Chapter 3: Pizza and Provocation
The key turned with a tired groan, and Violet shouldered her way into the Stilinski house, her backpack sliding from her shoulder to hit the scuffed hardwood floor with a thud that spoke of dense textbooks and utter resignation. The air in the living room was warm and close, thick with the scent of pepperoni, old leather, and the faint, ever-present note of Stiles’s anxiety that seemed baked into the furniture. The only light came from the massive television, where fantastical landscapes and health bars glowed in the dimness.
Three figures were silhouetted on the couch, motionless except for the frantic clicking of controllers.
She dumped her coat on a chair and collapsed onto the empty end of the couch, a boneless heap of worn-out graduate student. No one acknowledged her. On screen, a battle raged in a sun-dappled forest. Stiles’s rogue was darting behind a tree, Scott’s paladin was tanking hits with a solemn, pixelated resolve, and Isaac’s elven sorcerer was… standing very still.
“Firebolt, you idiot, not Friends,” Stiles muttered, his eyes glued to the screen.
Isaac’s character raised its hands. A soft pink glow enveloped a snarling goblin. The creature lowered its club, looking momentarily confused and affectionate.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Stiles groaned, as the goblin’s two companions immediately caved its charmed skull in.
Violet snorted. It was an involuntary, harsh sound of pure derision.
Isaac’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t look away from the screen, his hand automatically reaching for the paper plate on the coffee table heaped with the last slice of pizza. His fingers grasped empty air.
Violet had slid the plate neatly toward her the moment his focus had wavered. Now, she picked the slice up, catching a string of cheese, and took a large, deliberate bite just as his head snapped toward her.
He blinked, his pale blue eyes reflecting the shifting screen light. They flicked from her face to the pizza in her hand, back to her face. “That’s mine,” he said, his tone hovering between disbelief and a strange, tickled amusement.
She chewed slowly, swallowed. “Was.”
Stiles paused the game. The sudden silence was filled with the low hum of the console. He was grinning, a wide, shit-eating grin that spelled trouble. Scott just sighed, leaning back into the cushions as if the weight of their dynamic was physically pressing on him.
Isaac’s eyes narrowed. The amusement hardened into a spark of direct challenge. “That’s theft.”
“It’s reparations,” Violet countered, taking another bite. “In a span of, like, eight hours yesterday, you committed breaking and entering and then arson on my breakfast. The scale of justice demands pizza.”
“I brought you a new bagel!”
“It was a sad, untoasted replacement. A slap in the face of bagel-kind. This,” she waved the remaining crust, “is a down payment.”
“You’re holding a grudge over carbohydrates.”
“I’m holding a grudge over incompetent criminal behavior. The carbohydrate is just the delightful medium.”
His leg shifted on the couch, knee bumping against hers. He didn’t move it. “I saved you from a charcoal-brick breakfast. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“You caused the charcoal-brick breakfast. Congratulations on solving a problem you created. The FBI has a whole unit for people like you.”
“Okay, guys,” Scott interjected, his voice calm, conciliatory. He sat forward, his earnest expression visible in the glow. “It’s just pizza. We can order more. Isaac, it’s cool, man. Violet, you want the last of the breadsticks?” He was looking between them with genuine concern, sensing a rising temperature he felt duty-bound to lower.
Stiles let out a bark of laughter. “Oh my god, Scott. No. Look at them.” He gestured with his controller. “They’re not arguing. This is… this is foreplay. With more syllables.”
Scott blinked. “What?”
“This is just how Stilinskis behave,” Stiles said, as if explaining basic physics. “Verbal jousting. Territorial snack warfare. It’s how we show we like people. If she were being nice to him, then you should worry. Probably means she’s planning his dismemberment.”
Isaac hadn’t looked away from Violet. A slow, real smile was tugging at his lips, undoing the narrowed eyes. “Foreplay, huh?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Violet said, but the bite was gone from her words, replaced by a dry, matching smirk. She held out the final bite of pizza crust toward him. “Truce?”
He looked at the crust, then at her. He leaned forward, not taking it from her hand, but biting it directly from her fingers. His teeth grazed her skin, a quick, shocking point of contact. He leaned back, chewing.
“Truce,” he said, the word muffled.
The room felt suddenly warmer. The paused game on screen showed his foolish, charmed goblin lying dead at his elf’s feet.
“Great!” Scott said, visibly relieved and entirely missing the subtext. “Now can we unpause? My Lay on Hands is ready.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, muttering about werewolves and emotional intelligence, and hit the button. The battle chaos resumed, the sounds of digital combat filling the space.
Violet settled back into the couch, pulling her legs up. Her foot brushed against Isaac’s thigh. He didn’t flinch, just shifted his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers now perilously close to the strands of her dark hair against the cushion.
She didn’t move away. The long, brutal day melted into the background, replaced by the comfortable, charged warmth of the dim room, the shared failure of a spell, and the lingering, peppery taste of a stolen pizza that somehow, now, felt like it had always been meant for her.