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

Video Killed The Radio Star

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.

Gif by yesalltheships of tumblr!

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Author's Note: I'M ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE.

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Chapter 14 - Video Killed The Radio Star

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What time was it?

Time had lost all semblance of meaning. Charlie glanced at the lock on the wall behind her. 7:32 p.m., a whopping six minutes since the last time she checked. The flow of time ran sluggishly, the river stagnant and polluted. Lives could be lived between minutes. She was stuck between seconds, clawing her way forward. The hands of the clock seemed to fight any progress, each tick sacrificed reluctantly.

7:32 p.m. on a Sunday. Charlie sat at the blocky, IKEA desk in her room, leaning over her notebook and gazing unseeingly at the page. 7:32 p.m. and she was already in her pajamas—a pair of blue sweatpants and an oversized Star Wars T-shirt. Her hair fell out of her bun in messy chunks, all traces of makeup scrubbed from her face. Hardly her most glamorous moment, but studying for Harris's tests didn't usually invite a red carpet frame of mind. Charlie sighed heavily and tapped her pen against paper. Sixteen chemistry problems down, another thirty-two left before she worked through the text book's entire set. And she would probably still feel unprepared. There was no denying it—Mr. Harris was a dick.

Swearing loudly, Charlie slammed her book shut and chucked her pen on the desk, ignoring it as it rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor. Usually she could power through these things through sheer force of will, but today saw her restless. The ticking of the clock rang especially loud in her ears and the air in her lungs felt dry and stuffy. Her whole body rebelled against the idea of stillness, fingers drumming against every solid surface and knee constantly jumping up and down. This antsiness was probably born of the fact that she basically hadn't left the house since the disastrous Argent dinner. Being stuck behind closed doors had her skin itching, but she stayed put. For Mel.

That weekend had seen Charlie and Mel spending quite a bit of time together. In the short period that passed, a pattern had developed. Charlie would sleep in late, Mel's usual protests never voicing themselves. She'd pad into the kitchen to find the island covered with an artful selection of pastries from the nearby bakery, coffee in the pot, and a carafe of grapefruit juice. Orange juice was conspicuously absent from the spread. They would curl up and read their respective books and/or magazines. Perhaps play a board game. Lunch would pass, Charlie would make dinner, and the evening would conclude with some romantically-inclined movie. Neither of them mentioned the confrontation—things said, yelled, or revealed.

For conversational purposes, the night of the Argent dinner ended as soon as they climbed into Mel's Prius on the way home. Charlie's outburst never happened. But on the broader spectrum of their interactions, the consequences were clear. It was, after all, the primary motivating factor behind their renewed attempts at aunt-niece bonding time. Each genuine smile couched an appraising gaze, one Oswin gauging the other's state of wellbeing.

Letting out a sigh, Charlie stooped to snatch up her pen. It rolled under her desk, forcing her to crawl and face several dust bunnies large enough to be beloved family pets. The light, acoustic guitar playing from her computer speakers was suddenly interrupted by the jangling ring of FaceTime. Charlie sat up suddenly, her head connecting with the hard edge of her desk. Swearing loudly, she scrambled up to her chair to find Donald's finger guns pointing at her, almost judgmentally.