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

Sunday Funday

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 Eight - Sunday Funday

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Two figures stood over her. One brunette, wide brown eyes staring into the depths of the engine with interest and maybe even a touch of awe. The other—her reddish locks shining like the most searing flames of hell—lacked any such investment in the task at hand. And more than that, she lacked the patience. The toe of her no doubt designer shoe tapped against the pavement with an almost absurd pace, the sound every so often accompanied by a bereft sigh.

"Can you hurry it up, please?"

Charlie stood stooped over the chrome guts of her Impala, up to her elbows in some noxious black mixture of oil and grease. The morning sun hit the back of her neck, causing beads of sweat to slide down the collar of her flannel shirt despite the crisp weather. The view of the inner workings was obscured by two shadows. As to how Charlie found her work being scrutinized by these two other girls, she was somewhat at a loss. Her plans for this particular Sunday had taken a sharp left turn with the 10:00 am ringing of her doorbell. Wiping the sleep out of her eyes, she had stumbled down those rickety stairs to the front door, still clad in sweatpants printed with small UFOs and more hair hanging loose from her bun than was left in it. And stood on the other side? Allison and Lydia, perfectly dressed and smiling more brightly than the morning sun. Allison at least had the decency to look confused by Charlie's complete unawareness of their 'breakfast plans'. Lydia on the other hand had simply strode through saying something about pancakes.

The post-game play-by-play. It was something of a tradition in the Oswin family household. Every morning after a big game, Charlie and her dad would munch on waffles and discuss its finer elements—deploring bad calls by the referees, complaining about plays blocked or shots missed, and reenacting various scenarios with the salt and pepper shakers. These days, though, the post game play-by-play had taken a bit of a different structure than those of days past.

This time around, the after-action report had nothing to do with sports whatsoever. The first of it came shortly after Charlie arrived home from the game. A phone call from Allison informed her of the extremely unsurprising news that the girl had kissed Scott in the boy's locker room. No details were spared, delving into how creepy the locker room was at night, how adorable and nervous Scott was, just how fun kissing Scott turned out to be. Allison firmly denied that he used too much tongue, and when discussing their plans later that week her tone even bordered on wistful. All the gushing led Charlie to wonder whether or not Papa Argent would be scheduling a second attempt to introduce Scott to the front bumper of his car.

The closest Charlie actually got to talking about the game itself was the subsequent call from Lydia, most of which was spent grumbling about Jackson having sulked his way through their victory party. Apparently Scott's end-of-game performance sent him into somewhat of a tizzy, and now he and his shellacked hair had slid neatly into the male posturing/overcompensation phase. This involved massive amounts of complaining, a renewal of accusations of steroid use, and obsessive viewings of old lacrosse game footage to 'regain his edge'. What edge he had to lose in the first place, Charlie really couldn't say.

As for the post-game breakfast, no salt and pepper shaker reenactments were held. Charlie zombie-walked her way through one-handedly making chocolate chip pancakes—unwilling to relinquish her mug of coffee for even a moment—as Allison and Lydia chatted idly. Three cups made their way down her throat before she flipped the pancakes onto a set of plates, setting them down next to a can of whipped cream. By the time she sat down the conversation had shifted to the post-game get together—no doubt to subtly emphasize just how much she had missed out on. But Charlie's fuzzy, caffeine-deprived brain had found itself distracted by something other than her misspent youth: the headlines of that morning's paper.