CHAPTER EIGHT // MIDSUMMER EVE.

Derek's apartment was much nicer than his house; the dusty, desolate, abandoned one he no longer lived in. Still, it was rather dark and depressing; lacking light or enough furniture or decor or anything remotely colorful. Summer had determined dark and depressing might just be the man's personal style.

The girl was standing around a table with the others, a lamp brightening the blueprints spread across it; unenthusiastically watching as Stiles unfurled a fourth sheet and explained everything they needed to know for the untraditional bank heist they were about to commit in order to rescue Boyd and the mystery girl locked up with him.

     "Okay, you see this?" he pointed to a spot on the map with a red marker. "This is how they got in. It's a rooftop air conditioning vent. Leads down inside into the wall of the vault, which is here, okay?" he circled the location. "One of the robbers was lowered into this shaft. Now, that space is so small, it took him about 12 hours to drill into that wall, which is stone by the way. Then throughout the rest of the night, they siphoned the cash up to guys back on the roof through that one little shaft on the wall." He closed the marker's cap. "Boom."

     His eyes shifted to Summer, standing with loosely crossed arms beside Scott and staring blankly down at the blueprints; unsure of how to act around her after their four a.m. conversation. They hadn't spoken to each other since. It had been awkward and tense all day at school.

     "Can we fit in there?" the McCall asked, leaning into the table.

     "Uh . . ." Stiles refocused on the mission, pulling his gaze back to the map. "Yes we can, but very, very barely. And they also patched the wall, obviously, so we're gonna need a drill of some kind. I'm thinking maybe a diamond bit, but—"

     "Look, forget the drill." Derek muttered and Summer rolled her eyes.

     Stiles pulled a face, his head swinging over to him. "Sorry?"

"If I go in first, how much space do I have?"

"What do you— what do you think you're gonna do, Derek? You gonna punch through the wall?" he turned to face the man, who took an exasperated breath and crossed his arms; an aggravated and impatient smile on his features.

"Yes, Stiles, I'm gonna punch through the wall."

"Okay, big guy, let's see it. Let's see that fist. Big ole' fist. Make it, come on. Get it out there. Don't be scared." the Stilinski boy pressed, Derek holding up a fist; jaw locked. "Big bad wolf. Yeah, look at that." He held his flat palm up to the alpha's curled one. "Okay, see this? That's maybe three inches of room to gather enough force to punch through solid co—"

Effortlessly, Derek drove his fist forwards and into Stiles hand so hard the boy collapsed sideways into the table; the sound of him slamming against the metal surface reverberating throughout the entire dingy apartment.

Scott's lips parted as they watched Stiles clutch his arm and let out a high-pitched whimper, stumbling away, hunched over in pain. The McCall boy extended his arms to the side and shrugged to Derek with his mouth in an "o", as if asking why he had done that.

     "He can do it." Stiles immediately admitted from a few feet away, forfeiting his initial argument; still whining aloud as he shook out his aching wrist.

     "I'll get through the wall." Derek austerely concluded. "Who's following me down?"

His eyes shifted expectantly to a man that had been sitting on the spiral staircase in the corner of the large room, having contributed nothing to the conversation so far. Scott had speedily filled Summer in on him during the car ride over. His name was Peter and he was Derek's uncle— the one Lydia resurrected. Their history with the man was tortured and messy and complicated and one she still didn't fully comprehend, but she had gotten the gist of it, and that was that nobody seemed to like him very much.

     "Don't look at me." he casually defended. "I'm not up to fighting speed yet. And honestly, with Isaac out of commission, you're not looking at very good odds for yourself."

     "So I'm supposed to just let them die?" Derek narrowed his eyes at him, unimpressed.

     "One of them is already dead." the man shrugged.

     "We don't know that."

Stiles silently wandered back over to the table, angrily glaring at Derek for a long moment; bitter about the embarrassing blow he'd landed. Summer's stern gaze flickered down to his hand, the boy still rubbing his arm and rolling his wrist. For a split second, her blue eyes softened, watching as he wriggled his fingers, still clearly in pain. They traveled warily up to his face, hardening instantly again when she found his conflicted eyes already on her; though they snapped away the second she had looked.

     "Do I have to remind you what we're up against here? A pack of alphas. All of them, killers."

Peter's voice, specifically the word killers was enough to keep her gaze far away from anyone else's; her face turning hot in shame as she dipped her head downwards. She wanted to disintegrate to dust at the nauseating title, the title she now held along with these alpha barbarians who apparently, just like her, were out for blood. She wondered if the wolves in the room could hear her heart sink the same way they could hear hearts beat. She wondered if Scott and Stiles had instantly thought of her upon hearing the wretched word too.

     Killer. That's what she amounted to now.

Peter continued. "And if that's not enough to scare the testicles back into your stomach, try to remember that two of them combine bodies to form one giant alpha. I'm sure Erica and Boyd were sweet kids. They're gonna be missed."

     "Could someone kill him again, please?" Stiles pursed his lips.

"Derek, seriously? Not worth the risk." he crossed his arms, and there was a short beat before he changed the subject. "By the way, Scott, you didn't introduce me to your new friend. The little one with judgy eyes."

Summer slowly lifted her head, arms crossed the same as his as she fixed her sharp gaze towards him. It was rather easy to dislike him. He had a bad rep, and he was disgustingly cocky, and most importantly he was a Hale.

     He smirked, gesturing lightly towards the extreme look on her face. "Case in point."

     "This is Summer." Scott flickered an uneasy glance his way, mind still on Erica and Boyd.

"And what gives Summer the credibility of being involved with our supernaturalness and your ill-considered werewolf rescue mission?"

     "Peter, why are you even still here if you're not on board with the plan?" Stiles huffed, both he and Derek leaning against the table on their palms.

     "I just think it's my right to know who it is you're telling my personal information to."

     "Did you ever figure out the white blood?" Derek tiredly asked, already seeming exhausted by the off-topic conversation and massively uninterested in this at the moment.

     Peter knitted his brows, obnoxiousness momentarily fading as his interest was genuinely sparked. "White blood?"

     "Uh, no. No. We never figured it out." Stiles answered, Summer glancing to him confusedly. Why would he say that? They did figure it out. "Now can we just focus back on the—"

     "He's lying." Peter interrupted.

     "Tell me, is it your superiority complex that makes you think you can ask these things or are you just that much of a dick?" the Stilinski boy tilted his head.

"Okay!" Scott clapped his hands together. "He's not lying, Peter. We don't know what she is." The confusion deepened on Summer's face— yes they do. "Plus . . . we're sort of in a time crunch here so let's just figure out how to help Boyd."

"I'm fae." Summer abruptly announced, the room falling silent.

     Stiles and Scott's eyes widened and they exchanged looks. She wasn't sure why the two boys were concealing the information, probably because they were ashamed of her violent DNA, but it wasn't theirs to conceal, and she was claiming every scarce opportunity that presented itself to take matters into her own hands.

     Slowly, Derek raised his brows, like he didn't believe the girl. "As in fairy?"

     "No, Derek, as in the fuel-air explosive." Stiles sarcastically retorted. "Yes, as in fairy!"

     Peter sprang from his spot on the staircase, hurrying down the steps with enlarged eyes and a serious expression. Summer wore an apathetic mien as he parked himself a few feet before her, her arms still crossed as he looked her up and down.

"I thought they were just a legend." the awe-struck words tumbled from his lips, his amazed eyes meeting her wildly unimpressed ones. "Fairies are supposed to be incredibly powerful."

"Okay, thank you, Peter, for the unsolicited information we already knew." Stiles moved out from behind the table to shoo him away.

"Yeah, whatever. Don't worry about it. And don't tell anyone." Scott sounded slightly frustrated, the boy stepping closer to Summer. "Can we please just focus on the bank?"

Summer blinked when Scott's eyes shifted briefly over to her, unease or worry or something similar dancing among them when the others weren't looking. The idea that perhaps they hadn't wanted Peter to know her information wasn't because they didn't trust her, but because they didn't trust him only then occurring to her. Suddenly she felt sorry for blurting it out so cavalierly as a poorly executed act of rebellion.

     "Couldn't agree more." Derek happily nodded. "I still need someone to come with me once I get through the wall. What about you?"

     "Yeah." Stiles immediately shrugged. "If you want me to come—"

     The alpha's eyes shut in exasperation. "Not you."

     "Got it." he sent an awkward thumbs up before everyone's eyes fell to Scott, still standing closely by Summer.

     "I don't know about Erica." the McCall boy spoke solemnly. "But if Boyd's still alive, we have to do something. We have to try."

     "But?" Derek raised his brows.

     "Who's the other girl? The one locked in there with Boyd?"

     There was a beat before the man took a deep breath, standing up straight. "Looks like we're gonna find out."

     It was only a few more moments of last minute details being finalized and only a few more lectures about the thickness of the stone walls from Stiles before the two werewolves were ready to go. Summer still hadn't heard much about this alleged alpha pack, but from what little she had, she knew they were dangerous— extremely.

     The girl watched from a distance as Stiles patted Scott on the back, the two saying something to one another while she swayed on the balls of her feet; her arms crossed tightly against her chest. A foreign, unwelcome feeling was in the pit of her belly. The Stilinski boy bid him a final farewell before he waltzed back over to the table to further study the blueprints. From the wide open door that Derek had already departed through, Scott sent her a small smile and wave, to which she nodded halfheartedly in return.

     He turned, but only made it a few steps into the hallway before he was stopped.

     "Scott!" she called, hesitantly standing in place for a moment longer before scurrying over to meet him. "Um . . ."

     "Yeah?" he asked, brows knitted at her inability to stay still; the girl having a hard time keeping her eyes in one place.

     "Um, just . . . try to be careful, y'know?"

     A surprised smile spread slowly across the boy's features, and he reached out and tapped her arm, finally causing her gaze to settle on him. "We'll be safe, Sums. Promise."

     An uneasy smile flashed across her face and she let out a short, partially-relived breath. "Kay."

The door shut behind him, and Summer's shoulders slumped. She wasn't particularly thrilled about the pair she was stuck here with.

     Stiles wouldn't stop chewing his nails. Wouldn't sit still. Wouldn't relax.

     Peter was lounging on the sofa, head lulled back into the cushion with closed eyes at the boy's ceaseless ranting; arms folded across his stomach and feet propped on a coffee table. Summer was sitting on the floor by the table still holding the blueprints, leaning back against one of its sturdy legs. She'd been silently slumped in this spot since Scott and Derek had left.

     "I can't take waiting around like this, you know? It's nerve-racking." Stiles stood before the dozens of glass window panes, staring up at the full moon beaming like a lightbulb against the ebony of night; gentle raindrops gathering outside. "My nerves are racked. They're severely racked! Racked!"

     "I could beat you unconscious and wake you when it's over." Peter tiredly mentioned, never opening his eyes, unaware of Summer rolling her own at his statement.

     Stiles turned from the windows, face furrowed in deep thought. "You think Erica's really dead?"

     "You think I really care?"

     "Just— I don't understand the bank though, okay?" the boy was pacing now; typical. "Wh— like, why wouldn't they just chain them up in some underground lair or something? They're an alpha pack, right? Shouldn't they have a lair?"

"They're werewolves, not Bond villains."

"Wait a sec. Wait a sec!" Stiles scurried across the room as he thought aloud, hands flying about. "Maybe they're living there. You know?! Like– maybe the bank vault reminds them of their little wolf dens!"

"Wolf dens?" Peter muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, wolf dens. Where do you live?"

"In an underground network of caves hidden deep in the woods." he sighed.

"Woah, really?" Stiles' eyes widened.

"No, you idiot. I have an apartment downtown."

"Okay, fine, but still that just proves that there's something up with the bank. And why wait around for the full moon, huh? Why not just kill them whenever they want to?"

Still from her spot on the floor, without showing it on her face, Summer listened closely to Stiles' relentlessness; wondering if perhaps he was on to something.

"Maybe they think it's poetic." the werewolf suggested unenthusiastically; praying the boy would soon shut up.

"They've already had three full moons to be poetic."

"And here you've only had one full hour to be so annoying—" Peter's eyes shot open, the man sitting abruptly up on the couch as he paused mid sentence.

"No, go ahead, finish what you were saying. I'm– I'm annoying, what were you gonna say there?"

"What are the walls made of?"

The drastic change of Peter's tone caught Summer's attention, the girl knitting her brows as she watched him from across the room.

"What?" the boy pulled a similar face of confusion. "Uh, I dunno, like wood and brick or—"

"No, no, no, the vault, the vault, the walls." Peter corrected, marching back over to the blueprints. Stiles was quickly joining his side, Summer rising to her feet to do the same. "What are they made out of? Where would it say that?" Urgently, he was shuffling through the papers. "Doesn't say anything. Where– where would it say the materials, the type of stone?"

"Oh, oh! Hang on." Stiles whirled around, Summer stepping out of his way as he dug hurriedly through his backpack. "Yeah, here, hang on. Here. It's gotta be in there." He handed over a thick stack of weathered papers.

The many sheets were soon spread across the length of the table, the three rapidly searching through them, despite the two teenagers still not getting what the big deal was. Almost instantly, Summer found their answer in bold letters.

VAULT WALLS: HECATOLITE.

The girl rested her finger beneath the printed word, squinting as she attempted to pronounce it. "Heca . . . heck-too-light." she turned to face them. "Is this it?" Peter snatched the paper from her hands, holding it out before him. The girl let out a short huff. "You're welcome."

     "Is that awful?" Stiles begrudgingly asked. "That sounds awful."

     "Get em' on the phone. Call them." Peter's eyes were wide. "Now!"

     "Okay!" Stiles scrambled for the device in his pocket. "Why?"

     "Because Boyd and that girl aren't gonna kill each other. They're gonna kill Derek and Scott."

     Summer froze, blinking as her eyes flooded with alarm. "Wh-what?" her voice came out small and uncertain. "What do you mean?"

     "I mean they are going to kill Derek and Scott." he leaned forward, over-annunciating.

     "Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up." Stiles muttered as the phone rang, tapping his foot impatiently; quickly adjusting it to speaker.

"What does heco– hecta– what does it do?!"  the blonde gave up at pronouncing the mineral correctly; more focused on what it was capable of.

"It scatters the moonlight." Peter direly explained. "Boyd and the girl won't have dealt with the effects of a true full moon for three months."

     "Meaning?" Stiles pressed, phone still ringing.

     "Meaning when they experience the full moon in its entirety tonight . . ." the man trailed off, shaking his head. He didn't have to verbalize it. The two teenagers got the gist— the results would be morbid.

     They would be monsters. Just for this one night. 

"Stiles, now is not the best time."

"Scott!" the Stilinski boy nearly leapt ten feet off the ground when his friend finally answered, speaking frantically to him. "Scott! No, listen to me, okay?! Look, you gotta get out of there. The walls of the vault are made with a mineral called hecatolite. It scatters the moonlight."

"What does that mean?"

     "It keeps the moonlight out, okay?! They haven't felt the full moon in months!"

     "Think of it like the gladiators in the Roman Colosseum." Peter jumped in, not pausing to take any breaths between his grave words. "They used to starve the lions for three days, making them more vicious, more out of control. Deucalion has kept them from shifting for three full moons, diminishing their tolerance to it."

     "Scott, they're gonna be stronger!" Stiles warned. Summer's worried eyes flickered rapidly back and forth between the two as they took turns shouting into the phone; wondering in the back of her mind what a Colosseum was.

     "More savage, more bloodthirsty. Scott, they're the lions. They're the starved lions and you and Derek just stepped into the colosseum."

     There was a tense beat before they heard Scott speak again. "Derek, we got a problem. A really big problem."

     The overwhelming clamor of roars and ferocious growls suddenly blared through the speaker, Stiles shouting Scott's name only a few times before the call ended and the large apartment fell eerily silent.

     Summer stood in shock, wide-eyed and unmoving for a long moment before breaking the quietude. "What do we do now?" Neither of them responded, her voice rising as she waved a hand in front of each of their faces. "Hello?! How do we help them?"

     "We don't." Peter simply muttered, leaning back against the table in defeat.

     The girl scoffed at him in disbelief before turning to Stiles, who was still frozen in place. "Stiles?"

     His gaze finally met her appalled one. "Uh . . ."

     "What do we do now?"

     "I . . . I'm not entirely sure." his eyes shifted over to the werewolf. "Peter, you could go to the bank! Go fight with them!"

"Uh, no." the man pursed his lips.

"No?" Summer jarred her head back, nose crinkling in disgust. "Derek's your nephew, right?"

"Derek is the idiot who I told this plan wasn't worth the risk and that I wasn't going to be a part of it." Peter pushed off the table, jaw squared. "I don't owe him anything more than that."

Summer took a step towards him. "You know you're pretty cocky for a coward."

"O–okay." Stiles stepped uncomfortably between the two; surprised Summer had that kind of gusto. She must be learning it from Lydia. "Let's just take a second to think about this and decide–" he was interrupted by the ringing of his own phone; everyone's shoulders sagging in relief when they saw the name of who was calling flash across the small screen.

Scott.

"Oh thank God." A huge breath spilled from Stiles lips, the boy immediately answering. "Scott?! What happened? Who's dead?!"

"No one, yet." he was panting from the other end of the phone, evidently just having come out of sparring with the deranged werewolves. "But they're loose and about to do some really serious damage. Isaac's gonna help Derek and I go after them. Listen, I gotta go."

Summer felt her heart return to a normal rhythm in her chest, the girl letting out a tiny gulp of air she'd been holding in her tight chest; placing her hands on her hips.

"Yeah, okay, but Scott?" Stiles paused, as if afraid to ask his next question. "Erica?" There was still a shred of hope left in his unsteady voice.

A long beat. "She's gone."

     "So . . . a fairy?"

     Summer lazily lifted her brows, chin resting glumly in her palm; elbow propped on her knee. Peter stood before her, towering over her deflated frame sitting on the bottom step of the spiral staircase.

     "A real life Tinkerbell, right here in our presence."

     The man's features were curious, yet somehow still overwhelmingly egotistical. He seemed unfazed by their short-lived argument from earlier. There was a lightness in his tone about this Tinkerbell thing, Summer not knowing or currently caring what the word meant.

     "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought the legend was that fairies don't exist in our dimension."

     The girl let out a short puff of air through her nostrils— so she'd been told.

     "So what are you doing here?" His tone was accusatory, suspicious, annoying. There was a long beat, one she let linger instead of entertaining his pointless questions. "What," he teased. "Fairies aren't talkative?"

     "No," she gritted her teeth, leaning slightly forward. "but someone told me they are incredibly powerful, and you're really starting to piss this one off."

     "Whew!" he let out a sarcastic breath, smiling as if he were pleased. "She's got fire, ladies and gentlemen!"

     "Peter." The man glanced over his shoulder at Stiles' voice, the Stilinski boy standing with furrowed brows from where he'd just returned from the bathroom. "What are you doing?"

     "Just getting to know our new friend Summer a little better."

     "Leave her alone, man." the boy sighed.

     Peter smirked at her for a moment longer, the girl maintaining her glare until he hummed in amusement and ambled away. She bit back a scoff— even his walk was arrogant. Stiles hesitantly traded places with him, wandering slowly towards Summer with his hands shoved in his pockets; ill at ease.

     "Careful." she deadpanned dourly, not bothering to look up at him; the weight of her head back in her palm. "I might become violent if you approach too quickly."

     Immediately he sighed, dropping his shoulders in exasperation. "Summer, I don't think—"

     "You know what?" she sat up straight, looking at him and forcing a clearly unhappy smile. "Let's just drop it. I know you don't trust me. That's fine. I'm over it." She wasn't.

     "No, it's not that I don't—"

     "Stiles?" her brows rose pleadingly, the girl tired of walking on eggshells around him. She had very few people to talk to— she couldn't afford to stay mad at one of them forever.

     He thought for a moment before giving in and nodding in silent agreement, a dissatisfied feeling dawdling in his chest that they hadn't reached some sort of conclusion on the matter.

     "You wanna know something weird?" she immediately lightened up, changing the subject at once. She had a list of things she'd been waiting to discuss.

     "What?"

     "Twins."

     His frowned in confusion. "Twins?"

     "Twins." the girl confirmed. "Lydia and Allison and I saw some in the library yesterday and there was something weird about them. I got this feeling."

"What feeling?" She had barely finished her sentence when he'd begun his, immediately engrossed by what she was saying. "Like they're bad or something?"

"No, not like that. I can't describe it. But it was the same feeling I got when I saw Emily and Heather's picture the other night, and when Scott got his tattoo, and . . ." her voice trailed off, a sudden hesitancy filling her chest.

"What?" the boy pressed.

Summer gnawed at the inside of her cheek, staring apprehensively up at him as she tried to decide whether or not detailing the full truth was a tremendously stupid thing to do. The truth, what she wanted to say next, wasn't going to help her 'violent tendencies' case. All honesty would do right now is make her look exponentially more suspicious than she already did.

"What is it?" he asked again eagerly, unsure of what the hold up was.

She let a sigh pass her lips before taking a deep breath. Stiles would probably end up prying it out of her sooner or later anyway. "Did you see the news this morning?"

He jarred his head back. That wasn't what he had been expecting her to say. "Uh . . . I think so. My dad had it on before he left for work. Why?"

"Did you see the part about all those people dying in . . . what's that place called?"

"New York?" he immediately answered, brows furrowed. "Yeah, I saw that."

Her voice was quieter this time; tone darker. "I got the same feeling. It's like I almost start to remember something, or– or it almost reminds me of something and then it just . . . doesn't."

     Stiles eyes were narrowed in thought, the boy taking a long beat before speaking. "Wait, you said you had that feeling when Scott got his tattoo?" She nodded. "Okay, and you have a tattoo. So that feeling was right. Somewhere you knew there was some kind of personal connection to you."

     She gulped. "So what kind of personal connection do I have with a bunch of people getting killed in New Fork?"

     Despite the serious nature of their conversation, the corners of Stiles' lips ever-so-briefly twitched at her error; the boy clearing his throat to keep his humored smile at bay. "New York."

     "York." she echoed softly.

The gears were spinning in his head, like they typically were, but he couldn't provide any logical explanation. He didn't have an answer. At least not right now. "I don't know." he eventually admitted.

He stayed quiet for a moment, eyes lingering on her dispirited posture and the misplaced traces of guilt woven among her features; as if she had done something wrong. Abruptly, he turned and walked away; Summer watching in vague interest as he grabbed his backpack from where it was crumpled beneath the table. He carried it back over, plopping down on the floor in front of her.

"So while Scott and I were doing all that research on the bank and everything," he explained, carelessly rummaging through the unzipped bag; tossing all the many items it held aside. "I looked into some folklore on fae a little bit too."

Eventually, he retrieved a manila folder. On the front it was tilted SUMMER, scribbled down in a rush from the looks of his messy handwriting. Her forehead creased, the girl immediately sliding down from the bottom step of the staircase to sit silently beside him; their shoulders brushing.

     "No, no. No." he mumbled to himself as he swiftly shuffled through the many things inside, sprawling them haphazardly across the floor. "Not this."

     A few sheets of papers held together by a lint-infested paperclip were shed from the folder; Stiles shoving them out of his way as he continued his search. Summer had seen these papers before. They were the ones Stiles had brought to her about seers, back when they thought she might be one. But the articles had been edited since then; the word WRONG aggressively written in bold sharpie across the cover page.

     She carefully plucked a discarded sticky note from the floor, one that had a drawing of her tattoo on it; next to it was written FAE SYMBOL. Her free hand found its way to the back of her neck, where the replica of the drawing was settled into her skin. There were countless other half-finished notes and clustered ideas jotted down in the folder, one of which was a long list of things he'd read could help restore an amnesiac's memories.

She flinched, her eyes shooting back over to the paper suddenly in Stiles' hands when she heard an excessively loud "ah-ha!" beside her.

"Here it is." a tiny smile of satisfaction flashed upon his face as he handed it over, the girl slowly taking it from him; surprised and rendered silent by this entire folder he'd apparently been keeping of her.

She held it gently in her hands, the same way she had held her music box. It was fresh from the printer, still neat and not stained or tarnished or crumpled at all; unlike many of the other things in the folder.

     It was a picture of an old oil painting; one crafted by delicate brushstrokes and rich colors. There was a woman in a lush forest at dusk, the purple sky not yet dark enough to fully envelope the pigmented green leaves and twisting bodies of trees towering behind her. She had soft red curls swept away from her pale face by the crown of woven vines and baby's breath on top of her head. She clutched the bottom of her long, elegant gown in her hands so it didn't brush the earth beneath her; leaning forward to observe something below. Around her legs, encircling her like a wreath were fairies; so small they stood no taller than the viridescent shards of grass stretching towards the sky. They held up their own tiny, incandescent lanterns made of mushrooms or shells or something meant to be magic; looking up at her too. Fireflies were gleaming in the distance, lingering idly near the wide bases of the mighty trees.

Everything about the painting was ethereal. It was soft, and so deeply warm, and whimsical; the gentle glow scattered about it seeming to leap from the page and trickle real light into Derek's drab apartment. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about it, at least to Summer, was the look on the young woman's face. She was curious, fascinated— delighted. Best of all, she wasn't afraid. The painting couldn't harbor a more idyllic intuit; couldn't be farther from violence if it tried.

"What is this?" Summer's voice was so quiet it could barely be heard, unable to peel her eyes away from the enrapturing paper as she gingerly ran her fingertips along its smooth surface; directly over the woman and the fairies gathered around her.

     "It's called Midsummer Eve." Stiles explained, talking swiftly as always. "Some guy named Edward Robert Hughes painted it back in the early 1900's. It's supposed to represent that the barriers between our world and yours aren't as separate as we thought they were during midsummer. Then I thought it was funny because of your name." A beat, nothing. "You know . . . Summer?" he chuckled awkwardly when he got no response from her, the boy quickly clearing his throat and moving on. "Uh, yeah, so anyways, people apparently used to think about fairies in folklore the same way Deaton described you to us, but then in the nineteenth century they started being viewed more positively. The article I read said that this painting," he reached across her, tapping his finger against the paper. "was a huge help with that."

There was a long beat, one where the gears in Summer's head couldn't turn fast enough to keep up with everything he had said.

"See?" Finally, her eyes, wide with emotion, tore away from the paper and back up to his face beside her; the boy sending her a small smile. His voice was softer when he spoke again. "Not all bad."

His smile slowly began to fade as she continued to stare at him; dumbfounded. She looked so shocked, but beyond that, everything else on her face was hard to distinguish. Was she upset? Was she pleased? After a few seconds he cleared his throat again and looked back down to the spilled contents of the folder, his cheeks a little warm; triggering her gaze to snap down too.

"Uh, yeah, so. Anyways." he sheepishly scratched behind his ear.

"You've been researching all this for me?" she asked in the same small voice she had used a moment ago.

"Well, I, I had extra time on my hands, so . . . no biggie. Not at all." he emphasized his words with his hands, giving an awkward smile afterwards.

Her gaze moved back to the painting in thought. "Can I keep it?"

"Uh . . ." he furrowed his brows. "Yeah, sure."

She looked over to him, trying to muster up a thank you through the lump in her throat; one that would be sufficient enough to convey just how much this meant to her. He blinked, thrown off by the rather intense look on her face. She opened her mouth, but the buzzing of his phone stole their attention; the boy digging his hand into his pocket and fishing out the device. Lydia's name flashed upon the screen and he leapt to his feet, answering it immediately.

"Hello?" Summer couldn't hear what was being said on the other end of the line, but she jarred her head back at the way the color drained from his face. "Uh— oh my God. Yeah, yes." He hurriedly knelt back down, feverishly shoving all the papers and notes back into the folder; stuffing it into his backpack as he scrambled to his feet. "I'm on my way right now." He hung up, rushing for the door; the pencil pouch falling out of his unzipped bag.

"Um," Summer threw her hands in the air. "Stiles?!"

He halted so quickly the soles of his shoes squeaked against the floor, the boy spinning back around. "Oh, sorry! Come on, come on!" he frantically waved her over to him, the girl jumping to her feet and chasing him out the door.

THANK GOD THIS CHAPTER IS DONE IT WAS
SO FREAKING HARD TO WRITE FOR SOME REASON LOL. SORRY ITS SO LONG!!

here is a photo of the painting midsummer eve
in case y'all were curious!! it is so pretty!!

have a great day everyone!
love u all!!

word count   5,776