back again • ryanna and stiles
"Jerk," Stiles huffs indignantly when she beats him to it, though he leans into her when she swings her legs onto his lap. Time has passed, and while things are not exactly how they were when she left, they’re not much different either; this is still so easy, so comfortable — a welcome departure from the way life has been lately. She steals the remote, but Stiles doesn’t put up a fight like he might have pretended to in the old days — though he’s sure that’ll last for about two days before they start wrestling again. Ryanna wins every time, but it’s still fun; Scott doesn’t wrestle with him anymore because he’s busy with Erica and Alpha shit, and because Derek probably wouldn’t touch him if he came around stinking of Scott (and with Derek, they do a different type of wrestling). Isaac doesn’t, because when they hang out, they mostly eat or talk — they just don’t. Everyone else, Stiles would not even remotely consider wrestling because they would no doubt kick his ass to all the continents and back.
"Yeah, sounds like good old Rory and Seamus. And Jacen’s, well, yeah. Mercedes —" Stiles pauses where he had begun to absently massage Ryanna’s calf. "I don’t know what to do to help her. I talked to Derek’s therapist, Morrell, while I was up in New York — she’s a druid, like Deaton, but neither of them would give me any clue, and I don’t know much of anything about anyone other than werewolves and hunters, you know? Deaton wasn’t even at his clinic when I went — he had someone at the desk telling people he went out of town. She called me up, and now I’m just sitting here, not doing anything to help her, because I don’t have any answers." He exhales, then winces inwardly when he realizes how much he’s said in so little time. That’s probably way more than she needed to know, especially after just getting back — he doesn’t want to drive her away, after all.
"But look, don’t worry about that, I’ll figure it out. And don’t worry about hurting us — we Stilinskis’ aren’t made of glass, you know. We love you too." He matches her grin, pinching her leg playfully before sitting back and waiting for Ryanna to elaborate — because she sure as hell isn’t getting away with a one word explanation. Maybe his dad would take that, but not Stiles. She seems to sense that though, and after she finishes, Stiles just feels… empty, almost. Angry. She always gets the short end of the stick from what he’s seen, and while he doubts she ever just lies down and takes anything, she seems resigned to it now. As her friend, he’s allowed to be pissed for her. "You didn’t give me a name, you know. I need a name if I’m going to kick this guy’s ass. No girlfriend is better than you."
The nickname rolls off her back without even a wine. Jerk. Bitch. Stupid. They were all nicknames she'd heard before; ones that used to be soaked in bitterness, but were now exchanged between her best friend and herself like affectionate titles. To them, they were. You could call anyone the generic "babe," or "love," but it took real love--true love--to be able to call them things others wouldn't necessarily find great. Isn't that what friendship was all about, anyways? Seeing everything. The great, the not so great, the moments you wish even both of you could forget...and trust her, Ryanna and Stiles had been through quite a lot of those moments. It seemed like yesterday an intervention was being held in her bedroom. The weeks Stiles and Derek had spent holed up with Ryanna in that house (they'd tried on countless occasions to get her to go outside, but she hadn't wanted to during that time), being there for her in the way her parent's couldn't. Stef and Mike had been so scared. Knowing how much pain she'd put them through was never going to leave Ryanna...ever. She could pay them back for all their kindness...it'd be the last thing she'd ever do. And the sheriff and Stiles, of course. God only knows how hard it was to raise one kid; the sheriff hadn't exactly signed up for another...but he had accepted her with open arms, giving her something she never could quite remember having. A family. "Bitch." She coos back with a smile, pressing a small kiss to the side of the scrawny boy's head and snuggling into his side.
She listened to his worries without batting an eyelash. Of course Lima would hold this amount of drama, even with the lack of people. The more and more time she spent here, the more she realized the empty houses. The for sale signs. The old friends she had once had moving on; either to college, or just hightailing it the hell out of there. Ryanna couldn't exactly blame them. Had that not been what she did? "Fall in love" and escape the place she'd called home? It's funny when that word starts to resemble a damn graveyard. She tried not to think about it while zoning back into the conversation, lifting her head up as if just waking; eyes wide, alert, falsely okay with this topic. "Yeah, yeah, understandable. I...I wish I could help." Her hand reached to tug through her hair, bringing the newly dyed brunette locks back from her face.
"Like you said, though. You'll figure it out. You're Stiles Stilinski. I believe in you. Faith, trust, and pixie dust; all that shit." She nudged his side before laughing out a breath, settling for a content smile afterwards. "You're not made of glass, no, but you're 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones, with sarcasm as your only defense. I've broken more than you." The way she smiled was almost as if she were proud of it; proud of breaking hearts, proud of destroying lives like she'd done back when she hadn't had this place to call hers. That smile, though...that smile was hollow, proving it to be anything but true, if you were to look close enough.
No one ever did, really.
Snapping back into it, the brunette shook her head, leaning back against the arm of the couch comfortably. "I'm not telling you his name...but she? She was perfect. Name's Anna. All Harvard law and pearly white teeth. Funny, how she was so close to having my name, but I was nowhere close to having what she had." Ryanna snorted, turning her head to the side. "Not that it matters. I mean, I've got you. Pearly white teeth be damned."
