Black Water ↠ Stiles Stilinski [Teen Wolf, Vol. One]

Falling On The Grenade

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.

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Chapter Thirteen - Falling On The Grenade

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Family portraits were an uncomfortable thing to look at. Possibly because few, if any, of those within the portrait were there by their own free will. Some poor, unsuspecting teenager was shoved between their racist grandpa and anti-vaxxer Aunt Karen while wearing a matching hideous sweater and some man behind the camera with vacant eyes and a sneer shouted 'cheese!'. And yes, everybody in those photos wore a smile, but their eyes screamed, 'help me, I've been kidnapped—please call the police'. This thought, though seemingly random, provided important context the scene unfolding before her. Because though Charlie had seen her fair share of grimaces set against a generic blue background, no photo could be more pained than the setup of that living room.

Scott McCall sat on the plush couch opposite the doorway to the living room, Allison at his side. Charlie knew the pair of them had set up a 'study' date—quotation marks necessary—but its expiration date was set for over an hour ago. They sat side by side, holding hands with a white-knuckled grip and eyes directed towards the carpet as toes tapped nervously. This, combined with Allison's flaming cheeks, added up to one simple explanation. The happy couple had been caught in the throes of 'studying'. Perhaps not 'final exam' level 'studying', but enough to inspire Mr. Argent's 'I'm fifteen seconds from getting my shotgun' face.

Mr. Argent and his fixed scowl sat in the armchair facing the couch, seemingly indifferent to Charlie's arrival. As she cleared her throat, his eyes remained trained on Scott in an attempt to incinerate the boy through the sheer force of his gaze. Next to him, perched on the armrest, was a woman with a light olive-toned complexion, shoulder length dirty blonde hair, and green eyes. Of those participating in the uneasy performance art before Charlie, she was the only one who seemingly noticed her entrance. Her face was the only one not marred by intense embarrassment and/or rage. She cocked an eyebrow as she scanned Charlie from head to toe in appraisal. So this was Aunt Kate. Yet another Argent to judge and dislike her. Huzzah.

Charlie made a move to shove her hands in her pockets, only to be reminded that she didn't have any at the moment, and folded them across her chest instead. "So who's pregnant?" she demanded, nerves bringing out the loud sarcasm in her tone like fish brings out the fruity tones in white wine. "Or am I reading the room wrong?"

The spell holding the room in its awkward suspension broke suddenly and all heads snapped in her direction. Finding Charlie standing there, Scott's face maintained its terror while Allison's morphed into an expression of relief. Mr. Argent's face, as per usual, held the smugness of someone who expected to be displeased by her presence, and whose expectations were vindicated by Charlie's dumbass behavior. Yes, Charlie had succeeded in being terribly predictable, rendering both Donald's and Mel's encouragement moot inside of three minutes. The only unexpected contribution came from Allison's aunt Kate. Rather than putting forwards a stoic stare or nose wrinkled in disapproval, the woman let out a loud snort of laughter.

"Charlie!" Allison breathed her name like a sigh. Releasing Scott's hand, she pushed herself off the sofa and crossed the room in three bounding steps. Her arms went around Charlie's neck, pulling her into a tight hug.

"Jeeze, Allison," Charlie muttered, awkwardly patting the girl on the back. "Scott's like...right there. Keep it in your pants. Or at least buy me dinner first."