Rise

Chapter Four

*I don't own Teen Wolf.*

 ~edited~

☾☾☾

        "Lydia," I said thoughtfully as I buckled my seat belt in the passenger seat of the jeep.  "Lydia... that sounds familiar."  I suddenly gasped and whipped my head around as I pointed a finger at Stiles, whose head fell back against the seat, a pained look already in place in anticipation of my realization.

        "No!" he shouted, knocking my finger away from  his face.

        "No, what?" I sing-songed, raising my finger again and twirling it in his face.  "Lydia-what's-her-face, that girl you looooove- ow!"  I rubbed my arm where he'd slapped it away again.

        "How do you even remember that?  We were like ten last time you and Scott mocked me about it," he grumbled, putting the jeep into gear.

        "First of all, we were thirteen.  Second, I think you'll find I have an excellent memory when it comes to storing things for later use against people," I state proudly, crossing my ankles.  "It takes a little while to resurface, but just you wait."

        "Oh, I can't wait," he said.  "And what about you, you were in looooooove," he mimicked me pretty successfully, "with a bleach-blond pasty dude with a bad accent that was way too old for you."

        "Spike?  Stiles, I hate to break it to you, but he's a fictional vampire.  I wasn't in love with him."

        He scoffed loudly.  "Yeah, right," he whipped his head around to raise an eyebrow at me.  "You totally didn't write fan-fiction about him, or anything."

        My face burned and my jaw dropped.  "You knew about that?  How?!"

        "You left your backpack at my house one night.  I snooped."  He sounded way too proud of himself.

        My hands flew up to my face.  "Oh my god, that's like reading a girl's diary.  No, it's worse!  You're pretty much Satan."

        "Yeah, well keep that in mind in case you get any bright ideas about saying something to Lydia.  You have to live here now- I'm sure you'd love for me to colorfully recall all your little notebook fantasies to your future classmates."

        "Wow, Stiles.  Blackmail?  I thought that would be beneath you," I said, eyeing him critically.  "I'm not sure I can trust you.  But let's not get too cocky, I have plenty more ammo stored somewhere in here," I tapped my temple and narrowed my eyes at him.  

        "Let's just call it a truce, then," he said.  "No embarrassing each other?"

        I snorted.  "Any more than I can help?  I'm not really a social savant."

        "Yeah, me either," he replied.  He began to tap his fingers on the steering wheel.  "So... I don't mean this in the cliché, empty, 'I don't know what else to say' kind of way, but I'm sorry.  About your dad."

        I dug my nails into my palm, concentrating on that sting.  "Thanks."  I know he really meant it.  It was easier to accept that type of apology from someone who had lost a loved one, too.  It was an acknowledgement of how much it sucked, instead of an empty verbal gesture like when it came from a stranger.

        "I can't believe Coach is legally qualified to be a guardian," he said, a true sense of wonder in his voice.

        "He's not doing bad," I said, somewhat defensively.  I bit my lip, aware at how much easier it became to be around Stiles once we were away from Bobby and Mr. Stilinski.  It was like riding a bike, in some odd way.  I guess that's how you know you were really, truly friends with someone.  If you can pick back up years later without any trouble, then you're solid.  "I mean... he's probably very different to you as a coach than he is to me as an uncle."