Chapter Text
Stiles isn’t unhappy. Not really.
Evenif he’s not unhappy, that doesn’t mean he’s happy either. In fact, there’s a big gap from what he’s feeling to "happy". No. That’s not right. Gap isn’t the right word. It’s more like a schism. Worse, Stiles has no idea how to bridge the gap. How to close the schism. Maybe it’s not even possible? He’s not unhappy, and he’s not happy. He just - he just is. Exists. Goes through the motions, never really complaining, because there’s no point and it won’t change things anyway.
He’s present, he does his job, he minds his responsibilities, but he doesn’t truly live. Not in the way he used to think he would at the age of 21. Not how he envisioned his future, back when things were still possible. When dreams weren’t just dreams, but promises of a future to come. When said dreams were still within the scope of realism, and not just wisps of smoke that slip out of his hands as soon as he tries to hold on to them. Instead, it’s a pipe dream drifting off, like a lost helium balloon. Just a pinprick in the sky, soon gone for good. There is no point chasing it.
So he doesn’t. Doesn’t chase, doesn’t dwell, doesn’t dream or, worse of all - hope. He just - is.
“Uncle Stiles.”
A small tug on his t-shirt brings him back to the present and out of his downward-spiraling ruminations. Just as well. Trust Vicky to always ground him. In many ways, she’s his saving grace. His anchor.
“What is it, pumpkin?” he asks, ruffling her dark curls affectionately. She doesn’t protest of squirm the way kids usually do. Instead, she leans into it. Like a touch-starved kitten.
“I’m out of paper,” she says, her voice tinged with prideand the tiniest hintof apprehension. The slight lisp onlymakes her more endearing to him. Her bright doe-eyed stare meets his, eagerly awaiting his critique.
Stiles absentmindedly picks up one of her crayons, noting that she’ll soon need of a new set. It’s so worn down her petite hands struggle to hold on to them when she draws. He tosses it up into the air and catches it deftly, his other hand stroking his chin in mock-stern contemplation as he scrutinizes her work through narrow eyes.
“Do you like it?” Vicky inquires breathlessly. Stiles hums, nose crinkling.
“Look, that’s you,” she clarifies, pointing to a stick figure next to a shockingly blue car. Or at least he thinks it’s a car.
“And that’s me,” she adds, indicating the other stick figure, a lopsided triangle-shape in a shocking violet color the only way to identify its supposed gender. Their stick-figure counterpartsare holding hands. The rest of the paper is filled with doodles, rainbows and stars in all manner of colors. The overall effect is somewhat hypnotic.
“It’s a stunning piece of art,” Stiles praises. Vicky preens.
“I don't see your dad here,” he continues, mentally slapping himself when Vicky’s face crumbles, her fringe falling into her eyes as she lowers her head. It needs a cut, Stiles notes. Perhaps he can get Lydia to help with that later this week.
“Daddy’s -” Vicky begins, but the rest of the sentence trails off as a shadow falls over the picnic table they’ve commandeered. The next second an apron with “Bobby’s Market” emblazoned in garish yellow letters lands atop Vicky’s drawing, crumbling it in the process.
“Daddy’s here,” she completes in a barely audible mutter, scooting over on the bench without being asked. Stiles is reminded of a timid rabbit.Predictably, Scott ignores his daughter, dumping onto the bench, face folded in perturbed folds. Stiles hopes the cold shoulder routine is unintentional. That Scott’s simply too exhausted to realize he’s hurting Vicky's feelings. Sadly, he knows better.
If it only happened after grueling shifts at the store, he’d be more inclined to believe his own theory. Sadly, it happens just as much at home. Stiles has breached the topic with Scott on numerous occasions, but it never strikes a positive note. More often than not it leads to yelling and slammed doors which is far from ideal with a kid in the house. So, in a desperate attempt to make up for Scott’s lackluster interest, Stilesgoes out of his way to be the best uncle that ever uncled.
“f*ck,” Scott breathes, lowering his forehead to the rickety tabletop. “f*ck,” he repeats, slightly too loudly drawing attention from a few shoppers on their way into the store. Stiles smiles brightly, giving a friendly wave. They still shake their heads, obviously not impressed.
“Language,” Stiles admonishes. “Also, hello to you, too,” he continues, trying his best to keep the annoyance in his voice to a bare minimum. Scott is oftentimes astonishingly inept at reading people and situations, but he’s usually very tuned in to Stiles’ veiled barbs and sarcasm. Like he has a built-in radar. Today, he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
“Finstock’s in one of his moods,” Scott mutters darkly. “I swear, if we didn’t need the paycheck, I would strangle the man with this very apron.”
Vicky’s eyes bulge, staring at her dad in near horror. Five year olds have a hard time understanding figurative statements. Scott literally doesn’t seem to realize.
“Your dad’s not serious,” Stiles hurries to clarify. Vicky has enough nightmares as it is. There’s no need to add to it.
“Yes I am,” Scott blusters, flipping his middle finger in the direction of the security camera covering the store entry. Stiles knows it’s not working, so it’s an empty threat, yet doesn’t exactly help ease Vicky’s worried face.
“I was this close to pummeling him with cans of honeyed apricots today. They’re on sale, two for the price of one, amazing deal. Horrible product.”
He bangs his head against the table again for emphasis and lurches away, swearing.
“For Christ’s sake, kid! I’ve told you not to leave this sh*t around.”
He flicks the remnants of a red crayon in Vicky’s direction. It bumps into a few others on the way, causing half her pile to cascade to the ground. She quickly disappears underneath the table to retrieve them, and Stiles takes the moment to jerk the apron out from underneath Scott’s resting arms, causing his elbows to crash into the edge. Scott curses colorfully.
“Sorry,” he says flippantly, throwing it over his head so it’s draped across his torso like a polyester breast plate. Sadly, it won’t shield him from either Scott’s mood or the prospect of seven hours of refilling shelves, packing bags and dodging Finstock. Scott glares as Stiles ducks low to say goodbye to Vicky.
“You be good for your dad, okay? I’ll be back later.”
Vicky’s eyes are wet with unshed tears and Stiles’ heart bleeds guilty feelings all over the car park. Reluctantly he gets to his feet, giving Vicky an encouraging smile.
“Can I have the Jeep?”
Scott holds out his hand expectantly when Stiles emerges.
“Can’t you take the bus?” he asks, knowing perfectly well that, no, Scott can’t. Or won’t. “I was planning on meeting up with the others after. There’s a bonfire -”
“Honestly, Stiles. Not that bunch again? What’s the point?” Scott sneers. “They return to college in a few days anyway, and I’m exhausted. Also, I need you to watch Vicky tonight. I have a date.”
Stiles grinds his teeth. He’s losing this argument, and that without even presenting a single counter-point. He could argue it all. But he won’t. Not in front of Vicky. So instead, he simply digs out his keys, hands them over, blows Vicky a kiss and slumps off to face a seven hour shift at Bob’s Market.
It’s not like it can get much worse, anyway.
****
Stiles’ room is his sanctuary.
It’s the only place in the house he truly lets his guard down, especially now dad’s not living here anymore. The moment he moved out the safeness and security of Stiles’ childhood left with him. The house is the same, the wallpaper still faded and the interior hasn’t changed in any significant way. Yet, despite the sameness of the place it somehow feels hollow and colder.Almost as if a chillis slowly creeping in, making its way through cracks, taking root and growing. These days the only thing tethering Stiles is Vicky. She brings a perimeter of warmth wherever she goes, and Stiles tries to stay close, doing his best to keep her safe and happy. His worst fear is that the chill one day will catch up with her.
Ink-stained fingers clutch a cheap ballpoint pen, transforming the once blank page in his lap into an intricate labyrinth of symbols, ribbons and spheres. Stiles has no conscious idea behind it. He just lets the pen do what it wants. If he stops to analyze, which he doesn’t, one might suggest it’s an analogy of his life. It used to promise a well of opportunities, places to visit, people to get to know, themes and topics to explore. A labyrinth of endless possibilities, the road ahead filled with winding roads that all lead to the center where college diplomas, fulfilling jobs and happy endings waited. Instead, Stiles' life has turned into a maze. Not a labyrinth leading him to a fixed goal, but instead a maze of twisting roads, dead ends and traps. No path seem to lead him any nearer his goals. Instead, he’s stuck, feet ensnared in curling wines, always struggling, never moving.
Eventually, Stiles runs out of space. Chewing on the pen, he leans over to his bedside table to grab a pin, then stretches up to tack it to his wall. Every inch is covered in doodles and drawings of varying size, style and complexity. Even his nightstand and bedposts are decorated in red and black sharpie. Melissa had always berated him whenever she caught him in the act. Stiles never really understood what the big deal was. It was his bed. Why shouldn’t he decorate it how he wanted? Maybe she’d planned to sell some of the furniture one day, when he and Scott moved out. She never gave an explanation, just confiscated the pens and shook her head in exasperation. His dad however had simply chuckled, ruffled Stiles’ hair andsnuck him more sharpies.
That was then. Now,it's reduced to nothing but adistant memory. An echo fading fast. A notion best left alone if he wants to avoid dark thoughts and restless nights.
His phone peeps shrilly, piercing the silence. Stiles curses, indistinctly knowing who it’s from. He’s half tempted to ignore it, but after a minute he caves, reading the text with sinking heart and mounting irritation.
Won’t be back till 2morrow. Take care of Vicky.
He’s not surprised. Scott has of late developed a predictable pattern of mindless dates, one-night stands, and copious amounts of alcohol. It’s gotten even worse since dad left, the last parental figure out of sight. It pains Stiles to witness this destructive behavior, but he’s the first to admit he’s reached the point where he can’t muster the energy to confront Scott again. Not for lack of trying. He did that for months, but it never helped any. Quite the opposite in fact. The more Stiles nagged, the worse Scott’s partying got. As soon as Stiles stopped giving a sh*t, it plateaued, which sounds better than it is. He’s still out at least four out of seven days a week, and the days spent at home he’s hungover and miserable. Not exactly a recipe for happy home life.
Stiles sighs, a wave of raw sympathy coursing through him. There’s no denying Scott’s acting like a world class douche, but it’s not like he doesn’t have his reasons. Stiles understands he’s got demons and pain to deal with, and in many ways he’s free to handle that how he pleases. Only, he’s not just Scott, the individual. He’s also Scott, the dad. Sometimes, Stiles wonders if he’s forgotten, or if he’s acutely aware and yet chooses to ignore it, trusting Stiles to pick up the slack. He doesn’t really want to know the answer to that, scared that it’s actually the latter. Regardless, Stiles is reliable as clockwork, always putting Vicky first. In many ways, he’s not helping, but rather enabling Scott. If he stops. If he refuses to pick up his slack, the one really suffering is Vicky, and he can’t bare the thought of that.
Taking care of Vicky isn’t really an issue. Stiles adores her to the moon and back, but it will complicate his morning. Sighing, he sets his alarm to six, factoring in time to get Vicky to the sitter before his shift at Bobby’s start at 7. He’s just burrowed down, ready for bed when the door creaks open. Soon, a bushy-haired silhouette materializes in the doorway.
“Uncle Stiles?”
Vicky’s voice is sleep-muffled, but with a slight tremble. Nightmare, Stiles concludes. He hasn’t heard her scream, but then again, her most intense dreams always seem to be the ones where she wakes up paralyzed and silent.
“Hey, sweetie. Can’t sleep?”
Vicky ventures further into the room, dragging her stuffed bunny behind her by the ears. She shrugs, but doesn’t answer. Which is answer enough in itself.
“Wanna sleep here with me?”
He scoots over, lifting the blanket in invitation. Vicky scampers over and is soon snuggled firmly into the crook of his arm, the rabbit imitating her position in Vicky’s embrace.
“Can you tell me a bedtime story?” she asks timidly. Only her eyes are visibly above the blanket, and they shine with pleas Stiles is unable to turn down.
“Sure. Did you have a particular in mind?”
Of course, he knows the answer.
“Tell me the one about the pen,” she whispers, closing her eyes. Stiles takes a deep breath, and stroking her hair gently he tells the fairy tale story of howVicky's mother met her father. A snippet of her past she’s never experienced, yet cherishes like a treasure. A memory suspended in time. A happier time she’s yearning to be a part of, but is forever lost to her.
Outside a car alarm blears and the distant noise from the corner bar provides a constant blanket of background noise. The world spins madly on, the whole world moving, save from two lost souls tucked safely under a blanket, anchoring each other.
***
“Sit still, honey.”
Lydia’s voice is the epitome of calm patience. It always baffles Stiles to see this side of her, but then again it only seems to materialize whenever Vicky is around. Stiles suspects it’s because she looks exactly like her. Like Allison, and Allison was Lydia’s best friend.
“My nose itches,” Vicky complains, scrunching it like a little rabbit. Lydia hands her a comb with one end resembling a knitting needle.
“Here, use this. Just don’t poke your eye out,” she adds, waggling one perfectly manicured finger in her face. Vicky giggles, going to work on her nose.
Fifteen minutes later, the process is over and Vicky happily escapes the confinement of the barstool and the cape Lydia had wrapped around her.
“Can I play outside?” she asks, and Lydia nods.
“Run along, we’ll be right out.”
She beckons for Stiles to follow her to the tiny kitchen where she proceeds to pull out a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and dig out a packet of cookies.
“She looks tired,” she comments, fetching a tray from the cupboard.
“She had a bad night,” Stiles explains, knowing that Lydia knows what that means. She frowns, loadingup the tray, then sweeps out of the room, gesturing for Stiles to follow.
“Let me guess - Scott’s out again?”
Stiles nods. He holds open the patio door for her, anxiously craning his neck to see where Vicky has gone, but she’s already camped out in the sandbox, mumbling to herself as she constructs lopsided structures.
“I don’t know if I want to hug him or strangle him,” Lydia says, filling Stiles' glass and handing it to him. “I get that he’s hurting, I really do, but this is bordering on neglect. Have you talked to him about this?”
Stiles squirms. “I’ve tried,” he says, knowing that he should probably try harder. Lydia harrumphs.
“I know you have. It’s not your responsibility, Stiles. She’s Scott’s daughter and yet I’d say you’re more of a parent to her than he’s been since the accident.”
“He’s mourning.”
“We’re all mourning,” Lydia hisses. Stiles can see her knuckles turn white as she holds onto her glass just a little too tightly. “It’s been almost a year. In many ways I think it would be better if you did leave. Then he has no choice but to step up.”
“I can’t just do that.”
Stiles’ heart beats unnaturally fast. Just the mention of leaving, gets his pulse racing. It’s what he wants more than anything, and yet the one thing he can’t bring himself to even consider. And not just because of Vicky. There’s also dad.
“Yes, you can.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.”
Lydia smiles that sad smile of hers. The one that always catches Stiles off guard, because it’s so open and vulnerable. Lydia seldom lets anyone see that part of her. Stiles reaches for her hand, entwines their fingers and squeezes. She returns the gesture, returning her gaze to Vicky.
“She looks just like her,” she remarks.
“Yeah.”
There’s not really anything else to say. Vicky looks like a miniature Allison, from the billowing dark hair, the warm eyes, and the dimples. Stiles suspects their likeness is part of why Scott keeps his distance. She’s a constant reminder, tearing his wound open, never allowing it to scab over and heal. It’s why he’s been so lenient with Scott the past year. Taking more and more care of Vicky, allowing him time and space to grieve. Only, it’s not really working.
They sit for a long while, not speaking, simply watching Vicky construct a city of sand. It’s comfortable. They’re comfortable. It’s Lydia who finally breaks the silence.
“I miss her.”
Her voice hitches. Stiles turns to see that her cheeks are tear-stained.
“I know,” he says. It’s pointless but the only thing he has to offer. He feels drained dry, no more emotions left to give. Lydia sniffs, drying her cheeks, seemingly content with his response.
“I miss you, too,” she whispers almost shyly, which honestly is what gets him more than anything. Lydia is never shy about anything, and certainly not him. It’s been months since they broke up, realizing they were more friends than anything else. Stiles has moved on, never once questioning this decision. It throws him that Lydia apparently does.
“Why did we break up again? I’ve forgotten,” Lydia continues, seemingly unaware that Stiles isn’t on the same page. He has no idea what spurred this on. Maybe it was the memories of Allison. Maybe it’s just nostalgia, or the ticking of their inner clocks speeding up as they’re stepping into full adulthood, expectations of family and settling down getting stronger.
When Lydia leans over and kisses him, Stiles doesn’t stop her. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t lean in either, meeting her. Instead, he just sits there, allowing it to happen. It feels nice. Safe. Familiar. In the back of his mind a soft voice whispers an existential question Stiles isn’t ready to face.
Is this enough?
It has to be. Stiles has lost too much, and isn’t willing to lose more. So, he kisses her back.
***
Later, when Vicky has built, destroyed and conquered several sand settlements, they venture inside for a light dinner. After, they settle down to watch Frozen for the umpteenth time. Stiles secretly suspects Lydia loves it as much as Vicky. Just as Elsa decides to let it go, his phone buzzes with a text. He reads it. frowning,unsure how to respond.
“Who’s it from?” Lydia mouths over Vicky’s head so not to disturb her concentration as she mouths along to the song. Stiles simply holds up his phone, letting her read it for herself.
“You should go," she whispers. "I can take care of Vicky for tonight. She can stay the night, too.”
Stiles shakes his head. Lydia sighs.
“You deserve a night off, Stiles,” she urges. After a bit of prodding he relents, texts back and gets up, kissing Vicky’s forehead. She swats him away.
“You’re blocking Elsa! This is the best part.”
“Sorry, honey. I’ll be back later, okay. Be good for aunt Lydia.”
“Honestly, she can stay. You don’t have to -.”
Lydia trails off, reading Stiles’ expression with ease. “I get it,” she says, smiling sadly. Vicky seems more cheerful today, but still looks drawn and tired. The nightmares have grown steadily worse lately. Stiles is hesitant to remove the only constant point in her life - her house and Stiles’ presence.
“I’ll drive her back in a few hours and stay until you get back,” Lydia whispers. Stiles nods. Vicky will be okay for a few hours. He leaves with a small wave, a smile on his face.
*****
Stiles is drunk. Not sloshed in the three-sheets-to-the-wind kind of inebriation, but more the pleasantly buzzed kind. Mellow enough that the edges are gone and his constant worry pushed to the back of his mind, and yet miles away from likely-to-dance-half-naked-on-the-bar-Coyote-Ugly-style. He did that once. Cora loves to remind him at inopportune times. She also claims to have the video to prove it. It’s a scary notion and reason alone to keep on her good side.
Stiles smiles to himself. Lydia is right. He needs this. Needs a reprieve. Lydia has always been the smart one after all.
He’s sitting on a log, sand curling between his toes and a bonfire warming the back of his washed-out hoodie. He’s nursing a beer watching Cora trying her best to master drunk night-surfing. She’s surprisingly good, given that she’s at least three levels drunker than he is. Then again, she grew up on the beach, surfing every day with her older siblings. If Stiles had such privilege he’d probably be a better surfer, too. Instead, he’s just passable. Not that he has much time to spare for it anyway, and with Cora off to college most of the year, there’s not all that many left to surf with. Solo surfing really isn’t his thing.
“Get out here, scaredy-cat!” Cora hollers.
Stiles can see her open her mouth again, probably to shout out something incredibly indecent if he knows her right, and after so many years he feels he can safely say he does. Instead, she’s swallowed by a wayward wave, pulled under with a shrill yelp. Her entourage guffaws and Stiles shakes his head. He’ll miss her when she leaves. It’s been good having her back this summer, even if he hasn’t managed to spend nearly as much time with her as he’s wanted to. Between his job, taking care of Vicky and Scott’s volatile moods, time has run out much too quickly.
Stiles curses when a wet towel smacks him in the face. Before he can extract himself from it, Cora flings herself into his lap, wet and gasping, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Did you see?” she crows.
“Yep. Saw you crash and burn. Pathetic.”
Cora snorts, flicking Stiles’ ear. “You own the patent to Pathetic, Stilinski. I wouldn’t get too co*cky if I were you.”
“Touche,” Stiles retorts, because she’s right. He’s the most patheticf*cker here. The one who will be left behind in just a few days when they all leave for school. For frat houses, endless parties, hook-ups, and, providing there’s time, some actual learning. In turn, he can look forward to an endless line of dull shifts at Bobby’s Market solely to earn enough money to keep the house and pay for his dad’s care, and the rest he’ll dedicate to taking care of Vicky so she isn’t snatched away by Child Protection Services until Scott gets his act together.
“You could come with me.”
It’s almost as if Cora can read his mind. Can detect the depressive content of his life, and wants to make it better. Stiles laughs mirthlessly. Cora does this every semester. Like clockwork she launches into her get-Stiles-to-leave campaign the day before she departs. As if she hopes the tight deadline will spur spontaneity on his part.
“I couldn’t,” he replies, tone wistful.
“You could,” Cora argues, “you just chooses not to. Not the same thing. f*cking Scott,” she adds as an afterthought. The word ‘Scott’ is hissed out as if the syllabus is poisonous on her tongue. They’ve never really gotten along, not even back when things were good. Stiles never really understood why. He’s not sure even they know anymore. Perhaps they never did.
“Same, same but different,” Stiles quips, knowing how much that saying grates on her. She answers by dumping a generous handful of sand down his shirt.
“Sand, sand but different,” she cackles, pulling him down with her into a messy tangle of limbs.
“I’m gonna miss you,” Stiles admits when their laughter has died down, and the seriousness of both the moment and Cora’s impending departure, really hits them.
“I know. I’ll miss you, too.”
She pauses, fiddling with the multitude of braided bracelets on her left arm. The one in faded blue Stiles made last summer. He roots around in his shorts’ pocket and hands her a small paper bag. Cora accepts it, the soft smile on her face something he’ll keep with him in the weeks to come, like a cherished ray of sunshine.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, slipping the new bracelet on, admiring the fluorescent yellow band.
“I’m not sure that’s the right choice of words,” Stiles grins. “It’s hideous, but unforgettable,” he clarifies, eliciting a bark of laughter.
“So, it’s meant to remind me of you, then?” Cora winks, or tries to anyway. She’s just a touch too drunk to manage it with any level of finesse and sass. In fact, she looks slightly deranged.
“Exactly. Minus the hideous part. It will light up your life - literally,” he adds. “It glows in the dark.”
“Thanks.” She’s running an unsteady hand over the leather cords, familiarizing it, before abruptly staggering to her feet.
“Come on, Stilinski. Take me home!”
Stiles waves goodbye to the other people scattered around the bonfire and trails after Cora who’s already halfway to the cars. He steers her away from her pickup, plucking her keys out of her back pocket. She protests half-heartedly while Stiles calls them an Uber.
“I need the car tomorrow,” she wines when they’re propped up against each other in the backseat of an old Honda. “It’s taking me back to school.”
“You’re loaded, you can afford a taxi. Or an Uber. Don’t be a baby. Your trust fund is bigger than my house.”
She swats him, but doesn’t argue. It’s true, though. The Hales are filthy rich. Cora’s parents aren’t home much these days, so the large beach-side villa is mostly unoccupied now that Cora’s at college. Laura and Derek moved out long ago. Stiles has no idea what they do now. He hardly sees Cora as it is, and when they get together her siblings somehow never come up. Stiles doesn’t even feel like he knows Laura at all. She’s the oldest and was never really around much when they were younger, anyway. Derek sometimes came surfing, but mostly stuck to himself. When Stiles pictures Derek in his mind, it’s always with a book in his hands. It’s fitting that he ended up an author.
“You’ll come see me off, right?” Cora slurs sleepily.
“Of course.”
“Good. I kinda expected Scott to come up with something to prevent it. He’s such a bag of dicks these days,” she adds, eyes narrowed.
“You always thought he was a bag of dicks,” says Stiles quietly. Cora pokes her tongue out.
“Not true. I used to think he was a dick. Singular.”
Stiles sighs then shrugs. It’s true enough. Cora and Scott never really clicked and the animosity somehow only grew with time. They shared a lot of classes in high school, and during freshman year Cora and Stiles became fast friends. Scott always tagged along, albeit a bit grumpily. It had always been Scott and Stiles, this unbreakable duo, and perhaps Scott was jealous, although he didn’t have any reason to. It wasn’t like Stiles dumped him to hang out with Cora. Scott was always included. Stiles has never figured out exactly what spurred Scott's dislike for Cora, but it extended to her entire family so perhaps it was the wealth. By comparison, Stiles and Scott live in squalor. Cora never made an issue of that, never mentioned it or rubbed it in. She still drove a fancy car, and her clothes were cool and expensive, but that never mattered to Stiles. She was a cool surfer-chick with lots of sass, she was fun and she got all his lame jokes. As an added bonus, she was also into art even if she sucked at it.
It got better once Allison started school in sophom*ore year. Scott feel in love at first sight, and Stiles will freely admit that their love story was as cute as it was epic. Of course, that epic romance turned lifetime movie with Allison’s pregnancy at 16 and tragedy with her death at 20. Now, Scott is perpetually stuck in a dark noir drama specked with too much booze and destructive behavior.
“Scott’s on first shift tomorrow, so he’s at work. I’ll bring Vicky if that’s okay?”
Cora grins lopsidedly.
“That’s more than okay. I can’t go back without a kiss from my good luck charm.”
Stiles stares out the back window as the car drives away from the huge two-story mansion, Cora fumbling with her keys at the main door, a weird fluttering sensation in his stomach. Almost as if he can sense that something’s in the air.
He quickly pushes that notion to the back of his mind. None of his wishes, prayers and hopes the last couple of years have come close to true. Why should it start now?
***
“I’m gonna miss this bundle of cuteness!” Cora exclaims, burrowing her face in Vicky’s black waves of hair, blowing raspberries. Vicky squeals in delight.
“You’re so small and cuddly, I want you to be my new teddybear. I think I can fit you in my suitcase. If I fold you neatly in half, I’m sure I can squeeze you in.”
She reaches for her luridly green suitcase. Vicky protests heatedly.
“I don’t fold!” she exclaims, hands on her sides, one hip tilted to the right. Stiles decides she’s spending way too much time with Lydia. He’s starting to see her in some of the kid’s mannerisms.
“You sure?” Cora fakes surprise, surveying the girl from head to toe, looking pensive. “Here, let me try.”
She grabs for Vicky, who immediately runs off down the parking lot, peels of laughter trailing after her.
“You’re good with her,” Stiles remarks. “She’ll miss your special brand of crazy. I’ll miss your special brand of crazy.”
“I know,” Cora says co*ckily, winking. Her winking-skills are much improved by sobriety.
“I repeat my invitation, Stiles. You’re welcome to come visit. I can totally get you a room for free at one of the frat houses. I’ll even spring for the bus ticket if I have to.”
Stiles just glares at her, and she throws her hands up. “Fine! Just know that the offer stands until the end of days. Now," she says, clapping her hands excitedly, "it’s time for my parting gifts to you.”
Before Stiles can protests, she reaches inside her bag, pulling out a massive box wrapped in all the colors of the rainbow and then some. It has the biggest bow ever on top. From behind a black Mercedes, Vicky’s head emerges, practically smelling presents in the air, like a well-trained St.Bernhard’s.
“Is that for me?” she inquires almost shyly. Cora pretends to ponder the question with much ado. Vicky’s jumping up and down on the spot, ants in her pants and anticipation oozing from every pore.
“No, it’s for Stiles.”
Vicky’s face falls, but she recovers quickly. “That’s fair,”she says matter-of-fact. “Uncle Stiles is always sad. He needs something to cheer him up.”
The words cut like a razor, through Stiles’ skin, neatly severing his ribs and plunges into his heart. From the words of drunks and kids. That’s where they say hard truths often comes. In that case, Stiles is cursed, surrounded as he is most of thetime with both.
“I’m just kidding. Of course, it's for you!”
Cora spins back to Vicky, brandishing the packet with a flourish. Vicky staggers slightly as she accepts, dropping down on the ground without consideration of the dirt. She tears into the wrapping with abandon.
“I have another gift for Uncle Stiles,” Cora continues conversationally. Stiles freezes.
“I don’t need gifts.”
Cora’s silent but the roll of her eyesis somehow deafening.
“I say there’s a great need. Humongous, in fact. Besides,” she adds, grinning. “I didn’t get you anything new or expensive, which should count for something. I’m all too familiar with your absurdly strict rules about “charity”.
She adds the air quotes and schools her tone in a somewhat near imitation of him.
“We’ve debated this before. I stand firm in my belief.” Stiles crosses his arms, ready to fight Cora on whatever silly thing she’s deemed vital to his life. It’s usually frivolous and exceedingly expensive. To his surprise, she simply hands him a key.
“It’s to the gate at the back of the house,” she explains. “I’ve taken the liberty of properly prepping that longboard you still got stashed at our house. You surf way too seldom if that just sits there gathering dust. And - “ she adds, waggling a finger in his face, effectively squashing any protest building. “I did all the work myself,” she explains. “No paid expert, no expensive waxes or anything. Just labor and love.”
She sighs, clasping his shoulder. “Just promise me you’ll get out there more. I find it clears the mind.” She smiles. “I know you love surfing, and that’s like the one good thing about being stuck here. The waves are awesome, all year.”
She puts the key in the pocket of his hoodie jacket when Stiles makes no move to accept it. When she drives off, leaning on the horn until she’s out of sight, Stiles stands there waving, one hand around Vicky’s shoulders and the other clasping the small brass key tightly. The moment feels significant.
Then Finstock calls, breaking the enchantment, demanding Stiles cover for Hernandez, and just like that it’s nothing but another Thursday.
