my personal devil in prada // lydia martin

Charlie Stuart: certified fifth wheeler.

"So let me get this straight. Your boss, who isn't actually the alpha, is still actually really fucking creepy?" I ask Scott.

He's been getting us up to speed on what had happened yesterday while Stiles was crashing my car (which I still haven't forgiven him for). Apparently, Derek was going to kill Jackson – can't really blame him there – until Scott intervened. But before they could actually fight, Kate and some other hunters came and shot up the house with wolfsbane bullets. Scott barely managed to get out alive, and was dying in the forest. Enter the weird-ass boss (Deaton, I think) who carried him out of the preserve and to his clinic.

There, he proceeded to tend to Scott's wounds from the bullets because that's such a normal thing to do. Then our favourite alpha came and tried to kidnap – yes, kidnap – Scott, but couldn't because Mr. Creepy Bossman's clinic is built from mountain ash wood. Totally normal.

"Yeah. But I think he was just trying to help."

I nodded my head, sure he wanted to help, but something still wasn't quite right.

"Okay, maybe. But consider this: his first instinct when he just-so-happens to stumble across his dying employee is not to call for the police, or to take you to the hospital, but to patch you up himself? It doesn't make any sense."

As I talked, Scott had pulled open his desk drawer and began to rifle through it, fingering through the scraps of paper. He then turns to me,

"Yeah, but what if he knows knows, he wouldn't have called the police then."

"But if does know know, then why hasn't he been helping or doing anything about the situation?" Stiles spins on the desk chair, pointing over at me.

"Maybe he doesn't want to get involved?" Scott says over his shoulder.

"Yeah, but why?" I persist.

"I don't know!" Scott flings his arms out to the side, exhaling a powerful puff of air, "And I don't think it really matters. Not right now anyway. What I need to do now is find my phone, can one of you call it?"

Stiles pulls out his phone, and clicks on Scott's contact, the number dialling, but there's no ringing.

Scott huffs, and continues to shuffle through his shelves, despite the obvious fact that his phone isn't here.

"Call it again," he asks.

Stiles sighs, "It's not here."

Scott stumbles to his bed, ripping the covers out from underneath me, still persisting.

"Okay, so you lost your phone." Stiles shrugs his shoulders, "Why don't you just get a new one?"

Scott dives to the floor, rummaging under his bed, "I can't afford a new one."

I roll onto my side and lean my head down over the side of the bed, making eye contact with Scott, "I could steal one for you," I offer.

"I'm not having a stolen phone!" He protests and flings one of his shoes at me. And God do they stink.

"We have to find Derek, okay, I can't do this alone."

Stiles interjects, "Well, A, you're not alone. You have me and Miss Thief over there. And B, didn't you say Derek walked into gunfire? He sounds pretty dead."

"Yeah, but the last time we thought he was dead, he wasn't dead, so I wouldn't put it past him to not be dead, again." I'm starting to think Derek is like mould – no matter how hard you try to get rid of him, he comes back with a vengeance, bigger and worse than before.