Stiles Stilinski x Reader- Perishable
OUTSIDE THE SHERIFF’S STATION – NIGHT
The wind kicked up. Streetlights flickered overhead. The kind of night that already felt like a bad idea. You were leaning against the Jeep, arms crossed, watching Stiles pace around in front of you like he was solving the whole damn supernatural world on his own again.
“You do realize you’re not going in there alone right?”you hummed out, picking at the cuticles on your nails.
“It’s just a quick in-and-out.”Stiles continued to pace.
“That’s what you said last time. And you ended up locked in a vault with a were-jaguar and a pissed off Peter Hale”you noted, the tone of your voice getting higher like you knew it all.
“I can handle Eichen House”he answered, holding up one finger as he spun on his heel to face you.
“Can you handle a psychotic orderly and a banshee psychic link you don’t understand? Also let’s not talk about the last time you were at Eichen house”you referred back to the whole ‘Nogitsune’ era. Absolute nightmare.
He sighed. He really sighed, like it physically pained him to admit he didn’t want you there—but needed you anyway.
“Can you be any more annoying?”Stiles huffed out.
“Sure. Want me to show you?”you raised your eyebrow daringly.
He started to grin. You matched it. Neither of you say it out loud, but you’d always been better together—chaotic, reckless, smart… but better.
He nodded toward the passenger side of the Jeep as he sucked his bottom lip under his teeth.
“Okay my little fiend, get in before I change my mind”Stiles swung his keys around his finger.
“You won’t”You sighed, jumping into the passengers side.
“Just a thought Stilinski-We can’t just go in and demand to check out their files cabinet. But maybe… there’s someone inside who wants to make a little extra cash”A metaphorical lightbulb popped up above your head.
He popped the glove compartment open and pulled out a wad of bills, folded and ready. You raised your eyebrows curiously.
“Wow. You actually planned for this, great minds think alike I suppose” You laugh under your breath, shaking your head, there’s warmth there. Comfort. Familiarity.
EICHEN HOUSE PARKING LOT – MOMENTS LATER
Stiles drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, restless energy rolling off him in waves.
You knew where his head was-where it always was as of late.
Lydia. Malia. He had a dilemma on his hands.
And he was doing a really bad job pretending he didn’t.
You’d watched it unfold quietly, in half-finished sentences and the way he stared too long at his phone when it buzzed. He never talked about it—not to you. Not really. But you’d seen the signs. The hesitation. The quiet guilt. The way his voice always changed when either of their names came up.
Malia was the now. The girl who made sense in a world that rarely did. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t overthink things. She acted first, felt second. That worked for him… for a while.
And Lydia—well, Lydia was the forever. At least, that’s what you’d always assumed. The girl he’d wanted for years. Smart, radiant, untouchable. She’d grown closer to him recently. Trusted him. And maybe that meant something.
But it wasn’t your place to ask. Because you were neither of them.
Lydia and Stiles had spent most of the day holed up in his bedroom full of dust and genius, trying to crack a code that her dead grandmother left behind. You hadn’t been there, but you’d heard all about it when you’d arrived at the sheriff’s station. Stiles had been buzzing when he showed you the list. Names of the already dead—suicides, all linked back to this Eichen.
You both sat in the Jeep, headlights off. Silence building. Tension settled low in your stomach—not just from where you’re going, but from how often he looked at you like he was trying to say something but he never did.
“You’re doing that thing again”you interrupted his thoughts.
“What thing?”Stiles responded quickly, not looking over at you.
“Staring like you’re about to say something and then pretending you didn’t”You answered.
He finally looked up at you, and it’s soft. Honest. But still not enough.
“Remind me again why I keep you around?”his eyebrow raised slightly.
“Moral support. Emotional labor. I remember your Starbucks order”you grinned.
“Right. The holy trifecta.”Stilinski nodded.
“Still think this is a good idea?”you asked honestly.
“Absolutely not. But since Lydia’s at her grandma’s lake house trying to figure out how a banshee left clues in her death tape collection… this is what we’ve got”Stiles shut off his ignition.
You both hopped out, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the dark. Somewhere inside, danger was waiting. But so was the truth neither of you were ready to face.
As you walked toward the entrance, your hands grazed. Without thinking, they found each other. His fingers closing around yours.
EICHEN HOUSE – INTAKE LOBBY – NIGHT
The moment you stepped inside, the air shifted-sterile, cold, thick with history you didn’t want to know. The buzz of fluorescent lights was too loud. Somewhere in the building, someone was screaming.
You didn’t flinch. Neither did Stiles because the two of you had danced this dance before.
“Good vibes in here as usual. Real welcoming.” You whispered.
“Right, I was going to book us in for a spa day here”Stiles offered you a half smile.
He walked ahead to sign the fake visitor log. You trailed behind, trying not to focus on the nurses, the cameras, the smell of bleach.
When he glanced back, you’re already staring at him. You glanced away way too quickly.
“So. What’s the plan? Talk to a dead girl? Flirt with danger? Accidentally piss off a banshee?”you continue, trying to hide your fear with a little small talk.
“I didn’t bring you to flirt with danger-who is he anyway?”Stiles muttered, a small frown evident on his face.
“Yeah, you brought me because I’m your emotional support human”you corrected him.
That stung more than you meant it to. He didn’t respond, just handed you a visitor badge. Your fingers touch as he passed it over—brief but electric.
It’s always like that lately. Lately as in the past two years but who was counting- you were. And it never meant anything anyway.
Because he has Malia. Because he had previously loved Lydia. Because you were just Y/N. The best friend. The girl who was too late.
EICHEN HOUSE – BRUNSKI’S OFFICE – NIGHT
The office looked like it hadn’t seen a cleaning supply—or a conscience—in about a decade. The light flickered overhead. A cheap fan rattled on the desk. It smelt like burnt coffee and bad choices.
Brunski leant back in his chair, twirling a key ring between two fingers like he’s doing you both a favor.
“A thousand”Brunski grunted.
“A thousand dollars? To use one little key to open one little file room? Are you out of your mind?” You could feel Stiles flaring up next to you.
“When you get the keys, you make the price” Brunski shrugged cooly.
“Right. You actually think we have that kind of money?”Stiles snapped.
“I know you don’t—if you did, Daddy Sheriff would’ve paid the bill by now” You tensed up at the odd mans words. No one speaks on Sheriff Stilinski in that way.
That landed sharp. Stiles stiffened up beside you. You feel his breath hitch, but he doesn’t say anything.
Then Brunski turned to you.
And the way he did it made something in your chest go cold.
It wasn’t just a glance—it was measured. His eyes lingered too long, dropped just enough to make your skin crawl. It wasn’t curiosity. It was control. He looked at you like he knew you didn’t belong here, like he wanted to remind you exactly who held the power in this room.
Your spine straightened, jaw tightening, but you didn’t flinch.
From beside you, Stiles froze. Subtle, but sudden. His arms dropped to his sides, fists just slightly clenched. His gaze flicked from Brunski to you—then back again, harder now. Sharper. The teasing edge he always wore had evaporated, replaced by something colder.
He saw it. The way Brunski looked at you. And he hated it. He shifted half a step closer to you—not obvious, but enough. A barrier. A warning.
“That’s why I’m talking to her”Brunski noticed Stiles’ anger rising and smiled wider.
You sighed, already regretting this entire field trip, and dug into your coat pocket.
“I have eight hundred”you offered with a roll of your eyes.
There’s a pause. Stiles slowly turned his head toward you like you just pulled a live ferret out of your hoodie.
“Where did you get that from?”Stiles muttered, stunned. You had also been prepared.
You shrugged without looking at him.
“Saving it for a rainy day. And from where I’m standing pretty fucking wet out there tonight”you glanced up at the window and the lightening struck against a tree outside as if on queue.
Stiles made a noise somewhere between a laugh and an “are you serious right now?”—but Brunski just grinned like he’s already counted the cash in his head.
“That’ll do. Follow me”Brunski ordered.
He stood slowly, his keys jingling in hand as he unlocked a drawer and grabbed what he needed. You exchanged a glance with Stiles—one full of unspoken “keep your eyes open.” He didn’t say a word, but when you followed Brunski out the door, he made sure to fall in step between you and the man with the keys.
The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, the kind of space that made you instinctively walk closer together. Brunski led a few paces ahead, keys jingling with every smug step.
You walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Stiles, arms brushing, footsteps echoing off tile and metal.
Just before you rounded the corner, you pulled your phone from your pocket, checking the signal. One bar. Fading.
“You wanna text Lydia or Malia? Let them know you’re alive before we’re completely off the grid?”you asked casually shoving your phone back into your pocket.
You didn’t look at him when you said it. You meant it to sound offhanded, practical. You weren’t sure if it came out that way.
Stiles didn’t answer right away. You finally glanced sideways. He was already looking at you.
Not with guilt. Not with hesitation. Just this quiet, open-eyed kind of certainty.
“No”Stiles replied softly, no need for explanation.
And somehow, that one word landed heavier than anything he could’ve said. He didn’t need to check in with Lydia. He didn’t feel the urge to text Malia. Not right now.
Because the one person he needed to be with—the one he trusted to be next to him when everything went to shit—was already walking beside him.
Your heart was louder than your footsteps now.
The door creaked open on rusted hinges as Brunski unlocked it with exaggerated slowness, like he thought he was granting you access to some top-secret vault.
The walls were lined with dusty cabinets, each drawer stuffed with the kind of secrets Beacon Hills likes to bury. Old patient files, faded labels, and the soft mechanical click of Brunski unlocking the drawer echo in the quiet.
“Good?” He gestured lazily at the open drawer and stepped aside.
“Yeah. We can help ourselves”Stiles waved him away as he started to go through the files.
You and Stiles knelt beside the drawer. He flipped through names and folders, sorting through the deaths Lydia had flagged—every suicide Lorraine Martin tracked. You hovered behind him, scanning with him, heart pounding faster with every file.
“Uh, Y/N, you got the list?”he turned towards you quickly.
You handed him the folded Deadpool list Lydia cracked earlier. He unfolded it—then suddenly stills.
“Y/N… why did you write more names on here?”Stiles sighed as if this was one of your many pranks.
You blinked confused and slightly startled. “I didn’t write anything”
“This is your handwriting”Stiles held up the list in front of you, almost waving it around.
“Okay, first of all, why would I do that Second—that’s not my handwriting… That’s Lydia’s handwriting”you stepped closer, squinting at the paper.
“Why would she write our names?”Stiles voice grew quieter as he stared at it.
You went completely still. Then—
“It was the tapes, wasn’t it?”Brunski’s voice rang out from behind you both.
Before you can even react—
A sharp scream ripped from your throat as the taser hit your ribs. Your whole body seized, pain exploding through your spine as you collapsed to the floor.
“HEY!” Stiles boomed, trying to take in the situation but only focusing on your body.
Brunski slammed the taser into Stiles’ chest. He dropped groaning, twitching as he hit the ground beside you.
You could barely move, muscles twitching involuntarily as your vision swam. The file cabinet loomed above you, still half open. Stiles groaned and turned his head to look at you managing to hold out his hand desperately trying to reach you.
“Your turn, sweetheart”The corrupt orderly stood over you. He raised the taser again, humming like this is all just part of his night shift.
You came to slowly—like surfacing from a nightmare you can’t quite remember. Your head was pounding. Your vision was unfocused. Everything ached.
The first thing you registered was the cold. The floor beneath you was concrete—hard, unforgiving, biting through your clothes and into your spine. Your hands are pulled tightly behind you, wrists bound by leather restraints, secured to a thick metal pole. Your legs are folded awkwardly beneath you, tingling from lack of circulation.
Your back is pressed against someone else’s along with an uncomfortable metal pole, someone solid, warm, breathing fast.
“Y/N? Please tell me that’s you”you hear his voice and it’s groggy filled with a panicked undertone.
“Nope. Just the ghost of Beacon Hills sarcasm past”you replied dryly.
“Thank God. You’re okay. You are okay, right? Like, full sentences? Blinking? Breathing?” He let out a breath that’s more like a laugh strangled in relief.
“If I say yes, do I get untied?”you asked, peering around the dark room trying to get a grip of your surroundings.
“No, but I might stop hyperventilating”Stiles replied.
You shifted again, testing your arms. Leather restraints bite into your wrists, tight and unforgiving.
“Where are we?”you questioned.
“Back room. Concrete floor. Some kind of weird… medical cart thing in the corner. Also, bad lighting. Classic villain lair stuff”Stiles breathed out unevenly.
“So like, exactly how I pictured dying with you. Just less snacks”you tried to joke, your voice slipping a fraction.
“Hey. Don’t joke like that” His voice changed. It’s still Stiles, but lower. Scared. Like the idea of something happening to you isn’t a punchline—it’s the nightmare.
“I shouldn’t’ve brought you. I should’ve made Lydia come. Or—anyone who didn’t get tasered because I thought bribing a psychopath was a solid plan”Stiles kicked himself.
“You didn’t make me come. I chose this, remember and it was half my idea too?”you reassured him, your voice lowering to match his.
“Yeah, well… I’m never letting you choose again”Stiles murmured to himself.
You both go quiet, sitting there with your backs pressed together, breathing in the same silence. You can’t see him, but you can feel the constant little movements—the way he’s testing his wrists, trying to get a glimpse of you, trying to do something.
And behind you, Stiles’ thoughts were unraveling.
His hands ached from fighting the restraints, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Not when you were hurt. Not when you’re this close and still out of reach.
His brain was moving a mile a minute—running through every worst-case scenario he’d ever imagined. What if Brunski comes back and doesn’t stop at a taser this time? What if you were already too late? What if—
What if he’d just told you?
That was the loudest thought.
It crashed into him like a punch to the chest.
What if he hadn’t spent all that time chasing Lydia’s ghost? What if he hadn’t buried himself in something safe with Malia? What if he’d just looked at you—really looked—and said what he’d always been too much of a coward to admit?
That he noticed everything.
That you were the one who never left. The one who kept showing up. Who laughed when no one else could. Who knew how to calm him down with a single look. Who somehow always knew when he needed you—without him having to say a word.
And now you were tied to a pole in the middle of a nightmare, and all he could do is sit here and hate himself for how long it took him to figure it out. For wasting time.
For not choosing you first.
His fingers twitched behind the restraints, aching for yours.
He didn’t say it. Not yet. But God, he wanted to.
And beside him, still tethered to the same cold metal and the same dangerous silence—you breathed. Alive. Brave. Still you.
And that was the only thing keeping him together.
Screams echoed somewhere down the corridor—desperate, hollow cries bounced off the walls of Eichen House.
“Help us! Somebody, help!” Your voice joined them, your throat raw, fear cutting through the sarcasm you usually wore like armor.
From behind you, Stiles’ voice came, low and tight with panic barely masked by cynicism. “Y/N, there’s a lot of people screaming for help in a place like this. I don’t think anyone’s listening.”
You didn’t answer right away, breath shaking as the leather restraints bit into your wrists.
“Well,” you finally muttered, “I’m open to better ideas… because, if you didn’t notice, all of those suicides Lorraine Martin tracked? They were murders.”
There was a pause, heavy with realization. Then Stiles’ voice again, quieter now, like the pieces had clicked together. “That’s why she left the message… the files. Everything.”
“She predicted her own death,” You said, your voice thinning. “She knew Lydia would figure it out. That’s why she gave it to her.”
But a new voice cut through the air before you could say anything else—smooth and too calm.
“Once Lydia were able to predict her own,” Brunski said, stepping into the light like he’d been waiting for his cue.
Your stomach turned. Stiles stiffened behind you.
“But they weren’t murders,” Brunski continued, slowly pacing closer, voice disturbingly casual. “I’m not some serial killer like Ted Bundy, going around cutting up college girls.”
“No” Stiles snapped, his voice tight with rage. “You’re just an Angel of Death.”
Brunski chuckled under his breath. “I don’t think you understand my level of commitment to my work here, Stiles.”
He crouched now, eyeing you both with cool detachment. The taser hung loose in his hand again, like a toy.
“There are people here who don’t simply need treatment,” he said calmly. “They need release. I helped them. I helped Lorraine.”
Behind you, Stiles barely breathed. But your voice came first—barely above a whisper.
“I helped her,” Brunski corrected gently, as if that made it better.
He tilted his head at you then, almost intrigued. “And now… you can help me. Because there’s something about it that’s always bothered me.”
Your chest rose and fell too fast, heart thudding against the bone like it was trying to break free. Brunski was still crouched in front of you, staring at you like you were the final piece of some sick puzzle only he could see.
You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady.
“I can’t help you,” you said, voice flat, but barely above a whisper. “I’m not a banshee.”
“I’m not what you think I am,” you added, a little sharper now. “You’ve got the wrong girl.”
Brunski tilted his head slowly, a thin, amused smile creeping across his face like he found that adorable.
“But you hum,” he said, like it proved something. “Loud. Even when you’re not speaking.”
Your spine pressed tighter against the pole, trying to inch away even though you had nowhere to go. Behind you, you could feel Stiles pulling against his restraints harder, sharper—silent, desperate.
“That doesn’t mean anything,”you said quickly. “I’m not psychic, I don’t hear voices, I don’t scream when people die—I’m not Lydia.”You began to grow impatient.
Brunski’s smile widened just a little. “No,” he murmured. “But you’re still useful sometimes… the wrong girl turns out to be the right one.”
The words echoed off the walls, sticky and cruel, and landed hard in the pit of Stiles’ stomach.
That’s what Brunski saw when he looked at you. Not a person. Not her. Just another means to an end. Another name. Another body.
And Stiles hated it. Hated the way this man was speaking to you. Hated that you had to sit there and listen to it. Hated that you couldn’t see the way his whole body pulled tight behind you, like if he just strained hard enough against the restraints, he could break them. Could get between you and Brunski. Like he could stop this.
But then came the second part.
The wrong girl turns out to be the right one.
Brunski said it like it was meant to taunt you. Like he thought he was clever. But to Stiles, it hit somewhere deeper.
Because that’s exactly how you saw yourself, isn’t it? The wrong girl.
You thought you were the one he never looked at the way he looked at Lydia. The one he overlooked when Malia came along. You thought you were safe to stand beside him, to be his best friend. But you were wrong.
Because in that moment—right there, in the flickering light of a nightmare—Stiles knew. You were the right one. You always had been. You were the girl who made his heart race and his world tilt.
Behind you, Stiles struggled again, harder this time. “Get away from her.” He seethed. Brunski didn’t move.
You held your breath and stared him down, doing everything you could to hide the shaking in your voice.
“I’m just human,” you said lips trembling, voice cracking “There’s nothing special about me”
The words hung in the air, broken and raw. For a second, it was dead silent. Then behind you—Stiles snapped. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not with panic or sarcasm or one of his usual half-panicked rants. It was quiet.
“Y/N…” he breathed, like saying your name alone hurt. “Don’t say that. Ever again.”
You felt his back tense against yours, felt the way his breath caught like it physically hurt him to hear you believe that.
“You are,” he said. “You’re—God, you’re so special.”
You were never a placeholder. You were it.
And the fact that it took a sadistic orderly’s taunt to make him see that? That made his stomach twist with guilt—and love.
The kind that doesn’t need fanfare. The kind that builds quietly. Over years. Through every glance, every moment and conversation, every time your hand found his in the dark without meaning to.
Then, behind you, Stiles moved.
Not loudly. Not desperately. Just enough.
You felt the tug of his arms shifting, the leather straps creaking as he twisted his wrists, straining until his fingers brushed yours behind the pole.
And then—he found your hand.
He didn’t grip it at first. He just touched it. Like he was making sure it was real. Like he needed the connection as badly as he needed air.
A voice sliced through it—mocking, too loud in the stillness.
“Aw,” Brunski drawled from somewhere behind the light, his footsteps slow and deliberate. “That’s awfully sweet.”
You flinched, and Stiles’ hand tensed instantly in yours.
“But you know what’s not sweet?” Brunski continued, his tone turning cold beneath the sugar. “The fact that Lydia’s not here.”
He moved into view, smile stretched thin and bitter.
“I needed Lydia. I needed her, and instead…” He gestured lazily at you, like you were an unfortunate stand-in.
You didn’t say anything. But your jaw clenched.
“Now,” he said, taking a step closer, voice dropping, “You’re going to have to listen—human or not.”
“Touch her,” he said, voice low and shaking, “and I swear to God—” Behind you, Stiles twisted again in his restraints.
The click of the tape recorder was deceptively quiet.
Your breath caught in your throat the second you heard it.
The static buzzed to life, followed by a soft, trembling voice—one you recognized from Lydia’s memories, from photographs and silence and the unspoken pain that lingered behind your friend’s eyes.
“What are you…? Brunski, what are you doing?”Your entire body stiffened at the sound of Lydia’s grandmother.
“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no…” But it was already playing.
“Don’t worry, Lorraine,” Brunski’s voice crooned through the crackling audio. “It’s going to be all right… You’re just going to have a little trouble breathing…”
Stiles reacted instantly. You felt him jolt against the pole, heard the panic in his voice.
“Y/N,” he said, trying to steady himself even as the horror grew in his chest. “Y/N, look at me. Don’t listen, okay? Don’t listen to it. Just focus on my voice.”
“Hey, turn it off!” Stiles yelled, jerking violently against the restraints.
His voice echoed through the restraint room, cutting through the suffocating sound of Lorraine Martin’s dying voice still playing over the crackling tape recorder. He twisted hard, metal and leather groaning against his wrists.
Brunski swung with no warning, no hesitation.
The punch landed hard against Stiles’ cheek, snapping his head sideways with a sickening thud. His body sagged briefly against the pole, stunned.
“STOP!” you screamed, the word tearing from your throat like a sob. “Don’t—don’t hurt him!”
Your voice cracked. It came out too loud, too raw. But you didn’t care. You twisted toward the sound of him groaning, straining in your own restraints, tears still streaking down your cheeks from the tape.
You couldn’t. You couldn’t not hear it.
Your chest began to heave as the recording continued, every second sinking like glass into your skin.
“Just block it out,” Stiles begged. “Block it out. Just… stay with me. Please.”
But you were already crying. You didn’t realize how hard until the first sob escaped your lips—sharp, ugly, helpless. Your face crumpled as the tears came fast and hot, streaking down your cheeks like they couldn’t get out fast enough.
This wasn’t supposed to be yours to hear.
It was Lydia’s. And it would have killed her.
“Please,” Lorraine’s voice begged through the speaker. “Don’t…”
Brunski leaned closer, whispering now, savoring the moment.
“Here it is,” he murmured. “The part I never understood…” He pressed his finger harder on the tape recorder, like he could slow time.
“Please… don’t hurt her…” Lorraine’s voice—barely audible, choked with tears—crackled through again.
“Don’t hurt who?”Brunski’s voice came next, soft, cruel, curious.
A beat of silence. Then Lorraine’s answer, soft as breath.
You let out a broken cry. The name hit like a punch. You squeezed your eyes shut, chest caving in around the sound.
Lydia had been a little girl.
You remembered the story. The mermaid books. The nickname. How Lorraine had called her Ariel when no one else did. This wasn’t just a murder.
And you had heard every second of it. A part of you was grateful that Lydia wasn’t the one listening to the horror.
And now, bound and sobbing in the dark, you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to forget the sound of Lorraine’s last breath.
The tape clicked off. And then—nothing. Silence.
A silence so thick it pressed in around you, like the whole room had collapsed inward, like even the air couldn’t bear to move anymore.
You stared at the wall in front of you, barely seeing it. The edges of your vision blurred. Your mouth was dry. Your chest felt too heavy to rise and fall, but somehow, your body still remembered how to breathe.
You couldn’t cry anymore. You were emptied out. Paralyzed.
The echo of Lorraine’s voice still rang in your skull, soft and strangled, whispering Ariel… like she was still there, still dying, over and over again. You knew Lydia wasn’t here—but somehow, it still felt like you were breaking for her. Carrying the weight of a grief that didn’t belong to you—but now, never would leave you either.
You didn’t even realize you were shaking until you felt it.
His thumb. Rubbing gently over the back of your hand.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask if you were okay—because you weren’t. And he wasn’t either.
But his thumb kept moving, back and forth, anchoring you to something that wasn’t horror.
You blinked slowly, still staring into nothing.
And then Brunski’s voice slid through the silence, jarring and casual—like he hadn’t just forced you to relive someone’s murder.
“We get a lot of teenagers trying to break into our drug cabinets,” he said, stepping back toward the medical tray. Your head didn’t turn. Your muscles wouldn’t move.
“Most of the time,” he added, as if it were some inside joke, “they don’t succeed.”
You felt Stiles’ grip tense just slightly in your hand. You knew he was watching Brunski now—waiting.
“But you two…” Brunski trailed off, tapping a syringe between his fingers. “You look pretty clever to me.”
Not a song. Just a sound. A low, tuneless hum that curled under your skin and made your stomach churn.
“I’ll admit, Stiles,” he said, picking up the syringe from the tray with practiced ease, “I don’t have any unusual talents like Lydia…”
He turned it slowly in his fingers, admiring the way the liquid shimmered inside.
“But somehow, I just knew we were gonna get a chance to do this again.” Again?
Stiles jumped behind you, his whole body pulling forward like he could somehow throw himself between you and Brunski.
The panic in his voice shot straight through you. Then Brunski lunged. You didn’t even have time to scream.
The needle pierced the side of your neck, sharp and sudden, a sting of pain exploding down your throat. Your breath caught. Your limbs went stiff. The sensation was cold and burning all at once—like poison wrapped in ice.
Your eyes widened as your body betrayed you.
You couldn’t see him. But you felt the fury, the helplessness in his voice. The sheer desperation that came from watching the one person he couldn’t lose—being hurt right in front of him.
Brunski held the plunger steady, thumb twitching over it like he was savoring the moment.
You gasped. Your body began to tilt—
The shout cracked through the room like a gunshot. Suddenly Brunski froze.
“Take your thumb off that needle,” came the voice again, calm and commanding, “and slowly withdraw it from her neck.”
You didn’t have to turn your head to know who it was.
His voice was steady. His gun was raised. Brunski’s fingers hovered.
Your heart thudded so loudly you could barely hear anything else—except Stiles still murmuring your name behind you like a prayer.
For a second, no one moved. And then Brunski—sneering, defeated—lifted his hand away.
“Young deputy…” Brunski rasped, eyeing Parrish’s gun with a pathetic smirk. “You’re just a kid. I bet you’ve never even fired a—”
The shot rang out before he could finish the sentence.
The crack of the gun echoed through the tiled room, deafening. You flinched, the sound ripping through your already-frayed nerves as Brunski’s body jolted backward from the impact.
He hit the wall hard, sliding down in a boneless heap, a red stain already spreading across his chest. Parrish didn’t lower the gun. Not yet.
The room went silent again—except for your breathing. Sharp, ragged. Stiles was behind you, still bound, but you felt the same tension in his posture, like the shot hadn’t fully landed until he knew you were safe.
Brunski didn’t move again. You didn’t feel sorry. You felt… nothing. Just the faint sting in your neck, the heaviness in your limbs, and the echo of Lorraine’s voice still rattling in your skull.
“He… he killed Lorraine,” you said, your voice trembling as you stared at Brunski’s slumped body. “He was using Meredith. Manipulating her.”
“He used her to create the Deadpool—” Stiles added sharply.
“—And he killed her when she tried to help us,” you finished, your throat tightening.
Brunski let out a weak, gurgling laugh, coughing as blood stained the corner of his mouth.
“You… You think it was me?” he rasped. “That I was controlling her?”
“Idiots… She was controlling me.” His head lolled against the wall, voice fading to something bitter and thin.
Before the words could fully sink in, someone at the edge of the room finished cutting Stiles free.
The second his wrists were loose, he dropped to his knees beside you.
His hands were everywhere in a rush—hovering at your face, brushing gently over your arms, checking your pulse at your neck like he didn’t trust his eyes. You could see the worry in every line of his face, how shaken he was even trying to hold it together for you.
“Hey,” he said, voice hushed and rough. “You okay? Did he—did he hurt you anywhere else?”
You nodded, still slightly dazed, and he let out a breath that sounded more like a release than relief.
His thumb swept instinctively across your cheek, catching a dried tear. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
Then Meredith spoke from the doorway, soft and composed.
Your heads turned in unison.
She stood quietly, like she’d always been there, like she belonged in the silence.
“And… he wasn’t on my list,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But he was a bad person.”
And just like that, everything you thought you knew shifted again.
BEACON HILLS MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sterile quiet of the ER broken only by the soft rustle of curtains and the low beeping of distant monitors. You sat on the edge of the hospital cot, knuckles resting in your lap, the nurse’s voice barely registering as she ticked off vitals and asked about the soreness in your neck.
You kept nodding. Kept pretending you were listening.
But your mind was still back there—in that room, in that chair, tied up next to Stiles with fear rattling in your bones. The sound of Lorraine Martin’s final breath still hadn’t left your ears.
Or the sound of Stiles screaming your name.
You hadn’t looked at him much since they brought you in. He was across the hall, behind another thin curtain. You could hear bits of conversation though—his sarcasm filtering through, even while Melissa tried to pin him down.
Across the hallway, thin curtains separated you, but you could still make out the sound of his voice.
“I’m completely and totally fine,” he was saying.
Melissa McCall didn’t hesitate. “Uh-uh-uh. You completely and totally have a concussion, Stiles. Lie back down. The doctor said you’re not leaving without a CT scan.”
Stiles groaned. “We still haven’t paid for the last one.”
You could almost picture Melissa’s face from the tone of her voice. Firm, unimpressed.
“Oh no, no, no. Meredith is at the station. Your dad said it could take some time, but he will get her to talk.”
There was a pause. You imagined Stiles looking toward the door, the hallway, maybe even your room.
Melissa’s voice softened slightly. “Even if I let you go… what would you do?”
You heard him exhale. “Okay, fine. Can you do me one little favor?”
“Can you get me a tape player?”
“Like… cassettes?” she asked.
“I’ll see what I can do…”
“Okay, tapes though, please.”
You let out the faintest breath of a laugh at the absurdity, but it vanished almost immediately. Then his phone buzzed. And you went still.
You couldn’t hear what Malia was saying, not from this distance, but the low, familiar cadence of her voice drifted faintly from his room. You recognized it instantly.
You didn’t need to hear the words. You already knew them. Of course she’d call.
They were together. Official or not, it didn’t really matter.
And he answered. No hesitation. Just… answered.
You sat there, unmoving, blinking hard at the floor tiles. Something small and cold settled in your chest—something that had been building for a while. You couldn’t name it, but you didn’t have to.
Stiles slumped back against the pillows, still dizzy, still wired, still trying to piece everything together.
He could still hear her—Y/N—in the back of his mind. Her voice cracking. Her fingers shaking in his, both of them tied to that damn pole. He had told her she was special. It had just… slipped out.
“Hey.”Stiles uttered out, holding his phone to his ear.
Malia’s voice was scratchy. Tired. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he lied, pressing the phone harder to his ear. “I’m fine.”
“You were at Eichen House. That place is—” She stopped herself. “What happened?”
Stiles closed his eyes. Where would he even start? With the part where he almost watched Y/N die? With the part where he realized she was never supposed to be there in the first place, and yet somehow she was the one who held it all together?
“It was… bad,” he said finally. “But we got what we needed.”
Silence buzzed on the other end. Then, “Is she okay?”
His chest tightened. “Yeah. She’s okay.”
Another pause. Malia wasn’t the type to press, but he could feel the question hovering. The question she wouldn’t ask, and the one he wouldn’t answer.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I’ll call you later, okay?” he mumbled.
“Okay,” she said simply. “I’m glad you’re alright.”
“Yeah. You too.” He ended the call.
And for a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the door. Not at where Melissa had gone. But at the hallway.
At the room across from his.
One minute he was staring at the closed door, and the next he was pulling the IV cuff off his finger, ignoring the dull pulse in his skull as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted—briefly—but he blinked past it, steadying himself with one hand on the wall.
They’d told him not to get up. To stay put. Concussion. Possible internal trauma. CT scan pending. But you were in the room across the hall.
And he needed to see you.
Not later. Not after more chaos. Now.
The hallway was too quiet. A few nurses moved between rooms, distracted, clipboards in hand. No one stopped him.
He hovered in your doorway for a moment. You were perched on the edge of the hospital bed, a sweatshirt pulled on over your gown, eyes unfocused as you stared down at your hands.
“You always get the bigger room.” You didn’t notice him until he spoke.
He looked pale. Tired. A hospital bracelet still dangled from his wrist, and his hair was a total mess, but he was standing—barefoot, slightly hunched like the floor might fall out from under him.
You blinked. “You’re not supposed to be up.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, stepping in and pulling the curtain slightly behind him, “I’m not great at listening.”
You gave him a look. “You have a literal head injury.”
He shrugged, and the corner of his mouth tugged up—barely. “I’ve had worse.”
There was a beat of silence between you. A thick, buzzing quiet that said too much and not enough.
You spoke first, soft and dry. “I figured Malia called, she tried to ring me too but my phone died.”
His eyes flickered, just briefly. “Yeah. She did.”
“Good”You nodded slowly, like you’d already prepared yourself for the answer.
Stiles shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then sat beside you carefully, wincing slightly.
“I couldn’t stay in that room,” he admitted. “Not without knowing you were okay.”
You glanced at him sideways, heart thudding in your chest.
“I’m fine,” you said quietly. “You’re the one who nearly got his face bashed in.”
He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “So, you do admit you care about my face.”
You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.
It was familiar, that teasing rhythm between you. Comfortable. But underneath it, something else trembled. Something too big for either of you to name just yet.
You didn’t speak for a while after that.
He just sat there, beside you, his shoulder barely brushing yours. And neither of you moved.
Because sometimes, it wasn’t about saying anything.
It was just about being there.
Melissa found him hovering near the nurses’ station again, rubbing at the bruise on his temple.
“I didn’t find a tape player,” she said, offering a half-smile, “but I found someone looking for you.”
He turned, just as Malia approached. She looked unharmed, a little scuffed maybe, but composed in that way only Malia could be—like she hadn’t almost burned alive the night before.
“You almost got killed,” she said.
Stiles tried to smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I heard you almost got killed.”
“You okay?”she asked ignoring his statement.
He shrugged. “Brunski punched me in the face. Turns out, he was a serial killer.”
Her lips barely twitched. “Makes sense.”
“Yeah…” he muttered, glancing down the hallway—and then he stopped mid-thought.
The door to your hospital room was cracked open.
And stepping through it, with that same lazy walk and tailored coat, was Isaac Lahey.
Fresh off a transatlantic flight. France hadn’t changed him much—still tall, still brooding, still effortless in that annoyingly charming way. He carried a small duffel bag, slung over one shoulder, and in his other hand, a paper cup of something steaming—maybe coffee. He hesitated just outside your room, knocked once on the frame, and slipped inside.
Stiles’ stomach turned, slow and hollow.
“What about you?” he asked absently. “Are you okay?”
“We almost got set on fire.”
“Everyone okay?”his gaze flickered to Malia.
“You okay?” she asked again, but her voice had changed.
He didn’t answer right away.
“You keep looking at her room, I just went in to see her she’s doing okay you don’t need to worry”she said, not unkindly. She was your friend too.
Stiles blinked, dragged his eyes away.
“You always do worry about her”she added. Her tone wasn’t bitter. Just tired.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I’ve always kind of known,” Malia said softly. “Even before we were… whatever we were.”
Stiles turned toward her fully now, guilt rising to his throat.
“I know you didn’t,” she cut in gently. “You were trying. So was I.” He didn’t deny it.
“You don’t have to be,” she said, and she meant it. “We were what we needed to be. But we’re not it.”
He nodded. “No. We’re not.”
She took a step back. “I’m gonna go.”
“You don’t have to,” he offered. But it was automatic, there was no weight to his words
“I should.” He didn’t stop her.
And she didn’t look back.
As soon as she disappeared around the corner, his eyes went straight to your room again. The door had closed, but the image was burned into his brain—Isaac’s smile, your face lighting up, the way you leaned toward each other like no time had passed.
And for the first time in a long time, Stiles wasn’t afraid of monsters or lists or nightmares. He was afraid he was too late.
You weren’t expecting the knock.
And you definitely weren’t expecting the tall, soft-footed silhouette that stepped through your hospital room door, wearing a familiar coat and that faint, crooked smirk you hadn’t seen in months.
“Hey,” Isaac said. Your heart stalled.
You blinked, as if he might disappear if you looked too hard. “What are you—how—?”
“I got on the first flight I could when I heard what happened.”
He crossed the room slowly, setting a paper cup of coffee on your tray table. “I talked to Scott last night. He didn’t give details, but when I heard Eichen House and your name in the same sentence…” His jaw clenched slightly. “I didn’t want to wait.”
Your fingers curled into the blanket.
“I’m fine,” you said automatically, though you didn’t sound convincing even to yourself.
Isaac gave you a look—flat and unimpressed. “I didn’t cross three time zones for fine, Y/N, I wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing.”
You gave a small shake of your head, something bitter curling in your throat. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Why?” he asked, brows pulling together. “Because I care about you?”
“No,” you snapped, a little too quickly. Then, softer, “Because it’s not safe here. There’s a Deadpool, Isaac. Supernaturals are being hunted and killed. You’re a werewolf—if they know you’re back, you could be on it now. You need to go.”
“I know about the Deadpool,” he said quietly, folding his arms. “I know everything. Scott filled me in. Brunski, the tapes, Meredith… you. I’m not staying long.”
You looked up at him. “Then why come at all?”
His eyes met yours, unwavering. “Because I had to see you, I see you as family after everything that happened with Allison. And because I came to ask you something.”
You hesitated, suddenly unsure where this was going.
“I have a flight back tomorrow morning,” Isaac said carefully. “And I want you to come back to France with me.”
“Not forever,” he clarified. “Just… for a while. A break. Get out of Beacon Hills, out of all this death and trauma. I think you need that. I know you do.”
You stood there frozen, eyes wide, your mouth slightly open—but no words came.
“You want her to go where?” The voice cracked across the room like a whip.
You turned toward the door.
Stiles stood there, arms braced against the frame, like he’d been leaning there longer than you realized. His eyes locked on Isaac, jaw set, disbelief burning behind every syllable.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
Stiles stepped into the room, not looking at you—only at him.
“France?” he said again, voice lower now. “You’re asking her to leave?”
Isaac didn’t flinch. “I’m offering her peace.”
“Right,” Stiles scoffed. “Because running away from everything solves so much.”
“I’m not running,” Isaac said calmly. “I’m giving her a choice.”
“And what—you’re the better option?” Stiles stepped closer, eyes flashing. “Is that what this is?”
“Stiles,” you said, finally finding your voice.
He looked at you then — really looked — and for a second, you forgot how to breathe. There was something behind his eyes you couldn’t name. Not yet.
You turned back to Isaac. And without a word, you stepped toward him and wrapped your arms around him.
He exhaled, arms curling around your back like second nature, holding you just tight enough to say everything he didn’t say aloud.
When you pulled away, your hand lingered on his forearm.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming. For always showing up when you don’t have to.”
“But?” he asked, already hearing it in your voice.
You offered a small, sad smile. “But I can’t go. Not right now. I can’t leave everyone”
Isaac nodded, no bitterness in his expression — just something quiet and knowing. “I figured you’d say that.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bouquet — clumsy and hospital-gift-shop cheap, but thoughtful.
“I brought these,” he said, holding them out. “Forgot flowers are supposed to be for people who are actually injured.”
You rolled your eyes but took them anyway. “I was injured.”
He smirked. “Barely.” Then he backed up, toward the door.
“I’m going to see Scott before I head out. My flight’s in the morning.” His eyes flicked briefly to Stiles. “You can still change your mind.”
And with that, Isaac left — The room felt heavier once he was gone.
You looked down at the flowers for a second too long.
Just you and Stiles now and more silence than either of you knew what to do with.
You adjusted the flowers on your tray table, fingers tugging at the crinkled wrapper. Across the room, Stiles hadn’t moved. He just stood there, watching you like he was bracing for something.
“Don’t go to France,” he said suddenly. You looked up, startled.
“I’m not going to,” you muttered, your voice softer than you expected. He nodded once… then fidgeted, like his mouth was moving faster than his brain.
“I mean—if you are going, I’ll pack a bag too,” he added quickly.
You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think Isaac was offering you a ticket.”
He placed a hand on his chest with mock offense. “Is it because I don’t like his scarf?”
“It’s because you don’t like him.”you replied dryly.
“And what’s that reason?”
Stiles paused for just a second too long. “I don’t know. He’s too nice to you.”
You shot him a look. “God forbid I deserve someone being nice to me.”
“I’m nice to you,” he muttered.
“You threw a Sour Patch Kid at me for saying The Empire Strikes Back is overrated.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face was already winning. The ease between you both was always there, ready to snap back into place no matter how long or how messy things got.
Then something tugged in your memory, and your smile faded just slightly.
“How’s Malia?” you asked gently. “I bet she’s worried sick about you.”
Stiles inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Not quite.”
Your head tilted. “Elaborate.”
“We broke up,” he said, voice quieter now.
You blinked. “Wait—you and Malia broke up?! When?!”
Your eyes widened. “Like—just now as in outside this door just now?”
He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Kind of mid-hallway, post-concussion, pre-jealous-fit-of-rage moment.”
You stared at him. “That’s not just now. That’s literally now.”
“Time is relative,” he muttered. You threw a pillow at him.
But as the laughter faded, a quiet settled again.
“And you’re okay?” you asked, the warmth in your voice dipping just enough to show the worry you couldn’t hide.
Stiles looked at you — really looked — and it hit you like a punch to the chest. His eyes were sincere, honest in a way that always knocked the breath out of your lungs.
“I will be,” he said. “I think I already am.”
You were about to nod, to move on — but then something nagged at you.
Your eyes narrowed. “What did you mean… pre-jealous-fit-of-rage?”
Stiles’ eyes went comically wide. “Wha—what? You really don’t see it?” he stammered, suddenly very interested in the tiles on the floor.
“See what?” you pressed, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Stiles opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“You know,” he said, waving a vague hand between you and the door. “The whole… France… Isaac… scarf-wearing… soft-talking thing.”
You stared at him. “That’s not an answer.”
He stopped pacing, face twisting like you’d just asked him to solve quantum physics on a napkin.
“What—you’re telling me you really don’t see it?!” he nearly shouted.
You blinked. “See what, Mieczyslaw?!”
He froze. The silence between you stretched taut.
Then— “That I’m so fucking in love with you?!”
The words dropped between you like a pin in a silent room. Sharp. Sudden. Unmistakable. Everything stopped.
But you… you just sat there. Absolutely still. No sarcastic retort. No teasing quip. Just a slow realization crashing over you like a wave.
Stiles was frozen, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too fast. He looked like he’d just set the whole room on fire and wasn’t sure whether to run or apologize for the smoke.
But you didn’t say anything.
You just stared at him, heart pounding like it was trying to speak for you, blood rushing in your ears louder than any of the chaos Beacon Hills had ever thrown at you.
You crossed the space between you before he could open his mouth again, before he could spiral into one of his thousand-word explanations. And you kissed him.
No warning. No buildup. Just hands cupping his face, lips finding his with every ounce of clarity and certainty you hadn’t been able to put into words.
His breath caught—stunned, frozen for a beat.
Then his hands found your waist, like they’d been waiting forever, and he kissed you back like something had snapped inside him. Like all those years of friendship and late-night conversations and aching, aching almosts had finally, finally broken loose.
When the kiss ended, you didn’t move far. Just enough to breathe again — barely.
“Okay… either I just kissed you, or I blacked out and hallucinated the best moment of my life.” Foreheads still pressed together, Stiles was the first to speak, voice hushed and stunned.
You huffed a laugh. “If you passed out mid-confession and I still kissed you, that says a lot about me.”
He pulled back just slightly to look at you — disheveled, dazed, and definitely overwhelmed. “You did kiss me though, right? I didn’t dream it?”
You shrugged. “Guess you’ll never know.”
“Okay, okay,” you grinned, rolling your eyes. “Yes. I kissed you. Congratulations on surviving your emotional meltdown.”
“That was not a meltdown. That was a passionate declaration.”
“You said my actual name,” he shot back. “I had to go dramatic.”
You went quiet for a beat, but your voice was softer when you added, “You deserved it. I only reserve ‘Mieczyslaw’ for emergencies.”
“Well, next time I have a near-death experience and a life-ruining secret, I’ll try to make it a bit more subtle.”
You smiled, and the room felt warmer somehow.
“You know,” you added, tilting your head, “you’ve kind of ruined my five-year streak of pretending I didn’t want to kiss you.”
He smirked, that lopsided grin making a return. “Please. I’ve been pining so dramatically I should’ve been cast in a Regency-era tragedy.”
You laughed, leaning into him again.
“We’re disasters,” you said.
“Speak for yourself,” Stiles replied. “I’m charming.”
