Archive of Our Own

Lydia easily throws a snipe back, and Stiles throws his head back and laughs.

You stand off to the side, watching helplessly as he continues his conversation, lightning-fast and heart-breaking.

“Yeah, like that’s true,” Lydia scoffs, eyes sliding over to meet yours. “If we ask your girlfriend, I’m sure she’d say something very different.”

You flush, hands tightening in your sweatshirt pocket. Well, Stiles’s sweatshirt. You had managed to rescue it from his closet this morning, pressing your face into it while he was in the shower.

How did Lydia do that? She was whip-smart, cutting. You now knew why intelligent people were called “sharp.” Lydia, in mere seconds, had recognized when your attention started to slip, and brought you back crashing to earth in enough time to miss the pace of the conversation and be left out.

Conversation with Lydia and Stiles was like a dance. They each knew the moves so well, the timing so faced-paced and frantic, that it looked beautiful from the outside. Untouchable. Unattainable. Impossible to learn. If you missed your cue, you fell to the floor, tripping over your own feet as they swept past without you.

You had just missed your cue.

Lydia didn’t mean to do it. Well, you didn’t know that for sure, but you were almost positive Lydia didn’t mean it maliciously. She didn’t mean for the light in Stiles’s eyes to dance while they sparred, for their conversations to be so insulated that outsiders couldn’t hope penetrating it.

You fiddled with your rings. 

Lydia had come over to talk about the latest in Big Bad, sharing some of her latest banshee insights. Stiles was taking notes, nodding, and trading barbs back and forth so fast it made your head spin. 

You turned to look at your boyfriend, who was leaning forward into Lydia’s space.

“If that’s the case, then why would she try to go for teachers at all? Why not bus drivers…or—or—“

“Daycare workers?” Lydia effortlessly picked the word from Stiles’s mouth.

“Exactly!” He began writing furiously. He nibbled on the end of the pen, nodding to himself. You watched the movement absently, as his teeth worried the cap. 

You knew it was fine. Really, you did. Lydia was just a friend and had been a friend since the beginning. The fact that Stiles had purportedly been in love with her for ten plus years, however, made your skin crawl. You knew Stiles better than most, you would like to think. And he doesn’t get over emotions or ideas quickly.

You trust him. Implicitly. Of course you do—how could you not? The way he holds you to his chest, presses kisses to your forehead, brings you trinkets he finds while at work, cooks you breakfast.

But that doesn’t mean that brighter pastures aren’t yonder. That doesn’t mean that Stiles won’t wake up one day and realize, “Hey, what am I doing? There’s a smoking hot girl I’ve been in love with for years just waiting for me to ask! What am I doing with this girl over here? What can she give me?”

Nothing, really. The answer was nothing. 

A warm hand covers your own. You blink, startled, looking up into the eyes of your boyfriend, who has a concerned little divot in his brow.

You hadn’t even realized you’d been biting your nails until he stopped you, and you embarrassedly drop your hand into your lap. He doesn’t take his hand off of yours.

“Are you okay?” He asks. You, almost against your will, look over to Lydia. She’s looking between you two, expression indecipherable. 

“Babe?” Stiles prompts, shifting slightly so his body is more turned to you. God, how could you be worried? You feel like the world’s shittiest girlfriend, interrupting him while something clearly important is going on.

“Yeah, I’m totally fine!” You pipe, scooting your chair back from the table. “I think I’m actually going to get us some lunch. From Tammy’s?”

Stiles is still watching you carefully.

“Oh, um. Sure!” He says slowly.

“What would you like?”

“I’ll have the usual, I guess.”

You turn to Lydia. “My treat today! What would you like?”

“Wait, is this that crappy diner that you took me to all the time?” Lydia says accusingly to Stiles, whose eyes widen comically.

“Crappy diner—how dare you?”

But you’re not there anymore. 

Tammy’s. 

Well, of course. Stiles and Lydia did date for a year or so. And hell, she too lives in Beacon Hills. 

You don’t know why you thought you were the only one he took there—he had a long life before you. The revelation that it wasn’t your thing though still stings, making your throat close. It’s something Stiles does with everyone, apparently. You feel silly and more than a little childish.

How many times did they go to Tammy’s? Did they go there on any dates?

You try to imagine Lydia in one of the vinyl-laden booths at Tammy’s, expensive manicure tapping on the sticky tablecloth, slim thighs sticking to the booth. You try to imagine Stiles showing her the trick at the jukebox (a quarter and dime in the coin slot instead of two quarters), trying to get his straw-wrapper worm to crawl across the table. 

And then you’re very desperately trying not to imagine him pressing a chocolate-heavy kiss on her temple, stifling his laughter about some joke they just told. Stiles insisting on sitting on the same side of the booth as her so their legs touch and he can throw an arm around her (“Like in the movies!” He told you once. “It makes me feel cool!”). About them sharing a milkshake, or stealing each other’s fries or Stiles laying a long-fingered hand on the inside of her thigh until she has no choice but to turn and kiss him and—

You lurch away, head spinning, into the living room. You grab Stiles’s keys, your bag, your phone, out the door, air air air you need some air—

You’re at the end of the driveway before you realize that they didn’t even notice you leave.

~~~~~

You come back.

Of course you do. 

An hour later, two milkshakes heavier, and three concerned looks from Big Sam behind the counter richer, you have to kick the door closed because the bags in your hands are too bulky. 

Your keys smack to the ground in a clatter of sound and you curse. You try to calculate how you can pick them up again, but a sudden hand is at your shoulder and you jump.

“Oh geez, you scared me to—“ You cut yourself off, looking up at a very concerned Stiles. 

“Where were you?” He demands, arms crossing over his chest. You blink up at him.

“Um…Tammy’s?” You lift the bags in your arms to show him the endless red “Thank you”s blazoned across the front.

“For an hour?” He reaches out to grab one of the bags, and you’re grateful for the load being gone. You try to shake a little feeling back into your hand. You slide past him to the kitchen, and place the other bag on the table.

“Yeah! They were in their lunch hour, so it took them a little longer than usual. And you looked pretty busy, so I didn’t think—“

Stiles is at your side, bag of greasy diner food carelessly plopped on the table, and his hands reach up to cradle your head between them. His eyes search your face, brow dipped heavily in a frown. You reach up to cover his hands with your own, your own worry mounting.

“Hey, what happened? Is everything okay?” You notice that Lydia is nowhere to be seen.

Stiles lifts his one of shoulders in a shrug.

“I don’t know. Lydia said something about girls being abducted a while ago around the winter solstice. Apparently she was led to an article about it at the library.” He rubs a broad thumb across your cheekbone. “You…were gone for longer than usual. It made me a little anxious.”

He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, and you know immediately that this is genuine. He’s upset.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” You rub your thumbs over his knuckles, and tilt your head slightly to press a kiss to his palm. You try not to think about him sitting at the table, leg bouncing up and down as he checks the clock while you sit in a tacky booth all by yourself, drowning your sorrows in a Double Chocolate Whammy while Big Sam tries to give you encouraging nods.

“The only danger I was in was the two consecutive Billy Joel songs on the jukebox, I promise.”
You say. “I bided my time with a Double Chocolate Whammy. Maybe two.” 

The corners of his mouth lift barely in a weak smile before they drop again.

“You were just acting weird earlier, and then you disappeared. I didn’t want to be that guy who can’t be without his girlfriend for an hour.” He shakes his head. “You deserve to do whatever you like…I just…” He shrugs again. “I was just counting down the seconds to an hour and a half.” 

You tilt your head. His cheeks color slightly.

“That’s the time I determined was too long to wait for takeout.”

You chuff a laugh against the skin of his wrist. His smile is a little bit more genuine as he stares down at your lips. 

“Sorry I was late.” You say, and you mean it. He seems so concerned, and you feel like a dick for keeping him waiting up for you. If you had known he was going to notice your absence, you would have turned around as soon as you secured your bags of burgers. He still hasn’t moved in to kiss you, so you close the gap and press a peck to his lips. 

His smile is soft, warm, and painfully genuine as he looks down at you.

“Lydia must have really freaked you out,” you comment, moving out of his grasp to attend to the food on the table. “Do the disappearances have to do with our Big Baddie?”

Stiles slides up behind you and helps you unpack the food.

“Oh, you love me.” He says teasingly, opening a container that contains a double-order of curly fries. You bump him with your hip.

“You know it.”

He grabs a few and is munching on them when he says, “They were abductions, by the way, not disappearances. And we were thinking maybe?” He sits at the chair closest to you so he can wrap a possessive hand around your thigh as he continues. 

“It seems like they’re taking both mentors and women, but we can’t figure out why. The girls were our age, and received weird letters in the mail a couple of days before they were taken. It could be a ritualistic thing, but there’s more than one trait they all have in common, so we can’t decide what their purpose was.”

“Or predict future victims.” You add. Stiles nods grimly.

“We don’t even know why whoever took them disappeared and came back if this is even the same guys.”

You give the kitchen another once-over. As much as you don’t want to mention the elephant in the room—or rather not in the room—it needs to be addressed.

“Speaking of ‘we,’ where’s Lydia?” You hold up a styrofoam box. “I got her a cheeseburger, I hope that’s okay.”

Stiles makes a motion towards the back door.

“She’s taking a call from Jackson. It’s long-distance, so standing outside makes it a little clearer.”

Your stomach clenches a little bit. You wished—vindictively, rudely, selfishly—that she had left.

“That was nice of you,” Stiles says and you startle. There’s no way he knew what you were thinking. Right? You panic a little bit. Right?

“The food,” He laughs at the look on your face. But then his brow furrows again.

“Seriously, are you okay?” He stands again, but you move away, going to put the empty plastic bags with the others on the pantry door handle.

“Um, yeah?” You don’t look back at him as you mess with the tie of the bag.

“It’s just…You’ve been a little jumpy all day today, you were biting your nails, and then you leave suddenly for longer than necessary.”

Damn him and his detective skills. You think you’d know better by now than to try to pull one over on a deputy. His eyes widen slightly, and with a slow, hesitant voice, he asks,

“Did you get the mail today?”

You frown.

“Um, yeah, it’s on the coffee table.” Stiles turns on his heel and heads towards the living room. You follow, confused. “I got it this morning, remember?”

He bends over the coffee table, lithe fingers flipping through bills and magazines with a furrowed brow. When he seemingly doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he turns around to contemplate you.

“Seriously, Stiles. Are you okay?”

He crosses the living room to stand with you in the archway of the kitchen, hands coming up to cradle your head in his hands. It’s his favorite thing to do (So I can look at you, he said once, in the doorway of your bathroom, eyes bright in the sharp lighting, I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of it). He rubs a rough thumb over the arch of your cheekbone. His eyes flick over your face, as if trying to memorize it.

“You’d…” His voice is quiet, nervous. “You’d tell me if anything was wrong, right?”

Your hands come up to cover his own. The sudden serious tone makes your stomach curl unpleasantly. But you can’t admit that you left earlier because of some petty, old jealousy. You just can’t.

You can’t imagine Stiles would take it well. He might even see it as you doubting him. You close your eyes against the flash of the image—Stiles looking at you, hurt, brows furrowed and eyes endlessly sad. You think that badly of me?

“Of course I’d tell you if something was wrong,” You fibbed, smiling. “Is everything okay?”

Stiles looks unconvinced, but nods slowly.

“Let’s go eat then, hm?”

Stiles trails after you into the kitchen, hands barely grabbing the ends of your fingertips as you walk. You both sit down to eat, and Stiles bites into his burger solemnly until you prompt him about any potential leads.

His eyes light up, and he dives animately into his progress. You use this opportunity to stare unabashedly at him, at the way his eyes light up, the way one corner of his mouth is always tilted up, at the way his eyebrow moves with every well-timed point he makes. You don’t think you’ll ever get sick of it, either.

You both continue like that, Stiles prompting noises of agreement from you as you both eat. At one point, you try to subtly locate the order of curly fries. As if reading your mind, he nudges his container into your line of sight without missing a beat in his story.

You grin up at him, and his smile is a little wider than usual as you snatch a couple from him.

You don’t even realize that the two of you are inching closer and closer to each other until Stiles is gently rubbing the cuff of his sweatshirt that you’re wearing, right where the fabric meets your skin. His eyes are trained on the movement, but he’s still running you through particulars.

“Anyways, we’re going to try to lure them out. We’re hoping to use Lydia as bait, since she might be able to see them coming.”

Stiles’s eyes snap up to yours, and the intense, far-away look in his eyes lingers a moment before vanishing in a flush of embarrassment. His cheeks color slightly.

“I just bored you to death, didn’t I?” He scrunches up his face and covers it with a hand. But notably—at least to you—he hasn’t relinquished the gentle hold on your wrist.

“No!” You admonish, peeling some of his fingers back from their grip on his temples. “It makes a lot of sense.” Your can feel your mouth moving into a hard, ironic grin. “If anyone can do it, it’s Lydia.”

Stiles frowns. You can tell he’s picking that apart, and his mouth starts to open so you cut him off.

“Anyways!” Your voice is just a little too high and a little too loud for the warm, happy atmosphere just seconds before—way to ruin it. “I should probably start cleaning this up.”

You reach out for an empty box when Stiles lightly slaps your hand out of the way. His face is one of mock outrage when look look up at him.

“Absolutely not.” He stands grandly, lifting his chin. “This is man’s work.”

You snort as he starts piling the trash together.

“By all means.”

You track his progress across the kitchen as he throws away the empty boxes and goes to collect Tupperware for the rest. 

The backdoor slams open with a mighty thud. Lydia comes in, beautiful smile splitting her face in two. She’s smiling wider than you’d ever seen her before, and she emits an ear-splitting scream. Not a banshee scream—thank all the gods above—but a happy, barely contained noise of excitement. 

Stiles, who’s standing next to the sink scooping the leftovers into a container doesn’t see it coming when Lydia launches herself at him. 

“Woah!” He laughs, and turns so he can return the hug properly. She’s bouncing up and down so hard, however, that Stiles picks her up and spins her.

Time slows to a halt for a split second. 

Lydia’s face is one of pure, unadulterated joy, eyes shining and ruby red lips parted around a perfect smile. Auburn hair fans out behind her in an arc. Her small hands are perched on Stiles’s biceps, one of her legs kicked up behind her, and staring down into Stiles’s face. He’s grinning back up at her, eyes shining and happy.

They look…perfect.

You know, logically, that he must’ve looked at you like that at one point—a perfect mirror reflection of your joy—but your mind is tripping over itself so fast that you come up blank. You wonder how many times they have done this before. The movement is rehearsed, familiar, and they’re clearly comfortable so close—so intimate. 

Time resumes with a snap like a bubble popping, and you’re staring blankly at them as they spin to a stop. Lydia babbles happily, expressing whatever’s made her so bright and beautiful as she’s swept back to standing once more. Stiles is looking down at her with inexpressible fondness, nodding along as she rambles.

You blink, and are surprised to find tears there. 

Only then does it hit you.

You hadn’t even realized you were numb until your stomach lurches sharply; a sticky, nauseating, ugly something lurches in your throat, and you’ve never hated yourself more.

They’re just friends. Stiles doesn’t feel anything for her anymore. He loves you. He loves you. More than anything.

You close your eyes tightly, trying to erase the image of their shared joy. It’s not fair—you know it’s not fair. They’re just friends, and they’re allowed to touch each other and smile like they’ve never even broken up in the first place—

You stand up on shaky legs, trying to breathe into lungs that don’t want to cooperate anymore. 

You need to clear your head. You feel terrible, especially after you just came back, but you can’t be in the this space for a second longer. 

“I’m gonna take a drive,” You mutter, but can’t even hear the words. 

The keys are still on the floor next to the door, so you stoop and grab them between numb fingers. You almost drop them again, but manage to catch them before they hit the floor. Your bag is right where left it on the couch, and you throw it over your shoulder. 

You can hear Stiles calling your name behind you, and you call,

“I forgot something, I’ll be back in an hour.”

You feel like absolute shit for lying, but you need to breathe, and don’t want to embarrass him in front of Lydia. 

The door closes behind you, and you’re in the Jeep, backing out of the driveway. 

As you drive away, you can see the door to the house open in your rearview mirror, someone standing against the light.

~~~~~

You’re driving.

You’re not sure where you’re going, but you’re driving.

Stiles has an old Pink Floyd cassette in the Jeep radio, and Green in the Color comes in through the speakers, sounding far too forlorn as the highway ticks by, mile by mile, underneath your tires. The interstate is slightly overgrown, and almost no one is out at this time of night. 

Only truck drivers and people with somewhere to be pass you. You have no where to be.

You pass Tammy’s exit, the vet’s exit, the school’s exit. You drive and drive and drive. You’ll turn back in half an hour, so you’ll have a half hour to drive back.

You use this time to collect yourself.

It’s in your head. You know it’s all in your head.

Stiles means the best, you genuinely know it. It’s not his fault you’re so insecure.

How could you not be, when Lydia’s an ex? Lydia. An ex. It almost baffles all logic.

Stiles had reportedly been in love with her for over twelve years, pursuing her tirelessly and without end. 

Their relationship, when it finally happened, burned bright and hot and fast. Stiles had spent so long loving her that he had no idea what to do when they actually started dating. They had fallen together hard and fast, and fizzled quickly.

Stiles said that he had woken up one day and realized that they had nothing in common. Lydia needed things that he couldn’t provide, and Jackson had come back in town for a class reunion.

Things had progressed from there, and their separation was mutual. 

He met you six months later. 

A friendship had formed, and you bonded over your mutual love of old sci-fi and, eventually, monster research. 

You pined.

Lord, did you pine.

Whenever Stiles would flirt with Lydia, or Derek, or Isaac, you would shrivel. He went on a couple of dates with people he met here and there—on a mission at a club, in a cafe, in the public library.

You gave him advice and talked him down when he showed up at your apartment, pile of shirts in hand and freaking out.

Derek had sat you down with that gruff, disappointed big-brother face of his and said, “You smell sad. Stop it.” 

How could you a refuse a request like that? You tried pulling away, you really did, but Stiles followed you. Every step you took back, Stiles took a step forward. Every call you dodged and text you responded to late and research “dates” you cancelled, he would call again, double text, reschedule.

Eventually, as you sat down one day in the library with a pile of books and the bestiary pulled up on the public computer, he turned to you with his big, sad eyes.

“I did something, didn’t I?”

You tried to explain to him that you were just busy, that you had less time to help out, but his face didn’t change from the devastation that rested between his brows.

“I know you’re lying to me, but I can’t figure out why,” he admitted quietly, as you both hopped in the Jeep at the end of the night.

“No, really, Stiles.” You said, scrambling for an excuse. “I’ve…gotten a girlfriend, so things have been really busy.”

The look he gave you was indecipherable, and you should’ve known then that it was only the beginning of the problem. Stiles wouldn’t stop asking you about your new girlfriend. Who was she? What did she look like? Was she funny? Did she like sci-fi? What was her favorite movie? Where did she work? Did you have a picture of her?

You managed to wrangle one of your friends into the role of “girlfriend,” and when you had brought her to one of the Pack’s cookouts, you had never seen Stiles so surly. He had interrogated her all night, frowning larger and larger at every correct answer she gave. At the end of the night, he pulled you to the side, a feeble smile pulling at his lips.

“She’s perfect. I’m so happy for you.” 

It felt like a goodbye, in some real, sickening, tangible way that made your stomach roil. Stiles was saying goodbye—letting you leave. Letting you go.

“I’m in love with you.” You blurted. The rest, as they say, was history.

Now, he and your friend are close, and you’ve been on a couple of double dates with her and her actual girlfriend. 

You blink and find that the road is entirely different than you remember. The road is overcast with a thick, heavy fog, and the Jeep’s headlights barely penetrate the gloom. You can only see a couple feet in front of you. You breathe a shaky breath out and are surprised to find that your breath is visible in the car, curls of steam licking up your face.

You shiver, fumbling briefly with the heat in the car, but it won’t turn on.

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself.

You need to go home. You slow your racing mind, and finally take in your surroundings. You’re in the preserve, you realize with a jolt. The last thing you remember was the highway under the tires, mile markers shining out at you from the dark. How did you end up back in Beacon Hills—in the preserve?

You’ve heard Lydia talk about her episodes before: she drives to the grocery store or her house or her office, and suddenly, she jolts awake as if she’s been asleep, miles away from her destination. Was that what just happened? You look around quickly, but you seriously doubt this is anything Banshee-adjacent. To start with, you aren’t even a Banshee.

You turn around in your seat, trying to see the road you took to come in, but the dark is oppressive, curling its dark fingers around your back bumper. It’s night—dark. How long had you been out here? The Pink Floyd cassette had long since stopped and not rewound, and the silence was deafening in the blackness. You’ve been driving for way longer than you thought. You try to do the math. When does the sun set? Four hours from when you left. The thought makes your skin go cold. How did you lose four hours?

The forest rattles to your left, a high-pitched clicking noise that shakes the car’s interior like bass. You fumble with the keys again, trying desperately to turn the car back on, but the engine stalls.

Once.

Twice.

In that moment, Stiles’s face flashes in your mind, so clear that you almost jump.

You’re going to die here, and you wonder if they’ll even find your body. You don’t even know where you are, and the foliage around the road is so dense that finding the Jeep could take days, weeks.

You hope, for a brief, frantic moment, that the monster will take you out of the Jeep. Your legs don’t have enough power to move, but you don’t want Stiles to find you in it. Just for his sake, you hope that he doesn’t come across this road a week from now, your body decomposing in his beloved car.

Would it be hard to get your blood off the seats? Would he even want to drive it again?

The thought that you’re contemplating Stiles’s devotion to his Jeep in your last moments is enough for a sharp, adrenaline-fueled bark of laughter to escape from your throat.

You’re still trying the engine, mind racing. 

You try to calculate your odds. Running into the wilderness of the preserve is immediate death—least chance of survival. Even if you found the main road, you don’t know what you’re facing and how fast it can run.

Fighting is your second highest chance of mortality. Again, you don’t know what you’re up against, and the only weapon you have is Stiles’s bat lying innocuously in the footwell of the backseat. There is a small chance that the creature is a fairy or something equally easily-hittable, so that is always an option.

Pretending that you’re not even there is your third option. Just stop trying to move, lay down against the seat, and pretend that the Jeep is abandoned. Considering that the Jeep’s engine was working just fine minutes before, you’re pretty sure the beast already knows you’re there. You contemplate the off-chance that it works like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park—if you don’t move it won’t eat you. You toss that idea aside as well.

Which means that you keep doing what you’re doing, slamming your hand against the dashboard in a frenzy, turning the engine over again and again trying to start the car.

I am not going to die in this Jeep. I am not going to die in this goddamn Jeep.

The noise is getting closer and closer, incrementally approaching the front of your vehicle. You can almost hear the monster breathing now, in slow rattling inhales.

I am going home tonight, and I am going to kiss my boyfriend, and I am going to go to sleep in one piece goddamnit! I am going to see Stiles again. I am going to see Stiles again. I am going to see Stiles—

You turn the key once more, and miraculously, the Jeep roars to life, headlights painting the road in front of you in yellow light. 

And there’s…nothing there.

You blink. 

The road is empty. 

You slowly shift the Jeep into gear, before slamming on the gas, pulling a u-turn that would have made both Vin Diesel and Stiles proud.

Stiles.

God, you’ve been freaking out in this forest for seemingly nothing. You’ve never known a monster to simply leave when its prey is helpless, trapped, and alone. After how worried he was earlier today when you were gone, you can only imagine how much more worried he is now.

He’s probably pissed that you’ve taken his car, too. You know how much he’s loves this car.

You want to smack your palm against your forehead, but both of your hands are shaking so badly from the hypothetical “almost” back there that you keep both hands firmly on the wheel as you pull back onto the main highway.

~~~~~

When you get back to the Stilinski house, there are cars parked up and down the street. Was Mr. Jones having another house party? You remember John’s aggravated grumbling about that the other night.

The man is 65, how many friends could he possibly have ready to come over for a kegger on a Tuesday? He grumbled, practically boiling the water on the stove with the fire of his anger alone. 

The cars are parked all the way down the street in front of the Stilinski house—someone’s Mazda is even in the driveway. However, a small spot remains for the Jeep, as if Mr. Jones and his geriatric beer-swillers knew you were out for the night.

The thought almost makes you smile until you see that almost every single light is on in the house. 

Is Stiles still up? You wonder, nervously. Why are all of our lights on?

You park the Jeep, hopping out of the front seat and grabbing your bag from the back. You’re grateful the Big Baddie didn’t end up being Big or Bad, because the only thing in it now is your wallet and a pack of watermelon-flavored gum. If it came down to it, you supposed you could have tried to frighten it off with your credit-card debt, but you didn’t like your chances in that scenario.

The front door to the house bangs open, and you whip around, startled. Derek is standing silhouetted in the warm light from the house. His nostrils flare and eyes widen comically.

“I knew it.”

His eyes narrow, and he stalks across the lawn. Is this what monsters see before they die? The comparison makes your stomach turn briefly. Are you the monster in this scenario?

Derek grabs you by the arms, moving his head around in confusing directions. Is he…smelling you?

“Hey, Der. Buddy. What’s going on? What’s with all the cars?”

He doesn’t answer, and starts moving your hair away from your neck, checking for some invisible problem. His hands scorch your skin in the cool night.

Wait…Derek?

“I thought you were upstate?”

Derek hadn’t been in town in months, electing to take a cross-state road trip up to visit some of the younger members of the pack up at Stanford. He looks exactly like he always does, perfectly shaved, maroon henley stretched tightly over his barrel of a chest. Seriously, how does he do that? But he doesn’t answer, instead continuing to give you a sniff-over, big green eyes confused and upset. You grab him by the wrist. The strangeness of the current situation is enough to erase your embarrassing moment in the preserve earlier, confusion taking control.

“Derek.”

He looks up at you, brow furrowed.

“You’re fine.” His voice is flat. “You’re fine.” He seems annoyed by the news.

“Um…yes?” You have no idea what’s happening, and his brow furrows even further, eyes turning stormy.

“I can’t believe this.”

At that exact same moment, Liam barrels around the side of the Stilinski house, coming from the woods.

“I thought I smelled—!” His voice cuts off abruptly, and you notice that his chest is heaving, hair askew, eyes wild.

“Liam!” Panic makes your voice tremble—you’ve rarely seen him like this. “What’s happening?” 

The young beta takes no time to answer, sprinting towards you at a…well, inhuman, speed, scooping you into a hug that takes the breath out of your lungs. You gasp, managing to throw an arm around him as well as he spins you.

“I thought—god! We were so—!” He keeps cutting himself off in his excitement, babbling incoherently into your shoulder as he puts you back down. He’s supposed to be upstate with Derek, too, you realize with a jolt. Is the whole pack here? Why are they back?

You make a bewildered face at Derek over his shoulder, but he only stares at you stonily, arms crossed across his chest. You give Liam a couple of comforting pats on his back.

“Will someone please tell me—“

“Oh, shit—Stiles!” Liam lets go of you in an instant, holding you at arms length. Your stomach abruptly drops, cold fingers of dread prickling at your neck.

“What about—“

“He doesn’t even know, does he?” Liam’s not talking to you anymore, head turned around to look at Derek. Derek gives him one of his patented unreadable glares in return.

“No, he’s upstairs. He’s…hard to distract.” Derek, for some reason, flicks his eyes towards you. 

“Is she okay? Did you check—“

“Guys!” You snap. They both turn to look at you, two twin looks of concern on their faces. They look, for a moment that could have been humorous if you weren’t so anxious, like dogs hearing their names being called.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on? What about Stiles?”

They cut a look back at each other, and Derek’s mouth flattens into a grim line. Your heart is beating so fast in your chest that you can’t even feel it anymore, your skin going numb and cold around the edges.

God. Fuck. What happened?

“He’s…we’ve been…looking for you,” Liam finally says, just as the door to the house flies open again. It’s Scott, and behind him, Kira and Malia stand awkwardly. 

“Is that—?” Scott begins.

“Well, she’s alive at least,” Malia says flatly, before turning back around and heading back into the house.

You can hear her call “That’s one problem solved!” as the door closes behind Scott and Kira.

Kira and Scott rush over to you, and when he’s close enough, Scott starts bobbing his head around, brow furrowed.

“Stop smelling me!” Your voice is borderline hysterical, and he blinks, shocked. “Will everyone please—I just—“

Your breathing is coming in fast, and you close the Jeep’s door behind you, dropping your bag on the ground. You need to see Stiles. Now. 

The pack is crowding around you, making your breaths come faster and faster. A blur of color and sound presses you inward farther and farther. Someone’s hand is on your forehead, as if checking for a temperature. Everyone’s panicked, worried glances are making your skin crawl and your head spin. You can’t— 

If something has happened to Stiles the one night you’re not there, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself.

Scott is saying something, but you can’t quite hear him. You push past him, breaking through the circle of confused pack as you make for the front door. You barely have time to process the trashed living room before you’re pounding up the stairs. 

You slam open your bedroom door—your and Stiles’s bedroom—and a figure is standing in front of Stiles’s see-through case board. Stiles had removed the desk from the room years ago, and that half of the room is his case section.

You begged him once to move it to the living room or the kitchen, but he’d insisted that he has his best ideas in the middle of the night (What can I say, he said into your hair one night, hot breath warming you down to your toes and a smile in his voice, hugging you makes me smart).

The figure, you realize, is Stiles.

“Not…Not yet.” His voice is agitated, tense. He doesn’t turn around to look at you, and slaps the pen in his hand against his thigh. “There’s. There’s something I’m not—“ He makes a choked, frustrated noise.

You can only stare.

The room is in complete and total disarray. On a good day when Stiles is knee-deep in a case, the room is a little haphazard, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen it this bad. Stiles’s things are everywhere, the trash bin has been dumped all over the floor, and there are case papers and scans of old books scattered across any and every flat surface.

Only the bed seems to be untouched—still unmade but relatively free of debris—and one of your shirts that you don’t remember leaving out is crumpled near the head of the bed.

The board is covered in writing and tacked with papers. Everything that he’s written has been crossed out at least once. You can barely make out some of the sentences.

—taken—where—ages 22-29—preserve—twelve hrs—

And then, in the center of a cloudy mess of ink, as if he had written and erased it a couple of times, is your name written in shaky letters.

“I said give me a goddamn minute,” Stiles growls, head tilted towards you, but still not looking towards the door.

“What happened in—“ You don’t get to finish.

Stiles spins around so fast he almost topples. When he looks at you, every muscle in his body locks up. 

God, you don’t think you’ll ever forget the look on his face.

It’s…indescribable. He has tense lines around his forehead and mouth, as if he had been awake for days. His eyes are glassy, eyes lined in red as if he had just finished crying. His hair is pulled every which way, as if he had grabbed fistfuls of it and pulled as hard as he could. His forearms have long pink welts, as if he had been scratching at them—a nervous tic that you’ve been diligently working to rid him of.

His eyes are wide, fathomless, and darker than you’ve ever seen them. His mouth is open in a sharp inhale, and something brief flashes over his face. It looks like relief, but you’ve seen him relieved—this is…bigger, monumental and all-encompassing. His lips move, but nothing comes out. He tries again, cracked lips parting to speak.

His voice cracks around a rasp of your name, brows lifting and coming together as if he might cry, and his legs give out. 

He catches himself on one knee, and you rush forward.

“Oh my god, Stiles?”

But he’s muttering, fast and frantic under his breath.

“You—god—I was—fuck.”

Suddenly, he’s bundling you into his arms, frantic hands grabbing at anything they can reach, your hands, your arms, your waist, your face.

“You—You—“ Stiles pulls you into a bone-breaking hug, hand pulling fistfuls of your hair as he holds you tightly, securing your head on his shoulder. He buries his face into your hair, and you can feel his gasping breaths against your neck, scorching the skin.

His other knee gives, and you two fall to the floor together, you landing against his chest so hard that a breathless, desperate noise is punched from his lungs.

You try to lean back, as to not suffocate him, but he doesn’t allow it.

Only then do you feel the tears.

They leak through your hair, soaking your cheek. He babbles your name against your throat, and you can feel the vibration of his voice against your own vocal cords more than hear it as he presses his terror to your skin.

Suddenly, he pulls back, and he holds you at arms length so he can look up into your face. His tears streak down the side of his face, and you wipe them with gentle fingers. Stiles doesn’t even seem conscious that he’s crying, only blinking when the tears build up around his waterline.

“What happened?” You ask, gently, trying to approach whatever’s gotten him so terrified. Stiles looks at you as if you’ve started speaking a different language. No comprehension sparks behind his familiar brown eyes, hollow with some emotion or event you aren’t privy to.

“I thought—“ Stiles starts, but his body tenses once, sharply, as if caught in an electric bolt. You startle, and pull him into a sitting position. His muscles fight against you, tensing and flexing in random sequences up and down his body. 

“It’s—It’s the adrenaline—“ He gasps through chattering teeth, breath coming in ragged bursts. “I—I think I’m crashing, I can’t f-f-feel my ‘ands.” He holds up his jerking hands in supplication. You reach out to hold them in your own, and he desperately curls any finger he can control around your own, leading your joined hands in a trembling and frantic dance.

“Baby, I think it’s a panic attack.” 

He nods, barely, breathing in and out laboriously. His eyes are still wide, panicked, jumping across the room before landing on you again. You pull your joined hands to your chest, so he can feel it as you breathe in and out slowly.

“Breathe with me, okay?”

“W-We had to work on the assumption that you were dead, I—I—“ His voice cracks, eyes wide and skittering across your face like the next blink would erase all memory of it. 

He pulls you forward, and the tangle of your legs together hurts, his bony knee sharply in your side, so you have no choice but to throw your leg over his, so you’re resting on his lap, hands still pressed between you.

You’re careful to not rest any of your weight on him, knowledgable of his mental boundaries right now, but he pulls you forward again, so you have no choice but to sit down.

“I need—I need your weight for a second. You’re real. This is real, right?” His voice is as small as you’ve ever heard it, your joined hands pressed painfully between your bodies, but he either can’t or won’t let go as they shake against your ribcages.

“Yes, Stiles, this is real,” you say, emotion choking the words in your throat. “I need you to breathe with me for a minute. Can you do that?” 

He nods frantically, and the movement slams the sides of your brow bones together.

“In,” you say, leading him through the movements. Your hand, where it’s pressed to his chest, can feel his heart thundering. “Out.”

He follows your movements, only breathing in when he can feel your chest expand against his own. You both stay like that for a few moments, breathing together in the quiet room. You can hear the pack moving downstairs, and quiet steps echo outside of the door.

You can hear Isaac’s voice whisper, “No, their heart rates are going back to normal.”

“But what if—“

A gentle thwap, like someone being hit across the back of the head echoes in the hallway.

“Liam. Downstairs.” Derek’s low voice warns.

The thought that you have people huddled outside, desperate to make sure that you two are okay sends even more guilt thrumming through your veins. 

Stiles seems, like Isaac said, to be calming down, the forced air in his lungs slowing his frenetic heartbeat against your hand. The only sound in the room is your joined quiet breathing.

“Can you tell me what happened, please?” You eventually ask, after a few minutes of silence. Stiles pulls back from your locked embrace, looking up into your face.

“You—You’re fine, right?” His eyes are watery, and his brow is strained, like he’s trying not to show his worry.

“Yes, baby,” You soothe, pulling your hands up to the pulse point in your neck, where you unfold his fist and press two of his fingers under your jaw.

He watches the motion with bated breath, as if not believing it.

His eyes don’t leave his fingers against your neck, eyes glassy, when he says, “You left.” 

He clears his throat. “You were gone for…for eleven hours.”

You balk. There was no way. You stretch back away from Stiles so you can look at the digital clock on the nightstand, and sure enough, it’s 12:42 a.m. However, the movement makes Stiles reach for you again, palm coming up to hold the back of your neck, a solid, warm weight that makes your heart ache. 

“We…” he clears his throat again. “I tried not to panic, but then we found the letter, and I—“

He raises a shaky hand to run down his face, taking away the tears about to spill over his waterlines.

“Letter? What letter?” You ask, and he reaches above him, grabbing a stack of paper on the bed. He slowly, reluctantly, removes the hand from your neck, bringing it down to flip through the papers.

“It was in the trash in the kitchen. It didn’t have an address on it so no one opened it, and…” He trails off, handing you a crumpled letter on printer paper.

I approach her. She doesn’t remember how she got here. The doors of the car are large enough that I could pull her through the window, but I decide against it. She wonders, frantically, if you will find her there, and she hopes you don’t. She hopes a lot, for someone so hopeless. So helpless. I drink it in, moving swiftly to the front of the car. I want her here. I want to see the look on her face when I pull her from the windshield. I can smell her fear. Can you?

What Goes Bump in the Night

Your breath leaves your lungs as if someone had punched the air out. You gasp for breath, and Stiles removes the paper from your hands, fingers coming up to brush the hair out of your face, smooth the lines from your forehead.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

“The article that Lydia found? About the winter solstice? The girls who were abducted received letters like this one.” Stiles doesn’t try to hand you any more, but you pull one from his hands anyway, and read.

She looks at me through the window in her back door. She doesn’t know I’m there yet, but that’s what’s so fun about this. The chase. Surely, the cop who found this can relate to it. It’s all about the hunt. The capture. The victory. She turns the television on. A commercial tells her how she can lose weight. I wonder how much her head weighs?

What Lingers Behind a Shadow

Your hands are shaking, and Stiles pulls the letter from your limp grasp, pulling you to him again as you shake apart.

“I—“ You try to say, and realize you’re crying, the weight of tears pressing your lungs down until you can barely breathe. “I was in the car tonight—“ Stiles nods, hands grabbing a fistful of your hair so he can hold you to his chest. “There—I though something was in the woods—“

Stiles’s face is wet when he pulls back.

“But you’re fine.” His voice cracks. “You’re fine.” He sounds like he’s saying it to himself instead of you.

Your mind is spinning, trying to put everything that’s happened together into one picture.

“Why…why is the pack here?” You ask, hand coming up to rest against Stiles’s chest again. His own hand comes up and holds it there.

“When…” Stiles gets a far away look in his eye. “Lydia got a vision. When you left. But wouldn’t say what it was.” His eyes slide past you to the board, unseeing. “In the past, the…the bodies.” Stiles inhales shakily. “Were found within twelve hours.” His eyes slide back to yours.

You open your mouth, but Stiles continues.

“I…called the pack. I didn’t know what to do. Lydia left and wouldn’t call me back and…and you weren’t picking up your phone and we had eleven hours left and I…I called everyone. Derek and the kids were out of town, but they were here by four. Um. 

“My dad and Parrish are coming now, I think. They sent out an APB on the Jeep, but…”

“Where’s Lydia?” You ask, and Stiles huffs a humorless laugh, hands coming up to hold the sides of your neck.

“Does it look like a give a fuck where Lydia is?” 

You blink.

“Well—I—“

He powers on, hands coming up to hold yours.

“We had an hour left.” He says this, every word infused with some weight you don’t understand. He exhales sharply through his nose, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips.

“You were dead.” Stiles says, hands tightening on yours. “For eleven hours, I was trying to find your body. Do you have any idea—“

Stiles tilts his head forward so his brow bone rests against your collarbone, a sob tearing through his throat. It sounds broken—animal almost. 

“At first I was trying to get to you in time but by the time it got dark—” a sob wracks through him again, his frame shuddering. “I just wanted you back. Scott and Derek wouldn’t let me go out looking in case they found you. They didn’t want me to see—“

He gasps in a shuddery inhale, and you’re worried he might start hyperventilating.

“I’m so sorry.” You whisper into his hair, hand petting through the tangled strands. “This is all my fault, Stiles, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you so much, I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes so tightly it almost hurts as he shakes apart in your arms. 

You want to go back to this afternoon in the sun-dappled kitchen, pressed together and happy and whole. You want Stiles to be carefree and happy and unburdened with the task of caring about you. You’ve ruined something irreparable you know. There’s no way back from this. There just isn’t.

So you press your face into his hair and cry. For what happened, what almost happened, and what surely will.

Minutes pass like that, your combined sniffles the only sound breaking the quiet. He tightens his hold on you briefly before loosening his grip—the universal sign of “I’m ready to let go now.” 

You lean back and wipe the tears from his face with the cuffs of your sweatshirt. He returns the gesture by lifting the hem of his shirt to your wet cheeks, which requires some bending on his part. You can’t help but giving a choked laugh in the fabric at the awkwardness of the moment, which is echoed by his own rumble.

You give each other watery smiles, and you press a lingering kiss to his forehead. The pressure against your lips increases as he leans forward into the gesture. You close your eyes tightly, trying to memorize the smell of him, the feel of his skin. This will be the last time you allow yourself this.

“You need sleep,” you say, leaning back and pulling him with you. He follows, bones cracking as he stands up. There are questions—too many—that sit between you and make the air heavy with something unnamable. But Stiles has clearly worked himself to his emotional and mental limit.

“The—um—the pack,” Stiles says, pulling away to move towards the door, but you reel him back in with your joined hands. “I need to tell them you’re here.”

You chuckle, and his head tilts slightly at the noise, expression unreadable.

“They already know. I got a full panel done in the driveway.” You pull the hair away from your neck to bare your throat. “Derek kept checking my neck for something.”

Stiles pulls you close, thumb brushing over an invisible spot.

“The monster taking people always leaves a mark behind. We think it’s to paralyze the victim.” He’s so close that when you look up, your faces are inches apart. He looks at you for a long, heavy moment.

You pull away.

“I can let them know that we’re fine if you’d like.” His hand slides out of yours as you move away. “Derek and Malia were a little more growly than usual, so I should try to save the rest of them while I still can.” You try to lighten the mood a little bit, but Stiles is deadly silent behind you.

Your hand is on the doorknob when he’s suddenly at your back, hand drifting down your arm until his fingers loosely wraps around yours.

“Stay.” He clears his throat. “Stay, please.”

You turn back to look at him, hand pulling from his again. You don’t deserve the comfort he’s trying to give, even if he believes so.

“Okay.” You smile, and try to make it genuine. “I can stay tonight.”

His brow furrows, mouth opening for a second but nothing comes out. He looks…

“Tonight?” He repeats, backing away from you to sit heavily down on the bed. Your body feels the absence of his viscerally, the air where his body was is cold. You shiver. He runs a hand over his face, once, twice. His eyes are tightly closed when his hand comes away, as if braced for an impact.

“I guess we need to talk about it now, then.” When his eyes open next, they’re distant.

“Okay.” You say, but the word barely gets past the tightness of your throat.

You knew this was coming. You did. But it doesn’t make it any easier.

“The monster feeds on hopelessness.” Stiles doesn’t look at you, instead staring up at the case board. “It takes those who feel trapped—alone. Anyone who doesn’t feel like they can change what’s happening.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Stiles turns his brown eyes to you, but he’s looking down at your shirt—his sweatshirt, you realize, still damp at the cuffs with evidence of what you’d put him through.

“You…You left after I freaked out about you going out for food.” His voice is flat, completely devoid of feeling. “I know I went too far. I can’t take it back, even though I wish I could. I know I can get clingy and…and…weird. If you want…” He stops for a second, gathering the words. “If you want to leave I get it. Please…please—” 

He finally looks at you, and you realize that he’s begging. 

“Please stay with Scott. Or Isaac. Or Liam. Someone—anyone—it doesn’t matter. Just someone who can keep you safe.”

You’re completely and utterly baffled, and Stiles must see something on your face, because he tries to backpedal.

“The monster is still out there, and…and I know that you have every right to go. Please, I’m—n-not trying to stop you or anything, but you shouldn’t be alone.”

“Stiles, wait—“ You try to interrupt, try to make sense out of what he’s saying, but he keeps going.

“We…we can move your stuff out later if you want, but you can still take a bag tonight.” He stands up, kicking some debris out of the way as he goes to the dresser, opening drawers at random. He turns around again, moving to the closet.

“Stiles!” He freezes mid-step, turning around to face you with eyes wide. You feel terrible for raising your voice, but he’s in a spiral, taking you on a dizzying ride you’re not sure either of you can stop.

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean ‘what am I talking about’?” Stiles has a shirt in his hand, and you realize that it’s one of his—a crumpled Star Wars logo peeking out from the bundle of fabric. He wanted to send it with you. You want to burst into tears or hug him or scream, but your head is still spinning, clogging all responses.

“I thought you would want me gone,” You say, finally, crossing your arms across your chest. “After what I did.”

“After what you did?” Stiles sounds incredulous. “This is about what I did.”

“What did you do?” 

Stiles barks a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“What did I—You’re serious.” Stiles has an ironic smile on his face, the sharpness of it causing the shadows under his eyes to be more prominent.

“The monster feeds on hopelessness. Feeling trapped.” He looks over at you. “The letter was delivered days ago. This means that you must’ve been feeling this way for weeks.”

His eyebrows furrow, and for a second you’re afraid he might cry. He looks…betrayed. That’s the light in his eyes: hurt. You can almost see the jagged edges of it stabbing through his chest, through fabric and sinew and bone. All of your efforts and you’re right back where you had feared. You had hurt him anyway.

“Trapped.” He looks away, eyes scanning over the room like he can’t bear to look at you. “When you came back I freaked out on you and then you left and almost—“

You can hear his throat close around the word, and he closes his eyes for a second.

“Me! I did that. I’m not going to try to stop you this time. Just…please.”

You don’t think that either of you know what he’s asking for. 

You’re torn between trying to explain yourself and throwing yourself out of the window. You…can’t believe this. You’re the one who freaked out about Lydia. You’re the one who left—twice. You’re the one who was lured out into the woods by a monster who feeds in insecurities and hopelessness because of what—an ex-girlfriend? 

And Stiles has turned all of this inwards—finding fault with his own concern, finding fault with his own actions instead of yours. 

“I think I’m the worst person to exist ever, probably.”

Stiles blinks in surprise, mouth opening to protest.

“If you don’t break up with me immediately, you’re making the worst mistake of your life.” You inform him solemnly, hand coming up to try to press some feeling back into your face.

“I left because I needed some air. I was…” You clear your throat. Cards on the table. “I was jealous.” When you open your eyes, Stiles looks more confused than you’ve ever seen him. If you didn’t feel so shitty, you might have even smiled.

“Both times, actually.”

“Of. Of me?” Stiles tilts his head slightly.

“Of Lydia.” You admit. “She’s…fuck, she’s perfect, Stiles. And you were in love with her for over twelve years. Do you know weird that is on the outside looking in? I just…I don’t know. I felt like I didn’t belong. When you spun her around it was like looking back in time to what you used to be to each other. It’s hard to believe that you’d…” You can feel yourself flushing. When you say it all out loud, it sounds so petty and childish. “You’d choose me. When she’s right there.”

“So I still did this.” Stiles sits on the bed heavily, the shirt still in his hands falling from a limp grip to the floor.

You want to smack some sense into him.

“Are…are you fucking with me right now?” You snap. “This is my fault, Stiles. All of it. I was the one who let this get to me now of all times. You and Lydia have been close as long as I’ve been in the picture. It’s not your fault that I freaked out.”

“Well, then it’s not your fault that I freaked out.” Stiles retorts, eyes narrowed. But he sobers immediately, looking up at you with sad, earnest eyes. “Lydia?”

You bite your lip.

Stiles shakes his head, hand coming up to pull through his hair again. He scratches at his arm, and you lean forward to knock his hand away. The right side of his mouth lifts briefly before falling again. 

“I…I can stop seeing her. If you want.”

You shake your head, slowly sitting down next to him on the bed.

“Stop, Stiles. Absolutely not. That’s not what I want at all—I’d never ask you to stop seeing your friends, no matter what. Don’t change a thing about how you interact with her either. I’m so glad that you have friends that you’re so close with.” 

“She was happy because Jackson’s coming back into town next month.” Stiles says.

Something tight in your chest slackens. You exhale shakily.

This is just Lydia. Lydia. Not some amorphous thing come to take Stiles away. She and Stiles are both happy together—but not together.

Stiles reaches a hesitant hand out to grab yours, but you stand up, hoping that he doesn’t recognize the movement for what it is. When you turn back around, his face is an open mask of hurt, of disappointment. 

“Why won’t you let me touch you?” He asks, quietly, the rasp around his words making them almost unintelligible. You let a beat pass. How could you even explain this?

“It’s…I walked into our room tonight, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that, Stiles.” You admit, crossing your arms in a defensive movement. “I…Because of my weird…thing. You had a panic attack Stiles. For the first time in months! I—“

Your voice cuts off, and you have to look away from him or risk breaking down into sobs again.

“I can’t believe I did that to you. You shouldn’t forgive me for it.”

When you look back at Stiles, his eyes are narrowed slightly, assessing. You’ll accept his judgement. Whatever he decides, you’ll understand. 

“What did you do, exactly?” Stiles finally says. You look up in surprise. “Leave because I made you uncomfortable?”

“No, Stiles, I was—“

“Cornered in the woods by a maniac? Yeah, that’s how I remember it, too.” He says challengingly, gathering momentum. “You took a break from the situation, which to be honest, is a hell of a lot more reasonable than what I would have done.”

“It’s different, you know it is.” You’re annoyed now.

“You’re allowed to have space!” Stiles argues. 

“Well, yeah, but we’re clearly in special circumstances,” You can’t help but laugh, a hand coming up to gesture at the case board. “When a monster’s running around Beacon Hills with a target demographic of me, you’re allowed to be worried when I vanish for an hour or eleven.”

Stiles presses his mouth into a thin line, eyes narrowed.

“You—“

“You—“

You both start to speak at the same time, and wait for the other to continue. When neither of you do, Stiles’s breaks out into a wobbly grin. You feel your own mouth lift in kind. 

“I’ll forgive you for whatever you think you did wrong if you forgive me for what I think I did wrong.” Stiles says, with a grand gesture of his arm fit for an auction house. Take it or leave it. 

“How about we say we’re both wrong and call it a night?” You ask, as much as an olive branch as you can manage. If Stiles is insistent on forgiving you, then you’re willing to let it rest for now. Not looking gift horses in the mouth and all that. 

“How about we agree that we’re both right, instead?” Stiles offers, and his slow, mischievous grin diffuses the lingering tension in your shoulders.

“Wiseass.” You say around your answering smile, and Stiles offers a hand. You take it, and sit down heavily next to him on the bed. Stiles falls backwards, and you follow suit, laying down against the bed, legs dangled over the side and hands tangled together between you.

“I love your friends.” At the look Stiles gives you, you quickly correct yourself. “Our friends.” 

And it’s true. They might have started as Stiles’s friends, but Isaac comes over some mornings with a bag of pastries from “the only authentic French bakery this side of the Rockies—I’m sure of it.” Liam calls you at all hours to ask for advice—about school and friends and just to tell you about his day. Derek had taken it upon himself to give Stiles “the shovel talk” on your behalf, threatening things that made even Scott pale across the room if he should ever cross you.

“They welcomed me in when they didn’t have to, and they go out of their way every day to make me feel accepted.” You squeeze his hand for a moment, hoping to impress this point upon him. “Lydia, included.” 

He smiles weakly, thumb rubbing over your knuckles.

“In fact, when Jackson comes back into town, how about we all go on a double date?” You nudge him with your shoulder. He bumps you back.

“With all due respect, that sounds like an absolute nightmare—no way.”

His crooked grin is back, and you smother your laugh against his shoulder.

“I’m so glad you said that. I adore you so much. But I think being in close proximity to whatever seven hundred dollar cologne Jackson wears would kill me on the spot.”

Stiles sobers, his laughter dampening as he turns his head to look at you. His hair against the sheets is dark and messy.

“I love you.” He says. You wait for him to follow it up with something, but he only blinks at you in the dim light of the room.

“I love you, too.” You respond, but he shakes his head slightly.

“No, I’m in love with you.” His dark eyes are intense. “I’m absolutely gone for you. Completely and utterly in love. Cocoa bananas ballistic. Just batshit in love.” 

You laugh, but he’s still looking at you intensely, a slight smile the only indicator of his humor.

“Scott told me for months to just ask you out but I was terrified. You were just so perfect and pretty and funny and I was functionally useless talking about anything else.”

You smile, humoring him a little.

“Do you remember when Malia wouldn’t let me within a yard of her before we got together?” You try to think back, and you remember Malia scowling when Stiles got near, and him steering around her as best he could whenever they interacted. “Apparently I smelled ‘lovesick’—she said it smelled like burning sugar.”

Stiles crinkles his nose, and…that might be one of the sweetest things you’ve ever heard.

“I knew I was in love with you when you showed up at my house with those stilts. For that wendigo case. Do you remember that?”

But Stiles groans, slapping his free hand over his face.

“Don’t remind me!” He begs, but you plow on.

“You were holding my hands as you got into them, and you bent down for a second and I thought you were going to kiss me and oh—Stiles, I couldn’t breathe.”

Stiles separates his fingers so he can look at you.

“Well if you can love me through our first kiss almost being on stilts, then I guess we’re pretty indestructible, huh?” He jokes. But when his hand comes away from his face, his eyes are endlessly soft.

“Yeah,” You agree into the quiet. Something’s been pulling at the back of your mind. “I… I think the only reason got out of those woods was because of you.”

Stiles’s breath catches in his throat.

“I kept thinking about you. About what it would be like if you found me like that, about coming home and kissing you. The monster feeds on hopelessness, right?”

Stiles makes a soft noise that might be a “yeah.”

“Well. You saved my life, then. I was filled with hope. With home.” 

Stiles rolls over faster than you can process, hands still joined and pressed into the mattress as he leans over you and presses a kiss to your mouth. The hand holding him up balls the sheets next to your head in a white-knuckled fist. The hand that holds yours trembles.

You return the kiss immediately, his chapped lips still tacky and salty from the dried tears of before. He pulls away but stays like that for a minute, breathing the air from your lungs and long, dark eyelashes brushing your cheekbones.

He pulls back after a thick moment, and when his eyes find yours, they’re dark.

“You’re it, you know that, right?” He scans your face for something. “You’re it for me. I’ve never—“ He trails off, trying to find the word and failing. "Not like this."

He’s too far away to kiss, so you press your lips to the tender skin of the crook of his arm—caging you in, just inches from your face—instead.

“I won’t hold you to that,” You say, with a sad smile. “If you ever want—"

“I won’t.” Stiles cuts you off, and his eyes are fierce—hard and flinty in the way they are moments before a fight. “Whatever you’re saying, I won’t want it. Not if it doesn’t include you.”

Your throat closes up, and you swallow thickly.

“I love you.” You say, helpless to anything else. Stiles doesn’t respond, but presses another kiss to your lips, desperation making the kiss harsher than before. He swipes your bottom lip with his tongue, searching, and you open to him like a flower to the sun, deprived and thankful and in awe.

His mouth against yours is stale, and—ironically enough and juxtaposing the throb that rolls up your body—you worry about the last time he’d eaten or drank anything. His leg slots between yours, and all thoughts that aren’t of Stiles’s mouth and breath and body slide right out of your head like water in a sieve. You gasp against his mouth, and he makes a noise—throaty and real and yours—and you reach up and grab a fistful of his hair, tangling your fingers into the wild strands.

Your legs tangle together, and you press up against his body, trying to connect as many points as you can. Feet, shins, knees, his thigh against your heat, stomach, chests, mouths. His hand disentangles from yours so he can spread a broad palm against your back, gathering you to his body.

Your left leg slips and you can feel him against your thigh—causing you to groan against his bottom lip.

You ache, and Stiles presses a moan into your mouth as you pull at his hair. It’s too much, too fast, too—

Stiles pulls away to gasp for air, chest heaving against yours, and you slump to the bed. His hand, still underneath you and now pinned to the mattress, twitches against your shoulder blades.

“Fuck.” Stiles pants, the pupils of his eyes so wide that the warm brown of his irises is only a thin ring.

Something warm and proud and possessive unfurls in your chest—he’s been just as affected as you.

“We…” You say, heartbeat still pulsing hot and heavy in your ears. “We need to sleep.”

Stiles nods, but he’s looking down at your lips. His own are slick, swollen slightly from the heat of your own mouth, and his tongue darts out over his bottom lip, which he tucks under his teeth.

“Yeah,” He says, distantly. “Yep. Mm-hmm.”

“Stiles.” You say, just to hear it out loud. His eyes flick up to yours.

“Or maybe we just…” Stiles leans down again, but you put a hand on his chest, stopping him. You dissolve into giggles, loud and genuine, and Stiles does nothing but watch, a blinding smile echoed on his lips.

This was it. The moment in the kitchen. Stiles is a perfect reflection of your joy—contentment and warmth and home radiating from his every pore, every hair and eyelash and breath. You both breathe in the moment, comfortable and warm and safe. Together.

“Sleep.” You say finally, and Stiles bends his head to his shoulder in a little shrug.

“I’m pretty awake now,” He says, but his eyelids are heavy, and he has to blink twice before his eyes focus on you again. It’s as if all of his strings have finally been cut—and the lingering tightness around his eyes has melted into the soft circles you know and love.

As if all of his tensions of the day have evaporated, he slides off of you, coming to rest against your side, head tucked just over your shoulder so he can still look at your face.

You press a kiss to his forehead, and he leans into it like your lips are a magnet, pulling him in.

“I am not sleeping in jeans,” You tell him solemnly, and he makes a little tired noise in the back of his throat. You start to pull away from him, and his gangly limbs snap up and around you. He’s got you throughly trapped, arms so long he can grab onto his own elbows behind you and lock you in a secure grip.

“Stiles.” You say, a warning with no real bite.

“Stiles can’t come to the phone right now. He’s asleep. Call back later.” Stiles says, voice muffled against the fabric of your hoodie. “Beeeeep.”

You’re in love with an idiot. 

Luckily for him, you’re both idiots.

“Oh well, then I guess he won’t be able to see me take my pants off.” You say wistfully, and Stiles’s eyes shoot open.

“Stiles is back at the phone.” He says, pulling his face away from your torso. “Un-beeeep.”

His grip on you loosens enough for you to shimmy off the bed. You pick up the Star Wars shirt he had dropped on the ground earlier, and take off the hoodie you’re currently wearing—it’s grimy, sweaty, and smells like the preserve a little bit, old and woodsy. You can feel Stiles’s gaze burning a hole in your back as you pull his t-shirt over your head instead.

You hum, and try to wrestle your way out of your shoes and socks (thankfully not on the bed at any time tonight) and finally your jeans. You’re wearing your laundry day pair of underwear and have to adjust the elastic.

“If I could whistle I would,” Stiles assures you, and you look back at him with a smirk. “Woowoo.” He says, sounding more like a train than anything.

“Your turn, big guy.” You say, and Stiles rolls of the bed with a groan as you go get some things out of the bathroom. You brush your teeth quickly before wiping your face down with a washcloth. It’s amazing how much more human and real you feel with a face not tacky with tear-tracks. You fill a cup with some water from the tap (thank you, Stiles’s lackluster cleaning habits) and grab both of your meds before heading back into the bedroom. 

Stiles is standing next to the bed, having cleared it of the last of the papers. He’s stripped down to just his boxers and an old t-shirt, and he looks so rumpled and sleep warm that it makes something shift in your chest. He’s holding something in his hands, a far-away expression on his face.

You pad over to him, and you realize it’s your shirt that had been left on the bed. The one that you didn’t leave out before you left, but was sitting on the pillow when you walked in.

“They used it for your scent.” Stiles’s eyes are dead as he looks at the fabric in his hands, as if he’s remembering something too close—dark and deep and endless. “I…couldn’t put it away again. It would be like admitting you wouldn’t be here to get mad at me about leaving it out.” 

His fingers worry the fabric, but he’s not looking at the movement. You don’t even know if he knows he’s doing it.

You put the things you’re carrying on his nightstand and gently pull the shirt from his hands.

“Stiles,” you say gently, deadpan. “How dare you leave my shirt out. You know how so very attached I am to this particular shirt.”

Stiles’s eyes find yours, and they’re glassy, rimmed in saltwater. He smiles, tired and relieved and a little sad, but genuine. Completely and totally Stiles.

You move to put the shirt back in the dresser, and close the drawers gaping open from Stiles’s earlier romp. You turn back around to him, crossing the room to hold his face in your hands. You swipe your thumbs over his cheekbones.

“Don’t let it happen again,” You say in mock sternness.

“I won’t,” He says, with a genuine sobriety that takes you aback. He leans down and kisses you—differently than the kisses earlier. This is chaste, gentle—honest and vulnerable.

A promise.

When he pulls back, you nudge him backwards so he can grab the water and his meds, passing you yours.

When he hands you the water, there’s no option but for your fingers to touch.

“Teeth.” You remind him, bumping his hip with your own as you move to turn off the floor lamp. 

You turn on the lamp on the nightstand, just enough that Stiles can come back into the room without killing himself on the paraphernalia strewn about the space.

When he finally comes back in from the adjoining bathroom, his feet are shuffling, eyelids heavy, and a yawn stretches his mouth, pulling his eyebrows together. As if the weight of the last eleven—now twelve—hours are finally weighing down on his shoulders, he slumps into bed next to you, pulling the covers up to his chin.

His body finds yours, hands coming up to curl around your hands, arms, shoulders, until he’s shuffled you around so his head rests just over your heart, arm thrown over your waist and legs tangled together. He rubs a hand at your back, sliding up the t-shirt so it’s just his hand and your spine—skin to skin.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” He slurs against your collarbone, sleep making his consonants sibilant and vowels round. 

You have to blink a couple times to clear the sudden rush of tears against your waterline.

You press one final, lingering kiss against the top of his head, and whisper,

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Stiles has finally given his brain permission to turn off, and it does so, his eyes slowly closing and dark eyelashes casting long shadows against his cheeks.

You reach over and turn off the lamp.

You fall asleep to the sound of Stiles gently breathing in the dark.