skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

“No, I’m a college student. I moved out here a couple years ago for Beacon Hills’ Creative Writing degree; it’s one of the best in the country and I have family down in San Jose anyway.” Summer gives Stiles a wry smile. “So no, you wouldn’t’ve seen me around. You were just a little busy the only time I’ve been at the high school.” She peers at him as she sits back down. “You okay? You look a little flushed all of a sudden.”

“Oh! College, of course, I didn’t—didn’t mean to be rude, sorry.” Stiles seems more embarrassed somehow, but he waves it off with one oversized puppy-hand, laughing. “Nah, I’m fine, just…you know, pale, tender skin, it does what it wants, which is usually like bruise or welt or scar or spontaneously erupt into more freckles, I don’t pretend to understand. What do you write, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The freckles are cute,” she says without really thinking about it, because they are. She’s discovering an annoying desire to inspect those at close range, too. “Why would it be rude for you to assume I’m in high school? I know I look like I’m about fifteen.” She sounds faintly disgusted with that. “Anyway. I write mostly science fiction, fantasy, stuff like that. I want to be like Tolkien, or maybe Brandon Sanderson.”

skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

“I don’t know,” she says wryly, “I don’t know that many people who would have gone this far out of their way to return a cat to its owner, much less to find that owner in the first place.” Impulsively she kisses his cheek. “In case I forget, thank you.” She shakes the ice pack out of the towel and carries them both into the kitchen area, putting the ice pack back into the freezer before hanging up the towel.

Whatever he might have said about his good Samaritan moment—probably something like Scott would have, and probably he would have brought cookies too—is derailed by the fact that she’s kissed him, even if on the cheek. Stiles ends up blinking too rapidly and too often at Summer’s back as she goes to the kitchen, but he does at least find his voice a few moments later, tugging at the ends of his fingers like that might settle him. “I…you’re welcome, it was no big. Do…you go to the high school, too, then, ‘cause I don’t remember seeing you around?”

“No, I’m a college student. I moved out here a couple years ago for Beacon Hills’ Creative Writing degree; it’s one of the best in the country and I have family down in San Josr anyway.” Summer gives Stiles a wry smile. “So no, you wouldn’t’ve seen me around. You were just a little busy the only time I’ve been at the high school.” She peers at him as she sits back down. “You okay? You look a little flushed all of a sudden.”

skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

She can’t help it — he’s looking at his arm like it doesn’t belong to him somehow, and she just loses it so hard Helios is offended on Stiles’ behalf and bounds for the bedroom. “Oh my god, your face, you should have seen your face, did you forget you had muscles?”

Stiles’ mouth turns downwards in a frown that he probably meant to be insulted, but—but he can’t really be that insulted, because she’s kind of right. Stupid arms. “I just kinda can’t figure out when that happened. On the scale of one to actually built like the rest of the team, though, I’m sort of a solid two point five at best.”

“I assume you get to practise with the rest of the team,” she points out, through fading giggles. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and bet that’s when it happened. You’ve just got so caught up in measuring yourself against the rest of them you didn’t notice. Don’t you ever stop comparing yourself to everyone else?” It’s a pretty hypocritical thing for her to say, actually, but he doesn’t know that. On the pretext of taking the warming ice pack away, she gets up and inspects his arms at close range.

skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

“You think you’re going to stay benched after /that/ game?” Summer is surprised — what kind of coach would bench a player with that kind of potential? She also isn’t sure she /believes/ him. It doesn’t really sound like he’s okay with just being the information pipeline; it sounds more like it’s been that way for so long he doesn’t believe it will change, so he tells himself he’s okay with it.

“Maybe you just need to practise for a while before the new season starts, and show him how good you really are.” She nods toward his arms, with their clear, streamlined musculature. “You’re already built for it, obviously.”

Stiles shrugs, his shoulders on different levels given how he’s mostly pinning the melty ice towel to his leg. His jeans leg is starting to get soggy. ”Yeah, I guarantee to you what Coach remembers from that game isn’t that I scored a couple of goals, especially since I wasn’t supposed to even be on the field except basically half our team had been taken off for injury.”

There’s something incredulous in his expression when Summer mentions his build, and Stiles looks down at his arms as if he’s going to argue her on the matter. He’s wearing a t-shirt, though, and his arms are clearly visible, so instead what he actually ends up doing is sort of staring at his own left bicep like he can’t figure out how it got to be the shape it is, and maybe it betrayed him in the process.

She can’t help it — he’s looking at his arm like it doesn’t belong to him somehow, and she just loses it so hard Helios is offended on Stiles’ behalf and bounds for the bedroom. “Oh my god, your face, you should have seen your face, did you forget you had muscles?”

skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

He’s blurting out agreement, excuses, names, and information in a steady stream she can hardly keep up with, mostly because her mind is going in at least two different directions at the moment: lacrosse team and animal clinic. It takes a second before she can match the name to the face — the dark, Latino-looking boy in the clinic, the one who has an inexplicable edge of wildness to her other senses.

“Seems like that would be determined when the new season starts,” she ventures. Helios has ignored Stiles’ assertion of being a dog person, and is catfully attempting to turn him into a cat lover, purring hard enough to vibrate his guard hairs and whiskers and occasionally licking the petting hand.

“Coach Finstock isn’t exactly the, uh…most … objective. I’m pretty sure Scott’s going to at least be Captain.” Stiles smiles briefly, mostly at the cat that’s trying to convince him that he likes cats. “I mean, it doesn’t bother me too much, mostly my function is to sit on the bench and tell Coach about the key players of the other team. I’ve accepted it, it’s a comfortable lot in life, mostly.”

“You think you’re going to stay benched after /that/ game?” Summer is surprised — what kind of coach would bench a player with that kind of potential? She also isn’t sure she /believes/ him. It doesn’t really sound like he’s okay with just being the information pipeline; it sounds more like it’s been that way for so long he doesn’t believe it will change, so he tells himself he’s okay with it.

“Maybe you just need to practise for a while before the new season starts, and show him how good you really are.” She nods toward his arms, with their clear, streamlined musculature. “You’re already built for it, obviously.”

skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

“Lacrosse!” She bolts upright, eyeing him with a suddenly intent gaze. “That was you?! Last year! The championship game! You scored the winning goals! I /knew/ I knew that name from somewhere!” Helios lays back his ears at her, and she glares mildly. “Don’t look at me in that tone of ears, Mr Escapee. I do not need you to bring me friends.”

Insolently he licks his nose at her, and she glances back up at Stiles. “You see how I am abused here, taken advantage of. He did that to you too, obviously.” She tilts her head a little to the side. “Who’s your best friend?”

Stiles smiles, almost sheepishly, ducking his head as Summer suddenly realizes who he is. He didn’t even realize there was a thing for him to be recognized for, but there it is. “Yeah, yeah, that’s me, number twenty- four for Beacon Hills. The championship game was—somehow like…I don’t know, it was a fluke.” And he’d been terribly assaulted after that, but Stiles left that bit out. Discretion and the better form of valor.

“I hear that’s a thing cats do. I’m probably gonna insult him, here, but always kind of more of a dog person, me.” He’s still rubbing Helios’ ears, if the cat’s in reach, his other hand still holding the ice to his knee. “My—oh. Scott McCall. Number eleven if you pay attention to the Lacrosse team. Co-Captain. Or…maybe he’s just captain now that Jackson moved to London, I have no idea.”

He’s blurting out agreement, excuses, names, and information in a steady stream she can hardly keep up with, mostly because her mind is going in at least two different directions at the moment: lacrosse team and animal clinic. It takes a second before she can match the name to the face — the dark, Latino-looking boy in the clinic, the one who has an inexplicable edge of wildness to her other senses.

“Seems like that would be determined when the new season starts,” she ventures. Helios has ignored Stiles’ assertion of being a dog person, and is catfully attempting to turn him into a cat lover, purring hard enough to vibrate his guard hairs and whiskers and occasionally licking the petting hand.

skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

It’s awful of her to be continuously laughing at him, she knows. It’s just hard not to, with the limbs everywhere and the flailing — and yet he’s somehow attractive through all that. Or maybe because of it. She can’t keep an edge of that awareness out of her gaze while she points to the couch.

“You should sit down before you fall down,” Summer suggests. “I think there might be some arnica gel in the first aid kit, do you want me to check? I’m sure the bruise isn’t that bad.” Helios strolls over to give Stiles a sniff, then headbutts his leg — the left one. “By the way, how /did/ you find him?”

“Nah, it’s okay, I bruise super easily, plus I’m on the lacrosse team, it’s nothing new. Don’t worry about it.” Stiles hobbles over to the sofa suggested, flopping mostly-non-violently into a seated position. It does seem much easier for him to plonk the ice pack on the offended part of his leg this way.

He uses his left hand to reach down and rub at the cat’s ears, absent-mindedly. “He found me, actually, I was just kind of hanging around near school and voila, cat. My best friend works at the animal clinic, so I know Dr. Deaton pretty well and since Helios seemed really personable I took him up to see if I could figure out who he belonged to. Hence, finding the microchip.”

“Lacrosse!” She bolts upright, eyeing him with a suddenly intent gaze. “That was you?! Last year! The championship game! You scored the winning goals! I /knew/ I knew that name from somewhere!” Helios lays back his ears at her, and she glares mildly. “Don’t look at me in that tone of ears, Mr Escapee. I do not need you to bring me friends.”

Insolently he licks his nose at her, and she glances back up at Stiles. “You see how I am abused here, taken advantage of. He did that to you too, obviously.” She tilts her head a little to the side. “Who’s your best friend?”

skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

“Does it change your mind if I tell you I have a fraternal twin sister whose name is Winter? And has black hair?” She’s not trying to upstage him. Not /really/. But it’s hard to imagine something more irritating than being not-twins with matching names. Either people are making fun of your names, or making fun of your claim to be twins.

She doesn’t really expect an answer, and heaves a sigh before dropping down into the papasan chair to take off her shoes. “You,” she informs Helios, washing his paw, “are a stinker. I’m going to lock that cat door if you pull this again.”

“Nnnnnnnnnnnnope.” Stiles says, blithely, as he’s disappearing into the bathroom. He ends the word by popping his lips apart, exaggerating the sound of the ‘p‘ until it seems like he left it there just to occupy his space while he’s ‘gone’.

It doesn’t take long before he’s re-emerging, the ice pack still in one hand. Granted, now Stiles appears to be trying to walk more or less hunched over to the side, pressing the ice pack to his right knee, and it’s about as gainly and dignified as it seems it would be, which to say not at all. “Well—uh. If you were…worried. No lasting harm done. I’m gonna have the worst bruise ever on this knee but that I basically did to myself anyway so…you know, no harm, no foul, right?.”

It’s awful of her to be continuously laughing at him, she knows. It’s just hard not to, with the limbs everywhere and the flailing — and yet he’s somehow attractive through all that. Or maybe because of it. She can’t keep an edge of that awareness out of her gaze while she points to the couch.

“You should sit down before you fall down,” Summer suggests. “I think there might be some arnica gel in the first aid kit, do you want me to check? I’m sure the bruise isn’t that bad.” Helios strolls over to give Stiles a sniff, then headbutts his leg — the left one. “By the way, how /did/ you find him?”

skinnydefenselessheroism:

iamthefirechild:

“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.

“I think if you’d witnessed what life was like before I was Stiles, nah, probably not—there’s something to be said about a name that’s at least in the dictionary. Besides, in the world of Pilot Inspektor, really, Summer isn’t that weird at all.” Stiles reaches out to accept the towel-wrapped ice-pack, blinking briefly. He turns and looks over his shoulder at the door, and for a few seconds it looks like he’s doing some kind of mental math, internally, about things like studio apartments and bicycle, pedal and class.

Whatever conclusion he comes to he doesn’t voice. Instead he ducks his head a little, murmuring a somewhat sheepish thanks, and starts towards the bathroom while awkwardly holding the ice pack, to inspect the theoretical damage mentioned earlier.

“Does it change your mind if I tell you I have a fraternal twin sister whose name is Winter? And has black hair?” She’s not trying to upstage him. Not /really/. But it’s hard to imagine something more irritating than being not-twins with matching names. Either people are making fun of your names, or making fun of your claim to be twins.

She doesn’t really expect an answer, and heaves a sigh before dropping down into the papasan chair to take off her shoes. “You,” she informs Helios, washing his paw, “are a stinker. I’m going to lock that cat door if you pull this again.”