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

I'll Tell You No Lies

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 24 - I'll Tell You No Lies

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There was a certain type of peace to be found in helplessness. Heart-pounding panic and anxious hand wringing could only be sustained for so long. Typically when dropped into a crisis, a brain—or Charlie's brain, at least—threw itself into mental calisthenics. Tonight, despite its rarified circumstances, was no different. A series of simulations played out in her head, each concluding in various levels of disaster and subsequently dismissed. Make another molotov cocktail and face the alpha down? Rejected. Break the windows, hope the two story fall didn't shatter something important, and make a dash for it? Rejected. Toss Jackson into the hallway as a distraction and bolt? Tempting, but rejected. Each simulation cost her, and they stacked up until Charlie found herself crushed by exhaustion. But that exhaustion—that knowledge that no, in this moment she had nothing to offer—lifted a different type of burden from her shoulders. She could sit in the chemistry room and not hyperventilate. She could sit in a hospital waiting room with dry eyes. Too tired to breathe, too tired to cry. She could be still.

The concrete was chilly against Charlie's back. She sat at the rear of the classroom, pressed close to the wall, knees under her chin and bare arms wrapped around her legs. Like all the other rooms of Beacon Hills High, Mr. Harris's class came with its very own set of windows. Shockingly, the locked door, chair braced below its handle, and 50,000 or so volts set to fry anything that dared touch that handle did little to quash the cold sense of vulnerability filling her from toe to cranium. In this regard, her stillness served her well. Quiet drew less attention, it made you less of a target. While she'd like to say that this placidity functioned as part of her grand plan for survival, no reasoning or intent stood behind it. This was simply how her body responded to trauma. Once action faded and the adrenaline ceased its singing, she powered down like a defective robot. One drawback to tonight's static equilibrium? This time she wasn't alone in the room.

"I—I don't understand how this could happen."

The panicked murmur came from several yards off. The others settled at the far wall of the classroom. Allison perched on a counter, legs folded beneath her. Her hands were clasped together, resting against her lips. The tears had stopped falling, but her eyes were still red and puffy. Jackson stood next to her, almost calm, while Lydia huddled to his other side. Even Stiles was only a few feet off from them, leaning silently against the wall. They seemed to gravitate together. It was only natural, seeking comfort in company. But Charlie had isolated herself from them. She quarantined her damage.

Charlie was not good with people. Tonight had magnified that hole in her social repertoire tenfold. Allison's gaze flicked her way a few times, almost beseechingly. The warm brown eyes begged for encouraging words, for consolation. But Charlie couldn't offer it. She didn't know how. Sugar, spice, and everything nice didn't figure into her arsenal. No longer armed with sarcastic asides and witty rejoinders, she had nothing to offer. So she stayed seated while Jackson grasped Allison's shaking hands.

"What is this?" Allison choked out. "Why is Derek trying to kill us, why is...why is any of this happening? It doesn't make any sense."

More questions. Or the same question, phrased differently. The unanswerable question. Charlie tucked her chin in closer, hiding the majority of her face—and the guilt to wore—behind her knees. Her eyes peeked right over the top and quickly scanned the others. Fear had transformed them into different versions of themselves. Allison twitched with such anxiety her own skin barely held her together. Lydia stood quiet, still, and small, clutching the elbow of Jackson's jacket. Her submissiveness projected a distorted picture of the girl, like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. The image left Charlie uneasy. Yet somehow, Lydia's transformation was not the most pronounced. Jackson was being...nice. He leaned in towards Allison, he whispered kindnesses, he was still cupping her trembling hands in his. Alarm bells rang so loudly in Charlie's head they almost convinced her the building was on fire. And given the suspicious, insecure shadow in funhouse Lydia's expression, she heard those bells too.