Chapter Text
He’s waiting for his coffee when he sees her for the first time. She’s sitting in a corner booth, watching him with a small smile as she nurses a cup of tea. Her eyes sparkle and her limbs are thin. She’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, and she is beautiful.
The girl behind the counter hands him his coffee (small, non-fat, no whip) and he vaguely recognizes her from school. She smiles at him and normally he would be all over that. Today he’s not. Today he hardly cares.
He walks over to the girl in the corner hesitatingly. Her smile widens, urging him to come closer. The closer he gets, the more brittle she looks. Like a little china doll, all breakable parts and pale skin.
“I’m Stiles,” he tells her after he seats himself. She giggles. She has dimples, and he might have swooned if he wasn’t in the middle of unrequited love already and had more energy. He really doesn’t have the energy, even for the unrequited love bit. He’s so very tired, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Do I know you?”
“Not as such,” she says. Her voice is light and airy, like a fairy. He’s met one, before. She kind of reminds him of the pretty boy he’d met in the woods before Scott had pulled him away and threatened the boy with his teeth in a way that was way too familiar for Stiles' comfort. “I’m Ana.” It sounds familiar, like something he’d looked at recently but couldn’t say where.
“I haven’t seen you around before.” He sounds a little dumbfounded. The girl behind the counter is watching him, concern playing over her features. He doesn’t care enough to wonder why. “I think I’d remember if I had.”
“I’m new,” she says lightly. She sets her tea on the table and reaches out, lacing their fingers together. “And you’re so messed up, Stiles. You need someone, don’t you?”
“Are you a fairy?” he asks, feeling a little confused but not able to muster up the clarity of thought that would lead to worry.
She laughs. He can’t look away from their fingers. His are almost as thin as hers and he feels as brittle as she looks. “Don’t you know?”
“I don’t know anything,” he tells her, and she smiles a bit sadly. He really likes the way she looks. Her hair is white-blonde and her eyes are hazel, smudged around the edges with purple rings and messy eyeliner. (He loves hazel eyes. He thinks she knows why and he’s not sure how. She seems to know a lot of things.) She looks like a model in a magazine he’d browsed once at Deaton’s. “Who are you?” She feels like she’s a part of him. “Does this have to do with werewolves?”
“No werewolves,” she hums, and strokes a vein on the back of his hands with her thumb. “Just you. I just want to help you.”
“No one ever wants to help me,” he says, matter-of-fact. It’s not whiny, or even a complaint. It’s a statement of fact. He’s cried over it enough. He’s come up with his own methods of coping. “Why do you?”
“Don’t push it, Stiles,” she says, and stares him down. “Just accept. Now drink your coffee.” He does as he’s told, and his stomach growls. She smiles at him, toothy and perfect. “Aren’t you going to eat?” Ana’s smile is coy. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to make a point.
“No.” He feels compelled to continue. “I’m not hungry.”
“That’s okay,” she consoles when his shoulders droop. He lets himself feel bad about it, about what he’s doing to himself, for only a moment, but she squeezes his hand to bring him out of it. “Stiles. Come on now. No use crying over spilled milk.”
His entire body is spilled milk. He pulls his flannel shirt tighter around his torso. It’s too big now, and he’s not sure if it’s comforting or unsettling.
“You’re so lovely,” she whispers, leaning forward. Her gaze is intense. “So lovely, Stiles.” He doesn’t believe her and tells her so. She giggles again. “Oh, honey, you have no idea. Just you wait till you get out of this town. People will line up down the block for you. That werewolf you pine over won’t know what hit him.”
"How did you know?" he asks weakly. He tries to feel surprised that she knew about Derek, but at this point, he’s starting to think she knows more about him that he does.
"Sweetie-" In her lacy dress, he wonders who should be calling who sweetie, but doesn't say anything. "-you really need to stop questioning it. You don't always have to know everything."
"I feel like I do," he tells her miserably. "Everyone -"
"Screw everyone, lovely," she urges. "You need to start doing things for you."
He feels like he's inside a dream right now. How did he get there? When did she show up? He could have sworn she wasn't there when he walked in.
"Stiles," she sighs and opens her mouth to say something else.
"What are you doing?"
Stiles jumps, looking over his shoulder. Scott is standing there looking torn. "I..."
"Were you talking to yourself?"
Eyes widening, mind uncomprehending, he turns back to Ana. The seat is empty. Her cup of tea is gone. "No," he answers slowly. "No, someone was here."
Scott immediately starts. "Are you kidding me? No, we do not need more supernatural crap around here."
"Don't I know it," Stiles mutters as Scott walks off toward the counter.
He's surprised when Scott gets his coffee and sits in front of him. This might be the most Stiles has seen of his friend in a week.
"So is this something we need to get worried about?" he asks, sipping at his venti mocha. Stiles pauses.
"No. No, I don't think so," he says finally. "She didn't seem awful, but hey, what do I know." He stops. "I like her, I think." He doesn't say how she sort of terrifies him. He doesn't say a word. Scott grins, relieved, and they stay for another fifteen minutes. When they finish their coffee, they get up to leave.
Stiles doesn't mention how Ana stood by the door, passed by an oblivious Scott, and smiled at him with sad eyes.