“Alright, dickweed,” Stiles announced, barreling into the kitchen. “Time to—

Shadowman leaned against the island, head flying up from where he’d let it hang between his sloped shoulders. One hand shot out to slam a small frame flat against the countertop, laying atop it as though it could right itself without permission, as he stood tall, eyes wild.

“—Pony up some… what the hell, dude? What’s that?”

“None of your business. You shouldn’t be down here, she asked you to stay.”

Stiles pursed his mouth to one side, resisting the urge to squint across the room. He changed trajectory, letting his feet wander him around the far side of the island. “See, that, that right there? That’s kind of the running theme. You know things,” he swept a hand out in a grand gesture, noting the way Shadowman shifted to one side to keep Stiles in view, “things us mere mortals don’t—”

“Mere mortals.”

“‘Swhat I said, yeah. Point! You know, we don’t, you don’t share with the class, and I’m not digging this whole routine at all, man, so let’s try something new, like, oh, I don’t know,” he slapped his hands down on the edge of the island. 

Shadowman’s fingers, splayed across the frame, twitched closer to his palm. 

“Werewolves, for starters.”

Silence hung over the room. Stiles counted his breaths, forcing his hands flat against the countertop. Cloth swished as Shadowman went boxy, arms crossing over his chest. That sardonic slant to his mouth came back, a tiny upward pull of his brows sprinkling humor on top. “Took you long enough, Stilinski.”

“Oh fuck you, dude,” Stiles shoved himself away from the counter, only to immediately press around the corner and get into the taller man’s face. “You could’ve told us at any point in time—”

“I did,” Shadowman drawled, not acknowledging Stiles’ flailing limbs at all. “Repeatedly. She ignored me. You ignored me. You,” he took a step closer, forcing Stiles back enough to be able to look up the last few inches into his face. “Repeatedly told me you were both human.” He snorted, inelegant.

“Okay, first off, I? Am one hundred percent human.” Stiles waved a hand down his side. “This is prime unbitten human, right here.” He decided to be the bigger man and ignore the blatant way Shadowman rolled his eyes. “Second, your explanation was severely lacking in that it had zero actual explaining. At all. Ever. At any point. Don’t you take that tone of eyebrow with me,” he added, watching as Shadowman’s eyebrows did a funny little waggle as he mouthed Stiles’ words.

“Werewolves,” Stiles snapped, determined to wring out every ounce of information he could. “That’s a thing. Erica is a wolf.” He paused, staring pointedly at Shadowman until he nodded. “Erica is a werewolf because you are a werewolf, and you bit her. That’s the gift you mean. Being changed.” Another nod. “All the weird shit she’s doing is werewolfy shit. The senses, the healing— she’s gonna heal fine, right?”

“Yes, and yes, Mi—” Exasperation cut off in a clack of teeth. “Do you honestly not know this?”

“Uh, why the fuck would I know literally any of this? Was there a class I missed? Like, is it between Chem and History? No, I don’t know any of this!”

Shadowman gave ground instead of answering, retreating back to the kitchen table, expression indecipherable.

Rookie mistake. In a flash, Stiles wrenched the abandoned frame upright. Whatever he might have expected, he honestly didn’t know, but time fractured around the edges as he took her in. Long, wavy brown hair around an oval face. Huge, startled eyes swirled with brown and green. A sloping nose over a horrified, opened mouth. Parts of a whole his mind slipped over, again and again, unable to click sections together.

The frame clattered back to the counter from his numb fingers. Stiles hunched over, hands shooting up to press into his skull. They couldn’t stop the abrupt flashes of red hot iron scraping along the inside of his brain; the pressure made it close to manageable. 

“Mischief—” A man’s voice, far off and distorted, hands on his shoulders. “Stel? What—” the words broke down into unintelligible hisses. Stiles whined. Every sound rubbed against the raw edges of his head.

The headache drained away in small bursts, leaving him panting against the island. Shadowman hovered a few feet away, the frame cradled in one hand. Both forearms carried new black tattoos, snaking around each other in broad ropes. 

“I have… so many more questions now,” Stiles muttered. He gave himself three deep breaths before forcing himself to stand, more than half convinced the movement would jar the pickax in his brain back to life. 

It didn’t, but the memory made his movement cautious. He held out one hand, as imperious as he could manage with wobbly legs. “Give it back.”

Dark brows snapped together.

Stiles’ jaw clenched and his nose flared. “It’s pretty obvious you know more than I’ve even thought to ask yet,” he started, voice a low rasp in his throat. “Don’t think we won’t get to that, wolfboy, because we will.” The flinch looked unconscious, and was deeply satisfying to witness. “But first, give her back.”

Those stupid brows slid up, Shadowman's mouth falling open, even as his eyes darted around the room. His hand, though, held the frame closer to his chest. “Her?”

Stiles snorted, closing his eyes for a beat, hands on his hips as he tried to roll some of the tension from his neck. “You wanna play that game, man? Okay. Cool. We can do this dance. I know her.” It rang in his chest as he said it, so he said it again. “I know her. I know she’s about this tall,” he held a hand out to the side, above his shoulders. “I know she’s got a mole on the left side of her face, and tattoo. Tattoos? I know she smells like paint and fire,” he couldn’t stop once he started, even as the pickax turned into a power drill at the top of his spine. Despite the water in his eyes and the rocks squeezing his voice he added, “I know she makes me think of chocolate and playgrounds and stars, and I know that I don’t fucking know how I know any of that, but I’m beginning to think you do, so give her back.”

“Your sister’s boyfriend’s been kidnapped. No, I’m fucking serious.”

Cue my mother and my step-mother coming to have a minor What The Actual Fucking Fuck session at my place, since we are on the east coast, and my sister migrated to Cleveland, Land of the Terrifying. To make matters more Extra Fun, she’s got two little boys under six, and they all currently live with his parents, who are... less than supportive. She’s also manic depressive, and whatever they renamed Bi-polar to now. So. you know. Not Good Things, and I’m Too Fucking Far Away.

My brother’s response? “So... drug related?” Helpful, dude. Helpful.

Anyway. Story time. Kidnapping. Right. 

My sister called my mother in hysterics, with little to no actual information, just that she turned her phone back on to a slew of messages and someone’s baby mama was coming to get her and the boys. I had to talk my mother out of immediately driving out - wait for intel, man.

Now, Boyfriend and Family have had drug connections. Boyfriend is supposed to be clean, but used to be a coke dealer. Cue more What The Fuckery Shenanigans.

Turns out Boyfriend’s Brother was the one who actually got kidnapped. Surprise! Because Brother owed and/or tried to skim 16K to his Friendly Local Drug Trade. 

Boyfriend evidently volunteered to meet up with Friendly Local Drug Trade and pay up - how, I have no idea, since Boyfriend is flat broke and scrounging for a house, thus living with parents, so I’m assuming it was with Brother’s stuff. (Which is enough to drive me to drink. Dude, you have two little kids of your own to figure out and come home to, don’t fucking risk yourself. But those are my nephews, so I might be biased against attempted heroics.)

BUT IT CONTINUES. Baby mama that contacted my sister is Brother’s Ex. Brother’s Current baby mama, the person Brother called via gun-to-the-head, deliberately garbled the message to make it seem like Boyfriend was at risk. Brother and Current baby mama have three kids, if anyone cares. Current mama hates Ex mama, because Ex mama is supposed to be His Tru Love. 

AAAAANWAY. Current Baby Mama is now being detained by the F.B.I. And everyone’s okay. And I really, really fucking need my kid sister to get her ass back to the eastern seaboard, stat. Fuck cheap houses, man, That Is Terrifying.

And I might be having a post-adrenaline crash wherein I am a shaking mess that finds this all hilarious, plus I’m alone with *my* three little kids, and my Not-Husband won’t be home for hours, so, here you go, Tumblr. Another installation of My Life Sounds Worse Than It Fucking Is: The Tragic Mocumentary

How the shit do I tag this, other than “haha send help”