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Oct 10, 2025

| Through Me (The Flood)

“With each grave, I think of loss and I can only think of you. I couldn’t measure it.”

[fluff; implied nsfw; soft whump—hurt/comfort; not proofread!; Will be edited l8r!; 10.7k words?!] Childhood Best Friend!Stiles Stilinski; Coming home for the summer shouldn’t be this loaded. It's hard to get over getting over.

This work belongs to me, luckypunklemonade (Minte_Condition on AO3). I do not give anyone permission to distribute or share my work without consent.

Summer in Beacon Hills used to be so unbridled.

These roads used to have monsters at the edges of the asphalt, and the responsibilities of secrets used to stick to the palms of your hands.

You used to know what was going on. Now, coming back feels like a kid losing the spark that used to give their stuffed animals personalities and voices–places at the dinner table and their own laugh. You were only gone for nine months. Nine months, staying at a local friend’s house during breaks to let that wound heal. The wound that this town left. The wound that leaving left. Now that you had processed it a bit more, you could come back. It really wasn’t that serious. Living quote-unquote normal, though, started off doing more harm than good. You were glad you didn’t have to worry about your college friends being in danger, but you missed your old friends. You hung pictures that hurt to look at, even if you stayed in vague contact with everyone, and you forced yourself to see them until it didn’t hurt. You were only bonded together, not completely tethered.

Some nights, watching streetlights turn on outside your dorm, you wished you had been tethered, but you were too set on moving on. From the supernatural and the spools of red yarn, and the smell of mountain ash. You missed the cold woods at dusk, all the late nights in bedrooms of people you’d known forever, all the free time spent at the library getting weird looks, and knowing all the nurses and deputies’ names and…

“Shit!” You took your foot off the brake and accelerated again. You had slowed down all too smoothly seeing the beat up Jeep pulled into the familiar driveway. The car behind you rolled all the way up to your fender, seconds from honking. Why were you even taking this street? You knew the shortcut to get to your house, the street with no stop signs. You also knew the answer to the question.

When all of your crap was out of your backseat, you settled into your room and wondered. Wondered if everything was okay. You spent years making sure no one in this town suspected enough to really worry, pitying the clueless people you helped protect. Now that was you. A new era of people was keeping everything as perfectly under wraps as the true alpha and his best friends. Kids. You once joked about having your mind erased as soon as you left Beacon Hills, worried you’d never be able to unhook yourself from the overwhelming web of this town. Sitting in your room, you knew two things: you could get out and you could forget how it felt to be responsible for the supernatural. No matter how conflicted that made you feel, you wanted to see your friends again. You knew Scott stayed in contact with the new protectors of Beacon Hills. You knew Stiles had come home two weeks before you had. You knew Scott was coaching a summer lacrosse league and working a week-long lacrosse camp up at the YMCA. A week ago, a group chat that used to be painfully active, now painfully deserted, lit up with a notification. It was Scott asking when both you and Stiles would be in town. It felt good to be talking about seeing each other again. You texted that group chat announcing your hell of a drive home and your status sitting restlessly on your bed.

★★★

That evening, you were pulling open the doors of the Sheriff’s station and bee-lining it to his office. A few familiar faces remembered you, having seen you and your friends come in more than enough such a short time ago. You were relieved to have recognized the deputies–even the shoplifters and people in the drunk tank. Really, that meant that those people weren’t killed. The station had seen so much tragedy, you didn’t ever think you’d be able to stomach it, but your time away processing it helped. You smiled back at a deputy who drove you home once when Stiles broke down before he could pick you up from your volunteer internship at the hospital.

You knocked softly on the office door, half wanting to hide from the open blinds on the window. Stiles opened the door and you hugged him, taking in the length of his hair and the new shirt that must’ve entered his usual rotation since you left him. It wasn’t easy trying to get over the awkwardness between you and Stiles. Regardless of the new things, you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to be in his head–to think what he thought. He bought that shirt because it was a lot like that navy one he likes so much. Those jeans are still that same brand he was always comfortable with. He was beating up a new pair of converse slower than usual–probably because his internship required nicer footwear. Of course, you both could be different people now, but seeing the same smile, hearing the same phrases, you were assured you missed him. Even if something was different, you still missed Stiles.

Pulling away from Stiles was like trying to hold your breath. Your chest felt stuck in the inhale, somehow punishing you for forgetting what his arms felt like. When you shook an exhale loose, Noah Stilinski was there to squeeze another breath out. He laughed with his chest, patting your back. With his proud smile aimed at you, you felt like the prodigal child coming back to someone who could only love you. It was funny, considering how many emotions you’d seen on his face when he found you covered in mud in the preserve or cursing your car on the side of the road. Mostly tired disappointment but, just like Melissa, he couldn’t rinse a sense of affection for you. One of his son’s closest and most understanding friends. You didn’t want to have to explain why you were smiling like an idiot at the Stilinskis. You didn’t want to have to say it out loud how much you missed them because your voice would crack.

Lucky for you, the sheriff had it in him to start talking and never stop. Since finding out about the supernatural a few years back, he’d really gotten a better system of understanding. He still had his conflicts about the force being useless if uninformed, but he had found easier ways of informing the deputies. Filters, he said. Regardless, it seemed like his passion for justice was even stronger than before. He still spoke about the job seriously and his face would sometimes betray his tendency to get lost in it–something his son mirrored.

You picked up where you left off, your jokes and comfortable way of speaking got you back on your feet with Stiles. You told him and his dad about your year, things that made them smile and remember something they wanted to tell you. You sat back in the leather chair of the office and admired the way they spoke to each other. One of Stiles’s biggest fears about leaving was leaving his dad behind, and you didn’t want to lie to him saying it would be fine. You didn’t know.

Now, you could see that their bond was stronger than the time spent apart or the loneliness. As much as nothing would ever be the same, it would all stay the same. That balance–the undeniable law–used to scare you. Regression to the mean, equal and opposite reaction. But now, it was reassurance that it would work out. The comfort that brought was enough to stop your heart from being hungry for what you had. Scott, of course, was going to miss catching up and would meet you both the next day for a long talk at the overlook. You could sense that the talk would be all three of you getting things off your shoulders, things that only being together could remedy. In a way, you guessed it felt like you all had survived the town, now you just had to take a walk back through it. And when you hugged the sheriff goodbye for the night and walked out with his son, you were left with that bittersweet but hopeful feeling.

Stiles followed you out of the station, mentioning how his dad had been wanting another few days off of work with him, but Stiles convinced him he’d be okay. Now, he said, it was kind of like high school again. Going home to an empty house, locking up for the night, and finding a way to fall asleep. The way he spoke about it was kind of sentimental, rather than sad. You knew of all the emotions Stiles went through those nights. Sometimes, he’d find peace in being alone like that. Other times, it was hell for him. You never really forgave yourself for one night he called you during a rough night and your phone was silenced. Upwards of fifteen calls, dismissed awkwardly the next morning when you saw him.

“S’not a huge deal. Just…got quiet, y’know?” he would tap his index finger and thumb together quickly, staring down at his hands and pinching his eyebrows together. You made sure he knew you would never have your phone off after that. “If you need me–or even if you don’t–call me.”

You circled the Jeep, taking note of any changes in Stiles’s handy work. You commented on some parts, noticing improvement and less jerryrigging. You mentioned how much money he must’ve spent fixing all the little things. Something about using his scholarships for this instead of tuition. He smiled and propped himself against the hood. “Yeah, well, you can’t really make a fuel injector out of duct tape.” But you knew he didn’t trust anyone else working on Roscoe, much less even looking at it. He used to go on this rant–“Those guys are just trying to screw you over. If your car ever breaks down, see if I can’t figure it out.” You’d laugh and question his techniques and the small cuts or burns on his hands from those techniques. When he crossed his arms and squinted disapprovingly like that, you saw how much he acted like his dad.

“So, uh…you’re all alone tonight?”

Stiles tensed, nodding his head as if accepting the fact itself was defeat. “Yeah, yeah. It’s my first night home alone this summer. Y’know, my dad’s working less nights than he used to, but still. I’m gonna be left alone with my thoughts.”

Stiles tilted his head and smirked, almost mocking in the last sentence. Making it into nothing, really. No big deal. He was only a little bit cagey around his corkboard. The one with all the pictures he left up while he was gone or the leftover red yarn stuffed in his closet. He didn’t handle loneliness as well as you or Scott. Looking at you, he remembered that you always saw through that trick. At one point, you were comfortable enough to call him out on his bullshit. Now, you just raised an eyebrow, but he still caved like he used to.

“It’s kind of just the feeling of remembering. I’ve been fighting like hell to move on.”

He looked out at the cars driving past, leaving you staring at his side profile to think. A year ago, he was doing the opposite. You knew as well as anybody that the grief that came from coming from Beacon Hills wasn’t linear. Besides, it had only been a year. Melissa’s voice, the voice that soothed every ER patient in the town, replied wisely in your head. You had to let the wound hurt to let it heal. Somehow, Melissa not being right there to see straight through Stiles made you assume that role. Staring at his eyes and their sporadic scan of the parking lot, you channeled the same firm understanding of yours that’d spent almost a year on the shelf. You remembered what it felt like to accept that you wouldn’t move on in a straightforward way.

“Maybe you should stop trying to move on for tonight and get some rest.”

Stiles crossed his arms and looked down at the asphalt, only raising his head to add up to his height to look at a streetlight and squint thoughtfully. Your words didn’t tighten the knot around him like he had thought they would. He realized he wanted you to confirm what he had been telling himself: Move on and get over it. The Jeep door popping open distracted him from the voice coming from the streetlight. He saw you climbing in with your foot hooked on the edge of the door frame, and he found himself gratefully taken back to the days where that seat was always occupied–by you or Scott.

★★★

“Do you believe in rock n’ roll?” You sang and dramatically waved your hand to flow with the wind–up and down–out of the window, flattening your palm against it and feeling the wind fight you. “Can music save your mortal soul?”

It made you feel bigger than the things that could happen to you or your friends, you remembered.

“And can you teach me how to dance–”

You looked at Stiles with a smile, “real sloooooww?”

He loved how you punctuated it with a giggle, how it even bled into the word itself. His arm on the side facing you was extended to hold the wheel, and the other was out of the window, softly mirroring yours with as many glances over for reference as traffic laws would allow. This was your favorite part of the song. He knew because you told him. And because you emphatically put your hand on his shoulder to say, “Well, I know that you’re in love with him ‘cause I saw you dancing in the gym. You both kicked off your shoes…”

This was his favorite part: when he pretended he was solely focused on the road and you leaned closer to keep singing more intensely, “Man, I dig those rhythm and bluu-uess! I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck, with a pink carnation and a pickup truck, but I knew I was out of luck the day–”

You’d look out the windshield and tilt your head back and forth to the upbeat part of the song because that was the part that felt like the moment. The music kicked up and the piano picked the song. You knew that part doesn’t last the whole eight minutes and thirty-four seconds. The same way you had learned that this specific moment wouldn’t last. The tempo would slow and the story would try and imply melancholy as hard as you fought it. But, as you knew that, and you knew the whole song by heart, you kept singing. “The music died.”

Stiles would mouth the words with you, also knowing the tempo would slow and he’d turn down your street soon. The smile hearing him join you in your reckless singing was almost enough to make him stop himself from accepting a future where your place in his life was unknown.

“So, bye-bye Miss American Pie–”

How many times had you sang him your favorite songs not knowing that performance was his favorite part of driving you anywhere?

★★★

Just like it used to be, he thought. You walking through the threshold of his house with a genuine laugh that came from your chest, turning back to wait for him to close the door while you repeated his joke and the laugh that had followed. God, you found him so funny. You always were the one who made him feel like he had qualities worth pointing out. To you, he always had something worth improving. You had these expectations for him and others that made him better, and a kind of hopeful grace when he didn’t meet them. He turned around to a smile that told him, for some reason, he’d exceeded an expectation.

You softened that smile as soon as you started up the stairs, toward his room. You missed this, too. He could always tell. Even if his room looked a little weary from his absence and messy from his return, you still fit in perfectly. Like he had packed his thoughts of you up and brought them home. But you were there, real, and you sat exhausted on the floor. Your back rested against the bed. Stiles awkwardly tapped his index finger on his desk, and you looked past him to a picture pinned to the corkboard. Scott, Stiles, and you, sophomore year of high school, getting ice cream after a particularly good lacrosse game. You liked it because you had made the shop employee take the picture itself, and Scott found that hilarious. But also because it was you three finding time to be normal amongst everything. Of course, the next day, you still had your issues. Back then, it was easier to joke about.

★★★

“Sacrifices,” You scoffed.

Stiles paused, mouth opened, eyes blinking, and completely offended that you’d brush this off. This thing that threatened his life as you knew it. Being a virgin was literally going to kill him. Scott decided to defend the theory rather than his best friend’s case.

“We’re pretty sure the Darach’s next victim is going to be a virgin. It’s kind of the only clue we have.”

“Yeah, and guess who’s in that victim pool—me! Okay? I’m pretty much king of the victim pool!”

“Stiles, relax. You’re not the only virgin in Beacon Hills.” You turned to your locker, shoving your books into the empty space and asking Scott, “Is there any way we can stop the Darach before it kills anyone else?”

“We’re trying.”

“Well, try harder.” You shot a look at Stiles, chewing the inside of his lip emphatically, but Scott rolled his eyes.

“You think this is funny until I’m strung up on a tree with my freakin’ throat slit-“

“Stiles! I’m sure there are plenty of girls who would save your precious life tonight if you asked.”

Scott winced, knowing it wasn’t a good idea to be telling Stiles to go ask girls to sleep with him. Before any point could be made, though, Stiles shook his head and looked off into the distance nonchalantly.

“I don’t know any of those girls.”

“I thought your neck was on the line.”

“-Literally,” Scott mumbled.

“What–you want a connection now?” You raised your eyebrows.

Stiles rolled his eyes, realizing he would probably have to have some standards. He ran his thumb under his backpack strap and ran another hand through his hair.

“I’d prefer if I liked them as a person.”

You and Scott exchanged glances. It was obvious Stiles wasn’t exactly made for casual sex.

“I’m in danger, guys. Help me out!”

“Calm down. Like I said, you’re not the only one in the victim pool. I’m right there with you.” You slung an arm around his shoulders and the three of you started walking. “Can’t believe, out of the three of us, Scott gets laid first.”

Stiles processed your words from before, as quickly as he could, and did what he was taught to do by his dad: problem solve. “Why don’t we just sleep together?”

You stopped, halting him with your arm still hooked around him. Scott’s eyebrows shot up, stopping only a step after you.

“I mean- Nevermind, that isn’t- I was just talking.”

You pulled him forward again to keep walking, and patted his back.

It never did happen between you two. Not back then. Stiles would sit in the driver’s seat of his Jeep with you in the passenger, and tell you everything about the crush he had on Lydia. You’d hum along to the music he was playing, listening unwaveringly, and he’d spill. Because you understood, somehow. Because you gave the best advice. Because he was too uncomfortable to admit he had one on you. You, who was sitting in his passenger seat and being so attentive to his words. He got butterflies when you would laugh and say exactly what he was thinking. But the more you helped him communicate his feelings for Lydia, the more they faded and the more his attention wandered to you. That night, it was your eyes. The way they held just enough compassion to make him listen to you when you said he should continue doing what he feels is right. If he wants to wait, wait. But he wanted to kiss you.

★★★

Stiles blinked away that thought. Your eyes were studying the carpet. He’d seen that look on your face before, you needed sleep but you couldn’t convince yourself to pack it in for the night. So, he did what he used to when he saw that face, knowing you’d fight sleep if he didn’t give you a prompt for it. He put on a movie.

This time, it was on the small screen of his laptop sitting on the floor in front of you. You and Stiles’s legs extended on either side, both settling into the opening credits. When you did what you always had–letting your head wearily fall into his arm–he did what he always had in response. He lifted his arm, allowing for you to settle his lap so you could watch the movie sideways and drift off. Your way of saying “I miss you.”

You never really fell asleep there. Your eyelids lowered to the brink of sleep, but you kept yourself awake with your own intermittent chatter. Breaths slowed to breezes, “Do you remember the first time I slept at your house?”

Stiles seemed grateful for the cliche of reminiscing. He nodded.

“You and Scott were fighting and I was helping you prove your point. That…”

“That Matt was evil.”

“Incredibly nefarious,” you huffed a laugh, heavy from the sleep that was piling up in anticipation for the night. “and I fell asleep in your bed while you were at the computer.”

You didn’t know if he ever stopped nodding his head. “I…All I remember is waking up and finding you asleep at your desk with your head bent at the most uncomfortable angle I’ve ever seen.”

“A week of neck pain and Scott still didn’t believe us.”

“I didn’t think I ever said sorry. I was, by the way. I felt horrible, but I was too scared to…I don’t know–acknowledge that I had taken your bed.” “Ah, it was fine.”

Stiles’s hand had been resting on your arm, the lightest thing about that moment. That familiarity was seconds away from putting you to sleep, and you kept talking.

“And then one night, we came back from the preserve and you fell asleep in your bed while I read those books…”

Your heartbeat was waking you up, more and more as you remembered.

“I was just scared and cold. Even after hours of being back, my first time seeing something supernatural like that was toturing me. Even after hearing so much about it. And I just got into your bed next to you.”

You laughed. Like it was a funny story he wouldn’t remember. Like it didn’t set an intimate, personal precedent for your friendship that would never be washed away. Stiles’s head tilted, undetectable, with the weight of the memory.

“You had a nightmare that night.” His voice was flat, but only in the way of detectable emotion. Like he was truly saying what he was thinking before he thought about how it made him feel. You lifted your head in confusion, sitting up when the fog didn’t clear. “What?”

Stiles nodded, arms retreating to let you sit upright next to him, tapping the space bar on his laptop. The movie was long-forgotten.

“You were crying. In your sleep. I’ve had a lot of nightmares, I don’t think I had ever heard you sound so scared. Even since. It was weird to think that’s how I probably sound, too.”

You looked at him, not sideways this time, eye-level.

“And you just shrank into this solid rock, crying every few minutes. I stayed up the rest of the night, in case it got worse, but you ended up sleeping through it. I couldn’t make myself wake you up, you were exhausted.” You stared at Stiles as he told you, an old, indiscernible feeling coming down your shoulders. You had forgotten–you still couldn’t bring up that nightmare in your memory. You just remember getting into bed next to him and getting up the next morning normally, although a little awkward. His expression tried to tell you something he was always saying: “It happens.” He had trouble joking around like he used to. He needed a break from the stress and the fear, and he hadn’t found it antagonizing himself the whole time he was away.

“You have a bad habit of remembering things, Stiles.”

You saying his name made him smile. It was reactive, the way his mouth curved, pointed by a beauty mark, and his eyes flicked down to your smile. He thought of the advice you used to give him. Something about being honest with himself about what he felt. He told you he felt like he didn’t know what the hell was going on. You smiled and told him he would.

This was starting to become true. Stiles was going to kiss you. The reflection of the only light in the room, his desk lamp, in your eyes fought him for breath. He had no idea how he’d gotten there, back on his bedroom floor with you, after so long, but he was grateful. Bad habit of remembering things, you said, and you were right. He couldn’t forget the solidity of you. You had a tangible gravity, something he could feel when your head laid on his shoulder or when you slept next him. It was more possible to hold you than anyone else, but he never had. Your head in his hands, your hands on his shoulders, yet all the immensity of you he had felt was laden in your eyes. And he had gotten so close, too.

Then, you kissed him, and he forgot his plans. He froze, and you pulled away as softly as you had leaned in. Your eyes didn’t betray a shred of the apprehension you felt, and his expression wasn’t anything you expected. Stiles had that same look on his face when you showed up to Adam Crenshaw’s spring rager after he had taken one too many guess-timation shots of pineapple Malibu. You raised your eyebrows and smiled, asking him if he thought he’d had enough with this adorable kind of incredulity. You were completely sober, and he was astonished that you had actually shown up.

That astonishment laced his face now, complete with his eyebrows pinched together like he wasn’t understanding something. Like you were telling him riddles he couldn’t dream of understanding and that was hilarious. That disconnect was deepened when he huffed out a mystified laugh, and it was scrapped when he leaned down just as stunned as before to kiss you again. This time, he brought both hands up to your face, only just realizing the shape of you in front of him as part of his ability to sense things. As if you had shown him a whole other side of his own five senses.

When you pulled back, his impatient laugh chased your lips, but he shook it off to concentrate. Something predictable in your eyes. Maybe the fact that he knew for certain you’d do him good. You swept your hands over his cheeks, back into his hair, making amends with his need to be touched. Stiles broke, he caved, he pulled you into his lap and was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of your shampoo. Your perfume was distant, but he pursued it with soft, intentional kisses to the bottom of your jaw.

Stiles knew this part of you, too. Ever since he used to watch you get ready, he knew where you put your perfume, what products you used in your hair, on your face, on your body. He now could tell that most of it hadn’t changed, which was a small yet dramatic victory for him. He still knew you, behind the scenes, he still knew the little things. New little things seemed like indomitable distractions after realizing that, and the sigh that left you when he kissed your neck was front and center for him. Naturally, he was completely absorbed in you, but when your fingertips slid steadily underneath the collar of his shirt, he jolted. Stiles smiled at your reaction to his disoriented state, and you laughed as your hands guided his to pull your shirt up.

★★★

You woke up buried underneath his blankets, warm and well-slept. You contained your stretch and emerged from under the blankets to the brightness outside. You could tell Stiles wasn’t next to you from the second you woke up. You couldn’t sense him. You turned toward the wall and closed your eyes again, more tired processing as you tried to stay exactly where your body heat had warmed the mattress. But when your eyes opened again, and you sat up, you still couldn’t sense him. You quietly got out of bed, eyes squinting more so at the situation than the brightness of the room. Padding out of his room, into the hallway, head poking into the empty bathroom, retreating down the staircase, and viewing a circle of the house. You were alone. You didn’t even need to call a name to know.

You walked back upstairs and put your shoes on. With whatever you came in with, nothing more, you left and stood just as displaced on the sidewalk texting Stiles. ‘Hey, where’d you go? I locked up with that key by the window.’

Feeling a lot like you did walking home from the preserve years back—confused—you walked home. This was…unlike Stiles. You never really thought about what would happen in the event you had slept with him, or at least not the waking up part. If you did, it didn’t go like this. Stiles was attentive, he was considerate to a fault. He wouldn’t leave like that unless something incredibly important came up. Even then, he’d say something—text you or leave a note. You wondered what was wrong.

★★★

Lunch with Scott went well. Stiles managed to avoid the topic of you completely. If Scott sensed anything weird with him, it could be blamed on being gone for so long, right? Ever since he started this weird mentor-alpha-sensei thing, he got really good at reading people. He went all Yoda without the fun talking pattern. What kind of jedi master only says shit like “Are you okay? You seem off.”

Scott was giving him that concerned look he only gave Stiles when he thought he couldn’t see. Stiles felt an itch on the back of his neck, his arm, his leg. God, could Scott tell what happened? No, surely not. The conversation was about everything else. Stuff that happened to each other while they were apart. “Just weird being back, huh?” Was all Stiles would say to explain the discrepancies in his behavior.

Yeah, he really shouldn’t have bailed like that. He couldn’t breathe, but he should’ve just stayed there. Stiles woke up next to you, in the same bed after you had kissed him. He touched you and you leaned into it. He never, ever thought that would happen. He wished you would’ve woken up to the panic–the loud, wheezing panic–he was experiencing instead of processing things normally. But the truth was that it wasn’t really loud at all, it was internal, and he knew that. He just woke up and sat there looking at you, wanting to coax your face out of the blankets and pull you close to him. He spent so much time thinking about being close to you that now the very idea seemed impossible. Even if he had just proven it was. And he was right there. You stopped feeling real. That palpable feeling that consumed him last night was gone, and it left a vacuum quickly filling with dread.

And then you turned over onto your side away from him. That single action felt like he had been closed off from you entirely. Stiles had put himself into a box with holes in it and he was sealing the holes with whatever he had. He got out of the bed and got dressed, his attention always gravitating to you. He grabbed his phone, his wallet, and his keys and quickly walked downstairs. His dad had come and went just to sleep and go back to work. The house was full of the feeling of you, the memories. It used to be confined to his room where you had spent so much time on his bed, his floor, at his desk–but now, it was you in the kitchen with him, on the couch watching his favorite movies, in the doorway with inquisitive eyes because when he called, you always showed up.

He had to get out. So, he texted Scott as casually as possible asking to get lunch. You three had planned to go to the outlook that evening but he needed grounding now. He couldn’t get it from you, the invisible wall was unscalable, and it was the reason he might not show up that night. He asked Scott, and now he was fighting to act normal as Scott awkwardly sipped his drink. It used to be that when he acted this way, it was serious–it was life or death. It was feeling kind of silly now that he was away from you. He didn’t want to run anymore, he actually thought about going back. Was this one of those secrets that doomed the town? No, but it might’ve been one of the biggest secrets he’d ever kept from his best friend. Involving their other best friend.

And the anxiety came back. Yes, you were their best friend, but you were their best friend. How could he just shift the whole dynamic like that? And why was it so easy? He thought about how you felt then, waking up to nothing from him–not even him. He imagined how understanding you were; if this would be your breaking point or his. He just had a night with you, one he’d dreamed about, where he heard your voice and felt your touch and it answered every question. Now, though, left with no questions, he started to make some up to fill the uncomfortable empty space. That was…maybe it was too much for him.

He was overwhelmed. You were too important to lose, who knows what would happen now? Maybe you’d want to be together. He used to think that would make him lucky. Now, it meant he had no chance. Come on, really? A long distance relationship was pushing it on top of your past together, but Stiles? He would blow it. Even if this was casual, he couldn’t stay cool, he couldn’t even stay moderately chill. It couldn’t work because it could not, under any circumstances, fail. The commitment he had just made would be the biggest one he’d ever make. He was really psyching himself up. He should have spent this whole year making himself into the best man possible just in case. Should’ve read more, taken up more hobbies, figured out his style, studied harder so he could make more money–fuck, should he change his major?

Stiles felt nauseous with guilt and stress. He couldn’t get it out of his head what you might think of him just being gone. You were tough and you could find the logic in everything, but this was kind of cruel. After all he said last night? After all he did? Scott had no idea, and no one else would know. But he would. No one else knew that Stiles had left kisses on your arm, your shoulder, the back of your neck, but he would. He would know how perfectly your tired face rested in the crook of his shoulder and it might just kill him. That or the fact that he couldn’t live without it after this. In his dreams, he was better. He held you until you fell asleep and you woke up to the best version of him who would actually talk to you. Now, he could only let you down.

Scott tilted his head and Stiles’s phone lit up with a notification. Stiles pretended to check it and put his phone face down, but he was really just tapping his thumbs on the phone. Scott, though, could smell the cocktail of the worst emotions the second Stiles came into view, and his heart rate had been crazy, even for Stiles.

“Dude, you’re being weird. You of all people know it’s kind of hard to lie to me.” “Oh, really? Is that because of your boyish charm or the werewolf thing?” Stiles ran his hands over his face irritably. Scott looked around with a hint of panic. Even with years going by calmly, he couldn’t be too safe, “Dude.”

Stiles looked up, clearly unbothered by whatever Scott could’ve been talking about.

“You can tell me. Is it your dad?”

Stiles shook his head, but he thought about how it could connect. His dad loves you, he’d be disappointed if he fucked this up.

“Is it about me? The pack?”

You had fought for your place in the pack, for the privilege of information. How would this affect that? Even worse, he left you with nothing. No information.

“Are you sick or something?”

Close, Stiles thought. His nose scrunched. Hell, if he were–when everyone thought he was–you were there for him more than anyone. You were so committed to the people you cared about, and he left you asleep in bed, alone. Scott could tell the face he made wasn’t because it was true, and he relaxed a little, deciding to leave it for now. He sighed and looked out of the diner window. “It’s gonna be good to just hang out tonight. Like we used to. I think we’re meeting up at 6 or something. I gotta text–”

Scott could feel Stiles tense, his breath held and his pulse jumped. He wanted to sigh and force the information out. Stiles had told him everything since they got back. They texted every other day, they even called at least once a month during the year. He wanted to say, “You’re my best friend. We’ve been through hell together, what can’t you tell me?” But he decided he’d ease up. Plus he could use your help tonight when you all met up, you’ve always been good at getting information out of people.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tonight.” Stiles opened his mouth, but Scott interjected before a sound came out. “I will see you.”

★★★

Picking up a shift at the diner you used to work at wasn’t exactly a coping mechanism. You were close with the owners, a family of hardworking and driven people, they were more than happy to hear you were back—more so when you told them you were available to work during the summer. You picked up a morning shift, walking in with a different feeling than you thought you would last night. You thought you’d be floating in with a smile for everyone, even in the back where it wasn’t necessary. You felt perpetually confused and conflicted about Stiles, and the environment couldn’t shake it.

Your coworkers, notably the veteran servers, were ecstatic to see someone who wasn’t a part-time highschooler who didn’t want all the bad that came with the job. Thankfully, it was a busy day during lunch rush, so you didn’t hesitate to take on a full section. You had a script, and a hell of a good one, too. It got you tips, knowing what to say and how to make people happy. With Stiles, though, you had no idea. No script or fix that would work like you did when you screwed up an order or forgot something. To make up for probably royally fucking up with him, you excelled during your shift. Not without error, but your desperation to lose yourself in the rush had you bringing extras of everything, memorizing special requests, and splitting tickets like you did during your prime not too long ago.

You sort of wished you’d been off your game. You felt like you had made so many mistakes in life lately–you needed to be more empathetic, more open, make more of an effort. You needed to do something about Stiles. You wanted to forget everything a table asked for and get pulled into the office and scolded by your manager. You felt like it would be justified already, but all your mistakes had been unchecked. Even so, you failed to make mistakes. Having so much to do and getting lost in all the tasks felt right. So you scrapped the idea, shook it out of your head and grabbed a rag to wipe your table.

And then you were cut, your closing duties done, and you tipped out. You set your apron in the passenger seat of your car and stared out of the windshield as you drove. Sweaty and tired, you were set on showering and lying down for a little. You were really set on checking your phone as soon as you got home and every other minute after that for a text from Stiles. Maybe brushing off this morning, apologizing. Whatever.

It was easy to forget about how much dread it made you feel when you had a full section of tables to tend to. Not so easy while driving, showering, or sitting in bed. A side of Stiles you hadn’t even had the hope to dream about. To see how all your favorite qualities translated to focus on you. You laid sideways on your bed, scrolling on your phone, and letting the unhealthy habit overcome you. Work had exhausted you, but that wasn’t why you put your phone down and closed your eyes.

On your back, your mind wandered and found Stiles’s voice. You don’t think he ever raised his voice above a mutter, a breathless sigh that sounded like words. He didn’t need to. If his actions didn’t say it, his eyes did, and his eyes were pleading with you. You didn’t need to see his smile to tell that he was more than enthusiastic about having the ability to kiss you, knowing it was okay. Not having to worry about what could go wrong if he went for it, if you‘d react negatively, because you had kissed him. All this you could see in his eyes–he didn’t have to tell you. Stiles was expressive normally, but this was different. This was him telling you everything.

You were woken up to Scott opening your bedroom door. You had fallen asleep and missed all of Scott’s texts and calls. You sat up and he impatiently stared at you, holding back a smile. He was both amused at your lapse in punctuality–breaking a pretty steep record for yourself–but mostly because he was excited to have everyone back together. Scott ushered you out of bed, grabbing your bag for you while you gathered your phone and wallet. Before you could grab your keys, he pocketed them and pushed you out of the room with his hands on your shoulders. You smiled, bowing forward and falling into him. He scrambled to hold you up.

“I forgot how often you did this.”

“Come on, True Alpha. You’re not getting rusty, are you?” You mumbled through a grin as he shoved you toward the door.

You settled easily into the passenger seat of your car while Scott turned the ignition. You missed him. He was basically your brother, keeping you humble just as long as you did the same in return. You turned to him with a testing smile, “Show us your teeth.”

It started as a joke–irony that he was such a passive nice guy, but it became more of a way to tell him to be proud of what he was because it meant he could do what he does. He knew he had made decisions in the past that you disagreed with–bad decisions–but you made sure he knew he could do better, always. Use his brain and do good. Scott laughed and bared his teeth exaggeratively.

You grinned, the smile falling when Scott mentioned Stiles meeting you both there. Of course, you shook it off. You could talk to Stiles, you always could, and you’d figure it out. You didn’t worry about it because you could read Stiles. He spoiled his own jokes and he answered his own questions. You could find an answer to what happened with him this morning. You were hopeful because if anyone knew, it was him.

★★★

The overlook hadn’t changed. Like a dirt parking lot, it spanned longer than it did wide. Scott did the usual, parking to the very end closest to the woods. Right next to Roscoe. The blue Jeep seemed to have a presence of its own. You ignored its blatant cynicism and popped the door of your car open. Scott could tell you were excited to go back and see your spot. Just thinking about all you had talked about there, all you had gotten over and sat with, weighed on your heart. In a good way, you thought. Talking about crushes, plans to become well-liked in high school–you all knew even back then that popular was a stretch–with sports or academia, discussing what you three would do if you were ever invited to a party to getting snubbed from most of the parties and bringing a bottle of Stiles’s dad’s whiskey up there.

You had picked the spot yourself when you saw that too many of your peers' cars sat idling in the clearing. Stiles had sighed and started to reverse, but you stopped him, pointing to the woods. You led the two boys into the woods and found your own small space by the dropoff, just further into the woods and hidden. Scott remembers your face vividly as you plopped down criss-cross-applesauce smiling up at them. The same face you made bursting out into laughter as Stiles pulled the bottle of whiskey out of his bag.

You didn’t drink that night, but you watched Stiles get toasted and watched Scott feel the burn but not the buzz. You were protecting them; he could tell you felt responsible. And as Stiles echoed the ramblings of a lonely, lovesick teenage boy, Scott promised himself two things: the conflict he felt then had to go toward something good, and that he couldn’t let his best friends get hurt. Of course, you both ended up getting hurt, but it was an important moment in time where he made his first big decision–a good decision. Scott decided to protect those he cared about, and Scott cared about everyone. He just had to figure out what that protection meant, what it cost. As you looked back at Scott, already stepping over the branches paces ahead of him, he was infinitely glad it didn’t cost him his best friends.

You saw Stiles before he saw you. He was standing awkwardly. You noticed it as weird because he wasn’t exactly looking out toward the city or the sky, which was turning a more muted blue by the second, but more toward where you would come out to meet him. You glanced back at Scott, smiling as he typed up a quick response to one of Melissa’s texts a few meters back, and back toward Stiles, hands in his pockets and glaring down at his shoes instead of watching out for the first star of the night. You moved onward, shaking everything off.

“Stiles.” Your voice sounded almost normal, almost happy to see him like usual. Stiles was almost scared. He knew he’d have to say something, but not what he would say. His eyes skipped across the landscape, then the trees, then the ground, his shoes, a rock–

“Scott’s just texting Melissa.” Defeat was clear in your tone. He knew you too well, your tolerance. You were giving him an opportunity to give the reasonable explanation you had expected of him–you always expected the best of him. But, since he had no reasonable explanation, he froze. He couldn’t say that he panicked, or that he just “had to get out of there,” so you gave up on that, changing the underlying subject. You were going to do what you thought he’d be most comfortable with: you were going to act like it never happened.

That wasn’t what he wanted, though. He just had no idea what to say. You exhaled deeply and walked past him to the drop off lined with clumps of grass and weeds to sit down. He looked down at the back of your head, grateful for the chance to take you in without the unintended scrutiny that eye contact forced. Just like this morning. And just like this morning, Stiles’s breathing started to wander off faster than he could chase.

Scott loudly stepped over dead branches and stumbled into the clearing, smiling widely at Stiles. He carefully sat down next to you, and Stiles next to him. For a minute, that was the point: looking out at all the lights people were going to turn off in an hour, and some that people wouldn’t. It was hard not to ignore the events of the past two days and sink into the ease you felt being back there. You took another deep breath and closed your eyes, a kind of relief overtaking you overpowering your thoughts.

“Do you guys think it’s better that we’re not the ones looking after Beacon Hills anymore?”

Scott’s question wasn’t met with silence, but quiet connection. It was surely a possibility. Less people had died compared to years back. Only nine months had passed and the death rate of Beacon Hills had gone down significantly. You knew because you used to have the statistics open on a tab on your computer. It wasn’t all that you were no longer informed, it was that you weren’t a part of the equation altogether. Both ideas had eaten at all three of you. Even Scott, who tried his best to stay out of things unless he was needed. But he was still supernatural, he was still a part of the environment.

Scott had begun to feel like a prop in the next chapter of the story. A Halloween decoration. He imagined this was how Derek felt sometimes, fabled and lurking in the preserve with no one beside him. But even he knew it was hard to see him that easy. He didn’t brood, he didn’t lurk, he smiled at everyone and he would never turn down someone who needed help. That didn’t always help, though. His life was one big story, ancient crypts and supernatural monsters–prophetic texts, hallowed ground, and cursed tomes. When he was called into the preserve at night for help by Liam, he felt removed from the story he had helped to write. He was only now figuring out that maybe he should move on.

“Maybe we were the flood before the new world could grow. Maybe we were the bad before the good.”

“...Maybe.” Scott made a face of acceptance, one that felt contagious. You three had done a lot of accepting lately. Stiles looked at you. It was almost longing, and you only noticed the depth of it when Scott finished his sentence. The dissension between you leaking into his microexpressions. He caught your eye and didn’t look away, wondering if this was apology enough, if he could start over now–if this was the bad before the good. Scott pushed his legs out in front of him and let his back hit the dirt. You looked up at the darkening sky, then down at him, smiling. Stiles watched you lie down next to Scott, arms holding him up. He slowly lowered his back to the ground, too.

“Maybe the separation was good for us, too. Y’know?” Scott didn’t know how much it hurt you and Stiles individually to say that, but he had a point. At least, a separation from Beacon Hills.

“Maybe. For a long time, though, I didn’t feel like I was normal anywhere but this town. I’d make friends, but it felt like I was, like, irradiated.”

“To us, though, normal was traumatizing.” The sound of Stiles’s voice felt just like it used to, thank god. So did his laugh–and Scott’s laugh. Even yours. Your smile stuck a while after the fact.

“That’s probably why everyone who grew up here stayed.” Scott muttered, knowing the call was coming from inside the house. He wasn’t trapped, he knew that. In a way, though, he was.

“But, hey, Lydia got out. Her mom moved out of Beacon Hills, she’s going to some prestigious college studying applied mathematics and optimization techniques. She keeps sending me selfies of her vacationing in Europe.”

Scott was relieved. If Lydia could be supernatural and not stuck in the invisible boundaries of Beacon Hills, he could live in Beacon Hills and not feel caged. All three of you stared up at the stars, finding your own comfort as they appeared.

“For a while there, I thought you had got out.” Stiles spoke up, an air of reassurance in his tone.

You knew what he meant. Not coming home for any holidays or breaks. It was almost like you were really cutting this place out of your life. Even if you told the boys you’d be home in the summer, just not before, you couldn’t blame them for not believing you. Stiles wasn’t condemning you, it was his way of telling you he was glad you were back. It was hard not to read into it, though. Taking in a deep breath, you kept your eyes up.

Scott started talking, and you both joined in, landing somewhere talking about Scott’s crush on a pre-med intern at the Beacon Hills Hospital. You laughed out loud, asking if his mom stopped him from flirting on the clock. “I just bring my mom lunch and talk to her sometimes.” You hummed skeptically. You revealed that you had been lonely, creating the space for both of your best friends to admit the same. You told them it was weird–waking up having forgotten and remembering again in the little moments.

Two hours into the conversation, Scott looked over to find your eyes closed. He smiled, pulling Stiles’s attention to it. While Scott’s chuckle faded and he focused more intently on the sky, Stiles felt you dragging him out like a wave. Somehow, your peaceful sleeping face was far more intense than your stare. He was trying to measure something–his feelings for you, the grief of losing you in more ways than one. He felt his anxiety rectifying itself, sitting up and hugging his knees, head facing you while Scott closed his eyes, too. He was left the only observer of the situation and the sole proprietor of his problems again.

Looking at you felt like being the first man on the moon. Witnessing a wonder the world has spent so much breath and dreaming on, wondering if he could keep something this important unsaid. That is exactly what scared the shit out of him. The fact that he’d watched a paragon eat school lunches with him and skin their palms running after them in the courtyard. A heroine treated the cuts on his face and listened to him complain.

Stiles reached desperately for his solution, landing deeper within the dilemma. At some point, Scott opened his eyes. He sat up, watching Stiles watch you. He let his silent realization sit. Scott knew there were things he couldn’t sense, non-physical things that he couldn’t understand. He was right. Stiles knew he couldn’t understand the full extent of anything anymore. Nothing was contained, it all ran unchecked, and it was overwhelming Stiles. Scott reached over to wake you up, to conclude the night with a soft although smaller scope of understanding. Stiles stopped him. He couldn’t do it again, have you woken up to a world where he still wasn’t sure about what he’d do. Scott, knowing your exhaustion, only gaining more insight emotionally through Stiles’s longing frown, put his arm down.

Scott laid you in the passenger seat of your car and nodded at Stiles, who sat in the driver’s seat of his own vehicle. He watched Scott climb in, turn the ignition, and reverse. He watched the same stars hover for minutes from his windshield as he drove home, glad that tonight, he’d come home to the distraction of his father. Even if he was asleep, his truck would be in the driveway and his fan would whir from his bedroom.

If he was being very honest, Stiles was having nightmares again. A night with you was peaceful, but it wouldn’t always be. He’d clench his jaw in his sleep, during nightmares, praying it’d be enough to stifle the scream he would wake up fighting. He didn’t want his dad to take off work for him, didn’t want to think that being back was causing them, and didn’t want you to become the victim within them. In high school, at one point, his friends were the focal point of his anxious night terrors and, as they shifted to other fears, they only got worse. But he never forgot the distressed sound of your screams or Scott’s agony or Lydia’s crying. With every nightmare he experienced with you guys in real life, with each funeral, each shockwave of grief around Beacon Hills, the most important people in his life inched closer to the edge, the line. The pack was the center of a dart board, the danger of that life was bound to hit bullseye.

Now, his nightmares were a dark room. Unrecognizable, almost worse. He dreaded his mind filling that room. His anxiety attacks were back, too. But all of that had been piling up for a while–the nightmares came back before he even came home. It was really the stress of everything and of coming home. He needed an outlet, something to make it all feel real. He can’t remember the last time he talked anything out until that night. Stiles hoped you slept well. He hoped you’d wake up tomorrow and feel satisfied. Maybe you’d make up your mind, either forgetting about last night or about him altogether.

Stiles wanted to help you make a decision. He wanted you in his life, he should at least be a part of the conversation. He still couldn’t explain himself, but he sent you a text anyway.

★★★

'I don’t know why I left. I don’t know what to do.'

You stared at your phone. Sitting on your bed, still dressed from the overlook. Scott had woken you up trying to get you out of the car.

“This hurts my feelings.” You mumbled, clearing sleep from your head as he struggled.

“I have the strength, you just sleep weird.” He rolled his eyes when you pushed his arm away and got out on your own.

“I didn’t ruin the vibe by falling asleep, did I?”

“No, we all need to rest.” Scott hummed, hugging you softly and sending you to your front door.

You had gotten the text as soon as you sat on your bed, shoes still on and jacket still zipped up. You had hoped you were reading too far into it, the fact that you could tell Stiles was struggling. You knew him well enough to tell him tapping his fingers together was counting, that him trying to move on meant he felt stuck. You hoped you were wrong because that meant he was facing it alone. You knew Stiles well enough that he would calm down squeezing your hand, that he could count your fingers instead of his. He didn’t need you, but who would tell him he needs someone sometimes?

★★★

Stiles had to pull over. The feeling in his chest was an earthquake of dread and it would very soon collapse his lungs. He was a block away from his house, but he knew better than to push himself like this. He felt physically weak, taking breath in felt like rowing a boat. Soon, his blanched knuckles gripping the steering wheel would go limp, falling to his lap as his head pushed against the headrest. After a minute of closed eyes and breathing through his nose, he stepped out of the Jeep, locked it, and started walking. He just wanted to rest, but the thought of resting in his bed was nerve-wracking. If it wasn’t the bed where he let you fall asleep in after a long night, the bed where he let you crawl in next to him scared, the bed where he felt your breathing slow on his chest, it was the bed he woke up screaming in. The bed he covered his head with his hands and cried in.

The streetlights were about to go off. Unlike high school, the darkness holding every supernatural creature in Beacon Hills wasn’t his concern. He really didn’t know why he was freaking out, and that made it worse. He felt the stiffness in his throat and the burn in his eyes and bared his teeth to pull in enough air. He could fix it, he really could. He should go home and sleep this off, come back to it when he was better. This wasn’t the end of the world, not you. But that was it. Would he ever get better? A year had gone by and he was still that same lonely senior who had already been the scared, insecure boy. Was he completely built on anxiety?

The foundation was rotten, he squinted at the asphalt step by step. He was built on sinking sand. He had known it since his mom passed, that he couldn’t be quite right. Then, his best friend became a werewolf, then he was overtaken by an evil spirit. And people died. Everyone died. It kept him up thinking everything wouldn’t have happened–at least wouldn’t have happened to them, the people he cared about–if it weren’t for him.

You’d told him time and time again he was important to the story, but was that because something bad needed to happen and someone needed to be the reason? He had “stopped” blaming himself back then, but all of it came back under the streetlights. He looked up at them, taking uneven steps toward his house. His eyes glittered in resigned and useless distress. He didn’t have to be this miserable, but he couldn’t control himself.

The lights were humming his thoughts. Stiles took each step up the porch defeatedly. His hands were shaking as he got out his keys. He desperately tried, but he couldn’t get the key in the lock. His frustrations escaped in small sobs that were entirely too characteristic of him. He stared at his unstable hand as it missed the lock again.

Stiles jumped when he felt a hand on his back. You gently pulled him away from the door and took his shaking hand. He just stared at you, no energy left to hide his face or to keep crying. You took the key from him, quietly unlocking the door. It creaked familiarly as you pushed it open, standing in front of the peaceful darkness of his house, the softest look in your eyes.

You gently put the key back into his palm. Stiles backed up, his back making heavy contact with the house’s siding. The keys dropped to the ground and, soon after, Stiles slid down and dropped to his ass. He let out a drained wheeze, eyes staring straightforward and his legs sprawled out languidly. You slowly bent down across from him. He expected you to ask what the hell was wrong with him, but you knew. You sat down and leaned against the other side of the porch, intentionally tangling his legs with yours. He could finally bear to look you in the eyes and, when he did, you were already compassionately observing. He remembered a voice he missed so much, “Talk to me.”

★★★

#SHES BAAAACK #here’s some bullshit lmao #longest fic I’ve posted tho!!#✰lucky writes #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #teen wolf stiles #not proofread #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski x you #college stiles stilinski #stiles x reader #stiles stilinski fluff #stiles #dylan o’brien #dylan obrien #gn reader #childhood best friends

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