia of profanities, Charlie resigned herself to consciousness. She grappled with her comforter, using it to haul herself up to a painfully mediocre mattress, and switched on her bedside lamp. Its light battled the strengthening glow from beyond her window, casting the room in a haze of yellow and grey. Even that faint glimmer stabbed at her eyes, and the buzz of the bulb's filament intruded on her ears at a time the world should be wholly silent. Exhaustion scratched her nerves raw. Her skin prickled with sensory overload. Snatching last night's sweater from the foot of her bed, she chucked it over the shade. It blotted out just enough light and muffled the insect-like whine—not comfortable but bearable. As she shifted the bedsprings squeaked at the movement, mocking her for being upright. "Okay, why are you calling me?" she growled. "This had better be good."

"Oh, no," he replied, chest puffed and haughty. "You don't get to have that high and mighty tone. That's my tone. I get exclusive usage rights for that tone in this conversation."

Charlie opened her mouth to argue, but a hoarse voice, dry, gauze-wrapped tongue, and the sticky saliva collecting at the corners of her mouth were enough to reconsider. Nobody should engage in formal debate within ten minutes of drooling into a pillow.

"Please don't be clever with me right now, dude. I'm not awake enough for verbal repartee." Ugh. Why did her breath smell like stadium pretzels when she had ice cream for dinner? No—some questions were better left unanswered. "Okay, can you at least tell me why you had to wake me up at five in the morning?"

"I can tell you in three words." He made officious use of the 'high and mighty' tone, the tilted chin and pretentiously lifted brow audible. And he threw in a dramatic pause for good measure. The rendition was positively Shakespearean. "'All good," he pronounced. "Thumbs up emoji.'"

Charlie frowned. "That's five words."

"Don't sass me, Oswin—the emoji is a single unit of communication. It counts as one word."

"Emojis are pictures, and a picture's worth a thousand words, so….."

"You're not gonna 'semantics' your way out of this!" he exclaimed. "You hold a dramatic, compelling story in one hand—murder, werewolves, hunters, full moon—and instead of sharing with your ol' pal Donald you use the other hand to friggin' emoji me?! And not only do you emoji me, you send the 'thumbs up' emoji. The most basic of all emoji. I'm offended."

Charlie nodded somberly. "Your complaint has been noted. Next time I'll send 'red dress dancing lady'."

"As if you could pull off 'red dress dancing lady'. And anyways, the emoji is just the tip of this iceberg."

"Why is there an iceberg?" she groaned. "I said I would call you first thing, but guess what? 'First thing' hasn't happened yet! 'First thing' is for when I am conscious. That was a courtesy text so you'd know I wasn't dead."

"I'm your bestest pal—you owe me more than courtesy! Plus, if you thought a thumbs up emoji would satisfy me past breakfast, you don't know me at all. You brought this on yourself. This is a friendship wake—"

"If you say 'wake-up call' I will kill you where you stand."

"Hostility is the refuge of the guilty," he chided. "Honestly, Oz, what did you expect? I am a naturally curious soul. If there's a story, I am going to pursue it. I need detail, I need nuance, I need character motivation. Especially if my screenplay is gonna be any good."

Charlie, who had been prising apart the blinds to glare at the rising sun, allowed them to snap shut on the tip of her nose. Any sting was lost in the shock. Donald's words hit her with the one-two punch of a shot of espresso and bucket of ice water. She was awake now. "I'm sorry, your what now?"

"My screenplay," he repeated. Finding his casual teasing met with silence, Donald's voice adopted an air of bemusement. "Come on, Oz. We've talked about this. The screenplay."

"I thought you were kidding!" Charlie spluttered. In her chest, her heart did enough backflips for an Olympic-qualifying gymnastics floor routine. Whether they were motivated by surprise, amusement, or worry she couldn't quite work out. The urges to laugh, shout, and roll her eyes existed in equal measure.

Donald's bemusement quickly shifted to mock offense. "I never kid about horror movies! It's by far the most underrated genre."

"This is my life, Donald!"

"And art imitates life," he countered. "Also, can you get me an interview with that Derek Hale guy? I'm trying to work out the brooding to handsome ratio and haven't cracked the code yet. Is he aware that he's handsome? Or is he so filled with self-loathing that he doesn't know how hot he is?"

Charlie clapped a hand to her forehead. The eye-rolling won out in the end. It usually did. "Why is this important?"

His responding sigh was long, deep, and disappointed. "Character motivation, Oz. We've covered this."

Charlie's knuckles kneaded at her skull. The general throbbing had crystallized at a single point directly between her eyebrows. It felt like someone decided to take an ice pick to her sinuses. Or like that time she tried to go three consecutive days without coffee. "Donald, I know this all makes for a great story, but there are actual stakes right now. You know, lives and safety and stuff. The supernatural underbelly of Beacon Hills had got to stay...well...under."

"Dude, I'm not about to out you guys," Donald assured her. "Full anonymity. I'll change all the names. Instead of Beacon Hills it'll be like...Lighthouse Cove or something."

Charlie grimaced. Her instinct for self-preservation might be strong, but bad fiction was too high a price. "Lighthouse Cove?" she scoffed. "You can't have werewolves at the beach."

Donald gave a dismissive 'pshah'. "Of course I can. It's fiction. And don't worry, I'll keep the vibe somber. It'll be a depressing beach. You know, cold, rocks, rain, dead bodies washing up on shore—overall super sucky. Sepia color tones. The adventures of Carlie Osmund at the lamest goddamn beach in the Pacific Northwest."

"Veto!" Charlie exclaimed. "I veto that name."

He made a muffled sound of agreement. "Yeah, I don't like it either. Somehow I made you sound even whiter. But don't worry, I'll consult you on names before we start to approach the major production houses."

"Will I be getting royalties?"

"We'll leave that to the lawyers. It's a bridge to cross when we come to it."

Despite her aching head, Charlie found herself chuckling. Until, that is, she happened to glance towards the vanity opposite her. Her reflection stared back from the mirror. It featured puffy red eyes, 'sad French mime' eyeliner smudges, and hair that looked like a tangle of disused headphones and cellphone chargers. She pulled the sweater from her lamp to allow more light. If anything, it made the picture worse. Shadows filled in hollow cheeks and bruised under-eye circles. The chaos and panic of the previous night scribbled itself across her face like a charcoal sketch, and not a particularly good one. She lifted the collar of her shirt to her eyes, using it to wipe at the eyeliner. The reflection looked marginally less pathetic, the stretched neckline and black stains on its shirt a fair price to pay for her de-mimed face. It wasn't enough, though. Even Mel's bathroom cabinet didn't house enough brushes and powders to spare her an early morning scolding from Lydia.

Shit, Lydia. She'd forgotten Lydia.

Given Donald's questioning noise, the thought must have been aloud. Charlie ignored it and slumped against the wall. The added weight of her fight with Lydia dropping back on her shoulders had her slowly sliding down into covers. "Look, can we talk about your screenplay later today?" she mumbled. "I will sign over my life rights if we can reconvene this afternoon. There's too much to fit in before your mom drags you to school. Plus I'm tired, and I've got a bunch of stuff on my mind."

"Aw," Donald murmured, sympathetic with a side of patronizing. "What's wrong there lil buddy?"

Charlie bit her lip, unsure of where to start. After a night of mortal peril, that the lingering consequences belonged to high school relationship drama and not murder and mayhem was objectively ridiculous. Even more ridiculous? That the high school relationship drama was the facet Charlie found herself least capable of dealing with. What was wrong? She didn't even know where to start. The facts she was familiar with. They laid themselves out before her in bullet point format. Lydia kissed Scott. This was not good. Trusting Lydia to tell Allison was idiotic. Telling Allison...probably wouldn't end well.

What was wrong? Charlie had no test case for this. No frame of reference, nothing to compare it to. Conflict wasn't a stranger to her. She'd been wrapped up in various intrigues, either on the periphery or at the center, on each coast and a few places in between. Conflict resolution, on the other hand...that remained foreign to her. In the past, a few weeks of eating lunch in the library and a U-Haul solved the problem. But the curb out front would house no U-Hauls in the foreseeable future. And she didn't want to eat in the library. They didn't let you take lunch trays out of the cafeteria here...and other reasons.

"This whole Lydia thing is messing me up, man," she admitted into the receiver. "I just know that I'm going to show up today and she's going to be all smiley and act like nothing happened. And if I tell Allison, then I'm basically blowing up the friendship over a one-off makeout session. But if I don't tell Allison then I'm betraying her. I told Lydia she should come clean, but let's face it—Satan will be skiing down the bunny slopes before that happens."

"Really?" Donald mused. "Satan seems more like a double black diamond guy to me."

Charlie pinched the bridge of her nose. Worry had dragged her too far into wakefulness to turn back now. She needed a metric ton of coffee. And a Dr. Phil self help book. "I don't know how to deal with this." she murmured. "I want to skip school. You've watched Ferris Bueller like a thousand times—how does he get away with it?"

This time he opted for reassurance over humor. "Oz, you need to relax. It'll be fine. This is just one of those stalemate fights."

Her nose wrinkled. "Stalemate fights?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know I'm perfect, but generally friends aren't on the same side about everything all the time. That doesn't mean they just stop being friends. Like...they did something shitty, you did something shitty, and you could hash it out and be all emotionally evolved, but it's way easier to bottle that shit up and move on. Status quo. Unless it's a total deal-breaker, everybody's shitty thing gets an honorary pass. It goes away eventually."

"Wait, what shitty thing did I do?" she protested. "I've been helping everyone—I'm not the person who made out with a friend's ex and is lying about it."

Donald gave a pondering hum. Sarcastic, of course. "Hmm. I wonder if there might be some ethically questionable behavior you're currently participating in. Like let's say...hanging onto a huge secret that's impacting literally everyone around you in potentially life threatening ways." Charlie's spine went to jelly and she slid down the wall till she was back to being horizontal. Based on Donald's noise of satisfaction, he was instinctively aware of this change in altitude. "You know what they say about glass houses," he sang. "Don't live in one because then everybody'll see you naked."

Charlie's eyes fell shut and she willed the mattress to swallow her whole. "Sometimes when you talk I want to unlearn the English language."

"You're doing that thing again. You know, the one where you find me delightful but pretend not to."

In the distance, Donald's mom shouted something Charlie couldn't make out. He shouted back, voice muffled by a hand covering the receiver. She checked the time. 5:24 a.m.—that was 8:24 a.m. for him. He was late for the bus. "Hey, I gotta go," he said, hand lifting from the phone. "But go to school. Avoid the issue in person. It'll all work out."

"Okay."

"And remember, you promised a full recap."

"And you'll get it. Attempted murder, actual murder, glowy eyes—every last bit."

"GLOWING EYES?! How could you not lead with tha—" Another distant call interrupted his rant in its fetal stages. He paused, sucked in a deep breath, and bellowed a 'coming!' over his shoulder. "You're the worst."

"False. I'm your favorite."

"Not today, you're no—Jesus, mom, I'm coming!"

At the click of Donald hanging up, Charlie dropped the phone to her side and shimmied back up the wall. The world always had a muted feel right after a call with Donald. Her current surroundings did nothing to mitigate that. Twilight washed out the colors of her room, like the smudged photos of a weekday newspaper. The faint hum of her lamp remained the only sound in her ears, interrupted by the odd squawk of a mockingbird. And her thoughts. Far, far too many thoughts. Usually when she woke, it would be to a blue sky peeking through her curtains, the whirring of a breakfast smoothie in the blender, and the strong smell of coffee wafting down the hall. But Mel, with all the comfort of ignorance, still slept.

Charlie swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A pair of slippers waited there, prepared to protect her from the cold tile of the kitchen floor. Feet ensconced in padded fleece, she shuffled down the hall towards the coffee maker. Water slowly dripped through ground beans and a fortifying aroma filled the room. Last night's book sat on the kitchen island to be leafed through. For just a moment, with a mug in one hand and Douglas Adams in the other, 6:00 a.m. felt peaceful. But even then her stomach stirred with the instinctive knowledge that it wouldn't last.

Charlie hadn't brought her phone to the kitchen. After all, why should she bring it? Who else was up? The newspaper had yet to hit the welcome mat. She was drinking coffee while the rest of Beacon Hills snored. But when the sound of Mel stirring in her room prompted Charlie to return to her own—second serving of coffee in hand—she found her cell in the folds of her comforter with the notifications light flashing green. She shared the morning with one other unlucky insomniac. When illuminated, the screen displayed a text from Allison. Timestamp 5:52 a.m.

Hey, can we meet up before school?

Charlie's throat didn't register the pain of scalding coffee as she took a bracing gulp. Suddenly, the world was in color again. The blinding red of panic.

Well, shit.

The moon still shone in the sky. Its backdrop may have been a pale blue dotted with tufts of cotton ball white rather than a solid purple-black, but it still seared itself onto Charlie's retinas. It almost looked harmless, pale, pock-marked by craters, and a thumbnail clipping shy of its full spherical potential. 'Fancy seeing you here!' it seemed to say. 'Did you have fun last night? No? Well, there's always next month!' Cheerful. Mocking. Impossible to escape. A celestial busybody insistent on monitoring your life when it wasn't ruining it.

Charlie glowered up at the moon until the sky's brightness became too much for her eyes. A fistful of Tylenol dulled the ache of her head, but enough lingered to annoy. She redirected her gaze to the lacrosse field stretching before her. At this hour on a Tuesday morning it was empty. The parking lot on the other side had begun to fill, though currently still reserved for teachers, members of the swim team, and academic overachievers. But they had squirrelled themselves away, leaving only herself and the looming sphere of swiss cheese present to observe. Maybe that was why Allison had asked to meet at the bleachers—quiet and secluded while not being suspicious in the least.

Maybe Charlie was jumping the gun in ascribing Allison's instructions to some high school edition of espionage. The girl hadn't given any indication of what she wanted to talk about. Her text was a casual 'let's meet up', followed by 'school bleachers—see you before homeroom'. Nothing inherently suspicious about that. Maybe she needed to copy the English homework. Or talk about boys. But Allison and Jackson had been attacked last night, and 'best case scenarios' belonged in a brain other than Charlie's. Hers was a refuge for the bleak and pessimistic, and the longer she waited, the more time she had to concoct disastrous hypotheticals.

The sight of Allison's car sent a jolt through Charlie. She suddenly found herself grateful for the cold. With her fists shoved in jacket pockets she had no opportunity for compulsive hand-wringing and any nervous twitches could be dismissed as shivering. But as Allison slid out the driver's seat, her anxiety was branded unnecessary. She had never seen Allison confrontational, but it likely wouldn't involve a shy smile and two-person Starbucks order.

When Allison arrived at the bleachers her smile remained, but upon closer inspection it was accompanied by a pallor even her fair skin had to work for. The darkened under-eye circles and greyish tinge were better concealed than Charlie's, but spoke to an equally sleepless night. Charlie made no mention of it, instead patting the bleachers next to her. "So," she asked as Allison seated herself. "What's with all the cloak and dagger?"

Allison squirmed against the cold metal and frowned. "Is that was this seems like? I was going for more of a mochas and lattes vibe."

"If you're adding a few pumps of hazelnut and intrigue to your latte, sure."

Allison held out a cup. "No intrigue. Just two extra shots of espresso."

Charlie regarded her with skepticism, but took the proffered coffee and lifted it to her lips. A hint of chocolate met her tongue, but it was overwhelmed by the satisfying sharpness of a dark roast. She tipped the cup back, the sip graduating to a slurping gulp. Next to her, Allison didn't drink. The girl sat completely still, hands cupping her latte for warmth and staring blankly across the empty field. The glassiness in her eyes was born of more than just insomnia.

Charlie took another gulp. The cup weighed about half of what it had when Allison handed it to her. "Okay, consider me sufficiently caffeinated." She turned to Allison, brow lifted in a question. "So are you going to tell me why you texted me in the wee hours? Is everything okay?"

It sounded so casual leaving her mouth. Concerned and sincere with just the right touch of honest. Her chest ballooned with guilt. Or maybe it was honest words trying to force their way out. They pinged around inside her, ricocheting off her ribs and crushing her lungs. Lydia made out with Scott! Werewolves are real! Your parents are legit psychopaths! Scott tried to kill you last night! She swallowed them with a swig of coffee. They tasted bitter going down.

Allison didn't respond immediately. She looked down to her cup, her thumb idly picking at the cardboard guard surrounding it. "You're probably going to think I'm completely crazy."

"And I'm sure that will bring us closer together as friends," Charlie quipped back. "It's been long established that I'm totally bonkers. And crazy loves company, right?"

Allison offered a flicker of a smile—quick, forced, and probably exclusively for Charlie's benefit. "No, I'm not talking the good kind of crazy. Not 'fun' crazy. I'm talking the paranoid kind of crazy."

Though Charlie should have expected this, the bubble of guilt swelled further. She had little reassurance to give, and that she had on hand was further limited by promises to Stiles and Scott. "Being paranoid isn't crazy," Charlie said finally. "It's not like you're turning into an agoraphobic shut-in who drinks their own urine. You've been through some traumatic shit. Given the circumstances, I'd say it's totally normal. Good even. Your survival instincts have been activated—there's nothing wrong with that."

A small pile of cardboard chunks formed on the bleachers as Allison picked at the coffee sleeve. Her head was tipped forwards, a curtain of hair hiding her face from view. "You think so?"

The voice came out so meek and uncertain. Charlie made sure her reply was bolstered by more certainty than she had any right to. "Absolutely. I mean, I've been throwing shoes at humanoid shadows I see in my room. It doesn't mean I'm insane. I just have a very good reason to be wary of shadows."

Allison tucked her long hair behind her ears, revealing a furrowed brow and lip caught nervously between her teeth. Only a forehead tattoo reading 'ANXIETY!' could better illustrate her inner turmoil. She wrapped her free arm around her waist and scooted closer to Charlie, whispering despite the almost vacant parking lot and lacrosse field on either side of them. "I feel like people are lying to me."

Oh, the miraculous fucking irony. Charlie had her coffee cup to thank for her hands not instinctively clenching into fists. Her face didn't have any such aid. Luckily, Allison mistook the traitorous expression of fear and guilt for one of skepticism. "I know," she said, shaking her head. "Believe me, I know. It sounds completely, certifiably insane. And I might be losing my mind. But I keep ending up in these situations, and the stories don't match up, and—"

"You're not losing your mind," Charlie assured her.

Allison stopped short. Her cheeks flushed with gratitude, but her eyes still held doubt. The vulnerability in them made Charlie want to scream. Instead, she sucked down the remainder of her coffee. By the time she put the cup to the side, she came to a resolution. While the whole truth was off the table, she could at least offer Allison a little solidarity. "Look, you're right. There's a lot of things that don't add up." She shot Allison a sideways glance. "Is this about what happened at the school?"

Allison gave a small nod. "Partly."

"Okay, which part?"

Her toe tapped against the bleachers as she summoned the courage to speak. "I don't think it was Derek who attacked us. I don't know about the other murders, but I don't think it was him at the school."

"Neither do I."

The tapping stopped as abruptly as it started. "Y—you don't? You think Scott lied?"

"Yeah, I think Scott lied."

Allison opened her mouth and closed it again. "You don't seem bothered by it. He lied to us—are you okay with that?"

Charlie shrugged. The lift of her shoulders felt like more work than it should. "Look," she sighed. "I think you were right to break up with Scott. If you don't feel like you can trust him then you shouldn't be with him. But I don't think we put him in a fair position."

Allison shook her head. "What do you mean?"

Charlie made a face. "Do you remember how it all went down that night? Everyone was shouting at him. We were stuck there, not moving, not doing anything while a killer was chasing us down. We asked for an answer he didn't have—demanding one—so he pulled one out of his ass. Was it stupid? Was it unfair? Absolutely. But I'm not going to judge him for a moment of panic when we were all terrified out of our minds. He was scared too."

Allison's eyebrows contracted into a small 'v'. She seemed to fold inwards on herself, like a piece of paper being crumpled in a fist. Charlie felt the overwhelming need to prise open the fingers and smooth out the page. "I'm not saying he was right," she quickly interjected. "He shouldn't have lied. I mean, he triggered a city-wide manhunt for a guy I'm pretty sure is innocent. He's got stuff to answer for." She bit her tongue before the obligatory 'like trying to kill you last night'.

"No, no," Allison said, waving a hand. "This isn't just about Scott. And you're right. We shouldn't have expected Scott to have all the answers. Especially since..."

Allison's sentence tapered into silence before reaching its end. The unverbalized 'dot-dot-dot' hung over Charlie like a storm cloud. She leaned in closer. "Especially since what?"

Placing her cup to the side, Allison pulled her knees up to her chest and pivoted to face Charlie fully. He eyes remained downcast, flickers of courage allowing them to raise to Charlie's in fits and starts. "The killer fell through the ceiling. What kind of person crawls into the ceiling?"

"A deranged one?" That at least was the truth.

"And that's not all. Jackson said he saw the guy and he ran away on all fours."

Charlie reached for her cup. It was empty, but she mimed a sip to hide her anxious gulp. "He ran on all fours? Like on his hands and knees? That's….weird."

"Not on his hands and knees," Allison whispered. "On his hands and feet. You know, like an animal."

"So the killer is a contortionist."

"No, he—" Allison clapped a hand to her forehead. "Like I said. I sound crazy."

"Whoa, no, stop." Charlie straddled the bleacher so she and Allison were face to face. "Nothing is crazy. We saw a lot of weird shit that night. Collectively. As a group. We can't have hallucinated all of it. So if Jackson saw the killer engaged in some light scampering, that's more than possible."

Allison smiled again. The expression was well meant. She couldn't know that every morsel of appreciation she threw at Charlie smacked her in the face and left behind a sharp sting. After all, despite the prickles of pain and taste of iron in her mouth, Charlie smiled back with just as much of an outward appearance of genuineness. That the friendly reassurance emboldened Allison to continue only sharpened the pang. Having a talent for lying didn't hold much pride when she desperately wanted to tell the truth. Shame, though? A bucket couldn't reach the bottom of that particular well. She'd be sufficiently watered through any drought. And maybe one day she'd get used to its metallic tang. For now she just swallowed it.

Cold wind whipped through Allison's hair. She tucked it back behind her ears to reveal an open and honest face. Probably the last honest face in this damn town, except maybe Mel's. "The weirdest thing about all this is….I think my family knows something about it."

When driving here Charlie had counted on guilt, but not on surprise. For a moment she pushed her guilt to the side and scooted towards Allison on the bleachers. "What to you mean?"

Allison shook her head. "It's just a feeling. Like a look they get. I mean I know they don't tell me everything. We have a basement full of guns and that never comes up around the dinner table. But I've had guns in the basement my entire life and never felt like there was stuff I should be asking questions about. But now?" She took a nervous sip from her cup, stalling for one more moment. "Whenever somebody mentions the animal attacks or the people getting hurt, my dad just gets this look…like he's not concerned. He's suspicious. Plus the way he shot that mountain lion—he looked ready to shoot something. I mean again, basement full of guns, but he's never brought one to school before. I don't know what to do with that. My parents are lying to me."

"Parents do that. Especially when they're trying to protect you."

"But they're lying about things they shouldn't need to lie about," she insisted. "The first day my aunt Kate got to town, my dad had to go pick her up. Car trouble. When he left to get her he said it was a flat tire. She told me she ran out of gas. So both of them lied to me. They were gone for hours. And when Kate finally got here I found broken glass stuck in the sill. I think somebody smashed her car window. Why wouldn't they just tell me that?"

Allison's eyes were wide and expectant. Charlie understood the nature of this conversation—Allison was voicing her frustrations with a friend. Looking for support, looking for understanding. But those eyes, when focused on Charlie, felt like they demanded answer. All she could offer was a shrug and a cop-out. "I don't know."

The girl's shoulders slumped easily, like they anticipated disappointment. "It doesn't feel like they're trying to protect me. It feels like they're trying to control me. I want to be able to protect myself."

Charlie attempted a smile, but her lips only managed to stretch into a mild grimace. "Don't we all."

Allison ran her hands through her hair, dragging them all the way through to the tips. "What do I do with all of this?"

Charlie shook her head. She was stuck between half a dozen rocks and living in hard place. Whichever direction she chose, someone ended up hurt. All she could do was pick the one that wouldn't end up killing anyone. Another cop out. "You could always just ask them," she joked.

Allison's snort was more bitter than humorous. "I'm sure that'll go over well. 'Dad, why is our family life shrouded in mystery? Please pass the green beans.'"

"I wish I could help more," Charlie murmured, sprinkling a bit of truth on this bullshit sundae. "But I don't know what to tell you."

Allison dragged her hands through her hair again. Not her usual, neat move of maintenance, but one of frustration. "I know. I'm sorry—I don't know why I'm asking you this stuff like you should have an answer for me. You just usually seem like you do."

Charlie reached over and grasped her hand. "Even if I don't have answers, you can still talk to me about it."

Allison's hand squeezed back with a warmth Charlie didn't deserve. "Thanks."

Behind them, a piercing bell ripped through the early morning fog. Both girls started, hands twitching and releasing each other. Behind them the parking lot had filled. A chorus of slamming doors, uncaffeinated groans, and wearied shuffling, previously unheard, floated to their bubble of privacy. Charlie's eyes scanned the lot. A bike she recognized as Scott's was chained to the racks in front of the entrance. Stiles's blue Jeep occupied a spot at the back left corner. Finally, her eyes fixated on the car that concerned her the most. A black beetle was parked close to the front doors. Given the prime location, it was usually one of the first spots to go. Lydia must have gotten here early. From that point, the view of the bleachers was hardly obstructed. Had Lydia seen her and Allison? Had she decided not to go over to them? What did she think they were talking about?

"We should probably head in."

Charlie's gaze guiltily shifted from Lydia's car. If the grin she flashed appeared in any way false, Allison didn't seem to notice. "Probably."

The pair gathered their things and picked their way down the bleachers. After tipping their empty coffee cups into a nearby trash can, their feet soon joined the weary trudge of their fellow classmates. Charlie glanced over at Allison. Her brows weren't furrowed, but recent events had left a semipermanent groove between them. It smoothed out when she laughed, though. That at least Charlie could help with. "So," she asked lightly, "I'm assuming we're sitting in the splash zone?"

Allison grimaced, but her eyes glowed with some humor. "Probably, yeah. But don't worry. I'm gonna grab us those plastic ponchos they hand out at Niagara Falls."

"I was just planning on laminating myself."

"Good call. You'll never have to worry about sitting on public transportation again."

Once through the doors the girls peeled apart, each going to their respective locker. But where Allison's steps came steadily, Charlie's were more halting. Her social circle in Beacon Hills High wasn't large. This didn't usually pose a problem, except when she found herself at odds with half of them. So...now. Every face that passed her could belong to someone she had to confront or avoid. Avoidance was the preferred method. Her eyes pinged from face to face in the tide of students rushing at her. Her hands tensed at her sides, twitching like she was playing a game of minesweeper. Each tile she planted a foot on could hide another potential booby trap, the step that brought her to confrontation. Her body prepared itself for a duck and roll. Rounding the corner towards her locker, the mine finally went off.

Down the hallway, Lydia leaned against Charlie's locker. It took two glances to recognize her. Not that any one aspect of Lydia's appearance had changed. Her clothes remained impeccable, her hair cascaded in shampoo-commercial-perfect curls, she stood in her heels with the balance of a well-seasoned tightrope walker, but her typical vibrance seemed to have dimmed. Normally she was a that single bold, prickly rose standing tall in a field of shrinking violets. Today she bore signs of a mild wilt.

Confrontation. The thought of it made Charlie's mouth go sticky. The piece of her mind she'd flung at Lydia's feet last night begged a response. And Lydia had a much bigger mind to carve her piece from. Worst of all? She had no idea what Lydia's would say. Or what last night's chastisement would mean for them. Her control over the fallout was tenuous at best. Her saliva congealed till it had the consistency of Elmer's glue. She felt like a golden retriever with a mouth filled with peanut butter.

After a few moments of paralysis, Charlie turned tail and scurried down the hall, her copy of Candide still firmly ensconced in her locker. Allison started at her sudden appearance by her own locker. "Wow," she blinked. "That was quick."

Charlie grinned, using the moment to smash a panting breath into a casual chuckle. "I've taken up power-walking. I've got quads of steel wrapped in velvet."

Allison quirked an eyebrow. "Velvet? Not satin?"

"I didn't shave today."

It was Allison's turn to grin. She closed her locker door and slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to head to class. She didn't notice the glances Charlie kept throwing over her shoulder. Or how Charlie stiffened at a flash of strawberry blonde hair. And in English class when Charlie asked to share her copy of Candide? She thought nothing of it at all.

Charlie ate lunch in the library. Actually, to call it lunch would be generous. Avoiding Lydia meant avoiding the cafeteria, limiting her to whatever selection the vending machines had to offer. Apparently, contrary to their marketing campaigns, Snickers did not solve 'hangry'. Which was why she snuck out of her fifth period viewing of Band of Brothers with a fistful of quarters. Did she get a second Snickers? Absolutely. But the heart wants what the heart wants, regardless of drastic fluctuations in blood sugar levels.

Chocolate in hand, Charlie had turned on her heel to return to history. As she approached the front door, though, her feet didn't slow down. It was too loud in there. Muted gunfire from the television, Mr. Allen's snores, gossipy whispers—while quiet enough on their own, together they layered into a cacophony that, in her present state of mind, made her skin itch. She came to the door. She kept walking.

At times alone was best. Hell, at times alone was necessary.

As wandering the halls holding a candy bar did not meet the 'flying under the radar' criteria of ditching class, Charlie kept her eyes open for a hideout. After peering in a number of windows, it was the music room that reached out with gloriously empty arms. Charlie slipped in, lowering the blinds so nobody could see the lone student within. She threw herself into a plastic chair and shoved the rest of her Snickers into her mouth. Ah, the sweet relief of solitude. No need to contemplate ethical dilemmas if you existed in a hermetically sealed cube.

The sole issue with the hermetically sealed cube experiment? Without internet access, they tended to be boring. Especially now that she was out of chocolate.

Eventually Charlie's eyes dragged to the corner of the room. Among the assorted black cases sat one that looked suspiciously like a guitar. She ran her thumbs over the pads of her fingertips. Still smooth from her last mani-pedi with Lydia and Allison. It would probably sting.

When she lifted it, the case weighed comfortably in her hands. The heft had a familiarity she hadn't felt in a long time. She flipped it open and smiled at the warm welcome of its plushy red interior. Inside lay your standard dreadnought acoustic, neither sleek nor elegant and exhibiting the wear and tear one might expect from a school instrument. Seating herself back on a chair, Charlie lifted it onto her lap. One gentle strum told her it was out of tune. Odds were her guitar at home wouldn't ring true either. Being immersed in the supernatural chaos of Stiles and Scott had a way of making you neglect other parts your life, if not forget about them entirely. One hand ready at the tuners, she plucked at the strings. With each pick she twisted the knobs.

Charlie didn't have much aptitude in what Donald referred to as 'feelings'. Recognizing them, understanding them, voicing them, hell even acknowledging them came with no small degree of difficulty. Every nagging sensation got compacted down into a marble of denial that sat somewhere just below her breastbone. Whether she was watching a movie or writing a history paper or wrenching a spatula out of Mel's hand, it was always there, pressing at her sternum. Usually it was easy to ignore. But on a day like today, with all the different parts of her life chafing against each other, it felt raw. It ached. Music tempered that. She could release that ache in a controlled way. One song, three to four minutes, and that little marble would loosen. It was like a release valve. Joy, grief, nostalgia, heartache—pick the song and pick the feeling, let it pour out, and then close the tap.

The guitar now tuned, Charlie swept her fingers across the strings. The gentle pressure was enough to move them, but not so firm that they sounded. The air around them vibrated. There was a potential in it, a sense of possibility. A little bit of molding could form an open C or an A minor. Every bit of Charlie hummed as she finally pressed. The strings bit into her her skin, but she found satisfaction in the sting. Like the dulled pain in her muscles after a day of hard work, it felt like an accomplishment.

The notes rang full and melancholy. Her voice soon joined them. It came easily, the melody oscillating with the ebb and flow of waves crashing on the beach. Her throat ached, not with effort but with the sadness of unshed tears whose origin she didn't recognize. That little marble expanded until her chest felt tight. It was like one long exhale after days of holding her breath. Her eyes closed, heartbeat slowed. Even Kevin, the knot beneath her left shoulder blade, saw fit to relinquish the muscles he'd kept twisted up for days. The song faded out. She felt looser. Calmer. At peace. That is, until somebody cleared their throat.

Charlie started, eyes snapping open. Stiles stood by the door. It was shut. Meaning he had opened the door, passed through, and fully closed it behind him without her noticing. She hadn't heard a damn thing. She was too busy letting it all pour out. And he saw it. When she opened the tap, other people weren't supposed to see her. If she decided to flood the kitchen it wasn't supposed to soak his damn shoes.

The guitar was out of Charlie's lap and back in the case before she or Stiles had the chance to breathe a word. The latches closed with a definitive snap. She turned to face him, arms pre-crossed with her trademark defensiveness. "What are you doing here?"

A hand immediately went to rub at the back of his neck, all sheepishness. "I, uh, I was looking for you. You've been a bit hard to track down today."

Charlie nodded, because fair enough. Her evasiveness was by design. Thus far she'd padded her schedule with quick steps through the halls and sufficient bathroom visits for any outside observer to attribute to gastrointestinal distress, though her sole objective had been the four walls of a stall and some quiet. "Right," she mumbled. "So how did you find me? If I've been so hard to track down?"

Stiles fidgeted. "Werewolf senses..."

"Scott sniffed me out," Charlie concluded. "Awesome. That totally doesn't call my hygiene into question."

"That's not—you smell nice." The sentence came out as a stammer. A stammer which, given the ensuing wince, he immediately regretted. "Not that I sm—it's not a hygiene thing."

"I'll take your word for it." Charlie peered past Stiles to the small crack between the blinds and window. "So is the boy wonder here?"

Stiles shook his head. "Not so much."

"Why not?"

"Mostly because he's terrified of you."

She made a face. "Well he's not wrong to be, but I'm a bit hazy on the 'why'."

Sometimes Stiles's movements appeared to require translation. Like maybe each twitch of his nose, tap of his toes, or awkward shrug could be studied, interpreted, and a meaning divined. Sadly, Charlie found herself without a decoder ring. So when he rocked back on his heels and planted his hands on his hips, she had no idea what it meant. Eventually he gestured to the chairs, indicating for them both to sit. She eyed him warily, but followed his lead.

"So," Stiles declared, clapping his hand on his knees. "Scott's worried."

Charlie shrugged. "It's Scott. That's to be expected."

"He's worried about last night," Stiles elaborated. "You know, things were said, personal attacks were made, people were—" he shuddered "—people were made out with. A lot of stuff went down. He's worried that you're still mad at him."

"Shouldn't he be worried that you're still mad at him?" Stiles didn't react. Or at least he suppressed his reaction with reasonable success. Apart from the pinched white line of his lips, his face remained altogether impassive. Charlie cocked her head to the side and surveyed him carefully. "Wait, are you still mad at him?"

The mask slipped ever-so-slightly. The expression behind it was tired more than anything else. "I don't know," he sighed. "After everything that happened last night? My dad wheeling around another dead body? That's—that's a lot of perspective for a Monday. I guess I just need my best friend. And it's not like, you know, he was at his best. It was the full moon. I mean, yeah, he sucked, but I can't exactly put myself in his shoes. It was a bad night. It's better for both of us if we just move past it."

"So it's a stalemate," Charlie concluded. Donald was right. Because of course he was.

Stiles looked back at Charlie, his eyes equally attentive. And with a shadow of worry behind them. "What about you? Scott said a lot of...not great stuff about you. And, uh, to you."

Her lungs shuddered with an almost-laugh. "I really don't care about Scott's lunar armchair psychology. We're good. He can chill out—I'm not holding any grudges."

"Oh," Stiles said, his eyebrows contracting in a frown. "If you're not mad then wh—" He stopped short and blinked, the confused lines of his forehead smoothing out as realization dawned. "You're not avoiding Scott."

Charlie ran her hands down her face, pulling at the skin like it was a Halloween mask. God, she was tired. "I yelled at Lydia last night," she mumbled. "I like...scolded her. Might even have wagged a finger."

"And you think she's pissed at you?"

Charlie's hands threw themselves in the air of their own volition. Her frustration had muscle memory. "I don't know what she's feeling. It's Lydia. Maybe she's pissed. Maybe she wants vengeance. I don't know. We fight all the time, but this is different. She doesn't have normal reactions to things."

Stiles was still next to her. Which didn't feel great. A motionless Stiles meant something serious. "Have you seen Lydia at all today?"

Charlie shook her head. "No. Not seeing someone is pretty much the point of avoiding them."

"I don't think Lydia's mad at you."

"I didn't think she'd be so casually cruel to Allison, but here we are." The weight of her exhaustion pushed her further down in her chair. Lifting her head to face Stiles took more effort than she'd like to admit. "I didn't expect Lydia to make out with Scott, but when I saw it—it didn't shock me. There was no big 'how could she!' moment, because I know exactly how she could. I know what her priorities are. And those priorities don't involve being told she's wrong. She doesn't like being called out. I'm just...I'm just too tired for anything dramatic right now."

Stiles's look of protest was gentle, more sympathetic than contrary. "I know Lydia too. She's always been popular. She's always had people around her. All the time. And she'd cycle them out. One day it's Christine, the next it's Alexa and then Ashley and around and around and around. Until this year."

"Okay, so she replaces friends. What's your point?"

"This year it's just been you," he replied. "And Allison, but mostly you. I don't think social status is her number one priority right now. I'm pretty sure you are." Charlie scowled, but he shook his head at her expression of doubt. "Don't look at me like that—as someone whose met you it's not that difficult to believe. You didn't see her at lunch. Her eyes were on the cafeteria doors the whole time. Pretty sure she was waiting for you."

With a groan Charlie collapsed forward, forehead hitting her knees. "Why does everything have to be so complicated?"

"At least it keeps things interesting." The sentence ended with the high pitch of a question. She could hear the wince. Even Stiles, with all his unbridled enthusiasm, had to acknowledge it was weak. Charlie frowned into dark-wash denim. "I think I'm starting to get over 'interesting'."

A hand hit Charlie's back with the staccato rhythm of the awkwardest of pats. But then it settled between her shoulder blades. The warmth of it seeped through her jacket. The weight was comfortable. And so was the closeness. The whole day Charlie had felt like she was curled up at the bottom of a diving pool. Twenty feet deep under water, ears popping, pressure pushing in on every part of her. Stiles's hand on her back dragged her back to the surface for a breath of free air. The fact of his physical proximity alleviated some of that strain. Charlie couldn't even say why. Distance had always been easier—it's what she was used to—but now nearness didn't seem so hard. She'd held his hand last night. She'd grabbed on tightly till both their palms were slick with sweat. Now as that same hand slid up her back and grasped her shoulder, her muscles unwound. Maybe it was the understanding the gesture conveyed. Nothing needed to be explained. Stiles already knew.

Slowly, Charlie sat back up. Stiles's hand slipped from her shoulder, instead gripping the back of her chair. Its fingers drummed against the plastic, impatient and uncertain. As outwardly affectionate as Stiles was, their closeness was new for him too. Charlie smiled hesitantly. He didn't smile back, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. Then they blinked. "So," he declared suddenly, his voice adopting its usual wry humor, "do you take requests?"

Charlie frowned in confusion, but his head tilted towards the guitar case. Her lips twisted into a scowl. "Do not start."

"Oh, come on!" he protested. "Did you honestly think I'd catch that performance and let it go?"

"I thought you valued your life, so yes."

"My best friend is a werewolf," he deadpanned. " My instinct for self preservation isn't exactly off the charts."

She glowered. His teasing was suspect. And the innocent 'who, me?' expression he thought he'd mastered fooled precisely nobody. "Alright, the guitar is going away now."

Charlie stood and seized the guitar case, moving to place it back among the other instruments. She turned to find Stiles between her and the pile, arms outstretched like a goalie playing through a round of sudden death. "Whoa, now," he said, an appeasing grin painted across his face. "There's no need to do anything extreme."

"Nothing extreme is happening. I'm putting the guitar away and you're gonna forget that you saw me playing."

Stiles's eyebrows furrowed, nose wrinkled, and lips pinched, all of his face contracting in at a single point. His arms collapsed to his sides as he looked at her quizzically. The curiosity was genuine, and so was the concern. "Why would I want to do that? You're good. Like 'why haven't I heard you play before?' good." Charlie's 'thank you' was forced. His look of suspicion deepened. "So is there a reason I haven't heard you play?"

Charlie glanced to the door. She could just make a break for it. But this passing thought must have made its way into her body language, because suddenly Stiles was shimmying across the floor. The scuttling stopped when he planted himself directly between her and the exit. Charlie heaved a sigh and placed the guitar back on a chair. "I just don't like to play for people. It's for me. My thing. I don't have to share it."

"Well if you ask me, that's pretty selfish of you."

"Oh, really," Charlie scoffed. "How do you figure that?"

Stiles smirked. "Like I said—you're good. And if you've got a gift it's your job—nay, you're responsibility—to share it with people."

"Really? You're applying superhero logic to my guitar playing? Uncle Ben didn't die so I could play a few open mic nights. That's ridiculous. Why is this a big deal?"

Stiles opened his mouth, only to close it again. And, in true Stiles fashion, opened it once more. "I don't know. Sometimes I just...I really don't know that much about you." He shrugged. "I don't like it."

"You know I can play guitar, Stiles. I told you I could play guitar. You've seen the guitar that I own. You fancy yourself a boy detective—I'm pretty sure you'd already put this one together."

"Okay, I fancy myself a full-grown man detective," he snarked, opting for sarcastic over scandalized, though admittedly not by a wide margin. "And I did figure out the guitar thing—thank you for the vote of confidence. But you didn't tell me you could sing. Especially not...like that. And you won't tell me why you don't perform. I mean, you know pretty much everything about me. I tell you like...everything. Like an alarming amount of stuff. Werewolves, Lydia, my dad—you are well-versed in my entire deal, and I've got bupkis on you."

"Did you just say 'bupkis'?"

"You know what that is?" he barreled on. "That's an inequitable division of trust—that's what that is."

Charlie blinked. "Pardon?"

"You heard me!" Stiles exclaimed. Loudly. Emphatically. And with a spastic hand flourish. "You know more about me than I know about you. And frankly I think it's having a negative impact on this—" he gestured frantically back and forth between them "—on this friendship-relationship-team dynamic thing."

Charlie quirked a single eyebrow. "So your friendship philosophy is 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'? Real mature. Can we drop this, please?"

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'. "This is a line in the sand. I demand context. And I'm sure you're thinking 'oh, he'll just forget', but bear in mind that I am persistent, and, if need be, incredibly annoying."

"Pretty sure you're beyond the scope of 'if need be'," Charlie muttered darkly.

"I heard that. Rude but fair."

Stiles then proceeded to stare at her, eyes wide and unblinking with all the intensity of a cartoon mouse. They felt like two spotlights, bright and hot, turned directly on her. Her palms began to sweat. Ugh, why did he insist on making her feel so seen. He'd already clambered over at least one wall. Why couldn't he content himself with that? Apparently he insisted on kicking down the rest. Charlie sat down and pulled her knees to her chest, curling up. Stiles's determination whittled her defenses down to 'hedgehog'. Oh so goddamn dignified. "Look, nobody likes feeling exposed, okay?" she muttered. "It's not fun."

Stiles nodded slowly, taking in her words but not fully understanding them. "What does that mean?"

"It means when I play the filter is gone," she grumbled. He sat down next to her, moving quietly for once. He seemed afraid to spook her. Which she would find patronizing had it not been totally justified based on her previous behavior. Charlie wasn't one for giving up on righteous indignation, but she had to let this one go. Self-awareness could be a bitch sometimes. She glanced over at him. His eyes softened from their hungry, demanding curiosity to something more intimate. It didn't make her more comfortable, though it probably should have. It would for any reasonable person.

"I feel vulnerable, okay," she admitted. "People don't like it when other people read their diaries. I don't like it when people see me play. Everything's peeled away and it's just me. I'm just kinda...naked. And when I'm naked, shockingly, I'd rather not be on display. Naked isn't for hipster coffee shops. Naked is for behind closed doors."

Stiles cleared his throat. It came out as a cross between a cough and a gulp—like he swallowed his tongue only to decide that wasn't quite the best of ideas and heimlich it back out of his esophagus. Charlie peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. She'd seen Stiles uncomfortable before, in a number of different ways. Awkwardness, embarrassment, anxiety—he'd worn it all with a flushed face that might as well make him a human mood ring. But now the pink that usually relegated itself to just above his shirt collar, the tips of his ears, and, in more dire circumstances, the odd splotch on his cheeks, had overtaken him entirely. His face shone the tomato red of a half-marathon. That combined with the foggy, wistful look behind his eyes...she'd been friends with enough guys over the years to recognize that look. "Noooo," she groaned. "Tell me you're not."

Stiles exhaled a half-laugh and scratched at his neck. The collar shifted to reveal even more red. "I'm not what?"

"That you're not thinking about what I think you're thinking about."

He coughed again, and when he spoke his voice was pitched to helium-induced absurdity. "Wh—what am I thinking about?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with a dead-eyed stare. "I did not cave to your need for an emotional quid pro quo for you to make your 'naked lady' face."

His spine straightened abruptly enough to give him whiplash. His mouth dropped open to protest, but that traitorous complexion of his graduated all the way up to vermilion. "I—you!" His jaw flapped with the words he couldn't find. When he did find them, the flapping was no more coordinated. "I'm not making that face! That's not a face I make. Especially not now, talking to you. There's no reason—I mean, gross!"

Charlie didn't think there was enough space left between her hairline and eyebrows to accommodate it, but they managed to hitch up even further. "Gross?" she demanded. "I'm gross? Wow, way to overcorrect, Stilinski."

"Not gross," he stammered. "It's inappropriate. Totally inappropriate. Which is why I wasn't thinking about you—that. I don't even know what you're talking about. What are you talking about—because guess who doesn't know? Me! I've got no idea." One of his eyes began to twitch inside its socket. His fingers fidgeted. His toes tapped. He jumped to his feet. "I'm gonna leave."

In the time it took Charlie to stand up herself, he had already made it to the door. "Stiles!"

"Bye bye now," he shouted, one hand waving a frantic goodbye over his shoulder while the other pawed at the doorknob. "I'm just gonna go feed myself to the incinerator!"

"So if I say 'naked' enough times you'll just disappear? Is this like a reverse Beetlejuice thing? Because that can work for me—I can use that."

He was already halfway through the door. "Warmest regards!"

"Stiles!"

The door slammed shut between them and Charlie was left staring at the rectangular plank. What the fuck had just happened? The silence stretched from one second into two, then three, then fifteen. Finally, the bubble of pressure in her chest popped. Laughter poured out, frenzied and bright. It spilled until she didn't have enough air to keep her upright. She doubled over, shaking with giggles.

As the laughter subsided, she found herself lighter. Her head was easier to lift, her eyelids no longer weighted. She was surprised by it—that this was all it took. The pall cast by yesterday's events could be, if not fully lifted, at least brightened by some tiny nugget of normality. She looked up at the clock. Its hands inched closer to the end of fifth period. She should probably head back.

Charlie stowed the guitar among the other instruments and slipped out the door. Her suppressed grin felt both comfortable and foreign, like if, after a period of disuse, the muscles of her face were re-learning the expression. But once prompted, they were a quick study. Her smiles had always come easily enough. The corners of her lips twitched into a position that felt familiar. That is, until she rounded the corner and it was struck from her face with the abruptness of a thunderclap.

"Hey."

'Meek' had never been a word Charlie would use to describe Lydia's voice, but today it landed unnervingly close to the mark. The girl stood alone in the hall, leaning against the lockers just clear of Mr. Allen's classroom. Her hands held no hall pass or phone to pass the time. This should probably have been the point where Charlie started asking questions. What do you want? What are you doing here? What do you expect from me? The usual font of words dried up, leaving her cotton-mouthed and monosyllabic. "Hey."

The redhead flicked a curl over her shoulder, but the move read more self-conscious than cocky. "I missed you at lunch today."

"Yeah, everybody did," Charlie replied. "I didn't eat in the cafeteria."

"I know."

Charlie shoved her balled-up hands into her jacket pockets. Lydia looked at her with expectation, and maybe a bit of apprehension. Like she was waiting for Charlie to say something. Like something was about to be unleashed. But what was there to say? Her silence may have been worse. While Lydia's eyes had begun steeled and wary, the longer the quiet between them dragged on, the more the metal seemed to melt. The hardened barrier hid something sad. Lydia cleared her throat and shifted in place, heels clacking in the empty hall. "I like your shoes."

Charlie's gaze tracked downwards. Converse, white at one point but now a mottled grey-green from asphalt and grass stains. Last week Lydia declared them 'trash compactor rejects'. She looked back at the redhead, eyes questioning. "Thanks."

Lydia huffed and shifted again, this time re-adjusting her purse on her shoulder. One of her usual moves when she felt people were wasting her time. "So," she demanded primly. "Do you want to hang out tonight?"

Charlie shook her head. "I don't think I can."

Lydia nodded. Quick and sharp, with the precision of a scalpel. "Tomorrow, then?"

Charlie took a step back to observe the whole of her. The knuckles grasping her bag were tense and white. Her pursed lips masked a slight wobble. Her eye makeup, while pristine, was heavier than the norm. She looked...affected. A week ago Charlie wouldn't have thought that possible. Slowly, she returned Lydia's nod.

"Yeah. I think I can do tomorrow."

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Okay, not totally satisfied with that ending and will likely edit it some more tomorrow (finding the 800 typos I missed even though i read this like 9 times). For now I just need it out in the world. Hope you enjoyed, and that the filler wasn't too disappointing after the wait. I shall sleep now. Now-ish. Omg I'm going to drink so much coffee tomorrow.

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SOUNDTRACK (So it's midnight and this is gonna be a bit half-assed so I'll probably update it later. They're all going to be kind of slow/sleepy to reflect how emotionally exhausted Charlie is.)

Transition from part one to part two. Charlie sees the the text from Allison and sits waiting for her on the bleachers.

-~-~-~-~-"Hold Out" - Mas Ysa

The song that Charlie sings.

-~-~-~-~-"Drinking Song" - Haley Heynderickx

Charlie and Lydia see each other outside History class. End chapter.

-~-~-~-~-"Stay" - Sharon Van Etten