When it came to universal balance, Stiles figured he wasn’t doing much to keep the universe in balance. He’d taken more than he’d given over the past few years. How long had he leeched from Scott before he realized he was doing it? His contributions were small in his mind. Nobody had told him otherwise, and so Stiles sensed his own weakness, and worse, the darkness that filled him up.
“Alright. Fine.” He would have argued. Maybe he should have argued. His father would lecture him later about how he would now owe the Delacroix family, or how he shouldn’t have accepted anything of monetary value.
Maybe they could fix it. Maybe he could fix it, if Larc was to be believed.
People had been in his mind before. His eyes narrowed on the warlock, face pinched. “You’re in my head?” It seemed like a stupid question, but he bent anyway for the appropriate wrench and handed it over. He’d done this a thousand times, beaten the machinery under the hood until it submitted to his authority as the driver. For months he hadn’t had the time to work on the engine, and it had caught up with him.
He had done this a dozen times over, figured out what went where. Most of it was intuition, some of it came from the books he poured over to help him take care of the vehicle, and some of it came from a combination of trial and error and dumb luck.
“Careful with that tape. It’s it melts when it’s hot, and Roscoe’s been running pretty hot lately.”
Larc:
Perhaps someday Larc would explain to Stiles the true meaning of balance. Everyone had their part, and that part wasn’t always to right the scales, but also to tip them. Chaos was just as important as order, and very few people could see that. Perhaps someday, they would have that discussion … but not at this time. Not at this time, because it was not the place, nor was such a conversation provoked … yet.
So when Stiles gave his ‘alright, fine’, the warlock simply nodded as it would appear the sheriff’s son had agreed to his terms … or at least didn’t feel like disputing Larc’s thought process on the matter of charity. It was all right to let someone do something nice for him every once in a while, wasn’t it? What was it with Americans and pride?
At the question of being in teen’s head, Larc didn’t look away from the engine as he accepted the wrench, disconnecting the battery as he clarified. “No. Your thoughts are in my head. But only the ones that are pertinent to my current task. Like a radio tuned in to a specific frequency. You could think about something completely irrelevant … like golfing … and I would none the wiser …” he explained with a nonchalant air. “You’re the one fixing Roscoe. Not me.”
As though on cue with the warning about melted tape, Larc’s hand snapped instinctively back following a burn to his index finger. Hissing quietly through his teeth, he looked to the small red mark along his skin. “Good to know,” he acknowledged quietly as he continued to work with a touch that was a bit more delicate. “Your cooling system could be related to whatever electrical problem you’re having …”
With the battery disconnected, he held the wrench back to Stiles. “Socket wrench, s’il vou plait?” he asked politely, awaiting the exchange. “So tell me about your friends ...” Larc inquired. “What are they like?”
