Chapter Text
The first fire escapes were invented in the 18th century as personal devices that could be hooked onto window sills in order to lower people to safety. They were commonly used by businessmen and people of importance. Following those, inflatable “slides” were created, mostly for use by schools and hospitals (it was easier to slide invalid patients down the tube on their bedding). The more recent, metal fire escapes that many people are familiar with were created around the turn of the 20th century due to lack of space for the inflatable tubes. In the 50s and 60s, to the dismay of safety officials, many fire escapes were used for completely different purposes than actual fire safety.
The fire escapes on Laura Hale’s building are used for similar purposes. That is, they’re used for things nothing to do with fire safety.
Isaac Lahey, on the second floor, uses his fire escape to grow his own herbs for his business and to make sure that Stiles hasn’t thrown any more canvases into the alley in a frothing rage, thus pissing off the patrons of the bar below. He mixes teas for Lydia to help her sleep and leaves them on her window sill. He doesn’t have a problem with the music that wafts up from the bar every night.
Lydia Martin, on the third floor, uses her fire escape to do yoga and relax since her job makes her back muscles tense with the strain of not punching idiots in the middle of the court room. She keeps a rain stick that she sometimes uses to create ambiance but mostly uses to hit the ceiling when Stiles’ foot won’t stop tapping incessantly.
Stiles Stilinski, on the fourth floor, uses his fire escape to smoke and brood, muddling through his most recent artistic frustration. He listens to Lydia’s stupid soothing music and finds himself breathing in time with her more often than not. He leaves Isaac interesting pots and containers that he finds in random places for his plants, loving seeing the leafy things every time he goes up the stairs.
Laura Hale, on the fifth floor, doesn’t use either of her fire escapes that her lofted apartment boasts.
Stiles thinks she’s a vampire.
Lydia doesn’t care.
Isaac wonders if she’s a wealthy recluse.
Regardless, none of them have ever actually seen her, just spoken with her over the phone. They each toured the apartments with Laura’s broker, Erica, the leggy red-lipsticked blonde whose smile borders on wolfish at all times.
Stiles moves in first, loving that his windows are high enough to see over most of the buildings around his new home.
Lydia moves in next, irritated that she’s gotten the third floor. She hates the number three.
Isaac moves in last, loving the fact that he’s even got a place that’s his own.
By the time they all live there for several months, they’re on a semi-friendly basis with each other, though there are still annoyances.
Stiles loves to aggravate Lydia (she makes the best frustrated noises) and he doesn’t trust Isaac’s placid resting face (he hides a lot behind his own bravado, he knows a fake face when he sees one).
Lydia can’t stand Stiles’ incessant smoking (she doesn’t mind the smell but hates the ashes because they get everywhere) and she hates that’s Isaac’s always raining dirt down into the alley while she’s walking (twice, seriously, only twice).
Isaac can’t stand that Lydia wears heels six out of seven days a week (there are hard wood floors in all the apartments so it’s just clack clack clack CLACK CLACK every morning) and he jumps every time Stiles paces past his window and door (climbing up and down the fire escapes, going up and down the inside stairs, over and over).
All in all, not a terrible place to live, irritations aside. Stiles even decides that a triskelion is the symbol for the lot of them (he calls them a pack of omega wolves and the other two blink at him in confusion but whatever) and eventually places shaped and painted metal twisted into the swirled symbol on their window sills to match his (green for Lydia and blue for Isaac – his is purple).
-----
In the first week of May, Isaac hears the tell-tale clicks of Lydia’s heels in the back of the building before she demands, “What is that?”
“A box of kittens, Lydia. Surely you know that with your incredible intellect.” Stiles drawls. Isaac didn’t even realize Stiles was down there.
Isaac peeks his head over the railing of his fire escape and sees Stiles, bag over his shoulder, cigarette between his teeth, peering into a soggy cardboard box. He takes one last drag, stubs the cherry out on the asphalt, and tosses the butt towards the dumpster.
Stiles exhales over his shoulder, in Lydia’s direction, and leans back over the box. “Hey little ones.” He croons.
Lydia scowls, waving her hand even though the smoke doesn’t even reach her, and clicks closer, squatting down next to Stiles. She watches as Stiles reaches into the box and pulls out a tiny ball of black fluff.
“Hello baby,” he sings as he cradles the kitten to his chest and pets its tiny head.
“This is ridiculous.” Lydia huffs, even as she reaches into the box and pulls out two kittens, one cream-colored and the other a coppery red not too far off from her hair.
“So what are you gonna name yours?” Stiles asks as he pulls a black and gray calico from the box.
She sighs then looks at the coppery red kitten for a moment. “Willow,” she states.
Stiles nods at the cream kitten. “Then you should name her Buffy.”
Lydia gives him a hard look but he only grins. She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Buffy it is.” She nods at the two kittens curled sleeping in Stiles’ hands. “What about yours?”
He raises the black kitten a little. “Pitch.” Lydia’s mouth quirks and Stiles smiles before raising the other kitten and proclaiming, “And this one is Splotch.”
“Charming.” Lydia derides, trying to hide her amusement.
“Utterly.” Stiles taunts back before turning and calling, “Hey Isaac, there’s two more! Come get your kittens!”
Isaac jumps, splashing some water out of the watering can and onto his foot. He frowns down at his wet shoe, then sighs and puts the can down. When he reaches the box and his neighbors, he pulls out a tortoiseshell and a tabby.
“Well?” Stiles asks, standing and cradling his kittens close to his chest.
Isaac blinks down at the kittens in his hands. “Tiny. And… Sokka.”
Stiles smiles. “I get Sokka. What’s Tiny?”
“Like Tiny Dancer.” Isaac shrugs. “It was my mom’s favorite song.”
Stiles nods, a small look of I get it in his eyes. “Good choice, man.” He kicks the empty box closer to the dumpster and heads toward the stairs. Lydia follows after and holds Tiny while Isaac locks the gate behind them.
“So,” Stiles says, pausing on the landing next to Isaac’s fire escape, “do either of you have any cat stuff?”
Lydia rolls her eyes. “I don’t think either of us expected to adopt two cats today, Stiles.”
“Don’t you love when she says your name in exasperation?” Stiles asks Isaac in a false-dreamy voice, pretending to be faint against the brick wall.
Lydia scowls and Isaac replies, “She doesn’t say my name like that because I don’t annoy the shit out of her.”
“Oh, ouch, Isaac! I thought we were friends. I’m positively wounded.” Stiles snarks airily then starts up the stairs, saying in a baby-voice to his kittens, “I guess you won’t be spending a lot of time with Tiny and Sokka since their owner is butthead, will you babies?”
Lydia nudges Isaac’s arm gently as she passes. It’s her way of being nice, he thinks, though he’s not really certain.
Isaac looks down at the two kittens in his arms, nuzzling against his skin, and sighs, wondering if the pet store down the street is still open.