catch me if you can, stiles.
Stiles scuffs his knuckles through his short hair, not yet long enough for him to tug on the way he does when he’s anxious (yes the somewhat tragic and preteenish buzzcut he’d have his dad fix up for him twice a year was a way to keep from pulling his own hair out). He’s averted his eyes away from the blonde woman in the process as well, his gut curling and squirming with all kinds of emotions, like they can’t suss out who is the most important one right now.
Because he does believe her, but only to a point.
He’s definitely going to try and get at any records of a student having to take leave for medical almost directly after Stiles had entered the school. He grimaces a little to himself at the thought of attempting that here, at a school that isn’t at all normal, knowing that being caught breaking the rules wouldn’t get the same results as the typical educational institution.
With the hand still holding the letter, Stiles fingers tighten around it as he takes a small step back from the so-called delivery person. A jerk of his neck goes along with it when he looks back at the other student, because he’s not sure how he feels about something so silly, so adorable, and so private, being shared by someone who didn’t feel the way he was led to believe the writer felt about him.
This is way beyond anything he was prepared for. In fact, its almost more daunting than any danger room simulation, at the very least its on par with those scary tests. Its even gotten his heart rate up in a similar fashion. But where before his heart had been leaping with hope, now its skittering along with wariness and embarrassment. And yet he’s still hopeful enough apparently to blush at the mention of him being a ‘cool person’. Jesus he’s a mess right now.
“I can’t tell if you’re an incredibly loyal and awesome friend, or, if you’re really just a creep,” he admits in a mumble at her, still not sure at all where he stands (emotionally and safety wise too because let’s be honest this seems a little obsessive doesn’t it?) in this situation.
His fingers crinkle the surface of the letter, not sure if he wants it now or not. Eventually though, perhaps because he’s just so done with not being decided on an emotion, and just is getting worn out by all this, Stiles ends up smacking the letter over his face and flopping against the lockers again. It kind of hurts because he didn’t mean to sag so heavily but at least it knocks his head enough to spur him along.
“You do realize this is one hell of a situation you two have made here? I mean, you guys are really lucky I’m about as socially awkward as anyone human can get - although I suppose that’s questionable but-” he waves the hand with the letter like he’s shooing the thought away.
Tilting his head as he’s still sagged up against the lockers, he gives the young woman a judging look with his head cocked to the side.
“You’re also lucky that I’m pretty much as desperate for friends as anyone could be as well so. Yeah. You’ve not completely fucked it up. You seriously,” and now he’s leaning off the locker in a weird hunched arch of his back towards her, something only someone with a flexible spine like he could achieve. The wearied tone also seems to be leaving him as his embarrassment as well as the secondhand flush he’s feeling for her coming back to him. The pure disbelief for even being noticed is making this almost funny now to him too.
“You read, you wrote these for her though? You wrote these, these that had all my little screw ups and my colossally sized idiocies and you still can say that I’m cool? Are there really two people in this world that could consider the things I do in public praise worthy? Are you sure you haven’t suffered brain damage? Or are you the one that’s supposed to be in the hospital still maybe?”
Hands running through his buzzcut hair, fists clenching around the love letter she had poured her heart into writing, and the backstep away from her—uh oh. These are all signs of frustration and distrust, and Natalie almost feels like rewinding the clock, because she’d rather him not know her at all, than have him hate her. In fact, she’d rather him think of her as the creep who has the biggest crush on him, than the bitch who lied to his face over and over again. So she gets as frustrated as he is, only she’s mad at herself, because how could she be so stupid?
Oh, Natalie. Way to go.
There is a part of her that thinks it might be a good idea to just come clean, but she knows that by doing so, she’d just solidify his distaste for her, and she’s not ready to give him up just yet. She’s not ready to have him avert his gaze when they pass each other by, for him to shield his eyes with his hand when she smiles at him, or for him to cringe every time she happens to come into his line of vision. (Of course, there’s also a part of her that’s sure Stiles is not that kind of person; he’s nice and is similar to her, but the images of worst case scenarios running through her mind is enough to hold her tongue.)
She actually winces when he calls her a creep, fingers tangling and untangling with themselves as her eyes look to the floor, a sort of ringing sound blaring in her ear brought by the tattoo of her heart against her chest. “Probably both,” she mutters still, and she chances a glance at him momentarily, before shame overtakes her in the form of pink tinted cheeks and she has to look away again.
It feels like he’s lecturing her, so all she can do is stand there like a mute. As per her nervous habit, she often bites and swipes her tongue against her bottom lip, and her hands finally halt their wild movements to clasp behind her back. She’s about to give up all hope, as can be detected by her constantly bouncing her heel against the floor, as though she’s just about ready to run the second he tells her to leave. But her heart picks up from where it fell when he confesses that she didn’t mess up, though she winces slightly at the cuss word. Still, she dares to look up, brows furrowing at his contorted position but she doesn’t say much on it. It seems as though words have escaped her today, which is quite a feat, as Natalie usually never stops talking.
But her head instantly starts shaking when he degrades himself, and because she has yet to find her words—her tongue unable to form the word stop—she carefully approaches him, closing the distance between them before lifting her gloved hands to plant them on top of his lips in attempt to cut off the brutal insults directed at himself. And she refuses to let him speak until she finds her voice, which happens about less than a minute after; and not surprisingly, it’s because she’s now realised how rude she’s being. Her hands fly to her sides, a croaky sorry leaving her lips before she stares at him as she thinks of the right words to say.
“You’re, uh… you’re really smart,” she starts off, and she shakes her head as her eyes squeeze shut at what she deems to be an abysmal start to her trying to express herself, “you… you help people, even when they don’t deserve it; like that day, in class, when the guy gave you the cold shoulder even though you were just trying to help. You don’t just hear, you listen to what people have to say—to what I have to say. You give people the benefit of the doubt, even when what they’re saying sounds like complete nonsense, because you like to think the best of people. You forgive people—you forgave me—when they’ve done nothing but hurt you. When I do nothing but hurt you. And you don’t even know me!”
Natalie takes a deep breath, hands running through her hair at what she perceives to be her mental breakdown, like the ones she often sees on television. But now that she’s started, she can’t seem to stop. “But you stand up for yourself, too. You’re not just…some doormat. I mean, you stood up to me when I sounded so dodgy, and you have… really cute ears.” Her hands move to touch her own ear, trying to ease the discomfort of it being red from embarrassment, “I don’t— I don’t know what I’m trying to say. You’re probably right: I might have brain damage. But I’m also right in saying that you’re super cool and worthy of not just someone, but everyone’s attention. Because you just give, and—” her hands move to grip the letter he holds, gloved hands resting on his bare skin, “I just— my friend wants you to receive, too. Nothing has to come from this. All she wants you to be is happy.”
Very slowly, her hands loosen their grip on his as well as the letter, and her arms move to wrap around herself as she attempts to do damage control. “And this is just Natalie talking, and I don’t even… I don’t like you that way. Imagine what someone who likes you would think of you.”
