Chapter Text
“You can’t smoke in here!”
Stiles rolls his eyes and plucks the cigarette from his lips, flicking the ash a little so it lands on the clean carpet. He ignores the disapproving tone of his great-aunt and the impatient cough from the woman behind the desk, never mind that this is a great “opportunity” to turn himself around.
He’d rather go to jail. Juvie. Whatever. Stiles doesn’t give a fuck.
The collar of his bargain basement shirt sticks uncomfortably to his skin, and the starched fabric of his too-small suit jacket strains against his arms as he reaches to put the cigarette out. Stiles jams the butt right into the little rocks surrounding the roots of the fancy potted plant on the desk. It’s delicate looking, a whorl of orange-pink petals on a slim green stem, shivering slightly in the air-conditioned room of Marin Morrell’s office.
She purses her lips but doesn’t say anything.
Deborah Rose Stilinski does, however. It’s many, many things, and Stiles tunes out the sound of her shrill, grating voice. He’s heard all of them many times in many variations before, how she can’t believe Stiles used to be such a good boy, and he should be grateful that his great-aunt could take him in, that this is the last straw--
“What would your father think of your behavior?” Auntie Deb cries out.
“Absolutely nothing,” Stiles spits out, more vehemently than he intended, because now there’s an old coil of hurt unraveling in his gut. “He’s in a coma, he’s not thinking anything. That’s what getting shot multiple times does to you, you know, and he isn’t gonna think anything ever, I wonder why you don’t just pull the plug on him so he doesn’t have to die slowly like Mom--”
Ms. Morrell speaks. Her voice is clear and steady, just like the clean lines of the office. “I do have a busy schedule, if we can stay on topic of Mr. Stilinski’s future, I would appreciate that.”
Auntie Deb huffs and throws Stiles a look that says the conversation isn’t over.
Stiles throws his feet up on the desk, watching Morrell for a reaction as his dirty boots hit the surface and scatters some paperwork.
“This program is nationally recognized and highly recommended,” Morrell says. “The fact that we found an opening so soon is incredibly lucky. People pay for this kind of guided backpacking trip, actually, and there are only a limited number of backcountry permits available every year. The Sierras are gorgeous. You’re in for a treat, Mr. Stilinski.”
“Pfft. Playing boy scout? I don’t think so. Just send me to jail.”
Auntie Deb pushes his feet off Morrell’s desk. “You think you know what it will be like just because you’ve gone to juvenile detention a few times? You are eighteen now, still a boy to me but in the eyes of the law you have to face the consequences like a man, and you have no idea how much paperwork and pleading I’ve done with State Social Services, convincing them that you aren’t a lost cause--”
Stiles stops listening at this point, because he knows he is.
“Mrs. Stilinski, can you excuse us for a moment? I want to talk to Stiles alone.” Morrell folds her hands neatly and smiles at them. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
Stiles watches his great-aunt hobble out of the office, sighing to herself. The trial had not gone well. Stilinski vs the State of California had gone in favor of the State of California, of course, and Stiles was found guilty of excessive destruction of property, grand theft auto (haha), and attempted kidnapping (Fuck you, Jackson. Stiles had just wanted to talk to him, scare him a little. And that police transport vehicle was just there, okay? It had seemed like the perfect plan.)
As soon as the door closes Morrell folds her hands and stares evenly at Stiles, and for some reason the air in the room seems a lot colder. She holds Stiles’ gaze, waiting.
Stiles crosses his arms. “Why don’t you just say what I know you’re thinking? I’m a fuckup. I’m always gonna be a fuckup. You just felt sorry for me and decided to send me to camp because you think I can’t handle jail. Well, guess what?” Stiles yanks the knife out of his pocket, flips it open and starts cleaning his nails nonchalantly. “I can. I’ve done juvie four times. I’ve got grown ass adult teachers at the high school scared of me.” He gives her a cold smile. “I can handle jail.”
Morrell raises an eyebrow. “Do you really expect to keep this tough act up for the rest of your life?” she says.
“It’s not an act, lady. I am tough,” Stiles insists. He starts playing with his knife, stabbing the desk between his fingers, a fast moving game he’s taught himself that easily impresses others.
Morrell reaches out and in the blink of an eye and a sharp twist of Stiles’ wrist, she’s got his knife in her hand. She closes it, her eyes steely and unwavering on Stiles’ own. “You are wrong,” she says. “I don’t think you’re a fuckup. You’re smart. Resourceful. I know you were on the gifted track in middle school, and then your mom died. I know you hung around a group of kids more interested in petty theft and vandalism than school, and when your father was shot you just stopped caring about your future. Like you think you don’t have one.”
“Got it right in one.”
“This is your last chance. Take it and prove yourself wrong.” Morrell hands him back his knife. It’s cold in his hand, and feels heavier somehow.