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

The A-Team

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 19 - The A-Team

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Charlie didn't pretend to be a neat person. Piles of laundry were known to accrue. Dishes took up residence in the sink for questionable amounts of time. The odd tupperware abandoned in the back of the fridge may or may not have spawned their own civilizations once or twice. Chaos had taken easy advantage of a two-person household that put in a lot of overtime. But where her external surroundings might bear a passing resemblance to a Black Friday Walmart, her brain had the order of The Container Store in the early spring.

Compartmentalization was great. Charlie had an accountant's office worth of filing cabinets in her brain. Each drawer belonged to a city, each file in that drawer to a person who lived their. Most were locked. The only one left open was Donald's—he made a habit of being her exception. The system was flawed but effective. It made it easy to move on and move forward. Yup, compartmentalization was great. Until two drawers opened simultaneously, the papers got all out of order, and nothing made any freaking sense.

Stiles was meeting Donald, someone was walking around The Container Store mixing the red pens with the blue pens, sticking wrapping paper in the stationary section, and she did not care for it.

Bright yellow rubber gloves covered Charlie's arms from fingertip to elbow. She had originally intended to scrub the kitchen sink, but somehow ended up vacuuming the living room carpet. Priorities were muddled. The apartment wasn't even messy. Sure, Mel wouldn't be renting out the space to Better Homes & Gardens, but it possessed a refined simplicity that even Charlie couldn't utterly lay waste to. Elegance was her aunt's close personal friend. The very worst Mel managed to accomplish was a vaguely dusty windowsill. On top of that, Charlie didn't need to clean up for Stiles—she had seen his house. Twice. Nothing remotely intimidating or particularly neat about it. But she grabbed that swiffer pad anyway.

Why did she agree to this? As fun as confronting people could be, avoiding confrontation counted among Charlie's most treasured skills. Dragging this out till next Thursday could have been easy. One day is what she managed to buy herself. A measly fourteen hours to be exact. And all that added up to her 'Donald universe' crashing into her 'Beacon Hills universe' in....fifteen minutes.

Shit.

The doorbell came as a surprise. Stiles had more of a 'roll up fifteen minutes late in the midst of a panic' than an 'appear for appointments early and expect people to keep to the schedule' type vibe. Swearing loudly, she stripped off the rubber gloves and shoved them and the swiffer pad beneath a couch cushion. The vacuum cleaner was stowed hastily, hopefully most of her anxiety with it. The doorbell rang once more before she could reach it, judgemental tones occupying its obnoxious clang. Her lips wanted to frown, but were too strongly set in an expression of casual unconcern.

Exhaling sharply through her nose, Charlie pressed the button opening the building's front door. Her lungs stilled as she waited. Welp, here went nothing. Or everything.

Stiles's footsteps dragged on the way to her second floor apartment. His knock at the door was hesitant. "Uh, Charlie?" he asked, his voice faltering. "This is your place, right? Charlie?"

Charlie yanked the door open, revealing a Stiles whose eyes sat as fidgety in their sockets as hers did. She breathed again, filling her lungs solely for the purpose that she might reply. "Yeah, it's my place," she answered. "Your GPS did not steer you wrong."