Summer quirks an eyebrow at the particular emphasis. “I take it people comment on that often,” she says over her shoulder, shifting Helios to perch on one hip while she opens the door. He doesn’t seem to mind his feet hanging, just stays relaxed until the door opens. Then he slithers free and bounds inside, headed for the kitchen.
She leaves the door open for Stiles. “Where does your first name come from? It doesn’t sound Eastern European.” The backpack and her keys go on a table by the door.
“Yeah, mostly in the context of ‘how is it that the sheriff’s kid is always the one neck deep in trouble?’ but, you know, your mileage may vary.” Stiles wobbles one hand in the air in front of him, tilting it back and forth on the axis made of his extended thumb and pinky finger.
He follows in through the door more or less as a matter of course, shoving his hands into his pockets in lieu of really having anything better to do with them. “It doesn’t wha—oh. No, Stiles is a nickname, it’s not my …actual. First name. Believe it or not, my actual name is worse, so Stiles it is. You know, from Stilinski.”
“When I was younger I think I would have traded you, unpronounceable first name or not. It must be fun explaining that to teachers every semester.” Going to the fridge, she fishes out a narrow, flexible ice pack, wraps it up in a towel, and brings it to Stiles. “The bathroom is that one door over there.” It’s a studio apartment, practically all one room, so it’s not as though there are a lot of doors to choose from.
Helios paces back and forth in front of his food bowl, and she hurries over to top it off, muttering about spoilt cats and their demands and how they’re going to get fat and then see what happens to them.