The Greene Effect - REWRITE!!

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE - EXPLOSION

Amelia Greene -

Stiles and I agreed to only have a single drink between us, just enough to get us a little tipsy and relax our minds. We'd talk to fill up the silence and deny the urge of another.

But talking soon wasn't enough. Stiles quickly proved that he was struggling as well when he reached for another. So I copied him, trusting his logical thinking. He's always reasonable.

I've forgotten Stiles is human, like all of us here. And he can trip over himself.

Two turned into three. And then four. And maybe five. Talking turned into loud laughter or absolute silence, otherwise reaching a mid-level ramble, talking over subjects we knew nothing and everything about.

Stiles is a fun drinker. That mouth can go on for ages, entertaining a hyperactive mind with all it can need. But we're doing a full circle, back to the original state of distress we started in.

"Holy shit, Greene," he laughs, though little humor is in his lowered voice, "I can't believe you're in love with Pierson."

I groan and grab my forehead, which is still throbbing, but the alcohol did a tremendous job at numbing it. "God, don't remind me. It sounds like a fucking horror movie."

"I mean, wow," he continues, skipping over the part where I made it clear I didn't want to talk about it. "I thought Zussman had a questionable taste. Sorry. But shit. . our Sergeant?"

I shoot him a glare. "Zussman's a dog. Don't compare me to him. He's . . he's not even here. Oh shit, he's not even here. God, what time is it?"

He looks to his left wrist only to realize he's right-handed. "Seven. Pierson'll be looking for us if he's not drunk himself."

I instantly react defensively. "Hey, we're not drunk! We're just. . . a little tipsy. That's all."

Stiles looks unconvinced, eyeing the bottles strewn about. "I think we're drunk."

"Goddamnit, we're drunk." I sigh, lowering myself to the floor. The very same fire pit that we gathered around on Christmas burns in front of us. When we were five.

Pierson. Fucking Pierson. I hate everything about him. I wish he would retire or shut up forever. I wish he would look at me the way he does all the time. I wish he saw how I look at him.

"You know he got scared by a cat one time?" I giggle at the memory. "Big bad Pierson getting scared by a tiny cat. You know, I really like cats . ."

Aiello suddenly walks up, startling us both. His eyes land on Stiles, sitting upright on his box, and then on the bottles on the floor. "Stiles, what are you - Greene?"

His eyes widen once he sees me. I sigh, already frustrated, and attempt to stand, balancing myself with a hand on the box behind me. "Oh Jesus Christ, look who made a grand appearance. Always for the dramatics, right, Stiles."

Stiles nods and grins, and I smile back. Got his ass.

My knees weaken once I try and straighten out, balance becoming a little harder than I remember.
"Greene, are you drunk?" I hate when he talks in that tone like I can't do anything for myself.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that? Ask Stiles. Stiles is drunk."

Stiles' jaw drops. "I'm not -"

Aiello instantly turns on Stiles, the confused gaze becoming dangerous. "Stiles, did you get Greene drunk?"

The accusation, riddled with undertones I can't quite catch, makes me shiver a little. Stiles, however, understands immediately, and his eyes focus back.
"Don't make me sound like some sort of bad guy."