virago

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔦𝔳𝔢

[𝖋𝖎𝖛𝖊]

"Hey,"

It felt... odd. Having someone purposefully go out of their way to see her. Marisol's eyebrows knitted together but a soft smile met her lips. She pushed the front door open completely, "Hi,"

Stiles stood awkwardly for a moment before he seemed to realise that he should probably explain why he was knocking on her front door at eight in the morning. "Oh, uh, I just..." He blew out a breath he'd been holding in before he glanced back at his Jeep parked across her driveway, not that she had a car. "I just wanted to see if you wanted a ride, uh, to school? Mhm, that was it."

Marisol lifted her brow in surprise this time, making an 'o' with her mouth silently. She nodded, "I'm... not ready yet, did you wanna come in and wait?" She stepped to the side, but he seemed hesitant. "I won't take long," With that promise, his shoulders seemed to relax a bit and he walked past her into the house.

The whole situation was mortifyingly awkward, Marisol didn't even know what brought it on so she had no clue how to preemptively avoid it next time. He followed her through the place hesitantly, hanging back slightly. Stiles then realised he was in her bedroom, and froze in the doorway. It was messy. But, a regular teenage messy. Various discarded clothes around her bed (which was completely unmade), paper and textbooks were scattered across her desk in the corner and there was a laptop propped up against her nightstand in a precarious manner.

Her walls were almost completely covered, it took him a moment to find a patch without anything on it just to tell what colour the walls were meant to be. They were a dark green. She had band posters, movie posters, newspaper clippings, photographs, you name it and she had it pinned up. He squinted at the photo that was hanging just above her bed; Marisol was in it, she was much younger but there was no doubt that it was her. She was with a man and a woman that looked suspiciously like her, he recognised her dad straight away. Peter Hale. He and Marisol had been the only survivors of the fire, but he'd heard the way she spoke ill of her father so he assumed that she didn't get around to seeing him much. So the lady must be her mother, Marisol was almost her spitting image, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a darker complexion than her dad.

She'd been in the newspapers after the house fire, something about all the volunteer work she did across the town. They'd donated plenty of money to something or other... Even his own dad seemed upset about her passing. Aw man, what was her name? Adriana? Alana?

"Antonía," The voice drew his attention back to Marisol, he gave her a confused look. "You're staring at her picture." She reached for the picture and pulled it from the wall, the thumbtack falling to the ground somewhere. Passing him the family photo, she spoke again. "Antonía Calavera, my mom." She paused, looking at the photograph held carefully in his hands. "You already know Peter," At the mention of her dad, her tone turned sour.

He handed her back the photo carefully, and she placed it on her nightstand. "You don't like your dad much, huh?"

She let out a slight huff and picked up her bag, "Well, he's an asshole who left my mom and me to die in a housefire so forgive me if I don't sing to the heavens of his existence." He watched her carefully as she started shoving various things into a backpack with seemingly no regard for their condition. "He's a complete jackass who deserves to exist how he does now." Marisol noticed his confused, unsure gaze. "He lives in a care facility with a personal nurse, has burns to over seventy-five per cent of his body and is completely catatonic."