Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sunday, February 20th, 2011

Stiles had never considered himself a particularly agile person. Still, after almost getting whacked over the head with a baseball bat on multiple occasions because of his unintentional stealth, he had hoped he would be able to apply this apparent skill to a more practical situation. That was proving to be a pipe dream; every single move he made caused some kind of commotion, and it was truly a miracle no one had caught them yet.

“Could you be any louder, dude?” Scott whispered harshly from behind him once they were finally out of earshot of the cops gathered around the nurse's station.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Scott. I'll make sure to be more careful the next time we plan a stealth mission through a hospital.” Stiles dryly stated as they approached the room, the aforementioned cops had emerged from minutes prior. Lydia could be seen lying unconscious in her hospital bed through the windows lining the walls of her room. The sight brought about a sick, guilty feeling that Stiles wasn't sure how to shake. He had just left her there in that field. Who knows what would have happened if Jackson hadn't shown up not that long after he left with Peter-

“Just go.”  Scott huffed through an annoyed breath, ripping Stiles from his thoughts as he walked past him toward the open doorway. The two boys slowly and quietly - well as quietly as you can when Stiles is around - crept into the doorway, crouched to avoid being seen through the quite frankly in Stiles’ opinion, obscene amount of windows covering the walls.

“Shut the door,” Scott whispered across the still-open doorway as he positioned himself into a squat opposite Stiles. Coordinated as ever, Stiles promptly fell on his ass with the momentum of his quick entrance to the room.

He really needed to work on that; He has the bodily awareness of a newborn deer.

He corrected himself to a kneeling position and made to shut the door, but as he went to shut the door, it let a too-loud creak. The sound was so obvious in the near silence of the room that it caused him to wince in feigned pain. Scott just stared at him in disbelief. 

“Oh god.” Scott breathed out through a pained grimace while Stiles’ body followed the movement of the door, all the while that high-pitched creak continued to ring throughout the room. He ended up falling with his back against the door with a loud thud after successfully locking it, breathing heavily.

Scott just stared at him with a look of such utter disappointment it was more fit for a father disciplining a rowdy toddler. ”What?” Stiles asked innocently as he stared back at him. 

It's not his fault the door was so goddamn loud.

They slowly rose from their crouched position, walking over to Lydia’s bedside, all the while making sure they weren't seen from their exposed position. Stiles is well aware of how weird it would seem for two random teenage boys to show up in an unconscious girl's hospital room. It doesn't exactly look good. With how oblivious Scott can be in these situations sometimes, Stiles was on edge, to say the least. This worry was pushed to the back of his mind for another to take its place when he saw Lydia up close.

The sound of her heart monitor beat steadily, filling the room and matching his own that beat loudly against his ribs. Her beautiful porcelain skin was mottled with bruises and marred with cuts. Her skin was so devoid of color, it was like having watched a flower slowly wilt. Ever since he left that lacrosse field, Lydia and her possible fate have been weighing on his mind.

He watches his best friend struggle daily because of Peter Hale and his useless search for vengeance; he doesn't want to have to watch someone else he cares about go through all that just because he wasn't there when they needed him, again. He's supposed to be the smart one, the one who figures everything out, but he still couldn’t do it fast enough to save Lydia.

He watched as Scott moved Lydia’s hospital gown to reveal the bandages on the side of her torso, stained red from her blood. With a deep breath, he looked away, staring resolutely at the blanket covering her legs. He listened intently as Scott removed her bandage. When he didn't say anything, Stiles asked the question he wasn't even sure he even wanted the answer to.

“Is it completely healed?” he asked quietly.

He was praying Scott didn't say yes, but with everything that had happened over the last couple of weeks, he wasn't very optimistic, and if Scott did say no, that just brought on a shit ton more questions they wouldn't know how to get the answers to.

“No, not at all,” Scott said, a hint of amazement in his tone.

At that, Stiles whipped his head up to look at Scott, they shared a glance, and turned their gazes back to Lydia’s wound, still red with visible stitches. ”I don't get it, the doctor said she’d be fine.” his tone was a flurry of worry and confusion.

It didn't make any sense how she could have gotten bitten by Peter but not turn. Almost the exact same thing happened to Scott, but he was completely healed by the next morning. Why wasn't her body doing the same?

“ Yeah, but the bite’s not healing like it did with me.” Scott quietly stated, sounding just as confused as Stiles felt. “ Which means,” Scott started sounding like he'd come to a realization, “She's not a werewolf,” he finished.

“Then what the hell is she?” He asked softly. 

“ I have no idea.” Scott breathed.

“Well, isn't that just great, another thing to add to the never-ending list of shit I have to figure out.” He sighed exasperatedly.

“You know you're not the only one around here who knows how to research, right?” Scott asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Raising a judgmental eyebrow at the dismissive wave Stiles sent his way. Scott scoffed but ducked his head to try and hide the small smile toying at his lips - pretty unsuccessfully. “ Come on, man, we gotta get out of here before someone sees us. I’m gonna go to Allison’s to make sure she's doing okay after her aunt and everything, ya know. What about you?” Scott asked, backing away from the bed and making his way toward the door.                                                                                                                                                                     

Stiles stayed rooted right where he was. “Good luck with Allison, man. I uh…I think I'm gonna stay here for a little bit longer, then probably head home.” He knows that Scott can probably tell how all over the place his head is at the moment from the slight furrow of his brow, but Scott’s his best friend for a reason. He nods a quick goodbye and sneaks back out the way they came. No questions asked.

Once Scott left, it felt almost too quiet. Regardless of the heart monitor providing a metronome to balance the unsteady breathing, Stiles realized far too late was coming from him. This isn’t his first rodeo he's had panic attacks before - at least he's pretty sure that's what's happening right now - but they aren't usually caused by his lifelong best friend getting turned into a fucking werewolf by a guy he just watched get burned alive and get his throat ripped out right in front of him. Who also kidnapped him after attacking the girl he had a crush on for most of his formative years, who’s now lying in a hospital bed next to him, looking like-

The more he thought about what he'd seen and what had happened in the last two weeks, the louder the silence became, the shallower his breathing got. He hadn't even noticed he had started crying or that he was curled in a ball on the floor, tucked against the wall, trying his absolute hardest to breathe and failing miserably, until he heard the door to the room suddenly open over the noise of his wheezing and the shaking of his chest.

He whipped his head up and towards the door so fast he was genuinely surprised he didn't hear something crack. After wiping away the tears that had collected in his eyes, lumping his eyelashes together, he saw Melissa McCall standing in the doorway, presumably come to check on Lydia. He watched the moment her expression went from professional disinterest to motherly concern in a matter of seconds once her eyes landed on him.

“Stiles, are you okay?” she asked in a concerned frenzy, crouching down in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

He tried to answer her, but all that came out was a pathetic-sounding high-pitched noise in the back of his throat and a shaky breath. He looked up towards the ceiling to try and will the tears in his eyes to go away.

He never wanted her to see him like this.

“Come on, Stiles, I need you to breathe okay, breathe with me,” Melissa said in her most soothing voice, no doubt used on baby Scott to get him to stop crying. She then started taking exaggerated breaths in and out. When Stiles didn’t get the hint, she reiterated, “Stiles, look at me.” She stated more firmly. He did. ”Match my breathing with your own, come on.”

After a couple of minutes of sitting across from each other, breathing in tandem, Stiles had finally gathered himself enough to stand up off the floor and make his way toward the door. Still on the floor, Melissa called up to him concernedly. “Stiles-” He cut her off before she could finish whatever it was she was going to say.

“Have a good night,” he said shortly, pulling open the door and leaving. He heard Melissa call his name one more time as he rounded a corner, but he didn't acknowledge her. He just needed to get to his jeep and get out of there.

Chapter Text

He somehow made it home even though he doesn’t remember much of anything after getting in the Jeep. Stiles ended up just staring at his front door from the driver's seat of his car for longer than he’d like to admit, building his courage. He had desperately hoped his dad would be at Derek’s house or the station by the time he got home, but luck just wasn't on his side lately, it seemed. Ever since all the werewolf stuff started, it’s felt like the two of them have been on completely different planets. Which, I guess, we have. He thought irritably.

He hated having to lie to his dad, he knew he had to to keep him safe, and the added fact that the sheriff would never believe him if he told him that all the cases he'd been working on recently weren't a mountain lion or Derek Hale, but Derek’s uncle who supposedly sustained irreparable bodily damage in a fire, who also happened to turn into a giant wolf beast that killed people in the dead of night. There weren't many incentives to tell his dad the truth if he was being honest.

“Come on, Stiles, you can do this, you’re just walking into your house, it's not that big of a deal,” He said aloud to himself, staring down at his lap where his hands were fidgeting with his keys. He forced himself to open his car door and all but ran to his front door before he got the chance to chicken out and drive as far away as possible.

He entered a quiet house, the only light coming from the dining room. He was thrown into almost complete darkness. He debated just going straight up the stairs to his bedroom and hoped he would be asleep by the time his dad came to check if he was home. Instead, he took a deep breath and started moving in the direction of the light. When he rounded the corner, he was greeted with a very familiar scene; His dad was sitting hunched over at the dining table, papers strewn around him while he read from an open file. An empty glass in his hand, looking intensely focused on whatever he was reading.

Stiles slowly approached the table and rested his hands on the back of the chair opposite the sheriff .“Hey Dad,” he said softly into the near-silent room.

Stiles watched as his dad, a man whose whole career depended on him acting calmly and coldly in tense situations, jumped in his seat with a shriek befitting a chihuahua. He almost dropped the glass he was holding, but managed to right himself just in time, grabbing his chest as if he was having a heart attack. ”Jesus, kid, I didn't even hear you come in,” he spoke in a harsh but still playful manner. The sound was so familiar it caused Stiles’s lips to curve into a half-hearted smirk. Once his dad was finished with his dramatics, he closed the file he was reading from, successfully keeping Stiles’s keen eyes off its contents. His dad looked up at him from where he was sitting and casually asked, “Where’ve you been?”

This is the part of lying he loathed. It was a hell of a lot easier to just not tell someone something than to blatantly lie to their face; He decided to do what he always did these days, which was to just answer a question he didn't want to answer with another question. Looking away from his father's inquiring stare, “Where do you think?” he questioned in what he hoped came off as a casual tone.

When he directed his gaze back towards his father, he was met with a knowing shake of the head and a sigh. It irked him how good at skirting around the truth he'd become recently, especially when it came to his dad. The guy's whole life is spent trying to figure out whether or not someone is hiding something, but Stiles’s deflection goes completely unnoticed. His father fixed him with a look and said resignedly. “You know Melissa’s gonna have both our asses if you two keep staying out so late on school nights.”

The mention of Scott's mom sent a sudden swell of shame and discomfort up his spine. He had no idea what he would say the next time they saw each other, but he knew what she would probably say, something along the lines of how he wasn't alone and didn't have to go through whatever he was going through alone, It wouldn't be the first time she did. After his mom died she had said something similar, it didn't help much back then and he doubted it would now. 

He loved Melissa, he did but he hated when people saw him break down like that. He hated when people looked at him like he was some weak little animal, lost and alone that needed protecting. He especially hated it when it came from someone he respected as much as Melissa.

Stiles was torn away from his spiraling when his father cleared his throat, quickly drawing him back to the conversation. ” Yeah, I know.” Stiles said softly, sheepishly ducking his head, with his gaze now leveled at the table his attention was brought to the modicum of files and what looked to be police reports thrown about the table. His brow furrowed inquisitively as he glanced in his father's direction and asked. “What are you working on?”.

The sheriff lowered his gaze to the glass now on the table in front of him with an exasperated sigh closing his eyes and wincing as if he were fighting off a headache. “You know I can't tell you that Stiles.” He said gruffly, his fingers now squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“You can tell me what you’re doing, you just can't tell me why .” He said with a mischievous tilt to his mouth. It was something he said all the time with varying degrees of success, but he had a good feeling tonight. 

“Fine,” his father said reluctantly with a sigh. Stiles smiled triumphantly as he started pulling out the chair he had been leaning on and jovially went to sit down in his seat across from his father when a finger was raised in his direction and his father sternly stated, “ But, only because I know you won’t stop asking if I don't and the Advil I took hasn't kicked in yet.” Once Stiles finished taking his seat the sheriff continued, “ I’m lookin’ over some old files and reports 'cause I think they might have something to with what's been going on around here lately.”

At that, Stiles felt his shoulders tense and his heart start to beat slightly faster, he raised his index finger to scratch along his hairline. - it was a nervous tic he’d had for as long as he could remember -  He knew it was his dad's job to look into everything that happened - At least what everyone who wasn't involved in it thought had happened - but he knew his dad was good at his job; It was where Stiles got his penchant for looking a little too deeply into things in case they weren’t what they seemed. He learned everything he knew from his dad, and that meant that like Stiles had, sooner or later his dad would start looking in places he wasn't prepared for the consequences of.

 If something happened to his dad he didn't know what he would do.

Stiles quickly looked up from where he was blankly staring at a pile of papers in front of him and asked, “Really why? What old case? Does it have to do with the necklace you told me about?” he asked in what sounded to him like a frantic mom trying to find her kids in a grocery store kind of way but must have seemed like his usual tone of unadulterated interest to his dad; All he got in return was an unimpressed look.

“That's for me to know, and you not to know.” His stern expression softened before he locked his gaze with Stiles’s and asked almost shyly. “ Hey kid, I've been meaning to ask. How have you been doing?”

The question, along with its gentle tone, took him by surprise. He quickly answered, “I’m fine. Why?” It must have come out sharper than he meant it to if the lifting of his dad's eyebrows and the way his mouth was slightly agape were anything to go by.

It took a moment for his dad to reply, and when he did, he placatingly stated, “You just seemed upset yesterday, with Lydia being in the hospital and everything going on lately, I just wanted to check on you.”

Stiles instantly felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He knew his dad worried about him of course but he was already working himself to the bone. The last thing Stiles wanted was to give his dad more things to feel like he had to deal with on top of all of that. “Yeah, yeah'm fine Dad” He quietly mumbled looking anywhere but his father.

“Good,” He said not sounding convinced, not wanting to push he looked down at his watch. “It's getting late you should head on up to bed, you got school tomorrow. I'm gonna-” 

He thinks his dad was saying something about continuing with his research and sleeping on the couch but he wasn't sure, at the mention of his having to go to school the next morning he had tuned him out.

School was canceled yesterday after Lydia got attacked since it was on school grounds and the cops needed to process the crime scene, so the fact that he would have to go to school and act like everything was the same as always was something he’d yet to consider. 

The thought alone was enough to turn his stomach. How was he supposed to just go about his usual class schedule, and take the English test he hadn't studied for? It was Friday so he would have lacrosse practice - already knew that he would never look at that field the same way again. He had no idea how to do that, knowing the things he knew. Before, it was easy because they still didn’t know what was going on; it gave him something to try and piece together in his head instead of having to listen to Ms. Conner's brain-numbing lectures about politics in ancient Rome. Now all he had were the memories of being kidnapped not once but twice in the same night, and the lingering smell of burnt flesh still stuck in his nostrils.

He quickly stood up from where he was seated, almost knocking the chair over. His dad looked up at him with a question written in his expression. Stiles spoke before his father got the chance. “ Goodnight, Dad,” he said before promptly whirling on his feet and making his way towards his bedroom.

“Night Kid,” he called after Stiles obvious concern in his voice, but by that time Stiles was already halfway up the stairs.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Once Stiles reached his bedroom, he unceremoniously kicked off his shoes into a pile at the corner of his bedroom, slowly dragging his feet as he walked to his bedside, throwing himself rather aggressively onto his bed, landing splayed on his back. 

As Stiles stared up at his ceiling, he found his mind uncharacteristically quiet; it almost felt like when you shut off a blaring radio and it creates a silence so loud it makes your head feel fuzzy. It was a welcome sensation; these pockets of serenity were hard to come by. He decided to just appreciate it for what it was: A calm in the relentless storm his life had become. 

It wasn't without its drawbacks, though, as he no longer had the chaos of his running mind to distract him from how exhausted the day had made him.

The idea of closing his eyes and falling into the warm embrace of sleep sounded simultaneously lovely and utterly terrifying; If his subconscious was as set on torturing him as his conscious mind seemed to be at the moment he wasn't exactly eager to see what it would dream up for him. But, Stiles had a hard enough time falling asleep in the best circumstances and these were far from it, the fact that he actually felt like he could was an opportunity he dreaded the idea of having to give up.

He stayed like that, eyes locked on the calming repetitive motion of his ceiling fan, just breathing, feeling almost numb. He assumed he must have fallen asleep at some point, seeing as in the middle of the night he shot up, awaking from his slumber, gasping for air, and covered in sweat.  

He didn't fall back asleep after that.

Monday February 21st, 2011

At six thirty like he did every morning, the sheriff opened Stiles’ bedroom door to start the arduous task of waking him. This was a ritual that was a decade old at this point but still just as difficult to achieve as when Stiles was a doe-eyed six-year-old. The sheriff was startled to see his son - who's usually an immovable object in the morning - already awake and at his computer furiously typing away.

“What are you doin’ up this early?” His father said suspiciously. Stiles spun his head around at the sudden intrusion into his laser-like focus.

He waved a dismissive hand at his father trying his absolute best to act casual - he was failing miserably - when his dad narrowed his eyes crossing his arms across his chest looking like he definitely wasn't going to drop it, Stiles decided to give his dad a half-truth. Stiles deflated, mumbling, “I was just finishing my history paper.”

“Finishing or starting?” His dad said with a far too knowing tone.

Stiles gave him his most charming of smiles, and posed as if one of the great philosophical questions of the ages, “If you start and finish something in one sitting, can it be considered either?”.

His dad fixed him with an unimpressed raise of the eyebrow, completely ignoring him, he asked, “ And how long have you known you had to do it?”.

With a clumsy shake of the head and a raise of the shoulders, waving his hand in front of him, trying to emphasize his nonchalance, “Just like…two weeks.” He let out a small huff of laughter, turning his gaze to his carpet.

His dad just took a deep breath, shaking his head exasperatedly. Even though it was obvious how stressful he found this conversation, he kept inquiring. “Let me guess, today’s the last day you can turn it in?” 

 Stiles fixed him with a weak smile and said with little enthusiasm and a sarcastic pair of jazz hands, “Bingo.”

“I swear, kid, I don't know how you do it, I would've had a heart attack if I did that at your age.” His dad said while turning his gaze toward his watch.

“Whoever said ‘You can't rush perfection’ clearly never took Adderall.” Stiles dryly pointed out, turning back towards his computer with energy his father envied this early in the morning.

“I gotta get goin’, make sure you get to school on time, alright.” Stiles sent him a thumbs up over his shoulder, not taking his attention away from the screen in front of him. “I’ll see you later, love ya, kid.” His dad added as he walked out of the room.

“Love you too,” Stiles replied distractedly before he started to practically assault his keyboard again.

Stiles waited by the bike racks like always, waiting for Scott to arrive so he could walk with him to homeroom like they’ve done every day for as long as Stiles can remember, but today it felt different.

He stood leaning against the cool metal, the feel of it digging into the backs of his legs the only thing reminding him that he was there. He felt almost numb, but not the good kind he had last night, having watched shapes form and dance across in his vision from staring at his ceiling for so long.

Then, he had felt content; now, he just felt like a ghost. He watched people he'd seen every day for most of his life talk and laugh around him, completely oblivious to the fact that there were things that shouldn't exist roaming around the previously quiet town they all inhabited. Stiles felt almost envious that they got to just exist without feeling like they had to look around every corner for sharp claws and a snarling mouth with teeth that could-

He was startled out of his thoughts when Scott punched him playfully on the arm. To anyone who didn't know him, Scott looked like a normal, happy teenage boy teasing his best friend, but Stiles could see how his eyes were slightly sunken - presumably caused by a lack of sleep -  and how his smile was tight in the corners. Stiles was in awe of how well Scott had taken everything that had been thrown at them lately in stride, even when the idea of being cured of his furry little problem - as Stiles liked to call it - was taken from him he just accepted it, and kept going; Stiles doesn't think he would've been able to do half the stuff Scotts done without going insane.

“How’s it goin’, man?” Scott asked, carefully taking in Stiles’ blank stare.

Stiles made a small shake of the head to clear his thoughts and fixed Scott with a grin. “Great,”  Remembering how Scott spent his night, he let his smile soften, solemnly asking, “How was Allison?”

Giving Stiles a weak shake of his head, he said softly, ” I mean, she's doing alright, considering.” Scott lowered his eyes to the asphalt, letting out a long breath.

He didn’t need Scott to say anything else for him to understand; He just nodded his head. He was doing okay, considering, too.

The chime of the school bell brought them both back to reality. Scott inclined his head towards the building in a silent command before turning and walking toward the doors, silently telling Stiles to follow. 

Even though the thought of having to sit through the next seven hours made him want to curl into a ball and die, He did.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Getting through the day felt like trying to run through water. Stiles has never been under the delusion that school flew by, but today just felt like it was going slow to taunt him. So when his free period came around he felt like he could cry out of pure happiness; He had lacrosse practice before he could go home but it still felt like being let out of a cage, made of boring teachers and the weird empty feeling he's had since he left his house that morning.

He would usually spend his free period sitting in the quad, throwing rocks at random shit, or, more recently, in the library doing werewolf-related research. Neither of which seemed particularly appealing at the moment; He decided to make his way toward the locker room instead to take his time getting changed before practice which had the added bonus of not having to do it in a cramped room with ten other smelly dudes.

Walking through the empty halls felt surreal; It was too quiet, it made Stiles feel like he was a ghost haunting a baron mansion once full of life, that was until he came upon the door to the locker room. On the other side, the sound of what seemed to be angry mumbling and running water could be heard.

Stiles should have just turned back the way he came and left; Coming across an irate lacrosse player alone wasn't something anybody would wish for themselves. But this was Stiles, his curiosity almost always won over his practicality; He could admit it wasn’t his best trait, but it didn’t make it any less true.

Stiles slowly and quietly opened the door; as he crept around the locker blocking his view, he tried his best to remain unseen, just in case this was a steroid-fuelled rage kind of thing instead of a general teenage angst thing.

When he rounded the corner, he was greeted by the sight of someone facing away from him, leaning over the sink, holding what looked to be a rag to their face. It was hard to make out who it was from his current angle, but the silhouette seemed vaguely familiar. As Stiles tried to change his position to get a better view, he tripped over a very precariously placed lacrosse stick, announcing his presence to the mysterious person.

Once Stiles righted himself and the offending piece of sports equipment, he looked up to find Lahey, one of Stiles’ fellow bench riders - Not anymore, He thought triumphantly - eyeing him apprehensively. Stiles hasn’t ever really talked to him before, from what Stiles could tell he kept to himself; which is something Stiles can respect, if it wasn't for Scott he would probably be a hermit himself.

Lahey swallowed heavily, still obscuring half of his face with the rag, and questioned Stiles defensively, “ What are you doing here?”

The harshness of his tone and his tense body language were both confusing and surprising to Stiles, all he had done was walk into the room and Lahey was looking at him like he killed his cat. He wasn’t sure what he had done, but he didn't want to get into a fight with this guy in the middle of the locker room without backup. 

He smirked and narrowed his eyes, playfully trying his absolute best to show this guy he wasn't trying to get on his bad side, before responding, “I could ask you the same thing.”

Stiles thinks his attempt to lighten the mood was about as successful as it could have been; Lahey’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he dropped his arm away from his face, bringing the rag with it, putting his face on full display. His left eye was surrounded by purple and yellow bruising and a few small scabbed-over cuts. Stiles could now see what the rag was for; the largest of the boy's cuts was along his cheekbone, it looked as though it had healed and reopened and was slowly oozing blood. Stiles’ eye ached in sympathy; he’d never had a black eye before, but he could tell just from looking at it that it hurt like a bitch.

When Lahey spoke, his tone was much lighter - almost shy  - but there was still an undercurrent of the defensiveness he had led with, “It's my free period.”

He knew he was staring, but all Stiles could look at was the mark marring the otherwise handsome face. Lahey must have noticed because he started to shift on his feet self-consciously, giving Stiles a confused look. “Same,” Stiles said distractedly before asking what he wanted to know. Raising a finger to point at his eye, Stiles asked concernedly, “ What happened?”

His question was initially met with a questioning look, but as understanding started to frame the edges of Lahey's face and he looked down at the towel in his hand, it morphed into one of nervousness as his eyes quickly darted around the room. It looked like he was trying to find the quickest exit, but Stiles happened to be blocking the only one. He seemed to realize this and looked down at the floor, fidgeting with the blood-stained towel, “it's nothing,” he said in what was probably supposed to be casual dismissal but sounded to Stiles’ ears like a little kid trying not to get their friend in trouble. “ Just got myself with my stick,” he finished, not moving his gaze from the tiled floor.

Stiles wasn’t convinced in the slightest that a lacrosse stick could do that much damage, especially by accident, but he wasn’t gonna push this guy he barely knew to tell him something he didn't want to, he just gave him a small smile and asked, “Your name’s Isaac, right?”

Lahey snapped his head up, looking at Stiles with a shocked expression. “Yeah,” he said, sounding equally as stunned as he looked, obviously not expecting Stiles to have known his name. He tried his best to return Stile's smile, but all it did was cause Isaac to wince painfully.

“I'm Stiles.” He provided.

Isaacs's expression fell to what must have been its resting position as he replied matter-of-factly, “I know.” 

“Oh…cool,” he said lamely. They just stood there in a relatively awkward silence for a few moments before Stiles pointed toward his locker, “I'm gonna…” Isaac shook his head as if coming out of a trance, nodded his head, and promptly turned back toward the mirror to continue cleaning his cut.

As Stiles rummaged through his belongings, his mind drifted back to dark woods and bright flames, as seemed to be the norm lately. Stiles was starting to get really sick of it, it was all he could think about; All day whenever he got a moment to himself the events of the last few days would bombard his mind like a battering ram to castle doors. He didn't understand why; it wasn't like anything had happened to him.

Lydia was the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed, Allison was the one who had her entire worldview shatter and lost her aunt - even if she was batshit insane, and Scott was the one who had his entire life and body change;  who was almost forced to kill people against his will and would never be able to have a normal life. What had happened to Stiles? If he wanted, his life could go back to exactly how it was before, nothing had changed. He didn't have the right to be upset about anything that happened; his life was the same as it always had been. He didn't have some earth-shattering thing happen to him; he just happened to be there. So he resolved to do his best to make sure his friends had someone they knew was there for them, someone who was okay; and he would be, he had to be. For them.

Chapter Text

Saturday, March 5th, 2011

Isaac wouldn't say he was particularly surprised by the sick feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach; it was as known to him as every creaking floorboard in the house he currently stood watching from the safety of the cracked sidewalk. 

It reminds him of the feeling he would get as a kid when his mom would take him and Camden to the pier for their birthdays. Camden would always tease him for being scared to go on the big roller coasters, and every time, Isaac would agree to go on against his better judgment to impress his big brother. Once they would get to the front of the line he would get this feeling; It was like his stomach had fallen into his feet, trying to make him one with the ground beneath his feet keeping him in place, forcing him to make the decision of if he was going to run away crying, or be brave enough to take the next step forward.

This feeling loved to rear its head every time he approached his childhood home and never seemed to leave, until he did.

Today, his choice brought him to his front door, fishing his keys out of his pockets with trembling hands. After a moment of struggling, he took a second to still his hands and steel his expression. “You had a good day, you'll be fine,” he firmly yet quietly stated between deep breaths before unlocking and opening the front door.

He tried to be as quiet as possible - making sure to avoid the third board to the left in the hallway that he always forgets about - hoping his father had fallen asleep on the couch, allowing Isaac to slip away to his room undetected, to at least try and start the chemistry homework he meant to finish three days ago. However, today, like most days, who is he kidding - luck wasn't on his side.

“Isaac, you home?” At the gravelly monotone - set in stark contrast to the soft white noise from the football game of a team his father could never really make him give a shit about playing on the TV - Isaac stiffened, the hair on the back of his neck standing up unexpectedly, making him pause before answering from his position two rooms away.

“Yeah?” his voice came out with a slight shake; he was hoping it wasn't too obvious to his father.

“Get in here, I can't hear ya!” 

Isaac let out a deep sigh and made his way back down the hallway, rounding the corner into the dimly lit living room currently illuminated by a very strange-looking Popeyes commercial, making his way to stand in front of his father, “What’s up?” he asked in as neutral a tone as he could muster.

His father - without even bothering to turn his head the twenty degrees needed to look at Isaac - muttered against the rim of the bottle, dripping condensation onto his sweat-soaked t-shirt, “I need you to work tomorrow night.”

The command caught Isaac off guard, making him blurt out without thinking, “But I have plans tomorrow night.” 

Isaac's sudden outburst is what finally got his father to turn his head, fixing him with a challenging look and a tone reeking with hidden danger, “Oh yeah, what plans?” The slight raising of his eyebrow didn't help Isaac's unease.

Isaac lowered his gaze, feeling like a little kid about to get told off for eating dessert before his dinner, “Um, my friend Jason and I were going to go see the new Harry Potter movie.” When Isaac looked back at his father, he was met with a vaguely confused look, almost as if he was trying to piece something together. “Jason? We were in the school play together last year.”

Isaacs' foray into acting wasn’t exactly his best decision - he can honestly say that he was god awful - but it was fun, and he made a couple of friends, which is not by any stretch of the imagination a common occurrence for him. His dad, on the other hand, hadn't been a fan of the idea, and a lot of words were thrown around.

Among other things.

But he eventually got his dad to calm down when he told him he needed an arts credit to be able to graduate. He was by no means on board with the idea and probably wouldn't have even come to see the show if all the sports teams and their coaches weren’t made to go in support of the arts program. 

What Isaac said must've made something click in his dad's brain; he watched as a genuinely amused smirk grew upon his dad's face, “He was that guy in that faggy Peter Pan costume, right?” He said it with a chuckle that got cut off by his attention getting snatched back by the TV.

The tv might have been blaring the sounds of cheering crowds and rowdy players but Isaac couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears: the countless times he's heard these things before; Things like, “Why are you dressin’ like that? You look like a queer.” or the one that always seems to hit him where it hurts, “You need to stop hangin’ around those faggy friends of yours, People talk you know.” That one is always said with an underlying vitriol that is almost impossible to ignore.

Those things never really used to bother him before. Of course, it wasn't great to get ridiculed by his own father, but to Isaac, it was the same as every other way his father would try to take him down a peg; there was nothing special about it.

But then he met Jason.

He was the first person who treated Isaac like a …real person since his brother shipped out. When Isaac walked into that audition, he felt as out of place as everywhere else. He had been sitting in the hallway in one of the chairs along the wall - away from the groups of people who had obviously known each other for years, trying his best to be out of everyone's way - when one of the quieter people in the larger of the two groups approached him.

He was the kind of guy that you only have to look at to know he has a good heart, and he spoke softly and with a confidence that Isaac couldn't help but envy - even with the underlying insecurity in his approach. He introduced himself. From behind him, his friend interjected, jovially, "He's the funniest and gayest person you'll ever meet.” Isacc expected Jason to lash out at the other boy, or to look embarrassed at the description, but all he did was turn toward Isacc with a smirk and said, "He's not wrong."

It was the first time in his life that Isaac had heard that word as a selling point and not as a reason to not like someone. After their initial meeting, they spent more and more time together during rehearsals. Jason always went out of his way to involve Isaac in the games he didn't understand in the slightest, or the group jokes that always kind of made him feel like an outsider.

They got even closer when Jason let slip that he was a huge comic nerd. Isaac hadn’t had anyone to talk about one of his favorite things with since his friend Matt stopped talking to him, but Jason talked with a passion that exceeded his own.

Ever since then, whenever Isaac heard one of the lacrosse guys make a joke in the locker room, or his dad calling him queer for liking a Taylor Swift song - he really shouldn't have let that one slip …it didn't end well - he just felt a surge of anger so strong he could barely contain it sometimes. As much as he would love to be able to yell at his dad for saying things like that - especially about his friend - he knew that would only end one way: with bleeding nail beds and torn vocal chords.

Whatever had grasped his father's attention in the game had apparently passed, as his father turned his focus back to Isaac, reminding him of the origin of his mini spiral. Isaac spoke through gritted teeth - purposefully low to lessen the impact, “Yeah, that’s- that’s him.”

“Well, tell him that he needs a new date: I need you working tomorrow night. I’m going out with Tom for darts and some drinks, and somebody’s gotta dig that Argent lady's grave.” He spoke with a casual gesture towards Isaac as if it was a given that he would just take the command and go on with the rest of his night with no rebuff.

Isaac didn't want to just give up on his plans. Jason had been planning this for weeks, and if he was being honest, he didn't really see digging a woman's grave as the best way to spend his night. “But I already bought the ticket.”

The look on his father's face told him that he had made a mistake; The slight furrow of his brow, the pull in the corners of his mouth, the small embers alighting in his eyes, ready to be fanned by Isaac's next response, “Are you talking back to me, boy?” The gravel in the man's voice was enhanced by his attempt at intimidation, and it worked the way it always had …extremely well.

“No, Sir.” The voice that replied to the challenge, he didn't even recognize as his own; he was convinced that if he turned to his left, there'd be a scrawny nine-year-old to explain it away.

He's sure that his father saw this display of subordination as a positive given the way he relaxed minutely, settling back into the couch, “Good, the keys to the digger are in my office on the hook by the door. Make sure you put 'em back and be careful-” his dad emphasized that point with a harsh point to Isaac's sternum never once breaking eye contact, “You damage that machine you got a lot worse to worry about than just missin’ a movie date.” The threat wasn't even underlining; it was as in your face as the sun on an eighty-degree July day, and Isaac wasn't too keen on finding out how much it would burn.

“Yes, sir.”

This seemed to satisfy the man as he turned his attention back to the television and offhandedly murmured, ”Now get outta here, I'm tryna watch the game.”

Isaac didn't need to be told twice. 

Sunday, March 6th, 2011

All Stiles could feel was hands wrapping around his shoulders, with a warmth that felt all but holy. The rightness of the feeling was a shock against the pressure he could abstractly feel along his back; Almost real, almost tangible.

All Stiles could hear was the phantom of a whisper miles away, so quiet it could be swept away by the wind. It held a voice he couldn't quite place, but he felt like he'd always known. The beautiful sound was broken every so often by a loud cacophony of seemingly random noises, Foreign to the beautiful place he found himself.

All Stiles could see was golden light; it had a warmth to it, making it seem more like the sun passing through honey than coming directly at you. The light cast itself over the beautiful field he found himself in - despite the sudden flashes of bright white that would periodically assault his vision - it was beautiful.

All Stiles could smell was wheatgrass and pollen; the lightness in the air filled his chest with every inhale; it made him feel like a kid running through the sprinklers in the blazing summer heat. The grass beneath him acted as a cushion as he lay staring towards the sky. 

Somewhere to his left, he could feel a harsh breath dance across his cheek. Upon turning to investigate the life form currently panting on his face like an over-exercised German shepherd, he was met with a feeling of immense horror that surged through his whole body, ripping the harshest scream he'd ever made from his throat at the sight before him.

Lydia was lying next to him, her throat slashed from ear to ear, leaving an ugly pool of blood on the once soft and comforting ground. She was reaching towards him with one hand while the other desperately tried to staunch the bleeding. 

Stiles crawled towards her, ripping clumps of grass from the ground in the process. Stiles kneeled next to her shaking frame, his hands frantically moving in the air above her; He desperately wanted to help, but he didn't want to make her situation more dire than it already was through his own stupidity. 

Through a panicked breath, he spoke, “Lydia! Lydia, what happened?”

Impossible as it seemed, she spoke, although it was more like a harsh breath than anything, “You…” she sucked in a broken gasp, the second part of their sentence spoken through a sob, “You weren’t there.”

Stiles woke with a start, his heart rapidly beating against his ribs like a trapped hummingbird. Still reeling from the dream that had all but killed him, he’d yet to realize that he was still in the waiting room of the hospital, where he’d been holding vigil for the last three days.

He was reminded of this fact not only by the intense shooting pain in his back from using the chairs as a mattress, but by the concerned looks from the people currently convening around him.

 “Stiles, are you okay?” Melissa looked at him with her usual maternal concern, hovering over him, but not touching him like he was a spooked animal she was trying to appease. Behind her stood Mr. Martin and a very frightened-looking nurse. 

“Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong? Did something happen to Lydia?” He stood up with a panicked swiftness - that was shocking, given he’d been asleep moments ago - he started walking towards Lydia’s room before Melissa grabbed his arm, effectively stopping him in his tracks. 

“No, there’s nothing wrong with Lydia; she’s fine.” Her soft spoken platitudes helped to put Stiles slightly at ease before she finished speaking, “You were mumbling and thrashing around in your sleep, I was worried you were gonna fall out of the chair.” Her soft chuckle, most likely used to release the tension currently rolling off of Stiles in waves, sadly had the opposite effect. 

It was just his luck that the nightmare wouldn’t just stay in his mind, but had found a way to manifest into something anyone could see; To give people a reason to be worried about him, when he’s the last person who needs to be thought of right now. 

It’s then that Lydia cracks open the door to the room that she was moved to after being cleared to leave the ICU; she’s barely visible due to the darkness of the room beyond the door. Even so, Stiles can tell that she’s not the Lydia they all know and love; her eyes are red-rimmed and sunken, and the corners of her mouth, which are usually fixed in a condescending smirk, sit flat upon her face. 

She does, however, seem completely and utterly pissed off if the furrow in her brows is any indication. 

It breaks his heart to see someone so full of life become so broken, so harsh, all because of some fuckhead who couldn’t cope. 

Stiles has hated a lot of people in his time. There was Jordan Conners, the dumbass who had ripped up Stiles’ Pokémon cards in sixth grade because he thought it would make him seem cool to the rest of his pack of dipshits. 

There was that one kid from third grade who he couldn’t stand. What was his name? Leo? Theo? He couldn’t remember; all he knew was that he couldn't stand him for some reason that still evades him. 

And who could forget Raphael. Scott’s useless excuse for a dad, that just the thought of made Stiles want to ram his fist through the nearest wall. 

All that to say, hatred isn’t new to Stiles. It’s a feeling he knows quite well. However, Peter Hale has unearthed a new type of vitriol that Stiles didn’t know he was even capable of. A kind of rage that makes him wish he were the one who got to claw Peter’s throat out. 

Especially when confronted with the coldness in Lydia's voice when she asked, “Dad, can you help me with something?” 

Mr.Martin immediately flew into action, making his way towards the door, “Of course, sweetheart.” He spoke to her softly, causing Lydia to roll her eyes before letting him in the room. 

Once Lydia and her father had retreated behind the door and there were no more distractions, Melissa broke the tense silence, “Hey, why don’t you go get something from the vending machine? It’ll help you feel better.” To emphasize her request, she handed him a five-dollar bill from the pocket of her scrub jacket, looking at him imploringly. 

“Melissa, I’m fine, you don’t have to worry about me, and I have my own money.” 

Melissa fixed him with a very unimpressed look as she pushed the money into his hand while saying, “Alright, well, it’ll make me feel better. How’s that?” 

Stiles reluctantly nodded his head, taking the offer, before standing to make his way around the corner to the vending machine. Melissa watched him go with a look of resignation and a heavy sigh.

Stiles approached the vending machine with a disinterested air; He had only left the lobby to get Melissa off his back. That woman always has a way of getting what she wants one way or another. He thought to himself fondly. 

He selected his chosen snack and dutifully waited, watching the mechanical spiral slowly start moving. He may have put up a fight, but he was genuinely starving, and the prospect of eating something was enchanting.

Just as his Reese’s cups came to the precipice of the shelf, the machine stopped, suspending them just over the edge. 

“Ah, come on!” He groaned irritably. 

He banged against the glass, but it didn’t budge; the uncooperative machinery only fed the growing frustration in Stiles, which he decided to take out on said machine. He decided that just pounding against the glass was useless, which is what led him to the position he now found himself in.

Watching as the eight-hundred-pound object tipped, falling to the floor as a result of Stiles' incredibly successful ingenuity, Stiles jumped back before surging forward in a futile effort to catch it before accepting the fact that he just had to let gravity take its toll. Nothing could be done. 

The loud Crash resounded through the hallway, and he could only assume throughout the rest of the lobby, but before he was able to flee the scene of the crime and maintain his innocence if anyone ever asked him what had happened here, he heard a high-pitched and agonizing scream.

He was halfway down the hall before he even realized he was moving; his feet carrying him toward the noise of their own volition. His head was pounding by the time he made it back to the nurses' station, and all he could hear was white noise as he pushed past Melissa and Mr. Martin in his haste and into Lydia's room.

When he didn't see Lydia in her bed, he spun on his feet, making his way towards the bathroom. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear a muffled voice most likely belonging to Melissa dur to its high tambre; it sounded like his name followed by something he couldn’t quite make out; he couldn’t pay any attention to whatever Melissa was saying until he knew Lydia wasn't about to die while he was too busy with a fucking vending machine to notice.

He burst into the bathroo, Mr. Martin on his tail, upon entering he could hear the shower running and aggressively ripped back the curtain to reveal the empty space where Lydia should have been - it's probably a good thing Lydia wasn't there, if Stiles was being honest, what he had just done wasn't the most respectful thing on the planet, and probably would've resulted in Lydia slapping him across the face had she been there.

Mr. Martin moved towards the small window on the far wall of the room, pushing past Stiles in the process, bringing his attention to the fact that it was open. There was no other way Lydia could've gotten out of the room, but the idea of a teenage girl who's still recovering from a mystical bite climbing out of a second-story window unprovoked, especially after producing a scream that just the memory of made a chill run down Stiiles’ back, didn't make any sense.

From behind him, Melissa - in her most no-nonsense voice that made him feel like a misbehaving kid being scolded again - spoke, “Stiles, call your dad. I'll let security know that Lydia's missing and to be on the lookout.”

Mr.Martin finally spoke up from his spot standing behind stiles, his voice was harder and more determined than stiles had ever heard it in the short time they'd known each other, “I’m coming with you.” 

Melissa nodded at him resolutely and made her way out the door, Mr.Martin close on her heels.

Once they were out of the room. Stiles sank to the floor, leaning heavily against the wall of the bathtub, pulling his knees to his chest, taking his phone from his pocket, and dialing the number he's known by heart since he was six years old.

The phone rang twice before his dad picked up and spoke, “Hey kid, what's up? I thought you were at the hospital.” 

Stiles squared his jaw, making it ache with the pressure, and as carefully as possible, to keep the slight panicked shake from his voice, he replied, “I am…uh, something happened with Lydia.”

“Is she okay?” The sudden seriousness in his father's tone sent a shiver down his spine; the fact that he couldn't say yes made him feel sick to his stomach. He should have been able to do something this time; he was just down the hall. Instead, yet again, he wasn't there when someone he cares about needed him; He was getting really fucking sick of it if he was being honest.

“No, she's- she's gone. We don’t know where. One minute she's in the shower, the next she’s screaming, and then she's just…gone.”

“Stiles, you're sure that she's not just wandering around the halls?”

“Dad, there's only two ways out of that room: the door, which no one saw her come out of - and the window.”

The sheriff's voice took on a confused note, “Isn’t her room on the second floor?”

Stiles made a soft huff of laughter and replied through a wry smile, “Yeah, so unless she grew wings...” he trailed off, not having the energy to think of something witty to say.

Stiles could tell that his dad had turned the phone away from his face by the now muffled talking he could hear. After a moment or two, the line returned to normal, and his dad severely stated, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes with a couple of deputies.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Stiles removed the phone from his face and ended the call with his father before he got to the point of sobbing about how unfair this all was, to dial the second most important number on his phone. Scott’s.