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may 3/4 late evening/early morning
Silently, she holds out a handful of napkins, one eyebrow raised. Beth just sighs and hugs Summer a little closer. The redhead’s sobs are starting to slow, and she smears at her face, rubbing away tearstreaks. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” she mumbles again.
Zenobia shakes her head. “You didn’t. He’s an egotistical jerk, Summer; we’ve been saying that for weeks. He’s going to do anything he can to get to you, and apparently that includes attacking peple you’re with now. Let’s just,” she sighs, “go and get that ice cream, and we’ll go home and watch Fellowship of the Ring. It’ll make you feel better.”
Summer casts a still-tearful glance at Stiles. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t know this would happen, I promise.” Beth lets her go and stands up, brushing at her jeans, and Summer turns to face Stiles a bit more directly. She reaches out, brushing her fingers against his hand, and takes some of the pain away. “I guess you should probably go get that checked out … I’m /so/ sorry. Should I, um, I could explain to your dad about what happened, that it wasn’t your fault, it was me … “
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Stiles says to Summer, his expression a little lopsided and distorted due to the swelling in his nose, but still making a gamey attempt at a smile. “I’ve had worse, honestly. Kind of shocked this is the first time anyone’s broken my nose. It wasn’t your fault, that was all on that douchebag.”
He blinks down a little at her fingers when they touch his hands, not pulling away but narrowing his gaze just a little bit like he’s looking for some kind of evidence in her skin of something, like maybe he’s noticed his pain has lessened somehow. He doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he coughs a laugh, and then winces as he regrets it. “Nah, it’s—it’s okay. I’ll drive myself to the ER, Scott’s mom is probably on duty tonight anyway, she’ll look at it for me. Dad’s…not gonna exactly be shocked. I’ll tell him Jesse started it and—hey. What’s his last name? I can at least give him that, Dad’ll feel better about that, I didn’t let him do anything the last time someone beat the crap out of me.”
“Meath,” Beth supplies, “Huntington-Meath. Summer, come on. I don’t want to be here when they throw him out too.”
Summer looks vaguely mutinous, but unfolds herself from the curb. “If it’s a problem, anything, you call me, okay,” she stresses, very worried. It’s easier to not get caught in her own stupid spirals if there’s someone else to worry about. “You shouldn’t get in trouble for something that’s my fault. I just … I’m really sorry. Will you just — text me, let me know everything’s okay? Please?”
Please don’t go away because I’m such an idiot, please, I don’t want to lose you so soon …
He’s not sitting alone for too long before Summer comes out, arms huddled tight to her body and flanked by Zenobia and Beth. They’re carrying her things, and she’s barefoot. Another one of those wordless conversations ensues, mostly /over/ Summer’s head, though she doesn’t notice. She’s too caught up in herself, almost frantically trying to find anything to focus on besides what’s going on in her own head and failing. Zenobia leaves Summer’s boots and carries everything else off to a red van, while Beth gently guides Summer to sit on the surb near Stiles.
“I didn’t think it was still this bad,” Summer sobs. “I thought I was okay — I mean, I was, until he … he said those things — what did I do wrong? I don’t even know what I did.” Beth doesn’t really try to stop her talking, just sits with an arm around her and occasionally makes shushing noises, obviously intended to be soothing. Her expression says this scene is something they’ve gone through before.
When Zenobia comes back, she stops in front of Stiles, regarding him with a slightly jaundiced gaze. “What happened?” she asks. It’s not entirely accusatory, but it’s clear the other two girls are basically forming up to protect their friend.
Stiles is in the middle of tying the laces on his second shoe when the girls come out to sit and-or hover around him. He looks over to Summer with a sympathetic expression, but it’s a little crowded in his eyes, awkward like he doesn’t really know how to offer any sympathy or condolences without making things worse. He mostly just makes a sort of uncomfortable sound in his chest and concentrates on his Converse.
That is, until Zenobia is addressing him. His eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, and he squints at her like he’s trying to figure out if she’s trying to start something. There’s still blood trickling out of his nose, blood all over his shirt, he’s a total mess. “Uh, obviously, that lunatic came out of freaking nowhere and hit me in the face, and I’m pretty sure he broke my nose, which will never be the same, and I wasn’t just gonna stand there and let him wail on me, which I guess the bowling alley people didn’t approve of and maybe I’ve got kind of a reputation, and my Dad’s going to kill me.” Fingers releasing his shoe, Stiles reaches up, muttering surlily, to prod at the tender bridge of his nose. It’s starting to purple.
Silently, she holds out a handful of napkins, one eyebrow raised. Beth just sighs and hugs Summer a little closer. The redhead’s sobs are starting to slow, and she smears at her face, rubbing away tearstreaks. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” she mumbles again.
Zenobia shakes her head. “You didn’t. He’s an egotistical jerk, Summer; we’ve been saying that for weeks. He’s going to do anything he can to get to you, and apparently that includes attacking peple you’re with now. Let’s just,” she sighs, “go and get that ice cream, and we’ll go home and watch Fellowship of the Ring. It’ll make you feel better.”
Summer casts a still-tearful glance at Stiles. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t know this would happen, I promise.” Beth lets her go and stands up, brushing at her jeans, and Summer turns to face Stiles a bit more directly. She reaches out, brushing her fingers against his hand, and takes some of the pain away. “I guess you should probably go get that checked out … I’m /so/ sorry. Should I, um, I could explain to your dad about what happened, that it wasn’t your fault, it was me … “
The sudden sharp pain of Jesse hitting Stiles’ nose cuts through Summer’s shields the way a shout cuts through earplugs. Her gasp of pain is swallowed by Stiles’ shout and she whips around in time to see the two boys attacking each other. Fury turns her stomach, and she can’t put any effort into /stopping/ them; she’s too busy patching her shields.
By the time Summer can pay attention to what’s going on, Stiles has Jesse on the floor, and a couple of the bowling alley staff are trying to separate them. She clamps her hands together in a futile effort to stop the tears, but it’s too late. She’s not even sure why she’s crying, only that she’s overwhelmed. Too much emotion, half of it her own; too many people, too close.
Stiles is pissed, but he’s not actually that interested in a physical fight, because he knows he’s not the best at them and eventually his luck will run out where they’re concerned. He lets the bowling alley employees pull him away from Jesse but they can’t stop his mouth, which runs down a long, colorful list of questionable things Jesse’s parentage might have indulged in. Poor Summer’s tears don’t go ignored, they go unnoticed, mostly because Stiles is half pre-occupied with already trying to formulate a plan on what he’s going to tell his Dad about the bloody nose and possible police reports.
Mostly because he’s in the process of being mostly politely asked to leave by the alley staff, his real shoes shoved at him hastily. He’s told he can take the alley shoes off at the curb outside.
So there Stiles sits, surly, trying to unknot the laces on the bowling shoes so that he can jam his feet back into his trusty Converse. It’s dark and quiet outside, which mostly leaves the teenager alone with a whole weight lot of well that was stupid of you, Stilinski rattling around inside his skull.
He’s not sitting alone for too long before Summer comes out, arms huddled tight to her body and flanked by Zenobia and Beth. They’re carrying her things, and she’s barefoot. Another one of those wordless conversations ensues, mostly /over/ Summer’s head, though she doesn’t notice. She’s too caught up in herself, almost frantically trying to find anything to focus on besides what’s going on in her own head and failing. Zenobia leaves Summer’s boots and carries everything else off to a red van, while Beth gently guides Summer to sit on the surb near Stiles.
“I didn’t think it was still this bad,” Summer sobs. “I thought I was okay — I mean, I was, until he … he said those things — what did I do wrong? I don’t even know what I did.” Beth doesn’t really try to stop her talking, just sits with an arm around her and occasionally makes shushing noises, obviously intended to be soothing. Her expression says this scene is something they’ve gone through before.
When Zenobia comes back, she stops in front of Stiles, regarding him with a slightly jaundiced gaze. “What happened?” she asks. It’s not entirely accusatory, but it’s clear the other two girls are basically forming up to protect their friend.
Summer is far too busy pretending she doesn’t care to notice how provocative Stiles is being. It’s hard; she wants so badly to talk to him, to ask why and understand. She’s too used to being able to guess, predict, infer, from what people feel — not knowing is frustrating.
Abstractedly, she orders, tapping her debit card against the counter while they wait. She keeps her gaze forward, which is why she doesn’t notice Jesse coming up and trying to punch Stiles in the face.
This time, Stiles is less prepared, mostly because he’s turned his back on Jesse. It was probably a mistake, but it’s the kind of mistake Stiles makes all the damn time, instigating and then putting it out of mind, letting his fractured attention span steer his brain elsewhere long before anyone else has let it go. He turns as a reaction to the sense of somebody in his space just in time to catch Jesse’s fist straight in his nose.
Something feels like it cracks, and Stiles legitimately shouts in indignant rage.
Both hands fly to his face and, yes, that’s definitely blood, if he’s lucky his nose isn’t actually broken. “You asshole.” He snarls, and then he’s launching himself at Jesse, discoordinated but determined, kind of the way a young bull might rush anything that annoyed its short temper. He’s not the most practiced of fighters, but Stiles is far more muscular than he seems or gives himself credit for, lithe when he stops thinking too hard about the task of controlling his body and just lets himself do it, and he knows more than he even realizes about joint-locking.
The only difference is, this time he’s not really trying to avoid causing Jesse pain.
The sudden sharp pain of Jesse hitting Stiles’ nose cuts through Summer’s shields the way a shout cuts through earplugs. Her gasp of pain is swallowed by Stiles’ shout and she whips around in time to see the two boys attacking each other. Fury turns her stomach, and she can’t put any effort into /stopping/ them; she’s too busy patching her shields.
By the time Summer can pay attention to what’s going on, Stiles has Jesse on the floor, and a couple of the bowling alley staff are trying to separate them. She clamps her hands together in a futile effort to stop the tears, but it’s too late. She’s not even sure why she’s crying, only that she’s overwhelmed. Too much emotion, half of it her own; too many people, too close.
“/Is/ there an actual Ben & Jerry’s store in this town?” Beth asks, idly. She doesn’t get an answer, and shoos Summer out of the scoring computer seat when Stiles finishes his frame. “Go get some drinks. And nachos, I want nachos. Both of you, while I set up the next game.”
Summer gives her a flat look, which Beth only returns with a lifted eyebrow. She’s basically telling Summer to deal with it, the way one deals with a fear of bees — exposure. Summer sticks her tongue out before shrugging her shoulders at Stiles. “I guess we’ve been told. I’m going to need the extra hands anyway. Come on.”
She holds her head high, displaying as much “devil-may-care” attitude as she can find, when she walks past Jesse. She doesn’t actually look at him, though he’s watching her, and when his gaze switches to Stiles it noticeably darkens.
“Nah, we live in nowheresville.” Stiles says back to Beth, laconic as always, eyebrows raised. “You have to go to the mall in freaking Auburn to get an honest to God Ben and Jerry’s store. Which is lame.”
Of course, then he’s being herded towards the concessions stand, and Stiles is all tripping over both of his feet, simultaneously, slouched back towards the shoving, until he gets a handle on his body and manages to propel it in the direction he wants it to go. “Okay. Hopefully I won’t actually drop the nachos on the way back. It’s a hazard you’re all taking with your melty cheese, I just want that stated now.”
He’s not nearly as recalcitrant as his words would make it seem. All in all, in fact, Stiles seems to be having a reasonably good time. Part of that time might be coming from egging Jesse on, because as he gets to passing the other boy by and he notices the darkened expression—he blows a kiss.
No one ever said he wasn’t an instigator.
Summer is far too busy pretending she doesn’t care to notice how provocative Stiles is being. It’s hard; she wants so badly to talk to him, to ask why and understand. She’s too used to being able to guess, predict, infer, from what people feel — not knowing is frustrating.
Abstractedly, she orders, tapping her debit card against the counter while they wait. She keeps her gaze forward, which is why she doesn’t notice Jesse coming up and trying to punch Stiles in the face.
The three of them exchange glances, something that really speaks of the connection between them in a way nothing else this evening has done; precisely the same ‘one thought many minds’ relationship Stiles has with Scott. Zenobia’s slightly wicked grin spreads across the other two girls’ faces, and then Summer slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “Let us teach you,” she says, “about the joys of midnight grocery store runs.”
“We’re still playing another game,” Beth interjects, and Summer looks up to realise that they’re on the last frame of this one anyway. She unwinds herself from Stiles and the scoring computer and the chair and picks up her ball, muttering, “Yes, yes,” half under her breath. Managing a split that puts her just barely in second place if Stiles doesn’t do something spectacular, she whirls to cheer and catches Jesse staring at them.
Summer just hopes nobody noticed the stuttering second of hesitation before she forces herself to ignore him.
“Oh. Oh. Well, no, see, I thought you were talking like an actual Ben and Jerry’s store, I am…not actually…a stranger to midnight store runs, as it turns out Adderall cravings are a total bitch…” Stiles is well aware there is a hivemind running here that doesn’t include him in it. It’s such a strange experience, he’s so used to it being him and Scott having those wordless conversations that for a few seconds he almost looks like he thinks they’re all of them lionesses and he’s a lonely gazelle.
He doesn’t miss much. Stiles also doesn’t miss the way Jesse’s watching the little group he’s found himself in the middle of, and he doesn’t miss how it makes Summer’s good mood stutter.
Being who he is, Stiles figures Summer would be far more comfortable not being the center of attention, and he’s had years to become comfortable with it. So when he gets up to take his turn, he turns to look straight at Jesse, waiting until he’s made eye contact with the other boy before he’s actually, legitimately throwing a finger gun and winking one eye. He even makes the ‘chk-chk’ noise with his mouth, probably not audible over the distance but obvious just from the way his mouth distorts. Here’s looking at you, hot shot.
Suffice to say he doesn’t do anything spectacular when it comes to the bowling, but his attention is a little split. (When isn’t it?)
“/Is/ there an actual Ben & Jerry’s store in this town?” Beth asks, idly. She doesn’t get an answer, and shoos Summer out of the scoring computer seat when Stiles finishes his frame. “Go get some drinks. And nachos, I want nachos. Both of you, while I set up the next game.”
Summer gives her a flat look, which Beth only returns with a lifted eyebrow. She’s basically telling Summer to deal with it, the way one deals with a fear of bees — exposure. Summer sticks her tongue out before shrugging her shoulders at Stiles. “I guess we’ve been told. I’m going to need the extra hands anyway. Come on.”
She holds her head high, displaying as much “devil-may-care” attitude as she can find, when she walks past Jesse. She doesn’t actually look at him, though he’s watching her, and when his gaze switches to Stiles it noticeably darkens.
Summer presses her hand to her chest, trying to slow her galloping heartbeat and breathing. “Ice cream, you said.” She gulps in another breath, makes a fish face, and then says, “Mint. Specifically, Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Peppermint Crunch. Failing that, Chocolate Therapy. What about you?”
From over her shoulder, Beth says, “I hate you, I hate you forever, we are going to get Ben and Jerry’s after this.” Summer’s expression clearly says, ‘no pity.’
“Phish Food.” Stiles says, decisively, with a sharp nod of his head. “Or Moose Tracks, but mostly Phish Food. My Dad says I’m a heathen for liking ice cream with so much stuff in it but I tell him it’s because I’ve got ADHD and I can’t just concentrate on one flavor for a whole bowl.”
Then he laughs, a little bark of sound, eyebrows lifting. “At like one in the morning? Where are we gonna get Ben and Jerry’s at this hour?”
The three of them exchange glances, something that really speaks of the connection between them in a way nothing else this evening has done; precisely the same ‘one thought many minds’ relationship Stiles has with Scott. Zenobia’s slightly wicked grin spreads across the other two girls’ faces, and then Summer slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “Let us teach you,” she says, “about the joys of midnight grocery store runs.”
“We’re still playing another game,” Beth interjects, and Summer looks up to realise that they’re on the last frame of this one anyway. She unwinds herself from Stiles and the scoring computer and the chair and picks up her ball, muttering, “Yes, yes,” half under her breath. Managing a split that puts her just barely in second place if Stiles doesn’t do something spectaular, she whirls to cheer and catches Jesse staring at them.
Summer just hopes nobody noticed the stuttering second of hesitation before she forces herself to ignore him.
She’s still giggling through her reply. “My /face/ hurts.” Summer reaches out and pokes Stiles in the side, vaguely hoping she’ll find a ticklish spot. Every couple moment another giggle erupts. Finally she gasps, “Oh my god,” and leans back again, putting her hands over her face. When Stiles opens his mouth again, she pokes him. “No, stop. I can’t breathe, and if you make me laugh that hard again I will /pass out/. Then you’ll have to do CPR, and just no. You don’t want to do that.” A laugh threads under the mock-stern tone.
Stiles gives a very indignant sound, half a squeal at best, and squirms away from Summer’s poking fingers. He’s not admitting to being ticklish but that sort of full-body jump says everything it needs to say about the sensitivity of Stiles’ skin. He chokes a little laugh, shaking his head in dismay. “I’m terrible at CPR, don’t put your life in my hands.”
Summer presses her hand to her chest, trying to slow her galloping heartbeat and breathing. “Ice cream, you said.” She gulps in another breath, makes a fish face, and then says, “Mint. Specifically, Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Peppermint Crunch. Failing that, Chocolate Therapy. What about you?”
From over her shoulder, Beth says, “I hate you, I hate you forever, we are going to get Ben and Jerry’s after this.” Summer’s expression clearly says, ‘no pity.’